This is a fan fiction story based on characters from the Lonesome Dove television show, which belong to Rysher Entertainment and Hallmark. No infringement on copyrights is intended.

"Clay Mosby! Well, I’ll be…." Vera barely managed to hide her delight. And her surprise. It was a different Clay Mosby than she’d seen a few weeks before. The clean lines of his face were blurred with dust and at least two days’ beard growth, and his eyes, usually warm and smiling, were shadowed with discontent. He stood just inside the entrance, rifle in hand, as he scanned the dark interior.

"My goodness." She hesitated briefly, then strolled out from behind the bar to greet him. "To what do we owe the honor?"

As she approached he pulled off a glove and removed his hat, but without the customary flourish. "Miz Vera, always a pleasure." A few strands of dark hair fell onto his forehead as he leaned forward to kiss her hand.

With or without the chivalrous gestures, Clay was usually one of the Emporium’s more pleasant visitors. Usually, but not today. As his gaze swept the premises a frown crossed his face and his fingers tightened around the Winchester. Whatever the purpose was for his visit he didn’t appear to be in a mood to discuss it, but it was evident that business, not pleasure had brought him to Crossroads. "Well now," she ventured, "don’t tell me you’re on some kind of hunting trip all the way out here."

His expression remained unchanged as he scouted the room. "In a manner of speaking’."

"Really?" The day Clay Mosby actually got his hands dirty would be a day to remember. "Exactly what are you ‘hunting’ for – or should I say ‘who’?"

"Your powers of perception never fail to amaze me, Miz Vera." The frown softened for a second, then hardened again. "I’m looking for a man. Short, thin, poorly dressed. Had an Indian woman with him."

Vera looked around. Their conversation had attracted the attention of three men seated at a corner table. Clay hadn’t appeared to recognize them when he came in, but they seemed to know who he was.

"Let’s talk over here." She motioned for him to follow her to the far side of the room while the men at the table continued to stare. "I saw them," she went on in a low voice. "Scrawny little fellow – not much juice left in him. I don’t know what they were doing out here, but I doubt he’ll last much longer if they keep up that pace."

"Where were they headed?" Clay stiffened as he spoke. His voice was cold and absent of any concern for the plight of the two beleaguered travelers.

"I don’t know. I’m not even sure which direction they came from. They just appeared a couple of nights ago, camped outside somewhere, and left with a few days’ supplies. I didn’t pay much attention, but I thought it was kind of odd that they were in such a hurry to leave, I mean with the weather building up and him being so sickly and all. Who are they anyway?"

Clay’s jaw tensed as his grip on the Winchester flexed and tightened again. It wasn’t just his appearance. There was something about his whole attitude that was different. Barely hidden behind the authoritative posturing was a sense of urgency she hadn’t seen before. His eyes looked past her as he spoke.

"Just someone I knew a while back. He and I have some business to take care of."

That, most likely, was all the explanation that would be offered.

"Well, you’d better make it sooner rather than later," Vera sighed. "From the shape he was in, I’d guess he’s not long for this life."

"You’re absolutely right about that. In fact, I guarantee it."

His tone gave her a shiver. Clay was on a mission of some kind, and God help the person who accidentally got in his way.

"Look, it’s coming on nighttime. No point in trying to track anyone in these hills after dark, or any time, if you ask me. You might as well have a drink and something to eat … maybe get some rest while you can."

His glare settled on her with chilling intensity. Then, as if its strength was spent, the expression relaxed into a familiar smile.

"I believe you’re right again, Miz Vera. Any idea where I might obtain some casual accommodation for the night? Nothing fancy…."

"Oh, I think something could be arranged." That was better. Clay’s disposition could turn on a dime, but for the moment he seemed agreeable to her offer of a meal and a warm bed.

"Come with me. You can wash up, and then have some supper." She led the way to the rooms upstairs where construction was still in progress. "You’ll be pleased to see that your money’s being well spent." She opened the door to a small room with a bed, a night stand and one chair. It was Spartan accommodation with modest furnishings, but it was adequate. "I know it’s not what you’re used to…."

"It’s fine." He exhaled heavily as he dropped his leather coat onto the chair. Under the layer of dust he looked completely drained of energy.

"Clay," she ventured, "you look awfully tired. Why don’t you stay for a day or two, rest up a little before you go gallivanting all over the countryside after somebody….

"I’m fine. I just need a good night’s sleep is all." He sighed again as he raked his fingers through his wind-tangled hair. "I’ll be down soon as I wash off some of this trail dust."

"Take your time, Clay. We’ll be open late tonight."

Tonight and every other night for the foreseeable future, Vera thought as she closed the door. It would be a while yet before Crossroads could be described as "flourishing." Still, it was an improvement over Sweetwater. That place would have made Purgatory look inviting. Being burnt to the ground was the best thing that ever happened to it.

Now, with Sweetwater gone, Crossroads was the last civilized stop between Curtis Wells and the Badlands. Most of the girls from the Celestial Palace had pulled up stakes and moved to Curtis Wells after the fire claimed their workplace as well as their meager belongings. They were welcome to it. She had her own plans, and it hadn’t been hard to persuade three friends to join her. With plenty of customers and fewer girls to share the profits, Crossroads was as good a place as any to set up a new establishment. Destructive as the Sweetwater fire had been, it had created an inviting situation for the right investor, and for the purpose of restarting their business, circumstances were as favorable as they were ever likely to be.

Neither had the opportunity for investment gone unnoticed by Curtis Wells’ foremost benefactor. Although Clay had chosen not to make it public, it was obvious that he had plans for the tiny outpost. Within a short time, construction had sprung up everywhere, and most businesses with even a hint of profit potential had undergone some kind of remodeling or expansion. That included the Emporium. In addition to major repair work the shabby little saloon now sported a refurbished gambling hall and a second story with entertainment areas and comfortable living quarters. There was still work to be done, but compared to what had preceded it the new Emporium resembled a Victorian manor. It was the perfect venue for a new "sporting" business.

It was also more than Vera and her girls could afford, even if they pooled their savings. Then, just as they had begun to regret their group decision to stay in Crossroads, fortune had smiled. More accurately, it had flashed a seductive and irresistible grin.

Clay’s gambling talents extended well beyond the poker table and some of his business deals had yielded impressive results. Maybe it was because taking chances never seemed to worry him. Unlike his fellow players who gambled in desperation to win, he always managed to make a game of it, no matter who set the stakes or how high those stakes were. And he rarely lost.

It was also apparent that his indulgence in what often appeared to be nothing more than casual "gentlemen’s diversions" usually masked a more serious purpose. For him material gain was only one aspect of a broader plan, and wherever an investment opportunity arose, the resourceful Col. Mosby could be trusted to sniff it out and turn it to his advantage.

This time his nose for speculation and his apparent taste for risky ventures had worked in their favor as well. He’d needed someone to manage the new Emporium, and as an incentive to get their enterprise going again, under his supervision, he’d lured them to the Emporium with a generous subsidy. It was a shrewd, if not blatantly opportunistic move, but even at his most devious, Clay remained the consummate charmer. His offer was simply too tempting to pass up, especially with its own unique fringe benefit – Clay himself.

In addition to that, owning and operating their own business had proven to be a more ambitious undertaking than she and the girls had realized. In the end, giving up a certain degree of independence, in exchange for security, seemed like a reasonable trade.

Vera watched a few new customers slap the dust off their clothing as they entered the saloon and sauntered toward the bar. Civilization was a late bloomer in Montana Territory, but it was bound to take root in Crossroads, eventually. It was a matter of vision, Clay had assured her, and a certain amount of hard work. "All in good time," he’d said. "Patience is a fine quality."

Patience was indeed a virtue, but, as Vera had frequently observed, not one for which the Colonel, himself, was famous. Ambition and power would better describe Clay Mosby’s primary incentives, but they were motivations from which Crossroads would ultimately benefit.

She glanced toward the stairway as she stacked extra glasses on the shelf. There was still no sign of her overnight guest. He might have decided to have a short rest before coming down to eat. She’d wait a bit longer, then, if he hadn’t appeared, she’d take some supper up to him. He’d done a lot for the town and he was entitled to a little extra service when he came calling.

To be sure, Clay contributed a colorful highlight to an otherwise dull and dusty landscape, and nowhere did that light shine brighter than at the Emporium. It was here that he often concluded his business day with an evening’s relaxation in the company of his winsome hostesses, and in the comfort of new surroundings, he could look forward to being greeted with genuine delight and entertained with limitless enthusiasm.

For reasons including, though not limited to financial reward, all the ladies relished his attention, but none more than her youngest girl, Calley. In her adoring eyes, the man could do no wrong, and whenever his schedule allowed him time to visit their establishment, Col. Clay Mosby proceeded to do no wrong with panache and extraordinary style.

There was no denying that Clay was an attractive man, and then some, but as far as Vera was concerned, his single best feature was the full money clip he brought with him when he came to Crossroads. She smiled to herself as she wiped down the bar. Come to think of it, that was probably his second best feature.

Back in the kitchen she loaded a plate with beef and potatoes and picked up a new bottle of whisky from the storage shelf. Only a few men sat in the bar room and none seemed to notice her as she headed back upstairs with supper. At the end of the hallway she stopped at Clay’s room and tapped on the door. There was no response. She cautiously opened the door and peeked inside. Clay was stretched out on the bed, sound asleep with his boots still on. His Remington lay on the bed within easy reach and the Winchester was propped against the nightstand.

Just as well. She set the plate and the bottle on the stand, tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

It was also fortuitous that Calley would be busy with other clients for most of the night. The Colonel’s appeal to her could only be described as hypnotic and despite her experience with other men she was completely and irrevocably smitten.

It happened occasionally with the younger girls, and seldom, if ever, ended happily. Each time he visited the Emporium, Calley seemed to go into a trance. It was an unhealthy state of mind for any woman, but especially so when she had the proverbial "snowball’s chance in hell" of enjoying anything more than the occasional tumble with her part-time paramour.

She’d been with Clay herself and had no complaints about his bedroom talents or the nature of their business arrangement. There had been physical passion, resulting in a more than satisfactory performance from both participants, but no significant relationship beyond that.

It was better that way, especially with a man like Clay Mosby. Though her efforts were always handsomely rewarded, business was still business, and sentiment was a luxury she couldn’t afford. From all indications, that attitude suited most of her customers, although where Clay was concerned, she’d never been quite sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

"Look, darlin’," she’d warned the girl early on, "don’t get yourself too attached to any of these fellows, because sure as shooting, none of them will."

Her admonition to Calley was issued from a genuine voice of experience, but it was already too late. It wouldn’t have mattered if her gallant colonel sprouted horns and a tail. She adored him and there was no talking her out of it. She’d learn the same old lesson, probably the hard way, just like women always seemed to.

Meanwhile there was plenty of work to do – both upstairs and down.

* * *

Morning came streaming through the window with unusual brilliance. Vera shielded her eyes against the harsh light and drew the shade. The place wouldn’t open for a few hours and there would be a chance to see Clay before she started work. She dressed quickly and proceeded down the hall to his room. A tap on the door elicited no response. He might still be asleep. As carefully as before she opened the door just a crack and peered in.

The bed linens had been loosely pulled back into place. The bottle of whisky was half empty, but the supper plate was barely touched. Beside the plate lay a clean serviette, and on it was a twenty-dollar double eagle. Apart from that the room was empty. Clay was gone.

* * *

The sunlight that had awakened him earlier had quickly withdrawn behind the clouds that rolled across the sky. Clay kept an eye on them as they grew darker along the horizon. Typically, their shadows would drift leisurely over the hills for hours while they consolidated their forces. Then they’d pile into huge thunderheads, crowding out the sun and releasing the storm they carried. That was the usual pattern in this part of the country. He would need to find some kind of shelter if the rain became heavy. So would Redmond and the woman, and unlike some settlers, they’d know better than to camp close to a creek bed. More people had drowned in flash floods than had been killed in the Indian wars. They’d most likely head for higher ground.

