Eerie Saloon: Seasons Of Change -- Winter; Part 12 Of 13 free porn video

Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter By Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson Sunday, March 17, 1872 Dwight Albertson glanced up at the clock as he raked in the cards for the next hand. "It's seven minutes till noon, gentlemen, which is when this game is supposed to end. Do you want to stop now, or are you all in for one more hand?" "Best ask Miz Kelly," Sam Hughes said with an angry snort. "Seems like she's got most of the chips." Bridget smiled. About half of the chips in the game were stacked in front of her. "I'm willing to play if you gentlemen are up for it." "I most certainly am _up_ for it, Miz Kelly," Hughes answered, "but we can talk about _that_ after the game." It was the sort of lecherous comment he'd been making -- and Bridget had been ignoring -- all night long. Gregorio looked daggers at the man. "Se?or Hughes, show some respect." He thought for a moment. "I do not have as many chips as Se?orita Kelly..." He gestured at the much smaller stack in from of him, "...but I will play one more hand." He picked up a $10 chip, the ante, and tossed it onto the table. Slocum and Hooker added their own chips to the pot. "Then we play." The crowd, gathered to watch the end of the high- stakes game, broke into a round of applause. Albertson gathered the cards into a deck, shuffled twice, and offered it to Bridget for the cut. She decided to show off for once. She lifted the deck in the fingers of her left hand, forming a sort of cup. Half the cards slid down into that cup, standing on their sides. A simple manipulation and the top half of the deck fell down in front of them. "Here you are, Dwight." She was almost grinning as she handed the cards, now properly cut, back to the banker-turned-dealer. "Nicely done, Miss Kelly," he responded. "Thank you for the... Ah, entertainment." He shuffled the deck one last time and dealt cards to the five players. Bridget and Hughes anted up, and the game began. Gregorio and Hooker both checked. "Bet $20," Slocum said. Hughes passed, tossing down his cards. Bridget looked at her hand, a pair of 9s, a pair of jacks, and a king, not a bad hand, but not a great one, either. She was about to raise Slocum another $10, when she saw him playing with his chips, his "tell" for a good hand. "I'll just see that." She decided to wait and see what the draw got her. "For now." Gregorio and Hooker called. Gregorio took two cards; Hooker, three. Slocum kept his hand. Bridget took only took one. And got a third 9. "Your bet, Gregorio," she said. "Never throw the good money after the bad," Gregorio grumbled, his Mexican accent stronger than usual as he tossed down his cards. "Fifty dollars," Hooker said. "Just to keep things interesting." "By all means, let's keep things interesting," Slocum said. "Your fifty and... Fifty more, I think." Bridget hesitated. She was clearly the winner for the night. Should she fight for the hand or let one of them have it? 'Give in on the last hand?' she scolded herself. 'Hell no!' "See that," she said with a chuckle and added, "And raise another hundred." She tossed out the chips. "Damnation!" Slocum frowned before he matched her bet. Hooker put down the necessary chips without a word. "Call." He showed his cards, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10. "A real pretty straight, ain't it? What've you two got?" "Full house," Slocum answered cheerily. "7s over 3s. Beat that, Miss Kelly, if you can." Bridget pouted and laid down her cards one by one. "All I've is jack... Jack... 9... 9... And -- oh, my! Another 9." She broke into a grin. "I do believe a 9-high full boat does beat your 7-high one, Mr. Slocum." Her smile was even broader as she raked in the last pot of the game. * * * * * The crowd in the churchyard parted to let Teresa's wheelchair through. Arnie pushed her forward, so she could get a better view. The branches used in church that morning as part of the Palm Sunday mass had been stacked in a heap. Father de Castro sprinkled a bit of oil over them before applying the torch. The crowd cheered as the fronds burst into flame. "Can you see all right, Mama?" Arnie asked. It was still a bit cool, and she shifted the shawl over her mother's shoulders. "Are you comfortable there?" Teresa reached up to touch her daughter's hand with her own. "I am fine, Arnoldo. Thank you for helping me to be here today." Pablo had been watching the pair. He'd grown up in the pueblo that had become Eerie when the gringos came. He knew almost everyone -- almost all of the Mexicans, at least -- but he had no idea whom the appealing young woman hovering around Teresa Diaz like a bee around a blossom was. 'A sister to their cousin, Dolores?' he thought. 'No, Dolores is from Mexico City. Someone coming from there to help Se?ora Diaz would still be traveling.' He was standing close enough to hear parts of the exchange. Mama? Arnoldo? How could that be possible? Then again, this was Eerie, where that barman, O'Toole, had the potion. O'Toole was the man Arnoldo worked for; he was the man who had given that potion to the outlaws. Pablo looked around. Ramon de Aguilar was standing with that pretty fianc?e of his -- the restaurant owner who had been one of those outlaws. Father de Castro had done the third reading of the banns announcing their upcoming marriage during the Mass. Arnoldo was nowhere to be seen, but this se?orita was. 'Yes, it just might be possible,' he thought, 'and I know just how to test it.' "Arnoldo," he said in a clear voice. "Arnoldo Diaz, look over here." The girl turned towards him. "What do you want, _Pablito_?" Then she realized what she had done. "You bastard!" Her hands curled into fists, as she stepped forward. "Stop!" The priest's firm tones rang out. "Stop this right now." He hurried over from where he had been watching the fire. "You," he pointed to Pablo, "go home. You have caused enough trouble this day." When the boy hesitated, Father de Castro pointed to the gate. "_Now_, Pablo." There was anger in his voice. The boy lowered his head and walked slowly towards the gate. But, as he walked, Pablo began to chuckle softly. Behind him, people in the crowd were whispering to one another. Some were staring and pointing at Arnie. "That'll teach him," he muttered to himself. "I may have gotten chased out, but now everybody knows what happened to him. He'll _never_ live it down." "Are you truly Arnoldo Diaz?" the friar asked Arnie in a much gentler voice, studying the young girl's face. Arnie sighed and lowered his head in embarrassment. "Si, Padre." "Will you stay and help me collect the ashes for next year?" de Castro asked. "Then you and your family and I can talk." The ashes from the burning palm branches were saved for use in the next year's Ash Wednesday service. It was an honor to be asked to assist. The priest's acceptance was a clear message to the crowd. "Si... Si, Padre," Arnie replied, as a feeling of relief washed over her. "I will be most happy to help you." * * * * * "Ready to cash in, gents... Miss Kelly?" Dwight Albertson asked. "I had Shamus bring me the cash box." He hefted a large, padlocked, metal box onto the table. With more ceremony than was necessary, he produced the key from his shirt pocket and opened the box. "If you'll just line up one at a time and give me your chips." Sam Hughes glared at Bridget. "Why don't you pay off the men? Then _she_..." He almost growled the word. "...can just take what's left." He shook his head. "Never shoulda let the bitch --" "That is enough, se?or." Gregorio's firm voice cut the other man off. "You have been rude and disrespectful to the se?orita throughout the game. You are also a very bad poker player. She -- on the other hand -- is a lady, one you will apologize to. _Inmediatamente_ -- now!" Hughes looked at the other men. "You gonna let him talk to me like that?" "He ain't saying anything, I ain't been thinking myself," Col. Hooker answered. Slocum agreed. The angry man tossed his chips at Albertson, who quickly gathered them up. "Cash me out then. It'll be a long time before I come back to this one-horse, garbage heap of a town _or_ play poker with any of you." "Ye're not coming back?" Shamus was still standing next to Dwight, and he couldn't resist the insult. "Now that'd be the best news I heard this whole long night." The banker counted out Hughes' money. "250... 