Eerie Saloon: Seasons Of Change -- Autumn; Part 3 free porn video

Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Autumn By Ellie Dauber and Chris Leeson (c)2005 Part 3 -- December Sunday, December 3, 1871 Trisha stopped a few feet from the entrance to the schoolhouse. The building was filling with people come for Sunday worship. "What's the matter, dear?" Kaitlin asked. Trisha sighed. "I'm just not sure about wearing these women's clothes to church." After much arguing, Kaitlin had managed to convince Trisha that her poorly fitting men's clothes were not appropriate for Sunday services. Trisha was in a navy blouse and skirt, her long, blonde hair tucked under a matching cap. "I _know_ it was a bad idea," Emma said, self-consciously touching her kelly green dress. "Can we go home and change outta these duds?" Kaitlin shook her head. "No, we'd miss the service." She glanced down at her own dark brown dress, almost the same color as her hair. "Besides, it's bad enough that you two insist on wearing men's clothing all week. I'll not be disgraced by having everyone see you looking silly in such clothes here in church on the Sabbath." "I suppose... since we're already here." Trisha started forward, not wanting to continue a fight she felt she'd already lost. A few people noted them as they walked in. One or two nodded their heads in greeting. A tall, ruddy-faced man that Trisha didn't recognize leered at her until she glared back at him. Penelope Stone, Yully's mother and Lavinia Mackechnie stopped in mid-conversation to say hello to Kaitlin. Tommy Carson pointed at Emma and laughed behind his hand. No one spoke to Trisha, although several people pointed at her. When Stan Becker tried to take a step towards Trisha, his wife firmly put her hand on his arm and shook her head. They stopped near the front of the room. "We'll sit here," Kaitlin said, pointing to an empty bench. "You go up with the other elders." She squeezed Trisha's hand. Neither of them was comfortable with any more intimate physical contact than that since Trisha's transformation. "Enjoy the service," Trisha told Kaitlin and Emma. She waited while they began sliding down in the row, then turned and walked to the front of the room. As she reached Nancy Osboune's desk, now redone as the altar, she noticed that something was different. "Where's my chair?" Judge Humphreys stood and took a step towards Trisha. "There's been a... question raised about you, Patrick... excuse me, Trisha." "Purest grade bull -- excuse me, Rev. Yingling," Rupe Warrick broke in, "fertilizer, if you ask me." Horace Styron, President of the Board of Elders rose to his feet. "The elders of this church are men. She..." He pointed dramatically at Trisha. "...is hardly _that_. I say that, by her change, she had forfeited the office." Styron was a stocky man with thinning gray hair. "That's the point, Trisha," the Judge said. "Until this is resolved --" "Until this is resolved, I'm a member of the board," Trisha said angrily. "Now get my damned --" "There, you see," Styron said. "Emotional, just like any other woman." "I'd say she has a right to be angry," Rupe said. "Damn right, I do," Trisha added. "But not a right to blaspheme in my church." Reverend Thaddeus Yingling rose slowly to his feet, his expression stern. He was a tall, well- built man with a shaggy mass of curly gray hair framing a long, angular face. His voice was deep and measured. "I may not agree with the impromptu decision, but I will not have it argued in this place and, worse, on the Sabbath. 'Blessed be the peacemakers,' the Book says. Trisha, I ask you to be a peacemaker now and to take a seat this day with your family." "We'll get this all sorted out at the board meeting on Wednesday, Trisha," Rupe said. "You'll see." Trisha made a face. "I'll do it, Rev. Yingling, since it's you that asked, but..." she looked sharply at Styron. "...this _will_ be settled on Wednesday." Without another word, she turned and marched back to where Kaitlin and Emma has sat watching the incident. As she took her place besides Kaitlin, she could hear whispering from throughout the room. *** Dolores Yba?ez looked at the late afternoon crowd that filled the plaza below the Church of Guadalupe Hidalgo, several miles northeast of Mexico City. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were lined up to enter the basilica and hear the mass being said almost continuously on this Sunday, just ten days before the national day of prayer to the Lady. "Be careful," a man's voice called out from near the ground. Dolores looked down to see that she had almost walked into an elderly man. He was walking on his knees in a dirty white cotton shirt and matching pants. His hair was gone, his skin the tawny leather that skin becomes after a lifetime of work in the sun. "I am sorry, se?or." "You should be," the man said angrily. Then he looked up at her closely and smiled. Dolores was a tall, willowy woman in her early twenties. She wore a yellow blouse low over her shoulders and a long green skirt. A matching green scarf fluttered loosely around her neck. Her dark, straight hair hung halfway down her back. "Have you come far?" she asked, trying to make conversation. "Over a hundred kilometers," the man said proudly, "and all of it on my knees. The crops... this year was not a good harvest and I have come to ask la Virgencita for help for my family and my village on her day." Dolores nodded, understanding. "I have also come to ask her help." In 1531, the Virgin Mary had appeared to a poor Indian there at Tepeyac. She'd appeared, not as the classic European woman, but with the coloring and costume of a Mexican peasant. In the years since, the site had been venerated and the Lady of Guadelupe, as she was known, had become the patron saint of Mexico. Throughout the year, but especially on her holy day, December 12, pilgrims came from throughout Mexico -- even from the lands that were now a part of the United States -- to ask for her help. "A pretty, young maiden like yourself," the man said, "I am sure that she will help you." "I hope so, but it is not me that needs her help?" "Who then... your lover, perhaps?" The man teased her gently. Dolores blushed and shook her head. "My... my cousin, Arnoldo. His mother writes to me that he is very troubled. I thought that a cross or a pilgrim's medallion, blessed here at the Church of Our Lady, would help him to find his way in the world." "That is easy; talk to him... over there." The man pointed to a small covered table near the edge of the plaza. A tall man, perhaps as old as she was and wearing the tunic of a novice sat on a chair behind the table eating an empanada, a pastry crust filled with chopped meat, salsa and spices. "The holy brothers of the basilica blessed such things in the Lady's name and sell them here in the plaza." Dolores looked about. Yes, she could see three... no, four other tables in various spots. 'And "Brother Empanada" over there is closest,' she thought. She thanked the kneeling pilgrim and walked over to the table. 'I just hope the cost is not too high.' *** Trisha kept silent throughout the service. She could see the elders talking among themselves. 