From the crest of the hill he could see across the flats to the mountains’ southern perimeter. There didn’t appear to be a single living, breathing thing for miles. How could Redmond and the woman have made it that far? Under the circumstances it would seem more logical to take the faster, easier trail over the flats instead of trying to negotiate the rugged timberline along the river route, especially where there was a risk of sudden flooding.

Evidently they’d thought otherwise. He’d have to double back along the river where there were plenty of places to set up camp in the forested surroundings. A man could hide out there for weeks and not be seen. That had to be where they’d gone to hide their tracks.

As he scanned the terrain a wind gust sent a swirl of leaves across his path. The horse shied away at the sudden movement, and lurched sideways as the whirlwind swept in front of them. Horses knew when a storm was coming. They could sense it, like a good hunter could sense danger. He patted the big bay on the neck as he turned and headed toward the river.

Within a short time, the landscape began to change from a dry, barren plateau to a green valley.

It was still forbidding countryside, but the breeze that drifted off the water was noticeably cooler. As he approached, the distant rumbling from the storm-swollen river grew louder until its steady roar devoured all the sounds that emanated from the timber-lined gorge.

Clay guided the horse along the edge of a steep incline and reined up at a narrow opening in the trees. Far below the cliff side the current crashed over a series of waterfalls. He watched for a moment as the river charged through the stone passage, venting its turbulence and churning with raw, primitive power. If one day all that untamed energy could be harnessed and controlled, it could pump water to the most remote areas of the Badlands. In time, settlements would spring up. Hundreds of square miles could be cultivated. Mining could be developed. Whole communities could be supported. Small outposts like Crossroads would flourish. One day….

One day, but not now. There was no time to stand around pondering the future. Redmond had to have holed up somewhere along the river, somewhere that provided shelter. As Clay proceeded along the ridge, groves of aspen and birch mingled with dense stands of pines. Straggling, twisted branches reached out of the shadows, waving in the wind, almost as if to warn him away.

The horse needed to rest and so did he. As he followed the ridge along a bend in the river, the trail widened into a small clearing. It was an ideal place for a campsite although there was no evidence that it had been used recently. Surrounded by cliffs on three sides it offered protection from the wind, but not from creatures that would be prowling the banks at night. No matter. He wouldn’t be here that long. There was a lot of ground to cover and none of it would be easy going. Still, as he watched the deafening current cascading over the rocks, and the rainbow spray rise above the flow, a quiet spirit seemed to reach out from the river and encompass him in its wild, restless beauty.

As he stood at the perimeter, another gust of wind whipped through the pines, bending their towering shafts and whispering its warning once more.

The bay shied nervously at the sound, fighting the reins as he backed away from the edge of the cliff face. In a sudden flurry of motion several quail burst from the tree tops as the ping of a ricocheting bullet echoed off the stone walls. A small explosion above his head sent pieces of rock flying out from the cliff and the crack of rifle fire reverberated throughout the clearing. Clay instinctively reached for his Winchester, but as he attempted to dismount the horse bolted, pawing the air as it reared on its hind legs, and spilled him off onto the ground. Already skittish from the noise of the river, the bay galloped off, taking the Winchester with him.

Clay rolled to one side, momentarily stunned by the shock of the impact. As he struggled to his feet, straining to recover his balance and shake off the dizziness, an unfamiliar voice broke through the confusion. "Stay right where you are. Make a move and you’re dead where you stand!"

He reached for his Remington. The holster was empty. It must have fallen out when the horse bolted. Still shaken from the hard fall Clay looked around for the source of the voice. A man holding a rifle stood a few yards away. Another stood opposite him at about the same distance. Neither moved as they trained their weapons on him.

From the corner of his eye Clay saw a third man approach. "Well now, if it ain’t Colonel Mosby himself. Imagine that, would you – meeting up all the way out here."

"Who the hell are you?" Clay growled. They must have been waiting for him, and he’d ridden straight into their trap.

"Well, now," the stranger sneered through a lopsided smile, "is that any way to greet a man on such a fine day as this?"

He stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between them until only a few inches remained. "Look here, even I, poor lad that I am, was taught better manners than that. And if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s about time you were, too."

He’d barely finished his statement when the rifle butt struck Clay squarely in his unprotected midsection. The force wrenched his breath out of him, doubling him over as another blow caught him on the jaw, knocking him backward and onto the ground again.

A convulsion of pain shook him. The pounding in his chest vibrated through his body as he staggered haphazardly to his feet, gulping the air as he pulled himself upright. He wiped the blood from his mouth with his shirt sleeve, and tried to focus his attention on his unidentified assailant. Two other men stood close by, evidently eager to demonstrate their murderous intent.

Although the main challenger was taller and heavier, his real advantage in the assault had been the element of surprise. They could easily have shot him and taken whatever money he was carrying, but they hadn’t. Apparently their motive was more than common thievery.

"Don’t even know who we are, do you? Too busy counting your damn money – too busy to see who might be dying just to make you filthy rich."

It was rage that reflected in the faces of the attackers as they circled him like wolves. A glint of metal flashed as the youngest pulled a knife from his belt.

Still somewhat dazed, and uncertain as to what had provoked the attack, Clay stepped backward, holding up his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Now gentlemen, surely we can settle this … disagreement … some other way…."

His bid for a peaceful resolution was answered with an angry glare and a burst of spittle that landed on his boot. It appeared that a compromise of any sort was out of the question. They had no interest in a discussion on the subject. They wanted blood.

As he watched the man with the knife advance toward him, Clay calculated his next move. Seconds ticked off as the smaller man cautiously eased forward, crouching like a predator.

Clay saw his chance.

Swinging his fist in a wide arc, he narrowly missed the bigger man’s jaw, but turned his back to his attacker so the man’s heavy arms clamped around his shoulders from behind. That provided him with the leverage to kick out with both feet as the knife carrier came within reach.

Awkward as it was, the hastily choreographed maneuver succeeded in knocking both assailants off balance and enabling Clay to retrieve the weapon the younger man had dropped when he succumbed to the unexpected boot in his face. Armed with the knife, Clay countered. He turned, grabbed the big man by the back of his shirt and pressed the blade to his throat.

"I don’t know who the hell you are," he growled, "but I suggest you back away before I filet your friend here!"

"Back off, boys. Do what he says." The man’s voice resonated with contempt. He seemed indifferent to the threat, and with a sharp thrust he jabbed his elbow into Clay’s ribcage.

The blow left Clay breathless as he twisted sideways and dropped to his knees. Another hand fastened onto his hair, yanking him from behind and arching his back so painfully that he barely felt the knife blade stab just below his ribs.

"Those were my friends who died in your bloody mine," the big man roared, "and there’s a debt you’ll be paying for it, you murdering bastard!"

He let go of the fistful of hair and fastened his arm around Clay’s neck. Just as the blade rose for a second strike a hand reached out and grabbed onto the massive arm.

"Wait now," a calm voice called out, "don’t let’s be forgetting it took Jimmy more’n a day to die. It wouldn’t be proper if we didn’t extend the same courtesy to his Lordship here, would it now?"

The man halted his attack and stood still, as if to ponder the suggestion. Then, with his arm still clamped around Clay’s throat, he grunted and let the knife drop.

Clay looked down, relieved to see the knife fall, but nearly out of breath from the chokehold that threatened to strangle him. As he tugged at the powerful arm that gripped him, he felt the fiery bite of another blade slash down the length of his forearm.

"Now, your Lordship," the man snarled, "there’s a little souvenir of the occasion!"

Just as the big man’s arm released its stranglehold, a heavy foot slammed Clay on the side of his head. Pain exploded in his skull like a shotgun blast as the force of the blow lifted him off the ground and propelled him head first into the dirt. A shaky attempt to rise was met with a solid kick to his ribs, and as he pitched forward, a tunnel of darkness closed in around him. With the taste of damp earth in his mouth, he sank face down into unconsciousness.

* * *

The youngest member of the trio paced the uneven ground, enraged at being bested by an unarmed opponent. He stalked over to where Clay lay sprawled on the ground and stood over him as he watched the red stain spreading over the back of his shirt. Satisfied that his quarry was sufficiently subdued, he shoved a muddy boot under his chest, nudged him over onto his back and knelt down beside him.

"Well, now, your Lordship, you’re looking a bit untidy this morning. I’d be more than happy to oblige you with a wash-up and a nice clean shave."

Lifting Clay’s head by the hair, he spat squarely in the unconscious man’s face and brought the tip of his hunting knife up under his chin.

"Ahhh, but it looks like ‘Captain Blackbeard’ here’s had his fill of fighting for one day."

He flicked the knife and grinned as he watched the blood spurt, then trickle through Clay’s beard and stream down around his throat. "You’re gonna pay, and that’s a fact."

"Ahhh, leave the man be, Sean." The smaller man glared at his partner. "He won’t be getting far without his hired guns to protect him. We done what we came to do, now let’s get the hell out of here before somebody comes looking for him.

Sean eyed his trophy for a second and loosened his grip, letting Clay’s head drop backward with a thud. Then he stood up, and with a look of gruesome satisfaction on his face, triumphantly placed his foot on Clay’s chest, as if he’d single-handedly bagged a grizzly. He smiled as he stood over the prize catch, watching his victim’s blood soak into the wet ground beneath him.

"Well, now," Sean sneered. "This won’t do a’tall." He reached down and grabbed hold of Clay’s wrist. "Wouldn’t be passing up a bath on such a fine morning as this, would you now?" With that he proceeded to drag the limp form to the rim of the rocky cliff face that rose up from the river below. With one foot he shoved Clay over the edge.

"Come on now, I tell you," the third man rumbled. "Let’s get back to town before somebody comes along."

"What’s the almighty hurry? There’s no one around for miles, and besides, who’s to care if the bastard rots?"

"I say let’s go," Liam growled. "I’ve had enough of this place. And now I’m thirsty."

The third man nodded. "All right then. We could all use a drink, and remember, as far as anyone knows, we’ve been at the Emporium the whole time."

* * *

Vera worked behind the bar, wiping up random spills and trying to appear busy while she kept an eye on the cantankerous Irish crew.

It was early in the afternoon and the three immigrants had already polished off their first bottle of Red Eye. For a second day they had graced the Emporium with their disagreeable presence and it appeared that they had settled in for the duration. As usual, they were at odds with each other over some matter known only to themselves and of no particular interest to anyone else. Nevertheless, their muffled tones hinted at something beyond ordinary mischief.

Vera kept her eyes on the bar as she worked her way closer to their table.

"I’m telling you, we should’ve finished him off when we had the chance! The bastard don’t deserve no more favors than he gave Jimmy and the rest of the boys. If he makes it back here somehow, it’ll be hell to pay, and you know it!"

"Ahhh, shut your gob, Sean. There’s no way he’s about to be showing up here, or anywhere else. If he ain’t drowned by now he’ll be bear shit before morning, I tell you. This town’s seen the last of Mosby, that’s for sure!"

"Oh, and you know that for a fact, do you now?"

"Yeah, and if you don’t hush your mouth about it, we’ll be seeing the last of you, too. Look here, I’d have liked to slice out a little more of his good-for-nothin’ gizzard myself, but that’d be too good for the likes of him. This way, the man’s gonna pay, and we was right here all along, if anyone cares to ask."

Vera stared down at the bar as she listened in morbid astonishment. Was it possible that the daring and seemingly indestructible Clay Mosby had met his match, and possibly his end, at the hands of this shanty town mob? Clay wasn’t one to shy away from trouble. To the contrary, he seemed to attract it. And this time it sounded serious.

Vera realized she’d been wiping the same spot on the bar for several minutes. The Reillys were a mean-spirited lot at the best of times, but how could they have gotten the advantage over Clay, and what exactly had happened to him? The thought of him being done in by these thugs was hard to believe. Men lived and died quickly in the territories, but for some reason, she couldn’t imagine that she would never see him again.