260... $270." He'd lost over $700 from his $1,000 buy-in, most of it to Bridget. "Thank you, _Mr._ Slocum; thank you _all_ for a lovely time." Hughes snatched the money from Dwight's hand and stormed out. Hooker was next in line. While Albertson totaled his chips, Bridget walked over to Gregorio. "Thank you for standing up for me like that," she told him, speaking softly. "You are one of the best poker players I have ever seen -- and a most charming lady. You did not deserve such uncivil behavior." He gave a quick bow and smiled at her. She smiled back. "Thank you for the compliment on my skill, Gregorio, but I'm not a lady." "You most certainly are." "No, I'm not. At least, I wasn't born a lady." She looked straight in his eye, as she spoke. "I'm a potion girl, just like my friend and _your_ future sister-in-law, Margarita Sanchez." * * * * * Father de Castro held the door to his office, while Arnie carefully guided Teresa's wheelchair into the room. She positioned her mother to face the desk and took a chair next to her. Dolores, Ysabel, Constanza, and Enrique followed them into the room and sat down on other chairs behind them. "Thank you for your help, Arnoldo," the priest said, closing the door. He took his seat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and put away the sack of ashes. Then he sat up and looked closely at Arnie. "Now, tell me, what happened?" Arnie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "You saw, Padre. He called me by name, and I -- like a fool -- answered him. Now he -- now _everyone_ --" "No, no." The man raised his hand to stop her. "What I meant was how did you become a girl? I know that the Jefe -- Judge Humphreys -- did not order it. I was there, at your... trial." Arnie looked as if she had just drunk vinegar. In a soft, embarrassed voice, she told the story: her guilt for causing her mother's accident; the fight with Dolores; and how she had run away, only to find refuge with Molly at the Saloon. "My shame... I-I could not sleep, and when I tried to find something to help..." She choked on the words. "...I found the potion instead." "And it changed you." He finished the story for her. Now Dolores spoke up. "The irony is who she changed into." She pointed at Arnie. "Show him." "It is foolish." Arnie hesitated. Then, when Dolores and her mother both insisted, she reluctantly took the medallion out from beneath her dress. She lifted the cord over her shoulders and handed it to Father de Castro. "They say that I look like _her_." "From the Church of Guadalupe Hidalgo," the priest said, examining the medallion. "I have seen them before." He held it up, glancing back and forth from the image to Arnie. Finally, he handed it back to its owner. "You are right, Dolores... Teresa. The resemblance is remarkable. I believe that it is a sign." "A sign?" Arnie laughed. "Of what, that I do not deserve to be a man? No, this is a punishment for my sins." The priest shook his head. "No, Arnoldo," he said in a gentle tone. "I believe that it is a sign. The Virgincita has interceded for you. Because of her, our Lord has granted you a second chance." * * * * * Slocum hadn't "won" much more than Hughes. Bridget waited while Albertson cashed out his chips, $390. "Mr. Slocum," she said softly, "would you care to come over to my table and talk while the others are cashing out. That way, you and the Colonel can get back to your ranch that much the quicker." "Want to gloat over your winnings, Miss Kelly?" the rancher replied. "You did remarkably well, though that little demonstration you gave before the last hand makes me wonder how much _skill_ had to do with your success." Bridget frowned. Doing that one-handed cut had been a mistake, but there was no way to take it back. "I was just showing off a bit," she answered. "I played this game honestly, like I always do." She tried to get things back on course. "I just wanted to have that little talk you agreed to." "Young woman, I doubt that there is anything you can say that I would have any interest in hearing." Cap was close enough to hear. "Uncle, Abner," he bristled. "You promised her that you'd listen to her side of what happened at Adobe Wells." "I have no need to hear whatever lies she might have concocted." "That's not fair. You gave your word to her." "Matthew, _you_ need to stop thinking with your Johnson." He stood up. "I see that Henry has cashed out. We'll talk about this at the house." "No, we'll stay here, and you'll listen to her." "No, I most definitely will not." He started for the door but stopped when he realized that Cap wasn't walking with him. "I'm leaving, Matthew." "Good day, then. _I'm_ staying here..." He stepped next to Bridget. "...waiting for _you_ to keep your word." "Don't hold your breath." Slocum turned and stormed out the door. Colonel Hooker hurried out behind him. Cap tried to smile. "I won't." He looked at Bridget. "He's a stubborn man, you know." Bridget kissed him gently on the cheek. "I think it runs in the family, but thank you." "You're more than welcome." He scratched his head. "But now I need a place to stay until Uncle Abner comes to his senses." Shamus smiled. "I'll be more than happy t'be renting ye a room, Cap. In fact, I've one available just down the hall from Bridget's." "That'll do nicely Shamus." He winked at Bridget. "I've been wanting to sleep next to her for some time now." Bridget felt a strong blush run across her face. Her breast tingled, the nipples stiffening against the soft muslin of her camisole, and she felt a pleasant warmth down between her legs. "Cap!" she said, looking shocked. What shocked her most was how intriguing the idea of sleeping next to Cap Lewis _without_ a wall between them seemed. * * * * * Monday, March 18, 1872 Gregorio sat up from tying his shoes. Wilma was standing by her dresser, cleaning herself with water from a small basin. He smiled at the sight of the nude woman, gently gliding the damp cloth across her breasts and down the curve of her stomach. It rekindled the memory of what the two of them had done during the night. Several times. "Wilma," he said, carefully framing his words, "do you know Bridget... Bridget Kelly, the woman I was playing poker with?" Wilma chuckled. "Do I know Bridget? Hellfire, I've known her for years, since we was in the Orphans' Home together, back in Texas." "When you were a boy?" "Yeah, you know 'bout that, do you?" She sounded concerned. She dipped the cloth in the basin and carefully wiped at her privates. "I do." "Well, you must not mind; least ways, it didn't seem t'bother you none last night." Wilma sighed and added, "Or this morning." She put the cloth down in the basin and began to pat herself dry with a towel. "Whatever you may have been, you are my 'lively one', now, and _all_ woman." "Mmm, and you're _all_ man. Shame you can't stay a while and show me again just how much of a man." He stepped over to her and kissed the side of her neck. "A shame, indeed, but I must return to my ranch." He kissed her again on the neck and felt her shiver. "But I will be back to see you again." "You better." She pressed herself against him, so that the curve of her bare ass pressed against his groin. "And bring _that_ with you." She reached back and brushed her hand against