Elliot Jane End Of The Trail

Jane Elliot

End of the

Trail

Manifold Press

Published by Manifold Press

Text: © Jane Elliot 2010

Cover image: © Robert Plotz | iStockphoto.com 2008

E-book format © Manifold Press 2010

____________________________________

For further details of titles

both in print and forthcoming see:

http://www.manifoldpress.co.uk

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ISBN:978-0-9565426-2-5

Acknowledgements

For Erin,

a great friend

and a wonderful editor

Proof-reading and line editing:

Thalia Communications

www.thaliacomm.net

Editor: Fiona Pickles

Characters and situations described

in this book are fictional

and not intended to portray real persons

or situations whatsoever;

any resemblances to living individuals

are entirely coincidental.

Prologue

There was a rider in the distance.

Will pulled up his horse and frowned. Everything within his
line of sight belonged to him; there shouldn't be anyone else
riding his land. There was something strange about the way
the man was riding, too: he was leaning to the side and
jerking with the horse's steps and even as Will watched the
rider slid to the side and down to the ground.

Swearing, Will kicked Brownie into a gallop.

By the time he reached the rider, the man was

attempting to stand up, using his horse's leg as a support.
Will stared for a moment, trying to imagine using Brownie's
leg like a ladder. He then imagined what it would be like to
be kicked in the head by his horse.

"You all right?" he asked the struggling man, though for the
moment he remained cautiously in his saddle.

"Fine," the man said, managing to lift himself nearly to his
knees before collapsing again. He grunted and curled up,
obviously in pain.

Will sighed and slid off his horse. The man flinched away
from his touch, and Will sighed again. "I ain't going to hurt
you. Just lie still." Once the man started cooperating, it was a
simple matter to find his injury: a bullet hole in his side. "You
need a doctor."

"No doctor," the man said through gritted teeth.

Will considered the length of the ride back into town, and
weighed it against the merits of Doc Smithson and his
massive tank of imported leeches.

"No doctor," he agreed. "Help me get you up on your horse;
I'll take you home to my wife." Between the two of them, they
got the man back

into the saddle. As Will mounted Brownie, he said,

"My name is Will. Will Connors."

The man leaned forward a hair and held out his

hand. "John," he said, his brown eyes boldly meeting Will's
green ones.

Will frowned a bit at the lack of surname but he respected a
person who would look a man in the

eye. Holding John's gaze, Will took the hand and shook it
firmly. "It's not far from here. Holler if you think you aren't
going to make it."

"I'll do that," John said, and he even managed a smile.

Already feeling a sense of misgiving, Will turned Brownie
around and led the way back to his home. Molly apparently
saw them approaching

because by the time Will helped John off of his horse and
into the house, she already had water heating on the stove.
Outside, Tommy was running to the creek with an empty
water pail in hand, his light brown hair blown back by the
wind he was

making. Tommy was small for his age but he sure could run.

"What happened?" Molly asked with the same quiet urgency
she used when one of the heifers was having a difficult birth.
A white apron marked with

the faint hint of well-washed bloodstains was tied around her
waist and she was tying a rag over her head to cover her
honey-brown hair. Will felt a swell of warmth in his chest as
he answered.

"He's been shot. Didn't want a doctor." Molly snorted softly,
her hands deftly rolling up the sleeves of her dress. "I don't
blame him. Help me get him on the bed."

In short order, they had John lying on their bed with towels
lying underneath him to protect the mattress. He'd passed
out sometime during the move, which saved him some pain
as Will removed his clothing, though it made Will's job more
difficult. He paused to rub a piece of the man's shirt between
his fingers; it was made of a soft, smooth fabric, far finer than
anything Will had ever owned, though he'd seen similar shirts
while growing up back east. Silk, he thought it was called.
The gun and belt currently draped over a chair in the corner
were also of the highest quality, and John's suit was made of
tightly woven wool. Maybe John had gotten shot while
someone was trying to rob him. The man himself was stocky
but not fat, with dark brown hair on his head, a respectable
coating of black hair on his body, and more than a few scars
marking his torso. Will rubbed a small round patch of smooth
skin high on the man's shoulder and tried to imagine why a
clearly wealthy man would be sporting an old bullet wound. Of
course, it was dangerous in the west. Maybe he made a
habit of getting robbed.

Tommy, having hauled enough water to satisfy

Molly for the moment, clattered into the room and

crowded in on the other side of the bed, his green eyes
bright with excitement. "What happened to him, Pa? Is he
going to die?"

"He's been shot," Will answered, carefully pulling John's
union suit away from the bullet wound. It wasn't as bad as
he'd feared, more of a deep gouge than a bullet hole. "He's
not going to die," he added when he saw that the wound had
stopped bleeding – a good sign. "Go help your ma." Tommy
muttered in protest, but went as ordered. Will gave up trying
to pull the union suit down John's legs and ended up using
his knife to cut the cotton off instead. The legs were just as
hairy as the chest had been and John's thighs had that heavy
muscle that came from spending hours a day in the saddle.
Will had similar muscles, though his body as a whole was
much leaner than John's and didn't have nearly as much hair.

Curious, Will picked up John's right hand: it was heavily
callused on the palm and lower fingers, probably from reins
and from holding a gun, but without any calluses on his
fingertips, which meant he wasn't a farmer or laborer (not that
either was likely with the quality of John's clothing). There
was a callus between John's index and middle finger, though,
which indicated a lot of writing. Will frowned. Generally

people who did a lot of riding and shooting didn't do much
writing.

"Couldn't wait to see me naked?" John said, his eyes still
closed.

Will started and dropped John's hand, but John

said nothing else and eventually Will decided the man had
just experienced a moment of delirium.

Probably imagined Will was someone else.

As soon as Will stepped back from the bed, Molly took over.
She drenched the wound in whiskey (a small bottle, strictly
reserved for medicinal purposes), then sewed up the gouge.
Once she was satisfied with the stitches, she poured more
whiskey over the wound and wrapped John's torso with
bandages she'd boiled on the stove. "There," she said when
she was done, wiping her bloody hands on her apron. "It's up
to him now." Will and Molly were both quiet that night at
dinner, which was more than made up for by Tommy's
chatter as he came up with increasingly improbable stories
to explain John's injury, from a simple case of him being at
the wrong place at the wrong time to his most outlandish
theory: that John was really John Anderson, shot in one of his
infamous stagecoach robberies. "Enough," Molly finally said,
as Tommy speculated that maybe John had been shot by his

own gang, caught in the crossfire as Indians tried to steal the
stagecoach away from them. "Time to go make up a bed in
the barn." Tommy's protests were firmly overridden and he

sulked his way outside, Molly following him with an armful of
bedding. Will shook his head. Usually a night in the barn was
a treat for the boy.

When Molly came back, she had a small smile

on her face. "You know, this means we'll be sleeping in
Tommy's bed."

Tommy's very small bed. Will grinned back.

As they hurried their way into the small lean-to attached to
the side of the house, Will asked,

"Indians?"

"Too many dime novels," Molly whispered back, wrapping
Will's hand in her own work-roughened

but still beautiful fingers and leading him to the bed.

The inevitable infection kept John in bed for nearly a week.
By the end of that time, he was clearly getting irritable,

though he hid it well around Molly and Tommy. For some
reason, he didn't seem to feel the need to hide his temper
from Will, however, which sometimes resulted in sharp
conversations:

"I brought you some more tea."

"I don't want any tea," John said petulantly. "It tastes foul."

Will rolled his eyes. "You sound like Tommy."

"Smart lad, Tommy."

"It'll make you feel better," Will cajoled.

"I'm not eight, Will," John said grumpily.

"Could've fooled me," Will retorted. "I put honey in it."

John's mouth, undoubtedly primed for another argument,
snapped shut. "Well," he said grudgingly. "As long as it's just
one cup." Will smirked and passed the mug over.

Tea-related arguments aside, John was a good

guest overall. He made Molly smile with small jokes,
entranced Tommy with adventure stories that Will was
privately convinced were shameless tall tales, and even
helped with small chores around the house as soon as he

was well enough to do so. Still, Will couldn't help but wish that
he'd get his bed back sometime soon. Tommy's small bed
was

conducive to some activities, but sleeping wasn't one of
them.

Two days after John's fever broke, Will decided it was safe
to check on the cattle and maybe do a bit of work on the
extra hay shed he was building in the winter pasture. Running
this ranch without hired hands was a challenge, but it was
small enough to be doable with Molly and Tommy's help and
money was still tight.

He was on his way back to the house when he

heard the gunshots. Swearing under his breath, his heart
racing, Will kicked Brownie into a gallop, knowing he was
too far away, that there was no way he could get back in
time, that his wife and son were probably already dead, or
worse.

The house was quiet when Brownie slid to the

stop, Will already halfway off the horse's back. He burst
inside the front door to see Molly, Tommy, and John all sitting
around the table. Molly and Tommy were both white faced
and Molly's hair was down around her shoulders, but no one
seemed to be bleeding and a frantic search of the room

didn't reveal any dangerous outlaws waving weapons, though
John was sitting with a straight back and tense shoulders
and his eyes were flicking around the room as if searching
for more enemies.

Will's breath caught in his throat as he saw a lump on the
floor, near the back window. It was surrounded by a
spreading puddle of blood.

"What happened?" he forced out.

Before Will finished speaking, Molly and Tommy

had launched themselves out of their chairs and were
hugging him tightly, which left John to

answer, "Thieves, I think, looking for easy targets. They saw
an isolated ranch without a bunkhouse

and decided to see what they could get."

"There were five of 'em, pa," Tommy said and despite
everything, Will managed a tiny smile. Even with tears in his
eyes, Tommy's enthusiasm was irrepressible. "They all had
guns, and they wanted Mama to show them the barn."

Will's eyes widened and he snapped his head around to look
at Molly. "John stopped them," she said, her voice shaky and
occasionally breaking. "I thought I'd scared them off with the

shotgun, but they just went around to the back. One of them
grabbed T-tommy before I could reload and he said he'd let
Tommy go if I... but then John... John –"

"He was amazing, Dad," Tommy cut in. "He shot the guy who
was holding me. Didn't even hesitate, just lifted the gun and
said, 'you shouldn't've come here'. Then he pulled the trigger
and the bad guy jerked and –" Molly shushed him, having
apparently heard as much as she could bear.

Will tightened his grip, holding his family close as he looked
up to find John watching them with shadowed eyes. "Thank
you," he said. "Thank you." John offered a tight smile in
return and quietly left the room.

Will let him go, all of his attention back on his family.

A week later, John emerged from the bedroom

wearing the clothes that he had arrived in. Molly had washed
and repaired them, but they hung a bit on John's frame; he'd
only recently started to regain

the weight that he'd lost in that first week. "Oh," Molly said,
when she caught sight of John. "You're not leaving already,
are you?"

"I've trespassed on your hospitality long enough," John said,
with a charming smile. Molly looked like she wanted to argue

for a moment but after taking a hard look at John, she just
shook her head. "I'll pack up something for your lunch."

John's smile turned warmer and noticeably more

genuine. "Thank you, Molly."

She just harrumphed in reply and pulled out the cookie jar.
John positively beamed.

Will found himself wanting to smile at the scene, but he
managed to restrain himself. "You sure you're fit to ride?"

"I've ridden in much worse condition than this," John said,
pulling his eyes away from the cookie jar with obvious
reluctance. "Thank you both for taking such good care of me.
I won't forget it."

"Come back anytime," Molly said with a smile, wrapping up
a couple of apples, a loaf of bread, and some salt pork to
along with the cookies. "You're always welcome here."

"Thank you again, Molly," John said with a smile and a small
bow. "Will." Another smile, though no bow. "I'll be sure to find
Tommy and say goodbye before I go."

John walked out the front door and Will watched him go, with
the realization that he'd probably never see John again.

Two days later, he went into town. On the poster

board next to the post office was a new wanted poster, for
"the notorious murderer and stage robber" John Anderson. A
$500 reward was offered. The picture beneath was of John.

Chapter 1

It was nearly three years later when Will heard from John
Anderson again. As it happened, he was on the roof of his
barn and he damn near fell off at the sound of John's
greeting.

"Careful, Will," he heard John say and the words were
accompanied by the scratching sound of wood on wood as
the ladder was pulled away from the

building. Since Will could barely get to the ground

with

the

assistance of the ladder, he was pretty well stranded.

Well, hell.

He considered his options and, with a resigned

sigh, decided that the best thing he could do right now was
act like outlaws came and stole his ladder every day of the
week. So often, in fact, that ladderstealing was barely worth
a moment's irritation and certainly not the cause for any kind
of anxiety. With that in mind, he twisted about until his head
was hanging over the eave.

"What do you want, Anderson?"

A flash of disappointment passed over John's face. "So you

found out."

"Hard not to, with those wanted posters pasted all over town.
What do you want?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think I want
anything?"

Will glared at him.

"Well, dinner would be nice," John allowed, and

Will had to admit the man looked a bit thinner than he
remembered. His hair was longer, too, and his clothes more
dusty, but he still stood tall and his dark brown eyes never
wavered off of Will's face as he spoke.

Will scowled. "Then put the damn ladder back up so's I can
get down." John just crossed his arms and made no
movement towards the ladder. Will sighed. "I haven't
forgotten what you did for my family. Besides, Molly
promised that you'd always be welcome. I ain't going to go
back on that."

"Where is Molly?" John asked. "I knocked on the front door,
but no one answered."

"She died," John bit out. "Two winters ago." John paled. "I'm

sorry to hear about." There was an awkward pause, before
John added, "What about your boy?"

"Back east, with his aunt."

John considered that. "What about visitors? Get many folks
stopping by?"

"We're four miles from town!"

"That's not too far for a friendly visit," John said. There was
some truth to that statement; when Molly had been alive folks
were coming by the house nearly every week. Will hadn't
been very sociable after Molly's death, however, and four
miles was an awful long way to come to be ignored.

"Haven't had a visitor in over a year," Will finally said.

John nodded. "Move away from the eave." Will cautiously did
so and John promptly lifted the ladder back up against the
side of the barn. He held it steady as Will laboriously made
his way

down.

"Thanks," Will said gruffly when his feet were safely on the
ground. More than once he'd fallen the last few feet, thanks to
the shaky ladder and his nearly useless leg, but faced with

the prospect of struggling through on his own or hiring help
from town, he'd opted to struggle.

"What happened to your leg?" John said and Will was
surprised to hear honest concern in the question.

"Mud slide," Will said gruffly. John stared at him pointedly.
Will sighed. "It was after one of the spring storms. I was
walking on the butte at the edge of the property, deciding the
best place to put in a fence, when the trail just slid right out
from under me. Fell onto some rocks. Neighbor found me the
next day, brought the doctor."

John nodded but didn't say anything. The two of them stood
there for a few moments, Will awkwardly wondering what
John wanted, and John

looking as calm and unperturbed as he ever had.

"I'll make a deal with you," John finally said. Will's eyes
narrowed. "What kind of deal?"

"A fair one. Put me up for the night and I'll help you fix your
roof tomorrow."

Will didn't know what to make of that. The last time that John
had stayed with them, he'd helped out with minor chores:
feeding the chickens, setting the table, drying the dishes.

Easy chores, the ones they usually saved for Tommy. Chores
that weren't likely to blister his soft fingers. Will couldn't quite
imagine John doing physical labor. "Really?"

"Have you ever known me to say something I

didn't mean?"

Will sighed. "Guess I haven't." He looked up at the roof, still a
long ways from finished, and considered how much faster it
would go with an extra set of hands. Then he thought of Molly
and sighed again. "You've got yourself a deal." John smiled
again. "Thank you, Will."

"Please don't mention it," Will muttered as he stumped his
way into the house to build up the fire. He wasn't as good a
cook as Molly had been, but Will managed to put together a
respectable meal of salt pork, beans, and corn biscuits.
Undoubtedly John was used to something fancier, but he sat
down and set to like it was a grand feast.

Dinner was eaten in awkward silence. Awkward

on Will's part, anyway. John seemed to be enjoying himself
immensely, cleaning his plate down to the drippings and then
serving himself up a second helping. Will watched with
raised eyebrows and finally asked, "When was the last time
you ate, anyway?"

"Noon. Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Not many safe places between Mexico and here."

Will shook his head. "Would've thought it'd be safer for you to
stay in Mexico."

"Depends on what you consider safe," John said, mopping
up the last of his gravy with a biscuit. Will didn't know what to
say to that, so he changed the subject. "You can have
Tommy's bed." He gestured toward the tiny room that he and
Molly had shared when John was here last. These

days he was mostly using it for storage, though the bed was
still clear. The linens were probably gritty with dust by now,
but Will didn't offer to shake them out. He didn't want John to
get too comfortable. John just smiled and carried his dishes
to the sink. Before Will's surprised eyes, John poured a few
cups of water into the basin, picked up the soap, and
proceeded to do the washing up. He was halfway finished
before Will thought to protest, but it hardly mattered as John
completely ignored him and in the end the dishes were
washed cleaner and faster than Will had ever managed on
his own.

Normally, Will worked late into the night until he was so

exhausted that he passed out on the bed he and Molly had
shared. Thanks to John, he'd finished early and he wasn't
nearly tired enough to go to sleep, which was how he found
himself sitting by the table, watching as John sketched by the
precious light of a single candle.

"That's not bad," Will said, when the silence got to be too
much for him. It was funny – he'd spent the last couple of
years going weeks without saying a word but the moment
someone else was in the

house, he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut.

"I've gotten better," John said, eyeing his drawing critically.
"Easier when you have a solid surface to work on." He
looked up suddenly, catching and holding Will's gaze. "I
notice you didn't say grace tonight."

Will scowled. That's what he got for opening his mouth.
"Haven't had much to say to God, lately. Not much that's
polite."

"I would've thought you'd be thanking him for

not taking your leg," John said mildly, setting his sketchbook
aside. "Limp like that, it's a miracle you still have it."

"Curse is more like it," Will growled. "Damn thing barely

works. I should've let them take it off." John eyed Will for a
few silent seconds, long enough that Will had to fight the urge
to shift in his seat. "I didn't know Molly for very long," John
said finally. "But I know she would've been damn angry to
hear you say something like that."

"Well she ain't here, is she?" Will retorted, lurching upright
and did his best to stomp out of the room with only one good
leg. He would've slammed the door, but the house had
shifted and the door didn't hang right anymore, which meant
it wouldn't shut. Will tried to ignore that fact as he jerked off
his boots and his outer clothes and threw them to the other
side of the room. It was a stupid display but it burned off
enough anger that he didn't send his lamp along after them.
Tired and frustrated, Will stretched out on the mattress and
tried his best to pretend he was alone in the cabin. They
worked on the barn roof most of the next

day and while Will had to admit that John did his best, it was
clear the man had never done anything as mundane as
building repairs, which meant there was still a fair bit left to
do when they stopped for the night. John was a fast learner
though, and once he picked up the basics the two of them
were working faster than Will could have managed on his
own. Besides, with John holding the ladder Will was willing to
risk the climb more than once a day.

It meant the difference between a hot lunch and no lunch at all

and Will no longer had to resort to pissing off the roof if he
didn't want to quit working for the day.

John announced that he was going to cook lunch

and Will didn't protest. If John proved to be a good cook,
then Will would encourage him to make dinner as well.

Unfortunately, John did not prove to be a good

cook. The beans were strangely sweet, the dried beef
somehow even more leathery than when John

had put it on to boil, and the biscuits were burned on the
outside and raw on the inside. Will choked down what he
could and tried not to laugh as John glared at the stove as if
it had personally betrayed him. If that glare had been
directed at a person, blood would likely have been shed but
Will figured the stove was safe.

Still, the thought was a good reminder of who

John was and Will felt his amusement die. John may have
never raised a hand to Will's family but Will couldn't let
himself forget that the man and his gang had killed dozens of
stagecoach guards in the course of their robberies. "Should I
be expecting the law to show up looking for you?" he asked,
shoving away the rest of his food. The pigs would take care

of it.

John raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning on telling 'em I'm
here?" His voice carried a hint of affable menace that it
probably held just before he killed a stagecoach guard.

Will scowled and decided to keep his questions

to himself.

The next day, they finished up the barn's roof in the middle of
the afternoon and John suggested that the corral could use
some work. Will couldn't exactly argue the point – when not in
his stall, Brownie had been restrained to the lead for the last
few months and he was getting irritable.

While John began digging holes, Will went to inspect his
supply of posts. They had been stored in the barn and it
appeared that one of the holes in the roof had been nearly on
top of them, because they were gray and cracked with
exposure.

Will ran his fingers over the weathered wood with a frown.
His first thought was that these posts were better fit for
firewood than a fence – it was doubtful they'd last the year.
Common sense told him he should ride into town and get

fresh wood, otherwise he'd find himself mending his corral
again before the year was out.

His second thought was a memory: the quiet menace in
John's voice as he'd asked, "Are you planning on telling 'em
I'm here?"

Will sighed and carried the old wood out to where John was
waiting.

That night, over a dinner of pancakes (John's request –
apparently the man still had a sweet tooth), John asked, "Are
you afraid to die?" Will's fork clattered against his plate, but
he managed to keep his voice calm as he answered,

"Should I be?"

"Most people are."

That wasn't quite what Will had meant with his

question, so he stayed quiet.

John's eyes narrowed. "Do you really think I'm fixing to kill
you? After repairing your barn and working on your corral?"

Put like that, Will didn't really think so, but just to be contrary

he answered, "Job's easier with two. Labor's free."

John stared at him. "You really must think highly of this heap
of dirt you call a ranch." Now that stung. "I've got money in the
bank," Will snapped back. "Is that what you're here for?"

"No!" John shouted.

"Then why are you here?" Will all but yelled. The room
suddenly got very quiet. John sat back in his chair. "Mexico
was getting a bit crowded," he said with an off-handed air
that Will didn't believe for a second.

What the hell did that mean? "The law?"

"Worse," John said with a sardonic smirk.

"Upstarts." Will's face must've shown his confusion, because
John said, "Fastest way to gain a reputation is to kill a man
who already has one."

Will didn't believe that excuse for a second.

"Then why come here?"

John's smile grew a bit more real. "Honestly? I'd planned on
throwing myself on the mercy of your wife."

That still didn't answer the question. Did John think that Will

was just too dumb to see the misdirection? "What about the
town?" he pushed.

"They know what you look like; that you're an outlaw."

John sighed. "Everyone knows what I look like,

Will. My wanted poster hangs in every jail and telegram office
from California to the Mississippi and my bounty's the
second highest in the country. Not a lot of places I can go
where people aren't looking to shoot me on sight."

Will nodded slowly. Out of everything that John had said
since he'd arrived, that was the one statement he found
easiest to believe.

John's eyes suddenly locked on Will's. "And I thought you
said no one from town ever came out here."

"That's true," Will said. To himself, he admitted that he could
use a second hand on the ranch. Out loud, he just said
casually, "The pasture fence could use work."

John raised his eyebrows. "Could it now?" Will ate a piece of
pancake by way of reply.

After dinner, Will went into the second bedroom to haul out
his bedroll and he raised his eyebrows at the neatness of the

room. John had apparently been busy when Will had thought
he'd been sleeping – the room was cleaner than it had been
in years. The floor was swept, Will's supplies were neatly
stacked along the walls and it even looked like John might
have dusted. Even the bed was made, though the sheets still
looked brownish with grit. Laundry wasn't something that
could be done quietly in the middle of the night, but Will
suddenly found himself wondering if John were as adept with
a wash basin as he was with a broom. He nearly smiled at
the thought of letting someone else fight with the piece of shit
wringer that Molly had managed to use with such ease.

As Will carefully checked the content of his bedroll for
spiders and scorpions, he realized that he'd been making
some very foolish assumptions about John Anderson. For
one thing, despite the fine material of his clothes and the lack
of calluses on his fingers, John probably hadn't come from
money. Most outlaws didn't, though a few had. Still, the
assumption of John's privileged origins had been squatting
in the back of his mind ever since he'd first met the man,
which was why John kept surprising him. Rich kids didn't
learn to sweep or to dust or to make up their beds. Hell, even
middle class kids didn't learn those things – Will's parents
had had a full-time maid and a part-time cook as well as a
woman who came by every week

to help out with the laundry, and Will's dad had only been a
clerk, albeit a senior one.

That meant John had been poor. Probably very

poor if his ma couldn't even afford a scullery maid to do the
dishes and scrub the floors. He couldn't cook, though, which
meant he likely had sisters or that he was from back east.
Maybe both, as Western mothers knew how hard it was to
find a

ready-made meal west of Missouri and made sure

their sons were prepared to fend for themselves. Will only
learned to cook because Molly had decided to start teaching
Tommy.

Will rolled up his blanket and opened his saddlebags for
inspection. He could imagine a poor Eastern boy coming
west in the hopes of finding adventure and opportunity and
falling in with a bad crowd. It would be so easy for an
innocent kid to get soured by bad company.

At that point in his thoughts, Will huffed in annoyance. He
knew what he was doing; he was

making excuses for the killer currently staying under his roof.
Even if John had been an innocent child once, he'd long
since made his choices. Whatever John had once been, he
was a thief now, and a murderer.

A thief and a murderer who had treated Will's

family with kindness and respect, who had saved Will's son,
and who had been promised shelter by Will's late wife.

With a quiet grunt, Will cleared his thoughts and focused on
packing up his supplies. And if a second bag of sugar
happened to make its way into the saddlebags, well, Molly
did always say that cornbread came out better with a bit of
sugar in the mix.

The fence was in terrible shape. Will knew he'd let it go
longer than he should have, but even two years of neglect
couldn't explain whole sections of the fence pulled down. He
was going to have to do a headcount of his cattle – it'd be a
miracle if he hadn't lost any.

Out loud, he merely growled, "Grady." John glanced over.
"Grady?"

"He owns the next ranch over to the east," Will said flatly.
"He's been pushing me to sell." John's attention turned back
to the fence. "I could take care of him for you."

That cut through the haze of anger like nothing else could
have. "What do you mean by that?"

"I think you know."

Will pressed his lips together until they ached.

"No," he gritted out. "No. Molly promised you shelter and so
you can stay with me as long as you need to, but if you kill
someone else then we're done. I'll turn you in myself."

A strange expression flashed across John's face, one that
Will would have almost called pleased, if that had made any
sense. Then the mask of cool affability was firmly in place
again. "Fair enough, Will. I promise not to kill anyone while
staying with you, except in self-defense."

