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

Eerie Saloon: Seasons of Change -- Winter By Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson Sunday, March 24, 1872 "Let us pray," Reverend Yingling, said, continuing with his Easter Sunday sermon, "that, on this glorious Easter morning, we, too, can find a new birth in the salvation of His own Resurrection. For, to share in the re-birth of our Lord is to be changed into a being of light and joy. Such change is the very hope -- the _only_ hope for our immortal souls." "And yet, not all change is for the good, and we must be aware also of the danger of change, of those who would offer what they claim is change for the good. For while it may seem that the change they offer is for the good -- over time, we may find that it is not, that they, themselves, are not the agent of the good that they claim to be." "And if this is so -- it may be for the best that we take control of that change _and_ of that which is the proximate agent of that change. It is but a tool, neither good nor ill, just a tool. And whether that tool is a force for good or ill will be determined by who it is that wields the tool." "We must become the masters of such tools, as we must strive to become masters of ourselves to better know the way of our Lord and to follow in his path." "And let us say, 'Amen.'" * * * * * Cap walked over to Bridget's table. "I'm ready to go." "I-I know," she answered. She'd been playing Maverick solitaire, hoping it would keep her mind off _other_ matters. Now she looked up at him. "You -- you can't stay here forever." He sat down next to her. "No, I can't, much as I'd like to." "I'm just glad that you worked things out with your uncle." "Bridget, _you_ worked things out with my uncle. You told him the truth about Adobe Wells, and I think he believes you. He's willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least." "That's something, anyway. I didn't like him being mad at me. I'm beholden to him for loaning me the money to run my game." She sighed. "I'm beholden to you, too, for getting him to listen." Cap took her hand. "My pleasure... and _I'm_ beholden and a lot more to you, too, for... for certain things." "Please, Cap, I-I'd rather we didn't talk about _that_." "I know." He glanced over at the clock on the wall. "There's just one last thing I have to do before I head back to the ranch." He rose to his feet. "What?" She stood up to say goodbye. "This." He pulled her to him. He felt her small lurch of resistance, before she quieted. He looked down into her eyes, so close to his. She didn't smile, but her arms rose up around his shoulders. Bridget was staring at him, unsure of what was going to happen next -- of what she _wanted_ to happen next. Their faces slowly drew closer and closer until their lips met. She felt his embrace tighten about her, drawing her even closer. She sighed, parting her lips to invite his tongue in. Her eyes closed, as she luxuriated in the warmth flowing through her, the pleasure of his body pressed against hers. His tongue slid in to play with hers, even as she felt him harden -- down there -- as something else sought entrance to her body. No, she couldn't do _that_, even though she wanted so much to be with him. She sighed, passion and surrender mixed with regret, and held on to the kiss as long as she could. "Now that was something to keep me happy all the way home." Cap grinned, as they finally broke the kiss. Bridget was finally smiling, too. "And there'll be another one waiting for you when you come back." "In that case, I'll be back as soon as I can get away." He kissed her cheek. "See you real soon." He tipped his hat and slowly walked towards the exit. "You better." She stood there, just smiling, until he went through the swinging doors. * * * * * "Oh, what a glorious day," Teresa said as Arnie pushed her wheelchair into her house. Enrique ran in after them. "Si, Mama. I love pumpkin empanadas." He licked a small bit of filling off his fingers. "Is that all Domingo de Gloria means to you?" Ysabel scolded. "Pumpkin empanadas?" Enrique glared at his sister. "All it means to you is that dress you are wearing." "Stop it, the both of you," Teresa ordered. "I like pumpkin empanandas, too, Ysabel, _and_ I like wearing my prettiest dress. What we must remember is why the empanadas are there and why we are all wearing our best clothes -- to celebrate the rebirth of our Lord on this day, that by his death He redeemed us all. I want you both to remember that." The two children nodded, speaking softly, "Si, Mama." "Good." Teresa smiled. "We will change our clothes, then Dolores and I will make something to eat. After all those empanadas -- pumpkin _and_ meat -- at the church, you all should not be very hungry." She thought for a moment. "And I do not think we need to do much work the rest of the afternoon. We can just relax and enjoy the day." Ysabel frowned. "Do we have to change, Mama? I like this dress, and I do not get to wear it very often." "You just want to show it off for _Stephan_," Enrique teased. Ysabel's frown became a scowl. "I do not." "Do, too." Teresa broke in. "Stop it, the both of you, and go change." Ysabel pouted and started for her room. "Yes, Mama." Teresa watched her. It was sweet that her oldest daughter had her first crush. But with an Anglo, a _Protestant_ Anglo, the son of the minister, no less, that could be serious trouble. "Good," Arnie said. "I hate my dress. I want to put some pants on." Now Dolores spoke up. "You wear pants when you are doing the deliveries, Arnold. Since you will not be doing that, why do you not just change into another dress or, maybe, a skirt and blouse?" "Because I hate those clothes," Arnie spat the words. "I do not want to wear them. They just make things worse." Dolores raised an eyebrow. "How are they worse?" "You were at the church yesterday. You heard Pablo and the others, heard how they talked to me." "They said nothing today." "That is because Father de Castro warned them not to. I saw him talking to them as we came to the church this morning. He stopped them today because he was there. He will not always be there. If I dress like a girl -" "You are a girl." "No, I _look_ like a girl. Inside..." She tapped her finger against the side of her head. "...Inside, I am a boy. I wear my pants to show that, and to show that I want to be treated like a boy. If I wear dresses, it tells Pablo... and Juan... and Fernando... and everybody else that I want to be treated like a girl." She stood stubbornly, hands balled into fists. "I will not do that." Dolores winced at his display of emotion. "But, Arnoldo, what you do not see is --" "I see everything, and I see it more clearly than -- than anyone else." Arnie started walking for the bedroom she shared with Teresa. "I'm going to get out of this _estulto_ dress and into a pair of pants -- _boy's_ pants -- and a shirt." * * * * * "Wilma!" Bridget called out from her poker table. "Over here." Wilma walked over slowly, swinging her hips and smiling, putting on a show for the men in the room. "I hear you won a whole bunch of money the other day," she said, as she sat down opposite her old friend. "I came t'see if it was true." "You must be real curious," Bridget answered wryly. "It only took you a week to walk over here to find out." "I also heard that Cap Lewis was staying here -- some kinda fight with his uncle, and I figured you two wouldn't want t'be disturbed." "How very kind. To answer your question, I was the big winner in Slocum's game, about $2,700 --" Wilma whistled. "Now _that's_ high stakes poker. Where'd you get the money from t'buy in?" "Cap, he... he grubstaked me." Wilma giggled. "I'll just bet he did." "Wilma! He _loaned_ me the money, and I gave him half my winnings. That's all it was." "If