the erection tenting his pants. He reached around and slid a finger across her female slit. "I will. If _this_ is waiting for me." She trembled at his touch. "It will be." "Good." He waited a beat. "Let me ask one other thing, though. When you and Bridget were at that home in Texas, was she... Was she Bridget?" Wilma went to her pile of clothes. "Nope, Brian... Brian Geoffrey Kelly, that was _his_ name back then. He got to be Bridget the same time -- same way I got to be Wilma." She looked at his expression as she stepped into her drawers. "That don't make a difference, does it -- 'bout us, I mean." "As I have said, you are my 'lively one', Wilma." He kissed her hand. "And you always will be, but about other things, _other_ _people_, yes, it may just make a difference." He still held her hand. "I will wait until you are dressed. Then we will walk down together. We will walk _slowly_ so that you can be with me, just that much longer, before I take my leave." * * * * * Martina Lopez came out the backdoor of her house as Arnie pulled the laundry wagon up to her porch. "Hola, Se?ora Lopez," Arnie greeted her. "Buenos dias." The woman studied the girl's appearance. "Are you _really_ Arnoldo Diaz?" Arnie looked down at the ground. It was the third time she'd been asked. "Si, I am... him." "_Adjetivo... And now you are a pretty young woman." She chuckled. "Even in that grubby men's clothing." "What is wrong with my clothes?" "You are dressed like a man. You even walk like one." "I _am_ a man." She glanced down at her body, then tapped her forehead with her finger. "In here, at least." The se?ora gave her a knowing look. "Oh, si, just like Margarita Sanchez is still a man, though her _fianc?e_ thinks otherwise." "That is her, not me." Arnie knew just how much of a woman Maggie had become. 'Such a thing could _never_ happen to me.' She pushed the thought from her mind. Martina shrugged. "Perhaps. Who can know what will come to pass? It is just hard to believe -- even after I hear you say it -- that you are Arnoldo. You do not look at all like him." "That is part of the magic. The new...woman, she... she does not look like the man she was." She had decided not to tell _anyone_ that she looked like the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. "Just so you do not act like the boy you were!" "I will not act like a woman." "Then act like a _man_, if you can. Just so you learn from what has happened, and you do not act like the foolish boy that you were." The words stung. "Let me act like a delivery man, then." Arnie pulled a large package, tied with green string from the pile in the wagon. "Here is your laundry. You owe my mama..." She glanced at the package. "...two dollars, forty-five cents." The woman took a small purse from a pocket in her purse and counted out the money. "Wait a moment," she said, as she traded the money for her laundry and stepped back through her door. "I have some more." She returned with a bag stuffed with clothes. Arnie wrote her name on a slip of paper and pinned it to the bag. "Thank you, se?ora." She handed part of the slip to Martina and put the bag in the wagon. The word were still echoing in her head, 'foolish boy', as she headed for the next house. * * * * * Cap knocked hard on the door. "Bridget..." He knocked again. "Bridget, are you all right?" "Cap? Is that you?" Her voice sounded drowsy. "What's the matter?" He tried the doorknob. Locked. "It's almost 1 o'clock. Are you coming down for lunch?" "One o'clock!" The door swung opened. "I _never_ sleep that late." Cap smiled and drank in the sight before him. Bridget stood in the doorway, wearing only her drawers and camisole, the top three buttons opened, showing the tops of her breasts. Her hair was undone, and flowed down around her shoulders. "You... Ah, must still be tired from all the poker you played yesterday." He watched her yawn, sensuously stretching her body and arms like a cat. "You barely napped after the big game before you were downstairs again playing cards." "The game." She rubbed her eyes, still only half awake, still forgetting how she was dressed. "I know we split the winnings, but I never _really_ thanked you for that 'grubstake' of yours." Cap looked at her. There was something that he wasn't used to in her expression. Was it that look in her eyes -- shy, but somehow eager? Or was it in the odd curl at the ends of her mouth that made it so beautiful? "Y-You thanked me in your own way," Cap stammered after a moment's hesitation. "Maybe I...I just need...to thank you... again." Cap felt his heart beating in his chest. Now those eyes of hers definitely _did_ become shy, but the shyness seemed to be mixed with edginess. It was like she wanted something, but wasn't sure what she wanted. Unexpectedly, perhaps for her, too, she stepped closer. Cap sucked in a breath of surprise. She had come up very close, but still had not touched him. "D-Don't you _want_ to dress?" he finally asked, with her standing with her nose only inches from his and gazing intently into his face. At the question, Bridget glanced down at herself. She realized that she had never before been so undressed in front of any man except Doc Upshaw. Her cheeks colored and slightly puckered. Cap had always liked the way they did that when she was thinking hard. "Do you...really want me to dress, or do you want...to talk some first?" Did she _want_ to get dressed? Why did she _like_ the way things were, where she was, the way she looked? Cap hesitated again, but not because he needed to think about the answer. "No....I mean, I'd like to talk, but don't...do anything you don't want to do." She smiled. He was giving her the permission that she hadn't known she had wanted to hear. The smile on the love bow of her lips became larger and more firmly set. She lifted her arms and slid them like silk ribbons around his neck. Cap smiled, his eyes telling her, "This is right, Bridget. This feels is _so_ right." She kept looking into those hazel irises of his, trying to find doubt in him, trying to find anything at all that she could use to frighten herself away, -- anything at all to keep her from being honest with this man. Nothing that she could use was to be found; everything written into Cap's face welcomed her, encouraged her. She shivered. His glance had the intensity of a prospector who had been looking for color all his days... and finally discovered it, there, in front of him. Bridget gritted her teeth, as if she was about to make a broad jump between two cliffs. All at once, her hold on his neck became a strong one. Her face came in close, and she kissed him so quickly that he lurched in surprise. But Cap, as he lurched, grasped her warm flanks just as firmly as she was holding on to him. He recovered from his start swiftly; he had wanted this for too long to be daunted now. He drew her into a close embrace without breaking the kiss. In fact, Cap made the kiss harder, much hungrier. Bridget gave a little wince, as if it were too hard, too hungry. But she didn't draw back; instead she moaned in pleasure. The gambler felt the tip of his tongue trying to find a way between her lips. She was taken aback -- not because she didn't want to let it in, but because she instinctively knew that she must act quickly, or else it would be frightened away. Mother Nature, not any plan of the rational mind, caused Bridget to relax her lips and part her teeth, allowing his tongue to slip in and tickle hers. Then, as she pressed her body flush against Cap, the rub of his clothing on her bare skin reminded her, again, of how little she was wearing and of what might happen. "I'm... I'm sorry." She broke the kiss and stepped back into her room. "And here I thought you were a gambler," Cap teased. She looked up. A challenge. How was it that Cap could always speak to her in her own language, like