As she glanced around a solitary figure caught her eye. Calley stood perched on the stair landing like a frightened bird. Her expression was frozen and all the color had drained out of her face, as if she was in some kind of shock.

As calmly as possible, Vera ascended the stairs to where Calley stood, stiff and unmoving as she stared at the trio of petty felons below. She took hold of the girl’s arm and gave her a firm shake.

"Now, darlin’," she whispered, "you know what those Reillys are like, especially when they get a pint or two under their belts – always talking like they’d done something real important – don’t pay them any mind, less you want them giving you more attention than you care for."

Calley’s stare remained fixed and unbroken.

"Come on now," Vera coaxed as she tightened her grip. "Best you don’t let on that you overheard anything, even if they’re all drunk as skunks."

It was sound advice. The Reillys would not want any witnesses to their recent activity. If they thought anyone even suspected them of foul play, that person would likely be added to their list of victims.

Obviously, that hadn’t occurred to Calley. "Didn’t you hear what they were saying? That’s Clay they’re talking about! He’s out there – somewhere...."

"I heard. Now get back upstairs before they see you."

Vera glanced down at the table where the Reillys sat drinking and arguing. Fortunately they’d already consumed a substantial amount of cheap whisky and there was no sign that they had even noticed Calley. Taking the girl by the wrist, she pulled her back up the stairway to her own room. Once inside, Calley shook off Vera’s grip and hurried to the window overlooking the street.

"Don’t you understand? Clay’s out there, alone – maybe hurt. I’ve got to find him!" Her voice trembled. "I’ll go alone if I have to."

"Well, you’ve got no chance of finding anything out there but a bunch of moth-eaten wolves looking for an easy meal." Vera knew, even as she spoke, that her argument was useless. Calley wasn’t about to be stopped, or even slowed down by anything as ordinary as simple logic or plain common sense. She was in love, or thought she was, and arguing with someone in love was like trying to talk sense to a drunk. It would be a waste of time to try.

"Damn it," she cursed to herself. Clay never seemed to think twice about taking chances, and if he chose to put his life at risk, that was his own business. But now, suddenly, there was another life at stake. She could let the girl venture out alone into a dangerous countryside to look for him or, against her own better judgment, she could go with her.

Apart from emotional factors there was a practical aspect to consider. Most of the men who passed through to Crossroads came with only a few dollars in their pockets, barely the price of a lady’s company for an hour or so. Clay’s investment was considerably more substantial. If something happened to the Emporium’s enterprising new owner, it could jeopardize a promising business as well as the future she and her girls had hoped for. That, in itself, was ample reason to try to find Clay. Vera thought for a moment and turned to Calley.

"Listen to me. Go to the livery and find Joseph. Tell him to hitch up a wagon and bring it around back. Walk, don’t run, you hear? Be careful not to let those boys see you leave. And don’t talk to anyone. You got that?"

Calley nodded without blinking and headed for the door.

"Here, take my shawl." Vera handed Calley the coarsely knit wrap, as if that could protect her from the evening chill and the dangers she hadn’t even thought about.

* * *

"Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Calley, but are you outta your mind? I can’t go looking for Clay Mosby. He told me he’d shoot me if he ever laid eyes on me again, and he weren’t just whistling ‘Dixie’ neither!"

Joseph was visibly shaken by the mere suggestion that he take part in the search. The Badlands were dangerous, but not as frightening to him as the possibility of running into Clay Mosby again.

Calley faced him squarely. Joseph’s reluctance to go chasing after his former employer was understandable. Their last meeting had been a particularly unpleasant confrontation in which Clay had coolly stated the reasons for his anger with the ex-bartender, and had threatened to kill him if their paths ever crossed again.

Everyone in Crossroads knew about Joseph’s purchase of tainted whisky and what had happened in Curtis Wells as a result. Nevertheless, a few daring individuals had taken pity on the man and offered him temporary refuge whenever the Colonel was in town. With no money and nowhere else to go, Joseph worked at odd jobs when he could find them, and kept a keen eye out for the man who had sworn to shoot him on sight. Joseph had taken the threat seriously, and for good reason. Whatever else he was, Col. Mosby was a man of his word.

Regardless of all that, she still needed help, and Joseph could be counted on not to divulge her plan. At this point, he was simply too frightened to confide in anyone.

"I don’t care what he said about shooting you. If you don’t come with me I’ll shoot you myself!"

Joseph sighed in resignation. Apparently the urgency of her tone was enough to convince him that she was prepared to follow through on her threat. It should be enough. She hadn’t survived in places like Sweetwater by accident, and now she was desperate. There was no time to entertain any discussion on the subject, much less an argument. If he valued his life the timid stableman would have no choice but to go along with it.

"All right, all right, now ... calm down," he pleaded. "Just let me get my coat – and my gun."

Joseph fumbled through his few belongings and produced an old Colt from under a blanket where he sometimes slept in one corner of the stable.

"Got any bullets for that thing?" Calley felt her impatience pulling at her. "Bring the wagon around to the back," she ordered, "and be quick about it. Miss Vera don’t like to be kept waiting."

Vera paused for a moment at the top of the landing to watch the Saturday night regulars arrive. Cigar smoke clung to the far corners of the room. As she made her way down the stairs she spotted the Reillys at their usual table. Liam was already nodding off in his chair while the other two continued their petty bickering.

"Well, I haven’t seen you boys for awhile. Been working somewhere?" Ordinarily she wouldn’t have wasted conversation with the three ruffians, but it was the only way to glean information about what might have happened with Clay.

"Yeah ... here and there." Sean’s taciturn response made it clear that he wasn’t in a mood for light conversation. It wouldn’t be easy finding out anything from them, but she had to try. She glanced toward the door, pondering her strategy. There had to be some clue as to where they’d been earlier in the day. It was doubtful that anything had happened between Crossroads and Curtis Wells since there was regular traffic between the two towns. More likely, it had occurred beyond Crossroads, somewhere in the Badlands, possibly along the trail that paralleled the Canyon River. What had they said, "if he hadn’t ‘drowned’…." There was no other place a man could drown except the river. If that was the case, it would narrow the search considerably.

"It’s getting kind of chilly out there," she ventured. "Looks like we might finally be getting some rain. I hear there was some flooding up near Canyon River last week."

If the Reillys had been in the Canyon River area they would know something about the flood. That would confirm their recent whereabouts, and possibly Clay’s.

"Yeah, could be." Sean wasn’t giving anything away, but his attempt to avoid even a mention of the area was suspicious. They couldn’t have been very far from Crossroads to be back in the Palace by mid-afternoon. Vera considered the possibilities.

There was only one place to the north of Crossroads that would suit the kind of ambush they’d described. It was an area between the Canyon River and Yellow Leaf Creek, unique for its gray, silt-like mud. It stretched for about a mile along the east bank, and unlike the surrounding countryside, the place was camouflaged by pine trees. The dense timber could easily conceal perpetrators from the view of an unsuspecting traveler.

Obviously none of the Reillys was about to offer any useful information, and asking questions about Clay would be far too risky. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all she was likely to find out.

A few more thirsty customers ambled through the front entrance. Each man who arrived at the Emporium brought more dirt in with him, and the air was already clouded with smoke and dust. It looked like a fairly busy night. The other girls could manage in her absence, and with a bit of luck she and Calley wouldn’t be missed.

Vera paced as she thought. There wasn’t a lot of time to go wandering all over the badlands before it was too dark to see anything. Whatever they decided to do would have to take place quickly as well as carefully, or their only chance to find Clay would be gone.

Dammit, Clay, she cursed silently. You just never run out of ways to drive women crazy, do you?

She glanced back at the Reillys. Liam was passed out with his head on the table, and the other two weren’t far behind. As she looked at them she noticed an empty bottle on the floor under their feet. Unlike most of the regular patrons who wore boots, the Irishmen wore heavy, laced-up work shoes. A quiet smile crept over her face as she gazed at the would-be assassins.

Their shoes were covered with thick, gray mud.

"Get you boys another bottle?" she chirped, as she reached for another container of Red Eye. Without waiting for a reply she plunked the bottle down on the table, somewhat to the surprise of its happy recipients, and directed her friendliest smile at them. "Drink up, fellas. Hard-working boys shouldn’t have to go thirsty on a Saturday night."

The complimentary whisky was met with momentary perplexity, but quickly accepted.

It would do the job. The Reillys wouldn’t be up to any more mischief for at least another day. She and Calley could be out of town before anyone realized they were gone.

It was only about fifteen miles to the Canyon River oasis, but it was one of the most inhospitable fifteen miles in the territory. Anyone unfamiliar with the Badlands, or disadvantaged in some way stood little chance of getting back safely. At least Joseph had some knowledge of the area. He’d hidden out there often enough.

The hapless stableman pulled the wagon up just outside the rear entrance of the Palace and drew the team to an abrupt halt. Without waiting for further instructions he handed the reins to Calley and jumped down from the seat even before he saw Vera waiting in the doorway.

"Where’re you going in such a hurry, Joseph? We need your help."

"Not me, Miss Vera, you don’t understand…"

"I understand just fine. Now climb back up there and let’s go."

"I can’t … don’t you see? He said he’d kill me, and…."

"I know, Joseph. You’ve been skulking around this town for weeks, afraid of anything that moves or makes a sound. Is that the way you want it to be from now on?"

"Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that, Miss Vera. That’s just the way it is, and besides, I got nowhere else to go."

"Good Lord! Aren’t you tired of being afraid of your own shadow, acting like some scaredy-cat schoolgirl?"

They were running short of time, but Joseph was as uninspired by shame as he was unimpressed by any sense of urgency. He’d have to be persuaded with something more positive than the usual insults. Vera studied him for a moment.

"Look here, what if you didn’t have to run for cover every time Mosby showed up in town? What if there was a way you could make things right with him somehow?"

Joseph was still fidgeting, but he was also listening. A little persuasive logic might just work.

"I know Clay pretty well, and I can tell you that he puts as much store in paying debts as collecting them. Now, if you were to help him out of a bad situation, maybe even help save his life somehow, I’ll bet he’d be grateful enough to call it square between you and him. What I’m saying is, he’d most likely be willing to forget about what happened before, and everything he said, in return for you lending a hand. Besides, if you don’t get back in this wagon, I’ll make good on his threat myself. Now, how about it?"

Death threats from two anxious women within the space of an hour were evidently more than Joseph cared to contend with. Calley handed him the reins as he clambered into the seat, and the three headed out of town.

Vera had forgotten how rough the countryside was north of Crossroads. There was only one road through the foothills and it was riddled with potholes, rocks and fallen timber. They’d be lucky if the wagon didn’t break apart before they got back.

Isolated stands of aspen and silver birch trees dotted the rolling hills along the Canyon River. From the higher levels, visibility was good for miles, but there was no sign that anyone had passed through the vicinity in recent days. There was also still some distance to cover and only a couple more hours of daylight left.

From the crest of the hill Calley spotted the Oasis. Compared to the barren countryside that surrounded it, the small forest of pines looked almost inviting, but hidden within its dark recesses were stone quarries where the ground was unstable, and cliffs where rockslides were frequent. The Badlands territory was aptly named. The wagon rumbled onward, grinding and creaking as it proceeded over the uneven path that led to the Canyon River.

Finally Joseph pulled to a stop at a clearing as they approached the wooded area, and stood up to survey the surroundings. It was getting dark.

"Ain’t nobody around here, Miss Vera. I say we head back while we still got some light left."

"No! Not yet." Calley wasn’t about to give up.

There was very little reason to be hopeful, but it was obvious that nothing was going to dissuade Calley from scouring the entire river basin if she had to. ‘Well, we’ve come this far," Vera sighed. "We might as well make sure – one way or another."