'Talking about me,' she thought. And why did Rev. Yingling seem to be scowling every time Trisha looked at him? "Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing how upset they got you," Kaitlin told Trisha as they started back to their house after the services. Trisha put a finger to her lips. "Tic-a-lock." It was the last thing she said the rest of the way home and all the way up to the bedroom. Then... "Do you believe them," Trisha stormed as she fidgeted with the buttons on her blouse. "Without so much as a by your leave, they decide that I'm off the board." She pulled off the blouse and threw it onto the bed. "No they didn't," Kaitlin said. She picked up Trisha's blouse and hung it on a hanger in their closet. "They said that there was a question raised -- at least, that's what you told me." "That's what they said," Trisha replied with a grumble. "Then you go to the board meeting on Wednesday and answer it." Kaitlin had hung up her own "church" dress. She was putting on an older frock, one more suited for housekeeping. "That should solve everything." "Will it?" Trisha scowled. "Somebody had to ask that question -- Clyde Ritter or one of his friends, most likely. Horace Styron's the president and he and Clyde are as thick as thieves. I answer one question, they'll just find another to ask." She stepped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor. She sat on the bed and began to unbutton her shoe. "Perhaps they will, but there's nothing you can do about it now." "There's not much I can do anything about." Trisha looked down at herself. "Not like this. I..." She shook her head. "I ruined myself for sure when I took that damned drink." She closed her eyes and sighed. She looked ready to cry. "What the hell ever possessed me to do it?" "You were trying to save your son's life, for Heaven's sake. What you did might not have been the wisest way to do that, but no one can fault your motives." "My motives... no, I guess they can't." She pulled off the shoe and began working on the other. "But my plans, they can certainly put _those_ off track." "What do you mean?" "The church, for one thing. Dwight Albright and I were talking about starting up a building fund -- yes, I know it saves money to use the schoolhouse, but it's cramped in there. We can't use it much on weeknights and we've no place for the Sunday school that the parents want or for that office Rev. Yingling keeps hinting about." She took off the other shoe and stood up. "Those are fine ideas. I don't see the --" "Kaitlin, I ran for the board to push those ideas. If I get thrown out, so do they. Dwight's a banker. Anytime he talks about saving or investing money, there's people that say he's only interested in the extra business, not what's best for the church." Trisha took a pair of brown workpants out of the closet and stepped into them. "Do you have to wear those?" Kaitlin asked. "Look at the way they look, how they pool at your ankles." "You going to shorten them?" Trisha looked sharply at Kaitlin, who shook her head, "No". Trisha shrugged. "Then I'll just roll them up like I've been doing." "I think it's a shame. You looked so pretty in that outfit you were wearing." "I don't _want_ to look pretty," Trisha said through gritted teeth. "When people look at me, they shouldn't be seeing a pretty girl. They should be seeing a... a _person_ of substance, somebody that they'd listen to. Somebody that they'd _respect_. Not..." "They respect you." "Oh, yes, throwing me off the board certainly showed respect." She took a yellow cotton shirt out of a dresser drawer and put it on. "I'm sure that will all be straightened out on Wednesday." "Will it?" Trisha began to carefully button the shirt. Patrick had been a slender man. His shirt hung straight down from shoulder to waist. There was little room for Trisha's ample bosom. "My own brother doesn't even respect me any more. A couple days ago, Liam..." She made a broad gesture. "Oh, hell." The button that was even with her breasts had just broken loose. Kaitlin shook her head. "I'm not sewing _that_ either." "I can't wear shirts with missing buttons, especially one that shows my... corset." "Well, then, until _you_ can sew on a button, I'd suggest that you put on one of those new blouses we bought you." "Oh, yes, wearing a blouse is sure to get their respect. *** Bridget was sitting with Cap on a red and white checkered blanket. They were in a clearing about a half-hour north of town, at the foot of the Superstition Mountains. She put the remnants of a fried chicken leg down on her plate and wiped her hands in a white muslin napkin. "My compliments to your Mr. Tuck. That was some of the best chicken I've ever had." "I'll tell him you said so," Cap said. He leaned back against a log. "Would you like some more wine?" He lifted a bottle from an ice-filled cooler. "No, as much as I hate to say it." Bridget waved a hand over her almost empty glass. "I'll need my wits about me when I get back to town. There's always a few folks looking to play some poker and I'm not about to close up my game." "We don't have to go back right away." He grinned. "We don't have to go back at all today." "Are you kidnapping me, sir?" She looked into his eyes daringly, a tight little smile on her lips. "Not unless you want me to." "Hmm, maybe another time. Right now, I'd like to sit back and enjoy this lovely day." "It is a nice one. It's hard to believe it's December. It's still warm down here in the lowlands." "I know. Davy Kitchner came down from his claim last night. He said that there was already snow at his mine." Cap shivered. "And he's welcome to it. Is he going to winter up there?" "He said he hadn't decided." "He will soon -- or the snow'll decide for him and trap him in up there." "I suppose. I'd just as soon not think about it. I'd rather enjoy the sun down here." She leaned back next to him. "That was a delicious lunch. I almost feel guilty not having brought anything." "Now what do you mean by that?" "Cap, you brought the horse, the cart, the food and the wine. Even this blanket is yours." "Maybe so, but you brought the one essential thing I needed to make this picnic a success." "What? What did I bring?" "You brought you." Cap put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. Bridget reached up and lightly touched his cheek. Her mouth opened slightly as their lips met and she felt his tongue dart in to play with hers. It surprised her to be on the _receiving_ end of such an intimate kiss -- she'd kissed more than one woman that way when she'd been Brian -- but she didn't startle so much that Cap could notice. She could feel his body against hers. His other arm was around her waist. Her breasts were pressed against the muscles of his chest and she could smell the tang of the bay rum he'd slapped on after his shave. A warmth moved through her body that had nothing to do with the mid- afternoon sunlight. She felt a sense of longing, surrender and deep pleasure that almost made her ache. After a time, they had to break the kiss. "That was nice." It was more of a sigh than spoken words. "It surely was," Cap answered softly. Her rather dazed expression turned to a sly and avid smile. "Could... could we do it again?" "Weren't you saying something about having to get back to town for a poker game?" He was teasing now. Bridget pouted and moved her head back towards his. "Maybe we could stay... just for a little while." "Long as you want." Cap pulled her close. "We can stay as long as you want." *** Monday, December 4, 1871 Trisha hurried across the empty street to the Feed and Grain. As usual, Liam was already at work inside. That was easy for him; he lived in a small apartment above the store. The business wasn't officially open for another half hour. She slipped inside. Liam looked up when he heard the sound of the door closing behind her. He looked at her for a moment, a wry smile on his face. "All right, all right, say it already." She stared back at him. Liam obliged. "That's a very pretty blouse you got on, Trisha. How come you're wearing it?" "I've popped a button or two on every shirt I own. Kaitlin says she won't sew on new ones. She's got some sort of crazy notion about getting me into women's clothes. It was either wear a blouse or put on a shirt that showed... more than I wanted to." "You've already been doing that, giving a show every time you popped one of those buttons." "You mean --" "Most folks tried not to look -- at least, not too long. Mateo chewed out Luis for staring." "That bastard. I'll fire his ass right now." "No, you won't. You can't fire a man for looking at a pretty woman, especially when