no one else could? It was one of those things -- those endearing things -- about him that... That what? Made her feel what? Oh, what a mighty leap she would have to make if she were to say that word. And if she did say it, could she ever again find her way back to her own side, to the other side of the abyss that once had made her feel safe? Would the thing she found on the far side terrify her? Or, by making the leap, would she have committed herself to remain on that other side, sharing it with him, come what may? Was she brave enough, was she even physically able, to whisper that huge and impossible word, even into the secrecy of her own mind?" "Maybe I...should be." She squared her shoulders and took his hand in hers. Not sure of what else to do, she placed it on her right breast. For Cap, it was like walking across a woolen rug and touching a lamp. His little smile widened. He saw her "raise" by gently kneading the breast that she had so kindly offered him. Then he raised the ante, repeating the action with his other hand on her left breast. Bridget's senses reeled as the exquisite feelings flowed from his fingers into her breasts and on to almost every part of her body. The warmth, the longing that Cap was arousing in her, overrode the caution that she had always shown, before, when her clear mind and hard will had held all the high cards. And now the object of that longing stood before her. She raised -- she _had_ _to_ raise, by reaching out and unbuttoning his shirt. It made her feel like she was in the middle of her leap, over the bottomless chasm. Cap paused just long enough in the massaging of her breasts to slip first one arm then the other out of the shirt. It dangled down from his waist. Excitement pricked his hair roots. This was quite a poker hand. Cap raised again. His fingers moved to the buttons of her camisole, opening each, one by one, with a sort of dramatic flourish. Bridget giggled, remembering Wilma's words. It did feel good to have a man undress her. But not in the hall. She set her hand on his, holding it against her bosom, and took another step backwards into her room. When he followed her in, she told him, "Close the door." "Done." He kicked the door shut behind him. As it closed, he leaned forward, lightly grasped her by an upper arm, and kissed her left breast, leaning in, to take the nipple into his mouth. He suckled at it, and Bridget trembled from the intensity of his carnal aggression. 'Am I a woman?' she asked herself. 'Am I now really a woman?' 'And what does it mean to be a woman?' As if of its own will, her finger ran along the front of his trousers, finding a reassurance, somehow, in the firmness -- and the size -- of his manhood. Her hands worked the buttons, opening his pants, and yanked them down past his hips. When she released them, they settled to the floor. Bridget stared at his erection, tenting his drawers. She whimpered and closed her eyes, surrendering to the -- the what? -- the _need_ that was growing in her, filling her to bursting. Cap knelt and yanked off his shoes. He pulled Bridget to him and pressed his lips against her navel. He blew a puff of air into it, making a flatulent noise. She giggled and squirmed against him. He began kissing his way down her belly, taking small nips now and then. He could hear her moan and smelled the sweetness of her arousal. "Ooooh... Ohh... Caaaap." Bridget swayed, unsteady on her legs. He stood, taking her in his arms. They kissed again, as he carried her to the bed. 'Don't think logically about this,' Bridget whispered to herself. 'Let it happen; let it come naturally. Be good for him.' She looked up at him from the bed, a dazed smile on her face and her arms raised, bidding him to come to her. A sense of relief and elation and desire, all three together, rushed through her. She'd been unsure for so long: Cap? R.J.? Neither? Now she knew. Cap had supported her, loved her, even against his uncle and benefactor. She wanted to share her life -- and her body -- with him. The future was too hard to see. She would let whatever was meant to happen, happen. He untied the knot on her drawers and managed to slide them down below her hips. He moved them further down her legs, caressing the flesh within them as he did. Her body _thrummed_ excitedly at his touch. Bridget, trembling, blinked into the intensity of his face. This was so strange; it should warn her to stop, but... He climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself between her legs. His drawers were off. She was getting wet. Her body understood what it must do and she realized that it was ready for him. He gently guided his member into her. She yipped as he entered her. There was a moment of pain, of tearing, then he penetrated her, very deeply. He gave her several seconds to get used to the sensation, and then began to thrust. Bridget gasped at his first, hesitant moves, which soon became an onslaught. Her hips, her body, were passive things for the first minute, and then they began to move to match him. The friction warmed her inside, like a desert sun dawning on a cold desert morning. This wasn't like making love when she was a man, but her body knew what to do, and it _gloried_ in the doing. As her dazzlement eased, she sensed something stirring deep within her. No sooner had it shown itself than it was out of control. No, it was in control of _her_. Higher and higher and higher it rose, stronger and stronger and stronger was its power over -- not just her will, but over her every instinct. It peaked. It was a power suffusing her, and now it pulled her trigger. She screamed in ecstasy, her hips arching, and she clutched him as if famished for his body. He stopped for a moment, holding her firmly as she writhed in orgasm. Cap was still hard; he knew he could keep on pleasing her. He shifted, raising her legs up over his shoulders, and drove into her again. "What... Cap... Ohh..." Anything else she might have said was silenced by her moans of bliss. She was dazed, lost, and she never wanted this moment to end. But end it did. He suddenly froze, then howled as his juices spurted into her. She experienced it with a cry of disbelief -- the disbelief that her sensation-filled body was welcoming it. Then they both sank down onto the bed exhausted. When they had caught their breaths, she kissed him, tiny pecks all over his face. He caressed her body, listening to her breathing change from excited pants of a woman in rapture, to the even steadiness of the afterglow. He took her head in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. She responded, and again wrapped him in her arms. When they finally broke the kiss, he grinned at her. "I guess we've worked up enough of an appetite to go down to for lunch now." Her eyes were dewy; she could only stare into his face with a weary, sated smile. * * * * * "What are ye doing in here, boy?" Shamus stormed over to the young boy who'd just come into his Saloon. Stephan Yingling looked up at the angry man. "Please, sir, are... Are you Mr. O'Toole?" "Aye, I'm Shamus O'Toole. Now who are ye, and what's a wee lad like ye doing here? Ye must know that I won't be serving ye anything t'drink." "I know that, sir. I just -- I wanted to ask about that magic potion of yours." "Me potion? What concern is it of yuirs?" "A friend of mine, Emma -- she used to be Elmer -- she took it last year." Shamus looked closely at the boy. "And ye've got feelings for her, I'm thinking." "Feelings... No, not-not like that. She's a friend, that's all. Besides, she likes Yully Stone, I think." "What are ye asking then?" Before the boy could answer, Laura came bustling over. "Stephan... Stephan Yingling, what are you doing in here?" "Mrs. Caulder, I-I didn't think that you'd --" Shamus scowled. "Yingling? Is the reverend yuir father?" "He is," Laura answered. "Stephan, I