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Blood and Iron Ch. 01

By: nomennescio



Do be aware that, as seems to be a habit with me, this story proceeds fairly slowly, with a relatively small amount of explicit content. This first chapter, for example, has essentially none. If that would trouble you, you needn't waste your time in reading it.

---

Mid-afternoon. Summer. The sun burned high and bright in a cloudless August sky, searing down upon a dusty little town a few miles off the Rio Grande. Siesta time. Too hot to work, too hot almost to move - even the air outside held still and quiet as all the men and women hid indoors from the heat. Low homes of white adobe and of wood lined the wide boulevard to the center of the town, building up to the comparative majesty of a two-story saloon and flophouse. Four horses tethered up outside before a murky trough of water, shifting occasionally on their feet as they patiently waited for their riders to return. Far in the distance, the faint cry of a carrion bird delighting in some newly-discovered meal.

But closer issues were at hand. A sound of struggle rising past the batwing doors of the saloon, of angry exclamations and scattered furniture, building towards violence - at least until a tired holler cut through the growing din, loud enough to be audible even from the street outside. "All right now, you fellas take that outside. Ain't gonna be no brawlin' in here, understand?"

The reprimand won a few moments of quiet, of reprieve. Then all at once, three figures burst from the doorway, spilling out onto the wooden veranda - one man in front, shabbily dressed and lanky of build, shoved bodily backwards by those behind. The second of them larger, younger, his fists clasped furiously at the first man's lapels; the third man following closely after, smaller but still itching to throw a punch.

"You damned cheat." Sweat shimmered in a faint sheen on the larger man's face, hot and angry, as he bellowed down at the half-battered figure before him. A violent shove sending him to spawl upon the ground, his back striking one of the wooden columns with an uncomfortable crack. "Where's our money?" And as though to emphasize the point, the second of the aggressors delivered a savage kick to the prone man's side.

Breath hissed through clenched teeth, flecked with blood. The man on the ground doubled up protectively, writhing in pain but still defiant. He spat at the foot of his assailant, glared back into grizzled, crimson features. "I ain't a cheat."

The foot came down again, a filthy boot heavy on the older man's neck. "You're a cheat and a liar, Slim." A warning, a rumbling growl from deep in the throat. "You expect to live through the next few minutes, you better start whistlin' a different tune."

While the bigger man spoke, his companion dropped down to the wooden walkway, hands checking industriously at the pockets of their target while he was unable to resist. Just a scarce few moments later that he rose again, now clutching a small back of coin. "I got it, Jack." Pleased satisfaction in his voice as he pulled at the drawstrings, peering into the jingling leather sack. "We can split it up proper, make sure we each get back our stake. Little bit extra in here, too, looks like."

"Dammit, that money ain't yours." 'Slim' snarled up angrily, struggling fruitlessly against the larger man's weight. "You're so sure I cheated, fine, take back what you lost. But you ain't got no claim to the rest."

"You shut your mouth, Slim." The gun came out then, a revolver dark and ugly in Jack's hand. Hanging down loose, uncocked - a threat to which the older man's eyes were inexhorably drawn. "I got half a mind to fix you right here."

"Hey, now." A bit of diffidence gathered now in the voice of the smaller man. Hesitation. "We got our money back. No need to get yourself in no trouble over this louse."

"I hate cheats." His eyes blazed fiercely, still glaring down at his captive. "I hate'm, more'n anything else. You get robbed by a desperado out on the road, least he's got some damn guts. This piece'a shit..." He spat, a thick gobbet of saliva and tobacco remnants splattering messily on the older man's vest. "Ain't even got a gun. He's a damned coward. Expects folk'll let'm off the hook if he don't got a way to fight back." The barrel of the revolver rose up in his hand, deliberate and menacing, aligned with the eyes of the man below. An expression there now almost resigned, expectant. No longer struggling. "I ain't feeling that merciful."

"Quite a friendly scene."

It was a new voice that now spoke, drawling slow and sarcastic past the moment's tension. Not quite rough enough to hide its still-youthful pitch and purity, nor the subtly feminine melody of its tones. Three pairs of eyes rose up to find and boggle at the speaker - a woman's face looked back at them, but the garb beneath was that of a man. Perched atop a mid-sized chestnut stallion, she wore the long leather duster of a ranger, heavy boots with muddy spurs. Flashing green eyes and serious features bronzed by the sun, staring out from below a dark Stetson hat. Beneath the large and shapeless garb, one could scarce discern the smoothness of youthful curves, the low shoulders and narrow waist of the woman hidden away.

A moment passed in silence. Shocked at this interruption, and at the faintly preposterous figure behind it. "Well?" She spoke again, as her horse harumphed. "What's all this about?" Narrowness in her eye, and a curl of warning at her lip.

Finally, Jack stirred, waking from his surprise. His head shaking in disapproval still faintly astonished. "You best just move along, missie. This ain't gonna be pretty."

"You aim to shoot him?" Archness lined the question, her gaze flickering down to the silent man beneath his gun, then back up to his eye.

"Don't much have to aim, at this range." Black humor sparked in his expression, tugged at his lip. "But you got the notion of it. This man here's a low-down dirty cheat, and I mean to show what I think of his kind." The hammer of the revolver clicked into place, a punctuation mark on this dark promise.

It could have been an eyeblink, a lightning strike - the woman's hand scarcely seemed to flicked beneath the edge of her coat before emerging again with a weapon of her own. A long forty-five with a heavy barrel, polished steel shining like silver; on its side, a light tracery of engraving captured the image of a rose in bloom, tangled with thorns. "Where I sit," she spoke still cool and quiet, "That sounds like murder."

"Lady..." Jack sputtered in annoyed disbelief as his compatriot backed slowly away, hand dropping down near his hip. "You best put that thing away 'fore I decide to take you serious."

A moment's irritation flashed in the woman's gaze, her mouth tightening to a low frown. Brief deliberation, glancing at the uncertain watchfulness of the man behind, and at 'Slim,' looking up at her bloody from the corner of his eye. Then all at once, an explosion shattered the relative quiet of the afternoon, the two standing figures flinching backwards as the black revolver kicked suddenly to the air, clattered noisily across the wooden walk. The smaller man pulling his own gun, only to find the woman's steady aim and gaze already centered on him.

"My hand!" Jack was first to speak, gasping half in shock. His right hand cradled carefully in his left. "I think you broke my-"

"Quiet." An icy aside, as she stared down her target. "Toss it over here. Quickly, now."

Humiliated resentment burned in the smaller man's eyes - but it was no more than a moment before he acceeded, his own weapon set to tumble in the dirt, coming to rest by the hooves of the woman's horse. "Right, now," she gestured with the gun. "Get moving. Both of you. You listen good, maybe I'll pass along your irons to whoever passes for the law around here. Let him decide if you get'm back." Her gaze stayed on the pair, cool and unflinching, as they made their way muttering off the wooden walkway and down the road, Jack nursing still at his injured hand. Only once they were safely in the distance did she holster her weapon and slip fluidly down from the saddle, casting an incurious glance at the man still lying on the floor as she retrieved the guns from the dirt where they lay. "You all right?"

"...reckon so." The difficulty with which he spoke belied his answer - it was a visible effort for him to haul himself upright, one hand braced against the wall to keep steady. A small cut on his cheek, seeping crimson. Still, he managed to cast an appraising eye in the woman's direction, impressed...and a little bemused. "Guess maybe I owe you some thanks."

She shook her head in casual denial, stowing the revolvers in the fair-sized saddlebags that hung off the sides of her horse. "Ain't got nothin' to do with you, really. Just don't take kindly to people gettin' cut down in front of me." Glancing down the road at the pair of retreating figures, still visible. "You really cheat'em?"

The man shrugged with perhaps affected ease, pulling from his vest pocket a small tin of tobacco, papers nestled nicely in its bottom. "Don't matter much now, I suppose. Either way, they got all I won, and then some." Tying up her horse, she half-watched as he worked through a clearly familiar ritual of preparing himself a smoke, his hands slightly uncooperative after his experience. A match flaring briefly brilliant against the wooden railing, once he was finished - he took a long, steadying drag on the resulting cigarette, a look almost enterprising climbing into his eye as it slowly traveled across the length of the woman's body. Such as could be seen, at least, beneath her sturdy trail clothes. "Ain't ever seen a lady could handle a gun like that."

"Well, now you have." Brusque and careless, her stallion secured by the trough. "Listen, I don't mean to be in town long. You help me out, tell me what you know, you can call us even." He nodded genially - she continued. "See, I'm lookin' for someone. A man."

"Well, now." An edge of suggestion in his tone, a tiny smirk curled upon his lips amidst bruises and caking blood. "I reckon you found one."

No reaction. Not even a flicker of irritation; she just pressed onward, launching into a description with the even tone of long repetition. "He'd be getting near his fifties now. Stands a little under six feet. Hair and eyes are both dark brown, though I reckon the hair might be goin' grey now. He..." 

Her voice suddenly faltered, hesitated, as her eyes caught upon the face of the man before her. Really looking at him for the first time, suddenly scrutinizing the stubbly curve of his jaws, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Wondering, as her heart thumped deeper, faster. "He's lightly built...like you. Don't often give his name, what I've heard, but it's Blake." Her gaze, heavy in his features, caught the subtle flinch of surprise as she spoke the name. "James Blake." And from the way his eyes alit suddenly with calculation and suspicion, it did not seem that there could be further room for doubt...

"So..." He intoned gamely, after a moment's awkward quiet. "This 'Blake' fella...supposin' I might know where he is, what do you want with him?"

The woman just stared, swallowed in abrupt uncertainty. Her whole manner suddenly altered - the easy, reckless confidence that had carried her as she drove off his assailants now dissolved, her spine stiff with discomfort and anxiety. Her brow, low and almost disbelieving. A whisper on her lips. "It's you, ain't it."

His turn, now, to furrow his brow. Squinting back at her, puzzled. "I know you, lady?"

The woman shook her head, slow and ghostly. Not a denial; a question. "Do you?" Her eyes locked with his, searching, almost pleading. A distinctive, dirty green - an ember of anger, too, that seemed to spark and grow as moments passed, struggling with memory.

Something too familiar in those eyes. A far-off warmth. And a beauty in those sun-toned features that her rough, mannish clothes did little to disguise. A former lover? No, that was wishful thinking. There'd been nothing for too many years but the occasional whore. Even before that, none that looked like her. None that'd seek him out. None that could so casually shoot a gun from a man's hand at ten paces...he was sure he'd never known a woman who'd even have tried, or who'd dare appear in public dressed as she was. "No," he shook his head, frowned definitively. "I don't reckon so."

Her jaw tightened, disappointment and anger and hurt. Bitterness scraping at her throat as she took a step closer. "You don't even remember me?" Her right hand rose, sweeping the hat from her head, letting the sun's rays to illuminate her features still more clearly. "You don't remember Alice?"

Staggered silence fell like a clap of thunder, James' eyes shooting wide and white, his face paling with disbelief. No. It was impossible...but the name nudged the pieces together, sparked the recognition that had lain dormant in his mind. The faint, niggling familiarity of the woman's face - thinner than he had last seen it, sharper, but identifiable now that he knew what he was looking for. Muddy green eyes, burning fiercer than he'd ever seen them, looking smaller now beneath her thin and angled eyebrows. And the close-cropped hair, taken for brown in the shadow of her hat - an icy resignation clasped at his spine as he saw now its touch of flame, the deep and dusky red he'd last seen neatly braided, flying backwards in the wind. There could be little doubt. "Well." His voice sounded suddenly a decade older, weary and low. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon?" Fury crept slow and trembling onto her tongue, ignited in her gaze. "Thirteen years, and that's all you got to say to me? 'Afternoon?'"

"Beggin' your pardon," he drawled quiet and distantly sardonic, with another long drag on his cigarette. "But it ain't like I figured I'd ever set eyes on you again, little rose."

A sharp inhalation. Alice's shoulders lifted, stiff with upset, eyes blazing at this address so familiar and so long unheard. "Don't you call me that." The words rasped out harshly through a tightened throat, and there was a glittering of steel as the revolver flickered back instinctive to her hand. The barrel pointed trembling at his heart. "Don't you dare call me that. I ain't your little rose, hear? Not anymore. Not since you up and left us."

"All right," he agreed cautiously. Palms held outward at his sides, a simple gesture of surrender. "Didn't mean nothin' by it." And waiting there, until the long revolver dropped again, pointed loosely at the ground, her stance rigid with rage. A few more moments before he ventured to question, "You been looking for me."

"Damn right I have," she snapped back, arch and vicious. "I been hunting you down going on six years. Askin' in every molehill town if anyone seen a man with your face or your name. Trackin' down seems like every browned-haired James ever set foot west of the Mississippi. Didn't even know if you was alive, when I started out." Perhaps a touch of pride sat amidst the anger flush on her cheeks - her long efforts finally successful.

He stayed quieter. Colder. "And?"

"And..." The question lay heavy, leaden in her mind. The same question she'd asked herself so many times on this quest. If she actually found him...what would she do? What did she even want to do? So many different answers, changing from day to day, month to month, year to year. And now, now that it was real, now that he stood before her...

"And you're gonna tell me why." A glower burned in her gaze, seeking the certainty of fury. "I want to know why you done it, why you disappeared, abandoned ma and me. I want to hear the reason." Her scowl, low and thin, little suited to those delicate pink lips.

James shook his head minutely, exhaled briefly though his nose. "Ain't no great mystery." Looking away from her, as he leaned against one of the wooden pillars of the veranda. "You got to move on sometime. Can't keep pretendin' to be somethin' you ain't. A rancher. A father." His brown eyes glanced over to hers, flat and tired. "Don't rightly expect you to understand, but a man's got to ramble."

A beat passed, silent and expectant. Waiting for something more, something deeper, real. But he just took another drag on his cigarette, staring sightless at the blank walls of the saloon; when it was plain that no more was forthcoming, she rasped back "That's it?" The faint rawness of anguish cracking in her disbelieving voice. "That's all you got? The only reason? 'A man's gotta?'" Her head quivered with outrage as he casually shrugged, still looking away. "You just..." A snarl taking hold of her tongue. "Then I reckon a man's about the lowliest critter ever haul hisself up on two legs."

The faintest shadow of a smile seemed to fall across his lips. "Ain't so far off there, I don't suppose."

"I oughtta kill you." The gun rose up again in her hand, her knuckles white around the handle. "I oughtta shoot you in the gut and let you bleed out here in the dirt."

He didn't flinch. Barely even moved, just looked over at her with weary eyes and an unreadable expression. "Yeah." Low and gravelly. "Maybe you ought."

Long moments the gun hung there, trained on his chest as he silently smoked his cigarette, looking into nothing. Alice's finger trembling on the trigger, half-squeezing. The hammer waiting to fall. She'd thought of this, sometimes. Dreamed of it. Nights when the bitterness of rage had clutched at her heart, and she could only console herself with the thought that she'd find him, that she'd make him pay for all the hurt, all the tears...

"God damn it." Disgust roiled in her eyes as she spat upon the dirt, a smouldering frustration. The revolver dropped back into her holster. "I need a drink." No relief, indeed, no change at all in James' expression at this reprieve - but she growled still in warning. "I ain't near done with you, though. You best come along inside so's I can figure out what I'm going to do."

No word of response, just another careless shrug of agreement, pushing back up to his feet. In moments the pair was passed through the breezy door of the saloon into the shadowy interior, a handful of grizzled men slowly nursing drinks around a back table while the stout bartender rubbed at a shot glass with a cloth that barely qualified as clean. No fine establishment, this - bare pine for every surface, the boards often misaligned, and only the bar itself was even bothered with a varnish. Two small paintings hung on the wall, sleepy landscapes, but in the gloom of too-small windows and extinguished candle lamps, they little but added to the shabbiness of the room.

"Whiskey." Alice held up two fingers as she settled into a stool, the jaded man behind the bar hardly even batting an eye at her attire. James hunkering down beside, with a nod for another. Their drinks poured in silence - Alice took hers in a single pull, then grimaced darkly at the dregs slowly regathering at the bottom of her glass as the harsh taste burned at her throat.

James, meanwhile, just held his. Stared similarly at the amber liquid, speaking rough and quiet beside her. "Ain't quite sure what I ought to call you now."

"Same as anyone else," she muttered back. "You call me Alice. Alice O'Connor." Her teeth clenched around the final word.

"Your ma's name." He nodded slowly, sagely. "Well, I reckon that's fair, considering." A beat. "How is she, your ma?"

"Dead." She pronounced it crisp, cutting. A bitter solemnity on her tongue, not looking to see the hint of a wince that flitted through his expression. "Six years dead. Doc said it was the cholera...but you ask me, she worked herself to death. Tryin' to raise me, and to keep the ranch goin' by herself."

James let pass a moment's respectful silence, taking a healthy swig of his own drink. His lips puckering minutely at the foul taste. "'ts a shame." The even cadence of his voice barely altered, just touched with the somber. A note of contemplative inquiry. "Old Billy Jack never, ah...?"


Blood and Iron Ch. 01



"Never what?" Her eyes narrowed, glancing over.

He shook his head. "Don't matter now, I reckon. Obviously, he didn't." Another nip finished off the glass, set down to rest uneven on a knot of wood protruding from the countertop.

It was a few more moments, tense and seething, before Alice spoke again. "I don't get it." Frustration upsetting her own attempt at cool, a straining of anger and of bafflement. "Why are you here?"

James raised one uncertain, bristly eyebrow. "Ain't like I put down roots, little...ah, Alice. I'm just passin' through. Driftin'. Didn't figure I'd be here more'n a week."

She shook her head, quick and emphatic. "That ain't what I mean. I know you been driftin', what I heard from the folk sometimes who remembered you. Gettin' by on gambling. Cheatin', I reckon." Her lips curled briefly with distaste, and he made no attempt to deny it. "But it don't make no sense. If you was bored of the ranch, why in blazes ain't you gone back to what you did before? You were a damned hero. Special Deputy Marshal. You took out Bloody Miller and his gang, you worked secret for Buchanan. How can you..." She trailed off, hesitated at the look of growing incredulity in his expression. "What?"

"Your ma never told you?" His brow furrowed in disbelief.

Her voice sharpened with the steely, uncomfortable edge of suspicion. "Told me what?"

"Alice..." He gamely swallowed. "Those was just stories. I made'm up. Ain't never met no President, or been any kind of marshal, or done nothin' near half what I told you about. Hell," he sighed, "Only one close to true is Miller. But I didn't stop him, I ran with'm."

"What?" The question was a breath, her mouth hanging half-agape. Shocked, shattered, scrambling for purchase as the past she thought she knew cracked beneath her feet.

"'ts right." A faint smile crossed his lips, grim and humorless. "I was one of the gang. Done my share, shot'n killed plenty men who didn't deserve it so's we could take a few dollars from a bank or stage. Was the Marshals brought'm down, that part's true," he nodded slight and solemn as she looked on, flustered with dismay. "But it damn sure wasn't me. Me, right then, I was busy paintin' myself yellow."

He glanced again in her direction, half-expectant, but she did not try for a response. Just stared back, stricken, breathing slow through lips just parted, the tips of teeth still pearly with youth barely visible in the dim light of the saloon. A few more moments, his fingers twisting idly at his glass on the bar before he spoke again. "Suppose you ought to hear the story right, seein' what trouble you took to find me." Dark humor in his voice, flaring like a distant match on a moonless night. "We knew they was comin', see? Two Marshals, plus a posse of thirty men rounded up from the town over. No chance we could stand against that, not in a straight-up gunfight. I went to Miller to talk escape, say we should split up, disappear into the wild for a couple days, weeks, however long it'd take for the heat to die down. But Miller..." 

He snorted, quiet, disparagement masking a reluctant regard. "He was an educated man. All kinds of big ideas. He talks about makin' his mark, goin' down in glory, bein' a Man Untamed. Me, I was more interested in bein' a Man Alive. So while the crew was puttin' together some barricades, getting ready for Valhalla...I snuck off. Turned tail and ran, the way I said the rest of'm oughtta. Ran for quite a while, as a matter of fact, 'specially once I heard how the rest of the gang was wiped out but for the two they saved to hang. Tryin' to head far enough away that there wouldn't be no one around who'd even heard of Bloody Miller. Eventually, I met a nice Irish lass who helped me find a place to stay, to work, to settle down. Got married. Had a kid. Tried to go straight." The weary look of before, heavy again in his expression. "Reckon you know the rest."

"You're a liar." Her voice trembled with accusation, with the ache of outrage. "You...my whole damn life you was lyin' to me about who you are."

"Ain't quite the way I saw it, at the time," he answered, slow and quiet. A contemplative pause. "But I suppose that's right, more or less."

"You're a liar," she repeated ferociously, the final word straining from the top of her throat, seething with the red of helpless fury. "A liar, and a cheat, and a thief, and a murderer. You're...can't be hardly nobody in the whole damn world worse than you."

Slow to answer, staring at the wooden wall behind the counter. But his voice kept the same tone and rhythm of cool equanimity. "Certainly a whole mess of folk better."

Alice's hands balled into fists on the lip of the bar, short-bitten nails scratching at the uneven wood. The breath hissing quick and shallow through her nose as she struggled to compose herself, to think, to push down the tide of tight, conflicting feeling that whirled mad inside her. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. For all the ways the reunion could have gone, she'd never imagined this, that finding him would be itself a loss, that it would take away the man she thought she'd known. That it all would be a lie, every dream and memory, and every drop of warmth inside her cast out into the darkness...

"Well," a growl came deep in her throat. An answer. The only one she could think. "Reckon I'm here for justice, then. For me, for Ma, and for all the folk you hurt before and ain't never paid the price." Her gaze narrowed to a glare, fixed sharp and solid in his direction. Voice dropping to a mutter, avoiding the ears of the others in the room. "I'll give you a choice. I can shoot you right outside this here saloon...or we can take a trip first, visit Ma's grave. You pay your last respects, and I put you down quick." Her eyes blazed, daring him to protest.

Little hesitation. He waited just long enough to lift his glass once more to his lips, draining out the last few dregs of whiskey within before calmly nodding. "All right."

A suspicious frown tugged at her expression, narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean, 'all right?'"

"I'll go with you." He shrugged carelessly, brown eyes heavy and unreadable.

"Uh-huh." She intoned skeptically. Staring at his face, trying to read what was going on in his mind. Feeling a shiver of old, familiar emotion at the back of of her heart, fitting features to the image that was carved into her memory. "And you ain't got nothin' to say about me sittin' here in judgement?"

He just glanced aside, dismissive. "You're the one with the gun, I reckon that makes you in charge." A pause. "'sides, if you hadn't come along, I'd a'had a bullet in me anyhow."

"Right..." She pronounced it slowly, eyes still narrow with suspicion. "Well. If I'm in charge, I say we head out right now. Get some supplies and leave, 'fore you can slink away on me." Her eyes glittered with accusation, sharp and taunting. "Again."

No reaction. He just sat, stolid and unmoving, the answer cool on his lips. "Fine."

It was enough to depart. It should have been enough. But for a few moments more, Alice kept staring at his face, glaring, searching. Her jaw tight, emotion itching frustrated at her breast, trying to batter down with her gaze the damnable coolness of dispassion that blockaded his expression, to see what lay beyond. If anything did. Certainly he had not always worn so deliberate an apathy. Memory stirred in her mind, a picture from long ago - her father, returning from a trip into town. Sitting so tall on their old paint horse, his features strong and healthy, hair not yet touched by grey. How he smiled, wide and unrestrained, as he saw her waiting for him. The warm feeling of delight and adoration that had filled her, rushing down to his side to be lifted up, sat down before him on the horse for the short distance that remained to their house. How his hand rested solid on her shoulder, careful and lovingly protective, ensuring that she kept safely upright and balanced. Now, though...all was a flat and distant coldness. The only emotion she could detect in his expression, a faint tension of regret. Perhaps only for the fact that she had found him.

"Come along, then," she finally ordered, gruffly as she could muster. A quarter left on the counter for their drinks as they headed back out to the dry and dusty avenue. A fly buzzing past, slow and lazy around the stagnant trough. "You got a horse?"

"Wouldn't be much of a no-good drifter if I didn't." His lips briefly thinned, gesturing vaguely over to a squat grey mare idly flicking her tail about. "Ain't too fast or too strong, but she gets me from place to place."

"Then saddle up." Alice moved to her own stallion, pulling herself lithely up to the leather seat in a single, smooth motion. James took a bit longer, a trace of awkward stiffness in his motion as he lifted himself up - a body uncooperative, despite long experience - but soon he, too, was perched atop his horse, glancing over at Alice with eyes tired and questioning.

"You just stick ahead of me so I can keep an eye on you." Her steed snorted briefly, as though for emphasis. "Gotta get some supplies, drop off them guns with the sheriff. After that, we're headed out directly. Lotta ground to cover 'fore nightfall."

---

Events proceeded much as Alice had described, the pair departing west on horseback in an awkward, uncomfortable silence. Bitterness and bile twisting still in her heart as she trotted along behind, staring with tightened jaw and barbed gaze. Her tongue aching with a question already answered.

Why? So many nights she'd wondered it, even once childhood tears had finally dried, once the fires of adolescence found kindling in her loss. Why did he leave? Not knowing, she had thought, was the worst of all. Facing that agonized uncertainty that puddled, festered inside her like blood from a wound. Wondering, as she often did in the first few years, if it was perhaps her fault, if she'd not been good enough.

But now at last she knew...and the answer gave no satisfaction. Empty. Senseless. Meaningless. "A man's gotta." The words rang taunting in her mind through all her hours of travel, rasping like sandpaper on her soul, and all she could do was glare at his back, thinking how she hated him. This man supposed to be her father, the man she thought she'd loved, once. In the dream of childhood, a time forever past.

Between the lateness of their departure and the barely passable trot of James' horse, dusk was gathering long before they drew near the next town. "All right," Alice gruffly drew a halt before the darkness loomed too deeply. "We set up camp here." The smoothness of experience inhabiting her manner as she slid easily off her horse, fetching a thin-handled axe from the saddlebags beside to chop at some of the spindly bushes and narrow trees that grew off the path - all but ignoring James, who merely stood aside, watching her at work. Scarcely much time at all before a mild little fire crackled cheerfully there in the sand, pushing back at the growing gloom of night.

"Handy, ain'tcha." He observed quietly as she set down before the campfire with a fair-sized canvas chow sack. Standing still at the edge, in the twilight region between firelight and darkness, his features only barely illuminated by the flickering flame.

"Had to be," she grunted back. Industriously pouring some dried beans into a cast-iron skillet, mixing in a little water from her canteen. "You gone, ma dead...weren't nobody else gonna be it for me."

"Suppose not," he granted sagely. Quiet curiosity glimmering in his eye as he stepped closer. "Six years, you said. Woulda made you fifteen, if I ain't mistaken." And a little jolt in her heart, a flicker of warmth that tugged her gaze briefly up again to his features - surprised that he remembered even this much, in light of how dismissive he had been. She had to glare it back down inside her as he continued. "How you been gettin' by?"

A few moments passed with just the sound of the fire while she thought how she wanted to respond. If she wanted to. It was almost offensive, him asking now about her life, wanting to know how she survived after his careless abandonment... "Don't reckon that's none of your concern." She didn't much try to keep the bite from her tone. Didn't even meet his gaze, petty vengeance giving some small measure of satisfaction.

"Maybe it ain't." Agreement, low and quiet in his throat. He stood now near the fire, beside her as she set up the skillet, and the awareness of him there was another flash of familiar feeling down her spine. How he'd stood there time to time, silent and towering over her, watching as she played silly children's games in the dirt, exercises of imagination with the wooden toys he whittled for her in his free hours. The comfort she'd felt under his protection, under his gaze... "Can't say I got much claim to ask. Sure I ain't no father at all, far as you're concerned." A moment passed, Alice staring down into the fire. "All the same, I'd like to know. If you don't mind too much tellin'."

She didn't, really. Troubled more by the stirring of ambiguous feeling at her heart, old emotions, old memories thawed and set to flow again in his presence, in these barest rudiments of warmth. As though it mattered, as though he were truly even the same person she'd cried for, prayed for. As though that man even existed...she couldn't let herself be touched by this paltry expression of interest in her life. It was too little, and too damned late. She shrugged, expression forced full with deliberate apathy. "I been drivin' cattle." She couldn't help a glance upward at that, into his eyes, unreadable now in darkness. "Good work, I figure. Ain't easy, but it pays well, and the off seasons left me time to track you down."

"Well, I'll be." A note of genuine surprise sounded in his voice, of almost admiration. "You're a cowboy. Or a cowgirl, I s'ppose." He chuckled at the idea, brief but earnest. "That how come you dress like a man?"

Anger flashed abruptly in her features, her lip curling wroth. "I don't dress like a man." She spat the words out, thick with venom. "I dress to do the damn job. You gonna be like every other fool, jaw on how I oughta put on a dress, how much prettier I'd look if I grew out my hair, put it up? How quick I could find me a man, not fuss about pretendin' to be one?"

"Wasn't plannin' to," he quipped back, dry and laconic. Settling down now beside the fire, folding his legs beneath him. "Eyes ain't as sharp as they used to be, but you look plenty fine enough as is. I just ain't never heard of no cattle company that'd sign on a woman to work a drive."

Alice was slow to respond, gradually breathing out her instinctive irritation as she added a few chunks of salted beef to the now-boiling water. "Wasn't a simple thing, gettin' the job," she finally granted. "Damn near had to rope and tie a steer right there in the manager's office 'fore he agreed to leave it up to the trail boss. Him," a trace curve of self-satisfaction crept into her expression, "I had to challenge to a contest of sharpshootin' to make him recommend me."

"Really, now." James' eyebrow rose. "Suppose that fits your show back at the saloon...fancy yourself a crack shot, do ya?"

"Ain't got to fancy nothin'," she returned swiftly. The makeshift stew bubbling cheerfully in the skillet, putting out a smell quite delicious after long hours in the saddle; Alice picked out a few dense sourdough biscuits from her pack of food. "I can do what I can do. Most of the time, it's good enough." And wrapping her hand in the leather of her coat, she lifted the food from the fire, commencing almost immediately to scoop up hungry mouthfuls with a battered wooden spoon.