she's walking around giving a show to anybody that cares to look." "Why didn't you say anything, tell me everybody was looking at me like that?" "I did, a couple of times, in fact. Both times, you just mumbled something and kept right on with what you was doing." He paused for a moment. "What's the matter with you anyway?" "What's the matter with me? I got turned into a damned woman and I don't like it. What the hell do you think is the matter with me?" "What I think is that it's time you started getting over it. You can't spend the rest of your life trying to pretend it never happened." "Why shouldn't I? What does it matter to anybody _how_ I act?" Liam pursed his chin. "You know, you're right. Why there's even people that are happy you're acting the way you are." "Happy? Why the hell should I be making anyone happy?" "Why shouldn't Horace Styron and Clyde Ritter be happy. They thought that they were stuck with you as one of the elders till the next election -- maybe longer. The way you've been acting lately, making a spectacle of yourself, you've practically handed Clyde your office on a silver platter." "Figures you'd have heard about that." Trisha seemed to sink down into herself. "What the hell can I do? Maybe I should just give up and let him be on the board." "Well, now, I don't know about Trisha. A fool woman like her just might do just that." "Thank you for the vote of confidence." "On the other hand, my brother, Patrick, he'd fight like those East River rats we used to kill for the bounty, just to keep his seat." "Maybe he would, but I... Everything just seems to be slipping through my fingers. I want to fight, but I don't know that I can." "The board meeting's Wednesday night, Trisha. You've got three days to decide." *** The older students in the class were working on a story from _McGuffey's Fourth Eclectic Reader_. "The dishonest merchant was now very much frightened. What was to be done? The mill would not stop grinding; and at last the ship was overloaded and down it went, making a great whirlpool where it sank. The ship soon went to pieces; but the mill stands on the bottom of the sea and keeps grinding out 'salt, salt, nothing but salt!' That is the reason, say the peasants of Denmark and Norway, why the sea is salt." Phoebe McLeod finished her portion and sat down. "Very good, Phoebe," Nancy Osbourne said. She looked at the small clock on a corner of her desk. "I believe that's enough for today. Please put your readers away. After recess, we'll --" Several students started for the door. Nancy clapped her hands for attention. "Recess will start once _everyone_ has put their books away and not one moment before." The impatient students walked back to their seats. Students fidgeted, waiting till all the readers were inside the desks. "Now, you may go." Nancy said, setting off a rush for the door. Tomas Rivera sat and watched his classmates hurry out. Emma was as eager as any of the others, but she stopped, then walked over to his desk. "Why're you still sitting there?" she asked him. "My arm." He looked down at it. It was still in the plaster cast and hung low in the yellow, red and green sling he wore around his neck. "Everybody was in a hurry. I did not want to get bumped as they ran out." Emma looked at him thoughtfully. "Then I guess you won't be playing ball with us neither, will you?" "Not for a while. I cannot run as fast with the cast on my arm. It hurts if someone bumps or pushes me. And I cannot throw or catch the ball very well with just one hand." He sighed. "I will sit on the steps and watch you all play." Emma nodded. "See you later then." She started towards the door, then stopped and looked back at Tomas, who was slowly walking towards the door. Outside, she could hear Stephan Yingling and Bertram McLeod, the captains this week, yelling for the boys to get into a line, so they could choose up teams. She took another step forward, then stopped and looked at a small wooden crate in the corner near the door. The game ball was usually stored there, but it was already out in the yard. All that was left were some toys and games that that the students used on days when the weather kept them inside during recess. "You know," Emma said, walking over to the box, "you beat me too darn easy when we played checkers on Saturday." She took a checkerboard and a box of men from the crate. "I-I think I want a rematch -- if you ain't afraid o'course." Tomas blinked. "You... do not want to play ball with the others? You told me how hard you had to fight to get in the game last week." "Yeah and I won that fight once. I can win it again if I have to." She held out her hand, so Tomas could see the palm. "Just 'cause the scar ain't there no more don't mean we ain't still blood brothers." *** "Ain't that just like a girl," Clyde Ritter jeered as he caught the ball. He pointed at the school steps. "Emma makes such a fuss about playing ball with us last week and now she just sits and plays checkers with Tomas Rivera." Stephan Yingling glanced over. "She's been friends with him for quite a while. Seems to me, she's just being loyal, keeping him company 'cause he can't play ball with that busted arm of his." Stephan shot out his hand and knocked the ball out of Clyde's grasp. He grabbed it on the first bounce and passed it to his teammate, Yully Stone, a few feet away. "Can't fault somebody for being loyal to a friend" *** Frank Carson looked up when the bell over his door rang. "Yes, sir, Mr. Slocum. What can I do for you this fine day?" "I need a telegram sent," Abner told the man. The rancher reached into a shirt pocket for a folded piece of paper. "And I don't need anyone else knowing about it -- or about the answer, when I get one." "Confidentiality's part of the service," the telegrapher assured him. He took the paper and began counting. "Twenty-two... twenty-three words. That's be... a dollar thirty." "Add 'Regards to you, Opal and children,' if you would." "Twenty-nine words; a dollar sixty. Who's it going to?" "Issachar Bailey; Office of Veterans Affairs; Texas Department of Military Affairs; 317 Fifth Street; Austin, Texas." He said the address slowly, so Carson could write it down on as he said it. "That's another two bits, sir. It's a long address." Abner put a two-dollar gold piece on the counter. "Keep the change and remember, _confidentiality_." "Not a word, Mr. Slocum, not a word." *** Tuesday, December 5, 1871 "C'mon," Emma said, "you gotta jump me, or I take your man." Tomas sighed and moved his red checker to jump Emma's black one. "All right, do your worst." He took the black piece from the board. "Glad to." Emma jumped over the checker that Tomas had just moved, then shifted and jumped a second red man, landing in the far row of the board. "King me." Tomas placed the checker he'd just taken atop Emma's man. He shook his head and looked carefully at the board. He had three pieces left to Emma's seven and one of hers was now a king, which could move either forward or backward. 