think you'd best leave." "Y-Yes'm." The boy hurried out through the swinging doors. Shamus looked at Laura. "Ye and Arsino belong to that church. Do ye have any idea what the preacher's boy was doing in me saloon?" "None." She shrugged. "Maybe he was just curious about the place." "Curious about something, I'm thinking. I wonder if he'll be coming back. I surely don't need any grief from that father o'his." * * * * * Bridget took a bite of fried chicken. "Cap, I want to thank you again for treating me to this supper." They were sitting at one of Maggie's tables, speaking softly, so no one could hear their conversation. "And I want to thank you again for treating _me_ this afternoon." He smiled. She looked down at her plate. "I-I want to talk to you about that." "What's the matter?" "I hadn't planned... I didn't want... Oh, hell, I don't know how to say this without hurting you." "You weren't ready, were you?" She shook her head. "No... No, I wasn't. I like you very much -- maybe even love you." She stopped, realizing again that she _did_ love him. "But I -- no, I wasn't ready for... for what happened." She sniffled and sounded ready to cry. "I'm so sorry." To Bridget, Brian - her male self -- seemed so far away, and she needed, more than ever, his steady hand to guide her. Why couldn't she just be physically a woman, and not have to feel the way they did? The emotions that were churning inside her were so assertive, so turbulent. She fought, she fought so hard, to ignore them, to be detached and logical, like she managed to be at the card table. But these emotions were like the rush of warm floodwater, an irresistible force that managed to over-roll everything. Brian's clear thinking couldn't reach her lips through such turmoil. Everything came out the wrong way. Here she was, saying words to Cap that might make him think that she was putting all the blame on him. Cap was talking. She struggled to give him her attention. "I'm sorry, too," he was saying. The young rancher took her hand in his own. "Sorry that I rushed you into something you didn't want." She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "That's the problem, I-I did want it, sort of. I'm just not ready for what it means." "I wanted it, too. I'd like to do it again, but, if you're not ready, then... Then we wait until you are." "Do you mean that?" "Bridget, I want you -- I _love_ you, but it won't work unless you want me, too. Until you do..." He sighed theatrically. "...I'll just have to wait. And hope and pray and worry and dream and --" She couldn't help but giggle. "All right, all right. I get the idea." "There's that beautiful smile that'll make all that hoping and praying worth waiting for." He paused a beat. "Now eat your supper. I'm not as rich as you are that I can afford to waste the cost of a meal." * * * * * Tuesday, March 19, 1872 Wilma shifted on the bed where she was posing. "Mmmm, Ethan," she purred, "Can I ask you a question?" "As long as you return to the pose, you may." She shifted back into position, stretching out invitingly on the sheet, her nude body displayed for him to paint. "I been thinking about what you said last week, about how _painting_ me was better than _having_ me right here, right now on this bed." "Yes, I did say that. What we're doing right now _is_ more intimate." "Not for me it ain't." She frowned. "I know you like having sex. You 'n Beatriz been at it since that first night you come to the House." "I'm not painting a picture of Beatriz." "And you ain't taking me to bed. How about if she and I switch off? You paint her for a while and have your _fun_ with me." "You're not listening, Wilma. I am having fun with you. Having you here, as my model, is far more pleasurable for me than any mere carnal romp might be." "Not for me, it ain't." "Patience, my dear Miss Hanks, and it will be." * * * * * Cap looked across the table to Bridget who was still moving cards. "What's your best hand?" "Four of a kind," she said, moving a last card into place. "Nines." She showed him the five poker hands she'd arranged as part of their double Maverick solitaire game. The highest hand had four 9s and the 6 of hearts. Cap nodded in appreciation. "Not bad, not bad at all, but this one's better." He turned one of his five hands around and grinned. "Straight flush, 3 to 7 of diamonds." "Damnation!" She pouted. "You're getting too good at this game." "There're a _lot_ of games I'm good at." She wasn't ready for this sort of suggestive talk. "Cap... Please." "Well, I am, checkers... Cribbage... Twenty-one... Craps. Uncle Abner -- you should excuse the name -- even taught me how to play chess." Bridget giggled. "Oooh, you!" "'Scuse me, Se?or Lewis..." Angel Montiero had walked up to the table. "...can I talk to you for a moment?" Bridget stood up. "I'll just leave you men to talk." "No," Cap said, "you can stay. This won't take very long." He turned to the cowhand. "My uncle sent you, didn't he?" "Si -- yes, sir." Angel held his hat in his hands, and now he fidgeted with it, as he spoke. "He sent me into town for the paper and for some supplies he ordered. But he also said that I should ask you when you were coming back to the ranch." Cap's expression soured. "You tell him I want to know when _he's_ coming here to have that talk with Bridget like he promised." "Please, I-I do not want to get in the middle of you two." He began to crumple his hat. Cap put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "It's all right, Angel. You just tell him what I said. He's too mad at me to get angry at you for repeating what I said." "Yes," Bridget added. "Besides, you'll just be giving him Cap's answer." The Mexican nodded. "Very well, I will tell him what you said." He started to leave. "Hold it, Angel," Cap told him. "_I've_ got a question for you before you go -- two questions, actually." "Two, se?or?" "Yes, the first is, how has my uncle been acting the last couple days?" "He is angry... _muy_ angry -- at you, I suppose. He does not say so, but everyone knows this. He is like a bull in a pen, snorting and stomping his hoof at anyone who comes close." He took a breath. "What is your second question?" "An easier one, I think. Can I buy you a beer before you head back?" * * * * * Martha Yingling burst into her husband's office. "Thad, I-I must talk with you. Stephan..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to hold back her tears. "Martha, what... Is it?" He stood and hurried to her side, taking her in his arms. "I-I was at Ortega's market. I wanted to get some... Some nice chicken for supper. I was at the meat counter, and I heard Lavinia Mackechnie behind me. She was talking to another woman, talking loudly so everyone could hear what she was saying." "And what _exactly_ was she saying." "That she saw Stephan -- our Stephan -- going into that-that place, the saloon, O'Toole's place." Yingling remembered his son's threat. "What! Not O'Toole's. He-he couldn't." "She said that she stayed to watch -- she's just the sort that would stay to watch, and he was in there for a good ten or fifteen minutes. I-I couldn't believe my ears." "Nor I. Did you challenge her words?" "I suppose that I should have, but I-I couldn't. I rushed straight back here -- didn't even take the time to buy the bird. I'll have to- to go back for it." "First things first." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Stephan should be home from school by now. Let us go find him and ascertain the truth of Lavinia's claims." She sobbed. "I did; I went straight up to his room." She sobbed. "He didn't... He _wouldn't_ deny a word of it. And... And when I asked him why he would do such a thing, he-he said that I should ask you. Why...? Why should I -- what is going on that he should say that? And in such a _cold_, angry voice? Thad, please, please tell me what is going on between the two of you." "It will be all right, Martha." He fumbled in his pocket for a moment till he found his handkerchief. He used it to carefully dab at his wife's eyes. "You need not worry yourself. I know the problem, and I shall make _very_ certain that nothing seriously comes of it." * * * * * "Damn!" Trisha threw the newspaper down to the ground. "Damn all it to Hell!" Kaitlin looked up from her sewing. "What's the matter?" She glanced upstairs. Emma's door was closed, so her daughter -- who was in her room studying with her friend Ysabel -- wasn't likely to have heard the profanity. "The paper, Roscoe printed that we just got divorced." "Didn't he have to? I mean, with the other legal announcements?" "I-I suppose. It's just... Seeing it there in black and white..." She closed her eyes, a pained look on her face. Kaitlin put down the blouse she was working on and walked over to where Trisha was sitting. "I know." She put her hand on Trisha's shoulder. "I don't like it either." "I-I hate this... Hate being a woman." She sighed. "I just hate it." "Hate it or love it, you'll be one for the rest of your life. You'll... _we'll_ just have to live with it." She waited a beat. "You don't seem to hate _everything_ about being a woman?" "What do you mean?" "You seem to enjoy the attention of men. You enjoyed one man's attention enough to let him mark your body." "I told you -- more than once -- I was _drunk_." She frowned. "And you don't seem to have any problems with Liam's attentions to you." "Should I have a problem?" "Damned right you should you're my..." Her voice trailed off as she stared down at the floor. "You're wife? No, Trisha, I'm not; not anymore." She put a hand on the other woman's shoulder. "We're... Friends, sisters, almost, but that's _all_ we are; all we can ever be." "And I'm supposed to be happy that Liam is -- is... courting you?" "Am I supposed to be happy that you're walking off into the night with strange men to do who-knows-what?" Trisha reached up and put her hand over Kaitlin's. "I guess -- maybe -- neither of us is supposed to be happy." * * * * * Yingling moved his black knight out onto the board. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Aaron?" "Ask," Aaron Silverman replied, as he studied the chessboard. "You're going to lose, so you might as well get something out of tonight's game." The reverend ignored the comment about the game. "You're a member of the town council, aren't you?" "You know I am. Didn't you help me get there?" He moved his own knight out and turned over the small hourglass they used to time their moves. "You make it sound like I campaigned for you. I never did that." "What you did do was almost as good. You got up the Sunday before the election and said that you saw nothing wrong in voting for a man of -- what was it? -- oh, yeah, of my 'religious persuasion.' More than one person told me that you saying that was what got them to vote for me." "If I trust you not to cheat at chess, I trust you enough to let you on the council." He shifted his queen back two spaces. "I fear, though, that you're not going to win this game as easily as you won that election." He turned the hourglass. Aaron studied the board. "We'll see soon enough who's gonna win, but, nu, what do you want to know about the council?" "I was just wondering what sort of agreement Mr. O'Toole has with you as regards that potion of his?" "Relationship... What a fancy-shmancy word you're saying. It's his to do with what he wants. The town council, we don't get involved." He looked closely at the reverend. "You asked me a question, so I'll ask you one. Why do you want to know about it all of a sudden?" "It just occurred to me that people might require a temperate hand in control of something that powerful." "I don't know from 'temperate.' Shamus is a mensch; people trust him." He advanced a pawn one square, and overturned the hourglass. "There." Yingling made a face. "I'm not certain that he _can_ be trusted, considering the sort of business that he's in, preying on human weakness." He paused a moment. "And there have been accidents, the O'Hanlans and that Mexican boy I just heard about." "Emma O'Hanlan was no accident. Dead she'd have been without that potion. And, from what I heard, it was Trisha's own idea to take some. We got a saying, 'what's on a fool's mind is on his tongue', and that's exactly what happened to Trisha. You can't blame it on Shamus." "Perhaps not, but it was his carelessness that let that Mexican boy get a hold of the potion just a short while ago." He moved his knight to defend the black queen. "Your move." "Arnie Diaz... Yes, my Rachel told me about him just the other day. With everything else that happened to that family..." He made a sympathetic click of his tongue. "It's like they say, if things don't get better, they may get worse." "They seem to have done so in that case. What's more, I have reason to believe that another person, a woman, took a dose of the potion." "A woman -- oy! What happened to her?" "My knowledge of that case is rather vague. I do know that, when she left Eerie, she appeared much changed in character from the woman she had been when she arrived. Moreover, I was told by a reasonably valid source that is was because she had ingested some of Mr. O'Toole's brew." "_That_ I didn't know about." He moved his own knight to the square next to the black one and turned the timer over. "Yes, and from what I had observed previously of the lady in question, I very much doubt that she took the potion deliberately and with O'Toole's tacit approval. That potion has been used five times: on the Hanks gang, on Miss Steinmetz..." As he listed each times, Yingling stuck out a finger. "...on the O'Hanlon's, on Mrs. -- on the lady I mentioned, and on the Diaz boy. Three of those five times, someone took it by accident. That hardly speaks well of O'Toole's ability to safeguard that concoction of his." "You're talking like you already got a better idea." "As a matter of fact, I have two good ideas. Here's the first." He moved his queen, so that it was next to the knight. "The other is that the council should appoint a small group to watch over the potion in a safer..." He turned over the hourglass. "...more ethical manner." "More _ethical_; I don't suppose you have any suggestions for _who_ should be on this group of yours." Yingling grinned. "Well... Now that you mention it." * * * * * Wednesday, March 20, 1872 "Damn, that stew of Maggie's sure smells good," Laura muttered. Jane set the fresh pot of stewed meat with chili peppers down on the "Free Lunch" Table. "It is good; I had me some in the kitchen. You just go help yourself. I'll be bringing out some fresh cornbread t'go with it in a minute." "I can have some of the bread and, maybe, some sliced cheese, but that stew's much too spicy for me. I'll have indigestion -- heartburn, too, probably -- if I eat it." "It never bothered you before. I seen you eat it lot's of times." Laura gently rubbed her rounded belly. "It doesn't bother me, but it does bother him -- or her. Mrs. Lonnigan says it's normal for somebody as far as along as me." She sighed and sat down. "I'll just have to wait until the baby comes to have some." "Well, since you're eating for two, why don't I just go get something that you and the little one can both enjoy?" She bustled off to the kitchen, coming back with the cornbread and a few slices of ham leftover from the previous night's dinner. * * * * * "Here she comes," Hermione told Lallie. It was recess, and they were standing at the foot of the schoolhouse steps, blocking the way. Emma hurried down, anxious to get over to the ball game. "'Scuse me," she said trying to get by. "No," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. "There's no excuse for you, Emma O'Hanlan." Emma turned to face Hermione. "What're