James could feel his own stomach grumble, aroused by the simple, appetizing scent, but didn't bother to speak of it. Just sat there by the fire, watching from the corner of his eye as she wolfed down her meal, showing clearly the table manners of the range. He'd gone hungry more than once before; wouldn't be much harm in doing so again. There was a quiet fascination, besides, in looking at her, in appraising this girl, this woman, this child that he'd not seen in so long. That he'd tried to forget. The slender curve of her neck softly pulsing as she swallowed, her clothes and skin dirty, dusty from long travels. Not a difficult thing to see the anger in her, the force of it like hot steel just beneath the skin, poorly hidden by her attempts at nochalance and cool. Not hard to understand it, either. After what he'd done...

So it was a surprise when she grunted quietly and turned, holding out the cooling skillet for him to take, still about half-full. "Here." He reacted only belatedly, grabbing for the handle a trifle unsteadily with his left hand. "Don't want you starvin' to death on the way to your own execution."

"Right," he agreed dryly, caught a bit off-guard. "Much obliged."

She just shrugged, took her turn at staring into the fire while he ate. Darkness fallen now across the desert, their little blaze the only light around for miles - though the skies still shimmered with their broad canopy of stars. The crackling of flame overlaid atop the low and lonely sounds of night, insects and desert mice stirring for a few hours of foraging outside the heat of the desert sun. It was some minutes later that James spoke again, muttering around half a mouthful of beef. "Some'n I don't get." Her dirty green eyes darting upward, dimly visible in firelight. "Why bother trackin' me down?"

She blinked. "What?" The word flatly spoken, blankly, as though his question had no meaning.

"Sounds like you dont all right for yourself," he explained. "Got good work, got the ranch, know how to look after yourself...hell, I been gone more'n half your life. How come you didn't just forget about me, like you ought? Why waste time traipsin' around all over nowhere lookin' for somebody it ain't gonna do you no good to find?"

"That ain't..." Her answer came out quiet, diffident. An ache of frustration, flickering in her eye. "I couldn't forget. You were my pa. I didn't have no idea where you were, what happened to you. Came up with so damn many explanations, figurin' you musta had something real important to do, somethin' so secret you couldn't even tell us about it. That when you was done, you'd be back." Her voice growing tight, almost trembling - a tinge of red to her gaze before she turned away, stared again into the fire. "Three years I waited for you to come home. Spendin' seems like all my spare time out on that big red rock where I always used to meet you. Prayin' every Sunday just for one thing, that you'd finish up whatever kind of secret mission you was on so I could see you again. Three years before I finally accepted it wasn't gonna happen, that you wasn't comin' back." Her mouth a thin line, muted and low.

"Guess ma lied to me, too, 'cause she never let on you wasn't what I thought you were. Just said I shouldn't hang around waitin', that you prob'ly died out there." She breathed out slow through her nose. "But I never believed it. Didn't think nobody could kill you. Said I'd find you, or leastwise what happened to you...god, that was ten damn years past. Don't feel like it." Her head shook in quiet reflection. "Had a mission of my own, then, see? Practiced my ridin', my shootin', all the things you used to say would save your life, while ma kept sayin' I gotta wait at least 'til I was older 'fore I could think about rushin' out after you. Then she fell sick, died, and...well, I figured I was old enough."

James sat in stoic silence, as sourness bit once more at her voice. "When I first set out, I had this notion like I was gonna find you in the dungeon of some old Spanish fort somewhere, held prisoner by...god knows who. And you ain't got to tell me how fool an idea that is - I know well enough. But I didn't never believe you would'a left for no reason like that. I thought you..." Her jaw closing tight, wordless and aching, not finishing the sentence. Staring down into the fire, her skin seeming to softly glow in the rich yellow light. When she spoke again, it was with a little quaver quickly swept away. "Anyhow, weren't no way I was gonna forget. This was...I made it my whole damn life, trackin' you down. Sold the ranch. Only worked the drives so I could afford to keep lookin'. Didn't make no sense when I talked to people who said they'd maybe seen you just wandering, passin' through, but I thought there had to be some kinda answer for it, something that'd explain it all when I finally found you." Her teeth clenched briefly shut. "Guess I'm the fool, ever trusting anything you said."




Blood and Iron Ch. 01



James head tipped slowly forward, as much acknowledgement as agreement. "Can't trust nobody, Alice. Every man's a liar. I ain't no different."

She snorted, frustrated and low. A quiet breath before her voice surged forth again, thick and sharp with righteous spite. "Well, that may be. But you ain't gettin' away with it, either. You got to pay for your lies, for what you done to ma and me." A fractional hesitation in her voice, swiftly pushed aside. "We ain't but two weeks from Anavio, if we travel quick. Once we get there, once you pay your respects...you're gettin' a bullet in the heart."

She spoke with a tone almost sneering, taunting, trying to provoke a response, a defense, anything but this even-tempered detachment. But James just stared up silent into the clear night sky, at complex constellations shining down on them. The empty skillet set aside in the sand. No words spoken, until at last Alice rose again scowling and tense to her feet, pulling another bundle from her saddlebags. "I ain't got a second bedroll," she warned, "So you best just make yourself comfortable in the sand. And if you're carryin' any notion of sneakin' off in the night, you better forget it. I got the ears of an injun, and I ain't half afraid to have your execution early if you give me reason. Understand?"

"Plain enough," he granted with a shrug, settling down upon the soil. Watching her still from the corner of his eye as she laid out the bedroll, took off her duster for use as a makeshift pillow. The shape of her body better visible beneath in blue jeans and a dust-stained yellow shirt, wiry and athletic but unmistakably feminine. The curve of her waist flaring gently outwards to slim, sculpted hips, her bosom modestly evident at her chest, flush and firm with the ripeness of youth. Hair dark again in the gloom of night, the color of bloody earth...it must have been cut once very short indeed, for even at just a few inches it was ragged and rumpled, a chaotic mess with her hat removed. And yet not unattractive, despite that. He couldn't quite put words to the allure of her appearance, a look bold and unconcerned, so unlike the painted ladies of the bar or the bordello. The beauty of function, like the black iron of a locomotive screaming past under steam, or the glittering steel of a cocked revolver, dangerous and enchanting. She made a sight, dress or not, long hair or not. If he weren't her father...

The thought snapped him back to reality, a silent seething inside as he rolled over onto his back, staring up into the uncaring skies. As if all the other shit he'd done weren't enough...her father. So hard to believe that this was real, that she'd tracked him down. That this skilled and reckless woman was the same smiling girl he'd once helped create, that he'd once tried to raise, a lifetime ago. He'd near forgotten. Tried to forget, to let drift away the memory of muddy green eyes and rosewood pigtails, to bury it all beneath cheap liquor and cigarettes. An endless string of poker games and flophouse bunks chained across the West, to cover up his great mistake. He'd never thought there was any danger to it greater than that of memory, that he'd ever have to worry about a vengeful hand reaching forth from the life he'd left behind. His daughter's hand. Maybe there was poetry in that.

The fire was guttering, a slow, cool breeze blowing across the plain. James laid his hands folded across his chest, settling deeper into the sand for warmth. Feeling suddenly cold and tired. How many years, how many regrets and poor decisions for it to come to this? Sleep was a luxury, a welcome escape. Maybe soon it'd be for good.

----

"Do you think he'll be back tomorrow?"

Night on the ranch, a small candle in the middle of the room providing the only illumination. Shadows long and fuzzy on the floor and walls, wavering like reeds in the wind. Her mother's face was pinched with poorly-hidden tension, hands busily engaged with darning one of her worn socks. She didn't look up as she spoke, but her voice carried a note of upset that echoed uncomfortably in Alice's ear. "How many times are yeh plannin' to ask me that, milis?"

"I 'unno." She shifted uneasily in the rough wooden chair, her knees pulled up to her chest. A little toy horse, roughly whittled, clutched in her hand like a protective charm; her thumb stroked minutely at its tiny head as she gazed into the shifting flame of the candle. "What do you think he's doing?"

Her mother exhaled slow and frustrated before responding. "I've got no more notion now than I did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that." Her tones tight and faintly remonstrative, tinged with a note of bitterness that left Alice silent for some time, holding the little wooden horse closer to her face as though it might whisper an answer to her worries. The wind outside blowing forceful, whistling around and partially through the simple, three-room house.

"Maybe he's caught some bad guys," Alice eventually offered up, "An' he's...he's got'm tied up to find out where their secret hideout is, you know, before he goes in to stop the leader." He'd done so before, she knew - the vision of it clear and shining in her mind. Her pa standing tall and heroic over his defeated foe, scaring him just enough so he could find out where the real threat was hiding. Even in her present state, the thought was enough to curve a little smile on her lips.

Her mother's, meanwhile, pursed disapprovingly. But she didn't outright contradict, just spoke flat and severe. "Maybe."

"So maybe another week then, if that's what he's doing," Alice pressed hopefully, wrapping her arms around her knees. "For him to get back here. Or just a few days, even."

"Alice..." Her mother spoke as warning, and then slipped into silence for long moments as he tongue worked to find the proper words. "Maybe you oughtn't worry so much about when papa's coming back." Her voice struggled to be soothing and remonstrating all at once.

"Why not?" It was not quite an honest question - suspicion lurked dark in her mind of what her mother meant, possibilities too terrible to face, to think about. Tightness in her throat, the clawing of a child's terror, quick and all-consuming.

"Well..." She hesitated cautiously. "It's a dangerous world out there, milis. And your papa...he's told you how he deals with dangerous men. There's a chance, you have to think, that maybe..." Her daughter's eyes on her were wide and staring, pleading for her not to say the word - she faltered, stumbled into euphemism. "Maybe he's not coming back."

So slight a sugar-coating did little to soften the idea - even at her tender age, Alice knew well enough the suggestion of the words, and fought desperately against them. "He ain't dead!" Her voice wavering around the sudden lump in her throat, refusing utterly the notion.

"Alice..." Quiet, the sock laying folded in her lap.

"He ain't!" Urgent insistence, as the rasp of emotion crowded in her voice, the heat of tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. "Ain't nobody that could kill pa! The things he done...twenty men together couldn't beat him!"

Her mother's hand touched wearily to her brow. "Alice, your pa ain't really..." Trailing off, as she looked at the tearful terror in the young girl's eyes, the red of misery on her cheeks. A breath. Then, gamely, "Well, maybe they couldn't. But listen, milis. It might be a real long time before he comes back, understand? He's probably out doing something real important, real big."

"Yeah," she agreed with a sniffle, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"So you're going to need t'be a big girl. Can't spend every minute worryin' where he is, when he's coming back." She stared seriously at Alice across the table. "We both got plenty chores to handle, especially now. Can't do'm right if we're cryin', can we?"

"I ain't cryin'," Alice protested feebly, swiftly bringing up her hands to wipe clear the wetness from her eyes. Trying to swallow the lump of rawness still aching in her throat.

"Course yeh ain't," her mother agreed softly. "Like your pa says, you're a strong girl. Strong enough to get by even if he's not around. Even if he's gone for a real long while. Right?"

Her chin still quivered, but she pressed her lips firmly together, her eyebrows dropping low and serious as she nodded. Sniffing deep, trying to regain her composure - just the lightest quaver as she asked, "But he could be back tomorrow." Her eyes quietly pleading in her mother's features. "Couldn't he?"

Slow to answer, looking back. But finally she nodded as well, trying vainly for a tone of mildness, of possibility. "Aye. He might."

"Yeah." Alice affirmed it to herself, almost whispering. Wanting so badly to believe it as she shut her eyes, laid her head forlornly down upon her knees. He had to come home. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon...soon he'd be there again, sweeping her up giddily into the air like she weighed nothing at all. Smiling at her with that little whiskery smile that always made her laugh. Telling her about his latest adventure, how he maybe saved somebody important from wild bandits...soon.

A scent tickled in her nose, rich and bitter, a cool breeze blowing on her skin. Her eyes fluttered slowly open to stare into the lightening blue of dawn, scattered through with wispy clouds of white. The dream, the memory hanging heavy in her consciousness...until a quiet clatter and scrape of metal sent alarm surging through her mind. She kipped up swiftly to her feet, snatching along the way her revolver from its resting place beside her - and found herself pointing it at James, stirring her small cooking pot above a rebuilt and crackling fire.

He glanced over dispassionately, seeming to take no notice of the weapon in her hand. "Mornin'."

Sleep still itched in her eyes, alongside a sudden flustered irritation at being caught off-guard. She fairly snarled back, "And what the hell d'you think you're doin'?" The gun still pointed in his direction, vague and threatening.

"Makin' coffee," he answered off-handedly. "Ain't far from ready, reckon just another minute or two...you got quite a little kitchen in this bag of yours."

A few moments more she glared, breathing roughly through her nose...until finally a self-conscious sense of absurdity grabbed hold of her, and she reluctantly dropped her gun into its holster. Stepped towards the fire, suspicion still sharp in her tone. "If you was up long enough to go rootin' around in my bag, how come you didn't just take off?"

"Well, now," a bit of dry humor took hold of his tongue. "With them injun ears of yours, I figured you could tell the difference between makin' coffee and tryin' to escape. Didn't want to risk gettin' a bullet in the back."

She snorted at that...but gave no other answer, embarassment pulsing warm at the back of her skull. Just settled gingerly instead down beside the fire to wait, as the thick, almost acrid scent of the ground beans filled the air. True to his word, it was scarcely a minute later that he was able to pour a serving of harsh black coffee into the wooden mug she kept for just that purpose, its insides stained dark from a multitude of prior mornings. Faint surprise, too, and an ambivalent touch of gratitude as he passed this first cup to her. "Here. Seein' how it's yours, I figure I oughtn't get the first crack."

"Thanks." She answered gruffly, blowing briefly on the still-scalding liquid before she dared take her first sip. Trying to keep herself from reacting to the bitterness of it, still conscious of his eyes. Almost successful, too. Just the slightest wince with that first taste - faint amusement tugged at the corner of her father's lips, but he said nothing. She didn't quite finish the cup before handing it back. "Enough for me. Go on'n have your fill. Even a prisoner deserves coffee, I reckon."

"Much obliged." He nodded casually, watching with quiet interest as she rose once more to her feet, pulling on her heavy boots over thick woolen socks that might be charitably described as 'unclean.' One eyebrow lifting curiously as she ambled over towards the edge of the camp, away from the road.

"I mean to practice my aim." She spoke the explanation curtly, after a moment taken to breathe in deep the cool air of early morning. "You try to run off while I'm distracted, and...well, I figure I made things clear enough." Behind the cup of coffee, a faint, sardonic smile twitched on his lips...he gestured back, an errant wave, but gave no other answer. Just looked on as she trod further off the trail and into the deeper brush, right hand at rest on the wooden handle of her revolver.

It was an old habit, at least when she had the bullets to spare. Her gaze roaming across the gently waving flora, searching for a good set of targets. Cactus was the best. Stayed mostly still, and it was plain to see how close you got. Flowering shrubs, when she felt ambitious. Wasn't easy, nicking a blossom clear from its branch, but when she succeeded, when she could watch the little tufts of red or white or yellow drift down to the earth...there was a sense of pride in it, a smirking satisfaction of accomplishment. Always had been. Before it was flowers, it was bottles, or old cans stuck on a fence at twenty paces. When she was just a little girl, playing with her father's gun...

The memory swam back to her, strong and inescapable, as her hand curved around the smoothly polished handle. It had been an older weapon. Old even then, roughly made of cheap iron, but maintained with care through the years. So heavy when she first held it, gripped carefully with both hands - her pa had had to help her keep it steady. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see it. Almost feel him there, crouched behind her, her back braced upon his chest as his larger hand encompassed hers. His breath warm on her ear as he spoke. "Now, you wanna take your time here, line up your shot real careful. That little notch above the barrel, you hold it so it goes right over the can."

She frowned then, a childish petulance in her voice. "But if I take my time, the bad guys'll get me." Pointing out the obvious.

Her father's gentle chuckle thrilled into her ears. "Got that right, little rose." A smile welling up from deep inside at the name - she loved it when he called her that. Said she was his favorite flower, her hair like the bloom of the prettiest rose he'd ever seen... "In a real shootout, you ain't got hardly any chance at all to line up your shots - got to do things on instinct. But right now, we're just learnin' the basics."

"But I wanna learn how to be a gunslinger for real." She nudged back against him, her tone carrying a bit of a pout.

"Ain't you eager," he laughed again, softly. "Don't you worry. I'm sure one day you'll be the fastest gun in the West. But you gotta start with the simple things first. Same way I learned, when I was just a little older than you." She made a quiet noise of grudging acceptance, and his voice dropped back to the firm tones of instruction. "So just line up them notches with the can. If your target's real far away, you might have to worry about the bullet fallin' a little on the way there...but for somethin' this close, that ain't a concern."

Alice instinctively closed one eye as she peered down the sights of the revolver, lifting it up and to the left until they sat wavering over the bent and rusted can propped up on the fence. "What now? Pull the trigger?" A little smile still tingling on her lips at the pleasant warmth of him there behind her. At being taught to shoot by her pa, the biggest hero in the whole United States, probably.

"Just about," he agreed with a tone faintly cautioning. "But you gotta make sure you ain't jerkin' the gun around as you do it, else you'll just shoot wild. That means keepin' your hand steady, pullin' with just that one finger there. When you're just startin' out, it also helps if-"

"James!" The cry cut sharp and disapproving through the moment's quiet; glancing over, Alice saw her mother standing just outside the door in a light blue dress, hands planted firmly on her hips, her emerald eyes blazing with an anger barely restrained. 

Behind her, he briefly sniffed, shook his head faintly dismissive. Quiet reassurance in her ear. "Gimmie a minute here, little rose, all right?" He was already pulling away when she murmured back agreement, gently taking the gun from her hands while rising to his feet. Leaving her with a silent sense of almost loneliness as he followed her mother into the house.

She didn't really try to eavesdrop. It wasn't hard to hear them through the drafty wooden door. Her mother's voice snapping archly, "What in the devil are you thinkin', puttin' a gun into her hands? She's just a child!"

"Hell, Molly," he returned mildly. "She's almost seven. I wasn't much older myself when my own pa taught me how to handle a gun."

"Oh, and you turned out just fine, did yeh?" She hissed back.

Quiet at that, an awkward silence that Alice didn't quite understand. Finally broken, as James spoke again, low and logical. "Anyhow, ain't like it's my idea. She's been askin' for weeks for me to teach her to shoot."

"Only because yeh keep fillin her precious head with those fool stories," she replied hotly. "It ain't right. She's just a little girl - she oughtn't be thinkin' so much about guns and shootouts and all this other nonsense. She'll grow up queer."

"Come on now, Molly," he answered, quietly cajoling. "That ain't reasonable. Hell, it'll be good for her. World's a dangerous place, and it ain't gonna be much softer for her just on account she's a woman. Plenty women..." His voice dropped lower, and Alice edged a few steps closer to the door, straining to hear. "I seen plenty women suffer when maybe they didn't have to, if they was carryin' iron of their own. If they knew how to use it. Don't want my little girl to be one of'm."

A brief silence ensued, just long enough for a vigorous shake of the head. Then her mother's voice returned. "That ain't the way a god-fearin' woman lives." A steely bite of accusation sounding in her tone. "And just 'cause I ain't given yeh a son, that's no reason to go tryin' to turn her into one. I ain't forgotten how you wanted a boy."

Outside, Alice felt her throat clutch tight, her heartbeat hasten with sudden, shocked concern. She'd never heard this before - he hadn't wanted a girl? Hadn't wanted her?

But James just laughed in response, careless and easy. Amused at the suggestion. "You're talkin' nonsense, Molly. Maybe when you was just with child, I was hopin' for a boy, sure. But that don't mean I ain't glad I got her." A moment's quiet, as his voice infinitesimally deepened, roughened. "I love that girl. Wouldn't trade her for nothin' on God's green earth, I promise you that." A relieved smile sweeping up from deep inside her at this answer, curling small and blissful on her lips as it washed clean her momentary worries. Satisfaction deep and warm inside.

Her mother continued, of course, high and argumentative. "Well, if yeh love her, then yeh oughtn't to put her in danger by stickin' a gun in her hand. She'll get herself hurt like that, or killed, one way or another."

James fired back, firmer. "Enough, Molly. She wants to learn, and I aim to teach her. And I ain't gonna hear no more argument about it." A snort, near laughter. "You'll thank me later, anyhow, when we got two hands to scare off rustlers 'stead of just one."

Footsteps started towards the door; Alice had to swiftly scurry back so that it didn't look like she'd been listening in. Glancing over her shoulder as the iron hinges squealed, as James stepped out into the golden light of mid-afternoon, his brown eyes sparkling cheerfully to catch on her there amidst the knee-high scrabble of weeds and switchgrass. A look proud and tender and affectionate. And as she caught his eye, the tingling tide of happiness that rose up inside her was so great she had to shyly look away, cast down her gaze to the dusty ground as the smile she felt in her heart stretched out upon her lips, teeth flashing brilliant in the sunlight.




Blood and Iron Ch. 02



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. © 2005 Warlord 

*

Moving slowly around the cabin, I carefully looked out every window. The perspective changed slightly, the view stayed the same. I was looking at greenery. Only what I should be looking out into was the aftermath of a blizzard. 

Jerking open the cabin door I stepped out onto the porch into a warm spring day. My senses all agreed – spring! Walking around the three sides of the cabin on the porch just confirmed the situation. Didn't explain, just confirmed.  

Fuck it!

Breakfast first. Back to the stove for three eggs, a mound of hash browns, a pile of sausage links, and hobo toast. I centered myself while I cooked, solely focused on the mechanics.

I sat at the dining room table, eating an unhurried meal, my over easy eggs slathered in Tabasco. Finally sipping my coffee, I ruminated on my next steps. 

Walking over to the gun cabinet, I decided that, in this case, "old friends were the best friends," screwing a 'can' to the muzzle of my Colt .45 auto, then strapping it into a tactical holster on my thigh. with my wakizashi on the other hip. Picking up my Streamlight flashlight along with the Robert's 'ring of keys' I walked off the porch into my unexpectedly transformed yard. Only the snowmobile and freight sleds gave any cue that the blizzard trek was only the night before.

I was looking at a loose row of outbuildings just beyond the Oak tree from the cabin. I decided to tackle them in order. Though in good repair the buildings had an air of long abandonment. They shared the building details with the cabin, being constructed with timbers, fieldstone, and slate roofs.

With my gun in my hand, I walked up to the first, and unlocked the full-width, hinged double doors, swinging them wide open to find a blacksmith shop with a forge, furnace, anvils, and extensive inventory of metal working tools. Carefully looking around, I found no evidence of any person. Leaving the double doors open, I moved down the line to the next.

This door opened into a machine shop filled with lathes, drill presses, milling machines, and other powered machines. Playing my flashlight around as I again looked for signs of 'human habitation'. I was shaking my head, wondering how Robert made this work without electricity. Then it dawned on me that belts connected the machines to a long shaft near the ceiling. I walked out side and behind the building to find a brick-set Horizontal Return Tubular Boiler connected to a Stationary Steam Engine whose pistons spun a hefty wheel attached by wide leather belt to a tiny pulley. driving that main shaft inside the building. 

I had to smile at Robert's (or somebody's) ingenuity as I moved to the next. Swinging open the door to the next building I found a general workshop with broad workbenches, and ample storage shelves filled with hand tools, hardware, and parts.

I moved on to the last building. This one was very different, built entirely of stone, with a heavy, iron-bound plank door, and tiny windows barred by thick iron lattices. Unlocking and swinging open the door, I confronted an iron gate. Unlocking that, I entered a jail, with a pair of ten-by-ten cells along the back wall each framed with heavy, close-set iron bars even across the roof, and thick stone walls. The front wall by the door was hung with dozens and dozens of Darby handcuffs, leg irons, and combination restraints including chains with a cuff every couple feet, all of them lightly oiled and hanging ready on wood pegs. 

Now I wasn't just wondering where or when I was but what I was?

Standing outside the jail holding my last key, I looked around, spotting an overgrown cluster of lilac bushes. Robert always talked about his love of lilacs…

Pressing into the center of the of the thicket, I found a modern steel door, set horizontally in a frame just inches above ground level. I'd found my last door. 





Blood and Iron Ch. 02



Little more than silence passed between them as they rode west again at a middling pace. James' weathered eyes glued to the horizon, sitting stiffly on his horse as his bones tugged down heavier than they had in what felt in quite a while indeed. Shame. Regret...it sliced slow and oily like a knife in the belly. Bad enough being half a man, a charity case. Bad enough knowing himself how he lived, off crooked cards and petty theft. He hadn't wanted her to find out, too. Hadn't wanted his only daughter to see how her pa was just a damned cripple, a useless wretch. Maybe it was inevitable, once she'd found him...but he'd had hopes of making it back to Anavio with the secret still intact, catching that bullet with her still unaware. Going to his grave with a shred of dignity. Maybe even with a trace of her respect. Now...better that he'd died in that dark and stinking room than this. Better for him to have succumbed to the infection, left her wondering, dreaming of the man he'd painted for her in a thousand bedtime tales, instead of finding the pathetic shell he had become.

She'd been the hardest part. The memory of her, when he was trying to forget the life he'd left behind. Friends were no concern; he didn't have a habit of trusting men enough to have any worthy of the name. Even his wife, sweet Molly O'Connor, hadn't been too difficult to push down into the unexamined past, beneath thought and reflection. But Alice...Alice was different. Her face had bubbled up, softly smiling in quiet moments, poisoning his mood with the dismal cast of loss. The high tones of her voice, the tinkle of laughter echoing in his ears like silver bells, reminding him of what he'd once had. What he'd thrown away. And the feeling of proud devotion that once had filled him as he gazed upon her features...without sustenance, it had withered to a cold and constant resignation, an icy distance that took up residence in his mind and flattened all experience with the weight of what had gone before.

He'd adapted, of course. Coped with circumstance as all men must, one way or another. When fortune favored him, that meant liquor enough to dull thought and feeling past the point of meaning - in leaner times, he could do little but endure, suffer through the dischordant pangs of emptiness that struck at his heart whenever he saw children playing in the dusty streets. Fight back the urge to return, just to see her face again. The decision to stay away had taken not a moment, but a lifetime - a dozen times he'd lingered in Oracle, the nearest town east of Anavio, struggling with himself over whether he ought to cross those last few miles. Each time, it was easier to stay away. As months became years, he could see more and more clearly the new life they surely had without him. Molly remarried to Billy Jack, the gold he'd saved up in his prospecting days covering any hard times at the ranch. Alice looking up to a new father, one without blood on his hands. Who could perhaps still throw her up into the air, as he once had. If James had come back, he'd have been an interloper, a cad, a low-down dog - there could be no happy reunion, after years of absence unexplained. Better just to stay away, leave them to their lives while he muddled through with his.

Or so it had seemed, at the time. More regrets to throw on the heap. Though he hardly saw what better path he could have traveled, maimed as he was. Perhaps best would simply have been to finish for himself what the fever hadn't. Take one last life, so she could never have tracked him down, never suffered the shattering of her illusions. He'd contemplated the idea anyway, time to time, in the dark and alone of those long desert nights...was hardly as though he was living for much. But he never scraped together the guts for it. Stayed yellow, when a better man might have ended things with honor. 

His thoughts spun darkly in these circles for hours as they trotted slowly across the plain. And when they were finally ripped away, it was only to exchange one shame for another. The fascination he'd felt before, appraising her on that first night. Guilty awareness of her body, of the beauty which had grown with her years...they had stopped at a small stream to refill their canteens. Hardly more than an idle glance in her direction as she briefly doffed her hat, poured a measure of water across her scalp, cooling in the heat of the midday sun - but his gaze stuck like a fly in honey, watching as the liquid trickled down along the finely sculpted angles of her face, dripping damply down the elegant curve of her neck, glittering beads clinging like little diamonds on her skin. Shining brilliant in the noontime bright, a sheen of wetness alluring, pearlescent. A glow like that of gold. And beneath, the body he was finding increasingly difficult to ignore. His gaze tracking down unbidden to the modest swell of her bosom, to the narrow waist and slim, athletic hips vaguely outlined by her coat.

It was an effort of will to tear his eyes away, to turn his back to the too-enchanting vision she posed. Shame burning hot at the back of his skull - she was his daughter, damn it. His little girl, even if he no longer deserved the connection. Even if she'd become a woman in the time that had passed, had manifest all the loveliness of her mother, and a little more besides...it wasn't right, for a father to notice such things.

Didn't help, either, that he'd been too long without a woman's company - if the saloon girls and whores with whom he sometimes dallied could even be called such. Graceless ladies in masks of painted white...he felt a fool after every visit, swindled and empty. But he always went again, on the rare occasions when he had the money to spare. After days, weeks, months out on the trail, it got so the sight of a shapely leg could just about turn a man's mind to mush. And he was already well into 'months.' Even if he wasn't the kind of man to leer at the preacher's wife in the middle of a sermon, it was hard not to notice Alice's womanly charms. Hard to keep his eye from lingering on the lithe, acrobatic flex of her waist as she lifted herself again atop her stallion, on strong thighs, gripped tight around its girth. Or, what was more, on the tight contradiction in her features as she glanced back at him, steely determination in the firmness of her jaw alongside the anxious flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

Strange to think about, the paradox in her manner. Fearless when she was a child, and fearless now - even after just these two days, he could not think that he'd ever seen so bold and daring a woman, so intriguing in her intensity. And yet still bearing so plainly the wounds of her youth. Injuries he'd dealt her, hardly hidden beneath the costumed armor of a careless swagger and a narrowed eye. A note of vulnerability that pulsed painful in his heart, made him wish he could still sweep her up into her arms. The way he'd used to, a lifetime earlier, for skinned knees and bumped elbows. When a hug could cure the world's ills.

Pointless. He knew it well enough, certainty dark and bitter in his gut. He was the last man who could comfort her, the last she would want to. It was all he could do instead to corral the unrighteous interest that stirred inside him. Kick his tired old mare forward, ahead, so he couldn't watch her. Hurry on with this last journey, the final leg of the mess he called a life. The best he could hope was that she'd take at least some solace in putting him under - that blood would heal the hurt she carried, that he saw sometimes in her eye.