that's _all_ it was, Bridget Kelly, then I'm... I'm sorry for you." "Wilma, can't you ever think of anything but men?" "Ain't nothing else worth thinking about. If you had half the sense G-d gave a moose, you 'n' Cap woulda done something about it while he was staying here." She looked closely at the gambler. "Or did ya, and you just ain't telling me?" "And if I... we did?" "If?" She looked intently into Bridget's face and laughed. "Oh, you done it, gal. I can tell. You got the eyes of a woman in love. Or is that a bitch in heat? How was he? Go on, tell me, you wicked woman! What'd you think of it? Come on, I want details." "There's nothing to tell." Bridget squirmed under Wilma's insistent stare. "Well, almost nothing." "I knew it. I knew it. Tell me. Was it part of the deal you cut with him?" Bridget now met her companion's stare indignantly. "Wilma, even you should know better than that! We did do it one time and, yes... yes, I _loved_ it, and _that's_ all I'm going to say on the subject." "Like hell. When're you and Cap gonna _get_ _together_ again?" "He'll be in on Sunday. He always comes in on the end of the month to get my payment to his uncle." "That ain't all he'll be wanting." She chuckled heartily. Bridget sighed. "Maybe so, but all he'll get is Slocum's money. I- I'm not ready for a... a..." "Lover? Why the hell not, 'specially when you love him, too?" "For one thing, I'd never be able to play poker with him." "Bridget, you ain't just crazy for poker, you're just _plain_ crazy." "Tell me something I don't already know." * * * * * Trisha sighed and snuggled back in her chair. "There's nothing like a nice, quiet afternoon at home." "I'm enjoying it, too," Kaitlin said. "There hasn't been much quiet in our lives lately. Has there?" "Not much. Today was nice, though. I didn't even mind having Liam over for that ham you made." "Why should you mind Liam coming over? He is your brother, after all." "He didn't come over here as my brother. He came over to see you." "Don't be absurd. He came to see all of us, to share Easter with his family." "Kaitlin, we both know that he's courting you. I think even Emma knows. She kept watching the pair of you all through the meal." "Were you watching us, too?" "As a matter of fact, I was, and I didn't like what I saw. He was flirting with you all through dinner, and you... you were flirting back, curling your hair around your finger, giggling. It was terrible." "It's terrible that a man is paying attention to me? Well, I like that." "I know you do, but I-I don't. You shouldn't... shouldn't... you shouldn't act like that in front of Emma. She's an impressionable young girl." "You've hardly been setting a good example." "Don't change the subject. Are you going to stop encouraging Liam's attentions?" "I don't believe I will. He's a very attractive man, just the type I like, the type I _used_ to be married to." "That's not fair!" "This whole thing isn't fair. If I had my choice, I'd still be married _to_ _Patrick_, but that isn't possible, is it? We're both _unmarried_ women, now, and attractive ones at that." She patted her hair. "Men notice that. Yes, I'm sorry for what happened to you -- to us -- but I don't intend to spend the rest of my life mourning for what we had." "So you are going to encourage Liam." "I'm going to move forward with my life. Slowly and behaving properly. Liam is your brother and Emma's uncle. He'll always be a part of our lives -- of _my_ life. He seems to want to change what part he plays, and, frankly, I'm flattered by his attentions. Beyond that... we'll see." "I don't like it." "You don't get a vote. When you were courting me, my sister, Ida, didn't think much of you." "She didn't?" "No, she didn't. And, just think, if I'd listened to her, we wouldn't be having this conversation." * * * * * Monday, March 25, 1872 Jessie walked over to Bridget's poker table and sat down. "That surely was one bodacious kiss goodbye, you 'n' Cap shared yesterday." "I-I didn't think anyone noticed." Bridget felt the warmth of a blush flow through her cheeks. "There weren't many people around." Maybe not, but them that were they, they -- _we_ was watching." Jessie looked closely at her friend while she spoke. It was fun teasing somebody else, rather than being teased. "'Specially, R.J.," she added. "I-I... how'd he take it?" "I don't think he was too happy about it. He knowed it was finally settled, and that you chose Cap instead o'him." Bridget looked down at the table. "Yes... yes, I did." She gave a deep sigh. "I just hope I didn't hurt him too much." "He's hurting all right, but I think he'll get over it." She waited a moment for effect. "Dolores is helping him." "Dolores... and R.J.? I hadn't noticed those two getting close." "You ain't been noticing much of anything the last few days. Even your poker game's fallen off some." Jessie chuckled. "You 'n' Cap musta really gone to it." "Jessie! You're talking foolishness!" "It ain't foolish -- not if you do it right." She giggled. "And with the right man." "I don't know _what_ you're implying." "Sure, you do. You just don't want to admit it. Say... you got enough protection? I can get you some British riding coats for you from Wilma if you want. Better yet, you can ask her yourself." "P-protection?" Her eyes went wide. "British... British coats, I... no, no, we didn't..." Her voice trailed off before she realized what she had just admitted to Jessie. "You didn't? Lordy, Bridget, you're more of a gambler than I took you for." She giggled again. "Or do you _wanna_ have Cap's baby." "His... his baby?" The lady card smith shook her head frantically. "I -- no, no I don't." She turned her eyes upward. "Please, _please_, no." "Seems t'me, you better have a long talk with Molly -- and pretty soon, too. It ain't good, having something important like that on your mind. You'll be counting every last one of the days till your monthlies come -- _if_ they come." Jessie put her hand gently on Bridget's shoulder. "And I'll get some of them riding coats from Wilma for when you 'n' Cap have another go. If you ain't pregnant, there's no sense in taking any more chances." * * * * * Maggie led Jane over to the butcher's counter in Ortega's Market. "Buenos d?as, Se?or Ruiz," she greeted him. Ruiz was a portly man with a round face hiding behind an oversized handlebar mustache. He wore a large, white apron over a matching, long smock. "Buenos d?as, Se?orita Sanchez," he said, "what can I do for you this morning?" Maggie pulled Jane up to the counter. "You know that I am getting married this Sunday, don't you?" "I can hardly help you with that," he said with a chuckle, "but I will be in church to see it happen and to wish you well." Maggie continued. "Thank you. This is Jane Steinmetz; she will be running my restaurant, while I am on my honeymoon." "I cannot help you with _that_, either." He laughed. "But I can show you these chickens; I butchered them myself this morning." He pointed to a long tray of chickens atop a layer of ice. A second tray of chicken parts was set next to them, all under a glass cover to keep in the cold. Maggie raised an eyebrow. "This morning? Some maybe, but not all, I think." "Indeed, all of them, this very morning." Maggie turned to Jane. "All right, Jane. Jorge has shown you all this chicken, what do you do?" "Since nobody's gonna order a whole chicken, I look at the parts. I was thinking... chicken mole, people like that. I need breasts for that. I buy the whole breasts and cut 'em myself; it's cheaper that way. Am I right?" Maggie tried not to show what she thought. "Do you think you are right?" "I _am_ right," Jane said decisively. "Mr. Ruiz, you slide back that glass so's I can get a better look at them chicken breasts." Ruiz did as she asked. She turned several pieces over to look