She climbed down from the wagon without Joseph’s help, and looked around for some sign of recent activity. If an ambush had taken place there would almost certainly be some evidence of it, some tracks, some trampled grass, anything that might indicate an altercation of some kind.

"Let’s look further along the bank." She motioned for Joseph to look around the wooded area while the two women searched along the rocky edge of the cliffs. The men could have been anywhere along the thickly forested terrain, and soon it would be too dark to see anyone even if they passed within a few feet. Still, it was the only place that made sense from an attacker’s point of view. If Clay had run into the Reillys anywhere along the river, it had to be here.

A few hundred feet along the faltering trail another clearing opened up. It was a wet, muddy area surrounded by dense foliage. Some of the grass was flattened and in the pale light of early evening the gray riverbank looked almost like fresh, silvery snow.

"Miss Vera!" Calley cried out. "Look, over there!"

Footprints shown clearly in the soft mud, then disappeared into the grass. At least two sets of prints were of shoes, not boots, and they were different sizes. It had to be them.

"They were here! I know it!" Calley was ecstatic.

"Someone was," Vera agreed, "but there’s no sign it was Clay. He could be anywhere …"

Vera stopped in mid-sentence as she turned toward Calley. The girl stood still, her eyes round as saucers as she watched Joseph walk toward them, leading a riderless horse by the reins. A Winchester was still in the rifle scabbard. In his hand he held a black felt hat with a wide brim and a matching ribbon trim around the crown. It was Clay’s.

"Found him over there by them trees," he stammered. "Didn’t see nobody else around."

"All right, all right, now," Vera tried to comfort Calley. "He’s got to be close by, probably sitting on a big ole log, enjoying a smoke."

They all knew better, but what could she say? The girl was nearly catatonic with fear.

Clay had to be somewhere close by, maybe even within shouting distance, but there was no point in yelling. The rush of water below was so loud that one person could hardly hear another, even at a short distance.

Vera shivered at another unpleasant, but real possibility. If Clay had fallen into the river, he would have been quickly swept under and drowned. Even the strongest man couldn’t stand up against such a rapid current, much less swim his way out of it. If that’s what had happened, they’d never find him.

Vera looked through the deep green shadows of the pines and into the encroaching nightfall. She thought about saying a short prayer for Calley’s sake, but what was the use of that? It never seemed to work, no matter how much a person wanted it to. Life was simply what it was. And so was death.

Where was Calley anyway? She’d only taken her eyes off the girl for a second. Vera quickly scanned the terrain along the river and as far as she could beyond the trees. Calley was nowhere in sight.

Good Lord! What next? A small rush of panic seized her. Then anger. Where had that girl vanished to? How many people were going to disappear before this was over? Anger wasn’t an emotion Vera enjoyed, but it was better than fear, and on occasion, it was a sight more useful.

"Calley! Where the devil are you!" It was pointless. The fast-moving river swallowed up all sounds and the darkness was closing in quickly.

Vera tried to think past her anxieties as she made her way along the riverbank. The crashing current roared louder with every step, as if to frighten her off coming any closer. As she stumbled over the uneven ground, she caught sight of something half way down the slope of the bank. It looked like Calley’s light-colored dress. The girl was going to slide right into the river and drown if she wasn’t careful.

"Calley! So help me!"

Vera froze where she stood. It wasn’t Calley’s dress that she saw. It was a white shirt sleeve – a

man’s white shirt sleeve.

"Oh, my God!" she started to call to the others, but stopped short. It was Clay, she knew it. But if he was dead she couldn’t let Calley be the one to find him …not like that.

Vera inched her way down the slippery bank, careful to secure her footing, until she reached a patch of solid ground. Through the darkness, she could see the outline of a figure that lay between some boulders halfway down the embankment. She held her breath as she focused on the white shirt, hoping fervently to see some sign of life from the man who wore it.

Somehow he’d managed to grab onto a cluster of exposed roots, and had narrowly avoided tumbling into the river. Anticipation fought with dread as she stumbled over the rocky surface to where he lay motionless, with one arm hooked into the gnarled tendrils of the uprooted tree. Her heart pounded as she reached for his free hand. It was deathly cold.

She searched for a pulse, shivering as thunder rumbled in the distance and the river crashed onto the rocks below. "Come on, Clay. You want to live as much as anyone ever did!" She placed her hand flat on his chest and strained to feel a heartbeat. There was a faint, but detectible rhythm.

"Calley, Joseph! Over here!" she screamed. "It’s Clay, he’s alive!"

Within seconds loosened rocks were rolling past them and into the water as Calley scrambled down the side of the bank.

"Be careful, darlin’," Vera warned as she peered down at the churning torrent. "We don’t need to go swimming right now." Try as she might to sound stern, she couldn’t. She was too relieved.

Joseph’s reaction to the discovery was somewhat less jubilant. He evidently harbored some serious doubts about the whole rescue effort, as well as the contentious Col. Mosby’s reaction to his part in it.

"Oh, for God’s sake," Vera chided, "He’s not going to bite you – not at the moment, anyway. Get down here and lend a hand. Now!"

Joseph descended the slope with the enthusiasm of a prairie dog approaching a rattlesnake.

"Come on, Joseph. We need to get out of here before the weather sets in."

Clouds had drifted across the northern sky all day, but with the darkness came the familiar scent of dampness and cold. They needed to hurry.

It was too dark to evaluate Clay’s condition. All they could do was get him in the wagon and head back to Crossroads. Vera hoped her ploy back at the Emporium had worked, and by now the Reillys were sleeping it off – probably somewhere under a flat rock.

Joseph complied with his orders, lifting Clay by his shoulders while the women each grabbed a leg, and together they pulled his inert form up the embankment. By the time they reached the grassy summit their clothes were soaked with mud. They hauled him into the wagon and wrapped him in a saddle blanket that Calley had tossed in just before they’d left.

Vera tied the horse to the rail of the wagon and climbed up onto the seat beside Joseph. Calley sat in the bed of the wagon, cradling Clay’s head in her arms as the four started back over the bumpy trail to Crossroads. It was beginning to rain.

By the time they reached the outskirts of town it was nearly midnight. In his eagerness to reach sanctuary before Clay woke up and killed him, Joseph maneuvered the wagon in and out of two sink holes and nearly scuttled the shabby vehicle by driving too close to the edge of a narrow hillside. Vera was briefly inspired to submit another prayer – one of sincere thanks for their safe arrival back at the Emporium. At least she was back on familiar ground. With considerable effort they managed to convey Clay through the back entrance.

"We’ll put him in my room," Vera decided. "Nobody will come looking for him there." It was safer than Calley’s room where business would have to go on as usual. No one who knew Vera would dare enter her private quarters without asking.

"I’ll take him the rest of the way, Miss Vera." Joseph hoisted Clay’s limp body over his shoulder and climbed the narrow stairs to the appointed room. Having deposited his charge on Vera’s broad bed, he withdrew toward the doorway.

"I’ll be going now, Miss Vera – if you don’t mind."

"That’s fine, Joseph," Vera stopped to catch her breath. "I appreciate your help, especially with those stairs."

"That’s all right, Miss Vera." He looked over at Clay, then back at her with an oddly calm expression. "Funny … he weren’t all that heavy."

The stableman paused by the doorway and reached inside his coat. "I reckon he’ll be wantin’ this, sooner or later," he said as he pulled Clay’s Remington from his belt and handed it to Vera. "Picked it up back there, when I found the horse."

She reached out for the gun and noticed that for the first time in a long time, the man wasn’t trembling. "Thank you, Joseph," she replied as she offered her hand to him.

He simply nodded as he took her hand in his own. It was steady as a rock.

* * *

With Clay ensconced in her bedroom, Vera turned to her next task. The man was a mess. His clothes were wet through to the skin and covered with mud. She’d have to clean him up before she did anything else. He’d managed to wrap part of his torn shirt sleeve around his injured arm. That was saturated with blood, as was the back of his shirt where the knife had stabbed through it. Calley started to wipe the dirt and blood from his face with her handkerchief.

"Never mind that just now," Vera said quietly, "help me get these wet clothes off him." As carefully as possible, she stripped off what was left of Clay’s linen shirt. "No way to mend this," she sighed as she peeled away the blood-stained remnants and tossed them aside. Calley said nothing as they pulled off his boots and trousers. Both were heavy with mud and river silt.

"Drawers, too." She glanced at Calley as the girl stood looking down at Clay. "’Less you want him to catch a chill." Calley’s apparent disorientation was not helping. "You didn’t haul him all the way back here just so he could catch his death of cold, did you?"

Calley shook her head, but didn’t move.

"Oh, for God’s sake – you’ve seen your share of naked men before – including this one!"

Calley looked back at Vera, still in something of a trance.

"Well … ‘a course – but not without him knowing about it…."

Vera couldn’t be angry with the girl. She’d been through a lot in her young life, but she’d never seen the man she adored in such a sorry state, and it plainly frightened her. She, too, was accustomed to seeing Clay at his best. His appeal was underscored as much by his expensive clothes and fastidious grooming as by his natural good looks. Not only was he one of the handsomest men she’d ever been with, he was almost certainly the cleanest.

Vera carefully examined the assortment of scrapes and bruises as he lay on the white sheets, bloody and grimy from head to toe. She’d seen worse.

"We’ll need some hot water and clean linens, and bring me some whisky from downstairs," she instructed as she pulled the blanket part way over him. Calley stood in a subdued state of shock, trying not to cry. She was struggling to stay calm, but fear was winning out.

"Maybe we should send Joseph to go and fetch Dr. Cleese … maybe…."

Vera had already considered the notion and rejected it. Joseph could be trusted up to a certain point and he’d performed adequately under stress, but it might be wise not to test the limit of his endurance any further.

"No, darlin’, it’s up to you and me from here on. Go get me my sewing basket out of the dresser."

"But, Miss Vera.…" Calley’s anxiety was giving way to panic. Vera felt her own patience wearing thin, but she had to stay calm for the sake of all concerned.

"Calley, do what I tell you!" She needed Calley’s help and there was no time for girlish nonsense. Still, she understood. Anyone would be upset to see someone they cared about in such a condition.

"Settle down now. It looks worse than it really is. I’ve been sewing up cowboys for as long as I can remember, and I haven’t heard any of them complain yet. We’ll get him cleaned up and he’ll be just fine." With just a little more effort, she might even convince herself.

Clay’s arm could be stitched up with the silk thread she kept for that purpose. Dipped in whisky, it was reasonably sanitary. The small cut on his chin could be treated likewise. Trimming his beard would help make a cleaner job of it, but despite its advisability it was unlikely that Clay would appreciate that decision.

The wound in his back was more serious. Had the knife entered at a straighter angle, it would probably have killed him, but it appeared that the blade had been turned outward, possibly deflected by a rib, and it didn’t appear to have reached any major internal organs.

"Looks like it missed his vitals," she speculated as she examined the injury.

"How can you be sure of that?" Calley protested. "How can you tell ...?"

"Because he’d be dead otherwise." Vera’s efforts to calm her own doubts were straining under the added weight of Calley’s desperation. "You understand? If that was a fatal wound, it’d be fatal by now!"

None of the injuries appeared to be life-threatening, but all together they represented some serious damage. Considering the potential for blood loss and unpredictable complications, their cumulative effect was no trivial matter.

"Listen to me. We’re going to take care of him and he’s going to be fine, you hear me?"

Calley retrieved the sewing basket from the dresser drawer and handed it to Vera.

"Now, go get me that hot water, and don’t forget the whisky. Do like I told you now – and be quick about it."

Calley disappeared out the door without a word. At least she could make herself useful by fetching a few simple items. She wasn’t prone to hysterics like some girls, but she wasn’t her usual self either. Maybe it was because she’d never been in love before.

She looked back at Clay, as she considered her treatment options. It would be better to simply wash the blood out of his beard instead of shaving any of it off in order to sew up the cut on his chin. Considering how proud he was of his looks, it would be a pity to ruin that fancy trim.