---

Another fire crackled between them by the time night fell across the plain. Another pot of trail stew, bubbling brightly, red potatoes and more dried beef. James sat silent, impassive in the sand as Alice slowly stirred with the same wooden spoon as before, still half-encrusted with the previous night's meal. Scooping up an occasional taste, prodding at the potatoes to test their firmness. No words - but eyes met at times above the flames, a momentary touch of brown and dirty green, when James glanced up from the glowing coals to find her gaze already on his features. Both dodged away, wandering in the outer darkness or amongst the embers as though their meeting had been a chance occurrence, unwelcome...but it was not long before she once more stared through yellow tongues of fire at the face which waited opposite. The features, shadowy and worn, that inspired in her such aching hesitancy, longing so conflicted. In this deepening darkness, the streaks of grey in his hair and new wrinkles on his face were all but invisible, and the child's voice inside her echoed in an endless chorus, desperately rejoicing. It's him, it's him, it's finally him...

Stomach twisted up with nerves, she ate little of the finished stew; the deep skillet was still mostly full when she rose up to her feet, wandered round the fire to pass it along to her father. Sat down again there next to him, Indian-style, with just a foot or so distance between them - she almost fancied she could feel him, his presence, as he ate in silence. Scraping up just a few large spoonfuls before he, too, pushed the food aside, set it down still half-full in the earth between them to grow cold and unappetizing.

"Ain't you hungry?" The words emerged after a moment, a tone tightened almost into demand by the ambiguous frustration at her throat.

"Ain't you?" His response rumbled back with the faintest shadow of humor.

Her head shook quick and desultory; it was a few seconds more before the answer came. "Don't much feel like eatin', just now." 

It was true enough, though she could hardly say why. Just that her gut was twisted into knots. And that it was growing only worse as she sat there in the dark beside him, as the feeling of his company ran roughshod through her insides now that the shock of discovery was wearing off. Awareness of him searing in her mind like the touch of a brand, the past flowing again into the present. Memory. Standing there behind him on a dusky Sunday evening, after what felt like forever pleading for him to show her how he outshot the whole Statler gang by himself. Four cans arrayed on the fence, battered and holey now from her own practice; a little smile on his face, squinting into the setting sun as he glanced back over his shoulder at her. "Think I told ya, little rose, how the Statlers was some of the meanest, ugliest cusses I ever did lay eyes on."

She was nodding even as he gestured over at the cans, already transformed in her imagination into broad, scowling men with broken, craggy faces. The story familiar in her mind, one of her favorites. "Uh-huh! An' how you called'm out, told'm how you heard from even near across the country what kind'a wrong they did."

"'ts right." An affectionate grin briefly quirked his moustache upwards. "Dan Statler, the ringleader, he's the one shot'n killed a man just for sayin' he had on too small a hat. And it was too small, besides." Waiting a moment for her answering giggle before he continued. "They was real cocky, see, on account they'd killed three people tryin' to be sheriffs just in that one town. So when I said I'd take'm all on together, they wasn't scared a bit. Just laughed, agreed, said I'd come a long way just to get myself put into a pine box."

"But you showed them!" Alice crowed exuberantly, skipping already to the giddy delight of the story's conclusion.

"I would pretty quick," James agreed affectionately. "But right by then, I hadn't yet. Just got us all set up along the main road, four'a them and one'a me. Half the town out there watchin' from the sides - Statler had'm too scared to make a peep, but I could tell they was all hopin', prayin' that I'd succeed...even if most of'm didn't think I could." As he spoke, he turned to face the cans more fully, dropping into the stance of a gunslinger ready to draw. Legs apart, hand hovering above the weapon at his hip...

"Took the gang a good while to stop brayin' at each other and get ready," he continued, facing away. "Once they did, it was Dan't made the first move. Maybe the other three figured they was bein' polite, lettin' the boss have the shot - but they didn't take account who they was facin' down that day." His teeth glinted with a fairly theatrical smirk, voice lively with drama. "I ain't gonna deny, he was quick goin' for his gun...but I was quicker."

He moved then, swiftly snapping the black revolver from its holster, and Alice's features fairly glowed with excited admiration as four explosions swiftly split the evening's calm. One after another, firing quickly from the hip...she could almost see the bad men he fought falling down before him, clutching at their sides, defeated by the prowess of her father's hand. Destroyed like sinners before a vengeful god, her heart pattering rapid with pride and awe...until the last sounded, smoke beginning to drift away on the wind, and he replaced his weapon as he turned back to face her. Quiet again, just a low and worried mooing from the cattle on the other side of the house. "An' that was that. They was done."

"That's amazing, pa!" Enthusiasm sparkled gaily in her voice as she rushed across the short distance between them, burying her face in the rough fabric of his shirt. Her young arms up high, thrown around his waist, barely meeting on the side opposite. Hearing about his adventures always stirred such excitement in her heart, trembling and bright. Thinking about how lucky she was, how few other girls could hope to have so strong, so storied a father. There was only a gentle curiosity in her voice, blended with the warmer hum of adoration, as she lifted her head to look again at the fence. "What about that one?" Her eyes on the single can that remained standing after his volley, left untouched.

James' lip twitched up wryly, glancing over as well - it was a moment before he answered, before his loving little smile dropped back into place. "Well, ah, maybe I didn't mention before, little rose, but I didn't shoot all four of that gang. Last of'm, that man there," he gestured over at the can, "Looked hardly more'n seventeen...when all his fellows was fallin' down dead, him I shot just past his ear. Scared him so he dropped his gun down there in the dirt, so I didn't have to kill him, too." He nodded sagely, Alice listening with eyes wide and attentive. "Figured he ain't hardly more'n a boy, might make hisself a better man if'n I gave him a chance. And maybe carry word to other folk, how you can't make no life outta robbery and murder."

There was no question of belief, no thought of the oddity that this detail had gone unmentioned all the other times he'd told her of his run-in with the Statler gang. He was her pa - he could speak only truth. His words finding eager purchase in her mind, another lesson added to the many she'd learned from him - that there was room at times for mercy in the fight against evil men, that it did not always have to end with a bullet to the heart. The smile sitting small and fervent on her lips as she laid her head again upon his chest, as his hand descended to clasp gently at the back of her scalp, big fingers softly stroking in her hair. Inspiration circulating slowly through her, far-off dreams of adventure and of glory...but just now, she was happy here. A girl with her father. The way she ought to be, belonging warm and glowing in her soul.

Foolish. The dark reality crashing back around her, sitting beside him by the fire, tension hot upon her cheeks. Idiocy. It was a lifetime past, it didn't mean anything...but her lips moved all the same, shaping the words that sounded in her mind. "I wanted to be just like you."

His eyes stayed fixed to the fire, not turning to face her. A delay before he spoke, slow and carefully distant. "Did you, now." Scarcely even a question.

"When I was little," she quietly confirmed. "Or like what I thought you was, anyhow. All them stories you told...I'd dream how maybe it'd be me, one day. Stoppin' bank robbers, takin' down a corrupt sheriff, doin' special missions from the President hisself. Taking on a whole gang of outlaws with just my trusty six-shooter." Her tone twinging with frustration, with confession and faint humiliation.

"Better thing you didn't." A brief flash of brown as he glanced over, his voice rumbling back. Striving perhaps for comfort, reassurance, past its gravelly hardness. "You'd'a wound up dead, or worse. Things I told you..." Silence for a moment, his head shaking with the slow tempo of regret. "Only a fool'd go chargin' in outnumbered and expected. A fool, and soon enough, a corpse. Ain't how the real lawmen do things. A cowboy, now, a cowgirl...that's a fine thing to be."

Her turn at quiet, narrow jaw closed tight as she looked off into the distant darkness. When she spoke again, it was with a low quaver, a tremble of longing. "Was a while I thought maybe we'd stick together, work together, once I'd found you. Had the notion like I...like I'd be your deputy, helpin' you stop whatever bad folk we come across." She could feel her cheeks burning with the admission, the sound of it suddenly so childish to her ears - but she kept at it anyway, stubbornly, her voice croaking slightly with emotion and embarrassment. "Thought you'd teach me all the things I never got to learn, when you went away." 

Her words hung there in stillness for long moments as James looked down, gazing deeply into the fire's retreating embers. When he spoke, there was a new softness to his voice, an almost apologetic tenderness. "I wish that could'a been, Alice." And her pulse pounded with a rapid, almost painful suddenness as his left hand reached across the short distance between them, grasping gently at hers atop her thigh. Calloused fingers squeezing minutely at the side of her palm, contact cautiously reassuring, the dry warmth of his skin against hers...

"Pa, I..." Words slipped out unbidden, forced to the air by her heart's quick ascent into her throat. All her hardness abruptly washed away in this tide of feeling, dizzy and desperate, her hand twisting upward to grip tightly at his. He was here beside her. Trembling exultation and terror, the touch of his hand reaching effortless past half a lifetime's armor, spurring her heartbeat to an open gallop. He was there. If she could just lean over, rest her head upon his side, if she could feel his arms around her... "I just..."

"Shh, easy now." Chiding, comforting. Hardly much of a father, he knew - but even he could hear the anguish in her voice, feel it in her feverish hold upon his hand. Could see all too plainly how he was the cause of her suffering. Even if he had little to offer but clumsy words, he could not just sit there and let her stew in it. "Easy." A murmur, an echo of the time before, of drying childhood tears. Though he in fact had held her at such times, a notion that now carried a sparkle of untoward interest as it flitted through his mind. To be close to her. To feel her gentle curves against him...imagination briefly played with the idea, coarse and vulgar, before he sternly shut it down. Squeezed a little at her hand instead, his voice thick with gruff concern. "You're all right."

She shook her head, faint denial...but sat there silent all the same, her hand clasped tight at his, as though to prevent him from pulling away. Her fingertips exploring, stroking aimlessly down the long bones at the back of his hand. Her eyes staring down sightless in the space between her knees, struggling to swallow the lump of emotion conflicted at her throat. He'd left her. Abandoned her for nothing, for no reason at all. Worse than nothing - so he could steal, so he could kill, no better than the worst of the villains from the stories he'd once told. She hated him. She had to hate him, nothing else made sense...but in this moment, anger was a slippery thing. Torn from her grasp by the deeper tides of feeling which roiled inside her, nameless wishes tugging like a lasso at her stomach, warmth trickling slow from her hand in his. She could bathe in it, if she closed her eyes. Surrender to it, if she only knew how, or what it would mean.




Blood and Iron Ch. 02



James, beside, did not manage quite the same intensity - but in this quiet early night, he permitted himself a shadow of hope, reflecting on her half-formed words. And as something near a minute passed still silent, still with her thin fingers clutched strong but delicate around his hand, he ventured to speak first. "You mean that, Alice?" For the first time since their reunion, his voice carried a trace of hesitation, of uncertainty. "Callin' me 'pa?'"

It was perhaps the wrong thing to say. In a single movement, his hand was released from her grasp, shoved aside as she rose stiffly once more to her feet. Her stance tight, torn, trembling, looking still away from him. "Why?" Accusation, shot through with bitter self-reproach. Furious at herself for the slip, for the weakness it revealed. "You hopin' to get off the hook? Think I'll just...I'll just forget all you done, let you go?" Her head shook quick and vicious in the darkness. As though she were fool enough to forgive that easy, for just a held hand, a kind word. As though she'd let him be her father, after all she'd learned.

But she'd already said it. She could not take back the word once spoken - all she could do was deny its power. "Anyhow," her tone tried for ferocity, while James sat in stony silence. "It don't mean nothin'. Ain't no kind of credit to you, bein' my pa." She strove to mean it, to ignore the feeling that shivered down her spine as she again invoked the word. "Just a fact, like the way the sun rises."

"I s'ppose," he acceeded quietly. His voice once more flat and low, and her muscles tensed with the restlessness of upset. Wishing again the vain desire of a child, that things were not as they were. That he'd truly been all that she'd thought he was, that she could hope to live the dreams which had consumed her in the endless days and nights of searching. That she could have been his little girl. His little rose.

---

Sleep did not come easy for either of them that night, unspoken thoughts and emotions gnawing inside like termites at an old house. The bare ground, too, a poor bed for James' tired bones; the morning was well underway when he finally began to wake, roused slowly by the sun's increasing glare. Alice was already up, sitting on a rock by the side of the trail, her legs kinked back beneath her as she stared down the path that awaited them with an air of almost anxious irritation. Barely glancing backwards when he stepped up behind her, rolling away the stiffness of his neck with an uncomfortable crack.

"Got a problem?" He spoke without preamble, his voice a quarrel between the faint lilt of curiosity and the slurring of a yawn suppressed.

"What?" She looked back more solidly then, eyes narrow with distracted suspicion.

Shrugging amicably. "Got a look on your face like you're expectin' the devil hisself to show up on that road, hollerin' for us."

She snorted sharply - but he was gratified to see a moment's amusement quirk at her lips. "Ain't that." The words emerged slow, almost grudgingly. "Just thinkin' what a fool I been. This route," a quick jerk of the head pointed down the road they'd yet to travel, "Takes us through Las Cintas next."

A beat passed as James waited for her to elaborate. As she looked away, back down the road. Finally he responded, his tone gently probing. "Afraid I don't quite see how that makes you a fool."

"No," she sighed softly. "I don't reckon you would." Another lingering quiet before she continued, words measured and carefully chosen. "I ran into some trouble passin' through there, two years back. Ended up shootin' a few men."

Her gaze drifted back over to James as she said it, taking in his restrained surprise, one bushy eyebrow slightly lifted. Giving no more detail than this bare revelation, until at last he cautiously answered. "Well...what I seen, I figure if you shot'm, then they must'a done something to deserve it."

"Maybe." She shrugged listlessly, looking away again. Not meeting his eyes.

"Anyhow," he continued firmer, his voice reaching for the reassuring, "People got a shorter memory'n you might expect for that sort of thing. Less'n you shot the sheriff in plain view of the whole town, they probably already forgot."

"You think so?" Hope rang in her tones, high and melodic as the chime of golden bells.

"I surely do," he nodded solid and serious. Dry humor tugging at his lips. "I got some experience in this area, recall. Most folk, they're just happy it ain't them got put under. Glad to let it in the past, not make waves, so long as you don't go braggin' what people you killed."

"Well, I ain't inclined to that," she muttered quietly. Inhaling deeply before she rose to her feet, determination surging back into her expression, if now somewhat marred by unease. "We got plenty more miles to cross - best be on our way."

It was just a few more hours before they reached the outskirts of Las Cintas, a medium-small town along the border. James had passed through a few times himself, but never developed any lasting impression of the place - it was just one of the innumerable habitations that dotted the West, eking out an existence from the soil and catering graciously enough to whatever travelers happened through.

Today, though, it seemed in the midst of preparations for some great celebration. Gaily colored ribbons were tied to all available surfaces, mostly draped sullenly downward in the stillness of the air but occasionally fluttering as they were caught by a momentary breeze. Streets that would normally sit empty in the noonday sun instead bustled with activity, sweat dripping freely from men's faces as they wrestled furniture into position at the town center, and the air was thick with chatter - mostly Spanish, but bits of pidgin English sounded, too, here at a crossroads of culture.

At first, the tumult seemed a blessing for their unobtrusive passage - with all the other horses and burros hauling around carts and barrels, no one seemed to pay much attention to two more riders trotting quickly through. Until they passed near a well-dressed man with a neatly-waxed moustache observing the activity from the sidelines, whose idle glance in their direction turned into a double-take, and then a questioning call. "O'Connor?" Faint astonishment in his voice as he faced them directly, stepped closer. "Señorita O'Connor!"

Alice was not the sort to frighten. If James could say anything about her, he knew, he could say that. Fearless from childhood, unflinching even when she stood against two armed men. But the look that flashed across her face as this stranger approached with her name on his lips - it was near to panic, eyes darting fruitlessly for escape. Turning away so as not to see him, to retreat, to hide away. James could only turn his horse awkwardly around, move between her and the approaching figure before he could come too close. Try to defuse the situation before whatever she feared could come to pass. "Listen, Señor," he intoned quick, firm, somewhere between bargaining and demanding. "We ain't here to cause no trouble. We're just passin' through."

"Trouble?" Surprise again in the man's voice, coloring his mild Spanish accent. He was close enough now that James could see the cheer on his cheeks, the small and honest smile carried like a new gift. He hardly had the look of a man out for revenge. "Why would there be trouble?"

"I ain't..." James trailed off uncertainly, glancing over at Alice in perplexity. Pointlessly, as she still faced silently away, staring off at distant mountains. "Well, if you ain't worried about her makin' trouble, what do you want her for?"

"Why, to thank her!" The man chuckled brightly, lips parting to show teeth well-maintained and white. "To thank her properly, that is. She left so suddenly when last she was here, and with all that had happened, I..." His head shook, brief and dismissive. "But I forget myself, yes? My name is Javier, Javier Hernández. I own some of the ranching operations here, and in a few of the towns to the south. You, you are a traveling companion of the young lady?"

"Aye," James nodded slowly, cautiously. "I s'ppose you could say that..."

"And she has not yet told you of what she did here?" Amused wonderment flashed in his eyes, with another shake of the head. "Well, perhaps it is common enough for her as to be beneath mention. Myself, I tell the tale to most everyone who happens by...but come, I do not wish to speak like this, with you upon your horses." His gaze flickered between the pair, Alice still turned away. "You will stay a time, yes? Much of the town is busy, you can see, preparing for the festival, but I am certain I can still arrange some hospitality. Drinks, or food if you are hungry - whatever you like. A friend of the señorita is most assuredly a friend of mine."

"I reckon we could prob'ly stick around a spell," James agreed, carefully reserved. "Just got to check with the lady." An understanding nod from the man as he tugged at his reins, wheeling the horse around once more to pull up alongside Alice. His voice dropping low, neutral, observing the frustrated tightness of her jaw as she still failed to look at him. "I ain't got too much notion what the story here is, Alice, but the man seems nice enough. And to be frank, that drink sounds mighty fine right now." A pause. "What're you thinkin'?"

Her head shook swift and silent, as though to refuse, to deny everything. But when she spoke, it was with the sourness of grudging acceptance. "Fine. Fine, I gotta stock up on supplies again, anyhow."

"All right, then." Another beat, a moment's respectful hesitation. "You want to tell me what happened? Man's actin' like you saved his hide."

"Nothing happened." Ferocity surging high and tight in her voice, burning inexplicable in her gaze as she finally turned to look at him. "Nothin' worth mention. We oughta just..." Trailing off. No conclusion to the thought. Just anxiety, wound up inside her like a coiled spring as she dropped down off her horse, hiding again her eyes. James could only shrug, dismounting likewise to tie his reins to a nearby post. Watching for a few seconds as she stalked off to the general store they'd passed a short while earlier, before he turned again to the enthusiastic stranger with a half-hearted smile of greeting.

"You will be staying, then, I take it?" Javier quirked an eyebrow, glancing past the other man at Alice's retreating form. "The señorita, she is...?"

"She's got a bit of shopping to do. Be back soon enough, I'm sure." His expression tugged crookedly, hoping he was right. "And yeah, we'll be stayin'. Long enough for a drink, anyhow."

"Ah, splendid, splendid." His hands wrung effusively together, smile glinting brightly as he ushered James forward to one of the tables already set down in the square. "Let me see what I can do about that, yes? Antonio!" Javier's voice rose suddenly, looking back over his shoulder, calling out across the din - and in response, a little boy soon scampered up expectantly. Perhaps six or seven, dark-haired, his finely-tailored outfit filthy from playing around in the dirt. "¡Ay, usted es un desastre!" Chiding affectionate in the man's voice, addressing the child before turning his attentions back to James. "The owner of our little cantina serves a very fine tequila, if I were to recommend something, señor...?"

"Blake." James answered the unspoken question, glancing around the busy square. "And that sounds more than fine. Ain't gonna turn up my nose when another man's payin'."

The man nodded pleasantly in acknowledgement, gaze shifting once more with a trace of uncertainty to Alice in the distance. A moment's hesitant pause before he turned back to the child. "Antonio, por favor vaya a Ortega. Dile que necesito una botella de tequila y tres vasos, ¿de acuerdo?"

The boy was off like a shot, hardly pausing to intone an obedient "¡Sí, papá!" before kicking up clouds of dust on his way across the square. Javier watched him go for a long few moments; when he turned back to James, his smile was bittersweet. "My younger son." Words of explanation. "A fine boy. I wish that I had half his energy...but. Señor Blake." A thoughtful expression crossed into his features, drumming his fingers reflectively on the rough timber of the table. "I have heard that name before, have I not? Where..." And hardly had he glanced past James, again down the boulevard, than he snapped decisively. "Yes, of course! The man she was looking for! James Blake...so she finally found you, eh?"

"Could be." The smirk sat thin and sardonic on his lips, conscious of the complexity of their reunion...and uncertain of what this man's involvement was, what he knew. Instinctively averse to the notion of revealing anything important, even to so affable a stranger.

"Well," Javier's smile, by contrast, seemed quite open, honest. "You are either a lucky man or a very unlucky one, I would think, to be sought after by a woman such as she." Slight humor tugging at its corner. "Since you are still alive, I imagine it is the former."

"I reckon," James agreed distantly, reserved. Still thinking of his daughter's strange behavior, her panic and resistance at this man's approach. It made so little sense. He seemed altogether benign - clearly well-off, the trappings of wealth apparent in everything from the cut of his clothes to the refined and careful elocution of his speech. But welcoming, unlike most men of his station. Friendly. Perhaps a trifle fond of her, from the ease of his flattery...

A touch of alarm, of worry, thinking that. Men can be friendly in many ways, and not all of them are kind. "Mind if I ask," the sudden rise of his suspicion kept largely hidden from his voice, "Just what happened, with you and the little lady?"

If Javier thought him uncouth to so brusquely change the subject, he showed it with no more than a quirked eyebrow, settling smoothly back into his mild, indulgent smile. "Of course. It is nothing unsavory, I assure you. Something of a sad tale, in fact, for me. But..." He shrugged expansively. "Well. I will not bore you with the telling of how I came to think myself in need of bodyguards. Suffice it to say that, at times, one man's honest deal is another's unforgivable offense. When threats were made, I thought it best that I should have more protection than what my own hands could manage...three men, compañeros, were among those who answered the advertisement I placed. Two Americans, and one of my own countrymen. For all of them together, they offered a price hardly more than any of the others alone, five pesos a day. 'Plus expenses.' And they had a dangerous look, one that in my naïveté I thought would work to my benefit, to my security. Like a fool, I hired them."

His firm, dark moustache drooped downward, reproving as he shook his head. "They were beasts. Conniving, vile...I found soon enough that their idea of 'expenses' included visits to the cantina, to the brothel, which they made with a most revolting frequency. And they did not accept a refusal to pay. Within a week, their own threats began - against me, against my family. Little subtlety to them, saying that it was a dangerous world for men who lost their 'protection.'"

Quiet fell for a long few moments, Javier's eyes dropping down heavy to the rough wood of the table. "My elder son, Miguel, was seventeen when all this happened. Brash with the fires of youth - I'm certain you know how young men can be. He was furious with these creatures in our house, with me, that I was permitting it to continue. He said that if I did not get rid of them, he would have to do so himself." His expression low with sad solemnity. "I...did not take that promise as seriously as I might have. As I should have. I was distracted, you see, with my own attempts to call in someone more reliable than our local law, who by this time had already demonstrated their reluctance to involve themselves in 'matters of employment.'" The smile that drifted past his lips was wan and empty. "One night, Miguel took a shotgun and snuck into their rooms. I do not even know if he was hoping to kill them, or only to drive them off...either way, he did not succeed."

James maintained a respectful silence in the still that followed. Presently, Javier spoke again. "Understand, Señor Blake, that I am not a violent man. But after that, even I would have tried to kill those...monsters, and damned the consequences - if it were not for my wife, and for Antonio. I could not risk following my son, and leave the rest of my family to the tender mercies of those barbarians. I remained, instead, now as nearly a prisoner in my own home. Trying to find some way out of this trap, now that they no longer even permitted me to send letters." He snorted briefly, mild and decorous outrage. 

"But. It was perhaps a week later that a knock came at my door. A strange traveller indeed - a girl, dressed as a vaquero." A little smile as he said it, still faintly amazed. "She asks to see me. Says that, while passing through, she has heard whispers from the people of our town of the death of my son, of the...trouble I was having, with my men. All of this, mind, in plain sight and hearing of the one who was there in the room watching over me. There was little that I could say openly, but I tried to caution her away, not wanting to find the death of this young woman on my conscience. Hinting of the danger here, that the person of whom she spoke was right there with us. That she should leave, and swiftly. Instead...instead, once I had finished, she went up to the man, demanded in no uncertain terms that he gather his friends and depart."

Dark eyes sparkled with the recollection of quiet wonderment. "I thought she must be mad. This slip of a girl, fearless before a demon. She had a gun, of course, but I did not imagine she truly knew how to use it. And neither did he, I do not think - he just laughed, and moved to grab her."

"Didn't let herself get caught, did she?" James inquired, fascinated.

"No, indeed not." Javier shook his his head lightly. "She dodged back, and said...let me think, I wish to get this right. She said, 'If your next move ain't for the door, it better be for your gun.'" The smile on his lips sat somewhere between amusement and admiration. "Quite a statement, no? Were I him, I think that is the moment I would have begun to take her seriously. He, though, was less careful. Just snarled something one ought not say to a lady, and lunged for her again. This time, with even less success." A glitter of bloody satisfaction in his gaze, at the memory of injustice avenged. "Her hand was ready at her holster - she did not even bother to move away. Just drew, as swiftly as I have ever seen, fired...the man was dead by the time he hit the floor, a bullet through his heart. Surprise, the last expression he ever wore."

Silence held at this denoument, until Javier's eyes darted aside, a wide grin spreading on his lips. The story's tension draining swiftly away with the approach of a serving-girl in a colorful, ruffled dress, a bottle in one hand and a small stack of glasses in the other. "Ah, our drinks!" he exclaimed brightly, turning to take her burdens as she drew up close. "Gracias, Adelita. I had begun to think perhaps Antonio had become lost along the way!" His boistrous tone belied the words, and as the girl curtsied her farewell, he poured out a small measure of alcohol into each of the glasses, pushing one invitingly across to table to James, and another to the empty space beside him.

"Now," he swirled his own drink thoughtfully in his hand, as James downed half of his in a single go. "The gunshot, of course, attracted the attention of the other two men - I believe I told her as much, that they would surely be approaching soon." He took a drink himself then, a satisfied grimace flitting across his features at the strength of the alcohol. "Ahh...she placed herself cleverly against the wall, behind my wardrobe, out of sight of the door; when the others burst in, they did not see her. One of them knelt down to check on their companion, while the other kept his revolver trained on me, demanding to know what had happened, what I had done. Both facing away from her. I imagine that, in her place, I would have taken the opportunity to simply shoot them. But this young lady - she barked something first, caught their attention so that I was not threatened myself. Fired only once they had turned in her direction." 




Blood and Iron Ch. 02



Faint wonderment, shaking his head again. "The man demanding answers was first down. The other did not have his shotgun ready, having placed it on the ground to examine his friend; it was clutched only sideways in his hands as she pointed her own revolver at him, told him to drop it." Another slug of tequila. "I could see him hesitate. Unwisely - any half-competent gunfighter could fire before he could bring his weapon to bear, and it was plain to see by now that she was more than competent. But perhaps he thought himself exceptional. Perhaps he was driven into madness by the deaths of his fellows. Or perhaps he simply could not bear the thought of surrendering to a woman...he raised his gun, and the bullet came swiftly after. Another body on my carpet. The men who had taken so much from me were dead, and it was by the hand of this girl to whom I had promised nothing, whose help I had never even requested."

His gaze shifted, looking past James again as delight poured into his expression. "And who now returns! Welcome, please, sit!" He gestured to the empty spot with the waiting glass of tequila, rising respectfully to his feet while James glanced behind. No surprise at seeing Alice there, returned from her excursion, standing a trifle diffident at the outskirts of the square. A little grimace before she did as he suggested, settling down next to her father on the splintery wood - only once she was properly seated did Javier return to his own position, wearing a charming smile. "I was just telling your companion of your heroics on my behalf."

"That a fact," she muttered vague and unfriendly into her drink, already snatched up to her hand. Her eyes turned to the glass, hidden away from both men as she took a quick and heavy slug.

"It is, indeed." A slight uncertainty to his tone, his brow lifting with faintly injured surprise at the coldness of her response. But it was patched back to his prior amiability by the time he spoke again, glancing back at James. Continuing his story. "All this...it seemed something from a story one would tell a child. A tale that would be unbelievable, if told around the cantina. I offered her a reward for what she'd done, of course - but she refused, asking me only if I'd heard of a particular man. Of you, Señor Blake." His eyes solid on the other man, respectful and faintly curious. "I was unhappy to tell her that I had not. But I asked her to return to my villa in a few days, so that I might find some way to repay her."

He smiled wryly, eyes flickering back over to Alice still sitting tense and moody. "She never did. It seemed, from what I gathered later, that after asking around much of the town for you, she simply departed. And that, until now, was the first and last I ever saw of her. I almost wondered if she were truly real, if she had not been some guardian angel sent in my hour of need - though why my guardian angel should be asking after a stranger, I could not begin to say." Chuckling lightly then, with an air of finality that said the account was over.

"Well," James nodded slowly. "'ts quite a tale, Señor."

"It was quite a thing to live through as well, I assure you," he agreed dryly. "And it has been a point of shame for me that I have not in any way repaid the debt I owe the young lady. If nothing else," his gaze crossing back to her again, warm and hopeful, "I hope that you will remain for the festival. It is a silly thing, perhaps, merely an anniversary of the town's founding, but it is a pleasant tradition nonetheless. I would ensure that you - that the two of you - are treated as guests of honor. And it would be my pleasure as well to put you both up at my villa tonight...or longer, of course, if you should wish it."

Alice was shaking her head through a small and vigorous arc even before he finished speaking. "Mighty kind of you, Señor Hernández," her voice coming tight, with little of the gratitude the words implied, "But we got a place to be. Can't afford to stick around here too long."

"I understand," he nodded gamely. "I'm certain you are busy. More people to save, yes?" His lips faintly quirked with a resilient humor. "I do have, in that case, a small sum of American dollars from a deal in the States - if you would simply give me a few minutes, I can fetch it for you. I would not feel right, letting you leave here again empty-handed."

"No," she refused hardly an instant after he finished speaking, her features fixed in a mask of frustration, itching to escape. "Like I told you then, I didn't do it for no reward. I just..." Her gaze flickered over to James as she trailed off, and his questioning eyebrow only magnified her upset. She took stiffly to her feet, springing up with one hand held awkward at her side, the other clutching at her remaining tequila. "We got to go." Gulping down the drink in a single swallow, the burning of the liquid in her throat helping to distract her from that on her cheeks. No more farewell than this - just the loud report of the glass slammed back down upon the table. Then she spun round neatly on her heels and trod swiftly for the horses, leaving James to gesture faintly apologetic as he, too, pulled away, and scrambled after.