Will's eyes narrowed at the qualifier but he couldn't exactly
order a man not to defend himself, so he gave a reluctant
nod of agreement.

That night they camped next to a tiny spring near the north
end of Will's ranch. It didn't produce enough water for a
homestead or else Will would have seriously considered
moving his home closer, but it was enough for a comfortable
camp. Will filled up his canteen the moment they stopped

and took a long drink with deep satisfaction. The spring was
sweet and cold and nothing like the muddy creek the town
called a river. Nearby, the horses settled in to decimate the
tiny patch of green grass that lived near the spring; they didn't
get green grass often and were so focused on their eating
that they didn't even seem to notice John stripping off their
gear.

The two men were nearly silent as they set up

camp and as Will started a small cook fire, he wondered at
how he and John were working together more smoothly after
less than a week than Will had after a month with Molly's
family and far

more smoothly than Will had ever managed in the three
years he'd spent as a junior clerk. It was a bit unsettling the
way Will knew without asking that John was going to take
care of the horses, just as John apparently knew that Will
was going to take care of the fire.

Will frowned at that last thought and deliberately blanked his
mind as he finished building up the small blaze and went off
to find more wood.

Later, he lay on his bedroll on the opposite side of the flames
from John, staring up at the stars. They were so much
brighter here than they had been in Philadelphia, and when

the Connors family had first moved out west they'd spent
many a night sitting outside, gaping at the night sky. That had
been a long time ago, though, and Will couldn't remember
the last time he'd taken the time to appreciate the beauty of
starlight.

On the other side of the fire, John suddenly rolled on his side.
"Will? How did Molly die?" Will blinked, surprised at the
sudden question.

"Why?"

"Just curious. She seemed like a strong woman." Will's lips
twitched a bit at that description. Molly had been a strong
woman, and damn proud

of that fact. His brief attempt at a smile disappeared entirely
as he answered, "The winter after you stayed with us, she got
the influenza. She made it, but her lungs were damaged and
when she was hit with ague a year later..." Will sighed. He
still remembered every minute of that last, horrible night:
sitting in an uncomfortable chair right next to the bed, holding
Molly's hand as her wheezing

breaths grew more and more labored, until that final, pained
gasp; the terrible silence that followed; Tommy coming into
the room in the early morning light, rubbing red-rimmed eyes
as he asked after his mama.

Will blinked rapidly to quiet the sudden sting in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Will grunted. The lump in his throat made it hard to do much
else.

"Is that when your boy left?"

Will swallowed a couple of times, the nodded.

"Molly's sister came and took Tommy."

"A sister?" John sounded intrigued, and maybe just a bit
amused. "Was she pretty?" Will scowled reflexively at the
memory of Mrs.

Charlotte Rutherford's garish clothes and haughty sneer.
"No." Frankly, if Will had been in any shape at all to take care
of a young boy, he'd have refused to let Mrs. Rutherford take
Tommy. As it was, he sometimes wondered if he'd made a
mistake in letting his son go back east.

"Pity," John said and from the rustling noises it sounded like
he'd rolled over onto his back. "Any women since then?"

Will's eyes widened and he snapped his head to

the side to stare at John. "That's not any of your goddamn
business."

John stared back innocently. "Touchy subject?" Will just
growled, turned his back on John, and tried his best to go to
sleep.

The next morning they ran into the cattle just

south of the winter pasture and Will did his headcount while
trying to ignore the way John was shaking his head at him.
Will knew it was foolish to leave his cattle entirely
unattended, fence or no fence, but he wasn't budging on the
subject of hired hands. A herd as small as Will's wasn't much
of a temptation for rustlers. Besides, cowherds were
expensive, between the food, pay, and lodgings. Will wasn't
entirely sure his land could support a herd large enough to
pay for extra help.

The count came up three short. "Damn."

"Missing anything?"

Will shot him a glare. "Two cows and a steer." The steer
would be missed, as it had just reached the age to be sold to
the stockyards, but the cows were the real loss. A steer drew
the greater price from the stockyards, but cows produced
new sources of income each year.

"How large is your herd?"

With or without the missing cattle?

Will thought sourly.

"Ninety-eight today. In a few weeks, I'll be taking thirty or so
to Bisbee for auction."

"By yourself?" John asked with an insulting level of disbelief.

"I managed it by myself last year," Will shot back. He didn't
feel the need to add that he'd only had ten that year. The two
hundred dollars he'd gotten for that lot was just about gone
and soon he was going to have to make a decision between
slaughtering one of his cows (maybe that brown one with a
white spot --it'd been two years since she'd thrown a calf) or
dipping into his savings.

That was another thing John didn't need to

know.

John stared out over the herd. "Aren't you supposed to have
a dog of some sort to help with this?"

Will stared at him in disbelief. "That's for sheep."

"Hm. I could've sworn I'd heard about cattle dogs."

"Molly's family never used dogs," Will said defensively.

John continued to stare at the cattle for a moment before
asking thoughtfully, "How do you get them to move?"

Will rolled his eyes. "It's not hard. Just ride behind them,
making noise. They know where they're supposed to be."

"In that case, we should split up. I'll take the west." Off Will's
confused look, he added, "Unless we're planning on giving
up the animals without even looking for them."

"But –"

"After all, if one man can drive thirty cattle fifty miles, it can't
be that hard to drive one over a few acres."

Will glared at John. John smirked back. "Fine," Will gritted
out. "

I'll

take the west," he added, just to be contrary.

"You're the boss," John answered. He turned and rode off
before Will could answer.

Alone but for the cattle, Will turned west. As his eyes
flickered automatically over the landscape, his mind kept
coming back to the way John had said

'unless

we're

on giving up the animals'.

We're

. As in

It was starting to dawn on Will that John wasn't going to be
leaving anytime soon. That begged the question, which was
more dangerous: taking John on the cattle drive to Bisbee or
leaving him at Will's ranch alone?

Dammit. He needed better options.

Will found one of the cows and was busy driving her back to
the herd when he saw John riding in from the opposite
direction at a flat run. "Will," he called. "I found them, but
one's hurt."

"Hell," Will said under his breath and kicked his horse into a
gallop.

They found the steer and the cow huddled together in the lee
of a large boulder, clearly having decided that in lieu of a
large group, they'd settle for a herd of two. The cow was
standing on three legs, but as Will watched the back left leg
went back down to the ground. The cow moaned and

lifted the leg back up again.

"Damn." Well, at least Will wasn't going to have to take any
money out of savings, but he had a feeling this situation was
about to get tense. "John, how long were you planning on
staying?"

John's face suddenly went blank. "Tired of me already, Will?"

Will sighed. "The cow's gonna have to be slaughtered, but
there's no way she'll make it back to the corral. I'll need to get
Jesse's wagon and he's not likely to let me take it alone."

"Jesse?"

"Jesse Harper. He owns a homestead north of here, with a
smokehouse. He'll smoke the meat for

a haunch."

"And you and this Harper are friendly?"

"Friendly enough that he'll expect to come in for coffee."
Where he'd undoubtedly see the bed made up in the boy's
room and the extra dishes by the sink. Will shook his head
and added, "He was the one who found me after the mud
slide and who fetched the doctor. I'm not going to refuse him
hospitality."

John narrowed his eyes and stared at Will for a moment.
"How long will it take for you to get to Harper's place and
back?"

"Couple of hours. Wagon's heavy."

"And how long does it take to smoke a cow?"

"Four, five days."

John nodded. "I'll be cleared out by the time you get back
with the wagon."

Will blinked. He hadn't thought John would be

that easy to get rid of. "Where will you go?" John shrugged. "I
have some supplies buried up north."

"Buried?" Will asked in disbelief.

"Never know when you'll need supplies," John said. "An
outlaw's life is a dangerous one."

"Then why do it?"

"Because... there are worse lives." John turned his horse.
"See you in a week, Will." Will could only gape as John rode
away.

Chapter 2

The week that followed was one of the longest of Will's life.
He'd gotten surprisingly used to John's presence in the
house, to having someone sitting across on the other side of
the dinner table each night, to having a second pair of hands
helping with chores around the ranch. Evenings dragged on
interminably and Will tripped over his own leg on the first day
more often than he had the whole of the previous week.

After eight days, Will was starting to wonder if John were
coming back. The thought spawned a

heavy weight in his belly, a weight that didn't go away no
matter how much Will pretended it didn't exist.

He'd just about decided that he was alone again when he
heard a horse snort outside, combined with the sound of...
clucking?

Will hustled outside as fast as he could. John was still on his
horse, with a feather-filled cage tied to the top of his
saddlebags.

"Is that a chicken?"

"Nope," John said, sliding off his horse with an ease that Will
envied. "It's three chickens." Will stared askance at the

poultry. "You're the one prepping them for dinner."

"They're not for eating," John said, dragging the cage down.
"Got the beef smoked?"

"Yeah." Deciding that the best course of action

was to pretend that the chickens weren't actually there, Will
added, "I got the fence posts." John tensed. "You went into
town."

Will stared at him. "W – I needed wood. And flour and sugar
and beans. Can't live on salt pork and smoked beef forever."

John just turned and walked into the house. Will watched him
go, doing his best to quell his irritation. Then he went to take
the crate of chickens into the barn.

They worked separately over the next few days,

Will on the fence and John on a chicken coop. The fence was
finished first, primarily because John rebuilt the coop three
times before he was satisfied with it. The final product was,
Will had to admit, the sturdiest, best-built, and largest
chicken coop he had ever seen. Apparently John was
anticipating raising a whole flock of chickens. Will made a
mental note to look into what kind

of chicken feed they had next time he went into town.

Maybe because they spent so much time apart

during the day, they started to get a bit chatty while engaged
in their separate pursuits at night.

"Will, did you know that a chicken can lay up to three hundred
eggs a year?" John asked as he sketched what was
undoubtedly a picture of a chicken. It seemed to be his
favorite subject of late. Will grunted and turned the page on
his book. It was one of the dime novels that Tommy had left
behind and it wasn't bad. He made a note to

mention that in his next letter to Tommy and to pick up a few
more books next time he was in town, preferably ones with
larger text. Good as the book was, squinting at the page was
giving him a headache.

"I heard chickens need meat to make that many eggs," John
added, lighting a fresh candle off of the dying stub of the
previous one. Will sighed and put candles on his mental
shopping list. "Maybe we should feed them some of the
beef."

"Beef?" Will asked absently, his eyes glued to the page as
Jesse James burst into a bank and pulled out his gun. He
wondered if John had ever robbed a bank. If he had, Will'd

lay down good money that John did it better than James.

"And greens," John said. "Chickens love greens." Will
looked up at that. "You're making that up."

"Honest truth," John said, shading in something at the top of
his page. "Didn't you ever raise chickens?"

"Grew up in Philadelphia," Will said. "Not a lot of chickens."

John looked up, his face full of disbelief. "You're from the
city?"

"Born and raised." John kept staring at him, so he added,
"Molly's family were farmers. They taught me how to handle
cattle."

"But not chickens."

Will felt his cheeks warm just a bit. "The women took care of
the chickens." He focused on his book rather than see John's
response to that statement. The response appeared to be
silence, at least for a few minutes until John asked, "What do
you

think?"

Will glanced up as John ripped the last page off of his pad
and held up a perfectly respectable drawing of a chicken.

Damn. Now they needed paper, too.

"I need to go to town," Will announced. At the table, John
stiffened. "You just went last week."

"That was before you built a chicken coop with the wood I
bought for winter repairs," Will said pointedly. Then,
sweetening the deal, "We're also out of sugar and paper."

John sat still, very still, for several seconds, before reaching
into the pocket of his coat and pulling out a thick roll of bills.
He set the money down on the table without saying anything.

Will stared at the pile of notes. There had to be ten thousand
dollars sitting right there in front of him. More money than Will
could make in a decade, and John had just laid it out in the
middle of the table as if it were nothing. "Why are you here?"
Will finally asked, his voice hoarse. "You could go anywhere
with that kind of money, anywhere you wanted to go."

"I told you why I was here," John said. "Not many towns
where I can avoid my wanted poster."

"You could

buy

a town with that kind of money," Will snapped

back.

John's eyes narrowed. "I've been in a bought town before,"

he growled, glaring at the money as if it had just insulted his
mother.

Feeling a hint of fear for the first time since John

had come back with a crateful of chickens, Will gritted his
teeth and forced himself to ask, "Need anything besides
paper?"

At the general store, Will tried to avoid Mrs. Potter's eye as
he handed over his latest letter to Tommy and proceeded to
order nearly three times his usual amount of sugar, a pad of
paper, and a handful of books. He was studying the penny
candy options when Mrs. Potter's patience apparently broke.
"Have a guest?" Will started. "Why do you ask that?"

"Why you're ordering so much more food than usual and the
sugar and the books and –"

Will could barely believe what came out of his

mouth next. "Molly used to make sugar cookies." Mrs.
Potter's eyes grew wide and limpid. "Oh, my dear boy."

Will tried very hard not to wince.

"And those sweets – I remember Thomas used to love the
butterscotch the best." Without a word from Will, she

proceeded to weigh out a dime's worth of candies into a
paper cone. "No charge for these, dear."

"Thanks, Mrs. Potter," Will said, his heart in his throat. He
sighed and added, "Would you happen to know anything
about raising chickens?"

Apparently, Mrs. Potter had spread the word that Will was
feeling nostalgic for the benefits of family life because by the
time he left town, Will's wagon was creaking under the weight
of pies, stews, cookies, fresh bread, and even a small cream
cheese. He was going to have to make another trip

to town just to return all of the dishes. He'd have to do it soon,
too, if he didn't want to risk someone using a dish as an
excuse to get sociable. Will didn't want to think about how
John would react if a visitor showed up at the cabin door.

At dinner, Will gorged himself on stew and soft bread and
John ate most of a pie all by himself. "I changed my mind
about you going into town," John said, pushing back from the
table and rubbing his belly. "You should go every week."

Will snorted. "Don't expect this every time. I had to explain
why I was ordering so much more

sugar than usual and... I might've used Molly's name." He felt
his cheeks flush with shame. Molly deserved a damn sight

better than to have her memory used to hide that Will was
harboring an outlaw. And a killer. He had to remember that
John was a killer, no matter how much Will... liked him.

Will sighed. Dammit, he

did

like John. The man may be an

outlaw and a thief and a killer, but he was also hard working,
good company and surprisingly kind, even if his kindness
seemed to be limited primarily to Will himself.

Maybe it was time to wipe the slate clean. Not to forget,
never to forget, but maybe to put aside John's past, the past
that had nothing to do with Will, and focus on the fact that
John was Will's guest, that he was helping to fix up Will's
ranch, that he shared Will's table, and, most of all, that he had
promised Will to never kill again.

Except in self-defense. But you couldn't ask a man for more
than that, could you?

, Will told himself firmly.

No, you couldn't

. That night, Will

had a nightmare. He'd had them on and off again after Molly
died and then again after he'd nearly lost his leg, but it'd
been over a year since his last one. They were even more
disturbing than he'd remembered, though the details were
hazy and quickly forgotten: nameless, formless figures
covered in blood and death and misery.

John didn't say anything the next morning, but

the way he kept staring at Will was a good sign that Will had
been screaming in his sleep. It wouldn't have been the first
time.

Nothing was said that day, however, and when

Will woke up with a sore throat a couple of mornings later,
nothing was said then either.

In the end, the decision of whether or not to take John to
Bisbee was taken right out of Will's hands when one night at
dinner John asked, "So, when do we take the cattle south?"

Will tried to stare John down, for all the good that did him,
and in the end he sighed and gave in.

"Monday."

"How long will it take?"

Will shrugged. "Four days if nothing goes wrong."

"So the auction's on Friday?"

"Saturday."

John nodded approvingly. "So we should be back Sunday."

Will hesitated. They could be back by Sunday,

but... "Last year I stayed a couple of nights." And visited a
whorehouse, not that John needed to know that. It had been
the first time he'd lain with a woman since Molly's death and
he'd been so desperate for human contact that his eyes had
burned with tears when the whore had first touched him. If
Molly really was looking down on the Earth from heaven, Will
knew she'd be less than pleased with him if he went another
two years without even a single night of comfort.

"Good idea," John said. "I could use a bath in a real tub."

A bath in a real tub. Will's breath caught in his throat. He
hadn't allowed himself the luxury last time he was in town,
opting to reserve his limited funds for more immediate
needs.

As if reading Will's mind, John said, "I'll even treat you to a
bath." He stood up and collected the dishes before adding,
"Hell, maybe we can even share a whore or two."

Will's head shot up at that, but John was already busy doing
up the washing up. For the sake of his own sanity, Will stood
silently and fled the room before John had a chance to turn
back around.

Of course, John couldn't go on a cattle drive without learning
something about driving cattle, so the next day Will took him
out to teach him the basics: herding cattle (not usually very
difficult, as cows, when given a choice, naturally gathered
together), moving cattle in a particular direction
(considerably easier with multiple riders) and cutting
individual animals from the herd (something Will

hadn't had to do the previous year, as his entire herd had
been purchased by one man).

Will wasn't particularly good at the latter – he was a good but
not great rider and Brownie was a reliable and hardy, but not
particularly agile, animal who was starting to show his age.
John, on the other hand, proved to be a spectacular rider and
his horse nothing short of magnificent. Animals deep within
the herd were cut out with ease and even the fastest
yearlings weren't able to edge their way around John's
impenetrable defense.

Judging from John's smug smile as he rode up to Will, he
recognized how well he had done. Will didn't see any need to
feed man's rather excessive pride, so he merely grunted,
"That's some horse." John's smile faltered just a bit and Will
found himself wishing he'd complimented him after all. Then
the smug grin was back, even bigger than before. "I call her
Old Faithful," he said, patting the mare's neck with open

affection. "She's never let me down yet."

Wanting to make up for his previous comment,

Will let his eyes run over the horse in admiration.

"She's got good lines. Ever race her?"

"Once in a while. She's more quick than she is fast, though."

Will nodded, remembering how easily the mare

had cut off yearlings that had run rings around Brownie.

"And she's loyal to the end," John added. "Ain't nothing more
important in a horse than loyalty." Will nodded again, though
he was pretty sure they weren't just talking about horses
anymore.

Monday dawned cold and clear and Will's leg

ached as he pulled on his boots. The auction was a little later
than usual this year and Will had a feeling nights were going
to get colder than he was really happy with.

Still, he felt an unexpected thrill of anticipation as he made
his way into the kitchen.

To find John cooking.

The anticipation turned into dread as Will surveyed the bowl
of yellow slop and the pile of stale bread Will had planned to
feed to the hogs before they left. "What's this?"

"It's the way Frenchies make toast," John said, dunking a
slice of bread into the goop before dropping the resulting
mess into the pan on the stove. Two more slices quickly
followed. "I had it once in San Francisco and figured, how
hard could it be?" Will smothered a wince.

John flipped the bread and let it cook a few seconds, then
slid the slices onto the plate. "Here. They taste better with
syrup."

John thought everything tasted better with syrup, Will thought
sourly as he carried his plate to the table. He poured a very
conservative measure of syrup on the pile and took a
tentative bite. He promptly took a much bigger one. "This is
great!"

"Don't sound so surprised," John said dryly as moved his
own serving onto a plate. The remaining contents of the bowl
went into the pan and soon Will had a small pile of
scrambled eggs to round out his breakfast.

He barely noticed, as he was steadily eating his way through

his toast. "What did you say this was called again?"

"The guy in San Francisco called it French Toast." John
doused his breakfast in syrup and took a bite with a blissful
expression on his face.

"You should make it more often." Will finished off his food
and carried the plates to the sink for John to wash. "Thanks.
I'll get the horses ready."

"Take your time," John said through a mouthful of food.

Will shook his head and headed out to the barn. They made
fantastic time that day, half again what Will had managed the
previous year despite having three times the number of
animals to deal with. It wasn't just having a second horse and
rider or that larger herds tended to stick close together. It
wasn't even that John had a superior horse, as true as that
was.

No, what made this drive run so smoothly was

the eerie way that John always seemed to know exactly what
the cattle were thinking. Twice during the day, John went
galloping away from Will just in time to keep the cattle from
turning away from the correct path. In both cases, he was
able to explain his reasoning (a sudden dip in the trail and a
snake that looked dangerous but wasn't), but Will couldn't

help but be impressed. No wonder the man had

managed to become one of the most famous outlaws of the
day – John had eyes like an eagle and a brain that Will
couldn't hope to keep up with. Frankly, Will was starting to
feel just a bit outclassed.

Maybe that was why, after they'd eaten and settled in for the
night, Will finally asked the question he'd been wondering
about for weeks now, ever since John had showed up at his
ranch and

continued to not leave.

"Where are you from?"

From the other side of the fire, John shot Will a confused
look and Will couldn't blame him. The question probably had
seemed to come out of nowhere. "I told you, I came up from
Mexico." Will sighed. "No, where are you

from

? Where were

you born?"

For a long time John just stared at Will through the flames, so
long that when he finally spoke, Will was startled. "Arizona, I
think. Maybe New Mexico."

Will frowned. He hadn't expected that. "You don't know?"

"Not for sure. My folks died when I was three. Don't
remember anything before the orphanage." Well, hell. This
was starting to get deeper than Will really wanted to deal
with. On the other hand, he had a sneaking suspicion that if
he didn't take advantage of this opportunity, he might not get
another one. "Where was the orphanage?" John rolled over
so that he was facing Will. "You sure you want to hear this? It
gets ugly." Will sighed in resignation. "Yeah. I think I should."

John nodded and sat up, resting back against his saddle as
if settling in for a long speech. Will felt a sense of rising
doom and opted to sit up as well, even though he'd just
barely managed to get his leg

comfortable for the night.

"The orphanage was in Tucson," John started. He wasn't
looking at Will as he spoke, which Will found to be rather
ominous. "I was there almost nine years before it burned
down."

Will stifled a groan. He was already regretting this.

"The orphanage had been struggling for a long time before it
burned, and the church decided not to build a new one. All of
us were sent off to families looking for children. Only, in my
case, they were looking for a servant." John smiled thinly.

"I might've stayed anyway, if the old man hadn't started hitting
me."

Christ. Will definitely didn't want to hear any more. But no
matter how hard it was to listen to, he knew it had to be
harder on John to tell, so he stayed silent and John went on.

"I stole the old man's horse and rode as hard and fast as I
could. I was aiming for Tombstone, but overshot the mark
and ended up in Juarez instead."

"That in Mexico?"

"It is. And it's also where I met Tanner Stone." John sighed
and slid down a bit, till his head was resting against his
saddle. "I don't know why Stone took me in. It wasn't like him
– I was halfdead and starving and even if I had potential, it
wasn't likely I'd live long enough to prove anything. But take
me in he did, and in return I sold my soul to the devil.

"I stayed with him for the next ten years, learning to shoot and
ride and doing my best to strip out every bit of humanity I had
left. Stone

spent most of that time 'revenue collecting' – if shop owners
gave us revenue, we wouldn't burn their shops down. It was a
good way to make money and Stone grew very rich."

Will cleared his throat, which was getting thicker with every
word of John's story. "What about you?

Did you get rich, too?"

"Stone kept most of the money to himself but by the end I
was his second in command, and I did

well enough. Most of the gang would've made better money
with honest work but once Stone got his claws in them, there
was no way to escape. I think most of them only managed to
avoid starving by extorting food along with protection
money."

"Doesn't sound like a good way to run a gang."

"It wasn't." For the first time since he started his story, John
looked over at Will. "I always split my takes evenly. I may not
be a good man but at least I can say that no one loyal to me
has ever starved." Well, that was rather... pointed. Will
cleared his throat again. "So what happened next?" John
turned his attention back out into the desert. "One day in
Mexico, Stone and I nearly got caught. We got away but we
were hurt bad. A monk took us in and patched us up." John
took a deep breath. "When it was time to leave, Stone put a
gun to my head and made me kill the monk." Oh, God.

"I couldn't stay with him, not after that, so I gathered up all the

money I'd saved up and snuck away in the middle of the
night.

"I set myself up near the border as a priest and used my
money to open a church. Of course, I

wasn't actually ordained, but I was doing some good and no
one really cared whether I really had right to wear that white
collar."

Will tried to picture John as a priest. He couldn't.

Apparently oblivious to Will's bemusement, John continued,
"I had nearly two years at that church before Stone's men
found me." His voice, which had been mostly matter-of-fact
up to that point, suddenly grew hoarse. "They killed everyone
inside, mostly children, and burned the church to the ground. I
was the only survivor.

"Stone's men dragged me back to a small town in Arizona
that Stone had owned before I'd ever met him." John's voice
suddenly grew hard. "He tried to force me back into his
gang, tried to break me, but in the end I was stronger than he
was. Stone got what he deserved and I got a silver star." Will
started. "You were a lawman?" This conversation was
starting to sound positively surreal. The tension in the air
eased just a bit as John chuckled. "I was, for a little over five
years. Happiest time of my life, until..."

"Until?"

John just shook his head. "Until the railroad came. My town
was the highest point in a flood plain, you see, and set right
near a mountain pass. If the railroad couldn't go through us,
they'd've had to swing twenty-five miles south and dynamite
their way through a mountain. Even if they bought out every
business in town at inflated prices, it was still cheaper than
going around.

"Only problem was, we weren't interested in

selling. Men had died getting that town free of Stone and we
were just starting to get prosperous again. No one wanted to
leave just so some fancy suits from back east could save a
few thousand dollars. So we said no.

"The railroad agents came back with Pinkerton agents to
back them up. We said that we still weren't interested and
that the town wasn't for sale.

"Two weeks later, the entire town burned to the ground."

Will closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

John kept on going, as if now that he'd started this story, he
was determined to finish it, no matter what. "That day, I
swore that the railroad would pay for the lives they ruined and

if any of those damn Pinkerton agents got in the way, I'd
happily gun them down. I changed my name and headed

west and soon hooked up with some men who were

struggling just to eat. Less than a month later, we hit our first
railroad stagecoach."

Will raised his eyebrows at 'changed my name',

but lowered them again in a frown. "Are you saying that you
only robbed railroad stages?"

"At first," John said. "But it was a slippery slope. We hit a
coach that was supposed to have a railroad executive on
board and instead found a gaggle of women. After all the
trouble we went through, we couldn't not rob them. It all went
downhill from there."

"You killed a lot of men," Will pointed out. "Not all of them
worked for the Pinkertons, and most were probably family
men."