at the color of the meat, even lifting a couple of pieces to check for an odor. "That one's been here a while," she noted, putting one piece back. "On my word, they all are fresh." Ruiz argued. Jane shook her head. "You like it so much, you keep it." She pointed at other pieces. I'll take this one... and this... and..." "Si, si, Se?orita Steinmetz." The man took the selected pieces, six in all, and wrapped them in a piece of white butcher paper. "These are good choices, you made." Jane smiled. "I know, but thanks." "She is sure of herself, this one," he told Maggie. Jane nodded. "I gotta be. Look who I gotta please." She pointed to Maggie. "Now what do you got in the way of chuck steak?" * * * * * "Hi. Bridget," Milo Nash called out from his teller's window. "What brings you into the bank today?" Bridget smiled back at him. "Money, the same as everybody else." She glanced about. "Is Dwight Albertson around?" "Just a minute, and I'll go get him." Milo slid a wooden "Closed" sign across his window, and walked back to a closed office door. "Mr. Albertson," he said as he knocked. "Somebody's here to see you." The door opened almost at once. "Who is it?" He glanced over Milo's shoulder. "Bridget... Miss Kelly, please do come in." The teller started back to his window. Albertson stepped back from the door, opening it wide for her. "'Bridget's' fine." She walked in, letting him close it behind her. "Seems t'me that sitting across the poker table from somebody for twenty-four hours is good enough reason for us to call each other by our first names." He walked around behind his desk, while she took a chair opposite him. "Bridget, it is then." He sat down. "Now, what can I do for you today, _Bridget_?" "I wanted to talk to you about all the money I won in that game." "I suspected that was the reason." He smiled his best banker's smile. "I hope that you're not planning to move it." "Matter of fact, I am --- oh, don't worry, Dwight, I don't want to move it out of your bank. I just thought that I could do more with it than just let it sit there till I want to spend it." "You can, indeed." He paused a beat. "You... ah, you know about the investment program I've set up for Jane Steinmetz, don't you?" "A little. I hear Jane complain sometimes about not having the money at hand, but Milt always tells her that you're using it to make her rich." "I'm certainly trying to -- and I'll be happy to try to do the same for you, _if_ you're interested." "That's what I came here for." She reached into her reticule and fished out her bankbook. "Let's see... with what I won so far this month, and after I paid Cap Lewis his share, I've got -- oh, my -- I've got just over $2,200 in my account." She beamed in amazement, just realizing how much she had won. "And how much of that are we talking about?" "Mmm," she considered her situation. "I need some for my game and to pay Shamus -- and I plan to pay off the last of what I owe Abner Slocum. I'd say... $1,000... no, $1,500. Is that enough?" "More than enough." He opened a drawer and took out a folder. "May I see your bankbook? I'll need your account number." She handed him her bankbook. He took a form from the folder and copied her name and her bank number into the proper spaces. "Do you want the Saloon listed as your address?" She nodded. He added the Saloon's name and address; then wrote in a few more numbers and handed it to her, along with her bankbook. "Read this carefully and sign it -- if it's all right with you, that is." "It is," she told him after a quick read -- she'd played enough poker with the banker to trust him. She signed it and handed it back. "Now you get busy, Dwight, and make me rich." * * * * * "You mind if I take a break and have some lunch?" Liam asked. Trisha looked around. "Nobody's around right now to wait on; go ahead." "Thanks." He took his lunch pail out from under the counter. "You want to join me?" "I'll wait, just in case somebody does come in." "Okay." He took the lid off the pail and pulled out a thick sandwich wrapped in paper. "I made a sandwich from some of that leftover ham Kaitlin gave me yesterday." He took a bite. "Mmm, that woman can surely cook." "I'm so glad that you like her cooking," Trisha said coldly. "Is that why you were so attentive to her yesterday, for her cooking?" "That's one reason, one of many." "Such as?" "Trisha, you know her better than anyone -- you should anyway. She's a fine figure of a woman, sweet, kind, a real lady." "Not if she's letting you sniff around her so soon after we got that damned divorce." "And what were you letting Rhys Godwyn do to you _before_ you got that divorce?" "Nothing... nothing!" "Cecilia Ritter seems to think you did something. So do enough other people that you may get thrown off the church board. There goes your building fund and all your other plans. Why don't you think about _that_ some, and stop worrying about my courting Kaitlin." "You admit it, then. You are courting her." "I'll admit it, if you'll admit to whatever you and Godwyn were doing." He paused for a moment. "Hell, let's just call a truce for now, at least for long enough for me to eat lunch in peace?" * * * * * "Mmm," Laura purred, "that feels nice." Arsenio smiled as he rubbed the ointment onto her belly. "Glad to be of service, ma'am." His smile shifted to a leer. "Anything else I can do for you while I'm down this way?" "I think you've done enough," she answered sliding a finger along her gravid belly. "But thanks for the offer." She'd lifted her nightgown to give him access to her stomach and thighs. Now she let it slide down over her. "Oh, Lord, I must look horrible." "I think you look wonderful." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thanks for that lie, but I know otherwise." She looked down at herself. "I must've put on twenty pounds. I'm... I'm big as a house." "And twice as beautiful. Now get to bed. You -- the _two_ of you -- need your sleep." "As if I _can_ sleep, with this watermelon resting on my bladder. I'll be up and down five times before morning." "_That's_ why you sleep on the side closest to the privy." "Very funny. I probably won't get much sleep anyway." "Is something the matter?" "A lot of things; I worry about the baby, how much weight I'm putting on..." She sighed. "...Maggie's wedding." "What are you worried about Maggie's wedding for?" "We're -- you and me -- we're the... the godparents or something." "From what Ramon's been telling me, all that means is that we're part of the ceremony, like we did when they got -- what'd they call it -- betrothed a few weeks ago." "That's right. Maggie said we have to stand with them for the ceremony... up there, in front of everybody." "So?" "So, I'm a house... a whale... a _mountain_. I look like hell, and, in a week, I have to stand there and let half the people in this town stare at me and..." Her voice trailed off. "...and laugh at me." "First of all, they're going to be staring at Maggie. That's part of the job of being the bride. The only one staring at you will be me, and I _know_ how beautiful you are." "But I don't have anything to wear." She stared down at the floor, not certain how that sounded. "Nothing good enough to wear to a wedding at least." "If that isn't just like a - tomorrow, you and I are going over to Silverman's and buy you the prettiest wrap Rachel has." He put his hand under her chin. "I like the way you look in those wraps you wear." "You do?" "I do, especially when you're taking them off. It's like unwrapping a Christmas present, and having you, Laura Meehan Caulder, as my wife -- and as the mother-to-be of my child -- is the best present any man could ever have." Laura blinked back her tears, as her lips curled into a smile. "You, Arsenio Caulder, are a damned liar, and I do so love you for it." They didn't