Alice only slowed her pace, settled the annoyingly cheerful jangle of her spurs, once she rounded the corner. Once she was no longer in sight of that too-thankful cattle merchant who couldn't keep his damned mouth shut, once she could no longer feel the eyes of those who'd been around for her attempt to play hero. Her idiocy, childishly imitating stories that had never been real...she hated herself for it. Still more, for the satisfaction she'd once taken from the affair, thinking she was following in her father's footsteps. 

Not that it helped, of course. Getting away. Now he knew the truth, the whole humiliating tale she'd tried to hide. He'd think her a fool, a child still playing make-believe in the dirt. And rightly so. She could hear him coming, feel him hurrying up behind as she drew near the horses, the sinews wound up tight inside her. His voice in her ear, firm and serious. "Alice-"

"I know, all right?" The response exploded out of her, sharp and strangled. Still facing away, her spine, her body stiff with a bitter blend of misery and anger. "It was a fool thing to do. I know. I coulda been killed, easy." She shut her eyes, permitting herself a moment's self-pity before continued. "Didn't even get nothin' for it. I shoulda just kept walkin', let the law or whoever take care of it, if they was gonna."

"Alice," he repeated close behind her. Quiet, earnest - a spark of lively gladness in his voice. "I'm proud of you."

She could not believe the words. "What?" It came out a whisper, spinning round to face him. Looking up with uncertain urgency into his eyes.

"Damned proud," he answered forcefully. A breathless shiver deep inside her, seeing his lips curved into that familiar bushy-moustached smile. Seeing the warmth that flowed now from his gaze, the affection soft in his sun-wrinkled features. Her heart beating faster, conscious of his nearness before her. Remembering the feeling of a father's love. "I fill your head with all them tall tales, stories about me savin' folk, settin' things right...and you turn around and do it all for real. What you done here..." He shook his head lightly - wondering, admiring. "I know I can't take hardly any credit for how you turned out. But all the same, I don't figure a man could ask a better legacy than to have a daughter like you." His eyes on her were gentle, strong. Her pa's eyes.

Pink lips parted, shocked and wordless, struggling to shape the great mass of emotion that rose up inside her, lodged aching in her throat at this affirmation. Thick with longing, with joy, with the anxious trembling of heartbreak long suppressed. The sight of his weathered features blurring before her as fervent feeling bloomed hot and tingling at her temples, pounded dizzy in her ears. The little girl inside, delighting in the approval which was so long denied her...it was forever ago, and he stood before her again, as tall and handsome and inspiring as he had ever been. The smell of the trail on him, sweat and dust, strong and enchanting. Her pulse pounding quick and deep as her lips formed words without a sound...

His smile tugged up wryly at her silence, a mild chuckle loosed from his throat. "Anyhow," he turned away to untie the reins of his horse. "Like you said, we got a place to be. Maybe it ain't gonna be so bad a thing, dyin'."

That was another feeling altogether, a jangling of protest through the moment's happier harmonies. Yes. She'd promised to kill him, to make him pay for what he'd done. To gun him down, just as she had those crooked bodyguards in the rancher's villa. He deserved it still, surely - none of his crimes undone by this moment passed between them. But just now...she could scarce imagine going through with it. The thought of it, of ending his life with a slug of lead, of the gun smoking in her hand afterward as he slumped to the cold earth, bled his last...it was a queasy tightness in the pit of her stomach, her fingers curling up with anguish unendurable.

"Wait." A murmur. He turned round, looking at her with a question in his gaze...she couldn't do this, couldn't aim for it. Not right now. Her cheeks faintly flushed, voice low and tentative in this reversal. "Maybe we ain't gotta head out just now. Maybe we can...take a day. See this festival of theirs."

Silence from James, one thick eyebrow slightly lifted. His eyes probed curiously at hers, gently, taking in the conflict that struggled in those pools of murky green. A few moments, a tiny nod, before he spoke. "Well, I ain't inclined to argue, if'n that fits your fancy." The question came quieter. "You all right?"

"Hell," her flush deepened as she tried to shake off the query. But even in this refusal, her voice was softer than it might have been, a day or two ago. "I'm holdin' you prisoner, remember? You ain't got to ask after me like I'm a child. Ain't been one a long time now."

"Can't say I agree." She took some relief as he turned around to retie his horse, reprieve from his eyes, and from the emotion that stirred powerful at her breast when they met hers. "Everyone's somebody's child. That don't go away just on account you get a little older." Humor pulling gently upward at the lines of his face, glancing back at her. "Thirteen years don't change which way the sun rises."

---

Javier proved happy to welcome them back once more, politely refraining from any questions as to what had prompted the change of heart. And before an hour had passed, the festival was begun - food piled high on wide stoneware platters, spiced ground beef worked into almost every dish. Those children who weren't running shrieking through the streets were gathered entranced around a puppet show; the older townsfolk chattering gaily with one another while in the background, a small band played norteña with greater enthusiasm than skill. As the man had promised, it was an altogether pleasant affair - disarmingly so, between the friendly smiles of passers-by and the humble jollity of the decorations. A day, a moment, when the normal dull suspicion of life on the frontier could fade away, and the brightness of humanity beneath shine forth.

Beyond a quick and awkward bow from Alice when Javier called her out in a speech at the start of the festivities, she and James stayed mostly on the sidelines of the afternoon's activities, content to feast upon the bottomless piles of food arrayed around the central tables, and to leisurely imbibe from the bottles which now lay scattered about like bread crumbs. And between the cheerful music and the warm fuzz of alcohol, the immediacy of anger, of worry and of guilt, seemed somehow to retreat. The weight of the past lighter on their shoulders, tongues loosened enough to speak of distant things - the catastrophe in Chicago, Grant's fight against the Klan in the still-resistant South. There was comfort here, in sitting close beside him. Near enough that their arms would sometimes brush together as they ate and drank, that even when she looked away she could feel his presence there at her side...and feel as well the quiet tingle that presence sparked. The slow, smoky burn down beneath her stomach, deep and urgent as the tides.

"Pa." She spoke the word slowly, letting it linger on her lips. Testing it. Tasting it. Feeling along her spine the power in the simple syllable, used again after so many years. The question that followed was almost an afterthought, an excuse. "Pass the bottle?"

He knew better this time than to comment on the address. But a certain quiet cheer still tugged at his expression as he obeyed, mixed with tolerant admonishment. "You best watch how much of this stuff you drink."

"Why?" Her mouth dropped into a moue, a playful pretending at offense. "You sayin' I can't hold my liquor?"

"Hell," he chuckled lightly. "Most everything else you're a wildcat, I figure you can prob'ly handle it better'n anyone else your size." A pause just long enough for her to smirk with satisfaction, before he looked pointedly downward at her, concluded, "'Course, that ain't sayin' much." Amusement in his eyes, pointing out her stature, and the slenderness of her youthful frame.

"Hmph." She snorted sharply, tried to glare back up at him - but the expression vanished as their gazes met, evaporated by the warmth in his steady brown eyes. A faint smile all that remained, and her tongue suddenly short of words, fled like crows before a rifle shot. Looking up at him, so close now before her. Fine furrows in his features, worn by time and feeling and the endless desert heat. Grey-streaked hair unkempt beneath his hat, at least as long as hers. The faint, familiar quirk of a subtle humor at the corner of his mouth...and a quickening of her heartbeat, staring at those sun-cracked lips. Color creeping onto her cheeks, as memory and imagination swirled in her mind.

Seconds passed like this, piled on to one another while eyes stayed locked in silence. It was James who eventually turned away, stiffly returning to look out across the table - and freeing Alice to scramble again for words, for purchase in the conversation which had escaped her. The bottle of tequila still clutched in her hand; she lifted it to her lips and took a large swig, not bothering with her glass. A bid for time, as the harsh liquid burned down her throat, warmed her belly. By the time her eyes stopped watering, she felt confident enough to speak. "Th' Hallaway Cattle Company don't have no regulations about employees drinkin' on the range, so long as they're fit to work." A bit of the theatrical in her voice, dramatic and firm. "There was gen'rally a bottle or two passed around the fire every night - I got plenty practice, holdin' my alcohol."

"That's one easygoin' bunch you work for." He laughed again, lightly, glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Seems risky enough just havin' a woman out there."

At once she felt the pleasant fuzz of comfort fall away, hackles rising as disappointment blended with a frustration too familiar. "Why's that?" An edge to her voice, sharp and faintly accusing.

"Oh, ain't cause you can't manage it," James swiftly explained, soothing a little the irritation in her gaze. "I got a feeling you can work them cows as good as any man. It's just, well..." He looked aside, downed another quick belt of his own drink. "Trifle indelicate, understand, but most of the cowboys I known, if they wasn't girl-crazy at the start of a drive, they certainly was at the end of one. If they'd had a woman workin' alongside'm...hell, I don't know what they'd've done."

"Ah," she acknowledged quietly. Slightly self-conscious now of how swiftly she had turned to bitterness, to offense. Feeling the weight of the chip on her shoulder, knowing how often she'd had to fight, threaten, bluster just to be taken even half-seriously... "Well, I can't say that ain't ever been a concern." She smiled, weakly, reaching back for the warm content she had inhabited just moments prior. "Seems like every year there's a new hand I gotta explain to how I ain't the entertainment." She snorted once, fiercely, before adding in a softer tone, "Been better the last couple years, though. The old-timers, the trail boss, they're used to me now. They help make things clear to the new folk so I ain't got to get too nasty. Plus..."

Hesitation for a moment, reaching backward to rub uncomfortably at the back of her scalp before she continued. "Well, seems a mite improved, too, since I decided to cut my hair short." A tinge of embarrassment touched to her cheeks, as though this were a shameful admission. Or at least a hypocritical one, after her so-strident earlier denial that she dressed like a man. "I figure maybe it's easier for the menfolk to keep their heads, if I look more like one of'm."

James laughed at that, low and amused, prompting a little frown. A question, faintly aggravated. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothin'." He lightly shook his head, still carrying on his lips the curl of humor. "Just...well, short hair or not, I don't reckon any man with blood in his veins could mistake you for bein' nothin' but a woman." And while she processed this, his gaze rose up over her shoulder, looking behind. A speculative tone, still touched with amusement. "Matter of fact, it looks like you've got an admirer right now."

Surprise. Alice turned swiftly around to see what he was talking about - a young man, perhaps twenty years, standing awkwardly a few yards away against the wall of the blacksmith's shop. Skin like mocha, dark of hair, wearing the inexpensive finery of a hardscrabble family; he'd clearly been staring in her direction, but his gaze dodged nervously away as she faced him. Only gradually did it return, with an uncertain sort of smile.

"Somethin' you need, partner?" If her tone was not particularly inviting, at least it was not especially fearsome, either. A commanding kind of inquiry, firm and assured now in the relative ease of dealing with a stranger.

"Sí. Yes, ah..." Enough, at least, to bring him closer. The youth stepped up to their table with confidence visibly teetering, his gaze on Alice but avoiding her eyes. His expression fixed with a slightly apprehensive smile as he spoke in halting, thickly-accented English. "Hello. I am sorry, I did not want to break your talking. I - my name is Diego. I have seen you - when you were here, before, we talked. A little. And after, Señor Hernández told me of what happened, what you have done. I wanted to say that...it is nice, to see you now. That you..." Frustration touched to his eyes, trying to remember the proper words. "That you are looking nice. It is good that you are here today, with-"

"Whoa, hang on now," she interrupted, not unkindly, before he could struggle too much further. "You ain't got to tell me no history. Just get to the point. What can I do for you?"

"Ah." One could almost see him screwing together his courage. "Yes. I have thought that - that maybe you would want to dance?" His hand gestured swiftly over to the floor of packed dirt, where couples twirled and skipped to the music, and his smile tugged up ever so briefly into a hopeful grin.

There was hardly a pause before a dismissive snort made her answer clear. The steely words that followed only driving home the point. "I look like the dancin' type, do I?" A slight, scornful shake of her head, as his smile faltered. "You best find yourself some other girl, compadre."

"I am sorry." Disappointment in his voice, injured and somewhat taken aback. A new heaviness of upset upon his brow as he moved to withdraw, giving her a stiff little bow of apology. "I did not mean offense." Her lip just curled with irritation, watching him walk back uncomfortably towards one of the larger clusters of people, hiding himself away in the crowds.




Blood and Iron Ch. 03



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. © 2005 Warlord.

*

As I moved into the forest with its dawn shadows, I was comforted that the sun was at least operating in a familiar predictable pattern, rising in the East, setting in the West while the compass needle wanted to orient North with the same cardinal points I was used to. Though it seemed less about magnetic north and more about true north, so perhaps a bit of magic was helping the direction-finding process. 

I was following the toe dragging trail of a large buck deer. It picked easy passages avoiding the swamps and thickets as it sauntered along. It stayed away from the road, except on two occasions, when it moved to the road verge to observe some activity. 

Both times, the buck had stood watching an ambush site along the road. I slowly and carefully cast back and forth across the road, as I surveyed each position. The myriad tracks, cigarette butts, and tiny mounds of tobacco from emptying their pipes behind rocks and downed timbers showed where men had waited impatiently. In one place a log was at ready with ropes tied to it for men to drag into the road, halting the traffic in their crude killing zone.

Taking out my map and stretching and manipulating it had a large-scale representation of each ambush site where I drew notes and diagrams on the map. After that I was less about sightseeing and more vigilant to avoid falling into a surprise attack of my own. From then on the crossbow was in my hands as I ghosted along that game trail and across several small streams. 

I started with the ringed broad head in the crossbow hoping that any potential assailant would be wearing leather armor or light mail, both easily breached with a greater wounding potential from that broad head.

By noon I still had not reached the inn. I eased into a shady spot with lush grass and just sat resting against a tree with my pack beside me while I drank water from my canteen chewing ruminatively on an energy bar. Briefly I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds and rhythms of the woods, hoping to hear a discordant note before stepping into a trap. 

Checking my pocket watch, I roused myself, throwing on my pack while again grabbing my crossbow. I stood for a moment listening, then moved out along the game trail, still headed south. I was consulting the map more frequently as I approached the inn. 

Finally, after a rest stop to tie my sheepskin vest to the pack in the afternoon's warmth, I was about a quarter mile from the inn. Moving to the road's margin, I placed the pack beside me, then sat down cross-legged to watch the inn, using my telescope to look it over carefully before I stepped out on the road.

The telescope was a beautiful multi-section brass instrument, with leather covering and leather caps at both ends. An extended leather hood prevented reflection from the glass disclosing my position.

I saw a fortified two-story building, with a stockade wall on one side surrounding a yard, probably the stable area. A low stone wall on this side seemed to be designed to keep back the woods. Fortification surrounded the inn's roof, and I saw heads peering through its loopholes. Two armed men sat on the porch looking up and down the road. 

After long careful study, then easing back into the woods, putting the telescope away, I took the bolt off my crossbow, lashing the crossbow on my pack. I moved back along the trail until I was around a small bend. Out of sight of watchers of the inn I stepped on the roadway approaching the inn walking confidently down its center. 

There was no hue and cry. I walked up to the porch greeting the two sentries. The larger, with plate armor and a halberd staff, welcomed me saying in a loud friendly voice, "Greetings, welcome to The Inn in the woods. I am Trevor, captain of the guards. Come in; join us; be welcome." 

I nodded, smiling, saying more softly, "Hello and thank you. I am Brock, a hungry, tired traveler."

I shrugged off my pack while Trevor responded by ringing a small bell on the main door's lintel. The door opened immediately and two lovely young ladies spilled out onto the porch. The blonde hastily grabbed my hand while the brunette reached for my pack. The two of them pulled me through the door, into the common room.

The common room was cavernous, with high beam ceilings. Three stone fireplaces for heat and light were along the outside wall. Oil lamps with glass chimneys at intervals along the walls, and hanging by long chains from the ceiling, gave a soft yellow glow to the room. Long wooden tables with benches filled the floor space, with a bar spanning the full length of the room. 

On this end of the bar, it turned six feet to meet the wall, and this alcove held the chalkboard with the prices and service offered. A fat, jovial, bald-headed man was waddling swiftly toward us, calling out a greeting. I was calmly studying the chalkboard while I waited, when I suddenly realized the two young ladies were kneeling next to me. Before I could react, the innkeeper reached over the bar to grasp my hand saying loudly:

"Welcome to my inn. I am Luther, innkeeper. These are two of my slaves, Cori and Ria. How may we serve you today?"

I saw that lodging was one or three "c" with food another two "c" and a bath one "c" and "companionship" was two "c" I made an assumption the lower case "c" meant coppers. I decided on food and bath with my room. I dug into my pouch and found my coppers placing six in a neat stack in front of Luther saying:

"Thank you, Luther. My name is Brock. I'd like a room, food and a bath, please."

Luther smiled happily, then he frowned, saying, "Brock, gentle sir, this is too much money. A private room is three coppers while sleeping all together on straw in the big space next to the stable is but one copper. Both include food here in the hall, while the private room includes a bath, and use of one of my house slaves during your stay."

I must have looked confused, because Luther continued filling the silence with his carrying voice. "There is little traffic through our forest with recent events. The inn is almost empty. I am somewhat surprised you chanced it. Still, we serve a meal, six until eight, for everyone in the Inn."

Then Luther looked down at the two kneeling girls, asking, "Yes, Cori what is it?"

The blonde quickly answered, while pointing at the pack I was still holding by the strap. "Master, Brock is a hunter."

The brunette, Ria turned my pack slightly so Luther could see the pair of Darby handcuffs hanging on the outside. Luther clapped his hands happily as he exclaimed, "Oh, excellent. A hunter. No wonder you have no fear of the forest denizens two or four legged. I'm so very glad you're here Brock sir. We have a selection of the papers you need posted by the stable entrance, please have Cori or Ria show you at your convenience, good sir. Brock if you could sign our book first please."

I was more than a little confused by the reaction to the cuffs, but pleased by the prices. At this rate, my money would go far even if I didn't make more right away. Apparently I already had a 'trade' in this world. Hunter. Whatever that exactly entailed we'd have to find out. From Luther's remarks, the two ambush sites I found must be active. I leaned forward, signing the Inn's registration book, as I pulled myself back into the conversation, saying calmly, "Luther, take the coppers. I pay for good service. For now I ask a small favor please. Is it possible that I could be fed? I'm quite hungry after my trek." 

Now Luther went into his host innkeeper role as he ordered, "Cori, show Brock to his room. The large one in front, please. Ria, make up a plate for him with a pitcher of ale, please."

Then, to me; "Would it be acceptable to serve you in your room?"

I nodded, as Cori made a grab for the pack strap. She gently wrested the pack away from me, leading me to the far end of the great room, then up the broad timber stairs and along the hallway toward the front of the inn. 

She threw open the door to my room. It was an airy, spacious room, well lighted by tall narrow windows with its own fireplace. A large bed, couch, and a table with chairs furnished the room. Cori carefully set my pack on one of the chairs as she explained, "This is our nicest room, but it is far from the toilet and bathing facilities. However, you should have no problems. The Inn is empty of guests, save you. Unless someone else dares to travel the road, you will be our only one."

I started to remove my armor, with Cori rushing to lend a hand. With her giggling assistance, I was soon sitting in the couch in just my buckskin pants. Cori was hanging my clothing and mail; sword and armor were stacked, while other weapons went on shelves. She poured me a tall glass of water from an icy pitcher, while I relaxed. 

Cori smiled happily as she knelt on the floor by my feet. Her thighs were widespread as she settled her butt back on her heels. I looked at her more carefully now. She was a perky blonde, dressed in a shapeless white shift made of thick cotton, the hem past her knees with leather sandals. Her only ornament was a stout leather collar around her neck. 

Finally I roused myself to ask gently, "Cori, please tell about the troubles on the road here in the great woods."

She nodded more somber now as she answered slowly, "Yes, sir Brock. We don't know exactly when it started the woods have always been a dangerous place. Slowly it became obvious that something was very wrong. The depredations began choking the commerce of this whole area. Most of those robbed were killed out of hand to be found later, but enough escaped to tell us of this group of robbers who lay in ambush along the road robbing, raping and killing any travelers who fell in their clutches. Only large groups of armed men traveling in daylight are immune from attack."

She looked at me with a smile, saying, "That is why your arrival was such a shock. To just walk alone through the woods..." 

Shaking her head she continued, "...You must be a great hunter, indeed."

I smiled as I spoke still softly. "Just lucky, more likely. How many men are in the robber band, Cori?"

She thought for a bit as she answered slowly, "There are many wild theories, but Ria and I are convinced, after listening to many accounts, that there are less then a dozen; perhaps a few as six."

I closed my eyes, picturing the two ambush sites. I mentally counted positions, boot prints, cigarette butts, and pipe ashes. Finally, I nodded as I opened my eyes. Just then, a soft rap on the door interrupted. Cori jumped to her feet as she quickly moved to open the door. 

Ria entered, carrying a large tray filled with food. She was dressed similar to Cori, a long shapeless heavy cotton shift, sandals, and that leather collar. While it was hard to judge their shape, both had very pretty faces. 

They set to work, putting my meal on the room's table, while Ria served me a chilled mug filled with amber liquid saying gaily, "Luther told me to bring you our Birch Mead instead of Ale. I hope that's to your liking, Brock sir."

Yes that was just fine. Nodding smiling to myself I rose to look over the repast. Thick slices of bread enclosed tall stacks of beef with plates filled with deep fried wedges of potatoes and sliced fruit. Sitting down at the table, I began to eat with gusto. Cori and Ria sat beside me, helping to serve me. Finally I was stuffed. Staggering back to the couch, I collapsed. 

Ria sat on one side with more mead while Cori sat on the other with coffee. When I was comfortable, Ria handed me a nine by twelve leather dispatch case filled with heavy weight papers. I pulled them out to find what I would call 'wanted posters' or 'circulars' as they were known in the old west. 

Ria informed me that these were "papers" and posted across the several kingdoms. An efficient mail system girdled these kingdoms with the kings' post arriving at least each week at these many locations bringing new 'papers' as well as canceling old ones. 

I sipped my mead as I flipped through the stack of papers. They seemed to be of three types: Animals to be killed, criminals to be killed or captured, or runaway slaves and indentured servants to be returned. 

The criminals' papers typically were without a portrait sometimes having a fairly detailed description. A good quality drawing showed the animals to be dispatched. The runaways had what could only be described as a photo. I pointed to one asking:

"Is this illustration really this fugitive?"

Cori answered, "Yes, Brock sir. Every slaver hires a wizard before the sale, who makes a copy of every slaves or indentured servants face and body for just such a purpose." The rewards offered varied greatly. A rogue wolf to be killed might yield five hundred coppers. A criminal wanted for several murders might bring a silver coin, dead or alive. A slave or servant on the run might bring a silver coin if captured alive, but only one hundred coppers if dead.

Two papers from these very woods had my immediate interest. One showed a saber-toothed cat with a bounty of a single gold coin for killing him. The other was for the highwaymen, offering a gold coin reward for each one brought in dead or alive with a bonus of 12 gold coins for the gang's destruction.

CONTINUED

In Chapter Four



Blood and Iron Ch. 03



Breakfast came an hour later, eggs and ground beef seasoned in the Mexican style. Five people seated at a long dining table of some dark, expensive wood - only one unfamiliar, a thin woman of middling years, well-dressed and well-preserved, who Javier was quick to introduce as his wife. Antonio, the young boy briefly seen the previous night, sat beside her, tearing through his food and largely ignoring the small talk that fluttered lightly round the table. Alice opposite her father at the middle of the table, a trace smile curved upon her lips, self-conscious but unwilling to be quashed. A pleasant warmth inside of her this morning, a buoyant cheer - the past evening swam slow and delightful in her memory, and she carried still the spark of happiness finally rediscovered.

At least, so it was at the meal's beginning. She could not fail to notice, though, how James refused to meet her gaze across the table, how he sat grim and silent through Javier's effusive chatter, and her cheer was swiftly dampened to a quiet worry. Wondering what had gone wrong. She had felt from him such tenderness in the past night, such regard, such...love. A shiver down her spine, just to think the word, but it was true - an echo of fuzzily-remembered childhood bliss, of heaven in her father's arms. When a bushy smile or an affectionate tousle of her hair could make her feel so cherished, so complete. That was the feeling that had sent her out searching, that had ached in her soul almost longer than she could bear. To taste of it again had been a dizzy delight, like rich food to a man half-starved. If he had but treated her such when first she found him, she might well have forgiven him the misery and the pain and the lies. Forgotten it all, just to have her father back.

But here he was, acting again the sullen stranger, his eyes cold and flat and tired when she tried to catch them. As though all their inching towards accord were undone in a single night, and frustration flashed hot inside her heart, torn between anger at him for acting this way and a fainter apprehension of why it should be.

"Do you know, señorita," Javier's faintly melodic voice pulled her attention reluctantly back to the head of the table, where he stabbed thoughtfully at a chunk of egg. "It occurs to me that I might still be well-served if I were to have a permanent guard here, for myself and for the villa. One that I could trust, of course." A thin smile at that, humorless acknowledgement of what had gone before. "I do not imagine that you would be interested in a job?"

"I got one already, matter of fact." Whatever pride would normally have gone into that pronouncement was lost to her distraction, muttering brief and distant. "Drivin' cattle."

"Have you?" A breath of admiring laughter, as his brow lifted high. "Marvelous! I suppose I ought not to be surprised...you are a most unusual young woman." Beside him, his wife let show a disapproving little frown at his exuberance, a glance at Alice pointed and narrow with warning. "Still, that is seasonal work, demanding and unpleasant. There are better options...you would surely find it more leisured here. Despite the circumstances of our first meeting, I assure you that I am not often concerned for my safety - it is largely just for peace of mind that I should like to have you around." A trace of a smirk tugged at his expression, sparkled in his eye. "You would be well-paid for your services, of course."

Her answer came first as a dismissive shrug, tones flat and apathetic. "'sa generous offer, señor, but I don't rightly-"

"Ah!" He interrupted her with a sudden exclamation, refusing her response. "Please, you have no need to answer now. Give the matter some thought - I know you have things to do, your business with Señor Blake. If you should find the offer attractive..."

He continued like this, chattering on with smooth refinement, but Alice no longer heard him - her lips parting with a sudden, shocked chagrin as she was belatedly struck with the obvious. Her gaze darting back over to her father, staring darkly into his meal. Of course. Her 'business' - how could she wonder why he would be cold, distant, when she still held over him a threat of death? What tenderness did she expect, of a man for his executioner?

He had wronged her. The years reminded again, sharp and vicious, the hardness of the woman she'd had to be. Not just her; her mother, too, lying now in that cheap pine box beneath the earth. He'd disappeared without a word, without a sign, leaving them just to worry and to struggle through alone. He'd killed honest men himself, and never paid the price. He'd told her those damnable stories, tales she'd thought were true...he deserved his fate, no less than death, no better. Hers was just the hand of justice, reaching those the law had missed. For his crimes, for what he'd done...

But this vengeful voice was not so loud as it have been in days before. Dissent quavered in her soul, rebellion, as her heart whispered mercy. The child's plea, urgent and sincere. He was her father. Her pa, the man for whom she'd spent a seeming lifetime waiting, praying, searching...a silent, senseless hope inside that somehow when she found him everything would be back the way it was, that all the years would fall away like autumn leaves, and she would be again a little girl swept up in his arms. Madness...and more fool still, how much of her helpless anger and frustration were born from the dashing of that dream, blaming him for the permanence of time and action.

"Listen..." The word was a slow murmur on her lips as she tried to smile, tentative and wry. Self-conscious apology simmering in her features. He'd hurt her, true. Abandoned her, a wound so great her life had warped around it like a long and jagged scar. But by that same token, there was no one in the world as central, as important to her as he. No one else whose presence had ever made her feel the way his had the past night, ringing with the echo of childhood bliss - and crackling as well with the burn of nameless wants. The memory of his hand, warm upon her side...her gut twisted, thinking of it cold and still in death.

"Listen, James." Catching his attention, his gaze turning up reluctantly to hers. His jaw tight and unfriendly before her faintly rueful eyes. "Maybe we ain't got to do that...that business, after all." A moment's staring silence without a flicker of response, his expression still flat and dour. As though he didn't understand her through the euphemism forced by their audience. She tried again. "You know, maybe just stick around here a spell. Forget them things we talked about before." A whisper of longing crept into her tone, of wishes only half-conceived. "Maybe try to start over. Find a way to set things up like-"

"You a liar, Alice?"

The interruption came quick and cutting, his gravelly voice now barbed with bitter spite and scorn. And hardly room for anything but stunned surprise in her response, just the slightest extra tinge of injury beginning to appear. "What?"

"I asked if you was a liar." He growled back, the sound of it grinding like a whetstone at a blade. His mouth pulled to a venomous frown, glaring at her across the table. Their audience watching in shocked discomfort - even Antonio looked up, hearing the tone if not the meaning of his words. "Plain enough it ain't no skin off my nose if you are, of course. But you said pretty damn clear where we was headed, an' why - seein' how high and mighty you been about talkin' truth, I'm mighty curious to know if you practice what you preach."

"But that ain't..." She protested vaguely, a slight warble of agitation in her voice. Her tones of still surprise mingling now with the rawness of upset, hurt and frustrated. "It ain't lyin' just to ask, to offer if you want to...to do somethin' different. I thought we-"

"Everybody's got a pretty reason why their lies don't count," James cut her off again, short and stinging. "But the truth is real simple. You do what you say you're gonna. Otherwise, your word ain't worth a hill of beans; you're just makin' up stories."

This struck home - her jaw clamped briefly shut as fury flooded redly through her nerves, her dirty green eyes glittering with sudden fire. The gall, the injustice of this accusation, coming from him... "You got some damn nerve," she snarled back, low and savage, heedless now of the eyes and ears of their hosts. "I ain't never lied, hear? Leastwise, not about nothin' important. You're the one't made up stories, one that's lied and cheat and stole...god-damned murderer, and you figure you can condescend at me about actin' right?" The breath hissed through her nose, shallow with outrage. "I ain't got to justify nothin' to you - you're lucky I ain't put a bullet in you soon's I found out the truth."