you saying, Hermione?" "She said that there's no excuse for somebody like you." Lallie repeated the insult. "You say that you're still a boy, but you dress like a girl... Right down to your... _undergarments_." Emma glowered at the girl. "My corset, you mean, don't you?" "And you play with the boys," Hermione picked up the refrain. "Running around, chasing them, touching them, and letting them _touch_ you, touch you in places where a boy shouldn't touch a girl." Lallie chimed in. "You're no better than your... Trisha." "And my papa's getting her kicked off the church board for what she done at the dance," Hermione jeered. Emma raised her arm, threatening the other girls. "You take that back" "Why? It's true, isn't it?" Hermione stood firm. "The pair of you are just common --" Without thinking, Emma slapped Hermione's face. "Liar!" "How dare you?" Hermione rubbed her cheek. Emma looked daggers at her. "I'm glad I did it. I'll do it again if you keep talking like that." "Witch!" Hermione reached out to grab Emma. Emma braced, then pulled at Hermione's arm. The two girls grappled back and forth. Hermione stumbled and pulled them both to the ground. The two girls rolled on the ground as a crowd gathered around them. "Watching them two is more fun than playing ball," Clyde chuckled. Yully was about to agree when he saw Miss Osbourne walk out onto the porch. "Yeah, but it looks like it's over. And so is recess, at least for your sister and Emma." * * * * * "May I speak with you a moment, Horace?" Reverend Yingling stood at the counter of Styron's Hardware and Mining Equipment Store. Styron glanced around the premises. The only customers were a pair of miners who one of his clerks was waiting on. "Certainly, Reverend; can we speak out here, or do you want to go into my office?" "I would prefer the privacy of your office, if you don't mind." "Of course not." Styron led the other man to his office, shutting the door firmly once they were both inside. "Now then, what can I do for you?" "That potion, the one Shamus O'Toole gave to Patrick O'Hanlan, what do you think of it?" "I can't say as I like it. Sure, it saved us from the Hanks gang, but it seems to me that it's caused nothing of trouble since then." "And how much of that trouble would you say is because O'Toole is the one in charge of it?" "It's hard to say. Seems to me that something so powerful shouldn't be in the hands of a Mick bartender." "And why, precisely, do you say that?" "The man's not responsible. Hell, as like as not, he's drunk himself. And the Irish are a wild people. It's only a matter of time before he uses that potion of his out of spite." "I believe that he already has." "Why do you say that?" "A few weeks ago, a Mrs. Elizabeth Taft, the sister of Laura Caulder, came to town to retrieve the body of her brother -- the man that Mrs. Caulder had been before imbibing a dose of O'Toole's foul brew. I spoke to her when she first came to town, and she impressed me as a good, Christian woman." Yingling shook his head and sighed before continuing. "I encountered her again just as she and her husband were leaving on the stage to Utah. She appeared to have become almost as libertine in her habits as that Wilma Hanks woman is reputed to be. That other woman, the one who looks like Mrs. Caulder, blurted out that Mrs. Taft had taken -- or _been_ _given_ -- a dose of the potion." "What are you saying?" "I cannot help but wonder how she came to take it. Was it accidental or was she asking questions that O'Toole didn't want to answer, and so he gave her some of that potion to quiet her inquiries. Perhaps she didn't realize that she was drinking it, or he even _forced_ her to drink it." "That's a serious charge to make, Reverend." "I am serious. I cannot prove that O'Toole did what I'm saying he did, but I do think that he _could_ do it. And I consider such a situation to be untenable." "We can't stop him from making the stuff." "Perhaps not, but I feel that, if he does make any more of it, he should not retain control of it any longer than necessary. Others must be appointed to that task." "Who should be then, the town council?" "No, those men are far too friendly towards Mr. O'Toole. Besides the potion is a moral issue, not a political one." "Moral -- as in 'church', I expect -- _our_ church, naturally. We can't trust them Mex mackerel-snappers." He chuckled and put out his hand. "Okay, Reverend, you can count me in on whatever you've got in mind." Yingling shook Styron's hand and smiled a very satisfied grin. "I thought I might." * * * * * "Good afternoon. Miss Sanchez." Enoch Ryland greeted Maggie with a broad smile, when she walked into his tailor shop. "Are you here for the fitting for your wedding gown?" His smile narrowed when Laura and Carmen followed her through the door. "We are," Laura answered. "There's no reason for all of you to be here for the fitting, is there?" he asked. By way of explanation, he added, "There's not a lot of room in the back of the store." "Laura is my madrone, my wedding godmother," Maggie answered. "It is her job to help me with the wedding, and Carmen -- she will be my sister-in-law, so when she asked to come along --" Carmen shrugged. "I couldn't wait until Maggie's wedding to see the gown." 'Bad enough they were all here for the measuring,' Ryland thought sourly, a bland smile still on his face. 'Get any of them alone, and we could have some real fun. The three of them together, and all I can do is fit the damned dress.' Aloud he said, "Well, then, let's go back and see how it fits." He led them to the back of the store. "The dress is in there." He pointed to the curtained-off dressing room. "Let me know when you're ready... Or if you need any help with it." "I'm sure we can manage between the three of us," Laura told him, following the other two behind the curtain. The dress was on a hanger placed on a rack with several other items. It was in the empire style, sleeveless with a low bodice and tight down to the waist, where it flowed out into a full skirt. As was the custom, it was made from the white silk and the lace trim Ramon had given Maggie at their betrothal ceremony. "It... It is beautiful," Maggie said, staring at the gown. "It surely is," Laura agreed. Carmen nodded. "Almost as pretty as the bride herself. Ramon will love seeing you in it on your wedding day." "Almost as much as he'll love seeing you out of it on your wedding night," Laura said with a giggle. Maggie blushed. "Laura!" She was carefully unbuttoning her dress. "To say something like that." She slid it off her shoulders and wriggled out of it. "You tell me you aren't thinking of such things -- not even a little," Laura teased, "and I'll stop." Carmen picked up Maggie's dress and draped it over a chair. "Besides, it is natural for a bride to think of her life with her husband-to- be." "Si," Maggie said. "I-I am thinking of such things -- just a little." Her face, her entire body felt warm as a pleasant tingle ran through her. Laura took the gown off its hanger and held it up. "Lift your arms," she told Maggie. Maggie raised her arms; Laura, and Carmen helped her into it. Once her arms and head were visible, they let it slip down onto her. It bunched up at her waist, and they maneuvered it down over her petticoat. "Est? maravilloso... So beautiful," Carmen gushed. Laura agreed. "We're ready for the fitting, and with the three of us here, Maggie's gown is the only thing Enoch'll be able to work on." * * * * * Kaitlin was peeling potatoes for supper, when Emma came in. "Hello, dear, how was school today?" "Not too good," Emma all but whispered. "Miz Osbourne gimme a note for you to sign." She handed her mother a folded sheet of paper. Kaitlin opened the note and read it quickly. "Emma! Why ever were you fighting with Hermione Ritter?" "Hermione started it." "Perhaps she did, but that isn't the question I asked you, is it?" "N-no, ma'am." She took a breath. "Hermione... She said... She said Trisha and me weren't no good." "What did she mean that you were 'no good'?" "She-she said that I liked boys too much, that I liked 'em to... to touch_ me, touch me in places where boys ain't supposed t'touch girls." She spoke fast, blurting the words. "I-I don't let boys touch me like that, mama, honest I don't." Kaitlin reflected back over the last few months, since Elmer had taken the potion to save his life by becoming Emma. 