speak after that. The kiss they shared said everything that they needed to say. * * * * * Tuesday, March 26, 1872 "You know, Lallie," Hermione said snidely, walking towards the schoolhouse at the end of recess, "sometimes I wonder if Emma O'Hanlan really _is_ a girl." Lallie took her cue. "I know what you mean. She has to use that corset to give herself any sort of a figure." Both girls were deliberately speaking loud enough that Emma, who was coming in from playing ball, could hear. "I think she overdoes it with that corset, but it does make the boys look. I suppose she -- or is it _he_ likes that." "It must be that potion. Look at how common her _father_ dresses now." "My mother says the woman has given up on staying on the church board. She's just dressing to attract a man... or two." Emma grabbed Hermione by the arm. "You can stop talking like that right now, Hermione." "You saw," Hermione screamed, pulling her arm away. "You all saw it. Emma hit me, and for no reason, no reason at all." Penny Stone stepped forward. "We all saw... and heard. I'd say that Emma was acting more like a lady than the pair of you, trying to stir things up, talking the way you were." "How dare you?" the Ritter girl asked indignantly, glaring at Penny. Penny glared back. "'Cause Emma's my friend, a good friend, and I've had it with you and Lallie talking like that about her. And _I_ might not be so much of a lady." She grabbed for Hermione's arm, but the other girl dodged and hurried into the school. Lallie ran in just after her. "You wouldn't really hurt Hermione 'cause of me?" Emma asked. Penny smiled. "Probably not, but she doesn't have to know that." She laughed. Ysabel had rushed over when she saw the trouble begin, and the three girls linked arms and walked into the schoolhouse. * * * * * "From time to time, this paper receives letters of comment. We are printing the following letter not because we agree with it, but because we believe that it will be of interest to you, the readers of the Eerie edition of the _Tucson_ _Citizen_." "Dear Editor:" "A powerful agent, one capable of totally transforming the destiny of a human being, is under the sole control of Shamus O'Toole. While some may hold Mr. O'Toole in high regard, he is hardly a man of blameless reputation, nor is he an elected official who has been entrusted with the great power of that agent by the will of the people. He is the owner and operator of a saloon, an establishment that exists to cater to human weakness: alcohol, gambling, and lascivious behavior." "This situation must not be allowed to continue. Mr. O'Toole must cease the creation of any more of that agent, and any existing stock must be given over to more responsible hands. It must be under the control of those whom the people of Eerie deem worth of the great trust that the possession of this agent demands." (signed) Isaias * * * * * Arnie looked down the sidewalk ahead of her. Ritter's Livery Stables, where Pablo Escobar worked, was just ahead. Should she cross the street just to avoid him? 'The hell with that,' she thought. 'Let _him_ stay inside to avoid me.' Still, there was no point tempting fate, and she _did_ have a wagon full of laundry to deliver. She walked faster, pulling the wagon behind her, as she walked past Ritter's. "For shame, Arnol_da_," a voice called out behind her. Arnie turned to see Pablo step out onto the wooden sidewalk. "Go away, Pablito," she answered. Then she swore under her breath, as Fernando Hidalgo joined Pablo. "But why?" Pablo answered smoothly. "I was just meant that it is a shame for such a pretty girl to dress as a boy. Isn't that right, Fernando?" The other boy agreed. "Si, in those baggy clothes, I cannot see those big tetas of hers." He laughed and cupped his hands in front of his chest. "They just beg to be seen... and touched." He closed and opened his fingers, as if squeezing. "Or that waist of hers, so narrow," Pablo continued. "It makes a man -- a _real_ man -- want to put his arm around it, to pull her close, so he can kiss those sweet, full lips of hers." Arnie glared at the pair. "You both can go to hell," she spat. "Real men...? Ha, not you, Pablito. Not you either, 'Nando, you can barely grow a beard." "I want to see your beard," Pablo answered. "The one down there." He pointed down, below her waist. "I want to see it, to... taste it... and to grab on to that big ass of your and..." He leered and pumped his hips forward and back. "There you two are." Clyde Ritter came out of his business. He looked at the two boys, then at Arnie. "Ain't you got better things to do than flirt with my help, Missie?" He pointed down the street. "Go on, get outta here." He took a breath. "And the two of you get back to work." The boys hurried back into the store. Ritter following them before Arnie could answer. She growled in frustration and started walking again. * * * * * "How's it coming, Ethan?" Jane asked, leaning forward in her chair. The painter frowned. "Please sit back, Jane, and hold your head up." When she did as told, he continued. "Thank you." He worked on the piece for a moment before his reply. "In answer to your question, _it_ is going relatively well. You -- the young you -- will be completed shortly, and I am far along on completing the initial work, at least, on you, the elder." "The 'old' me? What do you mean?" "There are three figures in this painting: a young girl that is whom you have been posing for, a pregnant woman --" "That'd be Laura. Who's gonna be the other one?" "You are -- just now. _That_ is why you are sitting in the chair rather than standing beside it, as you had been doing." "That's right, but I still don't get why." "The third figure is the 'wise woman', she is the older and wiser aspect." "You mean you're painting me as a old lady?" "As an _older_ woman, matronly, rather. How does the song go -- 'silver stands among the gold'. A more dignified expression -- please hold your hands still -- and hairstyle, that sort of thing." "Can I see? I wanna see it." Ethan sighed. "I suppose it is the only way I can get you to remain still for the remainder of the session. Very well, come over, but only a quick look." He stepped back when she walked over. "Can't tell too much, it's mostly just a outline. Is it really gonna look like me -- like I will when I'm older 'n' Molly?" "As much as the other two figures look like you and Laura do now." "That one sure does look like me. The other one -- Laura's belly is just about that big." She shrugged. "I guess it will." "I'm so glad that you agree. Now would you please take your seat again?" Jane walked back to the chair and sat down, positioning her hands as he had directed. "What're you gonna do with that painting when it's done?" "I intend to ship it back east. I have a number of works in storage at the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia. When I return, I -- a few friends of mine -- will sponsor me in a showing of those works. With any luck, it will be purchased by someone for a suitable sum of money." "How much money?" "Quite a bit, I should think. My work has been very well received in the past." "Maybe I'll buy it, save you all that time and trouble." "I hardly think that you would have the resources." "I got money, more money than you think. I ain't sure yet, but maybe, just maybe, I _will_ buy it." * * * * * "How's the work coming?" Cap asked Red Tully. Red and Joe Ortlieb were working on a section of corral fencing. "Not too bad," Red told him. "We should be finished in a day or so." "No sense in hurrying," Joe added. Red winked at Joe. "I don't know. Mr. Lewis here might _want_ us t'hurry." "Why do you say that, Red?" Cap asked. Now Red shrugged. "Well, now, we heard Mr. Slocum say he wanted you to catch up on the work you missed. If I had somebody like