"Well." Abruptly, all the mocking was gone from his voice, the burn of scorn extinguished - he spoke to her again from a thousand miles away, slow and tired. Just the slightest edge fo emphasis to his words. "Then I reckon we're headed to Anavio for that business, after all."

"You're damned right we are," she spat back, the blaze of her own temper not so readily quelled. Rising explosively from her seat, she finally acknowledged their audience with a swift glance over to Javier, who looked back at her with a silent, discomfited frown. "Right sorry to cut this short, señor, but we got a place to be." The words coming quick from a tongue curled and sour. Muscles stiff with this sudden indignation, sweeping clear the quiet joy of minutes prior. 

He gestured forgiveness, vague and uncertain, and her attention spun back to face her father, slumped heavy in his chair. His gaze once more turned away. "Get up." A snarl at her lips, regarding him, a clawing tightness of violence and anger at the top of her throat. His profile etched into her consciousness, the lines of his face too familiar, too thick with memory. Aching with devotion and despair, with hope and hate. All shot through with the bilious poison of self-recrimination - how great a fool she was to think he'd made her happy, to think there was any other way than this. He was heartless, cruel. A beast, a motherless bastard, as bad as any of the men in those fanciful tales he'd told so long ago...and deserving of the same fate. "Move." Her eyes on him narrow as he, too, rose slowly to his feet. "I ain't inclined to more delay."

---

The trail stretched out once more before them, long and hot and dry, marginal cropland swiftly giving way to chaparral. Thin, scratchy bushes and weeds growing on either side of the path with leaves of pale green and bodies white as bone, the living scarcely distinguishable from those already dead and dried. The air was still around them, almost silent - disturbed only by the steady patter of horseshoes on gritty earth, and the occasional skittering of a lizard frightened by their passage.

They didn't speak. Not now, not after that morning; there seemed nothing now to say, and no detente in which to say it. Alice rode behind again, hand sitting near her gun, watching him. Waiting for the bolt of escape that never came. Trying to hold on to the morning's anger through the long plodding of time and distance, telling herself how she loathed him, how his death would be a triumph. A capstone to all her years of wandering, of searching - his grave could mark them truly at an end, and she would be free. Free to...

The thought hung there empty, without conclusion. There was nothing. She could think of nothing, no other goal or purpose that might drive her once he was gone, no other dream to pursue once this one was buried in the dusty earth. The afterward...she'd thought about it from time to time, those naïve dreams of standing at his side as they wrote new tales of daring and heroics. Facing down a band of cutthroats with her father at her back, or she at his. And guiltier fancies, of being with him in the times between, the vague and anxious tingle of hands, of fingers, of bodies touched in darkness...always with him there, alive, beside her. She had never countenanced the opposite, had refused to consider that she might find him dead, despite the long silence and her mother's oft-unsubtle suggestions that he must be just that. There were no plans for it, no contingencies. Certainly none for when she would stand above his cooling body in the Anavio boneyard, revolver smoking in her hand as the earth stained crimson with his blood...

It was hard to breathe. A frantic tightness at her throat, her stomach twisted aching into knots. She couldn't. Whatever harsh demands the flame of fury inside her made, whatever dire threats it promised...she couldn't kill him, wouldn't. Not her Pa. There had to be another path, some way she could reclaim the warmth she'd felt from him so long ago. The tenderness he'd sometimes shown her even in the past few days - until this morning, and that petty, pointless fight.

How little sense it made, looking back. Reflecting now on how and why their peace had soured, what she had done to drive away the man whose calloused hands had clasped so carefully on hers, who had stood so tall and strong behind her, teaching her to dance...the feelings of that evening flowed still in her mind, when she permitted herself to drift back to them. The solidity of his chest against her back, when she dared to lightly press against him. That familiar bushy smile traced subtle on his lips, greying now but still the same. Kicking up her pulse as it carried her back to brighter times, to a world still new and free of sorrow. The soft and simple bliss of resting her head upon his shoulder as they trod slowly through the darkened town, his arm around her back...half-enclosed, his fingers barely spread upon her hip. Holding her oh so gently to his side, a shivering of sensation like cool water cascading down her spine, of longing and belonging both.

And the dreams that had crawled with her into that warm and cozy bed...the soft scratch of his whiskers at her cheek, large hands sliding roughly at her skin. Probing at those places she wasn't supposed to touch, rubbing slowly inside her legs, stoking the liquid fire that flowed outward from the core of her being. A familiar, yearning emptiness within her, throbbing with her heartbeat, desperate to be filled - and him there now to do it, the only man in the world. His hand at the split of her drawers, slipping boldly within to glide on ruddy fur softly kinked, to touch here at her center, her skin tingling at the contact. One thick finger pressing at her entrance, rubbing slowly back and forth on dewy flesh, swollen and hot, and a great pulse of feeling like a sigh unvoiced, a swell of satisfaction only whetting the hunger that tugged deep and primal within her.

An ageless moment before her womanhood reluctantly yielded before him, parting as he pushed inside. Luscious, trembling excitement, his finger penetrating her strong and confident, unafflicted by the guilt or the tentative reserve which restrained her own hand sometimes on lonely nights, when her body's urgent whispers grew louder than the stinging voice of judgement which warned her sternly from the Devil's will. Remonstrative always afterward, when she finished in frustration, still unsated, the shallow pleasures wrought by her hesitant fingers overwhelmed by a deeper chasm still of need. A gulf that loomed only larger when she pushed herself nearer its edge, towards the precipice she could never reach.

Not by herself. Oh, but in this imagining it was different, his digit thick and rough and delicious inside her, moving bolder and faster than she ever dared. She could almost see him there, laying half on top of her, gently trapping her with his size. His handsome face before her, leathered by the sun and pleasantly lined by his years. Softly smirking - hunger in those dark brown eyes, powerful and ravenous, a look she'd seen from time to time from men in saloons or out on the range, sizing her up like another head of cattle. She'd always stiffly ignored such looks, or warned them away, wanting no part in these strangers' filthy fantasies...but her heart thumped faster at the image of it in her father's eye. Adding to the wild thrill that danced up through her nerves like lightning in a summer storm, soaking in the heat of his desire as he lavished his attention on her. Pleasure roiling up hot and tempestuous in her breast, pushing her towards that great abyss, her body burning in anticipation of its unfathomable depths. Her pa carrying her to the edge, love and lust blended so delightful in his gaze, and in the dream, oh, she kissed him so ferocious, so fierce and urgent, holding herself tight against his chest and devouring desperately his lips as his finger pounded fast and final inside her. Falling forward into nothingness, into the beckoning unknown...

Her eyes snapped abruptly open, staring once more at the harsh desert landscape sedately passing at her sides. At James' back, slightly slumped, impassive atop his old grey nag, while her own cheeks burned a vibrant pink. Flush with embarrassment and with the heat still of arousal. Faint relief now mingling in this mixture, that at least he had not noticed her distraction, her sinful reverie. A proper woman wasn't supposed to think about such things. Still less to dive deliberately into the fantasy, to linger on the image of herself exposed to a man, touched, taken...least of all if that man was her father, her own closest kin. The man whose flesh had made her own, whose blood she carried in her veins. If her were to know the nature of the dreams she sometimes entertained...

The thought was a flash of panic, of sudden wondering and worry. Did he know? Was that the reason for this new cold and anger of the morning, that she'd somehow revealed to him her hidden thoughts, that he'd intuited her tangled feelings from some stray word, or from the way she leaned upon his side, or from the glances she'd given him that night, the longing in her gaze she'd not found a way entirely to quell...that he'd unearthed her secret, and now despised her for it? 

She thought back desperate to their breakfast, searching for any sign of words unsaid, for harlot, whore, libertine. For the crushing weight of loathing and disgust behind his talk of lies - the seeming nonsense of his accusation could well have been a ruse, a sort of kindness. Telling her he knew the truth, without doing her the humiliation of speaking it aloud for the rest to hear.

But the more she thought about this notion, the less sense it made. Why would he have held back in such a manner, if he now hated her? Or if he did hold back, why say anything at all in public, instead of waiting for a private moment to tell her of his knowledge, and of his shame at her perversion?

The timing, too, did not seem to hold. If she had revealed to him her secret imaginings, she had surely done so in the night, when they were together. But there had been no moment when he'd pulled away in shock and horror - he'd stood warm beside her to the very end of the evening, arm gently clasped around her waist in a way he surely wouldn't hold a girl who had such thoughts inside her. Almost as close, as tender as she could hope...at least, outside those selfsame dreams. Only in the morning after had that broken down, in the time apart, when she could scarcely have let slip her secret.

And besides...she could not find in his expression the disgust she would expect, looking back. Indeed, even his anger and his bile seemed strangely hollow in her memory. Flat, formal - for all the venom his tongue had duly carried, his eyes were quiet, dark, reserved. As though it were all just some performance, distasteful and contrived. A play at scornful emnity, put on for her to see...




Blood and Iron Ch. 03



But why? The question bubbled up, tight and tense and miserable, the same frustrated wondering she'd had so many times of him before. Why goad her so, pretend, why lie to her again? And just when things were going well, when she had thought that they might...it was mad, absurd. It made no sense. And so she simply stared at him before her as they proceeded on, brow low and furrowed with a ferocity of thought. Trying to peer into his soul, to understand, to see what went on beneath the stony coolness of his armor.

Just ahead, James sat slightly slumped atop his horse, his gaze locked sightless to the horizon, buried in the silent meditation of the trail. It came naturally to a steady traveller, a wanderer - closing down the steady chatter of one's inner voice to let the hours flow by as swiftly as they might. Not talking. Not thinking.

He didn't want to think, not now. Didn't want the trouble of reflection, the guilt and ache that it would bring. Hard enough that morning, to snarl and snap and spit at her, to frighten off her offer, the overtures unwelcome of a mercy undeserved. He'd had to reach inside himself to do it, call up his own self-loathing to darken his tone and curl his lip, to remind her of how low a man he was. Of what fate it was that he deserved...perhaps ironic that even in anger she was enchanting. Fine cheeks flushed with crimson fury, fire blazing brilliant in her verdant eyes. She'd had the look of an avenging angel, of Lady Justice with scales and sword, shining glorious and strong. Tempting further still the part of him that saw her as he should not. If she hated him...she should hate him, even if she could not know the reason why. Let her even think he felt the same, if it brought the end with greater ease.

He tried not to look at her, as afternoon wore on into evening, as it came time once more to stop. Each glance was a fresh reminder of his transgression, the beast inside him so eagerly painting her unclothed, delectable and nymphlike in nudity. But the opposite quite plainly did not hold - her gaze seemed almost always to be in his direction, when he did check from the corner of his vision. And not the open glare of hate he might, conflicted, hope; her eyes were quiet, gently probing. Searching in his features as he helped her again set up a fire, as they wordlessly shared another meal of stew and salted biscuits.

It was only after that she spoke, her inquisitive tone abruptly breaking the silence that had held since they rode out from the villa. "Pa." A wince of shame that she should still call him this. Her eyes reaching out for his, still turned stubbornly away. "How come you want me to kill you?"

That turned his head, his gaze to meet her own. Surprise briefly widening his expression, before he locked it down again with the disciplined flatness practiced in years of poker. He had no answer - could only dodge, divert, a query of his own rumbling back low and reproving. "Now what are you thinkin', askin' a question like that?"

She sat loosely on the ground with legs extended at her side, heedless of the dirt on fresh-cleaned jeans. One hand planted on the earth to hold her upright as she watched him, eyes alert, sincere. Her voice firm, dauntless...and yet still somehow tender, a concern it pained him to hear. "You ain't made no try to get away, this whole time." In the darkening of evening and the flickering firelight, her skin had the look of polished bronze, glowing warm and soft. "You spit fire at me when I say how maybe you ain't got to die...and stop just as soon as I take it back. You pitch in, help out, lead the way t'yer own execution." A pause for emphasis, evidence irrefutable; her tone barely deepened with faint accusation. "You think I'm a fool? Can't see somethin' set up so plain?"

James could only shake his head, slow and helpless. Struggling for an answer to the question he hadn't thought she'd ask, the fact he didn't think she'd see. Muttering, "Clear enough you ain't no fool."

"Why?" Adamant, stubborn, she pushed forward with the demand. Her eyes limpid in the looming darkness, glimmering gems of muddy green. "What kind'a man is it, that wants to die?"

"Alice..." Her name was like a sigh, drawn out slow and admonishing as he tried to figure what to say. How to get past this moment, while facing down the gentle coercion of her gaze. It was a long few seconds before his tongue once more moved to speak. "Ain't always about what you want." He tried for strength, for the firmness of instruction...but the faintest touch of pleading still gnawed at his words. "Sometimes it's just about what's got to be."

This was no answer, held no satisfaction. Her lip curled, teeth flared white in the gleam of sunset, firing back without hesitation. "Why's it got to be?"

"Said it yourself, ain't you?" He managed a brief and paltry smile, a faint curve of humor, bleak and bitter. "Liar, cheat, thief, killer." Plus the other crime, the one he dared not name. "Ask a lawman, he'll say I done enough to earn a noose."

"That ain't..." She frowned, and the downward arch of her mouth was a silent weight upon his heart. "Ain't how it works. A man who does wrong don't come out beggin' to be killed on account of it." She sat upwards now, legs awkwardly crossed beneath her as her hands fidgeted in her lap. Suddenly small, vulnerable, looking just upwards at him from the tops of her eyes. "You told me plenty tales about killers and thieves, and the bad guy ain't ever gone along with an execution 'cause it 'had to be done.'"

"They was just stories, Alice." God, but he wished he could reach out to her. Comfort her, clasp in his hand the gentle beauty of her cheek... "Real life, people act a bit more complicated."

Moments drifted by with her staring silent at the ground, and he began to hope that perhaps this was enough, that she'd accepted his logic. His excuse. But before he could grow too heartened, her head shook, and her gaze snapped up again fierce and enlivened. "No. No, it don't make sense. If you was ready to die, you had thirteen years to get it done yourself...ain't no reason you had to wait for me." A pained suspicion itching in her voice. "Hell, you could get it done now, if you was really so inclined."

All he could manage was a wan smile, flickering briefly on his lips. "Don't figure I could pull it off too well, without a piece."

He meant it as no more than humor, one more small and bitter joke. He did not expect her to reach down to her holster, pull out the revolver that she'd deployed so effectively at their reunion. To flip it over in her hand, offering him the handle with a look of challenge in her eye.

There was little choice but to take it. Once-practiced fingers sliding round the grip, closing on smooth ivory and cold steel, remembering the feeling of a gun in his hand. Such a sense of power it had carried, once. Keeping cowed a whole bank full of people with Miller and the rest. Driving back the posse that gave chase after, a few men hit even at a couple hundred paces. Now...as Alice let go, his hand trembled with the weight of the revolver, wavering so badly he couldn't have hit a target ten feet away. Aiming at himself, of course, would be rather easier...

His gaze flickered back up, glancing into eyes still intense and staring. A faint, sardonic smile playing once more at the corners of his lips. "You reckon all this was just a ruse? Trick, to get this iron off ya?"

She didn't flinch. Hardly even reacted, a tiny shake of her head, words intoned low and flat. "No. No, I don't reckon so."

He grunted back, shrugged minutely. Tried to swallow the anxious uncertainty building in his throat. She was right. He should do it now, take charge and end it all right here. Maybe he'd be missing out on those last respects to Molly...but it wasn't like she'd much appreciate them, anyhow. And maybe it'd be better, too, if Alice weren't the one to pull the trigger, if she didn't have to worry about regrets or second thoughts. If it were just - done, his sins expunged with an offering of lead, and she now free to live her life outside his shadow.

It was only with difficulty, with a twinge of old pain, that he lifted the gun above his shoulder. Touched the barrel to his temple, the metal deathly cold against his skin. An inhalation before him, his daughter's gaze growing wide with surprise, miscalculation - he ignored it. He had to ignore it, had to do this. It was for the best. Not like he'd been living for much these last years, anyhow. Just hanging on, playing one more hand of a losing game. A wise man knows when to fold, when to leave the table...his thumb moved. The hammer clicked into place.

"Pa..." It was a staring, stricken whisper. All the color drained from her features, her head shaking slight and swift in horrified refusal. Skin almost ashen in the firelight...even like this, she looked so beautiful. Paled lips barely parted, searching for some unknown word. Hazel eyes shocked fully open, sclera visible all the way around. Her scattering of freckles brought captivating to contrast in this blanching white. So fine a shape of woman. If he were another man, a younger man...

His eyes clamped furiously shut, a wave of self-disgust sweeping through his soul. There it was again, the strongest reason of all for why this had to be. He was no kind of father, no kind of man at all with such thoughts inside his head. A beast instead, a wild dog, better put down than let to roam...it all was nonsense, anyhow. Even if he had not been her kin, she deserved far better a man than he had ever been. Virtue all but written in her features - the strength she'd shown, the determination just to find him. Her courage, her honesty. Not just of words, but of manner, direct and straightforward, refusing all deception. And all that she was, she was in spite of him - transcending his example, the weight of his blood. He could do nothing to help her. His presence could only corrupt.

His finger sat heavy on the trigger, awaiting its command. The metal now warmer with his touch. It wouldn't hurt. Not for long, anyway - the briefest moment's agony as the bullet smashed into his skull, pulping flesh and bone to a splatter of red. Then just...what lay beyond. He couldn't hold much aspiration for the higher place, after how he'd lived, but at least he'd find out if all those preachers had been right about the other. A lake of fire, of brimstone, of torment unending - or so they always said. Such accounts had always struck him as a shade unjust. Perhaps there would be only darkness, a sleep from which he never woke. His finger tightened. There'd be a kind of peace in that.

"Don't..." The word was like an anguished prayer, high and pleading. His eyes cracked open again, looking into hers now shimmering with the lightest sheen of moisture. One small hand reached out as though to stop him. Absurd - she'd called for this, demanded it. And rightly so; his life seemed but one long regret, an endless tally of his wrongs. Better just to cut it short, pay the penance for his sins. Justice, if such a thing existed.

But that note in her voice, of pain, of imploring...it stuck with him, echoed in his mind. Joined with the endless, empty chorus of instinct, that incessant demand deep inside, to live, to live, to live, no matter what it cost. Always pushing, that pointless struggle for another day, another hour, even if they would be no different from the thousands that had gone before. It stood against him, stubborn and thoughtless as a child, fighting this resolution. And now alongside it, the image of half-formed tears in muddy eyes. If she would weep above his corpse...

There was a quiet click as he released the hammer, lowered the gun into his lap. Staring dark and silent at the smoothly sweeping floral pattern engraved into the polished barrel. His fingers running slow at the light tracery of petals, vines, thorns...tired. So tired, every drop of energy inside him evaporated like water in the noonday sun. "It's a fine-lookin' piece." He spoke flat, low. His gaze kept still towards the ground has he held back out the gun for her to take, not willing now to face her eyes.

The pistol she swiftly grabbed, stuffed once more into its holster. But she ignored entirely the diversion of his last few words, her voice emerging shaken, trembling with a horror just averted. "I didn't think you were really gonna do it."

Faint sarcasm, malign and sour on his tongue. "Well, seein' as how I didn't, I'd reckon you was right." Pushing himself upward, weary to his feet, as judgement snarled in his head. Coward. It could have been done, over, solved. All his troubles ended with one little explosion, a single flash of light. All his sins...he had to withdraw, to escape, to disengage. To step now from the fire, out into the deepening twilight, stars coming into view as the sky kept up its fade to black. It hurt too much to see her. Hurt to stand beside her, to feel her presence on his skin, knowing what he was. Like some unholy creature presented with the Cross, the filth inside him burning at her beauty, at her goodness. "Guess I'll have to wait 'til Anavio. Less'n you want to do it now, yourself." A muttering, as much into the night as back to her.

A bare second's wait before her answer came. Rebellious, though tight still with distress. "I won't."

Staring sightless into the growing gloom, James permitted himself a brief, despairing exhalation. Of course. He'd feared as much after that morning, and her upset of moments prior. "Hope you ain't backin' out on me, now." Still not looking in her direction. His voice low, insistent, reminding her gently of what she had to do. "I ain't the one set this up, remember? Was you that said what's got to be."

"I won't," she repeated. Stubborn words little helping to conceal the emotion in her voice. He could hear her rising to her feet, past the quiet crackle of the fire. His back stiffening as he felt her approach, soft footsteps in the dirt behind. Mind straining to place her, to see her there, head tilted just upward to gaze imploring at the back of his greying scalp. "I ain't gonna do it. And if that makes me a liar..." She paused, swallowed. "I don't care. I don't give a damn. A girl ain't supposed to kill her own pa."

He turned, then. Ached to see how close she stood, a scant two feet away, staring up at him with eyes so deep and expressive. Shining like her soul, strength and vulnerability blended paradoxically with one another in her gaze, in the obstinate tightness of her jaw. Her delicate neck exposed beneath, slim, soft, so finely curved...it was hard to rouse his tongue to speak, to shape words stern and serious. "Alice...we both know I ain't no kind of father." A faint shake of his head, emphasis for this dismissal. "Just some no-good louse happened to lay down with your ma. Proper father sure as shootin' wouldn't run off to rob a bank when you was just a little girl, wouldn't hide hisself away for years and years." He braved to look her in the eye. "You ain't got no obligations to me."

"Ain't about obligation," she whispered back, fierce, urgent, pleading. Stepping closer now - god, she stood so close before him. He could smell her, her skin, her hair, the faint cinnamon spice of femininity. He could see her as she had been that morning, fresh from her bath; bare, glorious, beautiful. His hands shaking at his sides, wishing they could reach out to her, wrap tight around her body, hold her close against him...she spoke again, the lump audible in her throat. "You're the only pa I got. Only man I..." Her swallow was as compelling as any sound he'd ever heard. "It tore me right in two when you run off. Hurt that just went on and on, like a hole cut in me that wouldn't never heal up. Bleedin' me dry, drop by drop." Her chin gently quivered as she looked at him, lips trembling between pain and stoic strength. "Only thing I could think, only thing kept me goin' was tryin' to find you. Thinkin' that if I did, it'd finally fill that hole." Her eyes glistened damply with reflected moonlight, voice raw and thick. "Pa, if you died, if I...I figure I'd feel all that again. And this time, I wouldn't have nowhere left to search."

Nothing. James had no ready response to this, no prepared rebuttal - could only stand there silent, solemn, nearly overwhelmed. Looking at her, at the earnesty compelling in her expression, at the honesty of tears unhidden from his gaze. Feeling the answering heat and sting at the corner of his own eyes. In this display of pain she seemed again his little girl, despite that she was grown...and how he wished that he could reach out now to her, hold her in his arms. Wipe away her tears and tell the lies a father has to tell, that he would never leave, that he'd protect her always, that he would never let an ounce of pain to touch upon her soul. Three promises already broken, shattered into sand. It was all that he could do instead to gently shake his head, to answer, his gruff tones taken by a husky depth. "You got too soft a heart, little rose."

Sudden inhalation, chagrin, realizing what he'd said. He hadn't meant to call her that, remembered her earlier admonition. Regretted the words as they left his lips, as he saw her stiffen before him, sharp and aching. Her lovely eyes clamped shut, forcing free the tears within to trickle slowly down her cheek, tiny droplets in her lashes glittering like diamond. But he had scarce begun to think of an apology when she moved, stepped forward. Erased the space between them as she leaned into him, laid her head wordless and tentative upon his chest.

In this tableau, his first reaction was hardly more than shock, surprise. Uncertain at this new crisis, at the all-too-pleasant tingle of her body lightly touched to his. Her posture stiff and anxious against him, arms doubled back upon her abdomen. A long few frozen moments before he noticed how she held her breath...and then there was no room or time to wonder. She hurt, and he could only try to help. Arms lifting from his sides to slip gentle round her back, her waist, cautiously reassuring. Holding her there against him, as comforting as he was able, as tenderly as he knew how. A slight and warm embrace against the fall of night, until at last she took a breath. Perhaps a breath - it sounded more a gasp, a sob, high and broken in his shirt. He just squeezed her softly, rubbing soothing at her back.

"Pa..." It was a dozen seconds later that she tried to speak, once she had the breath to spare. Words still thick, anguished, straining through her throat. Her hands now drifted half around his back, furthest fingers on his spine. "Pa, I..."

"Shh," he murmured back, softly chiding. Cradling her close, as she trembled against him. "Easy now, s'all right. You ain't got to say nothing." One hand still encircling her waist, the other buried in her hair, clasped warm at the back of her scalp. Playing slow in messy crimson locks, trying not to take too great a pleasure in the feeling of her cheek upon his breast, her subtle curves along his body.

But she was not denied. Stirring now against him, her head turned up to look into his eyes - his own heart wrenching at the tempest of emotion he saw gathered in her gaze, a ship in stormy seas struggling to anchor. Reaching out to him, pleading, longing. Fingers tightened on his back as her voice came forth again, almost broken with intensity. "I love you, pa." Fine lips, pert and pink, hugging every syllable, and her eyes set staring after, praying that the words found friendly quarter.

James did not, could not trust himself to speak. Had not imagined that he would ever hear again these words from her - they hummed in his ear like the music of the spheres, a buzz of quiet bliss borne down sublimely to his soul. Warmth blooming brightly outward from his heart, an ache as though it were expanding in his chest...and a smile for an answer, his hand sliding round to grasp gently at her cheek. His thumb stroking at that lovely skin, trailing through the slight dampness of her tears.




Blood and Iron Ch. 03



It seemed this was enough, for she swiftly smiled back, let out a softly joyous sniffle. Pushed herself in closer, flush against him; it was a struggle not to feel the sculpted, feminine perfection of her anatomy, soft in all the places she ought to be, and firm in all the others. An effort not to see how delectable her lips sat on that so-enchanting face, not to imagine sinful things in the spark of yearning that burned still in her eyes, looking up at him. He was her father, he reminded himself fiercely, repeatedly, as seconds snuck past in the timelessness of this embrace. This was just a comfort for her wounded heart. But still awareness pounded guilty in his mind, how much alike his dream it felt. Words of love, and her body next to his...it was too easy to pretend at something more. To let dark fantasies to wander in his mind, imagining desire in the slender arms thrown tight around his back. In the hopeful shimmer of her gaze as she pushed up to her toes, angelic features drawing close before his eyes. In the supple softness of her lips as they touched tentative to his...

There was no room for thought or for surprise. Only feeling, taste, sensation - the honeyed sweetness of her kiss caressed upon his consciousness, warm as summer as gentle as a cloud. Hesitant, her lips scarcely even parted; it could have been chaste, daughterly, were it not for the uncertain, artless hunger that carried from her motions, from the little curl of her fingers on his back and the insistent upward craning of her graceful, slender neck. Or, what was more, for her eagerness as he reacted, as the instincts of desire were awakened by the pleasure seeping down into his soul, as his arm tightened strong around her back, invigorated almost to health by the power of her kiss. His own lips returning ardor fiercer, rougher than that which they'd received, wrestling with hers as though to wring from them her essence, her very soul.

And how divine, the low whimper of delight which sounded from her throat as he crushed her body close against him, the satisfied shiver that trembled down her spine as his hand clamped firm at the back of her neck. Lust inside him demanding, possessive...and her so yielding in his arms, welcoming, responsive to each flicker of his fingers on her skin. So alive in this embrace, active, surging ravenously forward in the brief moments when his mouth would lift from hers. So alluring, the shape of the body he felt pressed against him, a pattern of sensation reaching below thought, down into the bowels of his mind, where primal urges lurk...she was a marvel. She was temptation itself. She was...

...his daughter. Reason returned with the suddenness of a thunderclap, struck him with the force of lightning. His gaze shocked open, staring at her stunning features just an inch away. At eyes still raptly shut, absorbed in concentration as she covered for his stillness by working ever harder. Her lips still sliding on his so wonderfully soft, sweet and slippery as syrup. Even as he tried to pull away, she clung desperate to his back, his neck, refusing utterly to part - he had to grab her shoulders, push her forcibly down, before the kiss at last was broken. Her breathing heavy and ragged as they parted, eyes wild and intense, glowing like iron taken from the forge. "What in blazes are you doin', Alice?"

His own breath came shallow, shaken. The words no more than half-considered, bafflement polluted with the churning of shame and self-loathing in his gut, his fingers digging painful into the tender flesh of her shoulders. It was plain to see their impact - the cherry warmth of joy in her expression dashed to pieces, frozen and destroyed, leaving in its place no more than ash. Anguish contorting at her face as she feebly shook her head, those perfect lips curving frantic, pleading around the rudiments of excuse. "Nothing. Nothin', I ain't..." Falling into silence, though her mouth still reached helplessly for words. Her gaze at last falling away, hiding now in the dirt behind him as she shrugged her shoulders in a wide, quick circle to break free of his grasp. Ducking, dodging, turning away; James was left to stand there stunned as she strode out into the bush without a moment's pause, into the deeper night that waited outside their camp. Her pace so quick she seemed about to break into a run - but stiff, tightly-wound, aching as though with a hurt that might at any moment snap her tendons and send her sprawling to the dirt.

"Alice!" He was slow to process what had happened - if even he yet had. Slow to respond, to step out after her into the darkness and the lumpy, bush-strewn earth. His uncertainty finding purchase in his voice, a cry that sought her out yet shied away.

Alice didn't stop, didn't even pause. "Just go!" Her voice returning stronger now, calling back across the gloom...but he could hear the tears behind, a river hastily dammed. "I ain't gonna kill you. I ain't gonna...I..." The words dissolving to a jumbled, agonized silence as she half-stumbled over a rock - but it little slowed her pace. "Just get on that damn mare of yours and leave!"

"Alice, hold up already." He tried to sound reasonable, to be cajoling through the mass of worried contradiction that lodged solid in his throat. Following in her footsteps, though actually watching where he stepped ensured that he lost ground with every moment that passed. "We got to talk about this."

"Ain't nothin' to be said." She shot back, sharp and shaking, a tremble in the words. Still without pause, tromping forcefully forward through brush and bramble. "Nothin' to talk about. I...we ain't got no reason now to stick together, so you best just saddle up and go."

"Alice..." Plain to see how useless this was. She wasn't listening, didn't want to listen, driven onwards by the storm of shame and misery he heard poorly hidden in her voice. No telling how long he'd have to follow her into the night before she stopped...if she ever would. He needed something else, something that would break through to her, words that she would not ignore. And after tonight, he thought he might know what they were.