"I know," John said. "And I'm not trying to make

excuses. I'm damned, Will, and I've been damned since I
killed my first man at fourteen. Nothing I do can ever repay
the debt I owe the devil. All I can do is try and not make that

debt any worse."

Will thought about that, about a boy without options, about
two attempts at redemption, both ending in flames. He
thought about what vengeance could do to a man and about
how hard it was to break that cycle alone. He thought about
John's promise not to kill, except in self-defense, and about
what he could do to make that promise easier to keep.

"Hey, John," he said.

John snapped his head around to stare at Will

through the fire. "Yeah?"

"I'm thinking we should put in a cellar when we get back. To
store the eggs we'll be getting from all those chickens." A
man-sized cellar, Will added to himself. Just in case anyone
in town did get it into their head to give Will a visit.

After a moment, John grinned. An honest-togoodness,
completely sincere grin. "That, Will, is an excellent idea." He
pushed himself up until he was sitting. "Get some sleep. I'll
take first watch." Will raised his eyebrows at the fact that they
were doing watches, but turned over without comment. That
night he slept like a baby, knowing that John was right there
watching his back.

Chapter 3

Not wanting to arrive too early in Bisbee, they took their time
after that and ended up just outside of town Friday morning.
At which point, Will realized something that he should've
realized much earlier: "You can't go into town."

John shrugged. "Let me worry about that. You just get a room
at the saloon." He pulled out a few dollars. "Make sure that
the room has a tub and that you won't be expected to share."

Will eyed the money with distaste. "I don't need you to pay for
my room."

"I hate to break this to you, but it's going to be my room, too."

Will stared. He should've realized that, too. "I'll keep the
window open. This late in the year, it'll probably be the only
one that is."

John smiled, just a bit. "Thank you, Will. And don't forget, I
promised you a bath."

"What about yours?"

"I can have one tomorrow."

Will looked over incredulously. "Two baths in two days?"

John considered that, and sighed. "You're right. I guess I'll
just have to share yours." Will glared at him. "Order it at
sundown --I should get to your room just as you finish."

Will just shook his head. "You got a place to hide around
here?"

"Don't worry," John said with a smile. "I've got plenty of
practice."

"Yeah, well," Will muttered under his breath as he trotted
towards the cattle. "

caught you." Apparently John didn't

hear, because he didn't

reply.

Even a mere mile of driving thirty cattle with just one horse
was a pain in the ass and Will received some ribbing from a
group of local cowboys as several animals balked at
entering the chute. He gritted his teeth and ignored the jeers
as he rounded up the stragglers, but he was heartily glad
when he got that last steer behind the gate and was free to
make his way to the saloon.

The last time he'd been in town, Will had stayed at the hotel.
Frankly, he'd never been much of a drinker, especially after

he'd married Molly, and it was damn awkward to walk into a
saloon and not

ask for a whiskey John had specified a saloon room,
however, and since he was paying, he got to make the
decision.

After an obligatory drink that Will barely managed to choke
down (the cheap standard whiskey served in western
saloons was one step down from horse piss and he wasn't
about to shell out a buck for the good stuff), he made his way
upstairs. The lock was rusty and it took a bit to make the key
work, but once Will got the door open he was pleasantly
surprised by what he found: the room was airy and clean and
the bed large enough that he and John could share without
even touching (which was more than Will could say about the
bed

in the hotel, which he'd ended up sharing with a complete
stranger who'd paid a dollar for the other half of the bed).
Tucked away in a corner was a galvanized tin bathtub and
next to it sat a small brazier where a kettle of water could be
kept boiling.

Will tossed his saddlebags on the bed and began to strip
down. He might not be able to get a bath until that night but
he could wash off the dust of four days on the trail.

As he rubbed wet hands over his face, he felt his beard
soaking up most of the water and he eyed

himself thoughtfully in the small shaving mirror. When he and
Molly had first been married, he'd shaved twice a day in
deference to Molly's distaste for beard burn in delicate
places. By the time they'd moved out west, he'd only had
need to shave once every few days, though Tommy had
learned quickly that a day after his father shaved was a great
day to ask for treats.

Will couldn't remember the last time he shaved. When his
beard got too long, he hacked off chunks of it but he hadn't
bothered with a close shave in months. Maybe even years.

John shaved nearly every day. Even on the trail. Will rubbed
his cheeks one more time then went

digging through his saddlebags.

The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly. Will ate at the
restaurant, then picked up food from the general store for
when John showed up. He glanced at the whorehouse, but
turned around without going in. Instead, he went back to the

general store and perused their drawing paper and books.
The store in Bisbee had a much better selection than the one

back home, and he had to stop himself from buying more
volumes than he could fit in his saddlebags.

He spent the afternoon lost in a book about a

Yankee who was magically transported into the time of King
Arthur. The story was completely captivating and Will was so
caught up in his reading that he didn't remember he was
supposed to have ordered a bath until he heard the sound of
a throat clearing just beside the window.

Will looked up guiltily. "Hi."

John raised an eyebrow. "Good book?"

"Yep."

They stared at each other for a moment. "No bath?" John
finally asked.

Will winced. "Lost track of time."

"Shaved, though."

Will flushed and closed his book. "Want me to order a bath
now?"

John looked around the room with its decided

lack of hiding spaces. "Nah, we can do it tomorrow." He took
his hat off and rubbed his hair before moving towards the
water bowl. "Auction is tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yeah." Will absently watched John washing up until he
suddenly realized that he was staring. "Uh, I got you some
food."

John snagged the hand towel and dried his face. Will handed
over the fruit and jerky. John thanked him, but by the way he
nibbled at the food, he'd already eaten.

For the first time in a while, their silence was awkward.

It was broken by a knock at the door. Will jumped up from the
bed, automatically reaching for his gun. "It's all right," John
said, moving towards the door, though Will noticed that he
positioned himself so that he wouldn't be visible from the
hallway. "Remember, I promised you something other than a
bath."

Will felt a rising sense of doom that was not relieved in the
slightest when the door was opened to reveal a woman. A
robust, buxom, blonde woman, to be exact, wearing rather
less clothing than was generally considered polite. "You must
be Will," she said with a smile as she walked in without
waiting for a word of welcome. John closed the door and
smirked. "Good to see you again, Roberta."

She smirked right back and started unlacing her dress. Will
winced and looked away. "Gotta say, I was surprised to hear
from you, John. It's been awhile."

"Been busy," John said in response. He was undressing too,
and Will was quickly running out of safe places to keep his
eyes.

"Not around here," she said, dropping her dress and turning
so that John could start on the laces of her corset. "Stage
hasn't been robbed in ages."

"Haven't been robbing stages." John's hands moved over the
laces with practiced movements and Will found himself not
quite able to look away from those clever, graceful fingers.
"Been raising chickens."

Roberta snorted. It wasn't very lady-like, but Will had come to
the conclusion that she wasn't much of a lady. Most of that
conclusion was based on the fact that she was now wearing
little more than pantaloons without drawers underneath. A
tiny portion of Will's brain noted that Roberta was blonde all
over.

Will was so distracted by Roberta he didn't even notice that
John had managed to get down to his union suit until an

amused voice interrupted his gaping: "You just gonna
watch?"

Will felt his face burn and he immediately started to unbutton
his shirt. His hands were shaking, though, and his fingers
kept fumbling over the buttons. He was barely halfway done
when John's patience apparently ran out and he came over
to help. Will was so surprised that he didn't even protest as
the other man deftly flicked open the buttons of his shirt

When John reached for his trousers, however, Will quickly
recovered his voice. "I got it," he said, stepping back so
quickly his leg protested and – trying very hard not to notice
the way Roberta and John were both staring at him – opened
the buttons of his fly. He kept his head down as he shoved off
his pants (silently grateful that he'd taken his boots off earlier)
then decided to keep the embarrassment as short as
possible and stripped off his union suit as well.

He glanced up to see Roberta and John were still staring at
him, though both were naked now and John was standing
behind Roberta, his arms wrapped around her as he cupped
her breasts.

"What do you think? Looks good enough to eat, doesn't
she?" He lifted one breast a little higher and Will realized
what he wanted.

Well, hell, it was what she was here for. Will stepped forward
and lowered his mouth to Roberta's nipple.

The skin was soft and satiny, until it suddenly tightened up as
Roberta moaned. Will glanced down to see that John had a
hand between her legs.

"You like that, Roberta?" John murmured, though his eyes
were locked with Will's.

"You know I do," she said breathily, then moaned again as
John's hand began to move, rocking back and forth just a bit.
Just enough. "Maybe we should move this to the bed."

Will liked the sound of that plan and stumbled

backwards until he could sit on the bed. He slid over for
Roberta, his bad leg trailing after him, and then had to slide
over some more as John climbed in on the other side. That
threw him off for a minute, but Roberta drew his head down
to her breasts again and her free hand grasped his cock and
all rational thought departed from his mind.

"I wanna be inside you," he croaked, half-afraid that if he
waited any longer he'd spend himself too soon.

Roberta glanced over at John, who was stroking

himself casually, then looked at Will's bad leg. "Tell you what,
honey. Why don't you just lie there on your back and let me
do all the work."

Will wanted to protest that he hadn't had to lie there and take
it with the whore last year, but a flash of movement at the
corner of his eye reminded

him that John was still in the bed. Will subsided. Truth be
told, it'd been damned awkward last year, and he wasn't sure
he wanted John to see Will fumbling about until he found the
right angle that let him thrust without his bad leg buckling out
from under him.

Roberta held his prick up and slid down on it

with an ease that spoke volumes about how popular she was
with the local men. Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth
and tried not to come too quickly. Who knew when he'd have
the chance to do this again?

Suddenly, the angle changed and Will opened

his eyes to see Roberta balanced precariously over him, her
head so close that sour breath washed over his face. She
winced. "I didn't come prepared for that, John."

Will refocused his eyes to see John kneeling behind

Roberta, one hand on her back. John pushed down harder,
till Roberta was lying right on top of Will, her breasts flattened
against his chest.

"How about this, then?" he asked, and suddenly Will felt
fingers sliding up next to his prick inside Roberta.

Roberta's eyes, so close to his own they were fuzzy, opened
wide. Will was sure his were even wider. "Sure," she said,
ignoring Will's incredulous expression. "That'd be fine."

A moment later something thick and wet nudged

the base of Will's cock and then proceeded to force its way
up into Roberta, turning a relatively loose space into an
incredibly tight one.

Roberta grunted. So did Will.

After a moment, however, the tightness eased just a bit. Just
enough for everything to be on the right side of bearable as
John began thrusting, pushing his way up into the woman
and rubbing

the underside of Will's cock at the same time, setting off
sparks deep in Will's body that built up into a warm pressure

in his balls. Roberta dropped even lower, till her face was
resting on the pillow beside Will's, her head bobbing forward
with each thrust. Her hair fell across Will's face and made
Will feel safe enough to stare at John through the soft, honey-
gold strands.

John's face was tightened in concentration as he pistoned
forward with increasingly powerful thrusts, sweat rising up on
his brow and dampening his hair. As Will watched,
surprisingly white teeth caught John's lower lip and John's
breathing sped up, somehow causing Will's to speed up as
well. Will could feel the back of John's fingers flexing against
his pelvis as the other man tightened his grip on Roberta's
hips and suddenly the thrusting became jerky and erratic.
John froze and let out a long, low moan and Will felt
something hot and fluid seeping around his cock and that
was all it took: Will felt his own prick spilling forth, filling up
Roberta's over-stuffed cunt with his seed.

John collapsed forward, carrying Roberta with him and Will
grunted again, this time most definitely not in pleasure.
"Can't breathe," he forced out.

There was a quick shuffle in which John somehow ended up
next to Will and Roberta ended up standing up beside the
bed. "You boys finished

for the night?" she asked while making practical use of a

handkerchief.

John glanced at Will with his eyebrow raised. Will
considered the chances of him staying awake long enough
to take another poke at Roberta and shook his head.

"I think we're done," John said. He got out of the bed as well
and walked over to his pants without a hint of self-
consciousness. Will, on the other hand, was suddenly
intensely aware of the ugly scar that marked his damaged
leg and tried to sneak some

covers over it without anyone noticing.

"You coming over tomorrow?" John asked casually, and
Will's eyes snapped over to see John hand over a few bills.
In the back of his mind, he wondered just how much it cost to
stick two pricks in a woman at the same time – it looked to
be considerably more than the dollar per poke he'd paid the
year before.

"Fraid not," Roberta said, holding her corset up to her body
while John laced it up efficiently. "It'll be Suzie, most likely."

"Hold on." John pulled the laces tight with a powerful jerk and
quickly tied them off. He handed Roberta her dress. "Tell
Suzie to come prepared."

"I will," Roberta said swiftly putting together the rest of her
clothes. "Should've thought of it myself."

"It's been a while." John straightened the cheaplooking lace
on her collar and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank
you."

Roberta shook her head. "You have a good night, John."
With a quick glance at the bed, she added, "You, too, Will."

Will didn't even have a chance to reply before

she'd slipped out the door and was gone.

John locked the door and returned to the bed,

not bothering to put on any clothes. Will considered the
difficulty of getting out of the bed with his bad leg and finding
clothes, just to get back in the bed, and decided that one
night of sleeping naked wouldn't kill him.

Once they'd settled themselves under the covers, Will asked,
"Tomorrow?"

"I owe you a bath, don't I?" John asked, his eyes already half-
closed and his voice a little less firm than usual.

Will considered that. "Maybe I should pay for the bath."

"If you want," John said drowsily.

Well, that was easy. Maybe he should sneak in

another question, see if he could get that answered as well.
"Prepared for what?"

"Hm?" John murmured, his eyes fully closed now and his
breath deepening.

"You said Suzie should be prepared. Prepared for what?"

John just mumbled and twisted over on his side, clearly
asleep.

Will huffed out a sigh. Guess he was just going to have to
wait till tomorrow and find out.

Chapter 4

The next day was the auction and Will got up at the crack of
dawn to go check on his cattle. They looked settled and fat
and he felt a hint of anticipation at the coming bidding. He'd
been lucky last year to get twenty dollars a head, but this year
he wouldn't be surprised if he managed twenty-two or even
twenty-five. Even if he just got twenty again, he'd have six
hundred dollars in his pocket when he left. That was enough
to support both himself and John for an entire year with ease
and still have enough left over to hire some hands for the
branding in the spring. He suddenly stopped in his tracks as
he realized what had just passed through his mind. Support
him and

John

for an entire year? Will had known that John

would likely be around through the winter but he'd always
thought that come spring, John would get tired of his
chickens and the drafty house and would take his ten
thousand dollars and find a town that hadn't heard of him
before. There had to be one somewhere in the country,
maybe east of the Mississippi, where the cities were so
crowded that it would be easy for one man (especially a man
with money) to lose himself in the masses.

Yet at some point, Will had stopped thinking that John would
leave. Instead of a temporary guest, John had somehow
become part of the household in

Will's mind; someone that he should plan around and could
plan on, someone who would still be there a year from now
and maybe even the year after.

If Will were honest with himself, the idea of John staying on
permanently was not an unpleasant one. He was a hard
worker, an intelligent companion, and someone Will could be
comfortable with even in silence. Not to mention exceedingly
creative in bed.

Not that that had anything to do with anything. Fortunately, the
restaurant owner chose that moment to open his doors. Will
was the first one in and placed an order to take away to the
saloon. Thankfully ,cowboys had a notoriously large appetite,
and no one commented on the fact that he needed two
plates to hold all of the food he'd ordered.

John was still abed when Will slipped back into the room and
Will debated letting the man sleep. The food was quickly
getting cold, however, and Will found himself unwilling to eat
alone if there was another option. "John," he said, kicking the
bed. "Anderson, it's time to get up." John opened one eye. "I
like it when you call me John."

Will rolled his eyes. "

John

. Time for breakfast." He sat up

quickly. "God, I'm starved."

"Get started then," Will said, placing the tray on the bed. He

dug in the saddlebags for a spare fork and moved back to
the bed, just in time to snatch the last piece of sausage.

Between the two of them they managed to clear

the plates, Will claiming the bacon and ham, John content
with the eggs, beans, and biscuit. Will was still a bit hungry at
the end but there were usually food vendors at the auction.
"Had enough?"

"Yep," John said and he stretched back out on the bed and
went back to sleep.

Will shook his head and gathered up the restaurant's gear
and went back outside. It wasn't until he had dropped off the
cutlery and was halfway to the auction that he realized that
John had still been naked as they ate breakfast in bed.

Thirty dollars a head. Thirty dollars a head!

That was nine hundred dollars! Will felt like whooping, but he
forced himself to keep a straight face as he accepted the
check. It'd take weeks for him to actually get the money, but
just knowing that he had enough money to cover two years of
expenses coming his way was enough to make him feel like
he was king of the world.

His first stop on the way back to the restaurant was the store
to pick up some paper so he could write Tommy with the
good news and to buy some

more penny candies. Then he went to the saloon to buy the
best bottle of alcohol they had. He wanted to share the
wealth.

The next time Will entered the room, once again carrying
food, he was whistling. John was still in bed, but at least he
was awake and dressed. He was also engrossed in Will's
new book. "This Twain fellow is a pretty good writer," John
commented,

without looking up.

Will snorted and set down the food and the bottle of bourbon.
"Brought lunch."

John looked up with interest. "What is it?"

"Sandwiches and French potatoes."

John immediately moved down to the end of the

bed and grabbed a potato. "Gotta admit, those Frenchies
know how to cook." As he ate, his eyes settled on the
bourbon and he shot Will a confused look. "Thought you

didn't drink."

Will grabbed his book and placed it outside of

John's reach, then took a ham sandwich, heavily spread with
prepared mustard. He could only afford to slaughter one of
his pigs a year and by this point he was living on aged salt
pork so, between the fresh meat and the mustard, the
sandwich was a real treat. "Molly didn't like me drinking.
Besides, good alcohol is expensive. Couldn't afford it
before."

"And now you can?" John asked.

Will grinned and told him about the auction. By the time he
was done, John had eaten all of the potatoes. Will shook his
head and took the last ham sandwich in retaliation as John
dug two mugs out of the saddlebags and poured them both a
celebratory drink. John's expression as he took that first sip
of alcohol was nearly as satisfied as it had been when eating
one of Molly's freshly baked cookies. They spent the
afternoon in peaceful quiet, Will writing his letter to Tommy
and then reading his book, and John drawing and sucking on
penny candies. Will went back out for dinner and came back
with a pie fresh out of the oven, and for once

got to eat most of his meal himself.

It was a couple of hours after dark when Suzie

came. Again, John was the one to open the door, this time to
reveal a small, dark-haired girl with hunched shoulders. She
stared at the floor as she shuffled into the room; she couldn't
be more than fourteen. Will felt vaguely ill.

John shut the door and stepped around to look at Suzie from
the front. "You must be Suzie," he said. She nodded ever so
slightly. "You might want to stop acting," John added. "You're
making Will uncomfortable."

Suzie nodded again and straightened her shoulders. As she
lifted her head, Will sighed in relief. It was clear now that she
was at least eighteen, and she met his gaze with confident
eyes.

"You prepared?"

Suzie nodded again. "She told me to tell you it's my first
time."

"I'll be careful." John looked over at the bed.

"Will, you wanna get undressed?"

Apparently, John had a plan and Will, a lot less
uncomfortable after the night before, hauled himself out of

bed and stripped as quickly as he could. When he was down
to his union suit, he glanced

over at John. "Take it off," John ordered, so Will stripped
down to nothing.

"Move back against the headboard," John said as soon as
Will was naked and Will did so while John and Suzie
stripped without drama. Suzie reached back to untie her
corset but at a word from John, she let her hands fall back to
her sides. It was strangely arousing to see a woman wearing
a corset

and nothing else, but Will found his eyes drawn back to John.
He forced himself to look at the covers instead.

"Kneel on the bed," John said to Suzie. "Take him into your
mouth."

Moving gracefully and without any selfconsciousness, Suzie
did as commanded. Will gasped as her hot mouth engulfed
his cock and started sucking.

John knelt on the foot of the bed, behind Suzie. Her rump
was higher up than her head, right where it needed to be as
John grasped her hips, positioned his prick, and started
pushing in.

Suzie moaned softly around Will's prick, her hands fisting the
sheets as her elbows took her weight. Will couldn't help but
stare over her back, to where John was thrusting slowly at a
point just a little higher than Suzie's pussy could possibly be.
The rhythm was a strange one: John would thrust a tiny bit in,
then wait to a count of three, then thrust again, each one
short and sharp. Suzie gasped each time and had given up
all pretense of sucking him: her mouth held his cock loosely,
doing little more than keeping it warm.

Finally John was all the way in and he stopped, maybe to let
Suzie get used to him. "All right?" John asked. Suzie nodded
as well as she could considering her mouthful, but John's
eyes were locked on Will.

"Yeah," Will said hoarsely. Now that he'd finally met John's
eyes, he couldn't look away and he was still staring as John
began thrusting in and out, in and out, each smooth
movement pushing Suzie's

mouth down on Will's cock, his eyes locked on Will's the
entire time. It was almost as if Suzie weren't there at all, as if
she were just an extension of John's body, and Will felt a
startling jolt of pleasure at the thought.

"You like that?" John whispered as he sped up, bobbing
Suzie's head on Will's cock.

Will groaned. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, tearing his eyes
away from John so he could focus more

fully on the delicious heat running through his loins. "That
feels real good."

"Suzie, honey," John said. "I need you to start sucking now.
Give it all you've got."

On command, the suction surrounding Will's cock increased
tenfold and Will closed his eyes tight to savor the sensation.
He could still feel the back and forth movement of Suzie's
body heightening the feeling to almost unbearable levels.
Suddenly he felt a hand fisting his hair and his eyes shot
open. "

Don't close your eyes

," John whispered intensely,

still plunging over and over into Suzie's body. "

Don't shut

me out

." Without another word, he leaned forward that last

few inches to claim Will's mouth in a fierce kiss.

Will moaned and his body arched up as his seed

spilled forth, filling Suzie's mouth and dripping down his balls.
John grunted and thrust a couple more times, then froze, his
body tight against Suzie's ass, his eyes shut tight, his
forehead pressing against Will's.

John let out one long, low groan, then pulled out of Suzie's
body with a gentleness that surprised Will. Suzie hissed, but

she didn't seem seriously

hurt and when she shifted back to rest on her heels, she
smiled up at Will. "That was different."

"You must be very popular," John said with a smile, though
Will noticed he didn't waste any time getting up and counting
out a stack of bills. It was a larger stack than the one he'd
given Roberta. "I'll be sure to ask for you next time."

"Thanks," she said as she took care of the necessities of
cleaning up and hurried through her dressing. She didn't
bother to lace her boots and she didn't touch John at all as
she took the money and left.

After the door shut, Will didn't know where to

look and end up focusing on his legs. With a scowl, he pulled
the blanket over the lower half of the body.

"We never did get that bath," John said. Out of the corner of
his eye, Will could see that John was staring out of the
window as he spoke. Will kept his eyes on the misshapen
hump that was once his leg. "We're leaving tomorrow." A
pause. "It'd be strange that you asked for a room with a tub
and never actually took a bath." Another pause. "Can't get
one with you in the room."

"I could disappear for a while," John offered. Abruptly he
turned to look Will in the eye. "Just till the water comes."

Will took a deep breath and forced himself to look up. "Be
about an hour if I order it now." John nodded and grabbed
his clothes. He dressed himself with the same brisk
movements that he'd applied to taking his clothes off and

moved to the window. "I'll be back in an hour," he said and
then disappeared into the night.

Will sighed and leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for
his clothes and doing everything he could to ignore the
strange tingle in his lips. He was mostly successful, mainly
due to the way he couldn't stop thinking about dark eyes
boring into his or a harsh whisper spoken right at his ear. An
hour later, he was standing next to a tub half full of steaming
water, unsure of what to do next. Should he wait for John?
Why would he wait for John? Did he want John to be there
when he bathed?

It was enough to drive a man crazy. Will swore under his
breath and started unbuttoning his shirt. He'd paid for this
bath, damn it, and he'd be damned if he let it go cold while
waiting for John. Getting into the bath was a challenge with
only one good leg and in the end he pretty much fell in,
splashing the water high up the sides of the galvanized tin
tub. Once inside, he let himself enjoy the heat for a couple of

minutes then, working fast, scrubbed down his body, and
used the chunk of soap to wash his hair. Getting it rinsed
was an adventure, and he damn near pulled a muscle trying
to move around in the tiny tub, but finally he was done. And
faced with the prospect of getting himself out of the tub with
only one good leg to his name.

What the hell had he been thinking, getting into this bath by
himself?

Will gritted his teeth and got a good grip on the sides of the
tub. He pushed himself up as much as

he could, which wasn't but a few inches, and tried to work his
good leg up underneath him. His arms gave out before he
got close and, with a grunt, he fell back in. He narrowed his
eyes and wondered if he could just manage to tip the damn
tub over.

"Need help?"

Will's head snapped up and while he made sure

his face remained blank, he couldn't hide the relief from
himself. "Wouldn't say no to it." John nodded and stepped
forward from the window. He held out both hands; Will took
them and tried to pull himself out, only to have his foot slip
and his body fall right back in. John frowned.

"I'm going to have to lift you up out of there." Will swore to
himself that if he got out of this tub, he was never taking a
bath again. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"Lift your arms up." Will scowled, but did as ordered. John
wrapped his own arms under Will's, just under his armpits.
"Now wrap your arms around my neck." Will huffed, but did it.
Moving with careful deliberateness, John stood

up and took a step backwards. As soon as Will's good leg
was under him, he did his best to help but in the end, John
basically dragged him out of the tub, scraping Will's shins
painfully in the process. John didn't let go right away, which
was how Will found himself, fully naked, standing in John's
arms. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

For a moment or two, they just stared at each

other, though Will found himself unable to look John in the
eye. Finally, Will cleared his throat.

"Water's getting cold."

John blinked all of a sudden and nodded.

"Careful now. I'm going to back you up to the bed." Before

Will could protest that he didn't need help getting to the bed,
John matched deed with words and, with a minimum of fuss,
Will found himself sinking into the soft mattress.

He promptly started to get up again to grab his clothes but he
heard John say, "Going somewhere?" Will frowned. "Wasn't
planning on it."

"Then why bother with clothing?"

