Dealing straight

Praise for the writing of Emily Veinglory

Eclipse of the Heart

I love any werewolf or vampire story and I can truly say that Emily Veinglory did a wonderful job explaining a true relationship no matter what sex, color, or gender the partners are. -- Nicole, Enchanted in Romance The romance is sweet and special and you can feel the strong, loving feelings the two characters have for one another. Eclipse of the Heart is well written and one I highly recommend to others. -- Lisa Lambrecht, In the Library Reviews Ms. Veinglory is a talented writer who depicts same sex relationships in an extremely fascinating manner. Once I started reading I could not put the book down. Eclipse of the Heart is a great story that will remain on my keeper shelf for some time to come. -- Susan White, Just Erotic Romance Reviews Veinglory scores with this richly written, erotic e-book chronicling Lan’s journey to learn who he is and the heartbreaking costs you must sometimes pay to get there. Lan learns that sometimes the unexpected friends you make can be the family you’ve never had. -- Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews As a heterosexual, I found this book informative as it gave an intriguing insight of love between two men. I loved how the chemistry flowed between Mason and Lan. This is clearly a romantic tale of love, sexuality and the ability to trust. -- Suz, Coffee Time Romance

Eclipse of the Heart is now available from Loose Id.

DEALING STRAIGHT

Emily Veinglory

www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

***** This book is rated:

For substantial explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (homoerotic sex, some violence).

Dealing Straight Emily Veinglory This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-29 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © August 2005 by Emily Veinglory Excerpt of Forgotten Song copyright July 2005 by Ally Blue All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 1-59632-149-0 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Raven McKnight Cover Artist: Scott Carpenter

www.loose-id.com

Chapter One

Richard spread his cards carefully, fanning them just enough to see the symbols while still shielding the backs in his palm. The whole deck was so grubby and marked that the locals could play at being cardsharps just by knowing the distinctive marks on the card backs. Nevertheless, the coins piled by his elbow were slowly luring in their friends, so much that he had begun slipping his winnings discreetly into his pocket. Too big a stack would start to rankle the other players. It was a hard crowd in Jack’s Creek -- the women with their faces shadowed and drawn beneath cheap powders; the men smoking and spitting, and handling the women without shame or restraint. Red Jenny flounced over, her stained lace petticoats swinging from her ample hips. Richard had seen Jole pull her aside, and as he was playing Jole’s brother Seth, things were plenty clear. Jenny was going to drop herself in his lap and take a peek at his cards. An old trick. He put his cards down on the table, not missing how the others’ eyes went to the cards’ smudged backs. He coughed harshly and checked his palm for telltale blood. There was no sign, but the illness was still in him, crawling around in his right lung. “I fold,” he said wearily, deserting his share of the pot.

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Jenny pouted to see him stand. “Anyone’d think you’re avoiding me,” she declared. Richard was about to reply when he saw the swing-door open behind her. It took the others a while to notice, but the room went silent as they did. Richard took advantage of the distraction to scoop the rest of his winnings into his jacket pocket. Best not to give any of the losers the chance to call him a cheat, in the vain hope they would have more luck with their irons than their cards. The sight of any marshal was rare in this dusty corner of the territory, but Wayne was worth looking at for more reasons than that. Richard had Wayne’s image etched well into his memory and didn’t need to do more than glance at the door. He could easily recall his likeness with more detail and veracity than a sun-struck silhouette provided. Tall and broad, with thick, wavy hair the color of sand and deep hazel eyes that could charm a child or terrify a grown man, depending on how he used them, Wayne was enough to make any woman swoon and almost any man think about things ... well, that he dare not speak of. Richard kept his face turned aside as he took to the stairs, but the coughing took him again, and Wayne looked his way just as his nerve broke and he looked at Wayne. Richard smiled a pale greeting and hoped to stay out of whatever trouble Wayne was chasing. Wayne, with all eyes on him, kept his expression just about the same and headed for the bar. Richard went along the balcony and turned into the hall where the boarders’ rooms were lined up. His was the last on the left; he fumbled for the key amidst the loose coins and let himself in. The room was little more than a cupboard with a view of the stable roof and the top of a dead tree. The wallpaper had once been white with roses, one man’s conceit or some dead woman’s hopeless attempt at refinement. It was mahogany brown from cigarette smoke now, darker as it rose to the near-black ceiling.

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He stuck the key on the inside of the lock and turned it as he usually did, and then paused. He knew Wayne would probably look for him. He’d given the marshal some good tip-offs here and there and even rode with him when a gun was needed and a few coins were offered in return. But that wasn’t the only reason he might expect to see Wayne shortly. The last time they’d met had been just outside of Jackson. They’d cowered together behind a dead horse and picked off the whole Scott gang one by one with hardly a bullet wasted. That same night there’d been but one room in the boarding house, and it had seemed no problem to share it. There had been a moment when Richard had stretched out on the iron-rail bed, his boots still on. Wayne had called for the old tin bath and was sitting in it before the fire. The flickering light played across his skin as he set about getting clean in a businesslike way, and Richard had watched him with half-lidded eyes. Wayne had turned and met his eyes. He had risen, naked as a pagan god coming out of the sea.

Jesus Christ, Richard had thought. He had wondered if the door was locked, if he was too damned filthy himself still, and whether this could possibly be happening. He dared not even move as Wayne came over, half-erect and with the kind of determined look he normally reserved for felons of the worst sort. Richard kept his gaze steady and said nothing, but that was enough for Wayne to know that his approach was welcome. Just at that moment, a deputy from over Blood Gulch way started pounding on the outside of the door, yelling that there had been a shooting in the saloon and that half the town was about to lynch the guy who’d done it. Wayne had headed off after the shooter, to keep the chump alive so he could swing legal-like. And Richard hadn’t gotten much sleep, alone in the room that night, wreathed in smoke and thwarted desires. He turned the key back and went over to the bed. His own blanket-roll lay across it; despite hard use, it was still cleaner than the covers below. There was a chance one of his enemies or some sore loser would try the unlocked door instead, but he was, after all, a gambling man.

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He lay back on the bed and reached out for his makings, which were sitting on the bare wooden chair that was the room’s only other furniture. As he rolled a cigarette, he noted his fingers. Generally he was happy so long as they served him, but tonight he noticed their thinness, more pronounced with each passing week. Just as his face got longer and thinner, his black hair more dull, and his skin more yellow. If Wayne were to come up those stairs, what would he find but a fading excuse for a man? He coughed again, convulsively. Shaved tobacco scattered in all directions. With a sigh, he sat up and scraped together enough for a thin smoke. He rolled it and twisted the ends, then stood and went to lock the door. He could feel the illness lying wet and heavy in his right lung, and soon enough it would spread to the other and put an end to him for good. He stripped to trousers and shirtsleeves to sleep. It was a tepid night, and soon sleep lapped at his mind like waves. Even his usual nighttime fever seemed a comforting warmth. Sometimes he was asleep dreaming he was awake, other times awake but drowsy amidst his mind’s half-tethered imaginings. A single soft sound punctuated his dreaming and brought him to awareness in an instance. There are some sounds that are unmistakable: a cry of pain, a snapping twig. A pistol being cocked. It was fully dark as he recovered the immediate memory of that sinister snick heard more by his nerves than his ears. His own small room was empty, but beneath the paper, the walls were just one layer of thin laths -- no barrier to sound, or to bullets. He slipped soundlessly off the bed and onto the floor even as he considered the possibilities. Someone in the hall? The adjoining room? A slight shuffle alerted him to the possibility of the street. He crept to the window. The glass was cracked, with a corner missing. It was through this chink that he peered, the glass being too scuffed and clouded to show much of anything.

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He looked almost directly down on a man who stood in the narrow alley between the hotel and the stable. The man held a pistol loosely in one hand and the stub of a cigar in the other. As Richard watched, the man dropped the cigar and stamped it out with his heel. Whomever he was waiting for, he obviously didn’t expect to be waiting much longer. Richard felt a familiar grim sensation in his gut. If he had any sense, he would push his bed to the farthest wall and go back to sleep. But then, if he had any sense, he would be finishing his medical training in Boston, marrying his beautiful debutante, and looking forward to a long, prosperous, and selfish life. As it was, he wasn’t going to let some poor fool get ambushed, not knowing whether he deserved it or not. The question was, what to do about it? If he opened the window, the man would notice, and as he was waiting tensely in the dark, he might just shoot. It was fine to be a good Samaritan, but not at the risk of his own meager life. Richard decided to take the longer route. He took his own pistol from his duster pocket and then slipped out of his room and down the hall. The saloon was dark, and the barkeep was just throwing the last customers out into the street. Richard went to the back door. He lifted the bar and opened the lock, then slipped outside. There was almost nothing of note behind the building. The town had but a single cluster of buildings along one street and little but spindly trees, dense shrubs, and dusty tussock all around. He wasn’t consciously making any plans. Wayne had obviously not sought him out. No doubt a quick look had been enough to convince him that Richard was no longer any kind of object of desire. Sure, he was still getting around all right, but the illness was starting to show. He didn’t blame Wayne in the least. There was little between men, after all, just the exhilaration of rough coupling in the dark. Nothing a man would seek with someone weak and failing. Richard stifled a cough and crept around the rear of the building. He felt quite confident peering around the corner. The moon was shining from the front of the saloon,

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and the man would be watching the street, not his back. The last drinkers were stumbling along the boardwalk and fumbling with their patient steeds. Their noise would cover any slight sound Richard might make. From the gunman’s poised position, Richard knew that one of these men must be the target, which left him very little time. He used the cover of their noise to creep around the corner and down the narrow gap between the buildings. When he was within a few feet, he took the chance. “Drop it,” Richard said. If the man decided to take his chances, there was no way he could turn before Richard could pull the trigger. And he’d still have a chance to get back to his room before anyone turned up to demand explanations. Being a little too dim to know this, the gunman spun awkwardly, knocking his arm against the wall and dropping his pistol. There was no need to shoot him. Richard hit him hard on the head with his pistol butt. Unlike in those pulp western stories they read back east, the gunman didn’t fall conveniently unconscious, but he was knocked down. Richard stamped on the man’s gun arm and kicked him hard in the gut. He kept on kicking until the man gave up cursing and Richard was out of breath, and then bent to pick up the fallen pistol with his free hand. It was a nice piece, polished, with an enameled handle. “I’m obliged.” Richard started and instinctively swung both guns toward the street. Wayne lounged against the side of the building, distinctive even in silhouette. Richard relaxed and let the barrels drop. “He after you?” Richard asked. Wayne slipped forward and turned the would-be murderer on his back. The man groaned, battered and defeated. “Don’t know him,” Wayne said. “But I was warned that MacWaugh had sent someone.”

Dealing Straight

“The railway man?” “The same. Give me a hand getting this idiot down to the cells, and we’ll see. Richard uncocked both pistols and shoved them into his belt. Wayne dragged the beaten man to his feet by one arm, and Richard took the other. Their captive was a bigbellied man, heavy, and flailing in vague protest. It hadn’t taken long for Wayne to start stirring things up -- nor, as Richard wryly acknowledged, for Richard to be drawn into it. They got the erstwhile gunman out onto the street and dragged him down to the sheriff’s office at the top of the street. Wayne was taking most of the weight, and Richard struggled to help. “Let me in, Ted,” Wayne called. The deputy admitted them without hesitation, but gave Richard a disapproving sneer. They headed through the cluttered front office and dumped their man down in the nearest cell. He sprawled on the floor. “I wasn’t doing nothing,” the man slurred. “You oughta take this man in.” Young Ted gave Richard a look that more or less concurred. He knew a ne’er-do-well when he saw one, apparently. Richard gave him a thin smile as he lounged in the cell’s open door. Then they both turned their attention to Wayne. Richard knew that most men would have no trouble quietly “dealing with” anyone who tried to kill them, but Wayne was a different sort. His first concern would be to know what was going on and his second would be the law. Richard had rather different priorities. He tagged after Wayne like a dogged moth after an enduring flame.

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Chapter Two

“Tell me who sent you to kill me, or stay here and hang for it,” Wayne said. Standing up all tall and stern, Wayne looked like every mother’s joy grown up big and healthy. He had a well-practiced way of speaking, with few words and palpable menace. Richard felt his own smile relax into something more sincere. Being around Wayne had that effect on him. It was insidious. At the same time, the roughed-up thug looked truly worried. He was probably more scared now than when Richard had been kicking him half-senseless. “An’ if I do, you’ll let me go?” the man slurred. “Yes.” The man peered up at him, obviously cowed. “Of course, if you lie,” Richard added, “I’ll come and rip off your tongue and shove it up your ass.” “Rick,” Wayne chided. “Let him speak.” There was a long silence in which Richard waited idly, Wayne patiently, and both Ted and the cowboy fidgeted nervously. “The big man, MacWaugh,” the cowboy said. He was already levering himself to his feet.

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Wayne nodded as if he had never doubted the answer. Richard rather expected more of an interrogation, but apparently Wayne was satisfied. “Figures,” he said. “You go back that way, and I’ll shoot you down like a dog. You could grab a night’s sleep here and head anywhere but west in the morning.” The man muttered something as he staggered past them. Richard didn’t catch it, but the tone suggested obscenity even as the body language suggested fear. Ted tensed and stood, but Wayne waved for him to stand aside and let the man pass. “You head home, Ted,” he said. “I can look after this place tonight.” Ted left the cell with obedient feet, but reluctant eyes. Richard could hear him shuffling about in the front office. “Kid doesn’t like me,” Richard observed as the door clicked shut. “He tells me you’ve been here four days, shot a man, and fleeced every citizen fool enough to wager.” Richard had a blithe answer on his lips when Wayne turned and fixed him with a steady gaze. His words dried up, and he had to settle for an uneasy shrug. It wasn’t like it was something he could deny. “No one disputed that it was a fair draw.” Wayne scowled. “Everyone saw that he drew and fired first, and was fool enough to miss. You came close.” “I came this close,” Richard said, fingering the tear in the arm of his duster. Richard straightened to his full, if unimpressive, height and made to leave. Wayne reached out and caught his sleeve. They both heard the outside door slam shut as Ted headed off down the street, his feet clomping away down the boardwalk. They were left alone by the light of a single candle in a glass magnifying globe. Alone with each other.

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Richard looked down coolly at Wayne’s restraining hand, so tense that the knuckles were white. He looked up into Wayne’s face, into intense eyes a picture of symmetry that no poetic tiger could surpass. Richard watched Wayne struggle to express himself, groping for words he did not have. Richard could have filled the silence from his own deep but impotent store of eloquence, but that was not his nature -- he waited. Wayne released him. “I need a deputy. There’s big trouble with MacWaugh, something that needs careful handling.” “Sorry,” Richard said as he turned away. “I need you.” “No, you don’t.” “MacWaugh’s a real wildcard. He needs the kind of careful playing that’s not where I’m best. I need somebody a little more, ah, subtle.” “Every time I take the star, I get shot at and never paid.” Besides, by “subtle” Wayne meant “sneaky”; it was hardly a compliment. Richard was almost at the door. His heart was pounding, and he didn’t know whether that was because he feared that he wouldn’t get away -- or that he would. His hand was on the door handle ... Wayne said nothing more. Richard walked out into the quiet street and turned toward the saloon. His steps slowed. He had a year or so more, at best, the way that he was going -- and here he was, walking away from one of the few things in life he still wanted. He stopped and stood looking down the dusty street. He must have stood there for a good minute, listening to the subtle song of shrinking boards, distant crickets, and his own slightly rasping breath. He turned to find Wayne standing in the doorway, watching him. “Who else do you have?” Richard asked. “No one,” Wayne replied.

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Richard sighed and held out his hand. Wayne smiled, then strode forward to put the battered tin star in Richard’s hand. They stood for a while, palm pressed to palm and the badge between them. “I reckon you could do better,” Richard said. “I reckon that’s for me to say,” Wayne replied. Wayne turned and walked back to the sheriff’s office. Richard’s heart was thumping. There was the sheriff’s office ahead of him; his own room was back the other way. Yet Wayne was walking away from him with quiet certainty and shutting the door. Richard wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. Did he have it wrong? Was that night in Blood Gulch some kind of delusion and every apparent double-meaning since a fantasy in his own perverted mind? He stood for another long minute, looking down the other way to where the street became nothing more than a packed-down strip, meandering off over the hills. The lamp in the sheriff’s office went out. Richard put the tin badge in his pocket and went back to the saloon, shaking his head.