'Now what do I do?' he though ruefully. "Excuse me," a female voice said. "May I join you?" Emma and Tomas looked up from the checkerboard. Ysabel Diaz was standing a foot or two from the schoolhouse steps where they were sitting. Tomas gestured at a step, glad for the distraction from the game he was losing. "Have a seat." "Thank you." Ysabel gathered her dress behind her and sat down. "I'm sorry to interrupt your game, but I was wondering about those pants of yours, Emma." Emma made a face. "I got taller when I... ah, changed and all my pants were too short. Mama said she'd fix 'em, sew on some extra cloth. She fixed 'em all right." Emma looked down at her legs. Her brown pants only came down to mid- calf. Kaitlin had sewn on a band of bright calico that reached to Emma's ankles. "Looks just like a little dress," Ysabel noted, "the way the cloth flares out like that, especially with that... petticoat sticking out at the bottom." "It ain't a petticoat," Emma said. "Just a strip at lace at the bottom that looks like one." "Your momma has a good sense of humor," Tomas said. Emma shook her head. "My ma has a _rotten_ sense of humor. She done this to every pair of pants I own." "What are you going to do about it?" Ysabel asked. "Wear 'em, I guess." Emma said. "I tried cutting the cloth off the first pair she gave and she yelled to beat the band, took away my mumbly peg knife, too." She sighed. "I think she's gonna do the same thing to my shirts." "Dresses and petticoats on your shirts?" Tomas chuckled. "I hope not," Emma said, grimacing. "No, I figure she'll put on cuffs and such, like Ysabel has on her dress there." She pointed at Ysabel's sleeves, which ended in a blue lace cuff. "You know why she's doing it, don't you?" Ysabel asked. "I think she's trying to get me used to wearing girly stuff." Emma said. "You are a _girl_," Ysabel said. "No matter how much you don't want to admit it." "I know what I am," Emma said stubbornly. "But that don't mean I gotta start dressing and acting like one, does it?" "Not if you don't want to," Tomas said firmly, trying to support his friend. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to -- not as far as I'm concerned," Ysabel said. "But if you do want help with anything about being a girl -- even just to talk about it, I'll be happy to help you." "Why you saying that?" Tomas looked at Ysabel suspiciously. "Because I have been watching Emma. It was very brave, the way she fought to play with the boys. I don't know that I would be as brave." She turned to face Emma. "But to stay that brave, Emma, a person needs friends --" "She got a friend," Tomas interrupted. "She's got me." Ysabel nodded. "And you're a fine friend to her, Tomas. I don't want to take your place. I want to stand there with you, helping her to learn how to be the person she is now." She offered her hand. "Well..." Tomas shrugged and shook her hand. "...I guess you know more about being a girl than I do." "I'll shake your hand, too, Ysabel." Emma said with a smile. "Just in case either of you wants to include me in this conversation. I figure right now I need all the friends I can get." Besides, Emma thought, she truly admired the way Ysabel had stood there smiling when Hermione and Eulalie found that garter snake in the desk. *** "Are ye ready, Jessie?" Shamus asked. "It's almost time for ye to start." Jessie was sitting quietly, more quietly than usual, in a corner near the door to the kitchen. "I... is it time?" She looked up at the big wall clock and fidgeted with her hands. "I... I guess I'm... ready." "Are ye sure ye want to be doing this? Thuir's not many as knows ye're going to sing for me. We could just--" "...call it off?" She shook her head. She was as nervous as an old bull in fly season, more nervous than when she'd robbed that stagecoach, but... "I ain't never backed away from nothing in my whole life and I ain't starting now." She stood up and untied her apron, almost surprised at how steady her hands were. She dropped it onto her chair. "You go introduce me." Shamus walked over and stepped onto the small portable stage that was normally set up only for the band during the Saturday dances. He clapped his hands several times for attention. When that didn't work, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out with a loud, harsh whistle. "What's up, Shamus?" Roy Fitzmartin asked. "It ain't free drinks," someone answered. "That's for sure." Shamus let the laughter go on for a bit before he motioned for quiet. "No, it ain't," he said, "but it's almost as good. As a lot of ye know, Jessie Hanks was doing some singing at the dance here last Saturday. More'n a few of ye was asking me of she was gonna be doing it again." He paused for the effect. "Well, she is and... right now." He gestured over to where Jessie was standing. "So let's be bringing her on with a big hand, gents... Miss Jessie Hanks." Jessie walked out to a mixed round of applause. Some people just didn't appreciate having their drinking interrupted. "My thanks t'all of you that was clapping and I hope I change the minds of those of you that wasn't." She waited for a reaction that didn't come. "To... ah, tell the truth, I'm a little nervous about singing by myself for all of you folks." "Not with your clothes on, anyway." Roy Fitzmartin remembered the fight Jessie had caused last summer, the one that almost wrecked the bar. Shamus had made her strip down to her camisole and drawers and sing for the men. Fitzmartin had been there. He'd gotten knocked out by a thrown spittoon. Now he saw a chance to get a little back from Jessie for causing the fight. More than a few men laughed at his joke. Jessie tried to go along with it. "Shamus ain't paying me enough t'sing like that again." "How much do you want?" Someone else yelled. "More'n you all have," she answered. "Here's a start." Fitzmartin tossed a quarter at the stage. "C'mon, boys, let's see how much it takes." A few more coins landed near Jessie. Jessie stamped her foot. "You stop that, stop it right now." "Here that, boys?" Fitzmartin yelled. "We can stop now. Guess it don't cost that much to get Jessie Hanks out of her dress after all." Jessie picked up a few of the coins and threw them back at the crowd. "You can all go to hell!" "Jessie!" Shamus' voice rang out. "Why don't ye just ignore these here yahoos and be singing something for them that _want_ t'hear ye." "Uh... okay, Shamus, I-I thought that I'd start with 'The Man on the Flying Trapeze' like I did on Saturday, just for luck." "Don't ye be telling me, lass," Shamus said. "Tell them." Jessie nodded. "Like I just said... 'Oh, once I was happy, but now I'm forlorn.'" Her voice rang out loudly, if just a little shaky at first. The room was fairly quiet, although bits of conversations could be heard here and there in the room. Jane was on duty as waitress. Someone at table motioned for her to come over for their drink order. She glanced toward Shamus. He motioned for her to go, but he also put a finger to his lips as if to say, "do it quietly." Jessie kept singing. She rocked back and forth slightly as she sang, her arms hanging loose at her sides. When she got to the second chorus, a few of the men joined it. That threw her off stride for a moment, but she caught up with them. When they joined in again for the third chorus, she waved her hands as if leading them. Somebody laughed and the voices mostly followed her for the rest of the song. There was a good round of applause at the end of the song, but some of it was for the men who'd joined in, rather than for her. She sang "Bluetail Fly" next and the applause wasn't quite as loud. "Try singing something different," Shamus whispered to her. 