Bridget waiting for me in town, I'd sure be hurrying t'get back to her." "You got that right," Joe added. "I'll bet you two found lot's ways t'kill time while you was living at the Saloon." Red chuckled. "Living, eating, and _sleeping_ at the Saloon." "Are you implying something?" Cap squared his shoulders and took a step forward. Joe gave way. "No, sir, we was just kidding 'round some. That's all." "I wasn't kidding," Red answered. "If I had somebody as pretty as Bridget Kelly, I sure as hell wouldn't be wasting my time talking to two saddle bums like Joe and me any more than I had to." Cap frowned. He didn't want to take on the two of them at once, no matter how angry he was. Besides, he knew how his uncle felt about him fighting with the help. "You got one thing right, Red. I've got a lot better things to do than talk to you two 'saddle bums.' Now get busy on that damned fence." Cap stormed off. He didn't know what made him madder: the fact that the men were teasing him about Bridget or the fact that they were right about how much he wanted to see her again. * * * * * Sebastian Ortega poured himself a brandy and sank back in his chair. "So, Ramon," he asked, "are you enjoying your last few days of freedom before your wedding?" "Enjoying?" Ramon replied, "Not so much enjoying as anticipating... _counting_ the days until my wedding." Sebastian leaned forward and swirled the brandy, watching it coat the sides of his glass. "Spoken like a man hopelessly in love." He laughed and brought the snifter close, so as to savor the bouquet. "And if I am, what is so wrong with that?" "Nothing, my friend; I suppose that I am even happy for you." "Thank you for that overwhelming endorsement." "I said that I was happy for you. I just hope you will have time once in a while to have an old friend over here to talk - and share some of your brandy, of course." "You will always be welcome," Ramon said, reaching for his own brandy. "It just won't be here." "What do you mean?" "Margarita loves her house, and it is much better suited for a family than this place, so we will be living there." "But this is your home. You grew up here, so did you father... and his father." "And his father, too. I know. But this building is the guesthouse. I grew up in the main building, Carmen's home, hers and Whit's and their children. My home is with my wife and her -- _our_ children. That is not here." "Are you certain that you want to give this place up?" "I am not giving it up, and I am moving to a better place, to my life with Margarita. You will always be welcome." He laughed. "And I am taking at least some of my brandy with me, so you will be able to drink it, just as you are doing now." * * * * * Wednesday, March 27, 1872 Arnie lifted the first two packages of clean laundry up onto the Ritters' raised back porch. She picked up the third and climbed the flight of stairs to the deck. She carefully stepped in front of the two packages on the floor and knocked on the back door. "Just a minute," a female voice called from inside. Then it added, "Please see who that is, dear." The door opened. "Well... hello." A tall, burly dark-haired young man greeted Arnie, even as his eyes roamed up and down her body. "I knew that coming home for lunch today was a good idea, but I never thought that it would be _this_ good." "Laundry for Se?ora Ritter." Arnie tried to smile. She'd known -- and disliked -- Winthorp Ritter since they were in school together, but she certainly didn't want him to recognize her, not as she was now. The boy kept smiling and stepped aside, still holding the door so she could enter. "Bring it in," he told her, adding, "please," almost at once. "Si, se?or." Arnie walked in and set her package down on the kitchen table. She could almost feel Winthorp's eyes on her, especially when she went back for the second package, bending at the waist to pick it up. She set the package next to the first and turned to go for the last one, only to see the boy standing in the doorway holding it. "I wanted to give you a hand," he told her smoothly. "Which package is which?" Cecelia Ritter asked, walking over from the sink. "Do you know?" "They are numbered," Arnie answered. "Number one is men's clothes... and boys. Number two is ladies' clothes and the tablecloth you gave us. Number three is sheets, pillowcases, and towels." The boy leered at her. "I'll bet you're particularly good with sheets." His leer faded when he saw his mother's expression sour. "We do good work with all the laundry." She deliberately ignored his suggestive remark, looking at the bill that was pinned to package three. "You owe us $6.88." Mrs. Ritter frowned. "My coin purse is in the parlor. Do you have any money, Winthorp?" "Certainly, Mother." He took a $10 gold eagle coin from his pocket and placed it in Arnie's outstretched hand. "My _pleasure_." He slid a finger across her palm, sending shivers up her arm. Arnie pulled her hand away and glanced around, more anxious than ever to leave. "Do you have anything to be cleaned?" she asked as she counted out the change. "Right there." Cecelia pointed to a large muslin bag set next to a chair. "I'd like to have it back on Saturday." The girl took a tag from her shirt pocket. She wrote, "Ritter -- Saturday" on the tag and pinned it to the bag. "Thank you, se?ora." "Let me get the door for you," Winthorp said, opening it wide. Arnie put the bag up over her shoulder and started out the door. "Saturday... gracias." "You're entirely welcome," Winthorp answered. As she walked past him, he spoke again, in a softer voice this time. "And may I say, _Arnoldo_, that Mr. O'Toole's potion has made a vast improvement in you." Her eyes went wide. He knew! Hell, _everybody_ knew; why not Winthorp, damn him? Before she could say anything, he chuckled and patted her rump. "A _vast_ improvement." He gave a hearty laugh and closed the door after her. * * * * * "Penny for your thoughts, Dolores," R.J. said, walking over to the barstool she was sitting on. Dolores turned. "What did you say?" "I asked what you were thinking about. You've been sitting there for quite a while just sort of staring into space." "To tell the truth, I was thinking about many things." "Like what?" "Arnoldo, for one thing." "Yeah, how's he -- excuse me -- she doing? I saw Molly talking to her the other day." He gave a soft laugh. "I see she's still wearing pants." "Si, she refuses to wear dresses, even when Teresa and I argue with her, except for wearing them to church. She spends most of the time working for the laundry, delivering and picking up clothes. That is probably what she was doing when you saw her. The rest of the time, she helps to take care of Teresa." "How _is_ Teresa?" "She is getting better, but it will still be weeks before she can start doing the deliveries again." "Then what happens to Arnie? She won't have anything to do?" "I do not know." She sighed. "I wish she could get her job here back." R.J. thought for a moment. "Maybe she can. Bring her around once Teresa's on her feet. I'll talk to Shamus." "You are a good friend to her, R.J., thank you." "I'm not just doing it for Arnie." "You are not." "Nope, you've been moping around since he got fired, and I don't like that." He reached over and lifted her chin with his hand. "I'd much rather see that pretty smile of yours." "Really?" "Yep, I rather see those lips of yours curled up in a smile." He paused a moment. "'Course, there's something more I like about your lips." "What is that?" "This." He moved in close and kissed her. His kiss was gentle at first, but it grew in intensity, especially when she started to kiss him back. * * * * * Molly walked over to Bridget's table and pulled out a chair. "Do ye mind if I take a seat here for a while?" "Help yourself," Bridget said, gesturing at the