A number of men around town had beards, but amongst those on display, Clay’s was truly one of a kind. Most of the others were longer and many were left shaggy and unattended for months at a time. When those men congregated at the bar in groups they looked like small herds of buffalo in the winter. Some men’s beards were so unkempt they could have housed whole families of screech owls without their owners noticing.

By contrast, Clay invariably appeared in Crossroads looking like some kind of European royalty. If he’d first introduced himself to her as the Ambassador to France, she’d have been tempted to believe him.

Now he lay disturbingly still, trapped in an unnatural kind of sleep, and looking like some half-drowned creature that had been dragged in from a rainstorm.

"Don’t you dare die in my bed, Clay Mosby," she scolded gently, hoping the sound of her voice would nudge him back to life. "Look here, we’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll be good as new." She dipped a wash cloth in the water pitcher by the bed and proceeded to wipe away the blood that was streaked across his face. Most of it emanated from a gash just behind the hairline above his forehead, but his hair was too thick and matted to permit a proper washing.

"Sorry, darlin’" she whispered as she reached for her sewing scissors, "but I think I’m going to have to trim you up after all." She separated a tangled section where the strands were stuck together and carefully snipped away a few dark locks.

"Now, don’t you worry. It’ll grow back before you know it."

As she combed her hands through his hair, the soft, damp ringlets curled around her fingers … just as they’d done before, on another quiet, rainy night. It seemed like a long time ago.

Ironically, Clay had frightened her a little at first. There was a sinister quality about him that hinted at some dark, possibly violent undercurrent. Of course, there was always the danger of mistreatment by rough, belligerent customers, or by drunken cowboys who didn’t know how else to be with a woman, but Clay was different. He was as ruthless a man as one could imagine, and he could be a son of a bitch when it suited him, and yet, for some reason she’d never understood, it was strangely exciting.

Why was she even thinking about it? She turned her attention to the task at hand, ringing out the wash cloth and rinsing the remaining blood out of his hair. Scalp lacerations were always messy. One method often used to stop bleeding was to empty a sugar bowl over the cut. She treated a lot of cowboys successfully with that remedy. This was more of a scrape – possibly a result of his tumble down the river bank. It didn’t look so bad, and didn’t appear to need any stitching, although he’d probably be less than thrilled with her barbering skills.

Where was Calley with that hot water, and the whisky? In addition to its medicinal applications, she could use a drink.

Clay hadn’t stirred. Under the layer of dirt he looked terribly pale, and his hands were cold. She remembered how warm his hands were the first time they were together – warm and unusually soft for a man. But then, almost everything about Clay Mosby was … unusual.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps just outside the door. Calley entered with a large bucket of hot water, some linens, and a new bottle of whisky. She quickly set the items down by the bed and knelt beside Clay. She stroked his hair, ignoring the watery, red stains that came off on her hand.

"Come on now, darlin’," Vera coaxed. "Let’s get our gentleman friend cleaned up, shall we? His own men wouldn’t recognize him looking like this."

She remembered the first time she’d seen him as he lay asleep in her bed, and how much thinner he’d appeared without all the layers of clothing that men customarily wore. He’d put on a pound or two since then, but he was still on the slender side.

"Must be all that good, clean living" she mused aloud.

"What?" Calley looked up at her.

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking back…." She’d seen the scars, too, most of them years old, a few more recent. All of them testified to a brutal and violent past. Men wore them like medals. And it seemed to be part of some unwritten law in the male code that old scars should periodically be replaced with new ones. If such a law existed, men were certainly faithful in their obedience to it.

The water in the basin darkened quickly as Vera washed away the surface layer of blood and dirt. The bruises on Clay’s face and ribs were proof of his assailants’ resolve to take some kind of revenge on him, although his scraped knuckles suggested that he’d countered aggressively. Ordinarily he’d be quite capable of defending himself, but at three-to-one odds he’d evidently lost the contest and been left to die on a barren hillside.

Here, submerged in the delirium of pain and blood loss, he lay deathly still in Vera’s bed as the women bathed him in warm water and stitched up the knife wounds with whisky-soaked thread. How serious his injuries might be was difficult to tell, but at least he was alive, and under the circumstances, that was something of a miracle.

She tucked the blanket back around him and turned to Calley. "There now, he’s going to be fine. Why don’t you sit with him for a while?"

Calley nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. Vera looked away, suddenly feeling as if she was intruding on a private moment between two lovers. She couldn’t help feeling a sense of sorrow for the girl who adored this man so much that nothing else mattered to her.

She watched Calley as she took his hand and held it against her cheek. Those beautiful, soft hands of his, always so clean and neatly manicured. Now there was dark blood under his nails and in the creases of his fingers. Calley sat quietly, holding his hand as her tears mingled with the residue of blood and ran down her face in pale, red streaks.

Vera withdrew to the far side of the room and sat down in a rocking chair by the window. The rain was coming down steadily through the moonless night. She was more tired than she’d realized, but she’d better not fall asleep just yet, in case Clay woke up.

She shivered and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. What if his injuries were more serious than she’d thought? There could be internal bleeding. What if he never woke up, or died right there in her bed? Good Lord, he wouldn’t do that – not with Calley right beside him.

Vera shook herself awake. She was too tired to think. Clay was either going to live or he wasn’t. She’d allowed herself to care too much already. Whatever happened from this point was out of her hands. She’d done her best, and now he would just have to do his best. After all their effort, the least he could do was survive.

She looked back across the room where the dim light from the lamp outlined the contour of his face. Even now, he was handsome as ever, like the hero of some distant fantasy as he lay unnaturally still, adrift in some silent, soundless, place.

What are you dreaming about, Clay? Her fingertips could feel the soft, silky bristles of his beard. What grand, romantic adventure are you chasing? Her lips remembered the gentle curve of his smile and the taste of his brandy-scented kisses. Once he came into view, little else was visible. It was amazing what even the wisest heart refused to forget.

No wonder Calley adored him. She might have loved him herself … once … but not now. Too many things had happened. Life had a way of tossing dreams around so they smashed to pieces when they collided with reality. And ironically, it seemed to be the strongest men who were most vulnerable to the whims of Fate … men like Clay.

Look at you. Clay Mosby. Army officer. Town boss. Commanding, ambitious, all-powerful, and defenseless as a new spring lamb.

What a picture it would have made – a whorehouse proprietor tending to a favorite patron, not as a bed partner, but like a mother watching over a sleeping child.

Heavy droplets pattered on the outside of the window. Their gentle rhythm was like a lullaby, and the darkness, with all its hidden dangers, felt strangely comforting. Maybe she would sleep – only for a few minutes, and maybe forget about everything, just for a little while. Vera closed her eyes as she slowly rocked back and forth, listening to the rain and to the cool, soothing song of the nighttime rain.

* * *

Pale lavender streaks filtered through broken clouds. Morning always came too soon.

Vera felt a sharp cramp in her neck as she turned her head. She hadn’t moved since she’d nodded off to sleep. The room was filled with light from a clear, clean sunrise after the rainstorm. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and glanced across the room.

Calley was sitting on the floor, sound asleep as she leaned against the side of the bed. She’d probably been there all night and had finally given in to exhaustion. Clay was in much the same position as before, but his head was turned toward the window. And he was awake.

Vera got up quietly so as not to disturb Calley. As she started toward the bed a chill raced through her. Clay’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving, not like people normally do when they first wake up.

Oh, no. She caught her breath in an instant of cold fear. Don’t let him be dead!

Just as she reached the bed, he turned his head toward her. His hair was tangled. His eyes were bloodshot, one solidly red toward the outer corner, and circled with blue shadows. The bruises on his face had darkened and his unshaven cheeks made him appear even more haggard. He barely resembled himself.

"Clay," she called softly. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.

"Clay, honey … it’s me, Vera. You’re back here in Crossroads. You’re safe now, but … you’re going to need to rest up some."

He closed his eyes for a second, then blinked them open. He looked bewildered. As he stared up at her his breathing became more rapid and sweat beaded on his forehead. He tried to speak but only a weak, guttural sigh escaped as a look of unconcealed panic swept over his face. It was an expression she’d seen before. She reached for his hand and carefully lifted his bandaged arm. "Don’t worry," she whispered, "it’s still there – see, and it’s going to heal up just fine."

Clay looked at his heavily swathed arm, then back at her for a moment, and squeezed his eyes shut again, as if that would help to wipe away the confusion and uncertainty. Vera put her hand to his forehead. He was slightly feverish, and no doubt exhausted from the whole ordeal.

Suddenly Calley stirred from her sleep.

"Oh, Clay." She nearly choked as she reached for the hand she’d clung to for most of the night, as if by holding on to it, she could keep him alive.

"All right." Vera put a hand on her shoulder. "Now that our ’guest’ is awake let’s try not to suffocate him."

She couldn’t fault Calley for her fears. She was overwhelmed with relief herself. She checked the bandages and, satisfied there was no more bleeding, sat down on the bedside him. With swollen, blackened eyes and an assortment of scrapes and bruises, he was still rakishly appealing.

"You really are a rascal, Clay Mosby, worrying us like that. You look like some poor child that fell out of a tree – twice." Humor seemed a bit ill-timed, but sometimes it settled a person’s nerves. "It’s going to take some mending, but I think you’ll live to fight another day." So far, so good, at least. "Just look what all you’ve been through already, and lived to tell about it."

That was the Lord’s own truth. He’d survived a great deal in spite of formidable odds and conditions that would have killed most men. In all fairness, that was worthy of admiration. "I guess you were just born lucky," she sighed, "even though it may not seem that way at the moment."

Calley was on the edge of tears again. She needed to do something besides sit and sob all over Clay.

"Calley, go down to the kitchen and find something for Clay to eat." It wasn’t much of a kitchen, but there was usually something on the storage shelves or leftovers from the night before. "Just heat something up and bring it back up here, and if anyone asks, tell them it’s for me." Clay needed to eat something if he wanted to get his strength back – even if he wasn’t so inclined at the moment.

She poured some water from the pitcher and let him sip it at his own speed. Every swallow seemed to require considerable effort, but he finally finished the glass. As he sank back on the pillow he looked up at Vera.

"I don’t suppose … you’d have any decent whisky.…"

His voice was raspy and barely audible, but there was a hint of a smile in it. "This early in the morning? Why, Mr. Mosby, I’m shocked!" She leaned toward him. "And for your information, Sir, I always keep decent whisky in stock – just for you gentlemen with discriminating taste."

"Is that so?"

Clay’s wry wit was still in tact. That was a good sign. The crease between his brows deepened as he closed his eyes. She was tempted to let him go back to sleep, but Calley would be back soon with something to eat. When he finished that he could sleep all he wanted. Maybe she could, too. They wouldn’t open for business for a while. It would be the only chance she’d have to rest.

Calley hurried up the stairs with a plate of beans and biscuits, and a bowl of chicken broth. It was all that was left over from supper, but it was edible. Vera watched the younger woman from a distance. She looked pale and her hair and clothes were a mess.

"Calley, honey, why don’t you go get tidied up," she coaxed. "I’ll take care of this, and then you can sit with him." The poor girl was dizzy with fatigue and worry. She wouldn’t be much good to anyone until she got some proper sleep, if that was possible under the circumstances.

Calley ran her fingers through her hair, suddenly aware of her unkempt appearance. Clay had always complimented her on her attractiveness and especially, her soft, fresh-scented blond hair. "I must look a fright." Her voice quavered as she withdrew, leaving Vera to attend to Clay.

The warm aroma filled the room. Vera set the bowl of broth down in front of him, hoping the inviting smell would encourage him to eat. He had to be hungry after days without proper nourishment, but when he tried to lift the spoon, his hand shook uncontrollably.