"Little rose." Sterner now, weighty and demanding. The voice of the patriach he'd sometimes had to be, so long ago - while deep inside, he prayed that this would help. "You got to stop."

She hesitated from the first two words. Froze in place, as her spine once more stiffened with the name - backlit by the waning moon, she was a silhouette of doleful beauty, of pain no man with feeling could ignore. Silent, now. She did not answer back, or even turn around...but neither did she continue on into the night, and this was enough for James to give thanks as he rushed across the remaining distance before the moment broke.

Uncertainty still, drawing up close - of what to say, of what to do, even of what had just transpired. The image of her stretched up on her toes to kiss him, the subtle savor of her lips...it already seemed more dream than memory, another fantasy concoted in the pit of his imagination. He could almost believe that it had never happened...if it were not for how she stood before him now, forlornly hugging herself against the growing chill. How she'd fled into the night. It was real. But what it meant, he did not trust himself to judge.

"Let's get one thing clear first." A murmur, firm, quiet, comforting. There was another place to start, a safer place. "I ain't goin' nowhere, hear? Truth is, right now you're just about the only thing in my life worth keepin' on for. Far as I'm concerned, there ain't no place else for me to go."

Did she breathe in a little deeper? It was difficult to say. Still no words, no motion - she stood there like a statue, exquisitely carved, a vision beautiful and tragic. So very slightly trembling as he dared a step closer, laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. His voice probing, mild and soft. "What're you thinkin', Alice?"

A few more moments, frozen, before at last she moved. Her head dropping down towards her chest, and a sound, a breath, a whisper. Too low for him to hear, despite his ears strained against the quiet.

"How's that, now?" Half a step. Her back was an inch from his chest, her hair wild and unkempt just before his chin. The scent of it in his nose, dry and light and sweet, like jasmine and oil...he could kiss her there, at the back of her head, or her neck. Perhaps she would even like it. Perhaps she wanted it...dark tendrils of imagination threading through his thoughts.

"I'm sorry." Barely louder. Only just on the edge of hearing, whispered down into her chest. Riddled through with shame and bitter sorrow...her head shook as she repeated it, stronger still. "I'm sorry, I'm..." That slight silver flash again of dampness in her eyes as she turned, lifted her gaze up to his. The moonlight barely bright enough to see her jaw fixed tight, her lips thin and pleading. Her whisper a confession, miserable and scratchy as she stood just an inch or two away, arms still crossed protective at her chest. "I'm a damned fool. I shouldn'a done it, I knew I shouldn't, I just..."

Once more she shook her head, chin quivering so slightly and so beautifully. Her voice catching, coming again high and keening. Words that shivered to be said. "Pa, I got feelings in me that don't make no sense. And I know they don't, I know I oughtn't listen, but when you was holdin' me, I just, I thought...I felt like..."

"Hey, now." There was no choice but to comfort her, to let his arms sweep gladly round her again, pulling her gently closer as she whispered further apologies into his chest. "'ts all right, ain't no need for an apology." His hand stroking softly at the back of her neck, working to warm the frozen misery of her form. His mind, meanwhile, fairly whirling with her words - so little truly said, and yet his heart thumped deep and hungry at the suggestion carried, the secret they implied. A thrill of base desire grabbing at his tongue, so eager to know, to be sure... "What kind'a feelings do you mean?"

"I shouldn't say nothin' about it," she murmured dismal against him, giving her head another little shake. Her posture stiff with self-recrimination. "It's awful things, awful." And never had the word sounded so divine as the way she said it now, the faint flavor of guilt that promised at forbidden pleasures.

"All the same," he grasped at the side of her cheek, lifted her head up from his chest to look into her eye, her pupils meeting his for just the briefest moment before they hid away again at the fabric of his shirt. "I figure I'd like to know." His voice possessed by this ready, forceful urgency, thirsting to be certain of the impossibility that loomed before him. "Tell me what's goin' on in that heart of yours, little rose."

Long moments flowed past before she tried an answer, before her mouth parted to speak. A confession, whispering low and ashamed. "I just...I think about things." Her gaze still hid from his, staring down at the center button of his shirt. "Like about you holdin' me. Or kissin' me, the way I just done. Or about...about you touchin' me." She swallowed, and though it was too dark to see, James imagined he could hear the blush upon her cheeks. "Touchin' me all over, under my clothes...and I know it ain't right, thinkin' things like that about my own pa, I know I ain't supposed to. But every time I do, it makes me feel all hot and tingly on my skin. It - I get this itch, way down deep inside me, wantin' for it to be real. Wantin' that you could...could show me, could treat me like how a man treats a woman." The words were scarcely audible, reluctant and ashamed, intoned almost too thin to hear...but alongside the sound of humiliated revelation was a slight tinge of something like relief. Finally speaking a secret hidden too long. "Like how he'd treat his wife, when they was alone together."

Euphemism. Hesitation, abashed on her tongue; how strange to hear, from this brash and fearless girl. Even for so shocking an admission - James had been with women enough to know that some, at least, had lusts not unlike those of men, even if no one of breeding would admit it. But to feel such for her own father, for him...he could little imagine it, hardly believe it. His hands squeezing slightly at her shoulders, grasping and possessive, as he spoke with a burgeoning, breathless rasp of intrigue. "You been thinkin about me makin' love to you." His own desires sneaking smug and delighted into his tone, dreaming wickedly of what might be, now that this truth had been unveiled.

Wrapped up in her own shame, Alice little noticed - just sniffed, dropped her eyes down further to the shadowy earth. A pause for strength before she answered, whispered, "Yeah." Nodding just so slightly, and then pressing on, pleading, "But I ain't - it ain't what I want, not really. I swear. Ain't what I set out to find you for. It's just...I just..." Quiet. Her head shook, helpless and aching, her posture held tense and frozen against him, afraid to press closer yet unwilling to pull away. And just when he was about to say something more, perhaps let his hand descend to delight against her bottom, perhaps kiss her again with all the fire that blazed in his soul, in his loins...her gaze rose up again, touched to his, miserable and half-heartedly imploring. "D'ya hate me, now?" Spoken low and sorrowful, as though she believed the answer must be 'yes.'

In that single moment, his own lusts were shoved aside, scattered to the winds by the deep upwelling of fatherly concern that filled him as he saw the suffering painted so plain and wretched in her eyes. Her worries, her fears borne like a heavy load upon her brow. And the question - how mad it was that she could think such, that she should even care what he thought of her, after all he had done. After his selfishness even of these last few minutes, thinking only of his foul desires while she spilled out her heart for him to hear. "Alice..." The arrogant drawl of a man desired now was vanished from his tone, trying instead for a comforting softness. His words reaching out to her as he pulled her gently to his chest. Closed the distance that she was afraid to cross, rubbing once more tender at her back. "Don't you talk such nonsense. Course I don't. You're my own little girl - ain't nothin' you could do to make me hate you, hear?" A beat of silence, of reflection, girding his tongue for the words he'd been unable to speak before. "I love you, little rose. Ain't never stopped, even when I run off like a fool; you'd be the one ought to hate me, seein' what I done." Wry and quiet humor, sneaking slightly in. "I promise, ain't no man ever hated a pretty girl for givin' him a kiss."

She was slow to answer, leaning solidly against him. Her hands grasped fervent at the sides of his shirt as he felt relief flow slowly through her, gradually melt the stiffness of her pose. The minute, distinctive pressure of her ear against his chest, nestled amongst her beautifully ragged mess of hair. "But it's wrong. Thinkin' those things, wantin' them..." A murmur, still low and distraught - only at its end did her tones rise and somewhat tense with a note of wondering, the smallest glimmer of hope. "Ain't it?"

A minute prior, he might well have denied it, tossed away all sense and reason to listen to the lurking darkness in his soul. Now...it was only his good fortune that the image of her misery had reawakened his conscience, reminded him of what his duties were. He was her father. Whatever his own wants, he had to do right by her - if only to try and make up for all the years in which he hadn't. "I reckon it is." Gently, seriously. His thumb stroking soothing at the back of her neck. "Maybe not the thinkin', and maybe not even the wantin'. But the thing itself...that ain't somethin' we can do, little rose. A man don't lie down with his own child, not even if she somehow gets the notion that she maybe wants to." Nor if he wants to. A tugging at his tongue, of truth, of mirrored revelation - he could tell her the trouble of his own desires, let her know that she was not alone in this. Confess his sins, like a papist to his priest; how he'd dreamed of her, spied on her...instead, he stayed silent, the advice of circumspection better trusted than that of honesty. It would help no one for him to say too much.

She seemed a trifle better, all the same. Calmer, no longer rigid with shame or trembling with anxious sorrow. Quiet now against him, the corner of her lips just barely touched to his chest. She offered no resistance as he turned her carefully around, looped an arm firm and guiding around her back to lead her once more to their camp. Her muteness had the feeling almost of surrender, half-slumped upon his side, slack and silent. A chance at last for him to think, to reflect on what had transpired. He still could scarce believe it. His reactions like those in a dream, responding to each new fanciful impossibility with blind and thoughtless acceptance, practicality. Comforting his daughter, after she kissed him as would a woman in love...only now stopping to gape and wonder that such a thing should be.

Strange, perhaps, for him to be so shocked, when he felt so powerful and illicit a desire for her himself. But in him, it seemed a simple thing. Lust. Weakness...she had come to be so beautiful a girl. Perhaps not as clean of face and rarefied of fashion as the famous women he'd seen in prints and pictures from back east - but so pure and strong a spirit inhabited her features, shone from her skin. Every day more lovely, as he came to see her, to know her, the woman she'd become. Any man would want her. He was different only in that he should not, in the fact of fatherhood that ought to have closed off such feelings. Would have, no doubt, if he were more rightous a man.

Ah, but her...it made no sense. He was no one to desire. No thrilling figure of fame or infamy, no young and strapping buck. Not even a competent provider. A cripple, instead - near enough, anyway. A man with too many years, too many regrets, too many hairs gone grey. A broken man. And if that were not enough, there still was all the hurt he'd done her. Her abandonment, his great regret. Perhaps the stories...even if they were not precisely lies, it was not hard to see the pain that could come from long-cherished memories suddenly revealed false. And then the simple fact again that he was her father, and she a woman of most apparent virtue. It was nonsense thrice over for her to feel any such affection.

There was a shadow of relief, distraction from these thoughts, as he felt her stir again against him. Speaking, halfway back to the dying embers of their fire. "You remember," a questioning murmur, tentative and subtly imploring. "When I was real little, before you made me my own bed? How I slept next to you'n ma, how..." Hesitation. Her fingers fumbled, caught, rubbed absently exploring at the fabric of his shirt. A touch of thickness in her tone. "...how you'd sometimes hold me? When it was cold out, or just when I asked?"

His answer was a cautious nod. Words following slightly after, as he recalled that she could not see his face. "Believe I do." Reserved, despite the suggestion of the memory.

"You think..." He could hear her lick her lips, the moist pop and glissade of that alluring tongue emerging to briefly caress across her mouth. Her voice coming small, quiet, struggling as she glanced up to his face. "You reckon it'd be wrong, too, if we done that now?"

His expression he kept fixed, carefully noncommittal, unreflective of the little storm of conflicted feeling the words aroused inside him. "Alice, that ain't-"

"Since we done it before, I mean, and it weren't wrong then." She persisted, interrupted. Her tones low and lightly pleading, a hollowness that made him wish so badly to agree, to hold her tightly in his arms, to do whatever it would take to make her smile. Drawing up near now to their camp. "I figure there's room enough on my bedroll for two, if'n we squeeze up real close." She swallowed softly, slim fingers clutching briefly, pointlessly at his wrist. "And it ain't...I don't mean nothin' more than that. I just..."




Blood and Iron Ch. 04



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

*

Along with my hike, the food and mead, even the thinking had taken their toll. I was worn out. 

I announced, "I'm tired, ladies. First a nap, then bath before supper."

The response from Cori and Ria was immediate. They swiftly pulled the shifts over their heads and threw them on the floor. They revealed slim shapely bodies. Now both naked, Ria knelt, pulling my pants down, while Cori stood, kissing me. I was hard before Ria ever touched me. She kissed the head of my cock, then opened her mouth as my cock slid in the warmth of her mouth. I knew I wouldn't last. My hands held her head. I was taken by surprise as my cock spasmed. Ria swallowed my spending as she continued to suck, her fingers cradling my balls until my cock softened. 

Cori smiled happily, hugging me as Ria stood up, kissing her. Then they both giggled. Cori released me only long enough to turn down the immense bed. I walked over to the shelves to find my pocket watch. I opened the cover and turned on the chiming mechanism; I set the watch on the small table next to the bed. 

I crawled into the bed, settling in the soft mattress. Ria climbed in behind me, pressing into my back in a delightful manner, while Cori spooned in front of me. Her tight butt pressed against my cock, while she held my hand covering one of her breasts. I kissed her shoulder, then nuzzled into her blonde mane. My eyes closed, and I was gone. 





Blood and Iron Ch. 04



Darkness. Light. A tunnel, a cave cocooned around him, floating without sensation as a single crack of brightness bloomed outward to a vague and blinding haze. No sense of time or place - he was dead. He must be dead, gone to meet his maker, face judgement for his life. To answer for his sins...it was no pious feeling, the frustration that rose up tired in him at the thought. What troubles now, in some whole new existence? Tortures or hosannas, stretching on for an eternity. Enough was enough. He was dead. He should be left alone.

A face, then, looming at him from the light. Coming slightly into focus as he strained to see, as his heart thumped with a nervous spark of recognition. Hair like dusky flame, and eyes of glowing green. Fuzzy features, carved as beautiful as any sculptor could ever hope to make...he was distantly surprised at the dryness of his tongue as it stirred to speak. "Molly?"

Those fine lips pulled upward to a delighted, tearful smile - but she shook her head. Disappeared suddenly from view, and a subtle, tingling pressure touched upon his arms and chest, like a slightly awkward embrace. Relieved words sounding sweetly in his ear, carrying still the tremble of recent sorrow. "Thank god." A voice he knew all too well...

The fuzz of vision receded further as moments passed, as he forced himself to blink, resolving not to the clouds of heaven but instead to just a small room, richly furnished in the Spanish style, the sun streaming brightly in from a window on the far wall. The softness of a bed beneath him, the warmth of blankets pulled up to his neck. Awareness gradually returning of his legs, his arms, his body there beneath him, as his mind clicked slowly back to function. A faint ache of pain yet, down inside his belly.

Not dead, then. That itself was a surprise, almost unwelcome. "Alice, what..." The words scraped out rough, uncertain, rasping in a parched and shaky throat; he could feel her cheek still touched to his, but she pulled back as he spoke, appearing again before his eyes.

"Shh," she soothed, warned him to quiet. Sitting there at the side of his bed, eyes lambent and soft with a doting concern. A tiny quiver at her chin, the smile pulling joyful at her expression. "'ts all right. You're safe. Back in Las Cintas. Javier's villa, you remember?"

He nodded, vaguely, the flow of thought still slow and murky. His voice hoarse as he tried again to speak. "How'd I get here?"

"I brought you," she answered simply, gazing down at him. Her tone resounding with a fairly wrenching bliss, a little tremble of feeling that she took a beat to quash before she spoke again. "Anyway, that ain't no matter, now. You okay? Hurtin' any? Hungry?"

Denial was an uncertain shake of the head - he scarcely knew yet what he felt. But the dry scrape of the tongue in his mouth soon suggested itself as a problem to be fixed. "Reckon I could use some water."

She laughed at that, a bit, more relief than humor. "I ain't surprised. You been out gettin' near three days now." Excitement in her motion as she rose up to her feet, the energy of nerves and tension suddenly set free. She grabbed at a painted stoneware jug set down upon the endtable, and just the sound of pouring liquid was enough to redouble his sense of thirst. "Doc said it was an even chance you wasn't gonna wake up at all, but I didn't give it no regard." A denial somewhat unconvincing, in light of the strength of her reaction a minute prior.

She returned a second later to the side of the bed bearing a tall glass of water, shimmering pure - in this moment, it looked as appealing as the sweetest of liqueurs. And faint frustration, then, embarassment, as he tried to reach for the glass, only for his arm to stir but feeble and uncooperative beneath the covers, feeling again as weak and useless as it had been after his injury all those years ago.

"Here." The words were murmured soft and tender as she realized his predicament. Sat down once more close beside him on the edge of the bed, the firmness of her upper thighs brushing against his through clothes and covers. "'ts all right, just sit yourself up a bit." And as he clumsily managed this, she held the glass up carefully to his lips, gifting him to greedily drain the cool and satisfying water. One hand held steadying on his shoulder, a little smile on her lips. Her eyes solid now in his, warm with joy and with affection. "Couple times you took care of me when I was sick; figure I can return the favor." And slightly strange to see, this new poise and confidence of manner, with his recent memory so full of her anxiety and almost-tears.

Wasn't room to worry about that, though. He little had the energy, nor the focus, his mind still foggy with fatigue. The glass was empty by the time he'd drank his fill, and for a moment after she just sat there at his side, gazing quiet and slightly smiling at his face. Finally speaking again, tones softly solicitous. "Anything else you need, pa?"

There was, in fact. He hadn't felt particularly hungry before, distracted by the desert in his throat - now that his thirst was quenched, he could hear the answering growl of his stomach. "Ah..." His tongue, however, hesitated a trifle. Faintly uncomfortable, ashamed to be in such a position, asking her to bring him food. Not that there was much choice. "If it ain't no trouble, I am feelin' a mite peckish, after all."

"No trouble." Her smile quirked upward, tenderly amused. "I asked the cook to leave on a pot of stew, just in case today was the day you woke up. I'll run and grab you some, if'n you don't wander off while I'm gone."

"Don't reckon I could," he awkwardly returned her humor as she lifted to her feet, giving on her way a slight, comforting squeeze about his wrist. And indeed, it was scarcely a minute later that she returned with a large bowl of soup on a metal platter, setting it upon his lap as she sat down once again beside him. Serving careful spoonfuls into his mouth, her eyes nestled in his features, affectionate and kind.

It was a fine meal, rich broth, chicken and vegetables...but her presence touched lightly to his side was a distraction from the taste. Her body's heat impinging on his consciousness, the sight of those gently smiling lips - and the faint clenching of despair inside, that he was still faced with this untoward desire. That the nearness of death had not gifted him with any fresh perspective, any awakening of righteous disregard. Or that it had not gone all the way, and granted him the indulgence of extinction...dark thoughts, beside her glow and tender warmth. But he'd thought it all was over, that he'd found the liberty of death. There was a certain surreality to be sitting here now, attended to so close and solicitous by the girl he'd imagined he was finally leaving to her own life.

Especially given how she seemed now to look at him. Even through the still-fogginess of thought, he could not miss the intensity of her expression, nor forget her confession to him on the last night he could recall. How she'd thought of them together, of him touching her...the notion slipped too comfortably into his own mind, despite his attempts to shake it, as his daze was slowly lifted. But where before she had fairly quivered with shame before his gaze, had begged that it was truly no desire of hers - now her eyes were steady, sincere, warm and cheerful as candlelight, and he did not quite know if he imagined the promise they seemed to carry. Did not trust his tongue to words, for the nervous uncertainty which had hold of it.

Not long before the bowl was emptied, his stomach sated, the tray set well aside. Alice still perched there at the edge of the bed, as silent as James himself...but there was a sort of language to her smile, curved up gently at the corner of her lips. To the slender fingers that she lay upon his leg, above the covers, or to the way she looked at him, as though to memorize his features. A meaning to it that he didn't dare to understand. A message that she couldn't really mean.

He didn't speak, or even much react, when she took his hand in hers - though his heartbeat kicked up faster, throbbing in his ears. Didn't look directly at the solemnity of her gaze, the intensity, the sparkle like that of starlight. But this refusal to acknowledge little stopped the building of the moment; her tone was deep with looming truth as at last she spoke, dulcet with meaning. "Pa?" A murmur, reaching for his attention, her thumb stroking softly at his palm - he could not quite keep himself from looking up at her, being captured by her eyes.

Whatever she planned to say was mercifully forestalled by the sounding of a quiet knock at the door. Relief in James' voice as he looked up past her, polluted with a touch yet of misgiving, a tingle from what she might have said. "Yeah? C'mon in." Hoarsely, to usher inside whoever stood on the side opposite, to find the safety of a chaperone.

That 'whoever' soon proved to be Javier himself, as finely-dressed and cheerful as ever as he pushed the door smoothly open. A smile in his eyes and on his lips as his gaze fell upon the other man, enthusiasm in his tone. "Ah, Señor Blake! The young lady told me that you were awakened; I am glad to see that it is true." Teeth flashing white and well-maintained. "I must confess, when she brought you by thrown across that horse, I did not hold a great deal of hope for your survival. I do not believe I had ever before seen a man so deathly pale who was not destined for the grave."

Between his fatigue and the uneasy awareness of Alice still beside him, James struggled vainly to return a little warmth, his own smile flickering but wanly in his expression. "Aye. Reckon I'm just lucky."

"Lucky, indeed," Javier nodded sagely, "And with a capable ally, as well. She told me just a little of what transpired, but I understand that it could well have been worse, were it not for prompt action on both your parts." A noncommittal muttering from James, and he continued on, his eyes flashing briefly over to Alice. "In any case, she has certainly been diligent. She scarcely left your side, you know, these past three days - something of a surprise to see, after the manner of your earlier departure."

Her fingers curled with his, her weight gently pressed upon his side - the truth was an awkward thing, complicated, conflicted and unspeakable. James could only vaguely shrug his shoulders, utter dryly, "S'ppose you could say we got a strange relationship."

"Yes," Javier seemed to find a distinct humor in this, chuckling heartily. "In fact, that is about the most that I could say. But!" His hands clasped firm together, sudden energy for a change in subject. "You are finding the room comfortable, I hope? The food, acceptable?"

"Oh, it's more'n fine..." James agreed slowly, mild confusion at the question...giving way to abrupt chagrin, as he thought he recognized the hint of a welcome overstayed. "You been plenty kind, no doubt. It's...tell the truth, I ain't quite sure what time of day it is, but if it ain't too late we could clear out this afternoon, let you have the place back."

"Please, Señor!" Javier bared his palms in faintly theatrical refusal. "You wound me. I assure you, I am not the sort of fellow to turn an injured man out into the street. Even if I were, well..." His gaze touched curiously on Alice again, before returning to James. "I suppose she has not yet told you. It gives me happiness to say that you may consider this place a home, at least for the immediate future. The young lady has agreed to my earlier offer of employment, and has asked as a caveat that part of her renumeration be for you to be provided room and board. An offer I was glad to accept, particularly in light of the circumstances."

James turned an inquiring eyebrow to his daughter, who answered the unspoken question. A tone almost of tentative apology, if he should disapprove. "Seemed the thing to do. We ain't really got no place to get to, anymore, and I weren't much inclined to get by just on hospitality. Even if he does got quite a store of it." She glanced at Javier, acknowledging, who returned a wide and gracious grin. "This way we got a place to stay, while we...work things out. Ain't like I signed no contract, neither; it's just givin' the thing a try."

"On that subject," Javier cut in, his own voice dropping faintly apologetic. "Much as I hate to separate you from your companion, now that he is awakened...there is a matter for which I would like your presence, señorita. One of the ranchers with whom I contract - I am not expecting any trouble from the meeting, of course, but I imagine I should likely have you there nonetheless."

A faintly sour look curled at her lip...but she nodded, gamely enough. Pushed up to her feet, leaving a little pang of loss to echo in James' soul as she departed from his side. "Suppose it wouldn't be a job if I didn't have to do no work."

"Indeed not," Javier chuckled mildly. Gestured to the door. "Come along, then. I shall try to keep matters brief, for the sake of your reunion."

She followed, then, walked once more out the door - but not before looking back at James with a quiet, hopeful smile, a statement in her eyes of such significance that he was left to grapple with it long after her footsteps had faded from his hearing. Speaking again of the night he last remembered, of tears and kisses and impossible dreams...and him left now to wonder in the dullness of exhaustion what fresh travails awaited him in the promise of that gaze.

---

Between the warmth of the bed and the meal in his belly, James dozed off again before arriving at any kind of answer, troubled thoughts disintegrating into the vague fuzz of sleep. Darkness had fallen outside by the time he was pulled again awake, roused by the catch and creak of the bedroom door. Alice standing there in silhouette, in hat and coat, the peculiar figure which had come to look so beautiful. The lines of a man's outfit subtly reshaped to the woman beneath. Distinctive. Unique. Distracting his tongue from any words of greeting - he only lay there silent in the dark, watching faintly guilty as she took a match to the oil lamp upon the table, and a wavering yellow illumination welled up in the room.

Neither was Alice swift to speak. Uncertain what to say, despite her tentative attempts before she'd left. The past three days had felt as an eternity. The panic of his injury, the frenzy that had lent her strength enough to shove his body up across her horse. The endless agony of the trip back to town, riding just shy of a gallop - afraid simultaneously that she would be too slow to save him and that the battering of the pace might finish him off. She shuddered still to think of the slick layer of his blood that had been matted at her horse's side when he finally arrived, the terrible pallor of her father's features. And that damned doctor, who would give her no guarantees, no assurance that he could even be saved, who just bit at his pipe and frowned as though even trying were a fool's errand...she'd almost drawn on the man, threatened him, demanded that he do his job or else forfeit his own life. Almost.

And the afterward...that was its own torture. When she could only wait, and hope, and pray. Keenly, bitterly aware of how her last prayers for his return had gone unanswered all those years ago, but trying all the same. Talking to him sometimes, as he lay there limp and unresponsive, breathing only low and shallow. Hoping that some part of him at least could hear her, pleading for him to come back, to be okay. Squeezing up close against him to whisper in his ear, telling him a decade's worth of dreams, the childish, the mundane, and those it made her blush to speak. It didn't matter. There was a kind of comfort in it, to tell herself that maybe it would help him, to say aloud what for so long she'd just carried about inside.

Harder, now that he was awake. Not that she knew he'd truly hear whatever words she chose to speak...so much she had to say. But time, she needed time. A few more moments to steel her tongue, to settle her heart. So for now, she just glanced at him above her shoulder, spoke a slight inanity of greeting as she began to prepare for bed. "You get by all right while I was gone?" Her hat set to rest on a high back post of the chair, her duster on the table beside the lamp.

His answer was a grunt, vaguely affirmative. Watching her. "Damned worthless, I was. Just slept...least I feel a little bit more now like a human being." Heavy boots slipped off, tossed to tumble at the foot of the bed. "How was the job?"

"Pretty dull, truth be told." Her fingers hesitated, tracing at the wooden buttons of her shirt. A slight tingle along her spine, pulse thumping faster despite her attempts to calm it. "Spent longer ridin' back and forth than we did there. And I couldn't understand most anything they said, neither; suppose I ought to try and pick up some more Spanish if I mean to do this for real." The tinge of nervous excitement in her voice was not from the words, but from the action of her hands as she unfastened her shirt, silently begging that his gaze still was on her. Pulled it swiftly off, shoulders bared for him to see, her upper back...she could not help then but to turn and face him, to see him staring fixed. He looked half away as her gaze found his, eyes fleeing to the wall - but they flickered back to her for brief moments, even as she watched. A hopeful, giddy tightness in her chest, feeling the touch of those dark brown eyes on her abruptly heated skin.

It little even hurt her mood when he sputtered out a rough demand, "The devil are you doin', Alice?" Words high and slightly strained, that might before have sent her scurrying to cover up - but she was ready, now. Prepared, practiced...though this, too, was different, with him awake.

The answer was a simple thing. "I'm gettin' ready for bed. Way I done these last two nights." Only the faintest quaver sneaking in her voice, to suggest the anxious hope that lay beneath. Her belt again undone, set to rest upon the table, her jeans slipping down past her hips and to the floor. Wondering briefly if she truly saw or just imagined his gaze dipping down to caress up her legs. There was a thrill, a sparkle of excitement in this unveiling. So different a feeling from the forced undress those few days past, from the humilitation and the helpless fury. She wanted this, wanted him to look at her, to see her, to want her...the defense was light upon her tongue, as she stepped closer. "I'd get the sheets dirty, otherwise."

By the time she reached the edge of the bed, his eyes had ceased their edging for escape. Stayed on her, instead, wary as a jackrabbit's as he worked through the implications of what she'd said. "Hang on a minute, now," croaking aghast, "You're telling me you slept in here with me, wearin' nothin' more than that?"

A little smile tugged as answer at her lips, giddy exultation blending with the nervousness that ached along her nerves. "'sright." Climbing up then to the empty half of the bed, her heart thumping solid in her chest as she drew up close before him, kneeling above the covers. A murmur of explanation, of excuse. "Figured...I oughta stick by you, in case you woke up. Figured there'd be maybe a better chance you would wake up, if somebody was around, if I...if you knew I was there." Her left hand laid upon the mattress, inches from his.

"We can't." His voice roughened, rumbled firmer...but strange to hear, the thread of almost fear that pulsed behind his words. Sitting up higher, pulling away. "You can't, you gotta...Alice, we talked about this. I mean, all right, maybe sharin' the bedroll on a cold night, when we're dressed up safe'n proper, that maybe ain't so bad. But this, with you all..." His gaze traced briefly down along her body, lingering where her thighs emerged pale and shapely from the loose fabric of her drawers. Stroking hesitant along the smooth curve of her knees before returning to her face, grave and troubled. "You got to find another bed, Alice. Or I can, if you won't."




Blood and Iron Ch. 04



She wouldn't. Wouldn't permit him to, either, refusing burning fiercely in her eyes. "I ain't afraid anymore, Pa." An urgent whisper, grabbing at his hand, clasping it in hers. "What I feel, what I dreamt about. I had time while I was ridin' you back, while you was layin' here. Time to think what I'd do, if you really...if you didn't wake up." An echo in her voice, of the pain such thoughts had caused her, the dark and misery of contemplation. Her fingers clutched at his, interlaced, soothing herself with the rough, familiar texture of his skin, the dry and pleasant warmth of his hand in hers. Staring into his reluctant eyes, imploring and intense. "And I realized, I didn't have no regrets for the things I done. For findin' you. For kissin' you." Her voice rang from the memory. "Only regrets I had were for the things I ain't done, things I was afraid to do. Things I was afraid even to say. For what'd never happen, if you was gone."

"Alice..." He stalled, swallowing hard, his expression struggling and frozen.