'I'd rather try singing some_where_ else,' Jessie thought. It reminded her of the one time she had sung somewhere else, the Tylers' ranch. Why not that song? She took a breath and began. "Hush little baby, don't say a word." "What the hell is that?" Fitzmartin taunted. Paul Grant had just come in from making his rounds as deputy sheriff. "It's a song," he called out in a commanding voice, "and a good one, if you'll be quiet and let her sing it." He winked at Jessie and took a seat at the nearest table. "Thanks, Paul," Jessie said, smiling at him before she picked up the song. "Mamma's gonna buy you a mockingbird." There was more conversation during the song. One man stood and walked out. Jessie took the hint. She finished the song with a flourish and added, "Thanks for listening, folks. I hope you enjoyed it and I wish you a good evening." She bowed low and stepped down off the stage to more mixed applause. "It will be now that you're finished," Fitzmartin bellowed. "That does it, you dirty son of a bitch." Jessie's hands balled into fists, as she started towards the man. Paul was suddenly in front of her. When she tried to step around him, he moved again to block her. "Be a lady, Jess." "You try anything, Jessie," Fitzmartin said, "and I'll have Paul there arrest you for assault." He chuckled. "We can already charge you with disturbing the peace. I got a room full of witnesses." "That's more than enough, Fitzmartin," Paul said, "or I'll be taking you in for starting a fight." He turned back to Jessie. "Now let me buy you a drink to get the taste of Roy there out of our mouths." "If I throw it in his face, will you buy me another?" Jessie found that she liked Paul defending her, though she'd been used to handling her own problems her whole life. Pail shook his head. "No, but while you drink it, you can sit and listen to me tell you how much _I_ enjoyed your singing." Jessie smiled, but she was thinking about making one last try to get at Fitzmartin, when Red Tully came over. "Nice singing, Jessie. Could you do 'Camptown Races' next time? I always liked that tune." "Uh... sure, Red." Jessie let out a sigh, her anger deflected now by Red's compliment. "All right, Paul. You can buy me that drink." Paul took her hand. "Fine and we can talk for a while before I have to go back on duty." As he led her towards the bar, he whispered, "And we'll... talk some more later... in private, okay?" Jessie felt her cheeks warm. "Sounds good t'me. After what I just went through, I could use some good... talking." *** Jessie looked out onto the quiet street. The quarter moon hung low, not giving much light. The street was empty, as far as she could tell. She turned back to the closed door and knocked three times The door opened a crack. "Jess?" Paul whispered. "C'mon in." He opened the door just wide enough for her to slip in, then closed it quickly behind her. They looked at each for a moment, then Paul took her in his arms and kissed her fully and deeply. Jessie moaned softly and pressed in closer to him. Her arms went up around his neck and she opened her mouth to let in his tongue to play with hers. As they kissed, she closed her eyes and thrilled to the feelings he aroused in her. "Now that was real nice," Paul said, as they finally broke the kiss. Jessie sighed. "Glad I did something right tonight. I sure as hell messed things up at the Saloon." "I enjoyed it." "You come in when I was almost done. You didn't have to suffer through all of it like the others." "Aw, Jess, you weren't that bad." "I musta been. That bunch made me feel about as welcome as a wet dog at church social." "Okay, so a couple of them razzed you. Fitzmartin's been after you since last summer." "It ain't just him, the polecat. I... nobody was listening t'me. I've gotten more attention singing to a herd of cows." "Who'd you ever work for as a cowboy?" Jessie grinned. "I never said I was working... or whose cattle I was singing to." Then her smile faded. "And stop trying to change the subject. I got no more claim on being a singer than a bullfrog does." "You've got a fine singing voice and we both know it, Jess." "Fat lotta good it'll do me. Shamus ain't gonna let me get up there a second time and drive more of his customers away." "He'll let you if you ask him nice. i think he wants you to be a success, just like Bridget and Maggie already are." "Maybe so, but they knew what they was doing. T'tell the truth for a change, I'm about as sure of what I'm doing as kitten on a cattle drive." "That's because you need a teacher to show you what to do." "A singing teacher? Where the hell am I gonna find me one of them?" "You're singing's fine, Jess, just like I keep telling you. But a girl has to be tough if she's going to sing to a barroom full of whisky- soaked men. You're tough enough to do just about anything. What you need is somebody that knows how to get the folks' attention, so they'll sit there and listen to you." He thought for a moment. "If Shamus gives you a second chance and I'm pretty sure he will, you need to go ask Wilma for some help." "Wilma? Now why the hell should I ask her? She's got a voice that'd drive a coyote t'kill himself. At least, she did when she was Will. That's how folks could tell we were brothers, same good looks 'n the same rotten voices, like two gut-gored buffaloes." "Because when you're singing at the Saloon, you're singing for men, Jess and Wilma knows a lot more about getting a man's attention than you do." Jessie's hand moved down to gently stroke Paul's manhood through his pants. "I know a _few_ things." "You surely do, but, unless you're gonna do _that_ to every man in the room, you might want to talk to Wilma." *** Wednesday, December 6, 1871 "Jessie," Shamus said softly, "can ye be coming into me office for a bit?" "Umm... sure, Shamus." Jessie put down the tray of dirty glasses she was carrying and followed him to the storeroom that doubled as his office. Shamus sat down behind his makeshift desk. "Shut the door if ye would and have a seat." He motioned for her to sit in the chair near the desk. As soon as she had, he continued. "Ye didn't do all that well last night, did ye?" "No," Jessie nodded in agreement. "I still got some things t'work on." "Aye, that's for sure." He shook his head. "Ye was like a dead fish out there." "Thanks... thanks a whole lot. I thought you liked the way I sang." "Ye've got a sweet voice, Jessie. That's why I asked ye t'be singing for me in the first place, but thuir's more t'being a singer than having a sweet voice. It's them other things ye need t'be working on before ye sing again." "Ye'll let me have another crack at it, then?" "Are ye sure want one? Ye were pretty shaky last night -- before _and_ after ye was singing." Jessie knew she had to be careful. If she let on that she was so eager to take another try at singing, she'd end up doing it for table scraps. "I'm game for another go. I ain't gonna let FitzMartin and them others stampede me." "Ain't ye?" "Damn right. They had no call t'be yelling them things at me." "A man's got a right t'his opinion -- and t'be shouting it out if he wants to." "Yeah, but it ain't mannerly." "Oh and ye've always been an expert on what was mannerly, ain't ye." "Are you trying to get my goat, too, Shamus?" Shamus smiled. "Maybe a little. Heckling ye like they done is a risk anybody takes when they get up to sing or dance or whatever in front of folks. You must have been in enough saloons to know that. If ye can't take that risk, then ye got no business being up there." "I... no... I can take it. Hellfire, I've had men shoot at me. Having somebody -- what'd you call it; heckle? -- having somebody heckle me ain't near as bad." "No, no it ain't. And ye can 'shoot' back at them if ye want. Throw the joke they made back in thuir faces; like ye tried t'do last night, when Roy spoke of ye singing in yuir unmentionables." "I remember. I said that you weren't paying me enough t'do that. But that didn't stop 'em. They just threw some money at me." "Aye and ye lost yuir temper. What ye should have done was said something like, 'And ye ain't paying me enough, either', or tossed them coins back and told them to be throwing gold eagles." "Yeah, like they'd do _that_." "O'course they wouldn't, but, when they didn't, ye could've said how they was so scruffy they looked like they'd never even seen a gold eagle and that they never would." "I-I think I se what you mean, sass them back. I can do that." "Ye've sassed me often enough, so I know ye've got it in ye. Jessie grinned. "Sassing you's good practice." "Well, ye can save yuir practicing for when ye're up on that stage of mine." He paused a moment. "And don't ye be thinking that sassing a heckler is all there is to it." "Okay, then, what else is there?" "Once ye've got them t'stop heckling ye, ye've got t'make them _want_ t'be listening to ye." "How do I do that?" Shamus shrugged. "I don't know. It's different for everyone, something they got to figure out for themselves." "Not me." Jessie tried not to sound smug. Shamus eyed her