chair. The older woman seated herself and then reached down and pulled a large, straw basket up onto her lap. "Could ye be helping me a bit with me knitting?" "I-I guess. What can I do?" "Hold yuir hands out in front of ye, about a foot apart and palms facing... aye, that's fine. Now ye just hold still like that." Molly took a ball of thick yellow yarn out of the basket and began wrapping it around Bridget's hands. Molly worked with the yarn for several minutes before asking, "Now then, Bridget, what is it that's been bothering ye so much these last few days?" "Nothing... nothing really." She looked down at the yarn and frowned. "Nothing worth you trapping me like this, anyways." "I'm thinking thuir is... _and_ I'm thinking that it has something t'do with ye and Cap Lewis." She studied Bridget's expression for a moment before she continued. "And ye might as well be telling me. Ye may be a lot better with the cards than I am, but I'm the most stubborn woman ye ever met, and we _both_ know it." "And if I don't want to tell you anything?" "Then we'll be seeing how well ye play poker with that thuir yarn draped around yuir hands." She sighed. "I know it ain't exactly chains I just wrapped ye in, but I also know that thuir's something just as heavy as chains weighing on yuir mind, Bridget. Why don't ye be telling me what it is? Maybe I can help." Bridget shook her head. "You can't help me; nobody can. Hell, I don't even know if I _need_ help." "What are ye saying?" "I-I'm... Cap and me... when he was staying here, we..." Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at the table. "Ye was in bed with him, wasn't ye?" She gently patted Bridget on the head. "Ye two love each other; thuir's no shame in what ye did." "No, but there may be a... I-I... we didn't use any protection. I may be... pregnant." That last word had come out in the tiniest of whispers. "Aye, but ye may not be neither. Ye won't be knowing for..." Molly counted out the days in her head. "...about a week and a half, when yuir monthlies is due. I'll not be telling ye not to worry. Ye will; ye're only human. But I will be telling ye that, if ye are going t'be having a baby, ye ain't in it alone. I'll be thuir for ye." Looking not into the older woman's eyes, but at the yarn, Bridget said in a very low voice, "Thanks, Molly. I sort of knew I could count on you." "Ye _both_ can be counting on me." "Both?" "Aye, ye'll be telling Cap the next time ye see him -- ye better, or I will. He's a good man -- as if I'm telling ye anything ye don't know -- and I've no doubt that he'll be standing with ye, whatever happens." * * * * * Kirby Pinter looked up from at the sound of the bell over his door. "Afternoon, Jessie. What can I do for you?" "I need t'find a song," she answered. "You ever hear tell of one called 'Here Comes the Bride' from something -- an opera, I think it is -- called LOHENGRIN?" "I've heard of it, but I'm pretty sure I don't have a copy." "Damn, a... a friend of mine is getting married, and she asked me t'sing it at her wedding." "Nothing like cutting it close. Maggie's getting married this Sunday. I do wish I could help you, but..." His voice trailed off, as he held up his hands and shrugged. "It ain't Maggie. It's somebody from... from outta town." She wasn't about to admit how she'd met Hanna Tyler when she was trying to escape Eerie all those months ago. Kirby didn't ask. "In that case, if you've got some time, I may be able to help, after all." When Jessie nodded, he went on. "An old friend of mine has a bookstore in St. Louis. I could send him a letter, ask if he can find a copy. You need the words _and_ the music, right?" "Yeah, both, that'd be great, if you don't mind." "I'll get the letter out on tomorrow's stage. If he can find the book -- and I'm pretty sure that he can -- he can send it here with the bill." "Just so's it ain't too dear. I'm not rich, ya' know." The bookseller chuckled. "I'll tell him that, too. You should have the song inside of a month... six weeks at most." "That'll be great, thanks." "You really want to thank me, you be sure to sing 'Old Dog Tray' the next time I come in for your show. It's my favorite song." "Kirby, you get me that song in time, and you'll be one of _my_ favorites, too, and I'll be more'n happy t'sing 'Tray' for you." * * * * * "More roast beef, Ethan?" Cecelia Ritter asked. "Or sweet potatoes, or succotash?" Ethan Thomas had joined the Ritters and was sitting with them at their dining room table. Thomas leaned back in his chair and held up a hand. "No, please. That second serving was more than enough." "I'm so glad that you liked it. I do hope that you have room for some of my cherry cobbler." "Cherry... well, I suppose I could find _some_ room." Cecelia stood up and walked into the kitchen. She came back in carrying the cobbler. "Here we are." She set the dessert on a sideboard and began putting slices into separate dishes. "You were telling us about some of the other paintings you were working on," Clyde, Senior, prompted his guest. "Ah, yes. In addition to yourselves, the Ortega family has commissioned portraits of Juan Ortega, the head of that family, and his granddaughter, Benita. Mr. Lyman, the tobacconist, asked for a portrait for his shop. He wishes to be painted as if he were a cigar store Indian, an amusing and rather original notion. I initially journeyed here to Eerie at the behest of Madam..." Ethan stopped. 'There are two children at the table,' he thought, 'and the older son was perhaps sixteen. My hosts would hardly appreciate my discussing Cerise and her ladies.' He took a different tack. "Is there any particular work you wished to ask about?" "Well," Cecelia began, handing him a bowl filled with the cobbler. "I saw a picture of Mrs. O'Toole, from the..." She made a sour face. "...saloon. I really don't know the woman. What is she like?" Ethan had seen Cecelia prowl through his studio, studying all the works in progress. "Molly? She is a charming woman, quite vivacious, and with a good, if slightly bawdy sense of humor." "Indeed, does she talk much while she poses?" "I suspect that, for her, talking and breathing are very much of the same order. However she doesn't prattle as some woman do - not yourself, of course, Cecelia." Clyde's eyes went upward for an instant in reaction. Then he rejoined the conversation. "Does she talk much about her husband... ah, Shamus, or what sort of things happen in that saloon of theirs?" 'And _that_,' the painter told himself, 'is the true reason for my invitation and this sumptuous - by their standards, at least - meal.' "So far as I am able to discern," he began, "Molly is very much in love with Mr. O'Toole, and he, apparently, reciprocates. She's described him as hiding a very tender heart beneath a somewhat stern exterior. I was particularly amused by her tale that, having been raised for a time by the Cheyenne, he uses their language for profanity." "That's all?" Mr. Ritter asked. "She's told me a few stories about things that have happened in her husband's establishment, but I should say that these reflect more upon the persons involved than the O'Tooles." He took a forkful of dessert. "Delicious... as good as any I've had in all my travels. My compliments, Cecelia." "Oh, thank you so much," she gushed. "But I'm sure you've had better dessert than my humble efforts." He grabbed her comment and ran with it. "Well, there was a dark chocolate and cherry cake I had in Denver, perhaps a year ago, Black Forest cake, I believed they called it. There was some sort of celebration going on, and I had been summoned..." He continued to talk about his time in Denver, despite the Ritters best efforts to derail him, to get him talking about the O'Tooles and some of his other current subjects, until it was time to