Vera thought for a moment, then walked back to the sitting area where she occasionally entertained private guests, and produced a shot glass from a cabinet. Returning to Clay’s bedside, she picked up the spoon and filled the small glass with hot broth.

"Here, try this," she encouraged him as she held out the shot glass. "It’s not exactly 100 proof, but it might be just the thing on a cold morning."

Clay took the shot glass and cautiously sipped the contents. "You’re a girl after my own heart," he croaked as he fought to keep the pungent liquid down. "Wait till my supplier in San Francisco hears about this."

"Never let it be said you’re a stickler for tradition, Clay. Here, have some more."

"Thank you … that’s enough." He’d nibbled part of a biscuit and finished half the broth.

"For heaven’s sake, that little bit wouldn’t keep a bird alive. Honestly, I’m beginning to think you don’t like my cooking."

"Nonsense," he groaned. "Wash it down with enough whisky and it tastes just fine."

There was no point in coaxing him further. Generally speaking, when Clay said he’d had enough of something, he’d had enough.

"Vera … I think I need to …" He looked up at her with an expression of unmistakable urgency.

Of course. With most men, nature called with certain predictability. She retrieved the chamber pot from under the bed and handed it to him.

"Think you can handle that by yourself?"

"If I can’t I’ll be sure to call for help," he replied weakly.

Sardonic as ever. Clay was on the mend. Considering his impatience with everyone, including himself, it might be a test of wills to keep him in bed long enough to heal up. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be putting up much of an argument for the time being.

Vera retreated to the small parlor that adjoined the bedroom. It wasn’t unusual for Clay to be away from Curtis Wells for extended periods, and no one was likely to come looking for him any time soon. That was good. Too many questions might sound an alarm, and the Reillys were bound to hear it.

Unlike their fellow countrymen who worked hard to feed their families, the Reillys had no apparent interest in actually earning a living. Their main occupation seemed to be drinking and fighting with each other, as well as anyone else who happened along, as if it was their goal in life to give the Irish community an unfavorable reputation. The Reilly mob would give "trouble" a bad name. Now they were out there, somewhere, looking for more.

Joseph could be trusted not to let on that he knew anything about Clay or his present whereabouts. If the Reillys found out that he’d helped them save Clay’s life, there’d be hell to pay, and he knew it. For now, ignorance of the situation would be his best defense.

It was also too risky to involve Dr.Cleese in the whole business. In a small town like Crossroads, Cleese’s appearance would not go unnoticed. It would undoubtedly lead to widespread gossip that would, in turn, alert the Reillys.

Vera remembered the story Clay had told her about the time Robert Shelby had sought refuge at the Ambrosia Club after being wounded in a failed robbery attempt. Clay had hidden him in his own room, right above the heads of a posse that was searching for him. After a few days he’d sneaked Robert out of town in a wagon and no one was ever the wiser.

Under the circumstances, Clay was as safe right where he was, as long as no one else knew about it. But they would need to be careful. Flossie and Lou could keep the usual crowd entertained while she and Calley took turns tending to him and to business downstairs. There was no reason for anyone else to be involved. If he was considerate enough to live, it would insure some security for her and the girls. And if he would just cooperate and continue to regain his strength without any complications, everything would be fine.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Clay awoke. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been twisted and torn loose. It was painful just to breathe. He managed to roll onto his right side and rise up on one elbow, but an attempt to sit upright proved unwise. His head swirled with an unsettling queasiness as he collapsed back down on the pillows.

Calley saw him struggling. "There now, what are you up to – not thinking about going somewhere, are you?"

She was trying to sound calm, but the fear in her voice was obvious. She looked even younger than he remembered from the last time they’d been together. Her hair was loose and her clothes were wrinkled, but she was as pretty as ever. As she knelt beside the bed she lifted the edge of her skirt to wipe her eyes. Something about the simple gesture reminded him of Mary.

"Calley," he whispered, "you shouldn’t worry so much." His throat was so parched he could hardly speak above a hush. "Get me some water."

She was on her feet instantly, pouring a glass from the water pitcher on the table. His hand shook slightly as he held the glass, but he managed to drink half of it. She took a linen from the night stand to wipe off the small drip that ran down his chin, but as she dried the wet streaks from around his neck, her smile began to crumble, and the tears she’d tried to hide spilled down her face. She laid her head on his chest, and sobbed. "Oh, Clay, I was so worried…."

"Well," his voice grated uncomfortably as he stroked her hair. "I can’t remember the last time a woman cried over me. I must say, it’s very flattering."

"Clay, you mustn’t tease me. How can you joke like that? I was so afraid…."

Her face was streaked and her voice quivered, but there was very little he could say that sounded reassuring.

"Now, look here," he scolded tenderly, "I don’t want to see those pretty blue eyes all red and puffy. Besides, there’s nothin’ to cry about."

"Nothing! You could have died out there and no one would ever know what happened. And if Vera hadn’t come with me, I don’t know what I’d have done." She wiped away the damp spot her tears had left on his chest and kissed him there. "I can’t even think about it…. "

"Don’t worry." He smoothed her hair. "It’s all right now." He could feel his strength fading as he spoke. "I know you were up all night. Why don’t you try to get some rest, hmmm?"

Calley nodded as she brushed back a dark strand from his forehead. She kissed him again and stood up. All right, but I’ll be right here if you need me." She moved quietly to the window and gazed outside. "I’ll always be right here."

Clay looked at her perfect profile as the sunlight illuminated the soft outline of her hair. Framed within the window, her silhouette looked like an ivory cameo, trimmed in delicate, golden lace.

"I know you will," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Sleep brought neither comfort nor rest, only the ghastly images that tore through his memory, as clearly as when they’d first followed him into hell.

"Clay. Clay, wake up."

Someone called to him from a distance. He recoiled at the feel of a hand on his shoulder as a spasm of dread shook him awake.

"You were dreaming, Clay. It was only a bad dream." Calley’s voice came closer. "It’s all right now. Everything’s all right." He was bathed in sweat and the sheet under him was damp. He fell back on the pillows and waited for his heart to stop pounding. "Don’t worry," she whispered. "You were having a nightmare, but it’s over. Try to go back to sleep."

He didn’t want to sleep, or even close his eyes again. He just wanted the noise in his head to stop. He watched her as she straightened out the bed linens and pulled the blanket back over him. He’d tossed it off and become entangled in the sheets as a fever drove him into the frightful delirium. She sat down on the bed beside him, leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

The sound of her voice was soft and reassuring. Her hands felt cool as she wiped the sweat from his face and gently stroked his hair, and slowly the throbbing began to fade. She always seemed to have the right touch, and she was there when he’d needed her. Having her there while he slept, and there with him when he awoke, was comforting.

Maybe it was too comforting. It didn’t really matter. It would be daylight soon and with dawn approaching the nightmares would be banished – at least temporarily – and he’d be able to think more clearly. In any case, he needed to get back on his feet and start getting his strength back as quickly as possible. There was the town to think about, and the usual matters that required attention. Those could all be prioritized, managed, and dealt with accordingly. The first order of business would be to take care of Redmond. Then, he’d deal with the Reillys.

He lay beside Calley, watching the few stars that peeked through the darkness, trying to think, and trying desperately to stay awake. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

The smell of fresh coffee permeated the room.

"Well, you’re looking a little brighter today." Vera’s skirts rustled as she moved.

"Miz Vera," he began half-heartedly, "What a pleasant way to greet the day."

She glanced down at him and smiled. "I appreciate your effort, Clay, but such enthusiasm can use up a lot of energy. You mustn’t exert yourself on my account."

He looked toward the door. "Where’s Calley this morning?"

Vera was non-committal. "You mean afternoon, don’t you? She had some work to do. She’ll be back later. For the time being, you’ll just have to settle for me."

He’d counted on Calley to help him get up and dressed. She’d do anything he asked. Vera, on the other hand, was not likely to be so accommodating. Her cooperation would require a more persuasive approach. She appeared to be in a relaxed mood, and while she pretended to be impervious to it, she was usually receptive to a little harmless flirtation.

"’Settle’ for you? Well now, I’d hardly put it that way, m’dear. You must forgive me for being so neglectful – I’d have paid a visit sooner but I was unavoidably delayed by some pressing business. However, in that absence of opportunity, I confess that I’ve truly missed the pleasure of your charming company."

Vera looked askance. "Well, Mr. Mosby, it’s good to see you feeling so chipper, but if you think I believe a word of that, you must have hit your head harder than either of us realized. Now, here, have some coffee while it’s hot. Maybe it’ll help to revive your common sense."

She put the cup of coffee on the bedside table and withdrew to the sitting area, but as she turned, her expression softened.

"Vera, I’m serious. I need to get up today, and get dressed."

"I’m serious, too. I think you’re fine right where you are. What’s your hurry anyway?"

"I’ve been in bed long enough. I need to walk around while I still remember how."

"For heaven’s sake, Clay, it’s only been a couple of days since we hauled you back here more dead than alive. Besides, I used up half a spool of my best silk thread on you, so don’t you even think about ripping out all my nice handwork."

Vera was too well prepared. She must have been waiting for this.

"I’m truly touched that you’re so concerned for my well-being. Nevertheless I’m quite sure your tailoring will withstand any stress I might be capable of subjecting it to.

"Don’t flatter yourself to excess. I simply don’t want you bleeding all over my new carpet. And just so there’s no confusion about it, I should point out that for the moment, you are not the one in charge here, Colonel Mosby. I am."

Vera enjoyed a good sparring contest, and in that capacity she was a formidable contender.

"Now Miz Vera, you wouldn’t be trying to challenge my unquestioned authority, would you?"

"Clay, just knowing you is a challenge.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, and if I have to sit on you to keep you in bed, don’t you believe I won’t."

"Hmmmm. Now that might provide some medicinal benefits I hadn’t considered as part of my convalescence. But of course I’d be willing to try it – if you insist."

"I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it." Vera glanced Heavenward. "I should have known better. Honestly, Clay, I don’t know what keeps you going. You must be possessed."

"I prefer to think of it as ‘inspired’." He grinned as he reached for her hand and pulled her closer. As she sat down beside him she noticed the vertical protuberance under the sheet.

"Clay, you devil! I swear, when you die they’ll have to drill a hole in the lid of the coffin just to accommodate your ‘friend’ here. But it’s nice to see that at least one part of your anatomy has made a satisfactory recovery – actually, more than satisfactory, by the looks of it."

He flashed his most engaging and persuasive smile. That usually worked.

"Well now, Miz Vera, where your satisfaction is concerned, I am your most humble and willing servant. Needless to say, I’d be happy to share my …’friend’ with you if you’d be so kind as to help me get up and dressed afterward. I have business that shouldn’t be postponed any longer than it has been already. You understand, now don’t you?"

"I understand that you’re foolish enough to try anything just to get your own way. You’re too weak to get out of bed by yourself, but you can still carry the flag in the parade without using either hand."

She couldn’t help laughing as she glanced at his veiled erection. "Can’t hoist it much higher than that. I have to admit I’m impressed. Such a pity, though – all that satisfaction, and inspiration going to waste." She looked up with an exaggerated sigh of regret. "Sorry, darlin’. You must be losing your charm as well as your authority. And much as I admire your … resilience, you’re staying in that bed until I say otherwise."

He’d forgotten how exasperating Vera could be when she put her mind to it.

"Oh, and don’t you be thinking you can work your magic on Calley. She’s no fool, either – except, of course, where you’re concerned. That’s a real pity."

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Clay. She’s so in love with you she can’t see straight, and she has some romantic notion that one of these days you’re going to ride up on a white horse and take her away with you. Now, you and I both know better than that. Even if you weren’t old enough to be her father, you’re not what she needs."

She looked him straight in the eye, punctuating her statement with a strong hold on his solid male member. "You’d be doing that girl a favor if you ‘kept it in your pants’ where she’s concerned."

"I’ll consider it, as soon as I’m permitted to start wearing them again."