Back in his shabby room, he slept naked and deeply. This time sleep was like diving into a warm and bottomless sea from which he surfaced with reluctance. He struggled up to the light, to the sound of a heavy fist thumping on his door so hard that it rattled. But it wasn’t an angry sound, just a persistent one. Then he heard a muffled voice. “You got a horse, Rick?” He rolled and let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, onto the floor. His bare feet scraped in the grit and dust on the bare floorboards. He dragged on his trousers and his old shirt, and left the shirt flapping open.

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“Fuck,” was all he said as he opened the door. Then, “No, it died. Main reason I’m still in town.” Wayne was always soft on horses. Richard was always too hard on them. Unlike most men, he knew his indifference was a failing, but that didn’t help him overcome it much. He was always finding something of a gap between the virtues he admired in others and the qualities he actually possessed himself. “I got you a mare. Ted was willing to part with her. Mouth like boot leather, but sturdy.” “Who, Ted?” Richard muttered as he scooped his duster up from the floor and shrugged it on. Wayne didn’t bother to reply. Richard sat on the bed and bent for his boots. A string of coughs erupted from him like beads on a string. Sharp glass beads, by the feel of them. “Not getting any better, is it?” Wayne said. “It doesn’t,” Richard replied harshly. “Only worse.” Wayne ignored that. He waited in the door while Richard lashed up his bedroll. “MacWaugh is about three days sou’west,” he said at last. “If we dogleg sou’wes’-west, I can drop in on my brother.” Wayne had three brothers. This would be the oldest, Sam. Richard had met him once when a big posse had been needed. He was one of those big, churchgoing men who only picked up a gun when he needed to, but knew what to do with it when he did. “Died, eh?” Wayne added. “How?” “What?” “The horse.” “Oh, some bastard shot it. Prob’ly did him at cards. Still, meant I couldn’t leave till I’d raised the price of another.”

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Wayne looked around the palpably empty room. “Where’s your stuff?” Richard did up his last button and spread his hands. His pockets bulged with winnings, and a pistol on each side. “Jesus, Rick. When are you going to get a holster?” Wayne led the way out into the street, where his roan mare stood patiently next to a sour-looking black thing that was little more than a pony. Richard glared at the stubby beast, and it glared back. “When are you going to tell me what the hell the deal is with you and this MacWaugh?” Richard snapped. Wayne swung up onto his horse with practiced grace. “As we go, Rick,” he said. “As we go.” He headed off at an easy pace. Richard unlashed his new mount’s reins and approached her cautiously; she looked like a biter. As he eased on board, she sighed and huffed irritably, but she answered to his knees well enough and trotted to catch up. Wayne’s mare had a bit more height, as did Wayne himself. Richard glanced across, his eyes at about the level of Wayne’s armpit. “Good match, you two,” Wayne said with a grin. Him and the evil pony, Richard supposed. “I’ll expect back pay for that last deal,” he said. “It’s due you; you just have to stick somewhere long enough for it to be sent.” “The deal, Wayne.” “A lot of trouble, round MacWaugh’s way. Four dead now; some kind of gang making trouble for the homesteaders. Nothing to connect the two, but there was a fire. That’s when a young couple and their children were killed. It was set by a bunch of guys, and I tracked them in this direction, lost ’em a bit east of here, and thought I’d stop in town before heading back.

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“That’s when Jenny let on that there was a guy waiting to do me in, and it was MacWaugh that sent him. I think I saw him with them, but I’m not sure enough to lock him up for it -- besides, it’s the one behind this business that I want. There’s always men to follow when the wrong one leads.” They rode in silence for a while. Richard looked out over his horse’s bobbing head, her ears turned meanly backward. He turned his head to see Wayne watching him. Seemed like Wayne was blundering into trouble again; he was a storm petrel like that. An instinct for trouble brewing was probably a useful thing in a marshal, but dangerous. Richard, it seemed, was one of those who followed -- albeit a better sort of man, as far as he could tell. “That’s all?” “All I know,” Wayne said. “Sam might know more. Then we might drop in on MacWaugh. Apparently he’s a man of refinement, so I though you might come in handy.” “Wayne, the illusions you have about me.” “You can act the toff if you have a mind to,” Wayne said. “And I reckon I ought to start with the softly, softly approach.” “And end with all guns blazing, as usual.” Wayne laughed, but didn’t disagree. They traveled all through the day with little more than idle chat and long silences between them. As night fell, they turned in to a short defile. Wayne pulled up at a spot where a scattering of boulders surrounded a small, relatively level bit of ground. “She’ll do, eh?” Wayne said as he swung to the ground. They got down to work settling the horses. Wayne took the extra time to rub down his mare, Rosy. Richard set to getting a fire going in a place well scorched by previous travelers. Wayne dropped a sack of fried bread on the ground between them before planting himself beside it. He tucked his bedroll behind his head and leaned back against a rock. “There’s not much here that’ll burn,” Richard said sharply.

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Wayne closed his eyes. “You’ve been snapping off kindling all day ...” “Kindling kindles. I don’t drag around whole logs, and this lump here is almost charcoal already.” “It’s not getting so cold, this time of year.” “You’re not, mebbe.” Richard wrapped his arms about himself. He hated sleeping out of doors. It always got cold after dark, and even through his night sweats he tended to feel it -- too hot and too cold at the same time. He tucked his matches away and settled back. “Come round here and get the rock to your back,” Wayne said, opening his eyes again. Richard looked back at him, thinking he’d do better to go and practice a few shots with his new pistol. It would be useful to get the feel of it before he needed to use it in earnest, and he’d not wanted to be shooting from the back of his new and unpredictable mount. Wayne sighed. “No wonder you’re good at poker,” he said. “Face like an injun.” Richard reached over and unbound the rope from around his bedroll. He spread it out on the ground right next to the smoldering fire. Maybe it was a failure of nerve or a fear of embarrassment. Every invitation Wayne made might be in innocence. Richard’s vacillation was a character flaw either way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “... And a brilliant conversationalist, too,” Wayne added as Richard settled down on his side so the low mound of the fire blocked Wayne from view. “I can shoot and I can gamble,” Richard said sourly. “I’ve never claimed more.” He let his eyes drop shut, contemplating whether to layer both blankets under him to keep off the cooling ground or pile both over him to keep in his body’s waning warmth. “Something to eat?” Wayne said. “In the morning, perhaps,” Richard replied. He could almost hear Wayne worrying at him.

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“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you.” “Maybe not.” With hard ground under him and cold sky above, he wasn’t up to being courteous. He lay tired but sleepless, and chided himself for being either a credulous fool or a dreadful coward. The likelihood of each option swayed in his perceptions as he considered the dozen or so occasions over several years that he had come across Wayne Sneddon. He heard a shuffle in the darkness. Wayne paused at the fire. It sounded like he was scraping in the twig ends and embers to get what heat was left in them. Then he came to where he had to be looking down at Richard. Richard feigned sleep and started adding chips to the “coward” bet. He heard a snap and felt Wayne’s blanket settle gently over him. Wayne lay down behind him, shuffling around as he tried to find a position where the ubiquitous pebbles didn’t poke him too much. Richard kept his body carefully lax. After a quiet moment, he felt Wayne’s arm laid gently over him. After a moment more, Wayne shifted close enough that their bodies touched. Richard kept his breathing soft and low.

Coward. Definitely coward.

Morning crept in tentatively, like an unwelcome cat. Richard had slept fitfully, but it didn’t bother him greatly. He had not sleep within an embrace since ... ever. Yet it was an experience that felt familiar, perhaps because a body instinctively recognized what satisfied its needs when it found it. He supposed that there was a level of understanding between them now. He felt Wayne’s body against his back, Wayne’s arm a band of warmth across his chest. Bodies were in accord even as minds -- his, at least -- doubted. Richard knew from experience what one man wanted from another, but his experience had not encompassed simple comforts like these.

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Wayne’s regard seemed strangely patient and restrained, something other than merely physical. Richard could not really understand, but was content to see how it played out. Wayne woke abruptly, his body moving like a cougar’s from languor to action in one fluid moment. “If we get going, we can be at Sam’s for midday,” he said, in a way that suggested he knew the difference between feigned and genuine sleep. Richard rose more awkwardly from the hard ground. As was usual in the morning, his cough returned. The palm of his hand showed specks of blood. He wiped it surreptitiously on his trouser leg. “There’s a hurry?” “His Theresa is a good cook.” Wayne tossed him a rounded lump of fried bread. It looked about as appetizing as a lump of dung and made a home-cooked meal seem a good prospect. Richard slipped the bread into his pocket. “They’ve a spare room, too,” Wayne said easily. “There’s a big box-bed with a chicken feather mattress and cotton covers. I’ve had that bed in mind for a while now. And it seems to me that you might just prefer riding on to Pine Bluff rather than sharing it with me.” Richard was bending for his saddle. The little black mare looked at him with disdain as he dragged it over to her, but suffered to have it swung onto her back. Wayne was waiting for some kind of reply, but Richard found it hard to speak. Such things were not spoken of. They were transacted with hard and knowing looks, rough hands, and presumptions. Wayne confused him with this slow stalking; Richard was like a deer caught wondering if she scented the coyote, and where he was hidden.

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Chapter Three

As Richard reached to cinch the girth, the horse sucked in air and pushed out her gut. He scowled at her stubborn resistance. “Rick?” Richard replied without looking up, waiting for the damned horse to breathe out. “I don’t suppose I’m in any hurry to move on.” He nudged his elbow hard again the obstinate beast’s gut and gave the cinch strap a good tug. He was duly rewarded with a whoosh of air and an angry huff. But the way the pony stood patiently and turned her head toward the plains suggested that she was eager to be off, and just contrary by habit. The morning light slanted golden through the canyon, and for a moment Richard felt just about as happy as he should at a time like this. He turned to Wayne, who was still standing with his saddle in the dust and one foot on it as he watched Richard. “No hurry,” Wayne said mildly. Richard swung into his saddle and settled down as his mount fidgeted and tossed her head. Her hooves scuffed loudly on the hard clay. Richard made no reply.

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Wayne smiled and stooped to lift his own saddle. Richard wondered if it was right to make such plans. Sam’s household was, no doubt, a God-fearing one, where the sin of Sodom should have no place. Richard had been on the primrose path since his illness had driven him away to a drier climate and its associated vices. He had quickly succumbed to the hitherto unknown habits of gambling, gunplay, and other, more darkened exchanges, each well sunk in the blurry amber of scotch. His skills at each sin had grown precociously, but their pleasures had always been tainted with the bitterness of exile and looming mortality. The virtuous context of a domestic box-bed bothered him, and more than that ... Wayne was a man whom he knew as a person -- a person with kin, and duties, and a strangely delicate way of approaching a base and profane appetite. The more he thought about it, the more Richard wondered if he wasn’t being asked for more than he was prepared to give. This kind of honest, open-eyed passion required a man to have something inside, something sober and untainted. He was miles away from the nearest quart of scotch and suddenly more afraid than any bravo with a six-shooter had ever made him. The morning was fresh and clean, without another creature stirring anywhere in sight. There was the better part of a day between him and whatever would come. He did his best to put his conflicted anticipation from his mind.

They rode side by side in a silence that he thought was probably companionable to Wayne. But Richard could not help but consider it a strained truce. The countryside rolled by in its subtle but infinite variations of red rock, yellow tussock, and almost turquoise sky. The occasional cloud muted the scene for a few moments and wandered on. The horses’ hooves fell in and out of synchronicity. For a moment Richard had a strange sense of déjà vu. A paneled hall with curved rows of seats overlooking the central stage where the dissection progressed. The students proudly

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disregarded the writhing of the conscious, restrained dog. Something in the subtle, desolate scene of the western desert reminded him of the disregarded howling of that dog. “Rick?” Richard started at the intrusion into his thoughts. Wayne grinned. “It’s just down there,” he said. As they crested a small rise, the ground swooped down into a narrow defile. A rocky path was edged by swaying, yellowed grass. The very top of a roof could be seen, with each hoofbeat revealing a little more. Richard glanced at the sky, the high sun betraying how time had slipped away. The foolish tricks of his memory had cast a pall across his mood, in sharp contrast to the scene that emerged before them. The house was log-framed, with window sills and a full veranda of finished and whitewashed wood. Chickens were contained in an orderly coop to one side, and two young boys started from their play. “Pa, Pa!” A woman whose blonde hair was streaked with grey came from behind the house, wiping one hand on her apron and holding a headless, still-twitching hen in the other. Her fine, plain face twitched with a suppressed frown. “I’m not raising a posse, Theresa,” Wayne reassured her. Richard hung back as Wayne trotted to meet her and swung down. Theresa smiled and clasped Wayne’s arm. “You are welcome whenever you come, but I will not pretend that I’m not relieved. I prefer to have my husband here beside me.” She gestured to Richard. “Please bring your friend onto the porch where it’s cool.” The older boy took his mare’s reins, and Richard was propelled to the porch by the joint expectations of those present. Wayne settled easily onto the bench seat that gave a view

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back along the track that had brought them there. Framed as it was by two old pines, it was a pretty view. Richard sat uneasily by his side as Theresa came from the house with tin cups and a pitcher of water. “Sam is looking for our goat. She chewed through her rope and strayed some time in the night. But he shouldn’t be too long, and it will be so nice to have you here tonight. You and Mr. ...?” “Mr. Smith, if you’ll take his word for it,” Wayne said. “Oh, I would never question the word of any friend of yours, Wayne,” she replied with a smile for both of them. “Nor should you.” There was something in her faintly sardonic tone of voice that caught Richard’s attention. There was rather more, it seemed, to Theresa than met the eye. Not that there was anything much missing to the eye. Her face and hair suggested Dutch blood, and she was built strong and well. She was not small or delicate as city fashion would have it, but out on a farm a man needed to know better than that. Theresa was a woman to be counted as capable as any man, and well aware of it. “I’m going in to dress the bird,” she said. “But you take your ease; I bet you’ve come a way. There’s the pump, or the river, if you prefer, to wash up. And I’ll send Sammy to see where his papa has got to. I’ve some mutton that will do for dinner, and you men can talk.” Without waiting for any reply, she went into the dark interior of the house. Richard was left in no doubt about her thoughts as to their current hygiene. Wayne sat in silence and looked out at the high horizon, limned by the deep afternoon sun as it slowly sank into the coolness of evening. Richard drained his cup and watched Wayne. There was something about his profile, with its stern forehead and strong chin, that quite suited the scene -- as if it were his wife within and his children scuffing their feet as they returned from the corral. He took his time over his cup and the vista before them. “The river might be better,” Wayne said. “Before it gets too cold.”

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There was a glint in his eye that rather suggested that other considerations were on his mind. “Oh, don’t scowl so,” Wayne chided. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.” Richard levered himself to his feet, his muscles a bit stiff from riding and sitting on the hard boards. “I haven’t been in that vicinity for a while,” he replied dryly.

Nor was he edging any closer to Godliness, almost up to his hips in the swirling river. He had no delicate compunctions about nudity; the rough and ready world out west did not allow for bashfulness. However, even a person inclined to appreciate the sight of a naked man normally took more trouble to hide it than Wayne was. Richard ducked down under the water, kneeling gingerly on the muddy bottom, and leaned back to wet his hair. The water ran past and around him, and with his eyes closed and his head half underwater so that only his face was exposed to the air, it was easy to pretend he was alone with just the caress of the warm water and the few muffled sounds that reached him. He kept his eyes closed so that he could not confirm that one of those muffled sounds was, in fact, Wayne speaking. Whatever Wayne had to say, Richard didn’t want to hear it right at that moment. He felt a shadow fall over his closed eyelids. A moment later, a number of things happened rapidly. Richard felt lips pressed to his own. Startled, he jerked away, falling backwards into the water. The strong current pushed him downstream, entangling him in Wayne’s legs. Richard finally got both feet under him, but only after taking a few bruises as Wayne tried to dance out of the way. He struggled up and out of the water.