The man did have a point. Especially considering he and
John had slept together naked before. Will sat back down on
the bed and grabbed the

towel. Once he was basically dry, he used his hands to scoot
up the bed until he was resting back against the headboard.
Making a conscious effort not to look at John, he picked up
his book from the nightstand, turned up the lamp, and did his
best to get lost in the story. With great effort, he managed
most of a paragraph though it took the entire length of John's
bath to do so.

Will sighed and set the book on the nightstand. At least it'd
been a long paragraph.

John used Will's towel and tossed it in the corner of the
room. Without a shred of discomfort, he walked around the
bed and Will caught a glimpse of John's swinging prick

before he slid under the covers.

Will reached out and turned off the lamp. For a few moments
they lay there silently in the dark.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Will finally pointed out.

"I know," John said. "I'll be gone before first

light. We can meet where we camped Friday night."

Will nodded and flipped over on his side.

"Night, John."

"Good night," John said softly in reply. Will woke up the next
morning feeling amazingly well-rested. He also woke up
alone. He wasn't disappointed by that fact. He wasn't.

After the bath the previous night, he didn't bother with a full
washing up, but he did give himself a shave. It felt good to go
through the ritual of sharpening his blade, of whipping up the
foam, of carefully scraping away the stubbly whiskers that
had come up since the last shave, of washing his face clean
and checking to make sure he hadn't missed any patches. It
felt satisfying. Civilizing. Shave done, he dressed and
packed up quickly.

He was ready to go home.

John was waiting at the campsite, as promised.

"Finally. I've been –"

"Think we can make it by tonight?" Will interrupted. John
stared at him. "Awful eager there, Will."

"I'm just ready to be home," Will said gruffly.

"It's only thirty miles," John said thoughtfully.

"Old Faithful can do that in eight hours as long as I keep her
in oats and sugar cubes."

Will shook his head. Even John's horse had a

sweet tooth. "Brownie won't make that. He's not used to
speed."

"Then we go slow and keep the breaks short," John said.
"We should still get back before dark."

Will glanced back over his shoulder where a few wisps of
smoke marked Bisbee. "Let's get going, then," he said. He
didn't look back again.

Chapter 5

It was a little after dark before they actually arrived at the
cabin, and Will was starving. That made him doubly grateful
when John took Brownie's reins and announced, "I'll take
care of the animals. You get started on dinner."

Even though they'd only been gone a week, a

visible layer of dust had accumulated over everything in the
house. Will carefully wiped out a pot and filled it with beans
and water and lit a fire in the stove. Once dinner was started,
he went through the house with a rag and dusted everything
with a solid surface.

"One of the hens is brooding," John announced as he walked
in.

Will stuck his head out from his bedroom.

"What's that mean?"

"It means half as many eggs for a few weeks, then a whole
flock of chicks."

"How long till the chicks are old enough to eat?" John shook
his head. "You know, I'm starting to get the impression you
aren't fond of chickens."

"I wonder why," Will said dryly. "How about the hogs? Did
you check on them?"

"Hungry, but still alive. Next time you should use my long-term
chicken feed system for them." Will scowled. He had to
admit that the longterm chicken feed system was an
ingenious one – it involved a storage bin with a tiny hole at
the bottom

that let out just enough feed to replace what the chickens ate.
That said, hogs weren't chickens. As soon as they figured
out that the bin had more food in it, they'd knock the damn
thing down and gorge themselves sick on the contents.

Of course, if he tried to tell John that, he'd just try and build
one so tough the hogs couldn't break it, and Will really didn't
want to have to go on another wood run until next year. So,
rather than respond to John's comment, Will said, "Your
sheets are filthy."

John raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on the change
of subject. "Haven't had much time to do laundry."

"I'm running out of clean drawers," Will admitted. "Maybe we
can do laundry tomorrow."

"This late in the year, it'll take more than a day for them to
dry," John said.

Will stared at him. "That something you learned at the
orphanage?"

John just shrugged, which Will took to mean that it was a
touchy subject. "Then we'll just do half the laundry tomorrow
and the rest next week."

"Do you have a spare set of sheets?" John asked.

"Because it's getting a bit cold to be sleeping on the bare
mattress."

Will suddenly found a very interesting speck on the wall.
"We've shared a bed before. No reason why we can't do it
again."

"Suppose not," John said casually. "Want me to put some
salt pork in the beans?"

"I'll do it," Will answered, handing over the cloth.

"You can finish dusting."

John looked less than thrilled at the task, but got to work
without comment.

While the pork and beans simmered, Will put together some
biscuits. As an afterthought, he mixed a bit of sugar and
cinnamon into a portion of butter and set it on John's side of
the table. Molly used to do the same as a treat for Tommy,
though Will would shoot himself in his good foot before he'd
tell that to John.

By the time the food was ready, the house was

markedly cleaner: the floor was swept, the furniture dusted,
the sheets shaken out, and the dirty water poured out and
replaced with fresh. Will couldn't help but compare this to his
return last year, when he'd gnawed on a bit of dried beef and
gone to bed without even washing the trail dust off his face.
As expected, John was delighted with the sweetened butter,
and he gave the pork 'n beans far more praise than such a
homely dish deserved. Will relaxed into the meal, enough so
that he could ask a question he'd been wondering about
since the previous night. "That girl, Suzie..."

"What about her?" John asked around a mouthful of heavily
buttered biscuit.

"Why'd she act like she was so young when she first came
in? I thought she couldn't be more than fourteen."

John chewed his mouthful slowly, staring at Will. "You know
the answer to that," he finally said after he swallowed.

"But there can't be that many men who want sex with
children," Will protested. "Can there?"

"I expect such men are Suzie's bread and butter,"

John answered, taking another bite.

Will felt ill and it must've shown on his face, because John's
next words were spoken in a softer tone. "The world ain't
always a good place, Will, but it's not all bad either. At least
those men are going to Suzie, rather than to a girl who
doesn't know what she's getting into."

"Suzie was fourteen once," Will said.

"I expect she was."

Will looked John in the eye. "Known Suzie long?"

"Never met her before yesterday," John said easily. "I like my
women older."

"So why'd Roberta send Suzie to you?"

"I expect it's because Suzie's willing to be flexible to satisfy a
man." John bit into a biscuit and chewed it deliberately. "It's
not many women who'll let a man put his prick up her back
end, now matter how well he pays."

"I can't imagine why any of them would," Will said. "It doesn't
seem like it'd be very pleasant." John stared at him
incredulously. "For most whores – hell, most women – there
ain't nothing pleasant about taking a cock, no matter where it
goes."

Will frowned a bit, thinking back to his relations with Molly.
She had enjoyed them, he was sure that she had. If she
hadn't, Will knew he would've heard about it; Molly wasn't the
type of woman to suffer in silence.

In an off-handed manner that somehow sounded

forced, John added, "Of course, it's different for men."

Will's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Men," John said. "It's different for men. There's something
inside a man that a woman doesn't have. Makes it enjoyable
to have something up there." Will stared at the man like he'd
completely lost his mind, which probably wasn't so far from
the truth. "And I suppose you know this from experience," he
said dryly.

"I've done it a few times," John said, still with that tone of airy
casualness. "More often the other way."

Will was outright gaping now. "You ain't no Mary."

John shrugged. "Ain't always a woman around." His eyes
stayed on his plate as he added, "Stone's gang was all
male."

Will stared at him some more. "And Stone?"

"Didn't keep me around for my shooting," John said flatly, all
pretense at affability or eating gone.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"No," Will said quickly. "Just it's been a long day and I'm
tired."

John stared at him a bit longer, then shrugged.

"Guess you should go to bed then."

Will nodded and fled.

That night he had nightmares.

The next day started out awkwardly. John made

French toast, which Will figured was his attempt at an
apology and he apologized in turn by marking out where the

trapdoor to the cellar would go, so that it could be
conveniently hidden by a rag rug. Laundry was a disaster.
John clearly knew what

he was doing but he equally clearly had no intention of doing
all of the work himself, and Will managed to do everything
wrong short of upending the actual laundry tub. "How about I
just haul water next time?" he grunted as wrestled with the
wringer that John had worked with ease.

"Hauling water's easy," John said, rescuing the wringer
before Will snapped the handle.

"Haul water, heat it, and hang up the clothes after?" Will
offered hopefully.

John snorted. "You'd probably drop them." Will had to admit
that he probably would. He

picked up another handful of dripping fabric and lined it up
with the rollers on the wringer. One turn of the handle and
they were immediately stuck. He sighed. "Okay, what do you
want?"

There was an awkward pause.

"A cake," John finally said.

Will let out a relieved breath. "A cake?"

fruit

cake," John clarified. "With nuts." Will thought about

that. "Chestnuts?" he asked hopefully.

"Pecans."

Will shot him a mock scowl. "Are you trying to be difficult?"

"If you absolutely can't find pecans, I'll take walnuts," John
said with the air of one granting a favor. "Go make dinner. I'll
finish this up." A little wary now, Will went back inside. After a
moment of consideration, he pulled out the flour, baking
powder, and evaporated milk and mixed up some pancake
batter. Not that he needed to apologize anymore, but a thank
you probably wouldn't

go amiss.

After dinner, they silently went to their respective diversions.
Will was nearly halfway through

A Connecticut Yankee in

King Arthur's

Court

and was happy to get the opportunity to

read a couple more chapters, while John was drawing
something that looked suspiciously like plans for a long-term
hog feeder. Will decided to go with the hope that if he
ignored the plans long enough, they might just go away.

They couldn't burn candlelight forever, though, no matter how

much Will wished it were so, and

finally John closed his sketchbook. "I'm turning in." Will
nodded, not looking up from his book.

"Night."

There was a long pause before John answered,

"Good night."

His eyes focused on his book, but without seeing a word,
Will listened to John's footsteps leave. In the direction of
Tommy's room.

Will sighed in relief, even as he fought a twinge of guilt at the
idea of John sleeping all alone on a bed without sheets.

"I'm going to town."

John paused as he tested the sheets for dryness, but after a
moment he started moving again as if nothing had
happened. "More wood?"

"Yes –" just in case that hog feeder idea didn't go away "–
and some pecans." John smiled at that, which Will found
strangely satisfying though he didn't want to look too closely
at why. "Need anything?"

"See if Mrs. Potter has any more of those peaches," John
said immediately. Will hid a smile. John added, "My money
–"

"Don't worry about it," Will said. "I can buy you some
peaches."

"--is in the jar," John continued, as if Will hadn't even spoken.

"In the jar," Will repeated numbly. "In

jar?"

"In the

household

jar," John corrected. Will just blinked. Ten

thousand dollars. Give or take twenty, there was currently ten
thousand dollars in his money jar. "John, you really don't have
to do that."

"You don't need to tell me what I do and don't have to do,"
John said. Will started to answer, but John was already
walking away. "Don't forget the peaches," he called over his
shoulder.

"Trust me, I won't," Will muttered.

Mrs. Potter was delighted to sell Will several jars of peaches,
as well as coffee, flour, sugar, oats, tinned soup, beans,
cornmeal, candied fruits, walnuts, baking powder, and lemon
drops (John's favorite). Seeing as she was already looking
at the candied fruits with a speculative eye, Will put on his

best smile and asked, "Mrs. Potter, I was wondering if I could
ask you a favor."

"Of course," she said brightly.

"I've been wanting to make a cake," Will started.

"Met someone special, have you?" Mrs. Potter asked with
bright eyes. She smiled conspiratorially.

"Take it from me, dear, let her do the baking. She'll want to
impress you."

Will winced and he said hastily, "Actually it's for my birthday.
Do you have a recipe for a fruit cake?" She looked a little
disappointed, but quickly brightened again. "What you're
needing is the Boston Cooking School Cook Book. There
are a couple of them over on the book shelf."

Will immediately headed over and perused the

shelf. Not only did he find the promised cookbook, he also
found another Twain book called

Roughing

and a book by

Nellie Bly describing how she traveled around the world in
less than eighty days. He took all three of them to the
counter. "Goodness," Mrs. Potter said. "This is quite the

order.

"I did real good at the auction," Will said with a forced smile.
"Thought it might be time for a few luxuries." Then he had a
stroke of genius. "Do you happen to have any bed flannel?"

"You're in luck," she said cheerfully. "We just got a few bolts
in. How many yards do you want?" Another bundle was
added to the pile on the counter. "Is that everything?"

Will sighed. "Except for the wood."

As expected, Mrs. Potter's eyes brightened again in curiosity
and Will scrambled for an excuse.

"Finally getting around to fixing up my barn." Again she
looked a bit disappointed at the mundane answer; Will could
live with that. He could only imagine her expression if she
found out that he was sheltering a notorious outlaw who had
a penchant for creative building.

After collecting his mail (two letters from Tommy, which lifted
Will's heart – there hadn't been a letter last time) and loading
up his light wagon

(and he'd have to look into repairing the heavy wagon in
case he had to transport another cow and Jesse wasn't
available), Will decided to take a stroll along the boardwalk.

There wouldn't be many more chances to come to town
before the winter snows; he might as well make the most of
the opportunity. The town was even busier than usual, full of
men from other local ranches. The saloons rang with drunken
shouts and bawdy songs, the barber had a line of men
standing outside the door, and judging from the number of
faces looking out from barred windows, the jail was already
at capacity.

Will had never gone to a whore in town, preferring the
anonymity of Bisbee. Still, he was a man and he wasn't blind.
There were four saloons in town, three of which offered
women. One of which offered women that Will suspected
would probably be 'flexible'.

So here was Will's chance. He could go into one of those
three saloons, get a woman, maybe even a flexible woman,
and have her all to himself. He could have a simple poke,
cheap but satisfying, and burn out this strange sensation Will
felt when he looked at John these days. Or he could try what
John had done with Suzie, see if he could understand the
appeal. Or, maybe he could try and find a

very

flexible

woman, and see if there was anything to John's statement
about how much better it felt for a man than it did for a
woman.

Mulling over his choices, Will went to the barber first. His hair
was almost long enough to tie back, and attempts to cut it

himself had been less than

successful. After waiting thirty minutes he got a seat and
enjoyed the feeling as Henry cut his hair short. It felt good to
have hands on his skin, even if it wasn't in a sexual way, and
he opted for a shave as well.

After the shave, he was tempted to go over to the bath house
but he pictured trying to get in (and, more importantly, back
out of) the tub with his bad leg and opted to go to the
restaurant instead. He had fried chicken with mashed
potatoes and apple pie for dessert and by the end of the
meal, he'd just about come around to the idea of John raising
chickens permanently. As long as Will didn't have to do any
of plucking himself. He had a thing about plucking chickens.

After lunch, he managed to rouse enough courage to enter
the saloon with the flexible women. Just in case.
Remembering how much money John put down for Roberta
and Suzie, Will stuck to the cheap whiskey, even though it
made his throat burn and his eyes water, and he staked out a
place at a corner table, where he could watch the whole
room without drawing attention to himself. It didn't take long
to identify the whores – all of the women in the saloon beside
the barmaid (and Will had his suspicions about her) met that
description. Every few minutes or so, one of the women
would go up the stairs, a man following a few minutes later.
The system was different than the one in the whorehouse Will

had gone to in Bisbee; there they hadn't bothered with even
a surface attempt at discretion.

Most of the girls in the saloon didn't do much to

inspire Will's interest; on the whole they were a tired, ragged
bunch, clad in dirty dresses cut too low for the hour and many
barely fastened, as if the women didn't even have the time or
energy to clothe themselves decently before seeking out
another man to coax upstairs.

One woman, though, caught Will's eye. She was

a bit sturdier than most of the girls and a lot livelier, smiling
as she came down the stairs with her clothes perfectly in
place. Will could see following her up to her room, laying
down on top of her, and pressing into that moist area
between her legs. The area that was already dripping with
other

men's leavings. Will felt a wave of revulsion at the idea of
sticking his dick in another man's used seed, which was
more than a bit ridiculous, since Will couldn't forget (no
matter how hot it made his cheeks) the fact that the touch of
John's seed had once made him come. And it certainly
wasn't revulsion he felt as he remembered that encounter.
Will sighed, tossed back his drink, and headed

for the door. It was getting late. Time to go home.

"What took you so long?" John called as Will carefully guided
the wagon into the barn.

"Getting late in the year," Will answered blandly.

"Now sure how many more chances I'll have to get to town
before the snows come."

John eyed him narrowly. "Did you get a shave?

And a haircut?"

Will pretended he was too busy unloading wood

to hear.

"Doesn't matter," John said after a few silent

moments. "Come see what I made."

Struck with an overwhelming sense of doom, Will followed
John out of the barn and around the house to... dammit, the
hog pen. Which now featured a giant upside-down funnel
from which a steady stream of corn flowed.

"You didn't," Will breathed.

"I did," John crowed. "And it's working perfectly." Will shook
his head. "We'll see," he said direly.

"Help me unload before it gets dark." Full of visible cheer,
John moved to obey.

Chapter 6

Two days later, that cheer was nowhere in evidence as John
stormed back into the house. "They tore it down! Again!"

"Hogs are smart," Will said mildly as he stirred together a
quick biscuit dough.

Not like chickens

, he added to himself.

"I'm smarter," John said shortly. "And they aren't going to
beat me."

"Try to use the scraps up before starting in on the fresh
wood," Will requested with a sigh.

John just grunted, already busy with his drawing pad.

Two weeks later, the Great Hog War was still being waged.
Will had just about resigned himself to an extended battle,
though he took some comfort in the fact that he'd gotten John
to agree to stop using up any more wood. As things stood,
there was barely enough left for the cellar.

The cellar project was going far better, though the secretive
nature of the endeavor slowed it down considerably. If one of
the townsfolk (or, God forbid, the sheriff) came, Will didn't
want to have to explain a cellar-sized pile of dirt outside the
door, so every morning after digging out several bucketfuls of
dirt, there was a bit of bother in deciding where to put it.

Some Will scattered in inconspicuous areas around the barn
and hog pen, the

rest John would carry out with him during his morning patrol
and dump in random places in the canyon.

The patrols were John's idea, to keep an eye on the fence
and on the animals to ensure Grady's men did no more
damage. Will was just grateful that it gave the man
something to do, something that fed neither his obsession
with wood nor with chickens. It hadn't taken long for Will to
recognize that John was prone to obsessing. He figured it
went a long way in explaining John's past.

After the morning chores (including the digging), Will worked
on making that fruitcake he'd promised John. Turned out
cakes needed eggs, so he'd had to wait a while as the non-
brooding hen did some laying. Since the hen only produced
an egg once a day or so, Will was limited to one or two cake
trials a week. So far he'd managed to bake a cake that didn't
rise, a cake that had the texture of clay, and a cake that
looked perfect but somehow tasted like metal. John didn't
seem to mind the imperfections, eating his half of each
attempt with enthusiasm. Will fed his half to the pigs. On the
third day of patrol, before Will had managed to gather
enough eggs for his first cake, John had come into the house
carrying a dripping canteen. Will, who'd been putting
together a trap door for the cellar, had eyed the canteen with

a hint of trepidation. "What's that?"

"It's for you," John had said, handing it over.

"Taste it."

The first sip had been tentative, then Will's eyes had widened
and he'd begun to gulp down the

contents of the canteen. "It's from the spring," he'd said when
he'd finished the contents.

John had smiled, clearly pleased. "I thought you'd like that."

Will had just smiled back and nodded.

Since then, John brought spring water nearly every day. Will
didn't think the man's intentions were entirely altruistic; the
best grass in the area was by that spring and John coddled
his horse to a shameful degree. Still, he appreciated having
fresh spring water to drink, especially since the river was so
low this late in the year that it was impossible to collect water
without also collecting a good amount of mud.

On a whim, Will tried thinning the peach juice

with spring water instead of river water when making his next
cake. Sure enough, the end result was fluffy and light and
sweet.

"This is wonderful," John enthused that night as he worked
through both his and Will's piece.

"Enjoy it," Will said grumpily. "I'm saving tomorrow's egg for
breakfast."

John just stuffed the rest of his second piece into his mouth
and, still chewing, cut himself a third. Two days later, it
started to snow.

There'd been snow before, of course, but mostly it was little
more than a few inches. This snow, however, came from a
light gunmetal-gray sky, the kind that could produce snow for
hours or days before it ran out. When Will went outside to
check on the hogs (and to see if they'd already torn down
John's latest attempt at a feeder), he saw the lightly

falling flakes and swore, his heart picking up in panic. He'd
been so worried about the goddamn cellar that he'd
completely forgotten about his cattle. "John!" he shouted,
limping as quickly as he could towards the barn. "John,
where are you?" John poked his head out of the barn. "Just
setting up a place to put the chickens for the winter."

"That's what the chicken coop is for," Will said, pulling down
his saddle. "Come on, we've got to move the cattle."

"What do you mean, move the cattle?" John asked, though
he was already walking towards his gear.

"You don't think I just left them out there all winter, did you?"
From John's baffled expression, he clearly had. "Well, some
ranchers do," Will admitted, tossing a blanket over Brownie's
back. "But they lose a lot of cattle each year. There's a
sheltered canyon on the north east corner of my land. I block
it off during the summer so there's enough feed for the cattle
to survive the winter."

"Pretty smart," John said, sounding impressed. He'd already
gotten Old Faithful's saddle on and was leading her out,
while Will was still tightening Brownie's girth.

"Molly's family taught me that," Will admitted.

"Only works if you've got land you can block off, though."

"Is that why you picked this land?" John asked as Will finally
mounted Brownie and followed John out of the barn.

"Molly's pa actually heard about this place. He's

the one who recommended it." Will kicked Brownie into a
lope, putting an end to the conversation for a while as they
headed out into the range.

Thanks to John's daily patrols, it didn't take long to find the
herd, even with the snow. The wind was starting to pick up,
though, and Will knew the heavier snowfall would soon follow.

The snow was making the cattle antsy, enough

so that if Will had been alone, he knew he would never have
been able to get them moving fast enough. Between John's
natural talent and superior horse, however, they managed to
get the herd pointed in the right direction and trotting along
briskly.

The hardest part of the move over, Will rode up next to John.
"I'm going to go ahead and open the gate."

John just nodded, then darted to the side to stop a calf from
breaking out of the group.

Will just shook his head and rode on ahead, pushing
Brownie as hard as he dared considering the increasingly
limited visibility and the accumulating snowfall that hid
potentially lethal pitfalls. If they hit a prairie dog hole at this
speed – well, Will would probably survive, but Brownie would
undoubtedly break his leg and have to be put down. Fortune
was with them, however, because Will

reached the winter canyon without mishap. The gate was an
awkward one composed of little more than a few pieces of

wood and an excessive amount of barbed wire and just like
every other year he'd done this, Will swore to himself that
next year he'd build a proper gate. One that didn't take five

minutes and potential shredding to open.

Eventually, he managed to drag the wood and

wire to one side. By that point, he could hear the herd
coming and he mounted Brownie as quickly as he could,
cursing his leg as it tried to crumple beneath him. It was
always worse in the cold.

Once mounted, he headed to the closest of the

three shelters that sat along the edges of the canyon. It was a
simple structure, barely more than a glorified lean-to, but it
was also sturdy and Will breathed a sigh of relief to find it
and the hay it protected both still intact. He should've
checked on the hay before, but at first he was too busy and
then John came and he was too distracted and in the end the
last time he'd seen this hay was when he'd bought it during
the early summer harvest.

He wasn't able to move the bales on his own, so he simply
cut open the few bales in front and was relieved to see that
they'd been baled properly and that there was no rot inside.

The rest he left as it was; he'd open them when he came
back to check

on the cattle in a few weeks. If he couldn't make it out for
some reason, he knew the animals would

eventually get desperate enough to eat the baled hay, string
and all.

The next two shelters were in decent shape, though it looked
like some mice got into the hay in the third shelter. Not that
mice could actually eat enough to make any sort of
difference, but they startled Will when they burst out of a bale
he'd just cut open.

By the time he'd finished with the hay, the entire herd was
safely in the canyon. Will did a quick

headcount to be sure as he rode up next to John.

"Nice job."

"Good cattle," John answered, squinting a bit in the falling
snow. Will frowned as he noticed for the first time that John
hadn't had time to get his hat before riding out into the snow.

"We should hurry back," Will said. "It's only going to get
worse."

John nodded and turned Old Faithful. As they

stopped to put the gate back in place, he commented, "It's
so small." Will spared a glance up into the canyon.
Compared to the range that encompassed most of

his land, this canyon was small, but at the same time he
knew it was several times the size of most winter pastures
back east. Of course, they had better grass back east and
they rarely got as much snow as they did here in the west.
"It's why I wait so long to put them away for the winter," Will
said as he wrestled with the stubborn post. "Too early and
they'll eat up all the food before the winter's gone." With one
last heave he managed to get the post close enough to the
wire loop to hook it into place. "Better hurry," he added,
swinging up on Brownie's back. "The snow's gonna get a lot
worse." Unfortunately, the snow did get worse, making it
impossible for them to hurry. About halfway back to the
house, they were forced to slow down to a walk so that the
horses could pick their way through the drifts of snow.

"Had your father-in-law ever seen the west before?

Will turned in his saddle to stare at John, half

worried the man had lost his wits to the cold.

"What?"

"Your father-in-law," John repeated slowly, clearly making an
effort to enunciate through halffrozen lips. "Did he know
anything about the west when he told you about the land?
About the droughts they have out here?"

Will reined in Brownie so that Old Faithful could move up
beside him. Old Faithful didn't look impressed about losing
her windbreak, but obligingly stepped up. "He'd heard about
the droughts," Will said as the horses continued to make
their way through the snow. "But neither of us really
understood what it meant. They don't have droughts like
these back east. It might not rain for a while and the crops
might die if they aren't watered, but in the hundred years that
Molly's family owned their farm, their creek never came close
to drying up. To them, a drought meant more work. It never
occurred to us that out west a drought might mean dying of
thirst."

"Sounds nice," John said, his voice starting to slur just a bit.
"Must be pretty."

"It is pretty," Will said wistfully. "Very green. Rivers and lakes
everywhere." He glanced over at John, looking miserable all
hunched up in his saddle. "What about you?" Will asked,
suddenly feeling a strange insistence that no matter what,
John had to keep talking. "You ever been out east?" John
shook his head, spraying a bit of snow around. "Furthest

east I've ever been is Juarez," he said. At least that's what
Will thought he said. John's lips were barely moving now.

"How far east is that in American towns?" Will

asked.

John shot him a look that might've been dirty if it wasn't so
damned tired. "Albuquerque," he said flatly.