In all honesty she was right about Calley. If he had no plans to offer her something more permanent, he should tell her so. He’d talk to her about that. But first he needed to get back on his feet.

"Vera, I’m getting out of this bed, with or without your help."

"Well, fine. It’ll be interesting to see whether you waltz around with, or without your trousers, too."

"Don’t tempt me – any more than you have already." Her willingness to defy him was oddly invigorating. It wasn’t something that happened often, but Vera’s feistiness made it an interesting contest.

"Tempt you?" She looked at him with mock surprise. "Why, Clay," her voice softened, "would I do that?" As she leaned forward to bestow a lingering kiss on his lips her hand slid under the sheet. It wandered at its leisure, slowly and deliberately, teasing as it ventured up the inside of his thigh. She remembered exactly what he liked and just how he liked it. Vera possessed real talent, not to mention an excellent memory.

Judging from its spontaneous reaction, his body had also retained its powers of recollection. His response to her touch refused to be ignored, and a moan of pleasure escaped as her tender manipulation continued, blithely and unmercifully.

"You present a strong argument, Miz Vera. It might be wise to be completely sure my strength is returning before I engage in any … strenuous activity. There are some things that simply … shouldn’t be rushed."

Vera was nothing if not professional. Each stroke of her hand sent invigorating ripples of arousal through him. He’d missed the softness of a woman’s touch, and every move she made enhanced the pure physical delight of it. Gradually the ache in his muscles loosened its grip and the pain dissolved into a sensation of effortless bliss. He exhaled slowly as he settled back onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

"I believe I’ve had a change of heart," he sighed. "If you’ll permit me, Miz Vera, I’d like to reverse my previous stand on this entire issue. You are completely in charge."

"I knew you’d come to your senses, given the opportunity to reconsider." Her voice was as velvety as her touch. "Is there anything else you’d like to discuss with me?"

"Not at the moment. I think … everything else… can wait."

The excitement that had stirred in him surged eagerly to its peak, climaxed and released, and with it swept a wave of luxurious contentment. Nothing on earth was so relaxing and so exquisitely satisfying.

"Maybe I’ll get up … a little later," he murmured as soothing shadows crept in softly, enfolding him in their warm, dreamy embrace.

"That’s fine," he heard Vera saying, as she gently pulled the blanket back over him.

* * *

Clay groaned as he tried to stretch. His muscles ached and his bones creaked, protesting every movement with stabbing pain. He fought off a rush of dizziness as he forced himself to stand upright, and plodded across the room. The worst hangover he could remember wasn’t as miserable as this.

As he paused in front of Vera’s vanity table, his eyes focused on a haggard face that appeared in the mirror. It was a strange and contradictory image as the scruffy derelict stared back at him from the ornate frame. He barely recognized himself.

His hair was tangled and particles of dried blood had flaked off onto his shoulders. Several days of beard growth shadowed his face, and dark circles hollowed out his eyes. He looked every bit as unkempt, if not worse, than many of the residents of Crossroads. That wouldn’t do.

"Vera, you wouldn’t happen to have a straight razor, would you?"

She studied him from a distance. "Why, you think you need a shave?"

"Well, that is what people use razors for, isn’t it?" Vera had a peculiar way of discouraging things without putting up any physical resistance.

"You look perfectly all right – as good as any man in Crossroads."

High praise, indeed. The image in the mirror glared back in sullen disapproval. "That, m’dear, is exactly the point I am trying to make."

"Honestly, Clay, you just look like a man who’s had a rough couple of days."

"I look like a mad raccoon."

"Well, that beats the hell out of looking like a dead raccoon. I swear, you’re damn lucky to be alive, and all you’re worried about is looking like one of those cavaliers, or buccaneers – privateers – whatever they call themselves."

"Cavaliers. Really?"

Vera stood up and walked toward him. She took an evaluative look at him, then reached up and lightly stroked his beard with her fingertips. "Not only are you the handsomest man in town, Clay, you are, without a doubt, the single vainest man I’ve ever met."

He leaned back in feigned indignation, peering thoughtfully into the mirror as he adjusted the waistband of his rumpled drawers. "For what it’s worth, you’re probably right. But then, some illusions are more justifiable than others. Besides, we ‘cavaliers’ have an image to maintain. Now about that razor…."

"I’ll see what I can do. Would monsieur care for some rosewater with his twa-lette?"

"No, I believe I’ll forego the rosewater for now, merci, Madame."

"As you wish." Vera curtsied as she mimicked one of his favorite phrases. "Will that be all, sir?"

Clay lingered in front of the mirror. As he ran his hand through his hair, he noticed a small section in the front that was considerably shorter than the rest. He eyed Vera suspiciously as he held the abbreviated strands between his fingers.

"Hmmm." He raised one eyebrow as he looked askance at her. "There seems to have been a little ‘accident’ here."

Vera glanced at his bare torso. There were numerous scrapes on his back and chest, and his ribcage was a mass of dark, discolored bruises. He flinched as her fingers brushed over a sensitive spot.

"In a manner of speaking, although I wouldn’t call any of this an accident."

"It wasn’t." He looked back at her. "I must say, you’re remarkably well informed."

Vera turned toward the door. "I heard those Reilly boys talking in the saloon after they’d had a belly full of whisky. Sounded like they were real proud of what they’d done. I haven’t seen them since. Looks like they left town, for awhile at least. But you never know about that bunch. They could show up any time, and if that happens, it’s best they don’t see you – at least not now. I’ll be back in a few minutes."

He had to agree. He was in no shape even to defend himself, much less to protect anyone else from three violent men. For the moment, his presence in Crossroads would best remain a secret. There would be time to take care of business with the Reillys later.

Good Lord, he thought as the drawn face in the mirror frowned back. He hadn’t looked this bad since he was a prisoner of war.

Vera returned with the shaving equipment. She filled the wash basin with hot water and laid out the various toiletry items on the vanity table. As the steam swirled up from the basin it clouded the mirror.

"I must say, you seem to be well-stocked." Clay couldn’t hide his curiosity. "I wouldn’t have expected a lady’s toilette to contain any men’s shaving necessities."

Vera smiled. "Oh, it’s not so unusual. It’s just a little service I occasionally offer to preferred customers. Some men seem to enjoy it."

"Hmmm." The notion of a woman barber seemed like a peculiar idea. On the other hand, it made perfect sense. Why not? Women were accustomed to doing almost everything else when it came to servicing a man’s needs. "It appears, m’dear, that you are a woman of many talents."

She looked up at him and winked. "You might be surprised."

No, I don’t think so, he thought. "Once, maybe, but not any more."

"I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Mosby."

"Precisely as I intended it, Miz Vera."

He picked up the shaving brush and lathered his throat below the beard line. The image that faced him resembled a ragged stranger he would have preferred not to meet on the street. As he stood before the mirror, holding the straight razor, the steam obscured his reflection and the heat that rose from the basin made his skin tingle. Several days in bed had left him weaker and shakier than he realized. For some reason, that made certain sensations feel intense and strangely distorted. As he looked into the clouded mirror, a chill fluttered through him, and for a second the razor seemed to vibrate in his hand.

He tightened his grip as he held the blade to his throat, hesitating momentarily as he waited for his hand to stop shaking. Steadying himself with a deep breath he took a careful upstroke with the razor. Almost immediately a bright red line began to seep through the white foam.

"Good Lord, Clay!" Vera gasped. "You’re going to slit your own throat – as if you weren’t sliced up enough already? Give me that thing."

She took the razor from his hand before he had a chance to protest, and laid it on the table. "If you’re so determined about this, you’d better let me do it. Here, sit down before you fall down."

There was no point in arguing, and given his condition, a straight razor was probably safer in her hand than in his. "I assure you, Miz Vera, that I am perfectly capable of performing my own ablutions. However, if you insist…." He sat down in the dainty, ruffle-trimmed chair in front of the vanity.

Vera looked content as she draped a bath linen over his shoulders. "Now, you just sit right here and let me take care of this. You’ll look like your old self in no time. Besides, I’m running low on sewing thread. I don’t want to have to use any more of it sewing up unnecessary razor cuts."

He sat uncomfortably on the edge of the chair. "Far be it from me to start an argument with a woman who’s armed and, uh, ‘dangerous’."

"Good thinking, Clay. Some old-fashioned logic for once. What a pleasant change. Now will you please relax? You’re stiff as a board."

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the queasy sensation that stirred in the pit of his stomach. Vera was perfectly capable of performing the simple task, but there was still something strange about a lady barber. She wiped the spot of blood from his throat with the corner of the linen and whisked the brush in the shaving mug.

"You’ve done this before, I take it?"

"Oh, a few times," she cooed. "Don’t worry, Clay, you’re safe with me. I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now."

His eyes followed her hand as she stroked the lather under his chin and picked up the razor. As she brought the blade close to his throat, its shiny surface caught a ray of sunlight from the open window and reflected in the mirror. A sharp glint of metal gleamed through the swirling haze of steam. The sudden flash of steel sent another tremor shuddering through him and his hand reflexively grabbed Vera’s arm. The razor dropped to the floor, but his hand remained clamped onto her wrist.

"Clay! What’s wrong?" Her voice conveyed the pain his grasp had inflicted.

He let go of her wrist, but his hand continued to shake uncontrollably. He jerked himself out of the chair and stumbled backward away from the mirror, as the walls of the room began to move in, closer and closer. Nausea churned in his stomach and bubbled up into his throat. There was no air as shadows crowded in from all sides.

Salty perspiration stung his eyes as it streamed down his face. He began to tremble convulsively as rivulets of sweat rolled down his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the room would stop turning, but a shroud of darkness began to encircle him, surrounding and smothering him as it pulled him deeper into the shadows. He barely heard Vera cry out as the floor beneath him upended, and slammed against him with a deadening thud.

Everything went numb as he descended into the soundless void.

* * *

Flickers of awareness merged together as consciousness drifted back. Clay rubbed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the merciless pounding inside his skull. Through the scattered patches of light Vera’s face slowly came into focus.

"Well, Mr. Mosby, you’ve decided to join us again, I see."

Clay lay flat on his back as his hostess hovered over him like a moth above a lamp.

"This is beginning to be a rather embarrassing habit, I’m afraid." He rolled to one side without lifting his head. The floor tilted again as the dizziness refused to let go. "I know it’s proper for a gentleman to rise when a lady is present, but perhaps you’ll allow me to dispense with that formality, just this once."

"You just fainted, Clay. That’s all. It happens."

He looked back at her, trying to reconcile the blurred edges of her face into a clearer image.

"Women faint … I do not faint."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Colonel. What was I thinking? After all, you’ve only been stabbed, stomped, and had your ass kicked over a cliff. You lost enough blood to float a barge and all you’ve eaten in the last four days is a few stale biscuits. Did you think you could just jump up all of a sudden and start racing around like nothing happened?"

Clay raised himself enough to lean on one elbow. He didn’t feel like a discussion, much less an argument, but once Vera got started it was hard to stop her.

"You may have gotten away with that when you were younger, but in case it slipped your mind, you’re not exactly a kid any more."

"Thank you so much for the reminder, Vera. I’d hate to forget something as important as that." He’d forgotten what a pain in the ass she could be, but the recollection was quickly returning. "Look here, I came to do a job and I intend to do it. Now if you’d be so kind as to help me…."

"Help you what, Clay? Get yourself killed?"

"That is not my intention."

"It never is. But you seem to attract this kind of thing."

"I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning." She could try a man’s patience like no one else, but somehow the aggravation seemed to help bring things back into focus.

"You know exactly what I mean – this reckless game you play, trying to see how near death can come to you before you manage to escape. Well, this time it came pretty close."

"It wouldn’t be the first time."

"No, but one day it will certainly be the last. What are you trying to prove, Clay? How tough and indestructible you are? Or just so damned superior that no one can touch you."