'So _many_ changes,' she thought. Aloud, she asked. "Do you like boys?" Emma blushed. "Yes," she giggled. "I do. I just don't want 'em pawing at me like I was some kinda animal." "And that's just the proper attitude for a young lady to have." Kaitlin waited to see if Emma would react to being called a "young lady.'' Emma didn't react at all. "Yes'm," she answered and continued with the story. "Hermione said the same about Trisha -- Mama, did Trisha do something wrong at the church dance?" "She did dance with some of the men." The woman sighed. She'd been expecting that Emma would hear the gossip. Trust Cecelia Ritter's daughter to be the one who would inform her daughter. "And she... walked a bit with one of them -- holding hands. That's all." At least, it was she would tell Emma. A young girl had no reason to know about things like love bites, let alone that her transformed father had gotten one. "That's _all_ Trisha did." "That don't sound too bad," Emma considered what she'd just heard. "That can't kick her off the church board for something like that, can they? Hermione said they would" "They're going to try." She smiled and took Emma's hand, "but I don't think that they will." She waited a beat. "Of course, _now_ they have one more thing to use against her." "What's that, Mama?" Kaitlin looked sternly at Emma. "Her daughter gets into fights." "Oh -- ooh, Mama, what've I done?" "You let Hermione Ritter goad you into a fight. You can't be hitting her." She winked. "No matter how much she may deserve it." Emma traced a "king's X" over her heart. "I won't fight with Hermione no more. No matter how much she _does_ deserve it." * * * * * Thursday, March 20, 1872 Arnie used her back to push open Teresa's bedroom door. "Wake up, Mama. Breakfast is re -- Mama, what are you doing?" "I-I am getting out of th-this bed." Teresa Diaz was half-standing, pulling herself to her feet using her good left arm and the bedpost. "I have a house -- and children -- and a _business_ -- to take care of." It was what she'd been repeating since the day she came home. "Mama," Arnie answered, hurriedly setting down the breakfast tray on the dresser. "The doctor said that you must rest this week." "Bah! What does he know?" "He knows that your arm and leg are broken -- and that they will not heal if you do not rest." "But if I rest, then who will take care of the house and all of you? Who will run my business, so we can pay the _learned_ doctor's bill?" "Dolores is helping with the house and the little ones. _I_ will see to the laundry business -- I have been working at it since the day after... the day you were hurt." 'The day I changed,' but she wouldn't say that. "You? You who would not work before?" She stopped to consider her thoughts. "For a few days, _maybe_, but can you run my business for six weeks?" "I can. I have to, don't I?" She looked away from Teresa and straightened her back. "It is only right that I take over the business, so your bones have time to heal. That is what a man... a _son_ does for his mother." She regarded her new daughter intently. Arnie was trying _so_ hard to help. It would be hurtful to remind her that she wasn't always expected to do as a man does -- not anymore. She carefully lowered herself back into the bed. "Very well, I will wait -- for a while, at least, before I go back to work." * * * * * "G'morning, Maggie," Jane greeted the other woman who had just walked into the kitchen. "How you feeling today?" Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down. "Anxious; my wedding gets closer and closer. Can we talk for a few minutes before we start with the cooking?" "Sure." Jane pulled out a second chair. "What d'you wanna talk about?" "My wedding, of course, and the restaurant." "Of course, it being only 'bout ten days till you get hitched. I bet you're planning some real special food for the party." "I-I am, but that is not what I want to talk to you about." "It ain't?" "No... Not now, anyway." She took a breath. "You know that Ramon and I are going on a honeymoon. We will be..." She felt herself blush. "...away for three days." "And three nights." Jane giggled. "Sure, I know that." "But there is a problem. I cannot afford to close down the restaurant for three days... And three nights." "I didn't think of that. What're you gonna do? You ain't gonna call off the honeymoon are you?" "No, I plan -- I _hope_ to leave someone else in charge, someone I trust who can run the place for me." "You ask Molly t'do it yet? You think Shamus'll mind that she ain't working for him for them three days?" "I am not asking Molly. I am asking you." "Me? But I... I -- " "You know my recipes, and you are a good cook, Jane, and maybe even a better baker than I am," Jane shook her head, "Ain't nobody better 'n you." "Then as good as me. Will you do it?" "But I don't know how -- you're always saying that there's more t'running the restaurant than cooking, stuff like buying the food and planning the meals. I don't know none of that." "You know some of it, I think, and -- if you say yes -- I can teach you enough to take care of things. It is only for three days, after all." "You sure I can do it?" "Si, I do. And Molly will help, I have already asked; so will Laura... And Dolores, too." "I-I still don't know if I can do it." "If you will not do it, if you will not even try, then I cannot go away with Ramon. You do not want me to disappoint him, do you?" "Maggie, I don't think you're ever gonna disappoint Ramon." She sighed and steadied herself as if she were about to step in front of a firing squad. "All right," she finally said, "I-I'll do it. It'll be my wedding present to you, I guess." * * * * * Carl Osbourne walked into the saloon. He stood just inside the doors and looked around. Cap was sitting with Bridget at her table. He stood up when he saw Osbourne come in and hurried over to the man. "You came from my uncle, I expect," Cap said by way of greeting. "What's he say this time?" The tall cowhand shifted uncomfortably. "He wants to know when you're coming home. He said -- these're _his_ words -- you should 'have the little trollop and be done with her.' I'm sorry, Cap, but that's what he said." "That sounds like him," Cap said with a wry laugh. "He can get awful stuffy when he's angry. Besides, I know that your sister, the school marm's, the word-wrangler in your family. You limit yourself to wrangling my uncle's cattle." "That's the truth of it. I never was interested in book learning like she was." He took a breath. "So, you ready to go home?" "Aren't you going to ask if I've had the 'little trollop', Carl?" "First off, Bridget ain't a trollop; she's a lady. Second, that's your business not mine." He chuckled. "And third, if I did ask, you'd probably kick my ass for asking." Now Cap laughed. "Right on all three." He put a friendly arm across the other's shoulder. "Now, before I send you back to Uncle Abner with the bad news that I'm staying put till _he_ comes in, let me buy you a beer to make the ride back a bit more pleasant." * * * * * "Well, now, little lady," Rhys Godwyn greeted Trisha with a warm smile. "I was hoping I'd find you here." Trisha caught herself smiling back. "Mr. Godwyn... Rhys, what're you doing here?" "I got a crate for you'n your brother," he answered. "Maybe, after I get