Will ignored the look and the tone. They were less than a
mile out now, but the snow was falling heavily and John's lips
were starting to turn blue. Whatever it took to keep John
talking and moving, that's what Will was going to do. "Where
else have you gone? Besides Juarez and San Francisco." In
spite of the weather, John looked almost pleased for a
moment. Still, his voice slurred even more as he said, "I've
been all over California and Arizona. Tried to go to Texas
once," he added in a mumble, "but ran into a bunch of
rangers that were just spoiling for a fight." His voice trailed
off and he slumped a bit in the saddle.

Will grabbed John's arm and shook him. "Hey!

Wake up!"

John just slid down a bit further in the saddle. Will swore and
pulled out his rope. As quickly as he could with fingers numb

from the cold, he tied John to his saddle. Once he was
reasonably sure the other man wouldn't fall off, he grabbed
Old Faithful's reins and wrapped them around his saddle
horn.

The remainder of the trip was nothing short of a nightmare.
John kept sliding around on his saddle and though he never
entirely fell off, Will was constantly afraid that he was about to
do so. Old Faithful, however wonderful she was when John
was in control of her, was an incredibly ornery horse without
John's firm hand and twice she tried

to bite Brownie or Will, whichever one was closest. Brownie
was his usual stalwart self but the snow was growing thicker
with every passing moment and before long, they were in a
white-out. Will squinted into the wind, but he wasn't able to
see more than a few feet, certainly not far enough to identify
any landmarks.

Will took a deep breath and tried his best not to panic. They
had been pointed in the right direction when he could see
last, he was sure of it, and Brownie hadn't slowed down a
whit. He'd just have to trust that Brownie knew where home
was, and

that his horse would take him there safely.

Without the need to guide his horse, Will found himself far

more aware of the cold. The wind was bitter and biting and it
cut through his coat, slicing into his skin. Snow piled up on
his coat and his hat, slowly melting and causing freezing
water to trickle down his back. His nose dripped, his skin
both burned and stung, and his hands felt like blocks of ice.
As they rode on, his head sunk lower and lower, in a fruitless
effort to block out the wind. He was starting to worry that they
weren't going to make it after all, when Brownie suddenly
came to a stop. Will blinked and lifted his head with an effort.

They were at a house. His house. Will gasped

with relief and slid off of his horse, very nearly falling to the
ground when his bad leg cramped and threatened to give
way underneath him. There wasn't time for him to collapse
though, not with John half off of his saddle. Will pulled his
knife, his hands too frozen to deal with the knots he'd
created,

and sawed through the rope as best he could. It took several
tries before he managed to get enough of the rope cleared.

John fell to the ground like a sack of coal.

Will's eyes stung as he struggled to pick John up but there
was no way for his leg to support both of their weights. In the
end, he could only take John's wrists and drag him inside,
one hobbled step at a time, leaving a muddy trail through the

snow. John moaned at the first jerk of movement and then
again as Will yanked him up over the small step that served
as a threshold for the house.

It was easier once they were inside, thanks to

the wooden floor. Will dragged John the few feet over to the
clear area in front of the kitchen stove. A rag rug was in front
of the sink; Will grabbed it and draped it over John.

Moving as quickly as possible, Will limped outside and
grabbed both of the horses' bridles and led them into the
barn. He only took the time to pull off the saddles and toss a
fresh blanket on each of the animals; he'd come to give them
a rubdown and feed them as soon as he was sure John
would be okay.

The snow had died down a bit by the time he

went back to the house but Will didn't let himself relax.
Snowstorms like this would come in waves and it was a
foolish man who underestimated the fury of the storm. Will
had proven himself such a fool and John might pay for that
foolishness with his life.

Inside the cabin, Will went straight into his bedroom and
pulled all of his blankets off of the bed.

He hauled them out to the kitchen and dropped them on John
before doing going into John's room and collecting his
blankets as well.

When he checked on John, though, Will found

that the pile of blankets hadn't done him much good. The
blankets could only hold heat in and John just didn't have
enough heat to give.

Will promptly started stripping the damp clothes off of John's
limp form, appalled at the thinness of his coat and the limited
number of layers. John's skin was an unhealthy white with
patches of painful-looking red. Will touched the skin carefully,
feeling the way it absorbed the heat from his hands without
any noticeable improvement.

With a sigh, Will began shrugging off his clothes. Tommy had
gotten lost in the snow when he'd only been a few years old
and Molly had stripped them both and cuddled in bed
together until he'd warmed up again. When they'd brought
him in to the doctor a few days later, he'd said that she'd
saved Tommy's life.

John's skin was so cold that Will's body instinctively flinched
away. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to press closer,
until he was flush with the other man, feeling as if every bit of
heat in his body was being drawn away with John not getting

any warmer. Reaching out with one arm, Will grabbed every
blanket he could reach and piled them on top. It didn't seem
to do much good.

With a resigned sigh, Will nuzzled his nose into John's neck,
enduring the resultant iciness. This was, without a doubt, one
of the most miserable moments of his entire life.

It felt like an eternity later when a shiver went through John's
body. "John?" Will whispered. John didn't respond in words,
but shuddered again, this time much harder.

Will whispered a quiet prayer and held John just a little
tighter.

Over the next few minutes (or hours, it felt like hours) John's
shivers turned into full-blown shaking, so violent at times that
they nearly dislodged Will's grip. "It's okay," Will murmured,
time and again, though he doubted that John could hear him.

"It's okay. You'll be fine."

Ever so slowly, John's body began to warm and

his shivers grew a little less violent.

Will's genitals, which had been doing their best to crawl up

into his body, began to recognize that the situation was
becoming significantly less dire. Will gritted his teeth and did
his best to ignore the sensations running through his body.

"Wha–?"

Will started. "John?"

"Wha'ssa happen'?"

"You nearly froze to death, that's what happened," Will said
tightly.

"Froze?"

"Yeah."

John wriggled and Will, not sure what to think, loosened his
hold. John immediately turned over, wrapped his arms
around Will, and burrowed in, thrusting his nose into Will's
neck.

John's nose was like ice.

Will didn't care.

"You scared me," Will murmured into John's ear.

100

John nuzzled Will's neck. "Feel good."

"You do," Will repeated flatly.

John thrust his hips forward and Will felt something hard and
hot push against his stomach.

"Yes," he said smugly.

"Ah, I don't think you're up for that yet," Will said, his voice
higher than usual.

John thrust again.

"Oh hell," Will muttered. He hid his eyes in John's neck and
thrust back.

They kept thrusting, over and over again, the cold under the
blankets turning uncomfortably hot until both were sweating,
their cocks sliding slickly against each other, their breath
growing heavy and heated. Will felt pressure building up
behind his cock, felt his balls getting hot and tight and then
the pleasure hit, took over his body and kept him rutting hard
against John's belly, completely unable to do anything but
focus on the sensation as John rubbed back until a second
spurt of fluid spilled out between them.

Will slumped back against the floor, as limp as a rag doll.
John curled up against his side, his head resting on Will's
chest. For a few moments they just breathed.

And sweated. "How do you feel?" Will asked.

"Damned fine," John said and despite his flushed skin, the
circles around his eyes, and slight slurring that still marked
his speech, he honestly looked like he believed it.

Will couldn't help it; he chuckled. "I meant, are you still cold?"

John hesitated, then sighed. "A bit. Inside."

101

Will let out a huff of air. "All right, let me up. I'm going to make
you some coffee."

John considered that for a moment before wrapping an arm
tightly around Will. "I'd rather have you here."

"I'll be back," Will said, and he wasn't completely sure it was
a lie.

Another hesitation before John squeezed him tightly, then let
go. Will slid out from under the blankets and added more
wood to the stove before filling the percolator with grounds
and water. "I'm sorry," he said, his back to John. "I should've
waited to move the cattle till after the snow."

"You didn't know it'd get that bad," John answered.

"I knew it was possible," Will said. "This time of the year,

storms turn ugly fast."

John let out an exasperated sigh. "I could've chosen not to
go, you know. I wasn't dressed for the weather."

That got Will to turn around. "Why not? It was cold before the
snow started."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Honestly, I didn't expect to stay
this long."

Will opened his mouth but shut it again with speaking. The
moment grew awkward. Will turned to fiddle with the
percolator. John shifted until he was more covered by the
blankets.

The coffee poured and heavily sweetened, Will

crouched down to hand the mug to John. John, in turn, sat up
and dragged the blankets around until he was completely
wrapped except for the hand he reached out for the cup.
While John sipped, Will

102

draped himself with a spare blanket and retreated to a chair.

"So," John said when his cup was half-empty.

"You have regrets."

It wasn't a question, so Will didn't bother to answer.

"You want me to leave?"

"No," Will said quickly. John didn't look convinced. "Really,"
Will said. "I'm not sure about," he waved a hand back and
forth between them, "but I know I don't want to you leave." He
smiled slightly.

"Despite the chickens."

John eyed him for a moment, then smiled back.

"Admit it, you like the eggs."

"They almost make up for the chickens," Will answered.

They stared at each other, John looking up from the floor and
Will looking down from his chair. Never shifting his gaze,
John said, "I liked what we did. I'm going to want to do it
again." Will let out a long, low breath, but didn't look away.
"I'm not promising anything."

"Not even pancakes?" John asked hopefully. Will laughed
despite himself. "Fine. Pancakes. But you're going to have to
move away from the front of the stove."

John immediately tried to stand up, but the pile of blankets
wrapped around him got in his way and both he and his

empty cup went tumbling back down to the floor. "Here," Will
said, hurrying over to help him up.

"This is awkward," John said.

"It's your own fault," Will said gruffly, arranging

103

the blankets so that John could sit down without any part of
him being exposed to the air. "Where are your winter
clothes?"

"In some caves about a mile from here." Will stopped
fussing. "What?"

"I have a hideout there," John said blandly. "It's where I went
when you were smoking that cow." Connections were being
made in John's mind.

"And when we first met?"

"I was trying to get there," John answered. "I'd planned to
hole up until the posse who shot me gave up." He caught
Will's eye. "I would've died then, if you hadn't taken me in."

"Molly and Tommy would've died if we hadn't taken you in,"
Will countered.

There was a long, awkward silence and for the

first time since Will had met him, John wouldn't meet his
eyes. "Oh, my God," Will breathed. "You mean –"

"They were members of my gang," John said.

"They came to get me. When they saw Molly, they decided
they to have a little fun."

"That's why you left so soon after," Will breathed, not quite
sure what he was feeling as he said the words. "To meet
back up with your gang."

"No," John said flatly. "I killed my third in command that night;
he was the one holding Tommy. You helped bury the body
the next day." Will pressed his lips together and looked
away.

"I left a few days after that because I knew they'd come after
me. I spent the next two years on the run but every time I
stopped more than a few weeks, they caught up with me and
people died."

104

He took a deep breath. "Finally I had enough. I went on the
offensive, picking them off one by one."

"I guess you got them all," Will said.

"The last one was three days before I showed up at your

door." The silent stretched out. "They'd tried to kill me for
years," John said, sounding defensive. "It was me or them."
They'd also tried to hurt Molly; John may not have brought it
up, but Will couldn't forget that fact. It made it harder to be
angry at John for killing the bastards.

"You can use my coat tomorrow, go to the caves," Will finally
said.

John's body visibly relaxed. "You don't have a spare?"

"After the last couple of years, I'm lucky to have a spare pair
of pants."

John tried to smirk, the attempt almost painful to see. "I'll
make pancakes if you make the bed," Will offered, mostly to
wipe that grimace off John's face.

"Bed?" John said carefully.

"Just for tonight," Will answered as casually as he could
manage, already pulling out the flour and baking powder.
"You're still cold and we don't have any extra blankets.
Makes sense to share."

"I guess it does," John readily agreed. "Want me to move the
flannel over, too?"

Frankly, Will thought it likely that he was going to melt into a
puddle with just the blankets, never mind the flannel, but they
probably would feel good to someone who'd nearly frozen to
death just a few hours before. "Sure."

They didn't speak much for the rest of the

105

evening, just worked silently side by side as they ate dinner
and readied the house for the night. They remained silent as
they crawled into bed, Will on the far side against the wall
and John close to the door, the majority of the blankets piled
just on his side of the bed. The flannel bedding was softer
than Will expected it to be but just as warm, and he scooted
closer to the edge of the bed and the promise of coolness.
He was just an inch from falling on the floor when he finally
drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, he'd somehow
migrated back

to the center of the bed and he and John were tangled up like
two wolf cubs huddling together for warmth.

106

Chapter 7

Over the next few days, Will found himself overwhelmingly
aware of John. When they were in the same room, the side
of Will's body closest to John somehow felt warmer, even if
John was a halfa-dozen steps away. When they were apart,
Will's thoughts constantly turned to John, wondering what he
was doing and how he was feeling. Occasionally, they
strayed further still, to what John might be planning for the
two of them, but Will always shied away from deliberately
considering the possibilities.

Though he did notice that John was touching him more.
Nothing intimate, just a friendly hand on the shoulder when
they greeted in the morning, or fingers brushing against Will's
when he passed him something over the table. Minor
touches that could've been Will's imagination, but weren't. As
impossible as it was, Will somehow felt John's touch on his
skin hours after the actual contact occurred. While John went
to his cave, Will made a considerable amount of progress
with his cellar. He was getting tired of the slow pace dictated
by the need to hide the extra dirt from lawmen that might
never come and decided that, even if it took a while to get rid
of the dirt itself, he could at least finish with the digging. With
that goal in mind, he managed to empty out the planned
cellar area in just a couple of hours, though he filled every
empty pot,

107

cup, bowl, bag, and box in the house in the process. When
John returned, a surprisingly large number of bags in hand,
Will was in the process of carrying containers full of dirt to the
hog pen.

"Been busy?" John asked with raised eyebrows.

"Cellar's dug." Will dumped several pounds of dirt out of his
stewpot. "Caves as you left them?"

"Yep." John followed Will into the house and dropped his
bags at the door. When Will turned around with a couple of
bowls of dirt, he found John staring around the room in
disbelief.

"I just wanted to get finished," Will said gruffly.

"I see." John stepped forward and dropped something on the
table before picking up the saucepan. "You're washing these
dishes." Will didn't answer, his eyes caught by the something
that John had dropped. The something that looked
suspiciously like stack of bills, even thicker than the stack
John had brought when he'd first arrived. "John?"

"You don't think I left it all in one place, did you?" John asked
with a touch of defensiveness.

"And –," he let out a gust of air, "and I know where my gang

saved theirs, too. Those that saved it, anyway – outlaws
aren't usually known for being good with money."

Will didn't know what to say. Hell, he didn't even know what to

think

. With the money from the sale of his cattle somewhere

between the buyer's bank and Will's own, Will and John were
living almost entirely on the money John had first brought.
Will hadn't forgotten that it was stolen money, but he'd
managed to push that fact to the

108

back of his mind. Now that he was confronted with more
money and knowing that there was potentially even more to
come, it was a lot harder to ignore where exactly that money
came from.

It wasn't that Will was especially sympathetic to the railroads.
Even before he'd heard John's story, Will had seen camps of
railroad workers. It was hard to feel sorry at some minor
losses for rich men on the east coast who dined on oysters
and champagne while their workers were lucky to get meat
once a week.

No, it wasn't the railroad barons who were the

problem. The problem was all of the innocent people John's
gang stole money from over all those years. "John," Will
started.

"It doesn't do any good to leave it out in the desert," John
said quickly.

"Not what I was going to ask." Will glanced away for a
moment, wondering if he could just let this go. He sighed.
"How much of what you stole was from the railroads?"

John looked confused. "What?"

"How much was from the railroads, how much from other
people?"

"I don't know," John said with a frown. "Most of it was from
the railroads."

"I worked as a bank clerk," Will said. "Give me a number."

"Figuring ain't my strong suit," John said warily. Will shook
his head, but reminded himself that

John didn't have much formal education. "Okay, pretend
everything you stole is a dollar. How many cents of that would
be what you took from people

109

who weren't connected with the railroad?"

John relaxed a little. "Two, three cents at most." Most of the
tension flowed out of Will's body.

"All right. That's not so bad."

"So you'll take it," John asked and a hint of wistfulness snuck
through.

Will thought about that, about how much money

they really needed to run the ranch, to feed and clothe
themselves, to save in case of future droughts. Then he
considered what would happen if John was discovered here
some day, if he had to go on the run. "Half," Will finally said.
"We can keep half."

"And the rest?"

"We give it to people who need it," Will said.

"Charities."

"Not churches," John said with a scowl.

"Orphanages?" Will offered. "Or maybe schools?" John
brightened a little at that. "I heard some schools have
scholarships for poor boys."

"Maybe we can pay for one of those." Will considered the
amount of money they were probably going to be dealing
with. "Or several." Now John was positively beaming. "I can
live with that."

Will couldn't help but smile back. "So can I." With the digging
done, it didn't take long to finish the cellar. Will was quite
proud of the final product: it'd easily fit a man, even if all the
shelves were filled, and he’d even put in a floor in the unlikely
event they had enough rain for water to seep in through the
walls. He'd used leather for hinges

110

on the trap door so they'd lay almost flat, with a second strip
of leather in place to lift the door up, and the entire area was
covered with one of Molly's rag rugs, which neatly covered
any evidence of a cellar and yet which could be quickly pulled
away. He also repositioned the table so that the head chair
rested just over the door: it wasn't as good as the entire table
being over it but the chair was easier to move and, with his
leg, Will figured he'd have an excuse to stay seated if
lawmen ever came. Will was all ready to show off the finished
cellar when John came in. Unfortunately, when John came in
he had several bundles of yellow fluff in his hands and didn't
seem inclined to care about holes in the floor, no matter how
well those holes had been designed and built. "Look," John
crowed, carefully setting the fluff balls onto the table.

"Chicks!"

"I see," Will said blandly. "Should you be taking them away
from their mama?"

"I'm just borrowing them," John said absently, his eyes
locked on the chicks. "They'll be fine." Will sighed and sat
down on the other side of the table, watching the tiny animals
exploring the tabletop. "Why do you know so much about
chickens?"

"We raised them at the orphanage," John said, smiling as
one of the birds attacked his fingers. "It was supposed to be
good for our 'moral development'." His smile carried a hint of
bitterness now.

"We never got to eat the chicken, though. The church sold the
birds to help pay for our tuition." Will felt a lump forming in his
throat. "The

111

eggs?"

"Never had a one," John said, clearly trying to sound casual,
but failing miserably. "Father Michael had them every
morning with his breakfast." They continued to watch the
chicks, but much of the enjoyment had disappeared from the
room. Will tried to smile. "I finished the cellar." John looked
up from the birds, a much more authentic smile on his face.
"That's great. Here, let me put the chicks away so I can see
it."

A short while later John was in the cellar, looking about in
satisfaction while Will watched from the comfort of his chair.

"So?"

"It's perfect," John said. He sat down and rested his back
against one of the shelves. "I can almost stretch my legs out."

Will winced. "I thought about making it bigger, but I didn't
think the floor would support it."

"That wasn't a complaint," John said. He climbed the first few
rungs on the built-in ladder until his head was near Will's.
Without warning, John leaned in for a kiss and after a brief,
startled moment, Will allowed it. John's lips were warm and
slightly chapped and they worked over Will's for several
seconds before John pulled Will's lower lip into his mouth
and sucked on it gently.

Will couldn't quite hold back a moan, but he did have just
enough resolve to force himself to pull away when it seemed
like John was planning on

deepening the kiss further. "So you like it," he said huskily.

"It's perfect," John said again. "Thank you."

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Then he smiled. "I think we should celebrate with a cake."

Will surprised himself with a laugh. "If you're making it."

"You want me to cook?" John asked with exaggerated

shock.

"I can only make a cake with spring water," Will said gravely.

The corner of John's mouth quirked up. "What about cookies,
then? I hear they don't take any water."

"It's a miracle your teeth haven't rotted out," Will said
chidingly, but he was already up on his feet and reaching for
the cookbook. "Sugar cookies?"

"Can I have cinnamon on top?"

Will shook his head. He wondered how many

people knew that the infamous John Anderson was
shamelessly addicted to sugar. "If you help make them."

"I can do that," John said, climbing out of the cellar, slotting
the trap door into place, and carefully covering it all with a
rug. "And tomorrow I'll go out to the spring."

"Perfect," Will said. "Tomorrow I can teach you how to bake
a cake."

Now equipped with adequate winter clothes, John started
going off to check on the cows again. Each time he came
back with a canteen or two of spring water and a random
guess as to how many of the cows were pregnant.

Will was grateful about not having to ride several hours every
day; long stretches on Brownie

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tended to make his leg cramp up even in the warmest part of
the year and damn near crippled him in the bitter cold of
deep winter. As a way of saying thanks, he tended to the
chickens (and tried very hard not to get too attached to the
chicks) and hogs and worked on repairs around the house
that he'd deliberately put off for the winter months.

He started in John's room, which hadn't been repaired since
Tommy left. He hadn't been in the room since then either, so
he'd not realized how bad the clay between the logs had
eroded. In some places, he could see snow through the
cracks. No wonder John kept complaining about the cold.

After he'd plastered the cracks with mud, he began making
his way through all of the odds and ends he'd had stored in
John's room. There was more than he remembered: clothes
from both Molly and Tommy, toys and books that Tommy had
left

behind, a broken chair that Will had never gotten around to
repairing, a seemingly endless supply of mostly useless
items, and... Molly's hope chest. Will's breath caught in his
throat. He'd forgotten that this was in here: as long as he and
Molly had shared a bed, the chest had sat at the foot of it but

after her death, he couldn't bear to have it in his room
anymore. Tommy seemed to get some comfort from having
Molly's chest in his room; at the time, Will had just been
grateful to have it gone. The chest was made of cedar and
was covered in

exquisitely carved flowers and fruit. Molly had done the
carving herself, to the horror of her mother and the pride of
her father. She'd had a real knack with a knife: as long as
there were no guests to dis

114

approve, she usually carved the meat at dinner and Will had
to admit that she was far better at it than he ever managed.

Reverently opening the chest, Will pulled out the
embroidered linen tablecloth they'd used on special
occasions. It smelled of cedar and cinnamon; Will pressed
the cloth to his face and breathed in deeply.

"Was that Molly's?"

Will lowered the tablecloth, but didn't turn around. "Yes."

He heard the door close and footsteps as John

moved to sit in the chair opposite Will. "It's beautiful. Just like
she was." Will smiled, though his eyes filled with water.

"She was." He carefully set the tablecloth aside. Underneath
it was a sampler that even Will could see was inexpertly
done. It was of a large heart surrounding the words HOME IS
WHERE THE

HEART IS. A tear escaped Will's eye and he made no effort
to brush it away.

By the time Will reached the bottom of the chest, tears were
running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. John had
moved his chair next to Will's and was carefully taking each
item from Will's hand, moving them safely out of the way of
Will's tears.

At the bottom of the chest was a box. Will lifted it out carefully
and opened it up. The inside was lined with velvet and
nestled within that velvet was a full set of tarnished silver.
"This was from Molly's great-grandmother. She brought them
with her when her family came over from Germany."

"They're lovely," John commented, picking up a

115

fork. "Why don't you use them?"

"Molly only used it for special occasions," Will said with a
fond smile. "

Very

special occasions. She hated polishing

silver."

"I don't blame her," John said. "The nuns used to make us
clean the Father's silver if they caught us sneaking out after
curfew. Made our hands blister." Will shook his head. "The
more I hear about the orphanage, the more I wish they'd
rebuilt it, just so I could burn it down again."

John grinned. "Why, Will, I didn't think you had it in you."

Will shrugged self-consciously.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Will running his
fingers over the silverware.

"You still love her, don't you?" John asked softly.

"I'll always love her," Will said. "But she's gone. She's been
gone a long time."

John stared at him. "Will?"

Will closed the silverware case and placed it back into the
chest. The mementos, the sampler, the linens, the baby
clothes followed. Finally, the tablecloth. Will kissed it before
setting it carefully in the chest. "I love you, Molly," he
murmured, closing the chest. "Goodbye."

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Chapter 8

After the hope chest, John started spending more time
outside with the animals and Will threw himself into the house
repairs. He patched the rest of the house's walls, fixed the
chair from Tommy's room, mended a shelf in the kitchen that
had fallen down two years before, and managed to make
some headway on the porch he'd begun back when they'd
first moved into the house, before he'd realized just how
much work a ranch was to run with just one

person. He even sanded down his bedroom door so it could
actually shut again, though he never closed the door these
days and if he were honest with himself, it wasn't just so the
heat from the stove could get through to his room.

His house had never been in such good shape.

He was working on the porch one day in December when he
looked up to see John coming

up to the house at a near-gallop. "Get your boots on," he
said, pulling up right next to the porch and sliding off Old
Faithful's back. "I'll saddle Brownie."

"What –"

"Something's happened with the cattle," John said, already

moving to the barn. "You need to see it to understand."

With that completely unsatisfying bit of information, John
disappeared. Will swore vociferously and limped inside to
get his riding boots.

They rode fast, not dangerously so but fast

117

enough that they couldn't talk as they rode. John took the
lead, sticking to a well-worn trail through the snow, and they
got to the canyon almost as fast as they would've in the
middle of the summer. The air was bitterly cold, though, and
despite the heat coming off of Brownie's sides, Will felt his
bad leg protesting.

As they approached the canyon, Will saw that John hadn't
even bothered to close the gate and he felt the first trickle of
panic. The trickle sped up as Will saw the herd all huddled
together at the far end of the canyon, staying as far away as
possible from several lumps that were all grouped together
on the right side of the canyon.

The lumps were dead cows. Of course they were, Will had
been expecting that. What he hadn't expected were the
arrows sticking out of the animals' sides. His hands
tightened on the reins.

"Indians?"

John dismounted and walked over to the nearest

body. He pulled out the arrow and held it up for Will to
inspect. "See the thread holding the feathers in place?
Indians don't use thread, they use sinew." Realization hit.
"Grady."

John flung the arrow away. "That'd be my guess."

"Fuck." Will counted six dead animals. Six out of a herd of
just over seventy. Nearly ten percent of his animals just gone.

"Can the meat still be used?"

Will shook his head. "It's been hours, maybe overnight, and
they haven't been bled or dressed. The hogs'll eat it, but no
way they can eat six cows.

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We'll have to get the bodies out of the canyon, as far away
from the river as we can. Burying them is best but the ground
is frozen."