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Wayne was laughing as Richard gasped through a mouthful of water. His gasp transformed into a series of coughs that wracked the right side of his chest with shooting pains. “Jumpy, aren’t you?” Wayne said. Richard replied in a rasping, irritated voice. “Seems to me it wasn’t me who was doing the jumping.” Wayne’s expression became more serious. They stood in the waist-deep water as the muddy turbulence was spirited away by the current. “I wonder about you,” Wayne said. “I do. I’ve heard here and there ... enough to know that you ...” “That I what?” “That you ... and other men. Quite a few other men, in fact.” Richard shrugged. “So?” “So, why are you so on edge around me? Why were you so spooked?” Richard looked back at Wayne and sighed. “Apart from the fact that you surprised me, I’ve never kissed a man.” He turned and walked back to the shore. There was a chill wind coming up, so he shrugged on his clothes and put up with them sticking to his wet skin. Wayne was still in the river. The last golden light of the sinking sun glinted off the water. “Never kissed?” Wayne said in amazement. “... A man.” “But a woman?” “Of course. But I shouldn’t now anyway ...”

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Wayne came out of the water. The light gilded his skin as the river water streamed off him. The sight quite interrupted any excuse for a thought in Richard’s head. He came and sat beside Richard on the grass. “I’ve never kissed a woman,” Wayne said nonchalantly. Richard remembered Annabel, with her long, dark hair tied up in a demure bun. It had been like kissing an alabaster statue. In preparation for his impending marriage, he had finally given in to his friends’ urging and gone with them to a discreet bordello. The girl they had procured for him had kissed him differently: wet, unpleasant kisses. He had been horrified to look within himself and, finally given leave, to find no desire. For days he had tried to assemble the soulless amity with Annabel, his disinterest in the whore, and his more perverse impulses into a future he cared to live. It was the future his father had designed for his only child. A respected profession, a high-class wife ... his son would be a gentleman. He had been sleepwalking toward that fate when death had stepped into his path. Wayne was watching the river flow past with a mild expression on his face. The silence went on, half-strained as usual in that Richard found it uncomfortable, but Wayne seemed quite at ease. “I see you haven’t changed,” a new voice said.

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Chapter Four

Richard’s hand went to his gun, by reflex. But Wayne just looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Sam, find that goat?” “Can’t say I did. Seem to have found my kid brother, though, and that’s good enough for me.” Sam turned to Richard. “Wayne was one of those kids as never had his clothes on; our mother did despair over him.” “This is Rick,” Wayne said. “He’s my one-man posse at the moment. We’re looking into that fire on the edge of MacWaugh’s spread.” Sam’s face was rather like Wayne’s might be in ten years or so, with the addition of a bushy moustache and a respectable pair of sideburns. His affable expression slipped a bit at the mention of MacWaugh’s name. “You watch it around him,” he said. “To be fair, I can’t say anything’s proven against him, but he tends to get his way, and his men act like they own the town. But that talk can wait. I can smell dinner from here, so we best get in the house. Just put your clothes on first, kid. We’re a respectable lot around here.”

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“And I’m not a kid anymore,” Wayne protested. “Don’t believe it,” Sam said in an aside to Richard. “I don’t reckon he’ll ever have the sense to settle down.”

The house had a living room and kitchen area, which was cozy but large enough for the purpose. A fire burned in the grate, giving the only light. In its light, everyone’s faces seemed to glow with health and life. Richard imagined that even he might seem a true and virtuous son of the soil in such a light and company. The two boys lounged on the sofa, nodding into sleep even as they took advantage of the chance to stay up late. Theresa and her daughter shared a great easy chair, and Sam sat on the floor at her feet. A strangely congruous pose in that he obviously loved his wife deeply in a way that Richard could perceive but barely understand. Richard and Wayne sat upon the bench seat that had been pulled inside for them. Wayne leaned back and rested his back against the high-stacked firewood. Wayne and Sam had whiled the hours away in reminiscence; all stories of the things a band of wild brothers do, growing up on a remote farm. Richard could not help but compare it to his own stifled childhood in lonely rooms and callous private schools. He felt an irrational rage that whilst he had been wasting so many of the apparently few years of his life, these men had been riding horses, hunting, ranging, playing, fighting, and living. As if it were somehow their fault that he had suffered from the blight of urban privilege upon the proper place a child should have in a world that still had some nature in it. At last Theresa rose and rested her hand on the head of her youngest son, now fully surrendered to sleep. “We’d best get these two to bed, and you, too, Mary ...” The girl scowled but made no protest as she helped her mother bundle the two boys off to their beds. Sam watched them go with a fond smile.

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“We’ve just the one bed for guests, but I don’t reckon you’ll mind,” Sam said. There was a knowing edge to his voice that made Richard look at him sharply. It was not an accusation -- an acknowledgement perhaps, and the last thing Richard would have expected from a man so upright as Samuel Sneddon. Wayne merely smiled as Sam showed them through to a small, clean room with a wide box-bed and a high, narrow window. He set a smoky candle on the mantle and left them alone with conspicuous alacrity. “He knows,” Richard said quietly. “Oh, aye. He knows. We grew up together, and I’ve always been what I am.” Richard shook his head, quite unable to understand how simple things seemed to be for Wayne. No doubt he was at least as bemused in return, or more so, by the way Richard twisted himself in knots and achieved only unhappiness as a result. Wayne stripped off his clothes, but, perhaps for the first time, he did not seem entirely at ease. Richard kicked off his boots and wondered what the hell was about to happen. “Best not waste the candle,” Wayne said as he pinched it out. Richard stood frozen in the perfect darkness. He heard the soft creak as Wayne got onto the long-promised bed. “Come here,” Wayne said. Richard reached forth tentatively and found the edge of the bed. He set one knee on its low surface. Wayne’s hand, groping in the darkness, found Richard’s shoulder. It moved slowly to his back and drew him forward. In the darkness, Richard knelt on the soft bed and listened to his own heart beating, and Wayne’s breath. Wayne’s hands were slow and deft, unbuttoning Richard’s shirt and smoothing back the cloth so that it fell from his shoulders and slipped down toward the floor. Richard closed his eyes. He reached forward and fitted his hands around Wayne’s waist, the skin warm and surprisingly soft beneath his fingertips. He could feel Wayne’s breath upon his face.

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“Not kissed a man, eh?” Wayne said. “No.” Richard’s voice seemed a little nervous even to his own ears. Wayne cupped Richard’s face gently. It was probably the hardest thing Richard had ever done, but he drew back. “No, Wayne. The illness. You shouldn’t breathe in the air that I ...” “Shh, we’ll talk about that another time.” Wayne’s hands moved slowly down Richard’s neck. His lips settled upon Richard’s throat, trailing kisses down to his shoulder. Richard leaned in, then pulled Wayne toward him, splaying his fingers across broad shoulders. Doubt was slipping away as he heard Wayne’s breathing become rapid and harsh. Wayne fumbled with Richard’s belt and the metal buttons of his trousers. He broke away from their embrace and laid Richard back onto the mattress. There was a strange lack of urgency in their movements, as if the moment was to be savored, not rushed toward its conclusion. Wayne stripped Richard’s clothing from him slowly. His hands lingered briefly here and there. His fingers traced one hipbone, thigh, and shoulder. He straddled Richard’s thighs and bent over him. Richard was conscious of the rough stubble on his chin rasping against Wayne’s fingers. He was even more aware of the death in his right lung, which might leap from his lips to Wayne’s if given the chance. He wondered how his own thin and scruffy form could be of interest to Wayne, no matter how welcome such attention and deft caresses were. He knew the better thing would be to push Wayne away lest he doom his lover in more ways than one. Richard lay at ease on his back as Wayne’s mouth pressed down upon his brow. Richard’s left hand lay lax atop the covers while his right reached up and twined itself in Wayne’s silky hair. It felt as he had always imagined it would -- soft as goose-down.

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Wayne leaned back so that a palm’s width separated their faces in the close darkness. “I cannot imagine that I was worth the wait,” Richard said softly. He could hear the long-banished Boston lilt edging its way back into his diction. Wayne exhaled with a long, sad sigh. “Sometimes, Rick,” he said. “Sometimes ...” “Sometimes, what?” Wayne’s hard cock lay against his thigh. Richard felt a deep pang of desire run down his body and resound in his groin. His back arched as sweet tension ran down his body. He parted his legs, and Wayne moved to kneel between them. Richard placed his hands on Wayne’s waist and made his invitation clear. Wayne hesitated, as if he did not want to progress too quickly, but his arousal was unmistakable. Richard reached forward and grasped Wayne’s member. He felt Wayne tense. Richard wrapped his long fingers firmly around the shaft and gently massaged the sensitive tip with his thumb, slipping back the foreskin. Wayne moaned, moving slowly in Richard’s palm. Richard wet the palm of his other hand with his spit and carefully dampened the blunt head of Wayne’s cock. He guided Wayne forward until the tip of him touched the entrance to Richard’s body. Wayne lowered himself to rest on his elbow, one hand curled softly over Richard’s hip. He eased forward, sliding through the portal that gave way slickly. “Oh, God, Rick,” Wayne murmured. Rick closed his eyes. He felt Wayne’s firm, muscular body between his thighs and felt him pressing past the entrance to his body and sliding into the tight channel beyond. He pushed his calves against Wayne’s back as he drew their bodies closer together. As Wayne began to move within him, there was a sweetness to the sensation that Richard had never felt before. Their bodies moving in subtle ways to sample the infinite variety of touching and stroking so that time became an endless sweet stream of building pleasure.

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Wayne surrendered to his final climax, the shudder sweeping and shaking his whole body. He slipped out and eased down Richard’s body, then lowered his lips over Richard’s still-erect penis. His tongue stroked the sensitive underside and kissed the tip until Richard came so intensely that it felt like his life force was exiting his body. Richard lay back, feeling the sweat cooling on his skin. Wayne crawled back up the bed. “Sometimes ...” Wayne said, as if their conversation had not been interrupted for as much as a moment, “sometimes I wish you could see yourself as I do.” He slipped his arm under Richard’s neck and pulled him close. Richard rested his head on Wayne’s shoulder as Wayne’s arms encircled him. Richard could only be grateful that a man so handsome, so good, as Wayne would somehow see him as desirable. It could be a delusion, Richard thought with a private smile, but it was not one he would question.

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Chapter Five

Sam waved them off in the morning, and the children ran along beside the horses as far as the main gate. Before they traveled over the rise, Richard twisted in his saddle to look down at the house. Theresa waved one more time before disappearing into the darkness of the house, and Richard returned the gesture, although she had already gone. Even at such a small remove, it was like looking into a snow-globe at some idealized scene. It had been a long time since he had railed against his fate, but for a moment he felt a shadow of that anger return. His father had been an ambitious man wont to amass wealth, favor, and political influence and to pass these on to his only child. Richard had always known that his own desires were far more modest in their nature, but until now he had never seen them laid before him so clearly. A small house, a little land, family. “We’ll stay at Rapids tonight,” Wayne mused. “By tomorrow we’ll make Saul’s Landing, the town nearest to MacWaugh’s spread and the center of the troubles.” Richard nudged his pony to catch up. “It’s a stagecoach station, isn’t it, Rapids?” “Yeah?”

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“Might be better if we arrive separately. I could take the stage, snoop around a little without drawing attention.” “You see,” Wayne replied with a stifled smile. “That’s what I was saying about you. Always thinking.” “You think as much,” Richard snapped. “You just keep it to yourself.” Wayne raised one eyebrow at that accusation but continued to grin agreeably. He reached out and slapped Richard on the shoulder before kicking his horse to a shambling trot. “Just try to keep up,” he said. Richard’s pony quickened her step a little, but he didn’t hurry her. He watched Wayne draw ahead, dust stirring and settling in the heavy air. Richard inspected his own sullen feelings. He mistrusted Wayne’s interest. It seemed somehow inexplicable, an error. It was certainly not beyond his usual ability to spoil, but not yet, perhaps. He nudged the pony forward, trying to spur himself to reach for the prize he was offered. He had spent a night in the arms of a man he ... It boded ill that he could not even think the word. The pony huffed at the effort she was being asked to make. “I hear you,” Richard muttered. “But keeping company sometimes means putting yourself out a little.”

There was a long stretch of baked ground ahead of them, bisected by a rough beaten path; they rode side by side through the featureless expanse. Gradually a small cluster of buildings appeared on the shimmering horizon. “So, if anyone asks, we just met on the road,” Wayne said. Richard nodded and pushed his hat down harder on his head. The light bounced off the hard ground and glared in from all directions. His canteen was long empty, and he was

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pleased for the chance to rest. Wayne had become surlier as the day went on, though Richard could hardly divine the reason. He mused on the matter in his usual silence. “The stage will be in tonight and out in the morning. If you’re lucky, they’ll have a seat,” Wayne continued. “But how will you explain leaving the pony with me?” “I sold her to you to raise some stake money,” Richard said, easily inventing a lie to fit the facts. “So you go as a gambler.” “I am a gambler.” “You choose to be.” Richard wasn’t used to the hard edge to Wayne’s words. “You have a point?” he challenged. “My point,” Wayne said, enunciating each word, “is that you could be a marshal on a more regular basis. You could settle down. You could do quite a lot of things other than sit on your horse like a sour-faced toad and keep you darned mouth shut for most of the afternoon.” “I’m not a talker, and I am a gambler,” Richard replied in clipped tones. “What makes you think that’s gonna change between now and the grave?” Wayne turned to him with exasperation, drawing his mare up short. “Nothing’s changed, then.” Richard reined up beside him. It was just starting toward dusk, and a breeze was rising. Wayne’s hat hung down his back on its braided strap. His curling hair was ruffled by the wind, and his face was set in an uncertain frown. Richard looked at him. He wondered what exactly he was meant to feel, what he was meant to do. “What did you expect?” he asked, quite honestly. “Something. Anything.”

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He felt his cue to speak, but nobody was handing him any lines. He shrugged helplessly. The silence stretched on awkwardly until Wayne finally broke it. “Okay,” he said with a musing nod. “Be like that.” Wayne urged his mare forward again, and Richard ambled along behind. Be like that, was it? Richard felt an uneasy churning in his stomach, but the truth was that he had no other way to be. His forebodings of the morning seemed to have become omens, and he foresaw worse ahead. He was pleased to have spent one idyllic night with Wayne, even if it only served to lift the scales from Wayne’s eyes. His heart felt as dull and heavy as the setting sun. It was only in keeping with their pretense that Wayne paid him little heed as they came up to the station, but Richard wondered how much he was cooling in truth. Perhaps that would be for the best, after. Courting a man was bad enough, but getting too close to Richard might mean courting death, as well. The stagecoach was already drawn up along the side of the station, and its horses were corralled behind, where a large lean-to stood in place of a proper stable. Wayne and Richard turned their horse out into the dusty corral. “Wayne ...” Richard ventured. But when Wayne turned, Richard really didn’t have much to say. “Just bear with me,” he pleaded. One corner of Wayne’s mouth quirked up; a nervous smile skated across his face. “Sure,” he said, but his tone was hardly certain. Wayne went on into the station. Richard loitered a while so as to arrive separately.

The first thing that caught Richard’s eye was the direct and inquisitive gaze of a young lady who sat between two surly chaperones. There were two long tables, one on each side of the room. The party of three -- a young woman with an old matron and a grubby cowboy --

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sat against one wall, facing the center of the room. Another grubby cowboy, the driver perhaps, sat at the other table with his back to them, drinking from a quart bottle of something with the cloudy look of homebrewed liquor. A doorway in the back wall led through to a stairwell and a cramped utility room. It was from there that the proprietor emerged, a short man with a grizzled walrus moustache, wrapped in a grimy apron that suggested mixed duties. “There’s no food to be had at this hour,” he announced gruffly. Richard ignored that statement. “There a seat on the stage to Saul’s Landing?” The big man sitting next to the girl glared up at Richard as if the mere idea was offensive to him. “Oh, aye, just see the driver about the fee.” The proprietor nodded toward the table. Richard turned back to the driver, a lumpy redhead with a bristly chin and the downcast and drooping visage of an old hunting hound. Richard dropped down opposite him, with the broad, unfinished boards of the table between them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered deck of cards. “What’s the damage for a ticket to the landing?” he said as he shuffled. “One and six,” the man replied as his eyes tracked the cards. Richard was pretty sure he wouldn’t be paying for that ticket. “Care to play a few hands, just to pass the time?” he offered.

Richard braced himself awkwardly. Normally he would just put one foot on the stagecoach seat opposite as the carriage moved. But that option was rather ruled out by the young lady across from him, and her voluminous skirts. The dress was technically burgundy, but in the context of her manner and gaze, it seemed more like red. She was looking at him in a direct and most unladylike way while her silent companions glowered. The dowdy woman sat next to Richard and the gunman diagonally opposite.