leave. * * * * * "Coffee, gentlemen... Trisha?" Kaitlin asked. Trisha shook her head. "I'm fine, just now. Why don't you leave the pot?" The Judge and Milt Quinlan agreed. "Very well." Kaitlin set the blue enameled coffee pot down on a wooden trivet. The cups, spoons, and sugar bowl were beside it on the table. "I'll leave you to it, then." "You're welcome to stay if you'd like," Judge Humphreys told her. Kaitlin smiled. "Thank you, Your Honor, but I have work to do upstairs." She took off her apron, draping it over a chair, and headed for the steps. "I appreciate your coming, Milt," the Judge began. "I know that you don't like to get involved in church politics." "As the parliamentarian, I really shouldn't. I'm supposed to be impartial." He chuckled. "On the other hand, as a human being, I can't help but have a point of view." Judge Humphreys laughed. "Spoken like a lawyer. Speaking as a human being, what do you think Trisha's chances are of staying on the board?" "Oh, she's off the Board," Milt said calmly. "It's just a question of when." Trisha stiffened. "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Quinlan." "I'm sorry to be so blunt, Trisha. I think you're being railroaded with this vote in May. I think you'll win, and I hope you do. The problem is that there's another vote in September, the annual Board election." The Judge nodded. "Of course, I'm up for re-election, too." He stopped for a moment. "I see your point, Milt. Trisha can't run, can she?" "I'm afraid, not," the lawyer answered. "The by-laws say only men can be elected to the Board." Trisha pouted. "But I won the vote to stay on the Board; why can't I run in September?" "Because, to do that, you'd have to get the by-laws changed," Humphreys explained. "That's a lot harder." Milt's face soured. "It takes two months. You make a motion at one meeting and vote on it at the next. I don't think you could get away with starting on that until after the vote in May. That would mean the final vote would be in July, at the earliest." "And a July vote would be very close to the election," Trisha agreed sadly. "It would be hard." The Judge poured himself a coffee. "The May vote will tell, I think. Some people may not vote to expel you because you've only got a few months to serve. Nothing much happens during the summer; they might figure you wouldn't have a chance to do any harm." "Maybe I could show that I'm doing _good_, that I deserve to be on the Board," she suggested. "A lotta people'd think that it was only fair that I get a chance to run again." Humphreys took a sip of coffee and considered her point. "That's probably a good idea. I don't know about holding another dance; that would remind people of what happened - what Cecelia is _saying_ happened. Besides, you don't want to come off as a one-trick pony. Let's see if we can come up with something else, something we can be ready with as soon as that May vote is over." * * * * * Thursday, March 28, 1872 Rory Halpert knocked on the half-opened door to his employer's office. "Excuse me, Mr. Stafford, but there's a Mr. Dunne here to see you." "Dunne?" Forry Stafford looked up from that day's issue of the Austin _Democratic_ _Statesman_. "The name's not familiar. Did he say what he wanted?" Halpert shook his head. "No, sir. All he told me was that he was from the Office of Veterans' Affairs. He came to see you about a week after you left for Europe. Whatever he wants must be important. He's come in several times while you were away." "Send him in." Stafford dismissed the clerk with a wave of his hand. He didn't know what the man wanted, but looked forward to the diversion from actually having to work at his father's business dealings. A thin, balding man limped into the office. "Mr. Stafford?" he asked in a high, reedy voice. "I'm Phileas Dunne." "Have a seat, Mr. Dunne, and tell me what brings you here." The man carefully closed the door before he took a chair. "I... uh, I'm a record clerk in the State Office of Veterans' Affairs." "One of those 'red tape boys', then." Dunne gave a weak chuckle. "Yes, sir, I'm afraid I am. Anyway, last December, Mr. Bailey -- he's my boss, the head of the office -- he asked me to look up the record of a Brian Geoffrey Kelly. It took me a while to find Mr. Kelly's records. You have no idea of the complex filing system that the department -" "I'm sure this is all very interesting, Mr. Dunne, but please get back to Kelly and Mr. Bailey, if you would." "I-I'm sorry, sir. I tend to get sidetracked when I'm telling a story. It's a bad habit. My mother says--" "_Brian_ _Kelly_, Mr. Dunne." "Oh... oh, yes. Mr. Bailey said that we had a request for the military record of Mr. Kelly. He asked me to prepare a summary report. I asked whom the report was for; it can make a difference on what gets mentioned. He just told me to include everything, and that, when I was done, I should mail it to somebody out in the Arizona Territory. I thought _that_ was rather odd, but he's the boss, and I'm just a poor..." He emphasized the word "poor". "...state employee. I do what I'm told." "And you finished this report _and_ mailed it out." "Yes, sir. Like I said, I'm just a _poor_ state employee." Stafford could almost see the man sticking out his hand, and he wondered what this was going to cost him. "But what did you come to tell me, exactly?" "It's just this, sir. You were Mr. Kelly's -- Corporal Kelly's commanding officer. You brought the charges against him and a Sergeant Hanks, and they both said that _you_ were guilty of cowardly behavior and being drunk on duty." He gave Forry a none-too-subtle smile. "The military commission accepted your word... of course, but I thought that you should know that someone was asking about a matter you were _involved_ in." "I appreciate your concern." Stafford stood, and the other man did the same. "And I'd like to reward such concern." He took his wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a $50 bill, and handed it to the clerk. "I... ah, thank you, Mr. Stafford, but I was kind of hoping for a more _gracious_ sign of your appreciation. That trial was a serious matter, and I'm just a --" "Just a poor state employee, yes, I know. Would another $50 be enough?" "Make it $200 in all, sir, and I'll be so overwhelmed by your gratitude, I'd be leaving a copy of my report -- and the address I sent the report to -- right here on your desk." Stafford frowned but handed him the money. "And there'll be no more said to anyone on this?" "Not a word." * * * * * Laura and Carmen stood at the door of Maggie's house, both holding covered wooden boxes. Carmen was fumbling for a key and finally set her box down and began to rummage through her reticule. "How'd you get the key to Maggie's place?" Laura asked, as Carmen opened her friend's door. Carmen picked up the box she'd been carrying and stepped through the doorway. "I've had it for months. Margarita gave it to me, in case I ever need to get something for Ernesto or Lupe when I am watching them on Saturday nights." "Good thing, too; I don't think we could've gotten it from her without giving everything away." Laura followed her into the house. "This is supposed to be a surprise, right?" "Si, can you manage that box all right, Laura?" "No problem." Laura set her own box down on a chair. "So what do we do, now that we're in?" "First, we put the candles and flowers by the Santo." Carmen pointed to a table against one wall of the parlor. A carved wooden crucifix hung on the wall above. The only thing on the table itself was a colored picture of a peasant woman set in a tooled wooden frame. Laura pointed at the picture. "Who's that?" "The Virgin of Guadalupe, the mother of Christ. The picture shows her as she appeared many years ago on the hill of Tepeyac near Mexico City." Carmen set down her box and took