John was rigid with tension. "Bastard," he spat.

"John –"

"No!" John shouted. "This isn't right. It's not right that he can
do this, that he can get away with this." He viciously kicked

one of the corpses. "Just like the goddamned railroad."

Will damn near fell off his horse trying to get down as fast as
he could, his leg cramping up something fierce in the bitter
winter cold. "No, John," he said as he regained his feet. "I
know what you're thinking and you're not going to do it."

"Why not?" John asked. "He's just going to do it again.
Probably something even worse, if he isn't stopped."

Will hobbled over, his bad leg knotted up so tight that it could
barely hold his weight, and protesting each step he took. He
stumbled over a tuft of frozen grass and felt something tear
inside, but he ignored the pain to focus all his attention on
John. "You promised," he hissed. "You promised me. And I
am going to hold you to that promise." John breathed heavily
a few times, but some of

the tension leeched out of his body. "It isn't right," he
repeated, softer now.

"I know," Will said, putting a careful hand in the middle of
John's back. "I know it isn't right. But it's my herd, so it's my
decision. I don't want you to kill him."

John held himself tight for a second longer then all of a
sudden he slumped. "I hate men like that."

119

"I know," Will said again. He wrapped his free arm around
John's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace and
conveniently holding himself up at the same time.

"Leg bothering you?" John asked, his voice gentle now.

"Yeah," Will admitted with a touch of embarrassment. "I think
I'm going to need help getting back up on Brownie."

"I shouldn't've brought you here," John said, grimly. "Come
on, lean on me."

Between the two of them and with a lot of patience on
Brownie's part, they managed to get Will back in the saddle.
"You able to ride?" Will considered trying to ride without
putting any weight on his leg. "We'll need to go slow." John
pulled himself up on Old Faithful. "You go ahead and take all
the time you need. I'll catch up." That didn't sound good.
"John?"

Unfortunately, John was already riding out of the canyon. Full
of foreboding, Will followed. He'd barely rode ten minutes
before John came

up beside him, and Will breathed a sigh of relief. Ten
minutes wouldn't've been enough time for him to reach the
edge of Will's land and back again, much less get all the way
to Grady's place.

The dripping canteen tied to John's saddle horn explained
the departure. "The spring?" John looked a little sheepish.
"We came all the way out; seemed foolish not to."

"I'm just glad you weren't going after Grady," Will said.

"I made a promise," John said seriously. "I won't

120

go back on that."

"And if Grady does something else?"

John's mouth tightened. "You'll need heat for that leg. I'll go
on ahead and put some water on to boil."

"No, John –" It was too late; for the second time that day
John rode away faster than Will could follow.

By the time Will saw his house, the sun was starting to set.
There was no Old Faithful in sight but there were lights on in
the house's window. Brownie sped up as he caught sight of
the barn and the inherent promise of oats. Will gritted his
teeth and tried to ignore the pain.

John stepped out of the house as Will pulled Brownie to a
halt. "Need help?"

Will desperately wanted to say that he didn't, but he also

didn't want to drag himself back to the house by his
fingernails. "Please."

Without comment, John helped Will down from

the horse and into the house. He'd set up all of the chairs so
Will could sit down and stretch his bad leg out but when Will
started in that direction, John stopped him. "How many pairs
of pants do you have?"

Will stared at him. "What?"

"How many pairs of pants?"

"Why?" Will asked cautiously.

"Because if I put wet rags on your leg, it's going to get this
pair of pants wet."

Will closed his eyes in annoyance, but he remembered how
long it took to dry the clothes

121

after the last time they'd washed them. Bad enough that the
lower half were already wet with snow; he didn't have enough
pairs of pants to have a pair be thoroughly damp for the next
few days. Without looking at John, Will unbuckled his pants
and unbuttoned his fly.

"Boots," John pointed out helpfully.

"I don't plan on sitting down more than once," Will said as he
began unbuttoning his shirt. This would be so much easier if
long johns came in two parts.

Once he got the long johns down around his waist, Will put
his shirt back on, then his coat. At which point he realized
that he'd very efficiently hobbled himself and he was at least
three steps from the chairs.

"Here," John said, suddenly right at Will's side.

"If you just turn, I can lower you into the seat." This was
humiliating, Will decided, as he did his best to shuffle around
with his pants twisted up around his ankles. It was even
worse when John took Will's hands and encouraged him to
sit back blind, his cock dangling between his legs, and his
bad leg shaking with the effort of not collapsing out from
underneath him.

John never let go, though, and Will ended up

safely in the seat. As soon as he was settled, John crouched
down and, without ceremony, tugged off Will's boots and then
stripped off his pants and long johns. "Ready?" he asked,
standing up.

"I can do this part by myself," Will said, clinging to a last

scrap of pride, though he had to lift his leg up by his hands to
get it positioned on the opposite

122

chair.

John gave him a quick smile and went to the

stove, where a pot was steaming.

Less than a minute later, hot clothes were layered over Will's
leg. "That's some scar," John commented as he laid the last
cloth down.

"The bone cut through the leg," Will said through gritted teeth.
The pain was intense but he knew if he just lasted long
enough, the warmth would take most of the pain away. "And
the doc opened it a little more. He had to, to get the bones to
sit right."

"And you let him do it?" John asked incredulously.

"I was unconscious," Will said with a shrug.

"Didn't know about it till after."

"Hell of a thing to do without a man's permission," John
muttered, draping a towel over Will's legs.

"He saved my leg," Will pointed out. "Hard to be angry with

him."

John just grunted. "You should be okay for a few minutes. I'm
going to take care of your horse." Will nodded. As John
turned to leave, though, he called out, "And John? Thanks."

"No thanks necessary," John said without turning around.
"You'd do it for me." The confidence in John's voice was
surprising but Will couldn't argue the point.

The next morning was a bad one. Will didn't

even try to get out of bed, just lay there with his teeth gritted
as his leg cramped, and tried to ride out the pain. This was
his own damn fault; he knew

123

better than to push his leg too hard in the heart of winter,
when it was too cold to snow and you had to breathe through
your nose to keep your lungs from freezing. That kind of cold
tightened up the muscles even in his good leg and it made
the muscles in his bad leg prone to tearing.

The pain was just getting to be on the right side of bearable
when John stuck his head through the door. "How's the leg?"

Will glared at him. John winced sympathetically. "I'll go make
breakfast," he offered as he fled, undoubtedly to make
French toast.

French toast did sound good, but Will knew it

wasn't likely he was going to make it out of bed today and
the idea of three meals of French toast in a row was enough
to make his stomach turn. Fate, Will decided, was saying
that it was time for the infamous outlaw John Anderson to
learn how to cook. John did not look overwhelmed with
happiness

by the news. In fact, he looked downright dubious.

"Are you sure?"

"You have to learn sometime," Will insisted.

"What if they find you here and you have to run away to
Belize? How'll you take care of yourself if you don't know how
to cook?"

For some reason, John looked hurt by that statement. "Fine,"
he said sourly. "What do I need to do first?"

Will was taken aback by the tone, but gamely

moved ahead. "Take a pound or two of the beef and fry it in
the largest skillet. Not long; just until both sides are brown.
Then add a cup of water, put the lid on, and place it on the
back of the stove, where

124

it's a bit cooler."

John nodded shortly and walked out of the room, leaving Will
holding an empty plate sticky with syrup.

A while later, John came back, this time carrying a flat box.
"Thought you might want to play checkers," he offered
diffidently.

Recognizing an apology when he saw one, Will

nodded and shifted over in the bed to give John room to
place the board. He immediately regretted it as sharp pains
lanced through his thigh.

John winced. "Maybe you shouldn't move."

"Completely agree," Will gasped. "Next time, you can just
crawl over me."

Continuing his inexplicable behavior, John brightened. "If you
insist."

Will stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and
opened the box. As they laid out the board and the pieces,
John asked in a quieter voice,

"Does it get this bad often?"

"Not anymore," Will said. Since he ended up with black
pieces, he made the first move. "The first few months were
rough."

John moved a piece of his own. "How did you take care of
yourself?"

Will thought back to those first few days, to dragging himself
around the house with tears of pain running down his eyes; to
eating raw potatoes and onions because they were all he
could reach without being able to even get to his knees,
much less stand up; to pissing in a chamber pot that was
already overflowing; to sleeping in the kitchen floor because
even the hard wood was better than trying

125

to drag himself back to his bed.

He'd been lying on the kitchen floor, no more

than a foot away from a puddle of his own piss, when Mrs.
Potter found him. She'd ostensibly come out to bring him a
pie but Will knew it was just an excuse to check up on him,
and he knew she'd probably saved his life that day.

All he said to John, however, was: "The ladies in town
helped."

John looked at him askance. "And their menfolk didn't have

anything to say about that?"

"This was just a few months after Tommy left," Will said,
trying to ignore the way his throat thickened every time he
thought of his absent son. The winters were the hardest,
when he couldn't get into town for his mail and when the long
winter nights encouraged painful thoughts. "And Molly gone
just a few months before that. There might've been someone
watching the house while the women were inside, but I doubt
they even bothered." On the third day, John decided that Will
was well enough to get out of bed if the house were to be
somehow set alight (though he was forbidden to make the
attempt for any situation less dire) and went out to dispose of
the carcasses still sitting in the winter canyon. Will could
hardly argue the point; they'd been lucky thus far that the
weather had remained bitterly cold over the last few days,
making it unlikely that any predators or scavengers would
stumble across the bodies. They couldn't count on their luck
holding much longer.

Before he left, John piled books, a deck of cards,

126

paper and pencil, and even some of Tommy's old

toys next to Will's bed. Will had laughed at him, pointing out
that he was a grown man and fully capable of keeping
himself occupied.

Four hours later, Will wasn't laughing anymore. He'd eaten
the pork biscuit sandwiches that John had left behind (they
were still working on the basics, but John's biscuits were
almost palatable by this point), he'd finished two of Tommy's
old dime novels, and he'd played solitaire until the very
thought of shuffling another hand made him want to chuck the
cards across the room.

Finally, in a fit of pique (he was an adult, damnit, and he
didn't need someone constantly around to keep him amused.
Especially since the someone in question was current
hacking up frozen cow parts with an ax so that Will wouldn't
have to deal with them later) Will balanced a book on his
good knee and placed a sheet of paper on top.

He started out by drawing, but after a few awkward sketches
he'd not only proven to himself that he had none of John's
talent at this task, he also found that he didn't find it very
satisfying. Then he decided to write a letter to Tommy,
maybe to send with the letter he'd written the day before. He
managed the salutation before he acknowledged that
nothing much had happened since the previous afternoon.

At a loss, and getting a bit desperate, Will wrote the first
thing that came to mind:

I first met John Anderson on a hot day in late

summer.

Not a bad sentence, if he did say so himself.

127

Maybe a little bland, though, so he added a bit more to it:

I first met the notorious outlaw John Anderson on

scorching day in late summer.

Much better. And mostly accurate; after all, he didn't know
that John was John Anderson the when they'd really met for
the first time.

Will spent the rest of the afternoon describing John's re-entry
into his life, including as much detail as he could remember
about what he was doing before John arrived, John's
behavior, even the food that they ate. The last didn't seem
that important (and, truth be told, he mostly guessed at their
meals) but he remembered being a young lad in
Philadelphia, soaking up all the information he could get
about life on the western frontier. Even the most insignificant
fact had given him a thrill. By the time John returned home,
well after dark, Will had filled several sheets of paper, front
and back, with his cramped writing. He put them aside when
John walked into his room, looking weary and frozen to the
bone. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," John said, sitting down on the edge of Will's bed.
"You?"

"Ready to get out of bed." John looked like he wanted to
protest, so Will added, "My leg is fine, and I need to use it or
it'll just get worse." John frowned but he must've seen the
truth (and, likely, the stubbornness; Will knew John was
feeling guilty, which was why he let this go on as long as it
had, but enough was enough) in Will's face, because he just
sighed. "Need any help standing up?"

128

Will beamed. "No. Go sit down at the table – I'll get you
something to eat."

As it turned out, dinner was nearly ready; John looked
suspiciously at the pot bubbling away on the stove but didn't
comment on the obvious fact that Will had clearly gotten out
of the bed at

some

point during the day. On the other hand,

he didn't refuse the stew or the fresh bread Will had pulled
out of the oven just an hour before. Will gave himself a much
smaller serving: after years of working hard all day, three
successive days of forced inactivity removed most of his
appetite.

Once John slowed down (about halfway through

his second bowl), Will asked, "Will we need to go out
tomorrow?"

John nodded. "I got them cut up, but we'll need to bring the
wagon out to haul them away." He hesitated. "What about
your leg?"

"I'll be all right if I'm careful," Will said. "It wasn't so cold today
as yesterday, which'll help." John didn't look convinced, but
merely asked,

"Any idea what to do with the meat?"

"There are some caves around there," Will offered. "Fairly
close, but far enough away from the canyon that the bodies
won't draw predators to the rest of the herd."

"We'll want to leave early," John said, finishing the last of his
stew. "Six cows make a lot of meat."

"Dawn then," Will said, collecting the empty bowls.

"So what did you do today?" John asked as Will did the
dishes.

"Nothing important," Will said, feeling

129

unaccountably shy.

There was a pregnant pause. "Weren't you writing something
when I came in?"

Will winced. "Maybe."

John suddenly appeared right next to Will, an

amused look on his face. "Maybe?"

Will sighed. "All right,

yes

"I'm guessing it's not another letter to Tommy." Definitely
amusement there.

"Not since yesterday." Off John's stare, he added, "I was
bored. Thought I'd try to write a story."

"Can I read it?" John asked, sounding honestly interested
and Will found that he was torn. On the one hand, John was
featured in the story and the very idea of him reading it was
nerve-wracking. On the other hand, Will found that a large
part of him wanted to hear John's opinion of his writing.

"It's not fiction," Will hedged.

"It's not about me, is it?" John asked. He sounded like he
was joking, but Will couldn't quite manage a smile. "Oh,"
John said. "Well then, you have to let me read it."

The man did have a point. "It's on my bed." John wasted no
time in heading to Will's bedroom and a short while later Will
heard the sound of papers rustling. He focused all of his

effort on scrubbing every last spot from the bread pans. Then
he dried the dishes, wiped down the table, and even swept
the floor.

When he had nothing left to do, Will reluctantly made his way
to his bedroom. John was still in there, sitting on the bed,
Will's story sitting next to

130

him.

Will sat down on an empty bit of bed and pressed his lips
together to keep from asking any questions.

Fortunately, John didn't keep him in suspense.

"This is good, Will."

Will let out a sigh of relief. "You think so?"

"Very good. Better than those dime novels you read. This is
your first story?" Will nodded, unable to keep from feeling a
bit of pride. "You should write more. Maybe get them
published."

"It's not that good," Will said quickly.

"It is," John answered. "Though obviously you aren't
publishing this one. But maybe –" A wicked smile slowly
spread across his face. "Maybe you should write a John

Anderson adventure."

Will gaped at him. "...a what?"

"Why not?" John asked, suddenly full of energy again.
"Books about outlaws sell like hotcakes. Billy the Kid, Jesse
James, Doc Holliday: they all have their own series of books.
Why not me?"

"You want me to write a series of stories," Will repeated.
John nodded. "About you." He nodded again. "And get them
published." John smiled.

"Do they let authors write fictional stories about real
people?" Will asked. "Isn't that libel?" John waved his hand
dismissively. "Tell them you interviewed me. They won't
believe it, of course, but if the story's good enough, I’ll bet
they don't care."

Will gaped at him some more.

"Why don't we talk about it tomorrow," John suggested,
neatly gathering all of the papers into a

131

pile. "We'll have plenty of time as we haul off those
carcasses."

Will wanted to protest that he wasn't tired but it was clear that

John's exhaustion had finally overwhelmed his enthusiasm.
They worked together in silence to clear the bed and John
barely managed a good night as he stumbled off to his own
room.

Alone, Will stretched out on the bed and contemplated the
ceiling. He found himself ridiculously happy at the moment,
buoyed by John's obvious appreciation of his story. That
John thought Will's writing was good enough to publish... his
response exceeded Will's most hopeful expectations.

At the same time, he wasn't quite sure how he

felt about writing a second story about John, this one of a
time before they were together. Would he even be able to
write about something he hadn't experienced? What if he
couldn't? Would John be disappointed?

With an irritated huff, Will flipped over onto his side, punched
his pillow, and tried to stop thinking.

132

Chapter 9

For the next two weeks, The Story (it had earned its capital
letters) became the central focus of Will's life. The first few
days were just spent working out the details of the plot:
John's first attempt to rob a stagecoach, where more had
gone wrong than had

gone right. "And the worst of it is, we didn't get a penny out of
the mess," John said as he told the story. "Of course, as far
as your story goes, we went off with as much gold as we
could carry."

Will paused in the middle of loading a leg onto the wagon.
"What?"

"Well, no one wants to read about an unsuccessful outlaw, do
they?" John pointed out reasonably.

"You want me to lie?" Will asked incredulously.

"What if the publisher finds out?"

"How would the publisher find out?" John asked with a shrug.
"It's not like there's anyone left to tell them otherwise – my
gang's gone and the guards

didn't know who we were. Though, now that I think about it,

maybe you should have six guards instead of two. And you
really don't need to mention the mountain lion."

"John –"

"No, I take that back. Keep the mountain lion, but have me kill
it. After a long, dangerous hunt." Will stared. "In the middle of
a stagecoach robbery?"

133

John waved that off. "Before the robbery, then. When we are
planning the job. Of course, you'll have to get rid of Stinky
Pete, since he was the reason we got away. Maybe just
make him a minor character. My second-in-command needs
a better nickname than Stinky."

Will frowned. "Your second-in-command

was

named Stinky."

"The publisher's not going to know that," John said.

Will gave up.

After they (mostly) came to an agreement on the details, Will
began the arduous task of writing. This was made
considerably more arduous by John continually asking if the
story was finished yet and Will's replies to the negative grew
increasingly acerbic.

At the same time, however, Will had to admit to himself that it
was rather nice that John was so eager to read Will's story.
Even nicer was the obvious enthusiasm with which John
devoured each passage that Will let him read and the
copious praise that followed.

Watching John reading on the other side of the

table, Will was hit with an unexpected wave of affection. It
had been a long time since he'd honestly wanted John to
leave, but now he found himself hoping that John would stay.
The only dark spot during this time was that Will's nightmares
had returned. The first came the night after he and John had
loaded cartful after cartful of body parts into the wagon and
hauled them off to be dumped in a cave so it wasn't partic

134

ularly surprising that his dreams were of the same. Only this
time the body parts were human. He started screaming when
he found John's head on

the pile.

As before, John didn't say anything to Will about the
nightmares. Still, Will caught him staring several times over
their breakfast.

A fortnight after the first nightmare, Will jerked awake to find

a body lying on top of his and a calloused hand pressed
firmly against his mouth. He struggled for a few seconds until
he finally recognized John's familiar features in the faint
moonlight. "Shh," John said softly. "Shhhhhh." Will stopped
struggling. "Good," John said quietly. "Now listen carefully.
You need sleep.

need sleep. And neither of us is going to

get any rest at all if you keep shouting.

"Now, there're a few ways for a man to really tire himself out
but you're out of whiskey and it's too late for farm work, so
we're going with the third way. Unless you tell me to stop, I'm
going to keep going. Do you understand?"

Will blinked.

"Close enough."

John's hand slid from Will's mouth down his body till it
reached the lower buttons of the union suit he typically wore
at night. Will gasped softly as that hand brushed over the
bulge growing at his groin and then gasped again as deft
fingers flicked the buttons from their well-worn holes.

He should say something, Will knew that he should. This was
the fourth time that intimacies were occurring between them,
the second time with

135

only him and John, and every single time Will had been silent

and let John do all the work.

Yet he couldn't say anything as John's hand gripped his cock,
as John's mouth sucked on his neck. It wasn't until he felt
those calloused fingers brushing gently over his balls before
moving further back that he found his voice.

"No," Will gasped, his voice shaking and desperate. "No, not
that." John didn't hesitate, just brought his hand back forward
and stroked, oh God, stroked so sweet until Will was
shuddering and his seed was spilling all over the bed.

"You'll –

we'll

be able to sleep now," John murmured, wiping

his hand clean on the blanket

and shifting as if to move.

Will stopped him. He may not have started this but he'd taken
his pleasure from John and he was a fair man. So he
reached out and, for the first time in his life, he took another
man's cock in his hand. The angle was more difficult than
he'd expected, but Will did what he could. John seemed to
appreciate it, if the low moans were anything to judge by, and
by the way he pressed his lips to Will's.

As they settled in together, too tired to bother cleaning up or
to argue about who belonged where, Will knew that they
weren't going to be able to avoid talking about this any

longer. Tomorrow promised to be a very uncomfortable day.

But for now he was loose and drowsy and there

was a warm body in his bed. He'd worry about the rest in the
morning.

136

The next morning was awkward for Will. John,

on the other hand, whistled as he moved around the kitchen,
frying up bacon, eggs, and stale bread all in the same skillet.
"You seem cheerful this morning," Will said as he accepted a
heaping plate. Of all the cooking lessons Will had given him,
only the breakfast ones seemed to stick.

John paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Any reason why I shouldn't be?"

"No," Will said quickly. Too quickly. He winced.

John put down his fork sharply. "You could've told me to stop.
I would've stopped."

"I didn't want you to stop," Will said, his heart pounding in his
chest. "Of course I didn't. I just... don't know what happens
next."

Looking a little less thunderous, John picked up his fork.
"What do you want to happen next?"

"I have no idea," Will admitted. "It's not as if we could get
married or have children."

"You've been married," John pointed out. "You have a child."

On the one hand, that was true. On the other, it was entirely
beside the point. Will scowled and poked at his eggs with his
fork.

John sighed and put down his own fork. "Is it because of
what Molly would think?"

Will shook his head. Molly would want him to

be happy, that much he knew.

"Molly's family? That sister, maybe?" Will pictured Mrs.
Rutherford's face if she knew what he and John had done
last night. "Actually,

137

that would be a point in favor of doing it again." John smiled
and relaxed a little. "Didn't you like the way it felt?" he asked,
sounding not at all worried about how Will would answer.

"'Course I liked it," Will said. "What's not to like?"

"Well, then," John said, reaching over to steal a piece of
bacon off Will's plate. "Wanna do it again tonight?"

Will huffed out a small laugh, despite himself.

"Maybe," he said, digging in to his food. John just smirked in
reply.

After breakfast, Will got back to The Story. He was close
enough that he thought he might be able to finish it by
dinnertime, even if this part of The Story was pretty much
entirely fiction.

The stagecoach was stopped and John's gang was storming
it when John suddenly said, from just over Will's shoulder,
"Wouldn't it sound more impressive if I went by myself?" Will
twisted his head to glare up at him. "What?" John asked.

"Maybe you should go check on the cattle."

"I just went out yesterday."

"A lot can happen in a day," Will said earnestly.

"Didn't you tell me you once went three months without
checking the herd?"

Will did the only thing he could: he lied without shame.

"Completely untrue."

John snorted, but went and got his coat. "I'll be back in a
couple of hours."

Will just nodded in reply; he was already busy

writing as fast as he possibly could.

138

By the time John returned, bearing a couple of

dripping canteens, Will had managed to whittle the number
of gang members attacking the stage down to two, John
himself and Handsome Hal, the replacement for Stinky Pete.
Considering that John had demanded a full eight guards on
the stage, it required some creative gun-play to have only
two men take it down: John was now equipped with a

pair of pistols; Hal had two guns on his belt, another down his
boot, and dagger up his sleeve; and both of them were rather
remarkably resistant to bullets. Still, it was done and John
was right: publishers didn't seem to require a high level of
realism in their frontier stories.

Besides, it was rather fun writing coming up with unique and
semi-embarrassing objects for John and Hal to use for

shelter.

John seemed to agree, considering his quiet chuckles as he
read his way through the entire story. He laughed out loud
near the end, probably at the point where Handsome Hal
took cover behind a cactus, only to trip on a rock and get
some prickles in rather uncomfortable places. Will had done
a lot of implying rather than stating exactly where those
places were, but Hal did spend the rest of the gunfight
walking with a marked hobble.

"This is brilliant, Will," he said as he finished the last page
and carefully stacked the papers together.

"Anyone who refuses to publish this is clearly in the wrong
business."

"Thanks," Will said, a warm, gentle pleasure bubbling up in
his chest. "It was fun."

"I think you should send it off tomorrow," John

139

said decisively. "It's warmer today and there wasn't a cloud in
the sky. You shouldn't have any problem riding into town."

"I don't know where to send it," Will pointed out.

"Do you know any publishers?"

John frowned thoughtfully, then went into his room. A few
minutes later he came out holding a couple of magazines
and one of Tommy's books.

"Here," he said, handing the pile over to Will. "Try these."

A bit skeptical, Will opened up the first magazine, the

North

American Review

. He vaguely remembered Molly getting

this from her sister and not being terribly impressed. A quick
perusal of the pages didn't provide any submission
information. The second magazine, the

Atlantic Monthly

was much more helpful. Not only was it full of stories, it had
an advertisement right there in the back telling writers how to
send their stories in. It even said

"new writers encouraged", which gave Will a thrill of hope. "I
think I'll send it to this one." John took the magazine and
glanced through it.

"Looks good. But maybe you should make a second copy of
the story, just in case."

Will groaned at the prospect of more writing (and boring
writing at that), but saw the logic of the idea. Besides, this
way he could produce a clean copy to send in, without all of
his errors and edits. John offered to cook while Will wrote
and so they had breakfast for supper that night. As the
evening grew long and the candles grew short, John kept Will

silent company, sketching away from his seat on the
opposite side of the table. Will

140

was grateful for both the company and the silence; copying
wasn't difficult work, but it was boring and the longer he was
at it, the more mistakes he kept making. Without John's
silent support, Will was sure he would've given up for the
night and thus lost what was potentially his last window to
ride into town till spring.

It was late when he finally decided the copy was clean
enough to go out as it was, and the pile of wax sitting next to
his manuscript told of the long hours he'd spent at this task.
He stretched, enjoying the pull and bend of muscles too long
held still, and glanced up at John with a smile.

"Done?" John asked, setting aside his own paper.

"Yep. I'll head out first thing tomorrow." There was a silence
that quickly grew awkward.