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“You better swap with me, Miss MacWaugh,” the man said as the bad-tempered driver whipped the horses into action. “I prefer this seat, Zack,” she replied with a sly smile. Zack glared a warning at Richard, who kept his gaze directed out the open window as they jolted along the rutted trail. “So you’re a gambler?” the lady asked. She seemed intrigued, and her name could hardly be a coincidence. MacWaugh’s ... what? Daughter? She seemed the rebellious type, the type to play with fire. Richard figured he knew how to get her attention. He let his voice recapture the clipped consonants of Boston and the vocabulary to match. “I wouldn’t call it a vocation,” he said, “but opportunities in these parts are limited.” She raised one eyebrow at the change in his diction. “So will you be in Saul’s Landing for a while?” “Gambling is rather like mining. My stay will depend on how many men are foolish enough to wager against me, and how much money they have.” For the first time, he looked directly at her, his expression cool. “Perhaps you’ll call on me while you’re in town,” she said with a small smile. Oh, yes, this girl was trouble, but she was also a way into the MacWaugh household. He looked her up and down with a quick flick of his eyes. “I don’t imagine I would receive such an invitation?” She returned his look, just as appraisingly. “Find something presentable to wear,” she said. “I’ll see that you receive that invitation -- tonight.” “Melissa!” the older woman snapped. The girl pouted smugly. She was obviously used to getting her own way. The stagecoach bucked as it hit a deep pothole, and Richard was thrown forward. He only just

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managed to plant his left hand on the seatback by Melissa’s side rather than on the cleavage more directly in front of him. He found himself looking straight into the pleasing, symmetrical features of a most unperturbed young lady. Zack reared up, his fist raised, and in the spirit of self-defense Richard’s right hand flew across and caught his would-be assailant on the jaw. The stagecoach rattled on. Richard settled back in his seat and groped for the pistol in his overcoat pocket. He cocked the pistol and leveled it at Zack. “On the whole, I would feel much better if you handed your six-shooter to the young lady, here, to look after,” he said. Zack paused, incredulous. “Come along,” Richard commanded with steel in his voice. “Hand the young lady your guns. If she disapproves of my conduct, she may certainly use them herself.” Zack looked at Melissa, who was watching the show with some amusement. “I suppose you had better do as he says,” she said. Zack obviously considered just plugging him instead, but finally submitted to the indignity of handing over his pistols to his charge. “When we gets to the landing, you and me is gonna have a talk,” Zack said, glaring at Richard. “I shall look forward to that.” Richard uncocked his pistol but held it loosely on his lap. He turned to look out the window again, using the reflection upon its murky surface to keep an eye on Zack. The older woman spoke up. “I think we could all use a little peace and quiet on the journey,” she said pointedly. “I am free to speak to whom I wish,” Melissa objected with a prim jut to her chin. The woman cut her off. “You and Mr. ...”

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“Patterson,” Richard supplied obligingly. “... can get acquainted later, when your father is there to keep an eye on you.” Apparently the woman was a much more formidable obstacle than Zack. Melissa considered the implied offer with a sideways glance. Then she gave way with a silent nod. Richard leaned back in his seat and watched the monotonous landscape slide by. Zack slid his hat forward on his head and pretended to doze, but Richard wasn’t fooled. He spent the journey alert for any move.

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Chapter Six

Wayne slouched by the public trough when the stage came in. Richard handed Melissa down onto the dusty street. Zack stormed around from the other side of the coach and pushed him roughly out of the way. His older female companion only smirked. She had the haggard look of a woman who had lived hard, but the sharp eyes of one who’d learned by it. “Give up, Zack,” she said. “Stay at the Prodigal,” Melissa called. “I will send you that invitation.” She swept away with a flounce of her crumpled bustle and a saucy glance over her shoulder. Any other man might have been thoroughly captivated; Richard had his mind on other matters. Scanning the short street, he saw two inns, a general store, a stable, a barber, and a stockyard. He sauntered toward the general store. He paused as he passed Wayne, but Wayne looked at him blankly. Richard sighed. He estimated that it would cost him the better part of his winnings to acquire a presentable suit of clothes, for a job that hadn’t yielded a penny, for a man who was more than happy to pretend they’d never met. Richard found a matronly woman behind the counter of the otherwise empty store. “I need some clothes, something fit for calling on a lady.”

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“Eastern fashion or western?” “East Coast style, certainly. The finer the better.” “You see the barber for a bath and shave, and I’ll find you something,” she said, biting off her words meanly. “You ain’t even coming into the back room until then.” Richard bowed slightly, well aware of his three-day beard and the grime that coated him. He stepped out onto the street cautiously in case Zack was ready for that “talk.” Wayne was still standing there, with the same blank look. The black pony, at least, pricked up her ears and regarded Richard with a polite interest -- it was almost endearing.

“Well, then, who’d a thought it?” The store worker turned the mirror toward him. Mrs. Meron had become more and more amenable as Richard transformed from a grungy cowboy into a gentleman. Like many women, she knew how to live in a sparse western manner, but she still yearned for a little better. Richard regarded his reflection defensively. His neatly trimmed hair was still wet and showed the parallel marks of the barber’s wide steel comb. His face was flushed from a hot shave, noticeably paler where the beginnings of a beard had covered it. His cheeks were marked with deep vertical lines from his habitual frown. His eyes seemed larger, and the lines about them were certainly deeper then he remembered. However, clean and well turned-out, Richard supposed that he could still pass for handsome, if you didn’t mind the hard set to his eyes and a little wear. The suit was flashy, but relatively well cut, and it hung properly on his thin frame. Dark blue with satin tape around the collar, it was set off by an ivory shirt and a silk cravat with a mauve-and-black paisley pattern. His watch was cheap and battered, but only the chain showed from his waistcoat pocket, and that looked fine enough.

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“You look grand, you do,” the shopkeeper allowed. “Though you do need a woman, sure enough, to feed you proper-like.” Richard folded a new black overcoat over his arm, but pushed aside the proper trilby hat. It might be in keeping with the three-piece suit, but a narrow brim would see him sunblind. He added a dark brown Stetson to complete the ensemble. Only his boots remained the same, with a derringer tucked in its familiar place at his ankle. He counted out his small coins, placing the larger coins inside his waistcoat pocket. The pistols just fit inside his outer pockets. There was something about buying a holster that sat wrong with him, as if it were a final admission about his character that he was not yet willing to make. He had killed a time or two when pushed to it, but he never sought it out. Richard strode out of the shop and down the narrow boardwalk, feeling the air fresh on his face. He turned in to the Prodigal, which was half-full of its sullen late afternoon custom -- drunks, drabs, and layabouts. He paused in the dark doorway and surveyed the room. Wayne was standing at the bar, and Richard felt a grim satisfaction in seeing him look twice. Richard drew himself up as proudly as he could and went to stand further down the bar. “Is there a decent room to be had in this establishment?” he inquired of the barman. Wayne started again at the Bostonian drawl. Richard stifled a smile. He collected a key from the barman. “If there is a message from Miss MacWaugh, please inform me immediately,” he said with the blithe tone of a man used to addressing servants. He scanned the room once more for any signs of a game, and seeing none, ascended the stairs. He was well aware of the regard of the others in the room, most of them disdaining him as a newcomer from the east, many likely seeing him as a rich and easy mark -- all the better.

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The upstairs room was probably the best in the place. It was large and coated in a thick layer of clean white paint and starched gingham. He sat on the bed and was pleased to find it soft, the covers crinkling about him. He kicked off his boots. He hadn’t slept well in Rapids, on a narrow, flea-infested mattress. The coach station had had only two rooms, dormitory style, and he had been too aware of Wayne, only a few feet away on his own pallet. He stripped off his jacket and waistcoat and laid them over the back of the chair. It was warm, and the room was stale and dry. He removed the immaculate shirt as well, to leave it looking its best, should Melissa actually come good with her invitation. Lying back on the bed to doze, he let his mind meander over the events of the last few days. He remembered Wayne’s caresses as the parched earth must remember the rain. He had truly intended to do whatever was necessary to please this most undeserved and considerate lover. Yet, within hours, his natural reticence had betrayed him. Wayne wanted some kind of companion, and Richard had no idea even how to aspire to amiability. Considering the uncertain span of months or years remaining to him, he was unsure whether the prize was worth the effort -- or, from Wayne’s perspective, the risk. Then there was the job, MacWaugh. He was undertaking it only from some sense of momentum. Having come so far, it was easier to continue. Certainly an evening in MacWaugh’s company would be interesting, regardless of the outcome. The sound of a footstep sent him sitting bolt upright. Wayne shut the door mutely behind himself; he had the exaggerated and furtive air of a man who is very aware of doing things secretly, and isn’t used to it. He locked the door. “Miss MacWaugh?” Wayne hissed, sotto voce. “She was on the coach,” Richard said blithely, letting his voice slip and his consonants blur into their usual western manner. “So I saw, Rick. You seem to have impressed her.”

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Rick paused to untangle the meaning behind Wayne’s unusually waspish tone. “Jealous?” After a moment, he relented. “You wanted me to find a way onto MacWaugh’s spread.” Wayne went still, but ignored the gibe. “Well, find out what you can. I’ve taken a room here, but I’ll be out of town during the day, talking to the folk who’ve been having trouble. I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing, and I’ve telegraphed for some back-up.” “Hmmm.” Richard was struck by a sudden desire for a cigarette. Holding a smoke was a mundane action that excused the kind of vacancy he now felt. Instead he sat dumbly. Wayne’s eyes danced about the room, equally uncomfortable in the ensuing silence. He came and sat by Richard’s side. Richard was acutely aware of the inviting expanse of the bed behind them. Even as the impulse formed in Richard’s mind, Wayne turned and leaned toward him. Richard felt Wayne’s hand upon his sensitive bare cheek, Wayne’s rough thumb softly stroking across his cheekbone. Wayne leaned to kiss him, and Richard pushed him away. “Dammit, Wayne, you must be careful of the contagion,” he snapped. Wayne hissed his annoyance and pressed his kiss on Richard’s pursed lips. Richard’s breath caught in his throat, and he fell back onto the mattress. Wayne pressed down, covering his body possessively. Richard’s eyes drooped closed. He felt Wayne’s fingers grasp his trousers and drawers and pull them down, leaving him naked. He felt horribly exposed, bare in the bright, whitepainted room with Wayne’s fully clothed body on top of him. He was horribly in awe of a man who gave no thought to risking death for the pleasure of a moment. Richard clutched at the soft flannel of Wayne’s shirt, and Wayne’s knee pressed hard up between his thighs. It was the moment when a horse bolted, when reining back would have no further effect and all you could do was ride where he took you. Richard was pinned

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down by a rough kiss. Wayne caressed his throat, stroked his sides, then grasped Richard’s thigh. “Rick, damn you,” Wayne muttered, his voice hoarse. Richard’s hands wavered, and his eyes fluttered open. Wayne was looking down at him with all the sinister care of a lion with its prey. Wayne kissed him again, hard. With one hand, he freed his firm cock so that it pressed demandingly against Richard’s thigh. This was not the careful, patient suitor of a few days ago. Wayne spit into his hand and perfunctorily covered his cock. “Wayne --” Richard was silenced. He gasped as Wayne pushed into him; he arched his back and stifled his cry, mindful of the thin walls. Richard clawed at the thick, starched covers, which gave him nothing to grasp. He pressed himself back on the bed, head thrown back and the daylight red through his closed eyelids. Wayne worked over him, roughly. Richard relaxed, accepting the intrusion, accepting the ache as his body yielded to this sudden onslaught. Wayne moaned, leaning forward so that his arms encircled Richard, his strokes short and harsh. Richard clutched at Wayne’s back, feeling his shirt tear and the top button spring loose. His frantic pace continued, and Richard relaxed further, letting it wash over him. He felt a detached mastery over Wayne’s rash passion. This was the kind of encounter he knew -- rushed, wordless, angry. Even as Richard’s response was beginning to kindle, Wayne gave a muffled cry and fell forward. Richard lay under him, listening to his labored breathing for a long moment. Then he eased himself away. He ached at such use, but it was a familiar feeling and did not bother him. He looked down at Wayne lying on his side upon the rumpled bed, with his unkempt clothes and damp, tousled hair, and his flaccid member showing. Wayne opened his eyes and looked up ...

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A knock at the door interrupted anything he might have said. “Message for you, sir,” called a boy’s voice. A piece of paper slid under the door. Richard bent and read the copperplate script. “Mr. MacWaugh invites me ... etcetera, etcetera,” he summarized. He bent to lift his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I don’t have a great deal of time.” He assumed his clothing methodically as Wayne watched, and left the room without Wayne saying a word. Richard rented a bow-backed gelding from the stable. The boy there gave him approximate directions to MacWaugh’s spread, and he realized that he had barely enough time to get there by dusk. He overshot in the gloom and only found the place by its lights, golden yellow against the terracotta sky. There was a sand-covered court out front, surrounded by a bleached wood palisade that was high at the front but could be easily scaled at the side or back. The gate stood hospitably open anyway, although the two men loitering out front were conspicuously armed, one with a brace of well-worn pistols and the other with a rusted shotgun. A young boy came forward to take his nag’s bridle as Richard swung a foot to the ground. A figure came through the great front doors of the house, and Richard had no doubt it was the man himself. He was small in stature, with the shrunken features and shuffling gait of advancing age -- and yet his gaze held the surety of an emperor. As he came closer, Richard saw the telltale jaundice and thinness of a long illness upon him. It was only too familiar, although this man was almost at the end of the dark path Richard had only recently embarked upon. “So, you are the young man my Melissa met on the stagecoach?” Richard bowed his head in a gesture that was simultaneously sincere and ironic. “I am that presumptuous man.”

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“No presumption to accept an invitation when it’s offered, unless you take it too far!” MacWaugh laughed sharply. “Come in. There’s time for a drink before the lady -- and, more importantly, the food -- is ready.” Richard felt his posture straightening in an innate response to MacWaugh’s gruff hailfellow-well-met manner. It reminded him of his father’s cronies filing in to spend a night downing more port than could ever be good for them whilst smoking their idiosyncratic choice of pipe, cigar, or cigarette. MacWaugh scuffed through a dark, polished-wood parlor into a more inhabited study, where he poured two measures of scotch into cut-crystal glasses. His hand shook with a harsh tremor as he did it, like fence wire in a strong wind. “It takes a lot to impress my girl,” he said as he handed one glass over. “A new face, someone her father doesn’t employ. At her age, she will probably lose interest within a few days,” Richard replied glibly. Richard sipped his drink. It was the real thing, smoky and well-aged. He couldn’t place it exactly, but it was from the one of the Scottish islands. It had the flat, nuanced flavor that the water there gave. He looked up to find MacWaugh watching him. “Miss the finer things, do you?” Richard met his gaze with a gambler’s ease. “What would I know about fine things?” he asked with well-honed self-deprecation. “It’s in your voice, in your clothes ... in your presumption. But I don’t necessarily mind that,” MacWaugh chuckled. “Daddy?” Melissa appeared in the doorway, a vision in midnight-blue tulle. She looked to her father with telling concern. As she approached across the parquet floor, her skirt brushed the ground with the sound of the desert wind. “Mr. Patterson.”

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Richard watched her approach as a man might who appreciated any work of art, a gilt icon or sepia-toned landscape. That her pure form was flesh, and mortal, merely added to its charm. “Zack tells me there is a marshal in town,” she said to her father, although her eyes were still on Richard. “Good, the town is getting lawless.” Nobody in the room much believed that sentiment, but there was a strange edge to MacWaugh’s voice that Richard could not fathom. A small gong sounded further back in the house. “Shall we go through?” MacWaugh said, his eyes moving speculatively from Melissa to Richard. Melissa spurned the offer of Richard’s arm and led the way. Richard followed behind Melissa as her skirts swayed like a meadow flower in a breeze. The table was laid for three. Apparently the MacWaugh family did not hold with eating in the presence of staff and counted angry Zack as exactly that, despite his bluster. Such formality normally faded, far from the stifling confines of the eastern cities, and Richard was not entirely pleased to re-enter that world of lemon-scented mahogany, silver cutlery, and people knowing their place. He drew out Melissa’s chair and tucked it forward as she sat, an easy courtesy that had seen little use for some time. She looked back over her bare shoulder at him in a demure but practiced way. “So, how do you make a living?” MacWaugh quizzed Richard, sounding disconcertingly like a potential father-in-law. “Your daughter might have enlightened you there,” Richard said. “I make my living from the cards.” “A gambler? I have always wondered about that profession. Do you cheat?” “Of course I cheat,” Richard replied without hesitation.