skeptically. "And since when do ye know how t'be doing it. Ye surely didn't have no idea how to be about it last night." "I don't know _how_, but I know _who_. I'm gonna ask Wilma for some help on that score." Shamus thought about what she'd said, then laughed. "Now that just might work. Only be sure that all she teaches ye is how to be making the men want to _listen_ to ye." *** "What the hell are you doing here, O'Hanlan? -- excuse me, _Miss_ O'Hanlan." Horace Styron arrived at the schoolhouse an hour early for the church board meeting, only to find that someone had gotten there even earlier. Trisha looked up from the step she was sitting on. "Waiting for you, Horace. As board president, you're the one with the key to the place." "You planning to make trouble for the board at the meeting?" He dismounted and led his horse into the corral. "I'm on the board, Horace. Why should I make trouble for myself?" "You're a woman; you can't be on the board any more." He closed the corral gate and walked towards the school building. "The hell I can't." Trisha stood up angrily. "And who are you to say that I can't?" Styron pulled out a key ring that was attached to his vest by a small metal chain. "I'm board president, that's who I am," he said with a smile as he found the key to the schoolhouse and unlocked the door. "After you -- what is it you're calling yourself now, oh, yes, after you, _Trisha_." He pushed the door open. "Why thank you, Horace." Trisha's voice was like silk. "And I see just the seat I want, too." The desks had been pushed against the walls, leaving just the benches. Nancy Osbourne's desk was pushed back as well and replaced with a long table that had seven chairs set up behind it. Trisha walked towards the front of the room, humming "Columbia, Gem of the Ocean." She slowed once or twice, as if to sit, but kept walking. She reached the front of the room and, with a wry smile, took a seat at the table. *** Styron knocked twice on the table with a small gavel. "I hereby call this meeting of the board to order. Rev. Yingling, would you please get things off to the proper start with a prayer?" "Gladly." Yingling stood slowly, gesturing with his arms for the others to stand as well. When everyone was on their feet, he lowered his head and began. The Reverend wasn't a member of the board, but his opinion was often sought and usually followed. His prayer, as usual, was short, a plea for wisdom in the board's deliberations, that ended with, "...in Jesus' name, amen." "Amen," the crowd answered and sat down. "Before we start," Styron said, "I'd like to say that I'm glad to see so many folks at this meeting. I hope a few of you will stay around for awhile and, maybe, we can even talk some of you into serve on one of our committees." There were more than twenty-five people in the room, far more than usually came to a board meeting. A few even laughed at Styron's joke. Parnasses Humphreys was a board member and now he raised a hand. "Mr. President, I move that we suspend the normal order of business." "Now, what does that mean, Judge?" Styron asked, scratching his head. "Horace," the Judge explained, "most of these people came to see what we're going to do about Trisha, nee Patrick O'Hanlan. I just moved that we skip everything else for the moment and get right to that." "Und I second," Willie Gotefreund said, raising a hand. Willie, a slender man with close-cropped blond hair and a matching walrus mustache, owned a small ranch east of town. He was a board member at large and chairman of the social activities committee. Styron shrugged. "Why not? Might as well get it settled. All in favor..." All six board members raised their hands. Styron raised his, as well. "Just to make it unanimous." He looked around. "Now who wants to speak first?" "She's a woman," Clyde Ritter yelled from the audience. "The church bylaws say men only." "Perhaps they do," the Judge said calmly, "but perhaps they don't." He looked out into the crowd. "Is Milt Quinlan... ah, there he is. Come up here, Milt." The Judge motioned for Milt to join him. "I asked Milt, as the church's lawyer, to take a look at what the bylaws said on that very point." "Him," Clyde sputtered. "He's keeping company with --" Milt had been walking towards the table. He stopped and looked directly at Clyde. "My personal life is my own business, Mr. Ritter and I will thank you to keep your nose out of it... unless you want said nose reshaped, that is." Ritter was about to answer. Then he saw the look on Milt's face. He glared at Milt, but he sat down and let the younger man pass. "As the Judge said," Milt continued once he had reached the front of the room, "I examined the church bylaws. Article Five, Section Three says that, 'any man elected to an office of the board shall serve a term of one year.'" "Hah," Clyde said. "There, see, a woman can't serve on the board." "No," Milt said. "As the rule now stands, woman can't be elected to the board. Miss O'Hanlan was a man when she was elected. There's nothing to say that a man has to _stay_ a man to remain on the board." "Sounds like a lawyer's trick to me," Styron grumbled. "Perhaps," the Judge said with a chuckle, "but that's what the bylaws say." "No one ever figured that something like this would happen," Styron said. "How could they?" "They couldn't," the Judge told him. "No law can ever handle every circumstance. That's why we have to keep writing new ones." Styron looked at the other board members. "Are the rest of you gonna accept this mumbo jumbo?" "I am," Rupe Warrick said. "Seems t'me, Horace, you're a mite too anxious to get Trisha off the board and put your own man in." "And your actions smack a little of 'mumbo jumbo', too," Dwight Albertson added. "All right, all right." Styron threw up his hands. "Is there _any_ way to get somebody off the board?" Milt picked up his recitation. "Article Eight, Section Two says that a board member can be removed for 'malfeasance in office' or upon conviction of a crime. I don't think that applies; being a woman is hardly malfeasance and it certainly isn't a crime. Article Eight, Section Four says a board member can resign for personal reasons, but I don't think that Miss O'Hanlan came here to resign." "So... nothing applies?" Styron could hardly keep the disappointment from his voice. "Well..." Milt said sourly. "The church membership can be polled on the fitness of a board member to continue to serve... Article Eight, Section Five." "How do we do that?" Clyde asked quickly. Milt sighed. "Five members have to make a motion in writing. The board then calls a vote, which must be held no less than two weeks from the date the motion is presented to the board." "Thank you, Milt," Styron said. "I think we'll just move on to other business, then." "Hey, wait a minute," Trisha said. "This isn't settled yet." The Judge touched her gently on the arm. "No, but it will be in a minute." He pointed to Ritter, who was furiously writing something on a piece of paper. "Milt, if such a motion is made, what's the status of the board member involved?" "Let me check." Milt looked at his folded copy of the bylaws. "He... or she is still in office' there's no suspension. He... umm, she still does her job and still votes at board meetings." Ritter ran over to the table. "Horace, Mr. President, I've got a motion here that says Trisha O'Hanlan should get booted off the board." He handed Styron the paper. "Signed by four... five members, just like the bylaws say," Styron said, counting the signatures at the bottom. "All right, I accept this. The election --" "Ha," Ritter said. "She's a woman; she can't run for election. Case closed." "This _isn't_ an election," Milt answered. "It's a referendum and she certainly _can_ be involved in it." Styron frowned. "Whatever it is, it'll be held here, in the schoolhouse, two weeks from tonight." He looked at Jubal Cates, Secretary. "Jubal, you set it up with the teacher." "I will." Jubal Cates was a surveyor, tanned and muscular from the time he spent working outdoors. "I'll talk to her tomorrow." Roscoe Unger stood up. "And I'll put a notice about it in next week's paper. It'll be standing room only in here." "Whatever," Styron said, not happy about the delay. "Can we get on to other business now?" *** Trisha stood by the school corral, watching people riding off and savoring her victory over Styron and Ritter. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. "A word with you, Trisha." It was Rev. Yingling. "Any time," Trisha answered. "What would you like to talk about?" "About what happened this night and what will happen here in two weeks." "The vote? Certainly. I hope I can count on your support in this." "I will not say whom I shall support. As minister, I should stay neutral in matters related to the board." Trisha looked at Yingling. "But..." "Yes, I do I have a 'but', as you so inelegantly say." "But you don't think a woman should serve..." "I have seen women on boards at other churches. All of us may serve our Lord in different ways and I will not speak against a woman on the board. I would ask though that you serve _as_ a woman." "What do you mean, Reverend?" "It is written that a man should not dress as a woman, nor a woman as a man." Yingling snorted. "Yet, look at you, a woman's blouse and a man's pants. It is not right... Trisha." "Are you saying that I should... should wear a dress?" "I am saying that you should wear what it is fit that you wear." "I... uhh... a feed and grain's no place for a man wearing a skirt. They'll just get in the way." "And the board of my church is no place for a woman wearing pants. It just isn't the way." *** Thursday, December 7, 1871 Jessie followed the tall man from the front door of _La Parisienne_. He stopped at the closed parlor door and knocked twice. "Wilma, you have a caller." "It's a mite early in the day," Wilma said, as she slid the door open, "but bring him on in." Her expression changed from eagerness to surprise. "Well... Jessie, now what brings you over here?" "I... I came to... to ask you for help, Wilma." Jessie bit her lip nervously. "Maybe... maybe it was a mistake." Wilma put her hand on her sister's shoulder. "No mistake about it, Jess. Your mistake is waitressing over at the Saloon. We'll get you outta that dowdy dress and fixed up into some pretty unmentionables and... why -- hellfire -- you're gonna be almost as popular with the menfolk as I am." Wilma wore a tight lavender corset that more than displayed her ample breasts, with a border of matching ruffled lace that just barely covered her nipples. Besides that, she wore a pair of ivory-colored silk drawers trimmed in white lace and stockings the same color as her corset. Her black hair was a mass of curls that hung down around her shoulders and trailed on down her bared back. Jessie hated to admit it, but, in comparison, she felt like a winter sparrow in the pale yellow blouse and brown skirt she was wearing. Still... "I didn't come here for that kind of help." She took a step back. Wilma frowned. "Still think you're too good to work in a place like this, eh? You must really like slaving for old Shamus, toting drinks to drunks and cleaning up after them." "I thought we had a deal," Jessie said with a sigh. "I don't badmouth what you do with your life if you do the same for me, okay?" "Can I still tease you about it... just a little." Wilma's eyes flashed with mischief. Jessie grinned. "Like I could ever stop you? We got us a deal?" She offered her hand. Wilma took it and shook it hard. "Deal." She paused a beat. "All right, then, what do you need help with?" "My singing. Last night, I did a show over at the Saloon --" "How bad were you?" "Who says I was bad?" "Jess, if you was any good, you wouldn't have come over here asking for my advice, would you?" The air seemed to flow out of Jessie and she sank down into a chair. "I stank like a sheepherder's socks." "Can't be your voice." Wilma scratched her head. "You sing sweet as a lark in the spring. What... what was you wearing when you was singing?" "Pretty much the same as now, a blouse and skirt. I... uhh, took my apron off before I started, though." Wilma nodded. "And put it back on right afterwards, I bet." "Of course, I put it back on. I was on duty that might and there was drinks to serve." "And maybe that's why they treated you more like a waitress than a singer. Come t'think of it, what'd you sing?" "I sang 'Man on the Flying Trapeze', 'Bluetail Fly' and 'Hush Little Baby'." "Okay, then, show me how you sung that first song. Do it just like you done it the other night." "Umm, okay... oh, once I was happy...." Jessie sang softly, but with the same inflection and tone as she had Tuesday night. Her arms were at her sides and, after a short while, she began the same nervous rocking movement. "When I got to the second chorus," she interrupted herself, "a few of the men joined in and I played like I was leading them." She started waving her arms in tune with the music, as she sang the chorus." "Now what the hell is _she_ doing?" Daisy's voice rang down from the stairs. She had stopped about halfway down from the second floor, carrying a basket of dirty linens. "Hush up," Wilma answered. "She don't sing too good, do she?" Daisy said. Jessie stopped singing. "What do you know? You ain't no singer." "Neither're you, missy," Daisy told her. "You may got a good voice, but you'se could be a wooden Indian outside a cigar store the way you just stand there. Saints alive, gal, haven't you ever seen a good saloon singer liven up a room?" "I think Daisy's right, Jess," Wilma said. "If you just stand there like you don't care about what you're singing, why should anybody else?" "I... I care. I like that song. I was just nervous and didn't know what to do with my arms." Jessie wasn't sure what else to say. "Why?" Daisy asked. "Why you like it?" Jessie shrugged. "I don't know. I... it's... nice enough, I guess." "Oh, that surely says something," Wilma said. "What's it matter why I wanna sing it?" Jessie began to feel like it was two to one against her. Wilma thought for a moment. "Why? 'Cause if you don't give a damn about the song, why the hell should anybody else?" "I think I see what you're saying," Jessie admitted, "but 'Man on the Flying Trapeze' don't really mean that much t'me?" "Then don't you be singing it." Daisy said. "Sing a song that do mean something to you... if they's one that does." "Yeah," Wilma asked. "Is there a song like that?" Jessie thought for a bit. "Well, there's 'Lorena' that song that was so popular during the War." "I knows that one," Daisy said and began to sing. "The years creep slowly by, Lorena, the snow is on the grass again." "That's the one," Jessie said, smiling, "but I can't sing it, 'Lorena' is a man's song, singing for his lost love." "Can't a gal have a lost love?" Daisy countered. "I'se heard songs 'bout things like that all the time." Wilma nodded. "You could sing... 'my darling' instead of 'Lorena'. It fits the music." She began to sing "...creep slowly by, my darling, the snow is on the grass again." "Only sing it, sing it sad, gal," Daisy added. "Sing it like you really does miss that lost man o'yours." Jessie nodded and began to sing, trying to sound unhappy. She worked at it for over an hour. Daisy set down her basket and helped. The tall man, Jessie found that his name was Herve, came in to listen for a while. He was smiling when he left. A tall, Mexican woman, Wilma called her Beatriz, came downstairs with a heavyset man who was tucking in his shirt as they walked down. The pair of them stood listening for several minutes. "Thank you very much for the song, Miss," he said with a slight bow before Beatriz led him away. Beatriz came back a few minutes later. "Diego wanted to know if the song was extra," she said with a smile. "The Lady said it was just part of the service. After he left, she said for you to keep up the good work... and to come see her of you were ever looking for a place to sing." She winked and headed down to the kitchen for coffee. "You working here now, Jessie?" Ira Fulton, a regular at Shamus', asked her a short while later. Jessie blushed so fiercely that Wilma began to laugh. Beatriz appeared at the doorway. "I thought that _I_ was your lady love, Ira." She pouted, somehow looking sad and sexually eager at the same time. Ira swallowed hard. "You is... you surely is, Beatriz, darlin'. I-I was just... just curious, that's all." "Let us go upstairs then," Beatriz purred, "and I will try to satisfy your... curiosity." She took his hand, as they walked to the stairs. "So this is your sister." Wilma stopped laughing as both she and Jessie turned to face the speaker, a short, very pretty blonde. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Wilma?" Jessie could see that there was little love lost between the two soiled doves. "Oh, sure," Wilma said. "Rosalyn, this here's my sister, Jessie. Jessie, this is Rosalyn, the gal I told you about a while back." "Only good things, I trust." Rosalyn didn't offer to shake Jessie's hand. "All Wilma told me was how she saved your hide from that man that was trying t'burn you." Rosalyn's hand moved up as if to shield her ample bosom from sight. Jessie's eyes followed. She couldn't see any scar or burn mark in the firm, round, milky white flesh above Rosalyn's lime corset. Rosalyn's eyes narrowed. "She told you _that_, did she?" "I did," Wilma said, "and as a matter of fact, I wanted t'talk to you about that and about you doing a favor for Jessie here." "And why should _I_ want to do any sort of a favor for _her_?" Rosayln asked coldly. "Rosalyn," Wilma began, "you never liked me and it galls you no end that I saved you from being scarred and that, now, you owe me. Well, this is your chance t'pay up. Jessie's gonna be singing over to the Eerie Saloon and you're gonna loan her one of your dresses -- that dark red one, I think, it'll go with her hair." "Let her wear one of your own damn dresses," Rosalyn spat. Wilma shook her head. "She's too small for my stuff, but she's just right for yours. You got so many real nice clothes... just like a lady should have. Be a sport, let her borrow that one outfit... just t'get me off your back." "Wilma, I got --" Jessie began to interrupt. "...nowhere the taste in clothes that Rosalyn here does," Wilma finished for her sister. "C'mon, Rosalyn, what do you say?" "And this'll make us even?" the other woman asked cautiously. "Even as two rows of corn," Wilma said, smiling that the deal was done. *** Shamus came over to meet Jessie as she soon as she walked into the Saloon. "And just where were ye for the better part of this afternoon, Miss Hanks and what sort of mischief was ye getting into?" "You never was my pa, Shamus and ye ain't my keeper no more." "No, but I'm yuir employer and I got a right t'be expecting ye here when I'm paying ye good money for it." "If you gotta know, I went over t'Wilma's; just like you told me to." "Like _I_ told ye... and just when did I say that ye should be wasting yuir -- no, wasting _me_ time over at that cathouse?" "You said I should get help with my singing, remember and I told you that I was gonna ask Wilma for that help." Shamus gave her a critical look. "And she helped ye, did she?" "She did, a whole lot, I think." She waited a moment. "And, if you don't mind, I'll be heading back over there for an hour or so the next couple o'three days, so's I can work on a few more things about my act before I sing again next Tuesday." "If I let you sing, you mean." Jessie smiled. "You'll let me, if only t'see if I know what I'm doing... and I do." "Ye're that sure of yuirself, are ye? Ye think that I'll give ye another chance and that Fitzmartin and them others'll let ye sing." "You're damned right I am." She almost glared at Shamus. "I'll make them -- and you -- forget all about the other night. You just watch'n see if I don't. What you've got to worry about is that if you don't offer me enough afterwards, I'll take my talent elsewhere." After all, Cerise had just offered her a job; not that she'd ever really want to sing in a bawdy house. Shamus smiled, admiring her determination. "Well, if ye're _that_ certain, then who am I t'be standing in yuir way? Ye'll get that chance, but it's gonna be yuir last, so ye'd best be making it a good one." "I will, Shamus and thanks." "If ye want t'be thanking me, go put on an apron and get busy waiting on me thirsty customers." *** "I'm home," Trisha yelled as she came in the front door. She walked on through to the kitchen. Kaitlin was busy at the stove. "Welcome home, dear. How was your day?" Trisha kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the table. "Not too bad. Where's Emma?" "In her room doing homework before the light fades. You can call her when supper's ready." "I will. How was your day?" "Nothing fancy. We're having roast chicken and parsnips, by the way. How was your..." She turned to glance at her transformed husband. "Trisha, I told you not to sit like that." "What? Oh, sorry." Trisha had been sitting with her legs wide apart, stretching the fabric of the green skirt she was wearing. "I hope that you didn't sit like that at work." "No chance of that, not the way everyone was staring. I was right to wear the skirt, though. Clyde Ritter came by mid morning -- to check on his weekly order, he said. He always sends somebody else to do that." "And did _he_ come by?" "Reverend Yingling? Twice, once not long after Clyde left and again late in the afternoon. The second time, he said that he was pleased that I had listened to him." "It's a good thing that you did. I like the reverend, but sometimes I think he acts like the Good Book was addressed to him by name." "He's a stickler, all right, but he's a good man. He wouldn't come out and endorse me -- at least he _said_ he wanted to be neutral, but I think that it would've been a different story, if I hadn't decided to wear this skirt..." She picked up a bit of the fabric in her hand. "...today. I... I guess I'll be in skirts from now through the vote." He sighed at the thought. Kaitlin turned back to her parsnips, just boiling on the stove, so Trisha wouldn't see the smile on her face. *** Friday, December 8, 1871 Shamus stood silently behind the bar, watching Arnie Diaz walking towards him. The boy had been in almost every day. "Well, ye're coming in honest these days instead of hiding like ye done that time before, but I'll still not be serving ye any alcohol no matter how often ye come in." "I don't want your beer, Mr. O'Toole, not today, not ever." Arnie looked him square in the face, then he grinned. "If sarsaparillas' good enough for Bridget... Miss Kelly, then it's all I care to drink. He turned and looked over at the table where Bridget was playing poker. She saw him looking at her and nodded a greeting before getting back to the game. Arnie turned back to the bar, his face wreathed in a broad grin. Shamus put the non-alcoholic drink down in front of him and he took a quick sip. It wasn't the beer he really wanted, but... "Yes, sir..." He took another sip. "...whatever _she_ wants to drink is more than good enough for me." *** With only the waning crescent moon for light, Maggie didn't see that someone was sitting there on her front step until she and the children were almost to it. "Ramon, I... did I forget that were you coming here tonight?" Ramon shook his head. "No, no, this is a surprise visit. Besides, I am not here to see you. I came to see Lupe." "Me?" Lupe's face broke into a bright smile. "You came to see me, Uncle Ramon." "S?," Ramon stood up. He took a large package from the shadows next to the step. "I have brought you the wings you asked me for." Ernesto scratched his head. "What do you want wings for, Lupe?