"Ready for bed?" John finally suggested. Oh. In all of the
excitement of finishing The Story, Will had almost forgotten
that this question was coming. Almost, but not quite.
Apparently he'd been thinking this over in the back of his
mind, not really realizing it until now, when he found himself
answering without hesitation, "Yes." John grinned at him, a
quick, happy flash. "Go ahead. I'll clean up and meet you in

there." Will narrowed his eyes suspiciously as they had never
bothered to clean up anything other than dishes (a necessity
if they didn't want mice infesting the house) before. On the
other hand, he did appreciate the opportunity to avoid the
awkwardness of undressing in front of John, so in the end he
said nothing as he retreated to the other room.

A good few minutes later, Will was lying under

141

the covers in the middle of the bed, feeling slightly ridiculous.
And freezing. He'd opted to leave off his long johns since he
knew how warm the bed got with two people, but the bed
was cold from having been empty all day and the blankets
weren't really thick enough to keep a naked man warm.

He was just on the verge of either shouting for John to hurry
up or to redress in his long johns when the man himself
stepped into the room. He set a small bottle on the lamp
table and Will eyed it as John set to stripping himself down
with his usual efficiency. "What's that for?"

"Remember Suzie?"

"I'm not likely to forget Suzie," Will said dryly.

"Is that what she needed to be prepared?"

"Part of it." John slid off his long johns and looked up.
Whatever he saw in Will's face made him smile wryly. "Don't
worry, it's not for you."

"It's not?" Will blurted. "But –"

"I told you a man can enjoy this sort of thing but not if he's
rushed into it." He lifted the blanket and slid between the
sheets. "I prefer not to rush," he growled, taking Will's mouth
in a fiery kiss.

Will gave himself a half-second to wonder if John had been
rushed his first time, then put his focus back on the kiss. He
gave back as good as he got; he was tired of being caught
continually offguard by John's actions while in bed and he
was determined to at least be an equal participant this time
around.

Said resolution lasted until the moment that John took the
bottle off of the table and dribbled some oil on Will's
stomach. "Wha–?" Will started to

142

ask as John coated a finger in the oil.

"Trust me," John said with a wicked grin and with no further
warning than that, he leaned down and took Will's prick in his
mouth.

Will damn near bucked him off he arched so high. A moment
later he came crashing down, swearing profusely as his bad
leg exploded in pain. For an indefinite period of time he was
aware of nothing but agony as he curled protectively over his
leg, praying for the pain to die down to bearable levels.

He came back to himself slowly, aware of arms

wrapped tight around his body and a soft, worried voice in
his ear murmuring, "Breathe. It'll be all right, just keep
breathing."

"S-sorry," Will managed, his voice raspy.

"It was my fault," John said, still holding Will tight. "I didn't
think about your leg."

"It's not your leg," Will pointed out, his voice a bit stronger.
"Not your job to worry about it."

"It is when we're together like this," John said, his voice
deadly serious. He pulled back. "Want to stop?"

Will shook his head. "Just give me a few minutes. I'm –" He
shrugged and glance down to his soft prick.

"I can help with that," John said with a passable attempt at a
smile. "Just be sure to hold still," he added as he slid back

down on the bed.

This time Will was ready and his need was less

urgent, so when John took him in his mouth again, he
managed not to buck up. Instead, he flopped back in the bed
and just savored the hot, wet heat

143

surrounding him, the buildup of heat in his cock and balls, the
stretch of his prick growing longer and harder, filling John's
mouth.

Suddenly, that glorious mouth pulled away and

Will made a helpless noise of protest. "Shh," John said, as
he stood up on his knees, rolling his fingers in the remnants
of oil on Will's stomach. "You'll like this, I promise."

Then he reached back behind him and Will's cock twitched
as he realized what John was doing, that this was the other
part of preparation. "Oh, God," Will breathed. "I never – I
never –"

"I know," John said, kneeing himself forward until he was just
a little in front of Will's groin. "Try not to move too much," he
added as he reached back again, this time to take Will's
cock in one oily hand and hold it in place as he pressed back
against it.

Will managed to stay still, but it was a near thing. John's body
was hot and so tight that it hovered on the edge of painful
and Will found himself fighting back orgasm as John braced
his hands on Will's chest and, with a look of intense
concentration on his face, pushed himself down on Will's
cock.

A high keening noise filled the air as Will thrust up and it was
only through sheer luck that he braced himself with his good
leg as he did so. John grunted and started to move in
counterpoint to Will, one hand still balanced on Will's chest,
the other running over Will's face and upper body, as if
mapping his features. Just as Will was starting to reach his
peak, John

144

reached down to his own cock and began jerking it, his eyes
locked on Will's the entire time. Will swore and thrust up hard
and froze as his seed spilled forth. A few jerks later John
followed, spraying Will's chest and chin with streaks of milky
white. With a gusty sigh, John fell forward onto Will and for a
few seconds they lay huddled together, a limp sweaty pile.
Then John started shivering and Will started struggling a bit
to breathe and some rearrangement followed that left them
lying next to each other under the blankets. "So?" John
asked.

"We should do it again," Will said, already half asleep.

John smiled smugly. "Knew you'd like it." Will didn't reply, just
curled up close to him and let himself drift off.

145

Chapter 10

The next morning, Will woke much later than usual, but still
before John. He remained still for a few seconds, wondering
if it were at all possible to get out of bed without jostling John,
who was closest to the door. Unfortunately, with his bad leg
the answer was a definite 'no'. "John," he said, rolling over
and shaking John's shoulder gently. John's eyes snapped
open and his body went rigid as he quickly scanned the
room. Will was impressed. His idea of waking up quickly
was to remember not to lead with his bad leg when dragging
himself out of bed (and thus saving himself from a nasty
wake-up fall).

Apparently deciding that he was safe, John relaxed a
fraction. "Everything all right?" he asked, his voice still a bit
wary.

After the way Will'd been behaving the last few months, he
really couldn't blame John for being cautious. Half in apology,
half for reassurance, Will leaned forward and placed a quick
kiss on John's lips. "Everything's fine," he said, pulling back
before John could deepen the kiss. "But I need to get to
town. No telling when bad weather will blow in again."

John looked a little sulky, but he could hardly argue the point.
"I'll fix you something to eat," he said, rolling out of bed.

Will waited till he dressed and left the room

146

before pushing himself out of bed. Compared to those first
few months, he was pretty quick about getting himself ready
in the morning but seeing John's graceful movements as he
pulled on his clothes somehow made Will feel nearly as
awkward as he'd been right after the accident.

Still, he'd lived with his bad leg for a long time now and soon
enough he was dressed and in the

kitchen, carefully wrapping his manuscript in a towel. He'd
buy some brown paper at the store and address the
package there.

By the time he'd packed away everything he'd

need for the trip, including the letters he'd written to Tommy
over the previous few weeks, John had

chipped beef and toast on the table. They ate in silence until
John said, "While you're in town, you should pick up some
more fruit and nuts." Will stared at him. "I like fruitcake," John
said defensively, "and this is the best time of year to find the
ingredients to make it."

Will shook his head but promised to buy fruitcake
ingredients.

"And some chocolate, if they have it," John added.

"What's wrong with the cocoa?" Will asked.

"Not for drinking," John said. "For eating." He smiled a bit
wistfully. "When I was in San Francisco, I used to have some
chocolate from Ghirardelli's every day."

"I'll see what they have," Will said doubtfully.

"But they don't usually carry chocolate at the general store. It
melts too easily." Though, now that the idea was put in his
head, he wouldn't mind hav

147

ing some chocolate himself. It'd only recently gotten cheap
enough to buy back east just before he left, and he'd only had
a chance to try it once. It'd been almost as bitter as coffee,
but he had liked the taste it left in his mouth.

"And paper," John added. "For all those adventures you're
going to be writing."

"I'm not bringing the wagon," Will reminded him.

"You can use my saddlebags," John said dismissively.
"There'll be plenty of room." Will sighed and started eating
faster.

The town was busier than Will had expected –

apparently he wasn't the only one taking advantage of the
unseasonably warm spell. Fortunately, the bank was fairly
quiet, as usual, and Will was pleased to discover that the
money from his check had finally come. Though he had
plenty of money from John, it felt deeply satisfying to walk out
of the bank with his own money in his pocket.

As he expected, the general store was especially crowded
so Will browsed as he waited for Mrs. Potter to be free. He'd
stocked up on food for the winter the month before but there
were some other items that they were running low on,
including paper, ink, and candles. He considered the lamp
oil but the prices were especially dear this time of year, and
so he ended up buying another box of candles instead. He
added coffee and a couple of new books to the pile and then
hovered over the gloves and hats, indecisive. Christmas was
coming up soon, and he wanted to buy John a present. On

148

the other hand, John wouldn't have the opportunity to shop
and Will didn't want to embarrass him by giving John a gift
when he wouldn't be able to reciprocate.

Still, Will really liked giving gifts at Christmastime and he
didn't need something in return. Maybe if he explained that to
John...

He hadn't decided on a course of action when

Mrs. Potter said, "Will, are you ready?" Abandoning the
gloves (John had a pair anyway

and they were nicer than the ones available in the store), Will
hurried over. He piled his new supplies on the counter and
then rested the manuscript next to it. "I'd like to mail this," he
whispered, feeling a bit foolish but knowing how gossip
spread in this town. Mrs. Potter was bad enough; Mrs. Smith
(who was loitering over in the corner) was ten times worse.
"Do you have any brown paper?"

"Of course, dear," she said, ripping a piece off of the roll she
had behind the desk and handing it over. Her eyes sparked
with curiosity and she blatantly tried to sneak a peek at the
manuscript as Will wrapped it. He thought he was successful
in foiling her efforts, but there was no way to hide the
address as he borrowed a pen and inkwell and carefully
copied it from the magazine.

"Oh, did you write a story?" she asked brightly and easily
loud enough for Mrs. Smith to hear. Will stifled a groan.

Unfortunately, there was no real way to deny it, so he merely
answered, "Yes, ma'am."

"I didn't know you were of a literary bent," she hinted.

149

He attempted a smile. "You know how quiet those winter
nights can get."

As he hoped, she translated 'quiet' as 'lonely' and patted him
on the hand. "I think it's a wonderful idea," she said bracingly.
"You know how those folks back east love our western tales.
And who knows – maybe you'll be famous someday."

"Maybe," he said noncommittally, handing over the
addressed package and Tommy's letters to be placed in the
day's mail. Mrs. Potter handed him a couple of letters in
return and Will tucked them into his coat, close to his heart.

He was about to leave, relieved to have completed the
dreaded task, when he remembered John's request. "You
wouldn't happen to have any chocolate, would you? And
some more candied fruit?"

Her eyes lit up as she began piling treats on the counter-top.
It took some protesting but by pointing out that he didn't have
his wagon and that, as much as an apple pie would be tasty,
it would hardly survive a trip in his saddlebags, Will managed
to escape the store without too much more than he had
intended to buy.

He didn't manage to find a gift for John, however. After
loading his purchases into his saddlebags, he looked around
the town, hoping for inspiration. His eyes settled on the
closest saloon, just a few stores down.

While Molly hadn't been an advocate of the temperance
movement, she didn't like having alcohol in the house except
for medicinal purposes (one of her grandfathers had been
known to

150

be violent after dipping too deep into the bottle and he'd
made a lasting impression). As a result, Will had gotten into
the habit of going to a bar for his drinks after work. After their
move out west, with money being so tight, he'd nearly
stopped drinking altogether.

Money wasn't tight anymore, though, and Will

remembered the enjoyment John had found in that bottle Will
had bought in Bisbee. Plus it was a gift they could both
share, so it wouldn't signify if John didn't have a gift in return.

Ten minutes and one carefully ignored barmaid

later, Will was heading back to the ranch. As he rode along,
he found himself whistling. Really, he couldn't remember the
last time he was so eager to return home.

The next couple of months were a time of intense
experimentation and creativity for Will. The creativity came
as he continued writing John's adventures, this time in the
form of a novel that was at least one third truthful. The
experimentation came at night as he and John explored all of
the possible ways they could touch each other, inside and
out, often ways that Will had never before imagined. The
night that he'd first taken John into himself had been one of
the most revelatory of his life – and also one of the most
painful as his leg had started cramping just at the moment of
orgasm and didn't stop for nearly a minute, leaving Will full-
body sore and watery-eyed with pain. They never did quite
find a position that would allow John to penetrate Will without
significant discomfort and it was rarely

151

better when John was on the receiving end, so the majority of
their intimacies involved the use of mouths and hands. Will
certainly had no complaints.

There were no more direct assaults on the cattle that winter,
but several times John reported downed fencing and dead
animals clearly left behind to indicate that people were
trespassing on Will's land. Once he came home positively
shaking with anger, a bear trap hanging from one hand. It'd
taken every ounce of persuasion that Will had to keep John
from going out with a rifle to explain to Grady exactly why he
should leave Will's ranch alone.

Will was furious about the trap, of course; if John hadn't seen
it on the trail it could have easily snapped Old Faithful's leg.
He wasn't happy about the damage to his fences or his
wildlife either, but at the same time he had to admit that he
wasn't as outraged as he once would've been. Ever since
John took over the day-to-day care of the cattle, Will had
found it difficult to retain much connection to the animals.
They were there on the ranch and they were adequately
taken care of and thus there was no need to worry or even
really care about their wellbeing. As much as he'd always
dreamed of owning his own cattle ranch, it had been a
dream he'd shared with Molly. With her passing, so went
most of his interest in ranching.

He did enjoy writing, more than he would've ever imagined.
Each day, he spent three or four hours hunched over the
table, crafting his tale word by laborious word. The beginning
of the novel came fast and furiously but now that the initial ex

152

citement of planning the plot was past, he found the words
came much more slowly. Sometimes it took a whole day for
him to fill a single page, which was frustrating. Still, deep
down, he enjoyed every moment of the process.

A not-insignificant portion of his writing pleasure came from
using the fountain pen that John had given him for Christmas.
He'd never had a fountain pen before and he had to admit

that it was much cleaner and easier to use than a metal quill
and an ink-pot. Still, it was also a source of minor frustration:
no matter how often Will asked, John absolutely refused to
tell him where the pen came from.

Will's gift to John was the best bottle of Jack Daniels the
saloon offered as well as a bottle of rum called Bacardi that
was apparently winning medals in Chicago. The saloon had
specially ordered the rum for a patron who had
inconsiderately died before the alcohol arrived and had been
happy to give it to Will at a reduced price. Will and John both
enjoyed the whiskey, but agreed that the rum wasn't worth the
two bits Will had paid.

Overall, Will and John were getting on remarkably well as the
winter months dragged on, but the long nights and close
quarters took their toll. By mid-February they were snapping
at each other for minor offenses, like not going far enough
from the house to empty the chamber pot or staying up late
and using up one of their dwindling supply of candles. It didn't
help that their wood and food supplies were getting low; Will
hadn't had to buy winter supplies for two people in a long
time and

153

he'd forgotten how much a second person could eat. Finally,
March rolled around, bearing slightly above freezing weather
and a welcome break from the winter storms. Unfortunately,
March also brought the first of the spring floods, and John

and Will ended up spending an entire muddy, miserable day
rescuing chickens from a nearly submerged chicken coop.
Fortunately, the pigs were on higher ground; after being fed
as much beef as they could stomach all winter, they were the
fattest hogs Will had ever seen. Frankly, he didn't think that
he and John would even be able to lift the pregnant sow; the
massive creature could barely lift herself anymore. The day
after the chicken rescue, Will announced that he was going
into town. John looked mulish, probably because he was
stuck hiding at the ranch as he had been for the last nine
months, and would be for the foreseeable future unless he
wanted to risk arrest and eventual hanging. Will, taking pity
on the man, offered to bring back as much chocolate and
whiskey as he could fit in one of his saddlebags. The other
was reserved for flour and sugar and coffee, though he
wouldn't be able to buy more than a few days worth of each
at a time until the road to town dried up enough for him to use
the wagon.

Neither of them mentioned Will's manuscript but Will doubted
he was the only one eager to see if anything were waiting for
him in the post.

Will barely stepped foot inside the general store before Mrs.
Potter was calling to him, waving a

154

packet of mail above her head. "Mr. Connors," she called. "I
was so hoping you'd come in today. You have mail!"

Considering the volume of Mrs. Potter's voice, it wasn't much
of a surprise when every head in the store turned to stare at
Will.

He ducked his head down and did his damnedest not to
blush as he handed over a fistful of letters and a shopping list
that he and John had written that morning. He got a bundle of
envelopes in return and he flipped through the letters while
Mrs. Potter bustled about the store collecting goods. Three
of them were from Tommy and he set those

aside to later savor. One was from Mrs. Rutherford, probably
to complain, again, about how his correspondence to
Tommy dropped off during the winter, despite the fact that
he'd explained in careful detail about how dangerous it was
for a man to ride into town in the uncertain weather of the
winter months. He set that letter aside to skim through and
then use for tinder.

The last letter was from

Atlantic Monthly

. Will's hand shook

as he saw the return address

and he considered opening the letter right there, but the
poorly concealed curiosity surrounding him made him tuck
the letter away with the others. He could read it on the way
home.

Suddenly desperate to be gone, Will waited impatiently as
Mrs. Potter finished his order. "Get anything good in the
mail?" she asked in a passing attempt at a casual voice.

"Nothing too exciting," Will lied. "Only three letters from
Tommy."

155

Mrs. Potter was immediately sympathetic, which

gave Will a pang of guilt. Still, he wouldn't have to lie if she
weren't so nosy. "You know how children are," she said in a
comforting tone. "Always too busy to remember those that
raised them."

Now Will felt like a complete bastard, as he suddenly
remembered that Mrs. Potter had a son of her own, a son
who'd gone to California for the gold rush and had never
stepped foot in the town again. Needing to make amends,
he leaned in and murmured, "I don't want to open the letter
where everyone can see, but I promise you'll be the first
person in town to hear if there's any news to tell." Mrs.
Potter's cheeks pinked and her eyes sparkled. "Thank you,
dear," she murmured before surprising him by adding loudly,
"You hurry on home now. I have a feeling the weather's going
to turn ugly."

Will smirked as the men and women loitering in

the store suddenly began moving much more quickly.

Once outside, he made his way to the saloon;

whatever was in that letter, Will was sure it would go down
better with a bit of whiskey.

Mrs. Potter's prediction turned out to be uncannily accurate:
by the time Will limped out of the saloon with several bottles
in hand, a cloud bank was looming on the horizon and
moving in fast. Swearing under his breath, Will loaded his
saddlebags as fast as he could and hauled himself up into
the saddle. Brownie picked up on his unease and was
trotting out of town before Will

156

even managed to get his other foot in the stirrup. With one
eye on the weather and the other on

the trail, Will had no eyes left for his letter. That didn't stop
him from thinking about it every step of the trip, though, and
by the time he pulled Brownie to a stop in front of the house,
he was dreaming of being the next Mark Twain while at the
same time fully convinced that the letter contained a
rejection. John must've heard Brownie riding up, because

he stepped outside as Will performed his usual, graceless

slide out of the saddle. "So?" he asked.

"Here," Will said, thrusting the letter at him.

"Open it."

Looking confused (and more than a little wary), John
accepted the envelope. "You haven't opened it yet?"

Will winced, feeling ridiculous. "I can't." Now wearing a
skeptical expression, John shrugged and slit open the
envelope. Pulling out the letter, he read it to himself silently.

"Well?" Will asked when he couldn't take the suspense any
longer. "What does it say?" John frowned a bit as he read
out loud:

"Dear Mr. Connors,

"Thank you for submitting your work to Atlantic

Monthly. At

this time, we are not accepting work

from new authors;

however, I did pass on your story

to Mr. Will Adams, a

colleague of mine at Beadle

and Adams. His response is

dictated below:

"'I was quite impressed with your writing, Mr.

Connors. The

story is too short for me to publish in

my novel series, but I

am prepared to pay up to a

dollar per page should you be

willing to expand the

157

story. Please respond to the address listed below.'"

"Sincerely, so on and so forth," John finished. Will stared at
him. "A dollar a page."

"Not bad to start with," John said. "Once you become
popular, I'm sure you can ask for a lot more."

"Do you think he means printed or written pages?" Will
asked. "I already have nearly a hundred written pages in the
new novel. That's maybe fifty printed pages."

"I'm guessing he'll pay whichever gives you less," John said
wryly. "You'd probably be better off negotiating a flat rate."

Will tried to imagine negotiating anything when letters could
be in transit for a week or more. It was a daunting prospect,
especially when he considered that a letter lost in the mail
could ruin any chances he might have of becoming a
published author.

A snowflake landing on his nose broke his concentration and
he glanced up to find the sky full of ominous clouds. "Let's
talk about this after I take care of Brownie," he suggested.
John nodded in agreement and took the saddlebags into the
house while Will led his horse into the barn.

By the time Will finished tending the horse, the snow was
coming down heavily and Will was grateful that he'd come
home as quickly as he did. Late winter storms like these
tended to produce a lot of snow and while said snow usually
melted quite quickly, an unwary traveler could easily be lost
in the blizzard.

Inside, he found John reading through the novel manuscript,
smiling at something on the page. Will

158

crossed his arms. "You know, you're almost as nosy as Mrs.
Potter," he said, though his annoyed tone wasn't very
convincing.

"It wouldn't take much to put your other story at the beginning
of this novel," John said, ignoring Will's comment. "A
prologue, maybe, or just use it as the first chapter."

Will dropped his arms and sat down at the table.

"Probably make it too long for a dime novel, though."

"So end the book earlier," John said with a shrug. "These
types of books are usually ongoing series, right?"

"They can be," Will said thoughtfully. "Depends on how
popular the main character is."

"Trust me," John said with a smirk. "John Anderson is going
to be

immensely

popular." Will just shook his head, not quite

able to hold back a smile.

159

Chapter 11

That night, Will found himself unable to sleep, his mind
running over and over his dilemma as he stared up at the
ceiling of the house. He would've preferred to get out of bed
and do his thinking in the rocking chair that sat near the stove
in the kitchen, but he was firmly held down in bed by a warm
arm banded across his stomach. Unlike Molly, who had
preferred her own space on the bed (which was why Will had
built such a large one for them), John liked to be as close to
Will as possible (usually accomplishing this by lying half on
top of him).

Thus he was stuck on the bed. Staring. At the ceiling. Will
shifted a bit uncomfortably under the arm and considered
trying to wriggle his way out. He shifted again.

"Wha's wrong?" John's blurry voice slurred. Will froze.
"Nothing."

John snorted and flopped over. "Try again," he said,
sounding only marginally more awake.

Will sighed, but secretly he was glad John was

awake, and he didn't try to avoid the question a second time.
"What do you think of cattle?" John twisted his head around
to stare at Will.

"What?"

"Cattle," Will repeated patiently. "What do you think of them?
Do you like raising them?"

"You have cattle," John said slowly. "So I help

160

raise them."

"But if I weren't in the picture, would you still want to work with
cattle?"

John turned his whole body this time. "I'm not a poor man,
Will. If I'd wanted to raise cattle, I would've bought a ranch."

Which begged the question of why John had chosen to hide
out in

this

ranch but Will was slowly becoming accustomed to

the idea that, even in the beginning, John had come to the
ranch for

Will

"But the chickens. I know you like the chickens."

"I like fresh eggs," John corrected him. "And, eventually,
fresh chicken."

Will took a deep breath. "So if I decided I wanted to do
something else, something that had nothing to do with cattle,
you wouldn't mind?"

"Something like move back east and become a world
famous writer?" John suggested wryly. Will stared at him.
"You weren't being particularly subtle."

"And?"

John shrugged. "I've never been out east. What's it like?"

"Crowded," Will said. "It's easy for a person to get lost in the
masses."

As he'd hoped, John looked intrigued by that statement.
"How lost?"

"I never saw a wanted poster in the twenty-three years I lived
there."

"Is it expensive?" Definite interest there.

"Lodging is," Will said. "But food is cheaper." He leaned in a
bit and added persuasively.

"Because lodging is so expensive, it's common for

161

two men to share rooms or even a house."

John smiled. "You do make a good argument," he said,
leaning forward for a kiss.

For a few minutes they moved against each other leisurely,
not trying to reach their peak, just enjoying the feel of skin on
skin. John pulled back first. "What about the ranch? I thought
it was your dream."

"It was my dream with Molly," Will said.

"Working with animals was in her blood and I desperately
wanted to be a cowboy. Buying a ranch was the perfect
solution. Now that she's gone, though, the west isn't what I
thought it would be." He leaned in and whispered
conspiratorially, "I miss water." John raised his eyebrows, so
Will explained, "Not the muddy creeks they call rivers here,
but real water. There's a river that runs through Philadelphia
that's a half a mile wide." Now John looked outright skeptical.
"Truly," Will said. "It's called the Schuylkill River. And it's
nothing compared to the Susquehanna, which is almost a
mile across where it passes Harrisburg."

"With rivers like that they must never run out of water," John
said, his voice nearly reverent. Everyone out west knew the
value of water.

"Never," Will agreed. "The rivers might get low, the smallest
of the creeks might dry up and people might have to walk a
bit to get a drink, but no one is ever in danger of dying of
thirst. When the rivers are high, you can get a hot bath for a
nickel, and Tommy says that Philadelphia has running water

now, where you just turn a knob and water comes rushing
out."

162

"Sounds too good to be true," John said.

"Well, I only have Tommy's word that all of Philadelphia has
running water now; when I left only hotels and rich people had
it. But I've seen the rivers myself."

John mulled over that for a few minutes. Will tried to be
patient. "How much more expensive are the lodgings?"

Will considered. "Really, it's the land that's so expensive.
With the money we have right now, we could buy a mansion
on a small lot with plenty of money left over for your
scholarship."

"And the ranch?"

Will winced. He'd hoped John would forget this question,
futile though that hope had been. "As it happens, I already
have someone interested in buying the ranch."

John snarled. "Absolutely not."

"He'll get it anyway if I don't sell it before I go," Will pointed
out in his most reasonable tone. "And no one else around

out in his most reasonable tone. "And no one else around
here is likely to want to buy it, knowing that Grady has his eye
on the place."

"So advertise out east," John said. "Isn't that how your father-
in-law heard about this place?"

"That could take months, maybe years." Will caught John's
eye and held it. "I don't want to spend another winter here,
John. I don't want to do another cattle drive. And I sure as hell
don't want to brand the calves, because I'll have to bring in
outside help and I don't think you'll much like spending three
days in the cellar."