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“You didn’t tell me he was a gambler; did you think I’d mind?” MacWaugh challenged his daughter as they all ignored the boy pouring wine into crystal glasses and the older woman from the coach bringing in platters of steaming food. “It’s a job that takes gumption, and that’s the prime quality a man needs to hold his own out here. “You know,” he said, turning back to Richard, “I made a deal with Melissa. She said if I wanted to see an heir, I had to open the house to any man she saw fit to invite. I did have to concede that the options in a backwater like this are limited, but I have no time for European tours or other such conceits. If my girl is going to inherit this spread, she needs to stay here and see how things are. What do you say to that?” Richard imagined MacWaugh did not have time for slower methods. He knew serious illness when he saw it -- and his own condition paled in comparison to MacWaugh’s, for all the effort the old man was making to overcome it this evening. “I hardly think it is my place to say anything to that,” Richard finally replied. “And if it was?” “I would say that it is a pot worth cheating for.” “Did you hear that, honey?” Melissa tasted the fish course delicately. “I think Mr. Patterson is speaking of your land, not my personal assets -- which is hardly flattering.” Melissa had her father’s boldness and the same steel in her gaze. Richard could see it more clearly now that he was becoming used to the porcelain prettiness of her face. She did not seem offended at all, and Richard wondered exactly what game she was playing. A breeze blew up, and the serving woman came in to secure the shutters and light candles. “There seems to be a storm brewing,” Melissa said. “Perhaps we should have Sally make up the spare room for Mr. Patterson so that he may enjoy your imported claret at his leisure and not be worried about finding his way back over unfamiliar terrain in the dark.”

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“Are you planning, my dear, on getting me an heir without getting yourself a husband?” Richard could hardly believe his ears. For all their trappings of noblesse, these two spoke like the rankest libertines. “Oh, that wouldn’t do. A husband is a foreman who doesn’t draw a salary. It only makes sense to marry. And the only way to marry is to hold back the prize.” Melissa smiled. Rick wondered how much they spoke in jest and how much in earnest, but so long as the tone stayed light, he merely smiled and sampled the excellent fare set before him. The fish was moist, the beans buttery, and the wine warm and mellow. He looked at the play before him and decided not to concern himself with the MacWaughs’ machinations. He had delivered himself into their hands, and they and their minions would do what they would do.

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Chapter Seven

The evening passed convivially enough from that point. Richard drank deeply of the wines he was offered: rich claret, crisp Riesling, and sweet port. The room grew dark and close as the senior and junior MacWaugh chatted about their cattle and their neighbors (in similarly acerbic terms). Richard contributed a few witticisms, but mostly kept his peace and tried to listen for tidbits that would be useful to Wayne. Wayne, who suddenly seemed part of a totally different world, where people were burned to death in remote homesteads for reasons that the charming old man opposite Richard knew. He was too dazed and drunk to entirely care. It was the deep of the night before Sally showed him to the guest bedroom. It was a small, square room on the second floor, its whitewashed shutters latched firmly against the mournful wind. Sally cast him a final suspicious look before shutting him in with a firm click. He stood in the center of the room and considered the blurry bedstead. The drink had damped down his cough, as it usually did, but spasms still bubbled up intermittently. He raised his hand to stifle it. His cheeks were doubly flushed by fever and drink. He was not surprised to hear the door swish open again as Melissa slipped inside.

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“What is it?” she asked coolly. Richard knew from her calculating tone that this was no seduction. “What?” “You came out west. Was it for your health?” she said, the usual euphemism for consumption. It was the implied rather than the direct question that Richard answered. “Yes, it is.” “You’re out here, disgraced, disinherited? You don’t seem to be the sort who’d just light out after adventure. Don’t you worry that when you get really sick, you’ll be alone and have nowhere to go?” Richard stood very still as she articulated the very fears he didn’t contemplate except in his darkest hours. They flew around him like black bats against a moonless sky. His silence, apparently, was eloquent enough. Melissa crowded against him. “Papa is sicker still, and he won’t leave the spread to just me, not a woman alone. I have to find a husband fast, or he’ll give half or more to Zack or some male relative back east. Worse yet, he might leave it to me -- but Zack will snatch it by his will and his command of the hands. So I’ll be blunt. I want a husband who won’t bother me too much, won’t interfere, and maybe won’t even be around forever. In the absence of Mr. Right, I want Mr. Temporary, and you could be him.” “That is blunt,” Richard commented dryly. Melissa was pressed tight against him, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest and her thigh leant casually alongside his. “You’re not really attracted to me, are you?” she asked, being quite close enough to know. “You are very beautiful.” “That’s not quite the same thing, is it?” “Hardly.”

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Richard felt the firm swell of breasts against his chest. Her hand rested presumptuously on his hip; his thigh nestled into her skirts and between her legs. He could feel the subtle warmth of her body all along his. He took her gently by the shoulders and stepped away. He wasn’t sure he’d be up for it if things heated up any more, but he was pretty certain that was a moot point. Melissa wanted a husband of convenience, a man who didn’t want her -- and this was a test. Richard was sure she didn’t lack for ardent suitors, and equally sure she hadn’t fallen fool in love with him. No, he wasn’t buying what she was selling, but this was the best way of keeping his options open ... It wasn’t until much later that he thought of Wayne at all. “Think about it, Mr. Patterson,” Melissa said. “In the morning, I will ride into town with you, and we’ll have a little time to talk.” As she looked into his eyes, Richard could hear the howling of the dog under the dispassionate and calculating gaze of the doctors and medical students. With dim horror, he realized he was the dog; the dog was him. He had a slow death laid out ahead of him, with only one sure way to spend it in any comfort -- and this was it. Melissa seemed satisfied by what she saw. She stepped away and retreated to the door. “We might do all right together,” she said. “You sleep on it.”

His mind was fogged and the hour was late, but he couldn’t sleep. He drifted about the room listlessly, like a caged bird. He was putting together snatches of the dinner conversation. Comments from MacWaugh particularly. “Quick enough to take advantage ...” “... Every man in these parts is a cheat or a scrounger ...” “... Now the shoe’s on the other foot.” “Couldn’t stop it if I wanted ...”

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It was never said outright, but MacWaugh was holding some kind of grudge. He referred to it obliquely, implicitly. Richard’s mind groped around the edges of it, but he’d drunk too much and spent too much time wondering about Melissa’s calculating wiles. There had been more than anger in the dining room that night -- there had been a kind of creeping fear. Perhaps it was just MacWaugh’s fear of imminent death and Melissa’s of losing her father and protector -- yet Richard was fairly sure that he was missing part of the puzzle. A few hours of fruitless fretting passed. The house seemed very still, and it was still full dark outside. He cracked the door open and peered out into the empty corridor, then slipped out and headed down the curving stair to where the door of the library stood open. He ran his hand along the banister and the wall, lingering on the doorframe. The smell of the books permeated the room: old paper and clean leather. The fire had been banked under a layer of pale ash. A window bare of shutters or curtains admitted wan starlight through small square panes. A roll-top desk was pushed up against the wall, writing paper and envelopes laid out on the open top with orderly precision. Richard tore a small sheet, twisted a taper, and picked up the candleholder from the desk. He pushed the taper into the old coals of the fireplace until it caught, then lit the candle. There was a refracting glass on the mantle, a double globe of crystal that fitted over the candle and made a single flame into a globe of light fit for sewing or reading by. He took it over to the main bookshelf, which reached from floor to ceiling. Regimented volumes lined up, with proud spines of brightly dyed leather and thick gilt. They had the sharp-edged, gaudy look of books chosen for decoration rather than appreciation. There was a set of philosophy books in forest green. Richard’s hand strayed to Plato. He pulled it from the shelf with a creak as it parted from its longtime companions on either side. The pages were still uncut, and he ran his fingers down the ragged edge. He remembered the theory that humans were one male and female together in one body, but were then divided

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into the two sexes, leaving them to search forever more, to seek to cleave to the other half of themselves. What could it mean, he wondered, when two male halves came together? He replaced Plato. Philosophy was nothing but fairy tales to make people docile, still causing consternation centuries later. He took a slim volume of Shakespeare and sat down on the Black Forest-carved chair in front of the desk, then propped his heels up on the windowsill. He pulled one of the handkerchief-wrapped lumps from his pocket and unwrapped a pair of wire-framed glasses. His eyes were a bit vague up close, though good enough to make out cards. They were completely fine at the distance needed to see the other players’ faces, which was normally more important. He had to spend some time straightening the twisted arms and hooking them carefully around his ears. “‘For this relief much thanks, for ’tis bitter cold and I am sick at heart ...’” It was anything but cold, but the sentiment still rang true. It had been over a decade since he had last read Hamlet with the soulless concentration of a youth who just wants to pass an examination. He had learned the intricacies of symbolism, foreshadowing, and iambic verse, without ever really noticing that the play was a tragedy. Rosencrantz et al. were just exiting to their offstage doom when Richard heard a clink upon the glass. Wayne stood outside in the darkness, a sheepish grin on his face. Richard blinked, slowly, twice. He calculated the necessity of Wayne riding across rough country in the full dark on an almost moonless night. He dropped his feet and stood, wincing as his knees creaked in protest. He quietly closed the library door before returning to the window. The old wrought-iron catches were hard to open, and the sash window shuddered as he tried to raise it. Wayne pushed the window open another foot and dragged himself inside. “You seem very much at home,” Wayne said.

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It was only the truth. Richard’s new suit still sat uneasily upon him like cloth origami, yet it was Wayne’s dusty boots that seemed out of place upon the fine oriental carpet. Richard became very aware of the book in his hand and the clerkish glasses on his nose. He unhooked them and stuffed them unceremoniously into his waistcoat pocket next to his battered half-hunter watch. “You’re taking a hell of a chance, Wayne,” he whispered. “There was another fire tonight, a stead just over the hill from where that family died. One witness put MacWaugh’s man, Zack, at the scene. And it’s no secret with the rougher elements of the town that he’s out to get you. There’s a quite a tale doing the rounds about what happened in the stage.” “He won’t bother me in the house.” Richard placed the book on the desk, listening for any movement to suggest they might be disturbed. Wayne grasped his shoulder. “What about when you leave? And what did happen on the stagecoach?” Richard turned back to Wayne, searching his expression. “Melissa will ride into town with me, and then I will just have to look after myself. Wayne, get the hell out of here; we can talk tomorrow.” Wayne tightened his grip. “What is Melissa up to?” “What is Richard up to, you mean?” “Have it as you will; just give me an answer.” “MacWaugh is sick, a malignancy of some kind, and it is advanced. He has perhaps a few months, maybe less. His hand is being forced as his time grows short, and so is hers.” “A malignancy?” “A tumor. In my experience, once it has gone this far, it is invariably and rapidly fatal.” Somewhere in the house, a door slammed in the wind. Richard started. “Someone will investigate that,” he hissed. “Get on with you.”

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He all but pushed Wayne out the window, constantly checking the door behind them as if just looking at it would keep it closed. Wayne put one leg out the window and ducked under. He swung his foot out, scuffing the glossy paint of the sill. Wayne balked outside the window. “I just wanted to say, I don’t know what came over me today ...” Richard wrapped his fingers around the sash. “When you work it out, you let me know,” he said. It took a hefty jerk to free the warped wood, and then the window slammed shut. Richard put Hamlet carefully back in its place and went to the door. When he glanced back, the window panes were blank and black as a spider’s eyes. Richard shivered. Part of him expected Wayne to start playing Romeo on the balcony, with farewell kisses and protestations of highest regard. It was with both relief and disappointment that he realized Wayne was just as confused as he was.

In the morning, his rented horse had an attack of spirit. Maybe it was spending the night in a good, tightly boarded stable with a trough full of husked oats, or just the dew and birch pollen in the air smelling of the spring that was coming in. Melissa waited, mounted sidesaddle on a grey mare with mean eyes and busy feet. It said a lot that she persisted with that decorative but impractical lump of a saddle when most sensible women rode astride. Richard was late. He had stayed in his room ’til he had broken in his lungs for the day and mastered his hangover, more or less. The sharp air still had him coughing, though he stifled it. MacWaugh was nowhere to be seen. Richard imagined that after he had put on such a show of strength last night, he wouldn’t be up to much this morning. Richard swung up onto his borrowed, cracked old saddle. Melissa’s horse pranced and tossed her head, but she was a good enough horsewoman not to rein in right away. Just when

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the mare was thinking of bolting, she pulled her snout down sharply and turned in a tight circle. Richard set off, and Melissa’s mare fell in beside him. “Did you think about my offer?” She was dressed in a tawny riding suit cut in so tight at the waist that she must have been wearing a corset, and a white ruffled shirt. This was a girl who’d fit right in at Regent’s Park, from her palfrey’s polished hooves to the mother-of-pearl inlay of her riding crop. “I thought about it.” The silence lumbered on. Melissa pursed her lips, looking tempted to speak but playing it cool. “Zack would probably kill me,” he said at last. “Zack’s already of a mind to kill you. Now, if my father’d not met you, he’d probably agree, but he’s taken to you, and he’s the boss. Zack’s the trouble, and no mistaking, he’s getting his way more and more these days. He’s starting to think he’ll get the lot.” Richard frowned into the slanted light of the morning. He’s seen a shadow moving between the boulders off to the side. “Zack’s not all that brave, or all that smart,” he said. “But he’s reaching for the brass ring, and it’s up to us to stop him,” Melissa said. “If he’s after you anyway, what do you have to lose? Just remember, he doesn’t have to be all that smart. He’s top hand, he knows the spread, and he’s a man. People will do what he tells them to, at least for a while. I’ve got to knock him of the top of the dunghill, and I’ve got to do it before Daddy dies.” “That’s pretty cold.” “Oh, don’t mistake me. I’ll grieve for Daddy when he goes. But that doesn’t stop me from knowing that there’ll be life afterwards, and things will be very difficult for me.”

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That was the first moment when Richard felt any admiration for Melissa as a person rather than an assemblage of limbs and gait. In her own strange way, she loved her father. In her own way, she was doing the best she could with what fate had dealt her. “So why not settle for Zack?” he asked. The shadow of a horseman passed between the stippled trunks of the birches, and a flash of hide caught Richard’s eyes -- the dusty roan of Wayne’s cosseted mare. Melissa saw nothing, preoccupied with her own thoughts. “Deep down, he’s a fool, a big, cruel idiot with a gun he’s not afraid to use. He’s polite enough to me now, but when Daddy’s gone, that’ll be over. He’s not the kind of man any woman would want to be in the power of. He bows and scrapes to me now, but I see his eyes, and there’s nothing in them but anger, greed, and something worse.” They came around a bend and out onto a grassy plain. “There’s one thing I’d need to know,” Richard said. “And that’s what your father’s mixed up in which brings a marshal into town.” Melissa’s expression hardened. “There’s things you only see when you’re on the inside. I couldn’t say more while you still might just walk away. Besides, if you’re smart enough to figure something’s going on, you have a fair idea what you’ll be getting into. Just don’t go assuming that just because he’s pouring the port, that it’s Daddy behind it all.” “I don’t want to be getting into a noose.” Melissa laughed. “It won’t come to that,” she said with blithe assurance. She might well love her father, but the couple and their kids who’d burned to death didn’t seemed to be weighing very heavily on her conscience. Part of Richard preferred to think that was Zack’s doing and that Melissa mightn’t even know. But there was a hard edge to this girl, which, with her fancy manner, might mean those she looked down on didn’t concern her much.

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“I have some things to settle with Zack. I think that had better come first -- ’cause if I don’t walk away from it, there won’t be much point in making any deals.”