out two silver candlesticks. She put one on each side of the picture. "I've seen that face before, I think," said Laura. Then she shrugged. "Those are beautiful candlesticks." "Gracias, they are a wedding gift of sorts. My great-grandfather had them made for my great-grandmother as an anniversary present." Carmen took a long pair of white candles from the box and carefully set one in each candlestick. She stepped back and looked at the table. "Perfect; now for the flowers." She picked one last item, a low silver and turquoise bowl, from the box and set it down in front of the picture. "Here's the flowers." Laura opened her own box, took out a package of flowers, roses with ferns, and tied with a length of twine. She handed the flowers to Carmen. Carmen untied the flowers and began to arrange them in the bowl. "While I do this, why do you not put out the other things?" "That sounds like a plan." Laura took out a few doves cut from colored paper and began walking around the room, setting them down. The doves came in pairs, pink and pale blue, with Maggie and Ramon's names written on them in a gold-colored ink. She placed them on the table, on the tops of chairs, and on the mantelpiece. Other pairs went on the post at the foot of the stairs and atop the hall mirror. There was a long chain of pink, blue, and white paper rings in the box. Laura wound it between the rails of the banister that led up to the second floor. She set another pair of doves at the top of the stairs, and hung a few more on pictures hanging on the walls. The last few pairs were scattered around Maggie's bedroom, with one pair tied high up on each of the four posts of her bed. "All done," Laura announced as she walked back into the living room. She sat down to watch Carmen finish with the flowers. "It's pretty, but ain't it kind of early to do all this decorating?" Carmen kept working while she answered. "The custom is to do it some days, sometimes even weeks, before the wedding. Besides, these will help put Margarita in a wedding mood." "Have you seen the way she's been smiling all week? She's already in the mood, and then some." Carmen giggled. "I have seen her, and you are right." She glanced down into the box Laura had brought. "There are still a few doves left. Do you want some for your house?" "My house, why would I want them?" "As I said before, to put Margarita in a wedding mood. After all, she will be spending the night before the wedding with you and Arsenio, remember?" "I remember. Nobody told us that was a part of what being the padrino and madrina meant." "If you knew, would you have backed out?" "No, I just didn't think there was that much to it." * * * * * Milt walked over to the table where Jane was sitting, waiting to see if anyone wanted a drink. "Hello, Jane." He kissed her gently on the cheek before sitting down next to her. "What've you been up to today?" "Not much." She kissed him back. "I was just sitting here thinking 'bout that painting of Laura and me." Milt nodded. "The painting, when do I get to see it?" "Pretty soon, it's almost done. But don't you worry 'bout that. You may get to see a lot of it." "Really? I thought you said Mr. Thomas was shipping it east. Did somebody in town decide to buy it?" "Somebody might." She giggled. "Me." 'Damnation,' he thought. 'She's still thinking about buying that painting.' Aloud, he asked, "Are you sure? From what I understand, his work is fairly expensive." "I got money - lots of it - over at the bank. I'll just get some from Dwight Albertson." "I don't think that's a good idea. Leave your money with Dwight. He told me you're doing fairly well." Her eyes narrowed. "Why're you talking t'Dwight about _my_ money?" "Do you remember those papers you signed last week? Dwight was buying shares of railroad stock for you. He needed an affidavit - that was one of the papers -- so he asked me to write one up for you. I asked him how well your investments were doing." "You still worried I ain't gonna have the money t'pay you?" "Of course not, I was just concerned about how you were doing." "You must not think I got the brains t'manage my own money." She studied his face. "You're the only one who thinks like that. Maggie trusts me enough t'ask me t'run her place while she's on her honeymoon. She trusts me with her business, but you... you don't think I can run m'own." She stood up. "Maybe you should just mind _your_ business." Milt stared, uncertain what to say. "I-I didn't mean anything." "Yes... yes, you did. You're smarter than me, _Mr._ Quinlan. I know it. That's why you're my lawyer. Maybe that's all you are t'me." She turned her back to him and walked away before he could answer. * * * * * "He ain't here, Bridget," Sam Braddock said. Bridget realized that she'd been looking around the room instead of paying attention to the poker game she was playing. "Who - what do you mean, Sam?" "Cap's still out at his uncle's ranch," Jerry Domingez answered her. Bridget felt a flush run across her cheeks. "He is... I mean, so what if he is?" She smiled at the men around the table. "I like the company I'm in right now." "Of course, you do," Stu Gallagher told her. "And we like being here with you. We all just know that, if you weren't playing poker, you'd probably prefer to be with him than with any of us." She smiled. "Possibly, but right now, I'm playing poker. I'm-I'm sorry if I was distracted for a moment this one time." "More like once or twice a night," Sam replied, "every night this week, but we don't mind." Sam laughed. "Hell no, the way some of us play poker, it's the only chance we got to win a hand." * * * * * "Identical," Ethan said, an appreciative tone in his voice. "You are just the same as she." Trisha blinked. She was in his studio. The portrait of Norma Jean was only a few feet away. She glanced down at herself. She was standing there in the same pose as the woman in the portrait, one leg slightly forward, her hand resting on her hip. "Oh, my Lord," she gasped. And she was dressed as Norma Jean was, a satiny violet corset, short - much too short - white drawers, and matching violet stockings. A blood red garter circled her bare, right thigh. "You _are_ Norma Jean," he said smoothly, "come to life _and_ to my arms." He pulled her to him. His arms encircled her, and he pressed his lips hard against hers. Trisha tried to banish the warmth that surged through her. Her nipples grew stiff, pushing against the lining of her corset. A fire grew in her loins. Despite herself, she rubbed her body against his... his nakedness. 'Submit,' her body told her. 'You want this; you _need_ this." "Let her be," a firm, male voice ordered from behind her. Ethan's hold on her tightened. "Like hell! She's mine. Her body is mine. That's how she wants to be." "No!" Trisha somehow managed to push him away. "I'm - I'm my own woman." The painter stumbled back, and - suddenly - he was gone. "That's right, Trisha," the voice said. "You're your own woman; which is to say, you're _my_ woman." She turned to see... "P-Patrick?" Her male self, Patrick O'Hanlan, stood before her, just as she remembered, in his Sunday best, brown suit. "I'm the one you want, Trisha, the one you've always wanted." She blinked. When she focused again, he was still there. Only now, he was wearing the work shirt and pants he usually wore at the store. "The very first time you pleasured yourself as a woman, it was my name you called." She shook her head in confusion. "This-this isn't possible." "Anything's possible," he answered with a laugh, "in a dream." "Then, this isn't real." "It's as real as you want. You're real. I'm real. This..." He was naked! He lifted his member, his long... thick... erect... pulsing... member in one hand. "...this is _very_ real. If you want it to be." "I-I do." "I wanted you so much wh