The last argument was the one that made John

close his mouth, though he was frowning furiously.

163

"Do we need to decide right now?"

"No," Will answered. "But soon." John nodded and turned
back over, facing away

from Will for the first time since they started spending the
night together. Will frowned at John's back for a moment,
then carefully scooted forward until he was flush against
John's backside, his arm draped over John's stomach.

It was two days later, just when Will was starting to think he

wasn't going to get an answer without pushing, that John
came in from tending the cattle to say, "I've got an idea."

"What kind of idea?" Will asked absently from his writing
spot on the table.

John reached over his shoulder and plucked the

pen from his fingers. "An idea about the ranch." Will stopped
glaring. "Other than selling it to Grady?"

"Yep," John said. "I think you should sell it to me, instead."

Will suddenly felt cold, as if his blood had turned to ice. "I
thought... you mean you wouldn't be going east with me?"

"Of course I'm going with you," John said, as if Will were
stupid to suggest otherwise. Will felt his panic starting to
recede. "But I was thinking, why put money into a scholarship
that would just help a few boys with book learning when there
are so many more useful things they could learn?"

"Like ranching," Will guessed.

"Exactly," John said proudly. "Still have 'em learn to read and
write of course, and the math

164

they'd need to run a ranch, but they'd also learn to ride and
tend animals and maybe even to grow some of their own

food."

"That's

perfect

," Will exclaimed. "I would've never thought of

that, but it's perfect." Then he realized something. "Oh, but
the amount of building it would take, not to mention who
would run it--"

"We'd have to hire someone to arrange all of that," John
said. "Someone with experience running a business, but
also experience with children. Someone who is respected
enough in town that Grady would have no choice but to stop
his harassment. Someone who could serve as both teacher
and administrator, at least until we could hire someone else.
And if that someone had a passing affection for you, well, it
couldn't hurt." Will had started to smile halfway through that

speech and by the end he was outright grinning.

"Mrs. Potter?"

"Think she'd agree to it?" John asked. Will considered the
way that Mrs. Potter had taken care of him when he was ill,
the way she mothered him when he went to town, and the
way

that she had doted on Tommy and the other boys in town.
"Yeah," Will said. "I think she would. She's run that store by
herself since her husband died, so she should have no

problems overseeing the building of a school."

"What about the store?"

"Mr. Potter had a sister and I think all her kids are grown
now. She might be willing to take over the store."

165

"A small school," John said, his gaze lengthening out as he
turned his eye inward. "No more than three or four students
at the start, so she could use this house as an administrative
building, classroom, and mess hall, and build a cabin for the
boys to sleep in."

"With areas designated for future cabins as the school
grows," Will suggested.

"Exactly," John said. "There's plenty of open land behind the
house that could be future sites for more cabins. Plus a real
classroom and mess hall, when the time comes."

"A place where orphans can learn to raise chickens and then
get to eat all of the eggs they produce," Will said.

John smiled at him. "Does that mean you're willing to sell?"

"Hell," Will said. "I'll

give

the land to you." John shook his

head, though he was still smiling. "I appreciate the gesture,

but I think it's best if Mrs. Potter buys the land from you on
behalf of a wealthy, anonymous benefactor."

Will frowned just a bit. "Wealthy men might support other
people's projects anonymously, but they wouldn't start a
school and not put their name on it. People are going to be
suspicious if the benefactor is completely unknown."

"Then he'll just have to be suitably mysterious, instead," John
said easily. He grinned. "So, what do you think our wealthy
philanthropist should be named?"

After several hours of increasingly ridiculous names, they
finally settled on Clarence

166

Merriweather (the Third, John insisted), a man who recently
came into wealth after the death of his merchant father and
who had decided that a vocational school would be the
perfect way to honor his father's memory. Sadly, Clarence's
poor health prevented his traveling out west to find a suitable
location himself but through his acquaintance with Mr. and
Mrs. Rutherford, he heard about Will's parcel of land and
asked them to make an offer to Will on his behalf.

At that point they had a brief squabble over the value of the
ranch.

"A thousand is perfectly reasonable – it's more than I paid for

it when I first moved out here."

"But you have to include the cattle and the chickens and the
hogs in the price, not to mention the improvements."

"Fine, then, two thousand."

"Five thousand."

"Five thousand!"

"You said land is more expensive out east. Clarence would
think he's being sneaky to buy your entire ranch for only five
thousand dollars."

"Clarence isn't real!"

John abruptly sobered. "Isn't he?"

Will eyed him, wondering how quickly madness

could descend.

"I'm in earnest," John said. "Will it be possible for me to start
this school and fund it indefinitely without ever showing my
face to someone?"

"You could have a lawyer act on your behalf."

"But I'd still have to hire a lawyer," John pointed out. "And if
we're doing this from Philadelphia,

167

then I'll need to be able to send checks, which means I'll need
a bank account. Even in a city, a man who walks into a bank
and deposits ten thousand dollars in cash isn't going to be
quickly forgotten."

"I could do it for you," Will offered.

"Open a bank account in another man's name?" John asked
pointedly. "Don't you think they'd find that a bit strange?"

Unfortunately they would, and while long-lived

gossip about a mysterious man's mysterious past wouldn't
matter to a true recluse that had nothing to hide, it wasn't
something that John could risk. "So you plan to become
Clarence?"

John eyebrow twitched. "Put it that way, I think I'm more of a
Charles."

"Charles Merriweather?"

"The Third," John insisted.

They spent the rest of the evening composing a

letter, one that Mrs. Rutherford supposedly included in her
letter to Will. The end result was pompous, pedantic, and just
a bit silly and Will derived a great amount of amusement
from trying to imagine John playing the part in real life.

"I don't have to act like this in real life," John shot back. "Mrs.
Potter isn't ever going to meet me in person."

Will just nodded in reply, and immediately began plotting a
story in which John played Clarence Merriweather the way
Clarence was

meant

to be played.

That night as they lay together in bed, John asked gently,
"Have you decided what to do about

168

Tommy?"

Will sighed and tucked his head a little closer.

"The Rutherfords can give him things that I can't."

"Money's not an object," John said firmly.

"Not things that can be bought with money," Will clarified.
"They have connections, influence. As their ward, there's no
school in the world he couldn't attend."

"I thought the east was full of good schools," John said. "Why
would he have to leave the country?"

"Because he's a lot like his dad," Will said.

"Wanting adventure and to see the world. The west was
enough of the world for me; I think Tommy's destined to go a
lot further."

John cupped Will's cheek with his hand, brushing his
eyebrow with his thumb. "At least you'll see him when we
move to Philadelphia." Will closed his eyes, savoring the
touch, even as he let out a resigned sigh. "Actually, I don't
think we should move to Philadelphia."

John stiffened. "What?"

"The chances of anyone recognizing you back east are so
very small. Most of the people you've actually met are either
dead or on the west coast. Except one person."

"You really think Tommy would turn me in?" John asked with
a frown.

Will half-shrugged. "The Tommy who lived with me? No. But
that was four years ago. I can't make any assumptions about
what he'd do now. And I couldn't bear to have to choose
between you." John nodded, and resumed stroking Will's

169

eyebrow. "So where do you think we should move?"

"How do you feel about Massachusetts?" Will asked with a
hesitant smile.

John's eyebrow quirked. "Massachusetts?"

"Specifically, Boston."

John's eyebrow went higher. "Why Boston?"

"It's close enough to visit Tommy as often as I want," Will
said promptly. "But far enough away that he wouldn't visit
unexpectedly. Plus, there are a lot of writers in
Massachusetts."

John smiled a little at Will's off-handed tone as he added that
last sentence. "That sounds nice." Will shrugged a little,
feeling a hint of shyness.

"So?"

"I think Boston sounds perfect," John said, leaning in to claim
a kiss. Will grinned and let himself get lost in the feel of lips
on lips. The next day, while Will went into town to speak to
Mrs. Potter, John left to start collecting all of his money
caches. The plan was to do so in several steps, to limit the
amount of money John was carrying on him at any point in

time. Frankly, Will just did his best to not think too hard about
John riding around the lawless countryside with tens of
thousands of dollars in his pocket.

Mrs. Potter looked surprised, but happy, to see Will enter the
store. "Letter for Tommy?" she guessed.

"Actually, it's more that I have a letter from... well, here. Read
it." He handed over the letter that he and John had worked on
the previous night and that John had carefully copied out this
morning.

170

Will had been impressed by the neatness and precision of
John's writing but in retrospect, he shouldn't have been. After
all, the man was an artist.

Mrs. Potter lowered the letter, a small frown on her face.
"What an unusual idea."

Will had to struggle to hide a frown of his own. He'd hoped
for a slightly more enthusiastic response. "I thought it was a
good idea."

"It is a good idea," Mrs. Potter said, with a bit more warmth.
"The idea of Mr. Merriweather running such a school,
however..."

"That's actually what I'm here to talk to you about," Will said,

some of his tension bleeding away. "Did you notice in the
last paragraph where Mr. Merriweather asked me if I knew of
anyone who could serve as administrator for the school?"

"Of course, but..." Her voice trailed off. "Oh, you mean me?"

"Would you be at all interested?" Will asked hopefully.

Her face positively lit up. "I would be honored," she said.
"Sarah's been pushing me to let her take over the store,
saying it's too much for me." Her voice got a little lower,
gossipy. "Honestly, I think she just wants a reason to get out
of the house ever since little Emma got married and moved
to Phoenix."

Will grinned back. "I'm so glad," he said honestly. "You'll be
perfect for the job." They spent half an hour planning until
there seemed to be more gawkers than actual customers.

"I'll write to Mr. Merriweather," he promised. "Well,

171

Mr. Rutherford. He's probably the most reliable one of the
bunch."

"And I'll speak to Sarah," Mrs. Potter promised in return,
looking ten years younger than she had when Will had first
stepped into her store.

Will couldn't stop smiling as he rode out of town. Everything
was coming together.

He was a little less happy as he rode back into town the next
morning, a letter to Mr. Rutherford in his pocket. His bed had
been cold without John in it, and breakfast lonely.

Mrs. Potter was also more restrained, but she'd always
smiled when Will entered the store and today was no
exception. "Good morning, Mr. Connors."

He smiled back. "If you really are going to be buying my
ranch, I think you should call me Will." Her smile grew. "I'd
like that, dear."

"You are buying the ranch?" Will checked.

"That's what I said in the letter."

"Sarah is being rather... difficult," Mrs. Potter said. She put
her hands on her hips. "But she'll come around. And if she
doesn't, well, I've had offers for the store before and I'll have
them again." Will blinked. "Really? You'd sell your store?"

"Let me tell you something Mr. Connors – I never wanted to
be a storekeeper. My Henry bought the store and I supported
him, of course. Still, he's gone now and this school of yours is
too important to leave to Mr. Merriweather. I want to be a part

of it."

"In that case, could you post this for me?" Will

172

asked, passing over the letter.

"I would be delighted," she said with a smile. John returned
two days later and Will barely gave him time to take care of
Old Faithful before dragging him to bed.

"What did she say?" John asked as they held each other
afterwards.

"She said yes," Will said with a smile. "There are some
problems but she's more excited about the school than I am.
She'll find a way to make it work."

"I was thinking about that, actually; as great as Mrs. Potter
probably is with administration, I can't quite picture her on a
horse."

Will acknowledged the truth of that statement.

"But she could hire someone. I'm sure Jesse would be willing
to come out to help."

John frowned a little at the mention of Jesse's name.
"Between the smokehouse and the odd jobs, how does he
have time to run his own ranch?" Will stared. "Are you

jealous?" he asked, charmed.

"No," John said, sounding affronted.

Will smirked, but let it go. "Jesse doesn't actually raise cattle.
He has some sheep, but it's a small herd. He mostly sells the
wool and meat in town. The odd jobs help him make ends
meet." John sighed and pulled Will closer. "Now that we're
definitely leaving, I don't want to have to wait any longer."

"Me, either," Will breathed. "How much longer will it be
before you're ready to go?"

173

It was a fairly vague euphemism for all of the

money John was collecting but John didn't pretend that he
didn't know what Will was talking about.

"Two trips would probably be safer, but I'd rather just go get it
all at once before it gets too warm. Right now there still isn't
much chance of me meeting anyone on the trail."

"How much money is there?" Will asked.

"Getting greedy?" John asked, sounding amused.

"More like trying to figure out if I have a bag large enough to

fit it all," Will muttered. Louder he added, "We have more
money in the jar than I've ever seen in my life. I can't even
imagine carrying that much money with me across the
country." John leaned over to kiss the top of Will's head. "I
have enough to fund the school and to buy the house and to
send Tommy to university, if you change your mind about
leaving him with the Rutherfords. Even if he wants to go to
school in England."

"I wish I hadn't asked," Will murmured.

"You'll have to know eventually," John said. "If anything
happens to me –"

"Stop right there," Will said flatly, lifting up so he could look
down at John. "Nothing's going to happen to you."

John smiled, with a touch of bitterness. "I'm not planning on
putting myself in danger but I am an outlaw, Will. There are
no guarantees."

Will scowled. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"All right," John said gently. "Let's talk some more about the
school. How will we find students?"

174

They talked together quietly until it was late and John finally
drifted off. Will stayed up even later, savoring the warmth of

John at his side and doing his damnedest not to worry.

After checking on the cattle, John went back out again for the
rest of his money. Will threw himself into repairs on the
house, the knowledge that Mrs. Potter would soon be living
there driving him to make the building as comfortable and
sturdy as possible.

John still hadn't returned when Will went back

into town. As he'd hoped, there was a telegram waiting for
him, a telegram of just three words besides the sender's
name. Will smiled and hurried over to the store.

"There you are," Mrs. Potter cried, thrusting a fistful of
change at Mrs. Smith and moving around the counter. "I've
been waiting for you to come back to town." She stopped in
front of Will, beaming. "Sarah's agreed to take over the
store."

"That's wonderful!" Will cried. He handed her the telegram.

"'Yes and yes'," she read, and looked up in confusion.

"In my letter to Mr. Merriweather, I gave him my price for the
ranch and my suggestion that you act as administrator.
That's his answer."

Mrs. Potter beamed.

175

Chapter 12

Things moved swiftly after that. John came back with enough
money to fill multiple saddle bags. Will convinced Mr.
Rutherford to send another telegram with a vague response
and used that as evidence for Mrs. Potter that Charles
Merriweather had entrusted Mr. Rutherford with funds for the
ranch. Mr. Smith, the town's notary, acted as witness as Will
signed the deed of the ranch over to Mrs. Potter (acting on
behalf of Charles Merriweather).

He was ready to leave right at that moment. Unfortunately, it
simply wasn't possible. John did leave – he obviously
couldn't be in the house when Mrs. Potter moved in and
besides, it was far too much of a risk for John to even
consider taking the train with Will – with a promise to meet
Will in St. Louis, but Will remained behind to assist Mrs.
Potter with any last minute repairs or alterations she needed
in the house. She was most impressed by the feeding
system in the chicken coop (John had finally given up on the
hogs) and Will found himself forced to accept praise that he
had not earned.

He did better accepting her admiration over the design of the
cellar, though there was an awkward moment when she
commented on how well hidden

it was under the rug.

In the end, it took nearly two weeks for Will to

176

get his own belongings packed and Mrs. Potter moved in.

There were still details to be arranged (they still hadn't come
up with a good system for finding students), but Will used
Charles Merriweather's distance from the town as an
allpurpose excuse and Mrs. Potter acknowledged that it
wasn't wise to seek out students before they actually had a
place to put them. Will didn't stay to help build that cabin, no
matter how much Mrs. Potter pressed him to do so, but he
did give her the bulk of his savings for her to hire men from
town to do the work. John had left additional money behind,
of course, but Will kept that to himself. He still hadn't figured
out how to explain coming into the kind of money that John
provided.

Finally, Mrs. Potter was settled, Grady was confirmed to not
be a threat (the sheriff was Mrs. Potter's cousin's son, and
both deputies had regularly eaten cookies at her table), and
Jesse was practically living on the ranch (between building
the cabin and the early calves, they'd probably need to hire a
second man, though Will carefully didn't mention that out
loud). Satisfied that he'd done his duty, Will wrote a letter to
Tommy and the Rutherfords, wrote a second letter to Will
Adams of Beadle & Adams, and loaded his luggage and
Brownie onto the first train that had accommodations
specifically for horses. On the fifth day of May, Will settled
into his seat and watched out the window as the town that
had been the center of his life for nearly a decade
disappeared behind him.

177

When the train stopped in St. Louis, Will collected one of his
bags and his horse and left the remainder on the train to be
delivered to the Rutherfords. After a quick stop for directions,
he made his way to the Planters Hotel at Fourth and Pine

and for a few moments he just stared at the towering
building. Even if he'd just come from Philadelphia, he'd find
this building impressive. After nine years in a town that never
went beyond two stories, the hotel was downright
intimidating. He was just starting to wonder how exactly he

was going to meet up with John when he heard a

gruff, beloved voice behind him. "Hello, stranger." Will
struggled to hold back a grin as he turned around. And
gaped. "John?"

John rubbed the bushy beard that covered the

lower half of his face. "Like it?"

Will cast about for something that wasn't an immediate 'no'. "I
hardly recognized you," he finally managed.

"That's the point," John said dryly. "Come on, let's get
Brownie stabled and you checked in to the room." As he
strode ahead he added, "And don't forget that I'm Charles
here." He lowered his voice to a register that went straight to
Will's prick. "At least in public."

Will stifled a groan; he didn't bother to do the same with his
glare. John just laughed.

As they made their way to the stables, Will took in the other
changes in John. What he noticed first were the clothes: he'd
gotten used to John wearing the work clothes that he'd
produced from one of his supply caches or, later, some of
the work clothes

178

that Will had brought with him from Philadelphia (before hard
work and time had thinned him down). In fact, he'd almost
forgotten that John was a bit of a dandy or that when he'd first
met him, he'd been wearing clothing fit for a railroad baron.

He was wearing the same fabric for his shirt as last time, Will
suspected, thought it was hard to tell because John was also
wearing a formal suit the likes of which Will had never seen
before. The jacket was short for one thing, barely hanging
down past John's hips, and it didn't look like it was at all fitted
at the waist. It was also buttoned to just a few inches below
John's chin, with only a hand'sbreadth of white silk showing.
His tie, if it could be called such, was a long, thin strip of
material, nothing at all like the bow-tie that was the height of
fashion when Will had left for less civilized lands. The pants
were less dramatically different, being of the same basic
design as those that came before. However, they were so
loose as to almost appear baggy, even looser than the work
pants that Will still wore and they looked... well, actually, they
looked very comfortable. Perhaps the suit wasn't so bad
after all. Especially since a quick glance around at the crowd
revealed that the significant majority of men were wearing
suits nearly identical to John's.

Less obvious than the new suit, but no less visible to Will,
was John's new way of walking: confident, with a loose,
rolling gait and a head held high. It was the walk of a man
who held the world in the palm of his hand and knew it, who
wouldn't hesitate to take anything that he wanted. Of

179

course, that was how John had always been but now he was

projecting that side of him proudly, for all the world to see.

Will's throat went a bit dry and he wondered just how long it
would take to get to the damned stables. Fortunately, they
were almost there and John had clearly made prior
arrangements as Brownie was led into a stall right next to
Old Faithful. Money exchanged hands and Will let it happen
without protest: he was developing a sort of tunnel vision
centered on John's room at the hotel. More specifically, on
the bed in said room. Right now, the weeks that he'd been
parted from John felt very long indeed.

Once in the hotel, John carefully positioned Will in sight of the
front desk. "Stay here and try to look poor," he murmured as
he dropped Will's bag by his side.

Will wasn't exactly sure how 'poor' was supposed to look,
though he was quite confident that he mastered 'incredulous'
while he watched John talking to the man at the front desk.
Apparently, that was close enough because John came back
smiling. "I told him you were my very proud cousin," he said,
reclaiming the bag. "And that you were used to splitting the
costs of a room with someone."

"All true," Will commented as they made their way to the
stairs. "Also true for you, I'd imagine."

"Ah, but definitely not true for a man such as Charles
Merriweather the Third," John said airily.

"I had to come up with some reason for not paying for you to
have a second room." His voice had dropped again as he

reached the end of that sen

180

tence and Will's prick responded most predictably.

"Are we there yet?" he huffed, only partially because of lust –
he wasn't accustomed to using stairs on a regular basis and
his leg was protesting. John laughed but he also took Will's
elbow in a strong hand and helped him with the stairs. By the
time they reached their floor, they were both a little out of
breath and struggling to hide their eagerness as they made
their way down to hall to their room as fast as Will's leg
permitted. John actually fumbled with the key for a moment,
which made Will feel less worried about his own impatience,
and once the door was open they practically fell into the
room.

If it had been up to John, they would have fallen to the floor
right then and there, but Will forced himself to remember the
practicalities. He was the one who shut the door and locked
it and he was the one who dragged them both to the bed.
Once ensconced in its downy softness, however, he felt his
own job was done and gave himself over to John's
ministrations.

John, in turn, devoted himself to stripping them both as fast
as humanly possible. With a jerk on Will's hips, he pulled Will
to the edge of the bed and went down on his knees.

Will had to choke back a wail as wet heat engulfed his cock
and it was only John's firm grip on his thighs that prevented
him from shoving himself up. Lord, he'd missed this. The feel
of John's hands on his body, the sweaty slide of their skin,

John's mouth and tongue and lips... never again, Will
decided. Never again would he allow weeks to go by

181

without John at his side.

Without warning, that wonderful, all-consuming

heat moved away and Will made a wordless noise of protest
deep in his throat before he was able to lift his head to see
what was wrong.

He found John looking back at him with a calculating smile.
"You know, there're extra pillows in this room."

Will immediately grasped the insinuation. "Yes," he said,
attempting to push himself back on the bed, harder than it
looked with his legs not quite reaching the floor. "Oh, yes.
Definitely." John's smile became a grin as he smoothly stood
up and helped Will move back. "Who first?"

"Me," Will said promptly. Off John's smirk, he added, "I need
to take a bath afterwards anyway." John deflated briefly, then
his eyes narrowed. Will hid a smirk of his own. "I'll make you
eat those words," John said crawling across the bed towards
Will with a feral expression.

Will adopted a look of utter innocence. "What words?"

With a growl, John pounced. Gently, of course, because
despite his words and Will's wishes, they both had to be
careful of Will's leg. For a few ridiculous moments they
tussled as best they could without actually moving until Will's
patience ran out and he hooked an arm over the back of

John's head, pulling him in for a kiss.

When he pulled back, Will whispered, "I know you've thought
about how we're going to do this. What's next?"

John smirked and pulled open the tiny drawer in

182

the bedside table. Inside was a familiar bottle. Next, he
began piling up pillows: two went under Will's hips, two went
under Will's bad leg, and the one that had been under Will's
head went under his side instead. Will wasn't entirely sure
what that last pillow was for, but he wasn't about to ask as
John had taken his good leg by the ankle and was holding it
to the side, spreading Will's legs wide in the process and
exposing him completely to John's stare.

Will's cock twitched.

Shifting forward, John released Will's leg and grabbed the
bottle. Will moaned as a calloused finger spread oil over his
entrance and then pressed its way inside. Truth of the matter
was, even after they'd given up on trying to take each other,
Will had always liked having John's fingers in him. It was like
mustard on a ham sandwich --at first the taste was strange
and pungent, but the additional flavor added a spark to the
simple dish and while a plain sandwich was always still
good, a sandwich with mustard was a treat.

John was giving him one hell of a treat now, with two fingers
pushed deep inside and a third probing the tight-stretched
edge of Will's muscle. Will tried to push back on the finger,
but found that John's carefully arranged pillows prevented

him from being able to move without using his good leg, and
John's body was holding that leg immobile. Will stifled a
laugh. Trust John to ensure that no harm could come to Will,
even from Will himself. Since he couldn't use his body to
hurry things

along, Will used his voice. "I'm

ready." 183

John smirked and pointedly pushed in twice more before he
pulled his fingers out and oiled up his prick. Will closed his
eyes in anticipation and was rewarded by a blunt, thick head
pushing up against his body and pushing its way inside.

Hooking his arm under Will's good leg, John began thrusting
forward, alternating long deep strokes with clusters of short,
intense jabs that made Will writhe. Will panted and gasped
and bit his lip hard to keep from shouting out. The faint hint of
copper on his tongue was accompanied by John's

hand on Will's prick and Will suddenly spilled his seed with
such force that even John was splattered with milky white.

John groaned deep in his chest and shoved himself forward
three more times before his entire body locked in place,
eyes screwed tight and arms shaking from where they were
holding himself up over Will.

A second later those arms gave way entirely and Will quickly
learned that, while the pillows had admirably served their
function in protecting his leg from jarring, they were intensely
uncomfortable when supporting not only his weight but John's
as well. By dint of shoving and pillow throwing, he managed

to get them both arranged in some semblance of comfort
and settled down to enjoy the moment.

"Leg all right?" John mumbled, his head cradled on Will's
chest.

"It's great," Will said, planting a kiss on John's head. John let
out a happy murmur and promptly went to sleep.

184

Will was a bit slower to follow. Tomorrow was going to be a
busy day, as he still had a novel to finish and John a charity
to organize. Not to mention that Will needed a whole new
wardrobe before he arrived back east and he was already
dreading what John was like when shopping.

Arriving back east had its own set of highs and lows. On the
one hand, Will would finally get to see Tommy again and his
heart lifted at the thought. He'd already planned out half a
dozen things that he and Tommy would do, and he knew that
Tommy

had a dozen more.

On the other hand, John wouldn't be coming with him, instead
continuing on to Boston to start looking for a house. It was a
necessary separation but that didn't mean Will had to like it.

With a gusting breath, Will forcibly pushed all of those
thoughts aside. They could be dealt with tomorrow. Instead,
he focused on the looseness of his body, on the warmth
between his legs from John's beard, and on the sleeping

man held safe within his arms.

Whatever the morrow may bring, tonight was...

perfect.

185

About Jane Elliot

Jane Elliot has been writing novels, short stories, and
screenplays for fifteen years and has been

published in several USmagazines.

She believes that fiction can help

promote understanding and acceptance of

alternative and marginalized societal groups

and most of her writing is focused on

relationships, be they platonic or romantic,

between individuals from all walks of life.

ISBN:978-0-9565426-2-5

186

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