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Chapter Eight

At the edge of town, Melissa pulled up. “You go on, then,” she said. “But don’t take too much time, or I’ll find someone else who suits me as well.” She cantered away without a backward glance. Richard stayed put, waiting patiently. In good time, Wayne emerged from over the rim of a hill, his mare’s hocks plastered with damp red clay. His jacket was creased, and his upturned collar had dirt down the back of it from sleeping rough against some old bank. “So, what is it?” Wayne drawled. “Daddy’s on the way out, and she needs another man in her life?” “Ironic, isn’t it?” Richard bit off his words, regarding the faint plume of dust that showed where Melissa had gone. Wayne’s eyes slipped aside uncomfortably. Richard’s illness was an unspoken presence between them. Richard wondered what Wayne hoped to achieve by pretending it didn’t exist. “So,” Richard said. “Bugger what Melissa is after. What is her father up to?” “Come along,” Wayne said. “I’ll tell you.”

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He turned in to the deep tussock and the wood beyond, out of sight of prying eyes. There was scant passage between the narrow tree trunks, and the horses walked single file until they came to the older growth where the thick trunks stood further apart, their crowns blocking out light above ground that was almost bare. Richard was reminded of Melissa’s words: “There’s things you only see when you’re on the inside.” As he approached the woods, all he could see were shadows and dim forms. Once inside, he could see the dappled shadows, the hares bolting from his path, the ferns and vines. As his eyes adjusted, he could almost forget that this was a world of darkness, a sparse world in which only a few creatures adapted to a life of shadows thrived. Their horses ambled side by side until they came upon a small clearing filled with knee-high grasses. Rosy began to crop the grass, noisily clanking her bit. Wayne dismounted and slipped her bridle off -- the well-mannered mare was not one to stray. Richard felt somewhat reluctant to begin a conversation that was likely to cover ground he was uncomfortable with, but it was pointless to delay. Wayne was the kind of man who talked about things that most men would leave alone to work out themselves. Richard looped his horse’s reins over a sturdy branch, and she seemed stoically uninterested in pulling free. He reluctantly followed Wayne into the bright light, where a fallen log provided an obvious seat. Richard perched a good two feet away from Wayne, conscious of his own nervous mien and hunched shoulders, but not quite able to relax. “It’s about water,” Wayne said. “MacWaugh made his money off railways, but then his wife died and he lost interest. He wanted something different, land out in the country, raising stock. He came out here, and he paid a pretty penny for a big parcel of land. He came in the spring and it all looked fine, but what the seller didn’t say, nor any of the locals, was that the whole area has no reliable water source. There are some seasonal ponds and small streams, but no rivers, no big lakes. In the high summer he has no water at all, and he can’t keep the stock on the land. He was had. He paid well over the value of the land, and the locals stood by and let it happen, having a laugh at his expense.”

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“But why the fires?” “The river passes down that way,” Wayne said, with a wave in the general direction of the town. “There are perhaps nine small properties between him and that river, and he means to have them out. Five have already sold, and two of the properties are deserted after the fires. The rest are going to have to decide very soon whether to sell out or make some kind of a stand. I’ve had a telegraph, and there will be a few more deputies in town by tonight, in case it comes to a fight.” “MacWaugh certainly resents the locals, and it makes sense -- they’d have enjoyed taking the big man down a peg or two -- but I figure Zack for being the one to do the actual work. Apparently he wants to inherit the lot, Melissa included.” “You seem very concerned about this Melissa ...” Richard watched a small grey moth picking its way across the clearing, weaving though the gentle breezes and the swaying seed heads of the grasses. A single sapling was trying to struggle forth to fill the void, its bark and leaves deer-cropped and withered. “Melissa’s a lot like her father, I think. Ruthless, but honest in her way. She’s not some kind of seductress, and she is offering me comfort and security. All I have to do is get her father’s approval, go through the formality of a wedding, and perhaps do away with Zack. It’s a fair deal, in its way, and I’d be just the kind of man for it -- if it wasn’t for you.” Wayne frowned. “You’re not saying that you’d go for it if you were here on your own?” “I think I might,” Richard said honestly. “I don’t want to end up dying in some gutter with only the vultures for company. But you’re on the scene, and MacWaugh and his accomplices are likely to hang for their sins, and I am in no hurry to join them.” Wayne’s face was set in blank incomprehension, expressing the persistent gulf of understanding between them. “You think I’d let that happen?” Meaning, perhaps, either fate or both. “You don’t know where I am most of the time, nor I you.”

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“That was before.” “Before? So what is this, ‘after’? At least Melissa came right out with it. She wants a man to please her father, deal with an unwanted suitor, stay out of her bedroom, and drop dead not too soon after dearest Daddy so she can face her future unfettered.” “She said that?” “She did, and I respect that. I know what I’d be getting, and it’s not a bad deal.” “God, that’s heartless.” “Me or her?” “Both.” Wayne shuffled over until they sat side by side; Richard kept looking ahead to the bobbing grasses, doubly yellow as they faded under the full sun. Wayne’s gaze was just as relentless. He swung to straddle the old log and face Richard directly. “Rick,” he said, “what the hell is it that you want? We could get a bit of land, somewhere with a scattering of towns nearby. You could go gamble, if you’re so set on it. I could farm, or take a sheriff’s post. I’m not the one shutting down the options here, not the one with the bit in his teeth, heading hell for leather toward the very fate he fears.” Richard leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. “Maybe it’s just not a fate I want to share, at least not with somebody who’s gonna care.” Wayne reached forward and curled his right hand over Richard’s thigh. He rested his chin on Richard’s shoulder. “Well, that’s something I can begin to understand, at least. But don’t you find it a little odd that you’re happy to spend the rest of your life, however long that might be, only with somebody that doesn’t give a damn about you -- or on your own. Me, I figure you’ve got a good long time left. But I’ll settle for until you get sick of me or bored or a better offer. However long, Rick, and wherever it please you to spend it.”

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Richard could feel the movements of Wayne’s jaw as he spoke, the heavy weight of his hand. What kind of fool am I? I want this, and all I have to do is reach for it. But immediately, he wasn’t sure he did want it. He closed his eyes and felt the sun falling down on him, the rough, dry wood beneath him, the man beside him. What would it be like to have some kind of home, to have Wayne there? How long before he couldn’t stand it and was heading off for the saloon and the other favored dives that had become his habitat? “Rick,” Wayne said more softly, his breath puffing against Richard’s neck. “I was looking through that window at you with your new suit and your spectacles on, reading some bound-up book, and I thought, ‘Here is a man who thinks -- here is a man who thinks too damn much for his own good.’” “Then you decided to spend the night sleeping rough outside my window to make sure -- what? That Zack didn’t sneak in and murder me? That Melissa didn’t have her wicked way?” Wayne’s hand inched up. “I’m hoping you prefer my wicked ways.” Richard smiled faintly. He felt Wayne bite gently on his ear, place a soft kiss on his jaw. “Wayne ...” “Hmmm?” “You aren’t serious.” “I am entirely serious. Are you?” Richard swung his leg over to face Wayne, and that was something worth looking at. He leaned forward and looped his arm around Wayne’s waist, tumbling them both off the old log and onto the deep grass. He held him down and kissed him, mouth not quite closed, and pushed up his shirt. “Serious enough,” Richard muttered.

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He liked the feeling of control as he straddled Wayne’s body and fumbled with the buttons of his work trousers. He eased them down, freeing Wayne’s proud cock. On impulse he wrapped his fingers around it and shuffled down to draw its pink head inside his mouth. Wayne made a small, surprised noise, his cock stiffening rock-hard against Richard’s palm. Richard worked his lips over the head, drawing back the foreskin and working the tip with his tongue. Wayne writhed beneath him, but Richard was merciless. He ran his tongue up the underside of Wayne’s cock and then slid it deeply inside his mouth, stroking it deeper so that the head nestled at the opening to his throat and he dared no more. “Oh, God, Richard, don’t ...” Wayne’s whole body shook as he came, the taste of it slick and salty. Richard released his deflating member and crawled up his body to kiss him again, the taste of Wayne’s seed passing between them. “Jesus, Richard. That was more like being attacked by a cougar than fucking.” “Teach you to take me for granted.” Richard scrambled to his feet and sauntered off to collect his horse. “Wait ...” Wayne struggled to pull up his trousers and get his knees to work properly. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Richard turned. “Oh, yes?” “Yes, well two things. One is that there’s two places MacWaugh might hit next: the Carters or old Mason. Either would get him through to the river, and I need to know which one to stake out. There are deputies coming in from Larch, and they’ll be here by dark.” “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see if I can find out which and when. What else?” Wayne leaned in conspiratorially close. “I love you.” He walked past Richard, leaving him stuck to the spot.

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Chapter Nine

The rented horse ambled back into town slowly but with an eager bob to its head. No doubt it was looking forward to its familiar stall in the draughty stable. Strange how the familiar comes to be home, no matter how modest its charms. Richard sat on the horse’s back and felt the warm sun beam down upon him. He was just about ready to turn his back on old familiar ways and not regret it at all. Life, he mused, had dealt him rather a mixed hand -- but right at the moment he had no complaints. A few days of happiness were worth more than a lifetime of dull day-to-day existence. He felt himself smiling as he leaned back in the saddle and felt the movement of the horse and the worn-out leather against his thighs. He turned in to the main street of the town and took the old nag back to its owner. He walked down the boardwalk toward the Prodigal, hearing the parched planks creak with each step, and stepped into the darkness of the saloon without hesitation. On the second step, just as his eyes were adjusting, a fist hit him hard on the left cheek and spun him against the wall. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, wrenched his coat off, and pushed him forward again.

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Zack stood foursquare in front of him, fists raised like a proper pugilist. A ragged circle of men surrounded them. Most had the look of MacWaugh’s hands and Zack’s followers, with the gaps filled in by any passerby with time on his hands. “Think you’re gonna get Miss Melissa, do you?” Zack snarled. Richard staggered, but before he could get his bearings, Zack hit him again, hard in the stomach. He fell to his knees, his hands slapping the floor and his mind a whirl. He had been here a few times before. This was the place where everything was stacked against you and there was no way out. With his weight and strength, Zack could beat Richard to death and call it an accident, a fight over a girl. Nobody present would be able to say different, or feel inclined to. Richard felt a sensation like a wash of cool ice-water rushing down his spine. He reached into the deep pool of animal insanity that lurked at the bottom of his heart. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a cluster of booted feet, a broken jug, and a table leg. Everything became clear and vivid. He lurched forward and grabbed the table leg. He scattered the men in front of it and swung the whole damn table straight at Zack’s head before he was even on his feet again. The table was a good four feet long and built from solid planks, and the side of it hit Zack on the temple with a solid crack. It sailed off to the side and took out a few of the bystanders, but Richard was already launching himself at Zack. His lithe body uncoiled and catapulted forward, catching Zack before he even hit the ground. Feral desperation and pure, mindless, predatory instinct drove him. He knew he couldn’t hit as hard as a big ol’ cowhand like Zack, but he hit and kept on hitting. His fists ached as he drove them like pistons. He hit, missed, felt his knuckles split and tear as they glanced off Zack’s belt buckle. He went for the groin and pounded on Zack as he lay on the ground. The roaring was just inside his head now; the crowd was silent. He knelt over Zack, pounding down on his face. Zack was out cold on the floor, but Richard wasn’t done with

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him yet. He felt the big man’s nose break under his fist and shrieked with rage as others pulled him off. “Think you can tell me what to do!” he yelled. He shook the men off his back, stumbled, and fell. He yanked the one-shot derringer from his boot and spun, pointing it out at the circle of men. “Any of you bastards think you can take me? Do you?” Zack lay still on the floor. Richard gave him a solid kick in the gut for good measure, but he didn’t want to give the bystanders too long to think about the situation, since most of them had pistols at hand. A derringer was good in a squeeze, but it didn’t do a hell of a lot of damage when it came down to it. He snatched up his jacket and stormed up the stairs without a backward glance, no matter how hard it made his neck itch. He all but ran into his room and slammed the door behind him. Only then was he scared. For the first time, he had something to lose in a fight, and that changed everything. Now dying meant an end, no more dreams of a future with Wayne. There was a pitcher and a bowl on the sideboard. He shoved the derringer back in his boot, pulled out his pistols, and laid them on the bed within easy reach. He washed his shaking hands, watching as the water ran pink in the white china basin. It didn’t hurt yet; that would take a while longer. He rediscovered the power of rational thought gradually. He couldn’t stay there and face Zack and his whole gang. There must’ve been a score of them, all told. Zack would come around soon enough, maybe even now. Richard put his jacket on and took his pistols in hand. He wrenched the door open. The hall was empty, but there was a buzz of talk from below. He strode toward the back, where a door led to a rickety stairway down to the alley. He had three cards to play. It was too early for Wayne or Melissa, but the old man might do. He seemed to aspire to just a little more class in a son-in-law than Zack was ever going to come up with. It was a thin wedge to put

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between himself and Zack, but it was all he had. Besides, he had to be on MacWaugh’s spread to know when they moved against one of the settlers. And apart from all that, he had to get the hell out of the hotel before the boys downstairs got their act together and killed him. Thank God, he thought as he peered down the stairs, they were too dumb to post a lookout.

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Chapter Ten

Down at the boarding stable, the little black pony had pricked up its ears. Richard figured he was already sufficiently out of pocket and threw a saddle over her instead of taking the rent-by-the-day nag again. His jaw ached, but his teeth seemed more or less intact. His good mood of the morning had rather lost its shine as he rode out over the rough scrub and skirted the town. He was no frontiersman, but he wanted to get back to MacWaugh’s without being seen. He headed up toward the northern ridge. There was no water there, no cattle, and little reason for anyone to be about. After all, most of MacWaugh’s men had been in town. He wondered if they were looking for him now. Zack’s mood would hardly have improved. Richard left the pony tied to some scrub and climbed over the boundary fence into the compound around the house. After a moment’s hesitation, he smoothed his lapels and straightened his collar, then walked over to the house and stepped up onto the open veranda that surrounded the great square building. He came to the window of the small library and noticed immediately that the sash still wasn’t properly latched.

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A glance around showed no one in sight, so he bent and lifted the window. The room was still and stale as he stepped into it. He ran his finger over the spines of the books and headed for the door with the lightest step that he could manage. The hallway was also hushed and empty, eerily so. He headed across to the smaller reception area and ascended the staircase to the second floor, where the bedrooms were. He was guessing that if anyone was using the lower rooms, there would be fires laid and more signs of movement and use. The door to MacWaugh’s bedroom was slightly ajar. Richard knew his tactics, and despite what Wayne said about subtlety, he was going to be anything but. He was going straight to the big man for as much of the truth as MacWaugh would give up. He knocked the knuckles of his left hand against the door. “Come.” The old man’s voice sounded surprised. Richard stepped in and closed the door gently behind him. MacWaugh was settled into a deep cane chair by the window, nested in several layers of densely woven Mexican blankets. He held a smoldering clay pipe in one hand as he turned to regard Richard over the foot of a wide and tightly made-up bed. Richard knew that he needed a bold opening to grab MacWaugh’s attention and stop him from raising the alarm. “Forgive the intrusion, Mr. MacWaugh,” Richard said as he approached. “But I would be interested in knowing how greatly you value your overseer, as it may become necessary for me to kill him.” MacWaugh raised one bushy eyebrow and gestured for Richard to sit opposite him, where a wooden chair stood against the other side of the window recess. “Are you quite sure that will be the outcome?” he inquired. Richard ran his fingers over his jaw, which continued to ache dully. “The other possible outcome means that your opinion does not concern me further, and nor will anything else. However, I am confident enough of dealing with Zack. Melissa would

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certainly take rather more handling than he, and you ... well, in the end it is you who is the lord of the manor.” MacWaugh regarded Richard for a long moment, as a man might assess a new horse or dog. The midmorning light was unforgiving on the old man’s face; it outlined the pouches beneath his eyes and the sagging, crinkled flesh beneath his chin. His bullish nature still shone through in his hard eyes and the set of his brows. “Aye,” MacWaugh said. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He eased forward in his seat and drew on his pipe. Richard waited patiently. “Zack’s slipped the leash,” MacWaugh conceded at last. “I’ve always done what is necessary and not balked at taking down a man who needed it -- down as far as the grave, if he insisted. But the boy’s gone too far. I started going after the land between me and the river. I never had to go further than threats and a good price for the land, but just as we got to the last stubborn few, I started to take a bit ill, age overtaking me at last ...” Richard concealed his surprise. MacWaugh put up a good front, but it was clear that the men who worked the ranch were more used to doing as Zack told them. The more he thought about it, the more he could conceive that the recent escalation was the work of a rasher and more foolish man than MacWaugh. “The fire everyone’s talking about?” Richard prompted. “Zack went too far. A woman, two little ’uns. I wouldn’t do that or condone it done.” “You could go to the marshal.” MacWaugh’s face set in angry refusal. “This is my house, my land. I knew that if I kept up the pretense just a little longer, something would come to hand to let me take Zack down again. If I fronted him otherwise, he’d turn on me like rabid dogs do upon their masters. If the marshals wade in, anything might happen, but if I sort him out myself, no one need even know.”