Arguing with her was a mistake. A softer approach might be better. He reached up and gently stroked her arm. "Well now, we both know better than that, don’t we?" His hand moved up her arm to her shoulder, then down to the open neckline of her dress.

"You can pretend all you want," she continued, ignoring his conciliatory gesture. "You came out here chasing one man, now you’ve got three more trying to pin your hide to the wall. Everyone has a limit – even you, whether you care to admit it or not."

"What’s your point, Vera?"

"The point is that if once in a while you stopped to think of someone besides yourself, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen on such a predictable basis."

"Well, look who has all the answers. For the record, I didn’t go looking for those sons-of-bitches. They came after me. There weren’t a lot of choices to be made."

"I suppose not." She sighed as she pulled herself upward and out of his reach. "I’m just tired of seeing men fighting and killing each other, and dying for nothing. I’m sick of it. No matter how many people die it seems like there’s just no end to it."

That was an unfortunate truth. One day it might be different, but no time soon.

"Well, I’m afraid we are all condemned to frustration and disappointment in that respect." He looked at her squarely. "Now, I’m only going to say this once. I have unfinished business to attend to, and that will take precedence over all other matters. The discussion is now closed."

"I swear," she fumed, "You men think just because you can grow hair all over your faces and piss standing up, you should automatically be masters of the whole goddamn universe!"

Vera could be difficult. Most women could. To be sure, they suffered through hardships and sorrows just as men did, often with greater endurance and fortitude. In all fairness they had a right to their own opinions. Unfortunately, some women were all too quick to exercise that right and the practice had set an unhealthy precedent. He sighed wearily, remembering why he had initially questioned the wisdom of allowing them to vote in Montana Territory.

Gentlemanly conduct dictated that there was no excuse for a man to raise his hand to a woman, but Vera’s incessant nagging could severely test that precept. Still, despite her aggravation and her picturesque way of expressing it, it was clear that Vera genuinely cared what happened to him. A whore who actually cared. It was an interesting irony.

In any case, enough was enough. He needed to finish the business he’d started. Every day he stayed was another day wasted, and he’d been cooped up too long already. He raised himself up and painfully shifted his weight onto both knees. As he forced himself into an upright position every bruise and strained muscle reminded him of the abuse he’d endured. His entire body seemed to object to the slightest attempt to move. "Stiff everywhere, except where it counts," as Vera would say.

He trudged across the room and collapsed backward onto the bed. His legs hung over the side of the mattress as he lay gazing at the ceiling. This must be how a cow felt upon learning that its reward for enduring a long, rigorous trail drive was being carved up and served on a supper plate. Having survived a deadly attack by three murderous thugs, he now found himself in the hands of a woman of equal passion and resolve. Given Vera’s temperament, it was uncertain as to which situation represented the greater peril.

He groaned as she took hold of his ankles, dragged him sideways to shift his body parallel to the mattress and dropped his legs onto the bed. "You’re truly an ‘angel of mercy’, Miz Vera. Where ever did you develop such a tender touch?"

"Oh, you’d be surprised", she countered and headed out the door.

I doubt it, he thought as he closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to subside. Very little, if anything Vera did, came as a surprise to him. In some ways she reminded him of the women he’d most admired – all of them capable individuals, even when decorum required that they appear dependent and deferential. Now, every one of them was gone.

The brief memory sapped what was left of his strength. He felt tired, but sleep only brought back images of things he’d tried not to think about, like the women he’d loved, the men he’d known and admired … the ghosts of the dead who spoke to him in his dreams … and the unnatural spirits that seemed unconstrained by distance or time.

They’d become phantoms, bent on extorting retribution for something he’d done, or had failed to do, or inflicting some cruel penance, simply for the kind of life he’d led – bizarre, inescapable demons who’d come to punish him, and no amount of regret could pacify their anger, or quell their passion for revenge.

In their crude way, the Reillys resembled such phantoms, like the McSweens before them – always striking from ambush, and for some reason, always three at a time, like some unholy trinity of the damned. They’d pursued him through brutal combat, and the terrible events that had sent him to Elmira. There, in that godless place, three other assailants had trapped him and set upon him in some fit of diabolical mania.

Goddamn dreams. They’d leave him alone for months at a time. But they always returned, and when they did it was with a vengeance. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around the room, angrily forcing the memories out of his head. There was no point in thinking about that now. There was work to do and there was no time for any more distractions or delays. First he’d find Redmond and take care of that business once and for all. Then he’d deal with the Reillys.

None of them were going anywhere – except to jail, and then, most likely, to hell.

* * *

Arrow straight shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds that drifted across the morning sky. Clay sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, focusing on the heavy, gray thunderheads that waited just beyond the mountains. He breathed in sharply as Vera rolled a new bandage around his midsection. The scrapes and superficial cuts were healing but the bruises remained as evidence of the deeper pain beneath them.

"Make it tighter," he ordered as he sucked in his breath to stave off the discomfort.

Vera leaned back to assess her handiwork. "All right, if you insist." She withdrew the end of the cloth binding, unwrapped it halfway, proceeded to pull the strip painfully taut and tied the end securely.

"How’s that?" She stood up and headed out the door before he could answer.

"Just fine," he gasped, trying to suppress his reaction as pain bolted through him. Evidently Vera was not in a talkative mood – for once. That was just fine, too. Neither was he.

It felt as if everything in his life had come to a complete halt. Between them Vera and Calley had managed to detain him for the better part of a week. It was some kind of game they’d played – first one, then the other taking a turn at distracting him from his purpose while they competed for his attention. It had given him a chance to rest but now the game was over.

He shoved his legs into his trousers and dragged them on over his drawers. Carefully, he pulled on one boot, then the other. He couldn’t remember when it took so much energy simply to get dressed. The shirt Vera had found for him to wear was a bit large, but it was serviceable. He slipped his injured arm through the wide sleeve, pulled the shirt on the rest of the way and eased the suspenders over his shoulders. It seemed like weeks since he had on a complete set of clothes. They felt bulky, but they would do for now.

Vera returned with a stack of fresh bed linens. She paused in the doorway long enough to register her disapproval, then proceeded across the room to the linen closet. "You really think you’re up to more physical activity?" she queried, as if she had not anticipated the answer.

"Indeed I am," he forced a smile as he braced for resistance, "thanks due primarily to your excellent care, if not my inordinate vitality."

The effort to sound convincing was hardly worth the strain. Vera wasn’t buying any of it. "You know, Clay, I’ve always had the impression that you liked being a fox in a henhouse."

"I suppose that’s one way of putting it." It was an interesting metaphor with an element of truth. Being the fox in a house full of hens had its privileges, but the coop was beginning to feel more like a cage. "Of course I appreciate the hospitality, but I have business that won’t wait, and I’m afraid I’ve already over-extended my welcome". Her wordless reply was punctuated by a look of pure exasperation. Under different circumstances, he’d try to be more persuasive, but there wasn’t time now.

"Vera, I need your help with one more thing." Her look of disapproval hardened as he took her arm to draw her nearer. "I need my horse saddled and brought round to the back entrance."

"Your horse?" Yesterday you could barely make it across the room. Now you’ve decided to go out for a ride. You’re out of your mind."

"That may be," his hand tightened around her arm, "but I’m also, as you may remember, your primary benefactor, and that means I get to make the decisions around here. I trust that’s fully understood?"

Her eyes widened, more in frustration than in fear.

"You have the common sense of a jackass."

"And you, my dear, have the disposition of a.…" He stopped before the words escaped.

"’Common whore’? Is that what you were about to say?"

Even if it was true it sounded crude and hurtful. But she’d driven him to do just that – to hurt her, knowing he’d feel guilty afterward – maybe guilty enough to acquiesce to her reasoning and stay a little longer. "Don’t play that game with me, Vera. I appreciate everything you’ve done – more than I can tell you – but I cannot afford to lose any more time. Now do as I ask and I’ll see that you’re amply compensated."

She pulled her arm out of his grasp with one final gesture of defiance. The game was definitely over. What reflected in her face resembled disappointment more than anger.

"Some things aren’t for sale, Clay. One day you’ll realize that." She smoothed down her dress and headed for the door. "Your horse is in the livery stable. I’ll send Calley for it." She turned and proceeded out of the room without waiting for a reply.

* * *

If the road leading to Crossroads was rough, the trail leading out of it was virtually non-existent. Recent rains had washed away most of the craggy path that wandered away from the little town and deposited rocks and other debris along the route that led northward. The visible tree line that skirted the river basin was all that was left to serve as a guideline.

Clay reined the horse to a halt as he reached the summit of a hill overlooking the Canyon River. The morning’s ride over the uneven ground had used more energy than he’d expected and the stamina he’d counted on had dissipated rapidly. His muscles ached, weakened by days of inactivity, as well as from the whole unpleasant experience that preceded them. The bay was agitated in the cold air and it was easier to rest in the saddle than to keep climbing on and off the skittish animal. On reflection it might have been wise to stay at Vera’s place one more day, but there was no point in turning back now.

He scanned the horizon, searching for signs of activity. As long as the rain continued there was no dust to reveal the whereabouts of travelers in the vicinity, but there would be tracks in the wet ground. As he reached for the canteen, the horse shifted its weight. Clay counterbalanced, but the sudden jarring motion sent pain shuddering through his body. He closed his eyes to quell the wave of dizziness that followed and grabbed onto the saddle horn until the sensation passed. He’d have to pace himself to preserve his energy. He’d ride for another hour, then rest again.

The landscape stretched outward in all directions, just as barren and inhospitable as he remembered. Just as it was when he’d been attacked and left to die only a week ago … and the year before that when a stagecoach wreck had left him stranded, alone and lost in a deadly snow storm. Miraculously, he’d survived both encounters. And now, for the second time, he’d found himself being rescued and cared for by two women. Even for a man accustomed to dealing with chance, the odds against that happening twice would be hard to calculate.

Maybe it was the thought of being at the mercy of unforgiving surroundings that had triggered all the unhappy memories. It was strangely reminiscent of his experience in the cavalry when he and his men had been forced to travel through desolate, war-ravaged country for days at a time. Deprived of sleep and even the barest comforts, they’d had to deal with enemy troop movements while under constant threat of snipers and ambushes, not to mention the dangerous business of scouting and foraging for food when rations ran low.

At the age of twenty-two he’d found himself responsible for the lives of many men, in addition to his own. It was hard to remember being that young. Now the burdens of responsibility had changed. In addition to the troubling issues at hand, there was an entire town to worry about and the myriad concerns that arose constantly. And, as Vera had so tactfully pointed out, he wasn’t twenty-two anymore.

He hung the canteen back on the saddle and looked out over the canyon. One last sweep of the terrain revealed no movement – only the slight swaying of tree tops in a distant breeze. He took a long breath and nudged the bay onward. He’d only briefly questioned the logic of embarking on another trek into this godforsaken country, and Vera had made a strong case for abandoning the quest altogether. "What are you going to do on the off chance you happen to find him, shoot him where he stands, or punch it out with that sorry old bag of bones? That’d be something to see," she’d chided, "him on his last legs and you staggering around like a sick calf. What’s the point in killing him if it means killing yourself in the process?"

Hers was a reasonable, if somewhat peevish argument that he’d disqualified in one verbal swat. "Stay out of it, Vera. You don’t understand." He’d been dismissive of her concern. But then, she hadn’t given him much choice.

A thick fog had begun to move in over the pines, slowly, like ocean waves rolling onto a quiet shore. In the distance an owl skimmed the tree tops. It paused in the air for an instant, then plunged beneath the deep green canopy. The fog rippled at the point of entry, swirled around it, and calmly settled back down to cover any evidence of intrusion into its depths.

The gray current spread outward, weaving through the trees in a filmy haze. Near the center of the pine forest a thin, vertical plume, almost like smoke, hung in the air as clouds around it drifted past. He watched the undulating ribbon curl upward, winding slowly until it too vanished above the pines.

It was smoke. Somewhere within the