"No, listen," she crawled up closer, moving his hand to touch upon her knee. To close upon his, her own smaller grasp guiding his unresisting fingers. "I ain't crazy. I know it maybe sounds...but this ain't some wild hare. I gave it plenty thought, the last two nights. I love you, pa," her lips quivering as she spoke the word, still unfamiliar on her tongue, striving to infuse it with the depth of the emotion that sang so powerful and fervent from her soul. Gazing at his handsome, weathered features. "I love you, and this ain't but one more part of that. Way things oughta be."

He shook his head, slow and speechless, as her fingers curled at his wrist. Grasping. Pleading. Her heart beating like wardrums in her chest. "You told me I'd find a man that'd make the other half of life sound fine, man I'd maybe want to live with, marry, even have a...have a child of my own. And...well, I figure I met'm maybe long way back." Slight humor, nervous in her smile.

"Jesus Christ." James' despairing mutter did little to soothe the anxious yearning in her eyes. Nor did the way his own gaze evaded hers, stared down blind upon the covers. She had hoped for more than this, for better - that he might have smiled at her, that subtle, bushy smile, accepted her affirmation with another kiss, the same as the one she'd kept reliving in her mind. That his arms would rise up to enfold her, bearing all the love that she remembered...and the desire that she imagined. Not this harsh, conflicted utterance, straining from his throat. "I'm your father, Alice."

"I know," she whispered, pressing closer. Not hiding from the fact - it was everything, it was who he was. "You're my father. My Pa. And there ain't no other man I ever felt about the way I do for you." Dizzy dryness in her throat, as she reached out tentative with her free hand, laid it on his chest. Warm, through the thick and scratchy fabric of his union suit. His heart beating beneath, the subtle kick of it against her palm sending shivers to stream along her nerves. She could smell him, his body, the clothes he wore impregnated with his scent, and the earthy, masculine texture sparked such a fire in the pit of her stomach...she could kiss him again, if she dared to. Slip closer still, climb upon his lap. Doff her remaining clothes to lay with him, as in her nighttime fantasies - if only she knew how, the way of it, the shape of two people joined in passion and desire. What a woman did, when making love.

It was something never talked about, in any but the vaguest, most maddening hints, impenetrable jokes and metaphors from the cowboys far enough away that they thought she couldn't hear. Images of bulls put out to stud, mounting awkwardly their mates; they told her little. She could hardly see men and women in so ungainly a position, and the cows in any case seemed to have no role but to stand in place. There was only the frustrating advice her mother had given, all those years ago. That her husband would be the one to teach her what to do, that the bedroom was a man's domain, a man's concern. Her job just to cooperate with his desires...how useless the words now felt, when she was the one who wanted more. When that hazy hunger ached so hot inside her, and she knew with such a certainty who it was she needed, who could fulfill those desperate, wordless wants.

No help for it. No other option she could see than just to put herself into his hands, to hope. To tell the truth, as she crowded closer, her legs pressed up to his with just the covers and his underclothes to keep them apart. "I ain't ever lay down with a man before, Pa." A prayer in her voice. Clutching at his wrist, keeping his hand so soothing on her knee. "And I know it ain't supposed to be done, if you ain't proper married first. But I don't know if we even could, seein' who we are. And I want..." She swallowed softly, uncertain of the words to speak. Of what to say, to make him see her as a woman to be held, to be desired. "I want it to be you."

Silence. His face was like granite, like a statue, staring sightless down upon the fine-sewn blanket. The seconds ticking breathless by as her thumb stroked slightly pleading at the back of his hand. Hoping that she had not already pushed too far, that this declaration did not make her seem too much the whore that Jack had called her. 

She almost feared it must, as he slowly shook his head, spoke low and grave. "I should go." Despair clutching briefly tight upon her throat. "Prob'ly another room around, from the sound of things." But despite these words, he did not move from his place beneath the covers. And there was a subtle weakness to his voice, a slight wavering of doubt that in this moment she rejoiced to hear. As though he were only speaking to himself, an inner argument of what he ought to do...

"You shouldn't." She ventured now still further, slipping up against his side, her legs beneath the covers, her head against his shoulder. His arm maneuvered loose around her back, as though to keep him there with her. His body there, so warm beside her. So real...the hand of his she'd held atop her knee now drawn up before her lips, and such a shiver of delight there was to touch them to his knuckle, a gentle kiss upon that roughened skin. The muscles of his arm tensing behind her neck as she spoke again, murmured into his thumb. "Ain't no need for it. It ain't...you don't got to do nothin', if you don't want. I know it ain't the normal way of things, know I ain't got no real notion of romance or what to say, and you maybe - maybe don't feel nothin' of the kind for me at all." An ache in this admission, to him and to herself. Did he? Could he? Was this just her own peculiar madness, born from all her years of searching? She'd wondered it before, laying there beside him in the past two nights. Her courage stronger then, proclaiming boldly that it didn't matter, that she'd win him all the same...that if she had the blessing of his survival, she would permit no other obstacle to stand in their way.

Not quite so simple, now that her prayers were answered, her plan put to the test. Now that she faced again his eyes, dark and somber even in evasion, and wondered at the how of it...for the moment she could only try to smile, rouse her tongue again to speak. "But I need you here with me, pa." Quiet, encouraging, curled up there against him. "Just to be here, nothin' more. When we was out there on the trail, few nights past...I ain't hardly felt better than I did to have you next to me." Nestling beneath his arm, gazing up to his averted eyes. Even in this uncertainty of this request, there was a warm and pleasant softness inside her to feel him there, the warmth of his body, of his calloused hand held now against her cheek. A spark of gladness as at last his eyes flitted up to hers, contact like the splash of a pebble in a stream.

The pause drew on for a long few moments before at last he spoke. "All right." The sound of it almost pained, tense, his fingers twitching slightly at her jaw. A subtlety of motion, so sweet upon her skin... "All right, fine. Mess a'trouble, anyhow, movin'. Just..." Close enough that she could hear him swallow, his hesitation beneath words that tried for reprimand. "Just lay down on your own side, hear? Ain't got to huddle up for warmth in a bed like this."

Despite this attempt at gruffness, he made little motion to urge her away. Little acknowledgement, either, of her dubious obedience - she hardly parted from his side to settle down beneath the covers, slipping in still close against him. Still with his arm curled careful around her back, her neck. James made no effort made to remove it as he, too, slid back to horizontal, laying on his back beside her. Her cheek upon his chest, fingers lightly splayed atop his stomach, fingers tracing at the cotton bandage that lay beneath his clothes. The slight crusting of his blood, incompletely cleaned away. Soaking in his presence, in the warmth of this nest together - she'd slept much the same as this, the past two nights beside him, but it was by far a stronger feeling with him now awake. Alive. Accepting this almost-embrace...perhaps it was only for his injury, for the earlier weakness that he'd shown, but she could not resist pretending that he desired this as much as she. That he felt the same kindling of heat inside his chest, the ticklish excitement of laying there so close and tender, of just that paltry woolen layer between their skin. That he imagined as much as she what might transpire if he lost the sturdy union suit, if she dared remove even her corset, if he could run his hands along her body...oh, her breasts, her skin, her stomach tingled at the thought.

Enough now just to sleep. She was blessed already with his survival, with his acceptance of the shared bed, however grudgingly. Contented just to close her eyes, to gently rub her cheek upon his side. To loose her mind to drift, to dream of things so recently beyond admission. Quietly exulting in this togetherness, in having again beaten back the world's attempt to take him away from her - there was a glow of pride in this, scarcely even fading as sleep crept in to claim her.

-----

The next morning found James somewhat more alive, aware, clear-minded. Somewhat unsettled, as well, by the night before, by what had felt like hours in the darkness with her body there beside him, and the temptations that it posed. But the dawn at least distracted him with a hunger quite mundane, his appetite kicking temperamentally into action after his almost-unbroken fast. Alice followed solicitous at his side as he stumbled down to breakfast, ravenously devouring the offered servings of eggs and chorizo until at last his stomach settled its persistent grumbling to lay down instead heavy and quiescent. Little effort to spare for discourse; engaged with his food, he bothered just to genially grunt in response to Javier's conversational overtures across the table. Only afterward was there really the chance to talk - the meal finished, pacing now around the outskirts of the villa. Forcing his stiff, protesting legs again to motion, after long immobility.

"Does it hurt?"

She was first to speak, walking close beside him. Her gaze dropping down briefly to his abdomen, as though to elaborate on the question; his own fingers followed closely after, trailing on the slight bulge of bandages beneath his clothes. "Just a touch." A dull ache still inside, cold and deep. It sharpened when he moved, when he bent or turned at the waist, but he'd been through far worse. "Reckon whoever you got to stitch me up did good work."

"'m glad." Her smile added weight to the words, a flash of pink and brilliant white. A tone of mild confession on her tongue. "I was...don't think I ever been scared before, the way I was when haulin' you back. When you conked out on me..." Her head lightly shook. "Still ain't sure how I managed to get you up on that horse. Panic, I s'ppose."

He tried a smile of his own, brief and mildly sardonic. Somewhat cheered despite himself by her presence at his side. "And here I thought you weren't afraid of nothin'."

"Almost nothin'," she corrected him brightly. Grabbing for his hand - in the moment's warmth, the glow of this new day, he could not find it in him to object. "Guess the only thing I'm scared of is...you."

Silence then, a beat of faint confusion as the humor in her eyes dissolved into sincerity. "Losin' you, I mean." Quieter than before, her fingers curling possessively with his. "Don't rightly know what I'd do if I did. If you'd died out there..." Her expression heavy once more with feeling, solid and intense with the memory of what had almost been. So beautiful, those muddy, verdant eyes...

"Well." He turned away. Took his hand from hers, though his soul protested at the removal. At the loss of those slender fingertips touched gentle to his skin. Frustration bubbling up poisonous once more inside him - at himself, for seeing her so. At her as well, for tempting him, for the madness that she'd spoken in the night before. She wanted him. To be with him, for him to take her as though she were his wife...it was nonsense. She didn't know what she wanted. "Maybe better if I had." His step felt slower, tired, returning to his pacing. Not looking at her as he spoke. "Better if you'd just left me there."

She followed close behind. Disappointment in her tone, aching in his ear. "That you wantin' to die again?" It was almost a rebuke. "Thought maybe the brush with it might've cured you."

His sigh was low and slightly bitter. Three footsteps crunching in the dirt before he answered. "Told you before, it ain't about what I want. 'ts just about what's best. What's gotta be." His lips twisted, thin and joyless. "Won't do you no favors, havin' me around. And me...ain't got much purpose for myself, keepin' on."

Another silence, lingering, before he answered back. "Weren't so long ago you said I was worth keepin' on for." A taste of accusation, softening into clemency. "I want to be, pa. If you ain't lyin', if that's really how you feel...then let me be your reason. Let me try." She was beside him now, her shoulder brushing at his arm. Looking at him, though he refused to meet her eyes. "You said before, years you spent with ma'n me was the finest you ever had - we could maybe have a thing like that again. I could be...with you, I could..."

She trailed off, the slightest, nervous warble to her tone. Spoke again a moment later, louder, fierce with feeling. "Anyhow, I promise, it does me plenty good havin' you around." Her voice a trifle husky with sincerity. "I wouldn't hardy have nothin' left myself, if you was gone."

He snorted low beside her, dismal, quiet. Disbelieving - she could say that all she liked, but she was just a girl yet, ruled too much by fancy. By this delusion of a dream...how poisonous a sweetness he felt, though, in the offer gently spoken. In the vision of a life again like that he'd left behind, of honest toil and quiet idyll. Of children underfoot, and a loving woman at his side. 

She'd been so hesitant to speak the role she clearly thought to play. That she should step into her mother's shoes, live with him as though she were his wife. Absurd. Impossible. And yet a moment's wish ached silent in his heart, letting the image to linger in his mind. Riding home to see her dusty beauty waiting for him in the shadow of the doorway. Her satin lips, so sweet and zealous, lifting from his shoulders all the burdens of the day. Warm nights together, slipping off her clothes to find the angel there beneath, tasting of the pleasures that those in love can share. Perhaps one day to see her slender belly swollen, bulging radiantly outward, and know again the nervous bliss of fatherhood...

Reality was heavy, bitter, tugging down again upon his bones. A pang of sorrow for what could never be, for the mirage that looked so damnably divine. "I ain't got no use left in me, little rose." Blunt, cold - though his tongue did soften just a touch, to speak her favored name. Even the mundane, the trivial, stood in the way of such a dream. He was in no state to run another ranch, the way he'd done before. "No use, and nothin' left to teach. Ain't no good, neither. Maybe you'd cry a titch, if I was gone...but plenty soon you'd be glad you left me in the dirt. Find some man who ain't your papa, who can maybe give you some of them things you been thinkin' about."

He spoke it firm and final, like the closing of a book. So it was something of a surprise to feel her grab his arm, pulling hard enough to force him round to face her. "Ain't you listened to nothing I said this whole week past?" A bubbling of anger in her tone, her eyebrows sitting low and fierce above her gaze. Accusation scratching at her throat. "Think I'm lyin' when I tell you how I feel?"

It was hard to find an answer, confronted by her eyes. Thrown off-balance by this abrupt display of her intensity. "It ain't..." The words emerged uncertain, stumbling. Trying to be soothing, to explain what had seemed to him so clear, a moment prior. "Ain't that you're lyin', really. I reckon you believe it, every word. But you - you ain't got the years in you to know what you'd really feel. You ain't much more than just a girl, still. Innocent." Trace discomfort, thinking that. Remembering the purity that she'd confessed to him the night before, and the sinful hunger it had called up in his gut. "Hell, you ain't even been dancin' 'til a couple days ago. You're thinkin' all this about me just 'cause...'cause you thought I was important, 'cause of how sudden I run off. Ain't got the experience to know how easy you'd move on, realize how crazy you was feelin'." His voice firming to a solid certainty for these final words.

She still did not agree. "Thirteen years." The reminder sliced sharp across the space between them, pronounced deliberate and high. Her fingers squeezing tightly at his wrist. "Thirteen years I been waitin' to see you again. Six years in the saddle, searchin'...and you figure I'd move on easy?" An errant curl of her rosewood hair bobbled slightly as she shook her head, incredulous. Her voice constricting towards a whisper, ferocious and devout. "You figure I'd just forget, after all the work I done to find you? That if you died, I wouldn't just set right after you again?"

His gaze shocked slightly wider, unsettled at her implication. The subtle threat she couldn't mean. "Don't talk nonsense, Alice." His voice not quite as solid as he'd have liked. "You wouldn't do nothin' of the kind."

"Wouldn't I?" Her eyes flashed darkly back at him, glittering emeralds, serious and deep. A sharp edge to the narrow curl of her lip. "Hereafter ain't but one more place to search, if I knew that's where you gone. Wouldn't hesitate a bit."

She stared then for a long few moments, daring him to disagree, as he stood rigid and uncertain. But when she spoke again, it was softer, quieter. An atom of imploring, slipping in amidst her fire. Stepping closer now before him, a scanty half a foot of distance, and how little will he had inside to pull away. "Ain't sayin' it's what I want. Just...I wouldn't have nothin' left if you was gone. That's the truth." His hand still clutched in hers, laid light upon her stomach. "And you got to believe it when I tell you that I need you. That you got to stay with me, pa."

He breathed out low and troubled, slowly shook his head. Not quite a refusal. A plea, instead. "Ain't got much notion what I'd do, if I believed that."

"You wouldn't leave." She answered for him, murmured urgent and sincere. "Wouldn't talk no more about how you oughta die, or how I shoulda left you there behind."

He could manage just a faint and troubled humor, a slight tugging at his lips for this admission. "Suppose that's prob'ly true."




Blood and Iron Ch. 04



"And you wouldn't be so quick to turn it down, neither," she pressed on, stubbornly hopeful. Her muddy gaze shimmering so beautiful at him in the middle morning light. Her fingers squeezing at his hand. "You'd let me try to find a way that we could...be. Be together. Teach me what I need to know, to make you happy."

His lips tightened, twisted up somewhere between a rictus and a smile. God, the artless promise of her words, the devil's offer from an angel's tongue...it was hard enough just to shape an answer to her euphemism, dour and faintly chiding. "You ain't got to worry about makin' me happy, Alice."

"I do." Staring plain and bold into his eyes. Her demurral high and pure, the words as clean as crystal. No trace now of the gruff façade that she so often wore. "I am. Bein' with you, pa...it makes me feel so good inside, so right. Leastwise, when you ain't callin' me a liar, or sayin' how you oughta die." Faint amusement, slender and self-conscious in her expression as she pressed up closer, just inches now away. Words breathed out quiet as a whisper. "I want you to feel the same."

James could little trust himself to answer this. Still less, as her free hand rose up to lay soft and tantalizing on his side, as he saw and heard the slight, seductive pop of moist lips once more opening to speak - her voice muddied with imploring and with a subtle cast of woe. "Pa, I know I ain't had much practice, just at...at actin' like a woman should. Sure as blazes Jack weren't the first to say it." A shadow of a smile, wry and quietly forlorn. "But I could maybe try, for you. Could buy a proper dress, have somebody put my hair up nice...even hang up the iron, maybe, if'n it's what you want." The slightest tremor to her chin, her gaze flickering between his eyes. Searching. "If that's what it takes, to be the kind'a woman you'd want to...to be with."

He should lie. He knew it, saw it, plain as day - look down stern and cold and tell her that it didn't matter what she did or how she dressed, that she could never catch his interest. That she was ugly to his eyes, a beast, a thing. Whatever hurt the words might carry, they could scarcely do more damage than the truth. It was only his own cowardice that moved his tongue, unwilling to bear the burden of her sorrow, to see those finely-crafted features crack with pain. "'ts nonsense, little rose. Ain't no need for nothin' of the kind." Slow and soft, words on the edge of guilt. Spilling outward despite himself as his hand turned in hers, squeezing soft and comforting at her long and limber fingers. "You got a fire in you 'ts prettier than any dress could ever hope to be. Prettier'n..."

A tightening of silence, confession burning in his throat. Surrendering to look at her, to meet her gaze head-on, to feel in his heartbeat all the need he'd tried so poorly to ignore. Speaking again, a husky thickness clasping at his words. "Tell the truth, I can't recall the last time I met a woman half as beautiful as you. Man who doesn't want you, doesn't love you just the way you are...I figure he ain't no man at all."

How sweet the little smile, curling almost tearful in her expression. Sparkling with sudden, lambent joy, her eyes alight with undeserved affection. Adoration...she made a sight so damned enchanting, biting softly at her lower lip, the faintest blush of red upon her cheeks. The bottom edges of her frontmost teeth peeking pearly out into the light, her daintily determined fingers stroking just a moment at his chest before she moved forward once again, erased what little space had stood between them.

Her gaze never flickered, and James could not bring himself to look away. Left instead to stare into the heaven of her eyes as her body's so-alluring curves whispered to his skin, as her hand upon his chest drifted gently to his shoulder and she pushed up careful to her toes. No question here of what she planned, of the meaning of those lightly-freckled features rising up to meet him. Those eyes so wide and clear and deep, brimming with a courage and a hope that overwhelmed the worries he could still see tightening her brow. Her pink lips gently parting, curved and supple with that enticing hint of plumpness...so clear that he should step away, push her back, refuse. That he should not permit this kiss, not allow another like that which pulsed so urgent and appealing in his memory. There could be no excuse.

And yet he was so weary of the fight. Beaten back already, to speak so candid of her beauty, of the allure no father should admit. He did not have the time to find his strength, to pull himself into the image of a decent man...a reedy voice of self-defense, protesting somewhere inside that it would not even be his fault. That none could blame him if he did nothing for himself, if it all was her idea, her action. If his only sin was that of silence.

Then her lips again were touched to his, and there was no further room to think. Working fiercer now than they had before, deliciously insistent, slippery and sweet...oh, the subtle taste of her, the spice and savor of vitality, of youth. Her breath exhaled into his lungs, warm and humid as summer bayou. The length of her exquisite body pressed up firm against him, shifting just so slightly as her neck craned up for greater contact, her mouth slipped and worried so divinely at his own, and he could little keep his hand from sliding further forward to tighten close around her back, nor stop the stirring of his loins, awakened by the moment's lustful pleasures. By the soft, unconscious sounds of satisfaction which issued from the bottom of her throat, quietly emphatic moans and whimpers that he felt as much as heard. All of his resolve was taken just to stop himself from kissing down her jawline, to the velvet elegance of her neck, from permitting his other hand to slip up beneath her shirt to caress upon the skin beneath, tug the strings of her corset towards freedom.

It was an hour later that she stopped - or perhaps it was only moments. Honeyed lips retreating just so far as to rest their edge upon his chin. Her breath tickling along his skin, warm and playful as an autumn breeze, her cheek upon his jaw, scraping softly on his few days' worth of whiskers.

"Pa." It was as fine a sound as he had ever heard, the golden feeling in that simple syllable. The brilliant hue of bliss that so infused her whisper as she held himself still close against him. "Promise me somethin'."

He couldn't nod, nor try to shake his head. Hardly even dared to speak, as much afraid of dislodging her from this repose as he was of what he might soon be agreeing to. "What's that?"

He could scarcely see her eyes, looking up at him. A tiny tinge of green at the corner of his vision, near-occluded by her lashes. "Promise me you ain't gonna talk no more about how you ought to die." Firmness, determination. That trace of iron, contrasting so enchanting with the sweetness of her voice. "Or how I'd be better off without you, or how you ain't got nothin' to live for, or...all of it."

Errant stands of rosewood hair wavered on his cheek, tickled lightly at his nose. The faintest scent of cinnamon and spice, of femininity... "All right." A murmur. There was no choice but to agree. Right now, he'd have promised anything to the girl in his arms. A golden ring, a castle, a kingdom of her own.

He could feel her smile tug up on his skin, a quiet note of joy. Her hand shifting on his back as she hugged him briefly tighter, so tender and alive. "Good." A beat of silence, then. His hand stroked slowly up her spine, her neck, weathered fingers slipping into the rusty tangle of her hair. Emotions swinging freely as a pendulum, wildly careening between the choking grip of guilt and the excited tingle of temptation. The beast of lust, rough and brutish, called up by her kiss and by her body still against him, imagining her slender bosom squeezed softly in his hands. Seeing them together in the night, skin slippery with sweat as he gave her the thing that she had said so plain she wanted, what the very marrow of his bones seemed to be urging him to give. The scent of her, the feeling of her cheek shifting slightly on his shoulder, drifting down to nestle closer on his chest...where was the wrong of it, if it was only her desire?

It was a conflicted kind of blessing when at last she pulled away, left him standing there with knees a trace unsteady. Half a smile glowing joyous on her lips, and her eyes gleaming with the faintest sheen of tears. "C'mon, now," her hand grasping for his as they somewhat disengaged, dirty nails scratching at his calloused palm. "I figure you'll maybe heal up better if you keep movin'."

But she was soon pressed up again upon his side as they once more began to walk together. Her shoulder there beneath his arm, his hand held tight in hers, the way that it had been when she helped support him to her horse, worked so hard to save his life...he little was surprise to hear her murmur there beneath his ear. "I love you, pa." Softer now, though the silver words still echoed with a power that was far beyond their force. Resonating in his soul. "I do. Don't hardly care who knows it. And we...once you're well again, we can work this out. Can put things all together the way they oughta be, like you was never gone at all. And you..." Her voice was like a dream. "You can maybe teach more about the other half of life."

So powerful a promise, poisonous and sweet. James just walked beside, not trusting his tongue to speak for the ache of contradiction in his nerves. Want and remonstration, the deep tugging of desire at war against the cold reserve of judgement. And a certain sick suspicion that it scarcely mattered in which way he leaned, if he fought or just surrendered - that there was no objection he could raise, no obstacle he could erect which would be too much for this girl. That if he in fact had died, she would just have rode on down to hell, fought the devil for his soul and dragged him back to life.

---

The next few days would be a kind of stand-off, a lingering twilight between the darkness of his lust and the flame he clutched so desperate of affection still paternal. There was safety in the daylight - more or less, anyhow, puttering around the villa or in the town, while he waited for the dull ache in his belly to subside. Alice there beside him like a shadow...but even if his body was aware of hers, even if she insisted to slip up soft beneath his arm and walk with him as though the two were long-accustomed lovers, there was litle that could truly happen while he stuck to public places, while he could call upon propriety to buttress his restraint.

The nights, though, were another matter. Laying in the dark and warm beneath the covers, his daughter squeezed up cozily against him, nearly naked...even were there nothing more, the vileness inside him would have roused itself to this, insinuated its temptations deep inside him mind. Whispered wordless how he ought to tear her from her meagre wrappings, grab hold of those delicious thighs and pull them wide. Forge his way into that tangled crimson garden that he'd briefly glimpsed and sate himself upon her sweetness. Satisfy the rutting instinct that pounded deep and primal in his skull, feel her firm and youthful body squirm and stretch around the straining of his manhood, her lovely legs wrapped tight around his waist as he unleashed on her the passion and the need that he'd been damming up inside...

Far too easy to slip into such fancies, laying there beside her in the night. Knowing distantly the fact that hovered somewhere still beyond acceptance, that she would neither scream nor fight if he surrendered to his lust, that she would even welcome it...it was a truth that had no answer, a puzzle piece without a place. Hours of reflection - even, tentative, of prayer - had given him no better plan than just to act as though it were not true, as though any slip of his desire would bring from her the horror that it ought. As though she would forever hate him if he conceded just to turn in her direction, let his throbbing hardness to brush upon her thigh. It was a war inside him, and there could be no accomodation, no quarter given. Any compromise would soon collapse upon itself, leading to a sin that could never be undone. To steal his daughter's innocence...the reminder of the crime that stood before him was enough for now to stiffen his resolve, though he did not often try to think the words so plainly, lest repetition sap them of their strength. He was already weak enough, facing just his own desires.

For there was then the other battle, the one he did not even dare to fight. The one he'd lost the moment she had slipped into his bed, softe and lithe and winsome, and he had not found the will to leave or kick her out. Inaction was the height of his control; he could not go further to refuse her, could not tell her 'no.' And in the past few nights, she had taken to this lenience with a growing boldness. Laying sometimes half upon him, one arm thrown possessive across his chest, her long and slender legs sliding down to interlace with his. Her foot, her dainty toes, rubbing absently along the inside of his calf as his mind fixated to the feeling of her pubis pressed upon his upper thigh, separated by just the worn red flannel of his underclothes and by her own brief drapery of cotton. Or, what was harder still to take, when she would grab his hand...

He almost wondered if she meant it as seduction, for all that such a thing did not seem to be her style. Her nimble fingers curling firm around the backside of his unresisting hand, moving it to touch and slide upon her skin...a dark blessing for the beast inside him, a fulfillment of the wants that his conscience would not permit him to pursue. His fingers sliding slow across her body, soaking in her warmth, the feeling of her flesh made only more alluring in his uncertainty of where his hand would travel next. Resting gentle at the swanlike slimness of her neck, feeling there the subtle pulse of blood coursing just beneath the skin. Dropping down along her chest to lightly cup at the soft swell of her breast, three fingers sitting on the sturdy cloth of her corset while his thumb and forefinger lay ecstatic in the modest overflow above. Descending further still to light upon her narrow waist, her fingers slipping briefly free to squeeze his tightly closed above her hip...and such a flood of feeling sent to babble senseless in his mind. Ownership, conviction, the voice of primal instinct insisting she was his, that he should take her, claim her, allow no other man to know her beauty.

Madness. He knew it was, swore at himself savage in his mind - but that did not slow the eager pounding of his heart, did not still the thoughtless driving of desire that battered what was left of his restraint. So hard to remember in these moments even why it was that it was wrong. Especially as she moved his hand again upon her body, brought it trailing slowly upwards like a lingering caress, climbing on the subtle curves and valleys of her form. Brushing on her slim, athletic belly, the solidity of practiced muscle veiled with a slight softening of fat. Trailing up along the well-worn fabric of her corset, her chest, her neck, the rounded pertness of her chin, rising gently to her mouth...and holding there, enraptured.

His thumb was lightly touched to the bottom of her narrow jaw, his index finger laid down between the pillows of her lips, warm and moist and yielding. Slightly parting - his finger slipped in slowly deeper towards the heaven of her mouth, christened with the wetness there within. All his awareness fastened to that solitary digit as it felt the subtle scraping of her teeth, the fleeting presence of her tongue...it was so tentative at first, brushing almost guelty there upon the fleshy bottom of his finger, light and evanescent as an angel's kiss. Tasting of him, as a rattler tastes the air, a moment's touch of wet and velvet warmth.

If he closed his eyes, there was nothing in the world but the feeling of his finger's slow advance between her lips, no time in which to measure the quiet explorations of her soft and loving tongue. Just the blood that pounded hot inside his veins, hazy in his mind. An instant or an hour there before she let his fingertip to pass inside the corner of her lips, before at last this tiny part of him was sealed so sweetly there within. Her tongue now seeming unafraid, bold enough to wetly play upon his skin, to paint about his knuckle, soft and attentive, as a gentle suction puckered at her cheeks and shivered up his nerves.

That was where they were that night. An almost hum of slightly nervous bliss, buzzing bright in Alice's mind as she softly suckled at her father's fingertip, explored amidst the faint tracery of lines and spirals, imagining that she could feel them on her tongue. Shivering hot somewhere deep inside her at the feeling, the solidity and thickness of his finger pushed between her lips, halfway filling up her mouth. Soaking in the richness of his flavor, the subtlety of sweat and oils, the fulfilling bitterness of trail dust worn deep into his skin...the taste of him sat warm and thrilling at the center of her mind, her body set ablaze with the fevered dreams that it invoked.

Silent. Always silent in these nights - she never knew what words to speak, to ask for what a proper woman wouldn't want. The fumbling attempts she'd made before sounded foolish in her memory, humiliating. It was easier by far to simply take his hand in hers, to bring it down across her body to all the places which hungered for his touch...or almost all, anyway. Anxiously at first, afraid at any moment that he would rip his hand away, tell her stern and frowning that she was wrong to act so foward, that he had stood for it too long, that he was disgusted with her presumption.