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MacWaugh fixed his gaze on Richard, and the windows showed as bent flecks within his beady eyes. “I figure I can trust you for the only reason any man can trust another. Because what I want and gain from, you want and gain from. I want to rule this land, my land, until I die -and you, I think, would like to inherit it.” The blunt streak that ran through Melissa had obviously come from this man. “You think Melissa will have me.” “I saw her last night,” MacWaugh dismissed. “I don’t pretend to fathom a girl’s fancies, but she’ll have you. She’ll be pleased to get rid of Zack, too. You do that for us, and I’ll be damned pleased to know a man with more restraint is around. To be frank, any man like to produce sons to take on after me. My line, on this place that I struggled and worked to get for them. Family’s all that’s important, in the end ...” Richard leaned back and heard the chair creak beneath him. The window was raised just a crack, and a pleasant breeze wafted through it, laced with dust and pollen. The great house around them and the land beyond promised security and plenty more that he could not fail to be tempted by. After all, the murders would be at an end -- bar one. And even Zack might be better off shot down than dragged through a trial and hung. God, but he was tempted. And then he realized that he was more than tempted. Sure, he ... well, felt stuff for Wayne. But this was ease and comfort all laid out for him, and Zack was gonna come up and demand to be shot pretty soon anyway.

Just when I thought I was becoming some sort of decent human being. Yes, he was tempted. “If you wait here, the two of us can sort it out right here, rather than anywhere more public.” MacWaugh grimaced.

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Richard could understand that, and he wondered if it wouldn’t be the easiest thing. Zack would disappear, and everything would settle down. The door cracked open, and a young kid stuck his head in. He was a boy of about nine or ten, wearing work clothes, and his calloused hands suggested that he did a day’s work in them. Richard vaguely remembered seeing him about the house the previous night. MacWaugh waved him in. “This is Chuck. He helps out about the place. You need something, he can get it for you. Chuck, this is Mr. Patterson, and he is going to be helping out. I want you to do what he says.” He turned back to Richard. “There’s two households left. One is the Carters, a big family with a bunch of sons who all know how to use shotguns. The other is an old coot who keeps a cottage on the ridge. Zack’s a bull at the gate; he’ll go for the Carters first, and I think he’ll do it soon. Maybe even tonight.” Richard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He’ll be looking for me first, and I suppose it’ll occur to him to look here sooner or later.” They both looked over at the kid. Like a lot of kids out this side of the country, he looked like he knew exactly what was going on. “You gonna kill Mr. Zack,” he said. MacWaugh laughed. Richard decided not to say anything to that. Damned if he knew how to talk to kids anyway. “We’ll need to get the men under control pretty quick once Zack goes down,” he said. “There will be a period of time where they fall in line, but not if we give them too long to think about it and get all worked up.” He was sorting the odds in his mind. Zack would be riled and easy to call out. If the showdown happened outside where the men could see, it would be one rooster kicking the other off the top of the compost heap. He would need somebody to ...

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He looked up and saw MacWaugh looking at him with some satisfaction. It was like looking in a mirror that put him decades in the future and halfway to hell. He remembered the way that Wayne had looked at him, the way Wayne saw him, and deep in his heart, that was the man he wanted to be. He stood up. “I’ve got a few things to sort out,” he said. “Come with me, Chuck.” He went down to the library and sat at the old roll-top desk. “You read, kid?” Chuck shook his head. Richard set pen to paper.

The Carters tonight. Be careful.

He didn’t sign the note. “I don’t want the marshal to be snooping around. So, you got a pony? You go into town, the Prodigal. You give this to the marshal when no one’s looking. Think you can do that?” For the sake of the Carters, he hoped so. Having a few sons didn’t mean some of them were spares to be shot down by Zack and his thugs.

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Chapter Eleven

Richard rather wished he’d learned how to do a fast draw. For the first time in his life, he wished he had a holster. He wouldn’t be sitting behind a card table, reading some guy’s eyes. In fact, if he were smart, he wouldn’t be here at all. He wasn’t going to be staying, making a deal with Melissa and propping his feet up on a warm hearth with a beaker of brandy in his hand. It would probably make more sense to join up with Wayne and make sure that he’d got the message. But he felt a sneaking and foolish sense of responsibility to the old man. Sooner or later this day, Zack was going to roar up drunk and mad as a cinched-up bronco. There was a good chance that Richard could fix it so that Wayne never had to deal with the whole gang. Take out Zack, and the rest would never ride. If he turned it round in his head like that, it seemed like the right thing to do for everyone. Funny how it looked just the same as what he would do if he wanted to get in MacWaugh’s good book and make a mercenary little deal with his daughter. The devil inside Richard’s head was pleased that he was at least keeping his options open. He was sitting in the library when he saw Melissa ride in through the gate the kid had ridden out of some two hours gone.

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Melissa was kicking up some dust as she came up to the house. Richard lost sight of her as she went round the front, but her hurry didn’t look like a good omen. He shucked off his overcoat and tucked his old pistol into the waistband of his trousers. The other he weighed in his hand. He went down the darkened hall, the light from the end streaking its thick, glossy white paint. Melissa was already heading up the stairs, but she spun toward him as he entered. “Trouble?” Richard asked. The light from the doorway was blocked by a large frame. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” Melissa kept backing up the stairs. “Richard! He attacked me. He thinks ...” Zack barged toward her, and Richard stepped into his path. “Back off.” Zack paid him no mind, and somehow it wasn’t right to shoot a man who was making no effort to protect himself. That hesitation was Richard’s undoing. Zack slapped him aside. Richard dropped the pistol in his hand, and it skidded across the floor. Zack charged after Melissa, taking the steps two or three at a time. Richard glanced after the pistol, but couldn’t spare the time it would take to get it back. He went after Zack and Melissa. A door slammed. Melissa was in her father’s room, and the key could be heard turning in the lock. Zack thumped on the door. “It’s too damn late, bitch!” he thundered. “You are mine. This whole damn place is mine.” Richard figured that the door was stout enough to stand up to a few moments of rough treatment. He drew out his second pistol and cocked it. “You do have the sweetest way with the girls,” he said. Zack turned to him contemptuously. “Brett’s gun? What happened to that lying cheat?” Richard remembered belatedly that he’d had this gun off the guy back at Jack’s Creek.

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“I killed him,” Richard ad-libbed. “Didn’t know he was one of yours. Sure was a loser at poker.” A voice in the back of his head was saying, “shoot him, shoot him.” Zack had a pistol in his holster, and it would be damned easy to pretend he had drawn. MacWaugh and Melissa would back him up if it came to that. But he wanted to do this properly. Even some of the cheatingest, most lowdown men in the territory would draw the line at shooting a man as he stood defenseless. Richard wasn’t entirely sure he would let that stop him, though; Zack was in need of taking down, if only for Melissa’s sake. “Why don’t you and me go outside and sort this out,” Richard said. “Then you can get on with acting the big man to the old-timer and the girl.” “I don’t need to go outside to kill you,” Zack sneered. “And I’m not going to give that tramp one more chance to get away from me.” Richard took one step back and started to raise his pistol. His finger began to squeeze the trigger. The bedroom door burst open. MacWaugh had a pistol in his shaking hand -which made far too many trigger fingers in one small area. There followed a very loud, confused moment, which Richard untangled only in retrospect. Zack spun and fired. The bullet hit MacWaugh in the middle of his stomach. MacWaugh jerked and shot wildly, mute surprise upon his jaundiced face. Richard’s own pistol dropped from his numbed hand. Melissa screamed. “No, no, no!” As if reality could be rebutted. Zack stared dumbly for a moment and then resorted to bravado. “Shut the hell up. You ran to him; you made me do it. Now you’re stuck with me.” Richard stumbled back against the wall. He was pretty sure that he’d been shot, but uncertain where. Zack reached out over MacWaugh’s prone body and grabbed Melissa’s forearm. As he dragged her toward him, MacWaugh moaned weakly. Taking stock of limbs would have to wait. Richard staggered forward.

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He wrapped one arm around Zack’s neck and struggled to pull him back. He focused all his will and strength upon squeezing the life out of Zack’s bull neck and ignoring everything else. He felt Zack’s hand prying at his arm, and then his other hand. Two hands must mean that he had let go of the gun and the girl. Richard’s back slammed against the wall; his feet lifted off the floor. He felt blood slick against his neck and running down his chest under his shirt. There was the sound of feet thumping, first one pair, and then a crowd. His whole world had closed down to one thing; he let nothing else distract him. Zack toppled over sideways, and Richard kept hanging on. He cursed his hesitation earlier; he should have shot Zack like the wild animal he was. Hands grabbed Richard and tried to tear him off. He cursed them and clung on, tightening his grip on Zack’s slack form. Broad fingers pried beneath his own and levered them off one by one. Men’s voices overlapped in the confusion beyond his blurred vision. “Let go, dammit, or we’ll just shoot you and make the job easier.” “Where the hell is all this blood coming from? Jesus!” “Oh, God.” Richard could hear a gurgling sound, feet passing back and forth. He struggled back toward clarity. A middle-aged man with a curling, tobacco-stained beard held him propped up against the wall; he could see his own legs sprawling out across the hall. Two men were lifting MacWaugh’s still body onto the bed. “You got lucky, kid,” the man said. “Bullet caught you here and ripped a bit off the top of your shoulder, but it won’t kill you.” “Zack got lucky,” Richard said. “I was going to kill the bastard. He shot MacWaugh.” The man shrugged. “You reckon that’s what he’ll say?” “Where is he? Where is the bastard?” Richard tried to stand, running a bloodied hand over the slick, painted wall.

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There were eight or nine cowboys crammed into the area of the hall and the bedroom, but Melissa was nowhere to be seen. Zack was on all fours, coughing and sucking in air sporadically. “My gun, give me my gun,” he choked out. The men were nervous. They had their loyalties, but murder was a hanging matter. Richard got to his feet about as well as a newborn colt, just glad to get there before Zack did. “You gonna shoot me, too, Zack? One murder not enough for one day?” “I never ... shot him.” To Richard’s ear it was obvious that Zack was going to say he never meant to shoot MacWaugh, but there was no telling what the others heard. “Just like you never meant to burn a woman and her young’uns to death? You’ve got an awfully dangerous way of being careless.” A voice piped up. “Now MacWaugh’s dead, who’s in charge?” Richard didn’t see the man who said it, but it was Zack who answered with a bellow. “Did you see the old man giving the orders? I’m in charge; I was always in charge. Now, where’s that whore of a daughter gone? Well, where is she?” He struggled to his feet, one hand to his throat. The men shuffled and looked around, and the older one next to Richard answered. “She lit out just as we were riding in. Off down the south trail.” “What’re you all standing around here for? You, Red, get the men together and head for the Carters’ place like we planned. I’ll get the girl. Sandy, Bob, get rid of this bastard.” Richard guessed that meant him. The guy next to him grabbed him by the arm, and the situation was moving under Zack’s control.

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“Melissa saw you kill her pa; she won’t have you. She won’t have anyone who backs you -- they’ll be out of a job and probably in for hard labor. Murder, abetting murder, kidnap ...” Zack stepped forward and punched Richard hard in the stomach, slamming him against the wall. “I’m getting real sick of the sound of your voice,” he said, so close that his spit hit Richard’s face and his rank breath filled Richard’s lungs as he struggled to wheeze in a breath. His stronger left lung was winded, and his other hung heavy with fluid and hardly took in air anyway. He wondered just how much fight he had left in him, but having come this far ... “Melissa saw you kill him, Zack,” Richard squeezed out. “You going to do her in, too? Kill another woman? Seems about your style.” He knew he had to scare the men enough that they wouldn’t follow Zack. He also knew it wasn’t working. “By the time I’m finished with the bitch, she’ll know her place like a proper woman. My woman. She’ll thank God she didn’t get stuck with a dressed-up scrap of gristle like you. This is my place now. My place, like it always should have been.” Zack’s eyes bulged madly, and his voice scraped through his mangled throat. The men started to file out, and Richard reckoned he was a few minutes away from being dead, at best. “She got away, Zack. You’ve already let her get away and call in the law.” Richard made himself smile like he hadn’t a care in the world. Zack staggered back from him. “My horse! Get my horse,” Zack said to everyone and no one. “Sandy, you kill this bastard, you hear me? You kill him! When I get back, I’ll make it right; I’ll remember who helped me out.”

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Zack must’ve liked what he saw in Sandy’s eyes because he nodded with satisfaction and turned away. He shambled off down the hallway and clattered loudly down the stairs. That left Richard with Sandy on one side and a bulky form he assumed was Bob on the other. They both had a pretty good hold on him, not so much to hold him back as to hold him up. “We’ll take him out back, to the graveyard,” Sandy said. Bob laughed at that. Perhaps he had a greater appreciation of irony than his sloping brow suggested. “If I was you, boys, I’d cover my bets a bit,” Richard said as he struggled to stay on his feet. Neither of them made any response. “If the girl gets to the marshal first, Zack’s had it, and you’ll hang with him.” Bob gave him a shake. “Shuddup.” Richard didn’t have a hell of a lot to lose. “Let me go, and I’ll make sure she knows it. I mean, think about it. I didn’t want the old man dead; he was set to let me marry that girl and win the jackpot here. It was Zack who was standing all over MacWaugh’s toes, taking over his spread before he was even dead yet ...” They hustled him down the narrow back stairs, tripping his feet over them in the darkness. Dusk had fallen on the landscape, with just a streak of incarnadine across the horizon -- blood red. Richard thought of Wayne. He hoped he’d get through the trouble at the Carters’ spread okay. In his mind’s eye, he could see his own body lying stale and gaping in the morning at Wayne’s feet, Wayne struggling not to look too upset in front of the deputies. Or maybe not hiding anything at all; that’d be more like Wayne. They passed a scraped-up vegetable patch and a sty with an old sow in it. Just a few tumbledown planks and stones marked the humble graves out back. Richard looked for a chance to escape, but without a great deal of hope. Bob shoved him down, and he sprawled onto the ground, a wooden cross right before his eyes. He scrambled back a bit, eyes dancing

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to either side, but there was no cover nearby. Not something he could get to quicker than a bullet would travel, anyway. Bob pulled out an old cannon of a pistol, but Sandy reached over and pushed it down. “I reckon he got away.” “What?” said Bob. Sandy repeated himself more slowly. “I reckon he got away. Can’t blame ourselves too much, really. Little guy almost choked big ol’ Zack to death. Stronger than he looks.” Richard took his cue and bolted to the nearest bit of scrubby bush. He heard a shot, but it didn’t come anywhere near him. “Bob, you stupid bastard. We’re going to pretend he escaped, okay?” Sandy snapped. Richard kept running into the darkness of the prairie. He could hear the two men arguing as he dodged into the bush.

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Chapter Twelve

Melissa would have gone for the marshal, Wayne, but she’d think he was in town. If she even managed to get that far, she’d find he wasn’t there, and there was no telling if anyone else would stand up for her. Richard felt along the line of his right shoulder. He felt sick as he came across a chunk of flesh about the size of the ball of his thumb hanging off the raw muscle. Blood was caked on his shirt and soaked all down his front. It was no surprise that he felt halfway dead. His whole right arm was numb, but shot with pain when he tried to move it. He’d lost a hell of a lot of blood and felt as dizzy as if he’d been on a three-day drunk. On top of that, he had no guns and no real idea what he was going to do when he caught up with Melissa and Zack. But that was still what he was going to do -- he’d come this far. He blundered right into the black pony’s hindquarters. “You beautiful little bastard,” he said, amazed that she hadn’t managed to pull loose and desert him. “Get me through this, and I’ll get you the biggest goddamn trough full of oats a horse ever saw.”

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He unlashed the reins, and the pony tossed her head irritably. She shimmied around as he tried to get on, but in the end he made it. She answered to his knees and pushed her way through the brush. A pine branch whacked his lacerated shoulder and sent him reeling back in the saddle. He cursed quietly but hung on. The main track into town was still and empty -- the main body of men would’ve gone out the other way, toward the river. He spurred the pony on down the trail. He would try the Prodigal first and get word from there what had happened. He couldn’t be too far behind Zack. Just a few minutes later, that proved truer than he was prepared for. He found deep gouges in the earth. Melissa’s mare stood hang-headed by the side, her front leg lifted up. The mare must have gone wrong-footed in the dark, with the worst of consequences. Richard heard shrieking, and he kicked his pony off the path in that direction. It was getting very dark, and the first thing he saw was a pale flash. Melissa was down on the ground, her riding skirt pushed up and Zack’s body almost entirely covering her. He hadn’t even heard Richard. “You’re not Miss High-and-Mighty any more, slut,” Zack growled as he fumbled with her clothes. “Time’ll come you’re glad I’ll still have you.” He grunted as Melissa kneed him in the belly, and reached back to slap her hard across the face. Richard clambered down and scanned the ground, looking for some kind of branch or ... He saw a rough basalt rock about the size of a man’s head. He grabbed it with his good left hand and tried to balance it with his right, grimacing at the pain. This time he had no compunctions at all. He came up behind Zack, raising the rock high over his shoulder. Melissa saw him coming and froze. “That’s more like --” Zack began with satisfaction.

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His words were cut off by the stone crashing down on the back of his head. He fell forward and, but for a faint twitch, lay still. He might have been anywhere from stunned to dead, but that uncertainty was not left to linger. Melissa rolled his weight off her. She pulled Zack’s pistol from his holster, tugging so hard to free it that Richard was afraid it would go off. When it came free, she took it in both hands and shot into the back of Zack’s head three times before throwing the weapon convulsively away from her. Richard heard the staccato beats of his pony’s hooves as she bolted. Melissa’s face was streaked with tears and her arms shook, but she held her head up high. There was some real mettle to this girl. “Richard,” she said. “Have you had time to think over my deal?” Richard fell forward onto his knees. He laughed at her bravado, but not unkindly. “I’ve been a little busy. You know how it is.” “The matter has become a little more pressing ...” A single shot rang out. Melissa spun and hit the ground. Richard threw himself down and crawled toward her, but she was already up and running for cover. He was close behind her when a force like a fist hammered him onto his back. A loud retort exploded in his ears. He fell, held his breath, and lay still. He let his eyes unfocus and his head lie awkwardly to the side. His body screamed for air, and he wanted almost more than anything to look at his attacker. But what he wanted most of all was to survive, and playing possum was pretty much the only card he had left. He sensed the shadow of a big man blotting out the faint light of the waning moon. There was a shuffling sound, and the man moved away in the direction of Zack’s body. “Dead, fucking dead.” Bob was obviously not a clever man, but he must have been loyal, because he sounded really angry now. Richard could hear him moving around. Time stretched out into a dim purgatory, minutes without breath.

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Finally he started to breathe shallowly, his ears straining. His right lung lay as inert as a wet sack, dead within his body. Air bubbled through blood. He thought that perhaps he could hear a clink of bridle and the sound of Bob’s horse moving off, but it was hard to tell over the wind sighing through the rank grasses. Finally he decided he had to risk movement, but his body didn’t answer. His reached up with his left hand. The bullet had thumped through the flesh of his torso just across from his right armpit. His right arm lay limp, and his outraged flesh screamed with pain. Trying even to crane his neck and look about drove a spike of pain into his chest, and he fell back. It was no good; he was done. He lay still and watched the clouds obscure the moon. He felt very cold, very cold. Time dragged on and on as felt his own body begin to grow cold.

Richard’s main complaint was that he was taking a long time dying. It was with weary and entirely involuntary endurance that he noticed the first light of dawn begin to climb across a now familiar swath of sky. He could hear the black pony cropping grass off to the side. Strange that she had come back to his side rather than going back to town. Loyal perhaps, but not very helpful. It hurt to breathe, and only his left lung labored to prolong his agony. It hurt so much to move that he hadn’t tried that again. He wondered what it would have been like to live with Melissa in that big ranch house. She had her inheritance now, sure enough. He wondered what had happened out at the Carters’ place. He cursed every wrong choice that he had made. If he had done things differently, MacWaugh wouldn’t be dead, and he wouldn’t be waiting in death’s antechamber himself. The only satisfaction he got from it was cheating consumption from claiming the kill. He’d thought of going out with a bullet a few times, but doubted he could ever have done it to himself. In a horrible way, that Neanderthal Bob might have done him a favor.

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Damn, but he should have done a few things differently. He thought the shadow that fell over him was the pony, until he heard a voice. “Here!” Melissa called. “He’s here. Hurry!” “You’ll be all right, Richard. You have to live for me. We’ve got a future, just like we planned. You hear, Richard? You saved me, and I won’t forget.” A blur shifted, and Richard heard Wayne’s voice, strained and rough. “You lie still there, Rick.” He couldn’t quite raise himself to say that he was hardly likely to do anything else. “A wagon, Reggie, get a wagon. Go to MacWaugh’s; it’s closer.” There was some stuff that he needed to explain to Wayne, but right at the moment he couldn’t remember what it was. He felt a hand wrapped in his, but it was a small hand, a woman’s.

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Chapter Thirteen

Richard spread his cards carefully, fanning them just enough to see the symbols while still shielding the backs in his palm. He was still getting used to holding them right-handed. He’d never really gotten the strength back in his fingers, so he had switched to using his left hand for handling the bets. He was doing just a little better than even on his stake; he’d been around town a bit too often, and most of the men wouldn’t play him anymore. There should be a stage in tomorrow; it might be worth hanging on for that. But, to be honest, he didn’t really have the same taste for betting anymore. An ache had set in deep in his shoulder and wouldn’t shift no matter how he changed his posture. He was a gambler still -- that was his nature -- but one far more likely to deal straight and trust in fate than to cheat and run. He won the hand with a pair and laid down his cards. “That’ll do me for today.” He scooped up the change and dropped it in his pocket. He pulled out his old halfhunter watch and checked the time. “Come on, Rick. You got an appointment?” Richard smiled. “Not as young as I used to be,” he said. “Think I’ll turn in.”

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He stepped out into the late afternoon sun, slanting golden overhead and casting the main street in deep shadow. The black pony pricked up her ears and whickered. “I know, girl. You’d rather be back home, and if I wasn’t a damn fool, we’d be there now. Still, I figure we can make it by dusk.” He swung up onto her back, and she was moving off even before he was settled. She was a game beast, but happier in her own snug stable than tethered out in a dusty street. It should have been a good two or three hours up to the house, but she made shorter work of it, confident of every twist and turn along the way. The sun was just coming down when he saw the moss-covered roof of the cabin. The new shutters on the window showed pale against the older walls. He knew he’d never really become the much better man he’d sworn he would during the long period of his convalescence. All the same, he was in many ways changed. He got the pony’s tack off and sent her out into the corral. There was no one to be seen outside or in, so he laid a fire in the grate. There was a slight concern in his mind, but nothing to be gained by wandering around. He kicked off his boots and lay down on the pallet set beside the fire. The low flames sent flickering patterns onto the underside of the thatched roof, lulling him to sleep. “You’re going to have to stay on here the next few weeks,” Wayne said, appearing suddenly as Richard’s eyes flicked open. “I thought I was gonna have to come find you. They need a deputy up at Jack’s, and the chickens and other stock’ll need tending.” Richard rubbed his eyes blearily. “Fine,” he said. “Try not to get shot.” Wayne and his chickens -- he doted on them as no grown man should. But then, Richard was not one to begrudge the man his affection for dumb beasts and foolish gamblers ... People’s fancies were hard to fathom, like Melissa and that young deputy who’d helped carry him up to the sickbed. By the time he was ready to ride out of there, she’d found the man she really needed -- the one she loved.

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Then he saw Wayne’s face, the slightly crooked nose and ruffled halo of hair. Richard smiled. “Really,” he said. “Try not to get shot; I don’t recommend it. When are you off?” Wayne leaned down to him, their lips meeting hungrily. “Tomorrow’ll do.” Wayne reached for him, perhaps still overgently, given that Richard was hale enough now. Miraculously so, once the strength had come back to him, his wounds had healed over and his lungs had taken air again. Weeks after he’d been gunned down, the whole right side of his chest had inflated gradually in the night, tender and aching but ever more free of the miasma that had infected it. It was a drastic cure, to be sure, but he’d dimly remembered reading that in Roman times they would try to collapse the lung with bellows to let it heal. He should have given the ancients more credit, as should the rest of modern medicine, it seemed. It would take a desperate man to try it, he supposed -- one with very few cards left to play. Wayne stooped to kiss him again, without restraint -- and Richard answered him, wholeheartedly. The last ace in the deck, and it was his to keep.

Emily Veinglory Emily Veinglory is an animal behaviorist by day, freelance writer and illustrator by night. Author of previous novellas Broken Sword and Alas, the Red Dragon, she loves to write gay romance and erotica in fantasy settings. When not writing, she is busy walking a hyperactive collie and trying to make a living. For more information, visit www.veinglory.com.

***** Read on for a tantalizing glimpse of

Forgotten Song by Ally Blue Available Now from Loose Id

Forgotten Song He didn't try to stop me when I knelt down again and pressed the cloth gently to the raw wound. He kept perfectly still and silent while I washed the dirt and blood off. After I'd rinsed out the washcloth twice, the wound finally looked clean. It was still pulsing blood though, so I fished around in my bathroom cabinet until I found some gauze pads and medical tape, and put a bandage on it. Eric reached up and touched the gauze gingerly. “That's gonna be ugly tomorrow.” “It's already ugly.” He laughed. “Yeah, I guess it probably is.” I grinned at him, then went back into the bathroom, grabbed a clean cloth and towel, filled a plastic basin with warm water, and brought the whole business back into the bedroom. Eric gazed at me with apprehension in his eyes as I set the bucket on the floor and spread out the towel. “What are you doing now?” I glanced up at him and had a feeling he wasn't going to like this much. “I'm gonna wash your feet.” “What?” He sat up, went deathly pale and had to lean forward to keep from passing out again. “Why?” I sighed. This, I thought, is getting old. “They're filthy. I'm cleaning them before you go to bed, that's all.” He opened his mouth to argue, saw the determined look in my eyes, and closed it again. He nodded silently. “Finally, a little cooperation,” I teased. He glared at me but didn't say anything.

Ally Blue

I reached out to roll up the bottoms of his jeans. He let me, but he obviously wasn't very happy about it. When I guided his feet into the warm water, he let out a sigh of pleasure. “Damn, that does feel good.” He leaned back on his hands and wiggled his toes. “Those are gonna have to soak for a little while. You want something to eat?” He grimaced. “Not right now. Been too long, I think it'd just make me sick.” “How about a soda?” “Oh, man, that would be great, thanks!” I got up and went to get a can of cola out of the fridge. He drank half of it in one gulp. “Fuck, that's the best thing I ever tasted,” he gasped when he finally had to come up for air. He smiled at me and my stomach did flip-flops. Damn, he was hot. “Thanks, Ben. I mean it. I know I can be a pain in the ass, but I really do appreciate your taking care of me like this. I'll find a way to pay you back once I get on my feet again.” I shook my head. “Don't worry about it.” His gaze flicked down my body and I felt a surge of desire go through me. I couldn't keep what I was feeling out of my eyes, so I looked at the floor instead. “Okay, well, uh, I think, I think you've soaked enough, I'm gonna wash ‘em now.” My voice sounded shaky and breathless and I hated it. If he noticed, he didn't let on. Kneeling, I lifted one foot out of the water, picked up the washcloth, and started scrubbing the dirt away. He didn't make a sound, but judging by the tension in his leg, it made him uncomfortable. I tried to think of some way to distract him, and finally decided to just give in to my natural curiosity and see what I could find out about him. “You said you were from Alabama, right?” He nodded. “So how'd you end up in North Carolina?” He shrugged. “I needed to get away. Heard Asheville was the place to go if you're gay.”

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I glanced up at him. “You're gay?” “Yeah, is that a problem?” His voice was calm, but I could hear the defensiveness. I understood that. Hell, I'd had my back against the wall a few times myself, and I was born and raised here. Asheville's a haven for gays, but sometimes the bastards get to you, even here. “Nope, I'm gay too. And you heard right, this is the place to be.” His face broke into a smile so beautiful that I had to stop myself from jumping up and shoving my tongue down his throat. It was the most relaxed I'd seen him look, and for a second I wondered if his whole problem was simply fear of gay-bashing. Then I remembered the terror in his eyes when Malcolm had grabbed his arm. His near panic at any unwanted contact, and I knew there had to be more to it than that. Someone, somewhere had damaged him badly. I wanted to know who, and how, and why. And I wanted to take the fear out of his eyes for good. “Ben?” His voice was wary again, and I realized I'd stopped washing his foot and was simply sitting there on my knees staring at him hard enough to burn holes in him. I shook myself. “Sorry, just zoned out there for a second. I don't mean to be nosy, but how the hell did you end up barefoot? Your feet are pretty cut up.” They were, too. Small cuts and bruises in various stages of healing covered both feet and ankles, and the soles were ragged. “I had to leave town in kind of a hurry. Didn't have time to do anything but run out the door.” Now I was dying to know what the hell that was all about. But I figured I'd pushed him enough for one night. He wasn't likely to tell me anything else just yet, and if I kept bugging him, he'd never trust me. And I realized with a shock that I wanted him to.

Ally Blue

A few minutes later his feet were clean and glowed pink from the scrubbing. After drying them off with the towel, I stood and stretched. “Okay, all done.” I grinned at him. “You're a good patient.” “And you're a good nurse.” He laughed. “I feel a thousand times better now. Thanks.” “My pleasure.” It was true, even his feet were sexy. Something went through his eyes. A heavy sort of look. My pulse sped up and I could feel myself getting hard. I bit my lip and fought it. Suddenly he let out a huge yawn and the moment passed. “You must be beat. Go on and get some sleep. You can take the bed; I'll sleep on the floor.” He looked horrified. “I can't do that.” “Yeah, you can.” I grabbed a pillow off the bed and a blanket off the shelf. “And you will. Get out of those dirty clothes, too; you can borrow something of mine if you want.” “Naw, it's okay.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, then stood on shaky legs and slid out of his jeans. I stared like an idiot. His body was lean and slender and drop dead gorgeous in nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs. By the time my lust-addled brain noticed the scars, he'd slipped under the covers and his eyes were drifting closed. “Thanks, Ben,” he murmured drowsily. “'Night.” “'Night.” I turned off the light, stripped off my clothes and pulled on a pair of cutoff sweatpants. By the time I finished brushing my teeth, Eric was fast asleep. I walked over and stood looking down at him. Light from the street lamps outside bathed his face in a soft white glow. His full lips were parted just a little and his long lashes cast feathery shadows on his cheeks. He had a quiet, otherworldly sort of beauty, the sort that gets under your skin before you notice what's happening. My insides did a funny little

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twist. I'd only known him for an hour or so, but I already wanted to hold him in my arms and protect him from the world. I traced a finger down his cheek. His skin was smooth and silky, softer than anything I'd ever felt. His mouth looked so sweet and ripe. The urge to bend down and kiss those lips was nearly irresistible.

***** What people are saying about

Forgotten Song An irresistible story of the redemptive powers of love and faith. -- Stephanie Vaughan, author of Jumping the Fence (Loose Id) Ben knew Eric was a complicated guy from the moment he first saw him. But he had no idea how tenderness between them could lead to menace from others. Forgotten Song is an unforgettable story about coping with love lost and love found. -- Treva Harte, author of The Deviants (Loose Id) Ally Blue shows just how erotic unconsummated attraction can be in this story about the healing that love can bring. And the erotic tension isn't the only suspense to keep the pages turning. Forgotten Song is a wonderful treat for lovers of m/m romance, with an attractive pair of lovers and a fascinating story. -- Jules Jones, author of Spindrift (Loose Id) Ally has created a narrative that is “blue” in both sense of the word. Sometimes tragic but ultimately heart-warming, Forgotten Song is all about the power of love to begin to heal even the most wounded of souls. The writing is lyrical, the setting convincing and contemporary, and the two heroes of this tale are simply to die for. -- Emily Veinglory, author of Dealing Straight (Loose Id)