But he didn't. Only lay down there beside her on the bed, as silently as she, breathing sometimes just a little faster as she held his palm against her breast. Her heart beating eagerly beneath, whispering carelessly excited of how much finer it would be if she'd only taken off her thick corset, if she could feel his roughened fingers squeezing bare upon her skin...the hope was stronger than the fears, urging her forward night by night, and as he stayed still quiet through it all she began to think perhaps they didn't need the words. That this was even how such things were meant to be, finding pleasure from his hand and from his presence until the night at last that he was taken by desire, and brought her hazy dreams to life.

If she could stand to wait so long. An open question - for every mote of pleasure that she found here at his side, every drop of satisfaction that she wrung from his finger thick and sopping in her mouth, there was an equal weight of yearning, of longing yet to be fulfilled. The smoky heat she carried, the wordless itch that burned from down beneath her belly...it was only stronger in these last few days, fanned into a conflagration by the teasing tingle of his touch. The frustrated ache she felt no longer even ending - she would be with him in the daylight, in plain and public view, when the sun would kiss upon his brow or cast a sculpted shadow on the grave and manly shaping of his jaw, and suddenly her cheeks would flush with color, her mouth go dry, her knees fall weak beneath her. The flame that nestled there between her hips flare up abruptly higher, dizzy and demanding, and she could only press up against his side and think about the night before, the evening still to come.

Such as tonight. His finger slipped into her mouth almost to the second knuckle, his presence warm against her...and her thighs rubbing slow together, squeezing out from one another a steady trickle of sensation, trembling and sweet. Dripping like the juices from an orange. And yet it still was not enough to slake her body's thirst, to satisfy the need that pulsed and whimpered so insistent from her center. The void inside her, aching to be filled.




Blood and Iron Ch. 05



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.

© 2005 Warlord

With the Princess's words, the Baron stood glaring at her. She frowned, gesturing rather emphatically. Radcliff slammed his sword back into its scabbard, before he stalked to the tables where the other black clad guardsmen were gathered.

A guardsman stepped up to the bar by Luther. This one had the mien of every 'non-com' I've ever seen, as he requested stabling the horses then made arrangements for food and lodging, digging in his purse to pay for it all. 

Now the princess's gaze settled on me. She walked forward I was forced to put up my Katana. Before I belatedly remembered my manners, she was already seated, gesturing to my chair and saying softly, "Sit, Brock, and let us talk without formality, one warrior to another. I am Nadia."

As I sheathed my blade, Nadia smirked, saying in her amused tone, "Very foolish hunter. Why?"

I shrugged, saying, "He reminded me of someone. Someone I did not like very much."

She cocked her head as she grinned. "Obviously." She continued, now more serious, "And if I had not interfered?"

I smiled coldly. "We would have danced, the baron and I."

She nodded, smiling in genuine amusement. "I've seen the baron dance. It might have been amusing, but I could not risk it."

I was puzzled and must have looked it, as she went on, "You might have killed him. What if the King chooses to imprison you for killing his pet baron? Far worse, he might have killed you."

I raised an eyebrow as I asked, "Far worse?"

She nodded, saying calmly, "Who knows how hunters might act in response to stories of the black baron killing one of them. The last time there was anything close to such a dispute was in my grandfather's grandfather's time. The hunters reacted badly to one of their own being jailed by the king."

I was interested in this little history lesson, so I asked eagerly, "They attacked, freeing him, my lady?"

The princess smiled prettily as she shook her head. "Nadia, please, but no, hunter Brock, far, far worse. Hunters, one and all, merely disappeared back into the forests. Animals ran wild; criminals were untouched while slaves ran away with impunity. The king was nearly deposed before he released the hunter, with lavish gifts of jewels and gold. It was years before hunters completely forgave the king, returning in numbers to the kingdom."

Nadia reached across the table, picking up my wine glass, taking a taste. I refilled the glass; she smiled, taking a healthy swallow while I sipped my coffee. 

Nadia smirked at me as she continued, "No more, Hunter, please, with your attempted dance lessons for our baron or others high born. The kingdom can ill afford it. Rather you would dance at one of the receptions at King Holm."

She looked at me archly as she dipped her finger in the wine, then used it, wetting her lips, saying seductively, "I would welcome a dance lesson." 

. 

With my start of surprise, I looked to see Cori and Ria busy helping the other slaves serve the platters of food and drink to the guardsmen. In the midst of all this activity Baron Radcliff's black eyes were locked on our table. Seeing my look, Nadia, grinning, made a dismissive gesture with her fingertips in the Baron's sightline. The sound of his palm striking the tabletop echoed through the great room like a pistol shot as he angrily turned away from us. 

Nadia settled deeper in the chair as she looked tiredly at me while I again filled the wine glass for her. She smiled gratefully as she said with a sigh, "Hard journey from Port City, hunter. We will rest, then late tomorrow on to Duke Edgar in Castle Town, then from there we press on to King Holm."

I nodded even though I did not yet have a good sense of geography and distance. I looked up to see Cori at a dead run toward our table bringing wine and ale for the princess. As Cori set the tray on the table, Nadia said appreciatively, "Thank you for this, but I will be dining with the guardsmen."

After another glass of wine disappeared in a swallow. Nadia looked over at me, asking, "And what of you, hunter?"

I shrugged as I answered, "I, too, travel to Castle Town."

Before I could elaborate, the Princess's face with wreathed in a huge smile as she practically gushed, "You must travel with us, Hunter. We have extra horses and the coach. I am sure the baron would be happy to provide a mount."

I am not sure if Nadia was aware of the fine irony of her baron providing a horse. My guess is that Radcliff's choice would qualify for a saddle bronc slot in the National Finals Rodeo. Climbing aboard would be an exciting few seconds for me I'm sure. Very God Damn few seconds!

This odd mating dance of Princess and Baron was making me nervous. Now that my brain was back somewhat in control I wondered what possessed me to call out a member of nobility in the middle of his troops. An armored, well armed and competent...

Then, too, the lovely Nadia throwing me in the baron's face was hardly likely to endear me. Not that I minded this time with Nadia - she was lovely. I would like to see what she looked like out of her armor. Okay, in a fancy dress at one of those royal balls. It seemed unlikely that she'd remember her invitation or me once she was on the road. Even more doubtful that the Black Baron Radcliff would let me get close enough in the future to remind her.

Before I could say or do anything getting me further enmeshed in the Nadia and Radcliff soap opera, Luther was standing next to our table. Nadia looked up, saying in an inquisitive tone, "Yes, Innkeeper?"

Luther answered in his best Innkeeper manner. "My lady, I have served the guardsman and Baron."

Nadia answered in a pleasant fashion. "Thank you, innkeeper. I will join them."

She started to rise with Luther quickly grabbing her chair. I stood up as well. Nadia grasped my hand as she smiled at me, saying with genuine warmth, "I enjoyed this time, hunter. Uncle Oswald will know of your hospitalities."

With that, she released my hand in one lithe motion, spinning and striding to join the guardsmen. She was already seated between two of them far down from the baron before Luther or anyone at their table could react. She was immediately talking animatedly with them and Trevor sitting across the table. Now they had full benefit of Radcliff's baleful looks. 

Luther looked over at me with a neutral expression. I shrugged as I asked softly, "Luther, would it be possible to get an early meal?"

He nodded. "Certainly, Brock, sir. How early?"

I answered, "I would like to be gone before dawn."

Now just a hint of a smile as Luther said, "Certainly, Brock, I will inform Trevor of your intentions while Cori and Ria will be sure that you awaken in good time. Will there be anything else?"

I nodded, saying, "Yes, Luther I'd like to remain a guest here at the inn."

Luther looked pleased as he said, "Of course, we will keep your room and any item you leave here will be in our safe keeping."

I picked up my Katana that had been leaning against the table and began walking toward the stairs. Suddenly the guardsmen 'non-com' blocked my way. Aw, shit.

Then he spoke in an altogether unthreatening way saying quietly, "Hunter, your knife."

As he pointed to the post behind us. He stepped around me pulled the knife out of the wood then smiling presented it haft first. I closed my mouth with a snap then taking the knife and sheathing it as I thanked him. He almost inaudibly said, "You missed."

I started, then grinned as I replied, "I was aiming for the wall."

Now he snickered as he returned to his seat. As I came abreast of the several packed tables, I realized the guards for the inn and the Baron's were intermingled. Trevor waved, wishing me a good night that was echoed up and down the tables. After a particularly pointed look from the Princess, Baron Radcliff offered his tepid one. I thanked them, as I waved and kept moving, away from any possible display by the Baron.

When I reached the steps, Cori was waiting with a small oil lamp. She led me up the stairs and along the hall to my room. There, the lights and fireplace were already lit. I set my sword and weapons aside, setting my watch to wake me with its chime. Cori threw off her shift and was swiftly at work stripping me. Soft knocking on the door announced Ria. Joining us, Ria pulled off her shift; then, naked, she knelt next to me, pulling down my pants. 

Cori was turning down my bed as Ria leaned forward, kissing and licking my exposed cock. She lifted it against my belly as her tongue swabbed with long, slow strokes. She paused, then her wet mouth engulfed my balls She let them fall out of her lips slowly; then her lips slid over the head of my cock. As her tongue lashed at my piss hole, my balls drew up, tingling, and I spasmed strongly into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged, then Ria swallowed, cradling my balls in her warm fingers. She smiled happily as she gently kissed my cockhead, before standing to lead me to my bed. 

Ria carefully positioned me supine in the center of the bed, while Cori knelt between my spread legs. She leaned forward until she took my soft cock in her mouth. Not sucking, just holding it between her lips as she settled on her stomach with her breasts on my thighs. Ria tucked herself under my arm kissing my cheek as she whispered, "Cori will spend the night holding you while I warm you."

I could only nod. I was spent, but her warm mouth on my cock sent erotic shivers though me. I settled back in the soft pillows, with Ria's soft breasts pressed against me. Surprisingly, I was asleep in an instant. 

*****

Awakening in the morning darkness was disorienting, until my mind caught up with recent events. I had awakened before the alarm. This was my accustomed internal clock, and it was nice to observe it carried over in this 'alien' environment. 

Ria was cuddled with her head on my chest. Warm breath on my balls was Cori under the coverlet, with her face nuzzled against them. My cock was hard with my 'morning wood,' as I remembered vivid erotic dreams of languorous blowjobs in the night. I was abruptly unsure if those were dreams. 

Glancing around the room in the morning darkness; lamps turned low with the fireplace reduced to a few glowing coals in the white ashes. I strained my ears, but all was silence outside my door. Lying quietly, I simply enjoyed the warmth of my companions. 

Soft chiming from my pocket watch brought Ria's head up. She kissed me softly as she welcomed me to wakefulness. I felt Cori's soft lips kiss the head of my dick; then, with a giggle, the bedspread lifted and I saw her bright eyes peering at me. 

Ria excused herself from my bed to turn up the lamps and stoke the fire. I stood up next to the bed, watching Ria, when I felt Cori stroking my cock. I looked down to see her stretched out on the bed with her honey blonde hair entwined around my dick. I hardened even more under her ministrations, with her hands stroking insistently. Her lips were far down on my shaft as her head bobbed back and forth. 

The firelight made her skin blush, with the twin globes of her perfect butt gleaming in the red-orange light. I reached forward, squeezing her ass, as Cori drew me deeper into her mouth. Her warm fingers, cupping my balls, set me off. I grabbed her butt in a bruising grip as I sprayed her mouth. She swallowed it all, then licking just the head, as she ended with a kiss to the crown. Cori looked at me with a grin, then kissed my cock head with an infectious giggle. 

Ria joined us, slapping Cori on the ass asking me quietly, "Bath, Brock, sir?"

I answered, "Yes, please, but a quick one."

They both giggled as they answered, "Yes, sir of course sir." 

We were naked as Ria and Cori each took an arm, leading me out the door and along the hall to the small toilet room; then, after my morning 'business' was done, into the shower room. 

They both scrubbed me with soaped fingers, Cori starting from my head and Ria my feet. Then Cori rinsed me with buckets of warm water, while Ria prepared the tub of hot water. When I was free of soap, Cori settled me in the steaming tub. Today I did not have time to laze in the tub. As I stood and stepped out of the tub, Cori began a brisk rubdown with a thick cotton sheet. 

With the big towel still wrapped around me, she led me back to my room, where Ria was busy laying out my clothes and weapons for my excursion into the woods. Starting with my soft buckskin pants and shirt, then my mail, armor, and weapons. With their help, I was swiftly dressed and my pack basket filled. 

I was carrying my Katana, with Ria leading, while Cori followed with my pack. At the bottom of the steps, I took in the common room, deserted, quiet and only dimly lit in this early morning. 

Luther spotted me and immediately signaled me to the same alcove where I had had my evening meal. The table was already set with juice, coffee, mead and wine. As soon as I was seated, Luther gestured and platters of food appeared from the kitchen. I was confronted with huge portions of eggs and potatoes with sausage, ham and bacon garnished with fruit and surrounded by rolls and biscuit. I did my best to make a dent, but as soon as I made any headway, a fresh laden tray would appear. I finally sagged back in 'defeat,' fully sated and sipping my coffee while I smoked a cigarette. 

Now Cori appeared with an oilcloth bundle and a tin quart container, saying brightly, "I have lunch for you Brock with coffee. This tin container is enchanted; it will keep hot for you." 

She tucked it in the top of my pack basket as I checked my watch. Luther saw my look as he asked, "Brock sir, would you like to speak to Trevor?"

I nodded as I stood. Luther went to the door and gestured. Trevor quickly joined us. I grinned as he said, "You are up early, hunter. What can we do to help you?"

I said softly, "A favor Trevor. Could you please arrange a bit of diversion, so that a person would be distracted from seeing someone leave by that door?"

Luther and Trevor smiled as Trevor said, "That will be my pleasure, hunter Brock. When?"

I looked out the Inn door that Trevor had left open to see the first faint light of false dawn. I pointed, saying, "Now, or soon as possible please."

Trevor nodded as he shook my hand, saying, "Certainly, Brock, and good hunting."

I said, "Good luck to you, Trevor."

He turned and headed out, leaving the door still wide open. I reached down to retrieve my crossbow, cocking it and setting a quarrel in place. Last, I tucked my Katana in my belt. I shrugged the pack onto one shoulder, holding my crossbow as I continued to calmly smoke, standing back from the door.

I shook Luther's hand then kissed and hugged Ria and Cori. I handed Ria my empty coffee cup as I took a last drag on my cigarette, handing the butt to Cori just as Trevor blew a brass whistle, and began loudly assembling his men in the middle of the road in front of the Inn. 

Giving it a second, then, I moved out the door, then sideways to the end of the porch. Without pause I swung under the porch railing. I moved swiftly across the open space, jumping over the low wall and into the thick forest. 

I stopped in the thick foliage, looking and listening, but nothing seemed amiss. I changed out of my boots and into soft thin-soled moccasins that would allow me to move silently. As dawn broke I drifted westward away from the inn paralleling the road to River town. 

The faint game trails gave me easy passage as I took my time, vigilant to the possibility of ambush. I saw the lightening ahead of a clearing. I approached even slower. Peering through the thick foliage I thought I saw a slate roof 

TO BE CONTINUED



Blood and Iron Ch. 05



The sun was high already in the sky when James' eyes at last flickered dully open. His arms instinctively grasping for the girl who had lain so tenderly upon him the past night, whose words and cries and actions had left him lying there awake for hours in the dark, his mind inflamed with ardor...but she was gone. He was alone there in the bed - blessedly, damnably alone, his relief a hollow spectre before the deeper stab of disappointment. His first real action as he stirred awake, to glance blearily around the room, hoping he might look upon her beauty as a welcome to the day. Perhaps that they might talk about the night before.

God. Such madness, that. His memories of it were as vivid as if it were happening only now, feeling her body clench and squirm around his finger, that favored digit advancing at her urging into the velvet wetness of her womanhood. Her melodies of pleasure resounding in his ear, subtly emphatic sighs and whimpers, evocative enough to stir a dead man's heart. And the hysteria which had come over her before the end...he was not wholly shocked by it, as her mother had been prone to such fits herself, when in the act. But it was still an all-too-tempting thing, to feel her body arch and shudder there against him, to hear that gasping little cry as she clung so tight and desperate to his chest. The seeming of a moment's helplessness, in this girl so bold and strong.

Bold, yes. Even in light of the nights before, of her explorations with his hand, he still had not imagined she would dare so far. Perhaps his first few moments of passivity could be blamed on that, on the surprise that froze his will when she slipped his hand beneath her bedclothes, when he felt his fingers slide amidst that thatch of dewy, tangled hair. Perhaps. But for the afterward...there could be no excuse. Nothing to justify the way he'd only lay beside her, permitting her to penetrate herself upon his finger. No explanation but his weakness, his own depraved desires - he'd known that he must stop her, that this could not be allowed, but in the warmth and dark beside her he could not find the will to act on it. Could not refuse the sweetness of this sin.

Ah, and then the afterward. When she lay upon him, when his rigid, aching manhood had been pressed into her thigh, when she trailed those slender, skillful fingers down along his chest. When she offered herself to him, if he wanted her...if. The absurdity of that question. If water was wet, if the sky were blue. If he could think of anything beyond the way her womanhood had almost seemed to suckle at his finger, the silken, youthful tightness of her channel, the modest weight of her on top of him, and the feeling of those strong and sculpted legs entwined with his - it was no less than a miracle that he had not succumbed to his desires, that the paltry thing he called a conscience had grabbed his tongue for long enough to speak at all. One last gasp of effort, holding back the lustful roaming of his hands for sufficient time that she could fall asleep...a sanctuary, that. Before the soft and calming cadence of her breath, the gentle pressure of her bosom pushing at his chest with every inhalation, even the demon there inside him could not bear to wake her from her rest.

For what little it was worth. What good it was to last one single night, when so many more awaited. A sickly sort of certainty sat firm and fatalistic at the bottom of his mind - he would not be able to resist another. Not the way things were. Not when even in the sober light of a solitary morning his flesh was yet aflame with the remnants of her touch, when his perverse imagination whirled with lurid dreams of them together in the night, of those perfect legs wrapped tight around his back, of soaking in her pleasured cries as he thrust forcefully inside her, unleashing every ounce of lust that he felt seething in his veins.

And how much more damning, now, that the thought little even phased him, that it did not shock him anymore that he would think of her this way. That he could summon just the faintest twinge of guilt and self-disgust as he brought before his lips the finger that had been inside her, inhaled slowly of her scent still clinging to his skin...oh, that subtle musk of womanhood, rich and pungent, thick and heady as the spices of a foreign land. Filled with wordless whispers to the animal in man. All his recriminations were little competition to the excitement that it spurred, the eager appetite that tingled up his spine in anticipation of the night ahead. After all, a man can only take so much. She was so beautiful a creature, intoxicating and sublime, offering herself to him. And he had been without a woman's company in what felt so very long...

The thought occurred almost unwelcome, a shiver of reason interrupting his inching towards surrender. Perhaps he was in need of the relief that only a woman's touch can give...but that did not mean that it must be her. There were other women in the world, even if his eyes had scarcely seemed to notice them of late, women who were not his kin, with whom an hour's leisure would not be the gravest of sins. And while he little had the charm to win an honest woman's fancy as swiftly as he needed, there was rarely any shortage of fallen angels to work the bars and brothels of the land. He still was in possession of that little pile of bills, neatly bundled in his pack - it might not be so hard a thing to buy a bit of respite, some clarity of mind. Perhaps to find his sanity again, once his frustrated haze of lust was burnt away.

Strange, though, the uncomfortable misgiving that flitted through him at the thought. Guilt, as though he were contemplating a betrayal. The memory of Alice there upon his chest, still trembling with hysteria, proclaiming so enchantingly sincere that she was now his woman, that they were joined. As if the night had been a kind of promise, a vow between two people that no church would ever wed, that he now threatened to forsake.

Nonsense. Reason was a scowling thing, stern and cold. Absurdity. A man could not be unfaithful to his daughter, whatever madness there had come to be between them - this was just another sign of his corruption, coming up with senseless reasons to give in. Whatever she had said, he would be a better father if he did this. Cleared his mind with a quick indulgence, so that her presence did not arouse in him desires to excruciating, so divine. And afterward...perhaps find her another man that she could love, that she should love, that would have no cause for guilt or hesitation at the power of her passion. Though this thought, too, made for a silent ache down in his marrow, one that he had to glare away as he rose up out of bed, preparing for the day.

---

It did not take long to track down Javier - the man was working in his office when James let himself in, peering over a ledger of tight-spaced, half-scribbled numbers. Seeming happy enough to drop it back down to his desk, looking up cheerily to the door as the other man entered. "Ah, good morning, Señor Blake!" Faint amusement in his ever-sunny smile. "Or good nearly-noon, as the case may be. It is good to see you up - your company at breakfast was sorely missed."

"Had a rough night." It seemed safe enough a thing to say, tense and still conflicted. Deciding how to broach the question he was there to ask.

"I could imagine, yes." The response came back a trifle dry. "Would that we all could have such nights. I find my own of late to be a touch more settled than I might desire...but. You are hungry, I suppose? I would hardly think I need to say it, but you need not hesitate to make requests of the chef. He is not so busy in these days that he should balk at another chance to practice his craft." Humor tugging slightly sideways at his lip.

"No, ain't hungry in particular." A bit too dry and stuffy in the room - James wet his lips before he spoke again. "Alice around?"

Javier's eyebrow lifted up a trace at that, quietly bemused. Almost admiring, contrasting with the tone of faint apology in his answer. "I am sorry to say that she is not, so far as I am aware. She mentioned she was going into town for a purchase of some sort; I imagine she should be back before too terribly long, if you find yourself already starving for her company." James took this with a grunt, seemingly impassive, leaning back against the wall's dark red papering of damask; it was a few silent moments before Javier spoke again, beginning with a gentle little cough. "I confess, Señor, that I am a trifle busy. Is there something in particular I can do for you?"

"There is, matter of fact." Straight to the point. That was the simplest way. Not to fuss about with subtle, coy suggestions - just to get an answer. "You said before there was a brothel in town. I was hopin' you could tell me where it is."

There was no mistaking the incredulity that shaped the other man's expression as his gaze shot up again to James, eyes startled wide and jaw dropped just ajar in consternation. It took a flustered moment for him to find his composure once again, to paste the smile back upon his lips - albeit now a touch uncertain. Brief and troubled laughter. "You are having a jest with me, I suppose, yes?"

"No," James answered brief and frowning. Wondering distantly now if he might not have been wiser just to find the place on his own. "Ain't rightly in the mood for jokes. Just lookin' for directions."

"Señor Blake," Javier answered somewhere between amazement and reprimand. His fingers curled now somewhat stiffly on the fine wooden desk. "I scarcely know what I should say. In truth, I am rather shocked that you would ever consider such a thing. I suppose I had thought better of you...what, after all, of Miss O'Connor?"

"What about her?" He muttered back, vague and uncooperative. Not quite meeting the other man's eye, as his damned fool heart guiltily kicked up a little quicker.

"Come now," Javier lectured firmly. "It is certainly no secret that the two of you are involved with one another. I am not myself so lofty a man as to moralize that you are cavorting together while still unwed...but this is quite another matter, now. That you would go behind the back of so remarkable a woman, for no more than a common prostitute - in honesty, I can little imagine how you could even wish it, much less think it to be acceptable." The faint rasping of offense in his voice was positively scathing, compared to his usual gentle bonhomie.

"Listen, Hernández," James fired strongly back, frustration already tight and ornery in his throat. Intending to defend himself from the man's misjudgment of an accusation - how absurd it was to be maligned for this, for the desperate efforts of resistance to a sin more shocking than the man could have imagined. But the words died silent on his lips. There was nothing he could say, no way he could explain himself without revealing the truth. And the risks of that were far beyond what he could countenance. Instead he only shook his head, grimaced low and sour, and tried for bravado instead. "I ain't askin' for your permission, hear? Only for where the damn place is. If'n you don't want to tell, I can just track it down some other way."

The curling of disgust was more than evident in Javier's expression as he answered. "If you are so determined to prove yourself a cad...the establishment is on the northern edge of town. One can scarcely miss it - the owner thought it clever to paint its outer walls in pink."

James was already turning stiffly round to leave with a quick muttering of thanks when Javier spoke again. "And, Señor." A note of warning in his voice, cold and firm. Threatening. "I cannot promise you that I will not be informing the young lady of your excursion.

Silence at that, looking back over his shoulder in Javier's direction. A stab of nameless worry at the threat - it would hurt her to be told. No doubt, no question. Despite that there was nothing real between them, nothing that could be permitted, he knew that she would feel this as a betrayal, a rejection, and the weight of it hung heavy on his soul. The image of her lovely features twisted up in pain...he could almost see her there, desolate and beautiful, the beginning glint of tears in her deep and muddy eyes, and a sickly shudder of misgiving stroked like icy fingers down his spine. How could he think of this, of doing anything that would cause her suffering? He loved her - the thought, the feeling lumping suddenly inside his throat. God, he loved her so, more than made a lick of sense, far more than just a father's fondness. If she were only there before him, if he could hold her tightly in his arms and kiss away her sorrows, tell her how he felt. Tell her that would be anything she wanted, anything that gave her joy.

It was no good. Reason desperately reasserted itself, wrenched back into control. If he loved her, he had to treat her right. The way a father should. Even if it hurt her, if it hurt him, if it was not what either of them wanted. Even if it made them miserable. That was reality. "You do what you gotta, Hernández." A low and moody mutter, as James stepped out the door.

---

It was no more than minutes later that Alice rode up sedately to the stable, slipped down graceful from the saddle of her horse. A silly, unselfconscious smile glowing on her lips - she'd been wearing it since that morning, since waking up so sweetly in her father's arms. The feelings of the night before still circulating in her veins, soft and warm, a buzz of bliss surrounding her like cotton wool. She'd hardly even felt the need to move - just lay there close against him, soaking in his body heat, luxuriating in his rich and textured scent, watching in adoring fascination as the sturdy bristles of his moustache shifted slightly with the even tempo of his breath. Happiness caressing on her consciousness like waves upon the shore, rolling slow and placid through her mind. Belonging. Love. Whatever anger there had been, whatever misery and hurt...it was in the past, forgotten. Forgiven. She had her pa again, in most all the ways that she had dreamed. She was never going to let him go.

The joy she'd felt there had scarce diminished in the intervening hours, when she'd finally, grudgingly slipped away for breakfast - quietly, so as not to wake him. And it was set to sparkle up a little stronger as she dropped her hand inside her coat, tracing foolishly delighted at the little package there within. A new tin of tobacco, laboriously purchased from a storekeeper who had either spoken not a bit of English or else had just refused to use it. A gift, for the man she loved. Perhaps enough to earn a kiss, or an embrace, or just his subtle, handsome smile...she could hardly wait to find out which she would receive.

But in the villa proper, she soon found instead that he was strangely absent. Not in their shared bedroom, nor in the parlor, nor at the dining table - she was about to head outside again for a circuit round the outer wall when she noticed Javier at the top of the central staircase, regarding her with an expression uncharacteristically grave.

"Howdy there, Hernández." She was first to speak, still too much of joy inside of her for any real formality. "You seen my...ah, you seen James around?"

There was a pause before he answered. Starting down the stairs, his tones quiet and reserved. "I have seen him, yes."

"Well," the grin flared up elated on her lips, her mood magnifying even this faint relief into a cause for celebration. "Where's he got himself off to, then?"

Another beat of silence - Javier stood now before her at the bottom of the stair, his gaze serious and appraising. Questioning. "You care quite a bit for this man, if I am not mistaken."

Her smile quirked crooked to the side, a reaction born more of expectation than of any true embarrassment. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed of it, that it was so plain to see...but with all the glow of love that filled her soul, she could little find the room to fit so dark a feeling. Could scarcely even bring herself to conceal the fact of who he was. Her father. Her pa... "S'ppose there ain't no hidin' it." A blissful sparkle in her eye. "I figure I'm his girl."

Perhaps a trace of disapproval - the man's mouth pursed into a momentary frown. But he showed no other sign of a reaction as he continued, inquiring thin and delicate. "Have you considered that he may be unworthy of your regard?"

Her lips parted for a moment, pronouncing the beginning of some playful rejoinder...but she dropped again to silence before she fully spoke a word. How strange a question - it was a sour note to hear amidst her melody of joy, a touch of apprehension pressing cold at the back of her skull. A trace of worry deepening her tone, when at last she answered. "Ain't quite certain what you mean."

He paused again before he spoke, letting out a long and troubled exhalation through his nose. His standard smile flickering just briefly in his expression before it fell away again. "It is not an easy thing to say." His eyes on her almost apologetic. "And, I am certain, harder still to hear...perhaps you should like to be sitting down before I say anything further."

All of this forewarning did no favors for the tension growing in her gut, the anxious wondering of what this could even be about. A wave of sudden horror running sickly down her spine, as an unendurable notion suggested itself and was instantly rejected. He hadn't left. He couldn't have. Not now, out of the blue, after everything that had passed between them...she could not completely keep the quaver from her voice, despite the sharpness of her tongue. "You oughtta know by now I ain't the faintin' sort. Just say what's on your mind."

A little nod at this, acknowledging. "As you like. Señorita, it was scarcely ten minutes past that your paramour appeared before me in my office, asking..." A grimace curled in his expression, looking in her eyes - he shook his head again, fairly begging for delay. "You must not think, my lady, that this is any sort of a reflection upon you. You are a fine woman, beautiful and strong. Unique. My own wife would be dismayed to know how often I have thought of you, after just your brief appearance those few years ago. A man who does not value your affection, I feel, is little worthy of the name."

If there was the edge of a suggestion to his words, she little heard it. Frustration tight and aching at her jaw, a jangling of nerves at his reluctance just to speak things plain. "For god's sake, Hernández, what in blazes happened?"

Another inhalation, maddeningly slow, before at last he answered. "He asked about the local brothel. Where it is, how to get there." His mien dropping heavy with cultured, sorrowful disgust.

"What?" Alice fairly whispered back, disbelieving. Not wanting to believe. After the magic of her night with him, the togetherness she'd felt, after she'd promised him that she was now his woman...he'd just gone out after some lady of the evening?

"Shameful, yes," Javier intoned serious and low. "Though he scarcely seemed to realize the fact, himself...please, though, señorita, you must not let yourself be hurt by his behavior. I have seen men like him before, all too often - heartless men, driven only by their base desires, careless of whom they may injure. It is no fault of yours, that he would-"

"He was..." She interrupted with a tense and shallow murmur, words stumbling and uncertain. A nauseous feeling clutching at her stomach, at her throat. "He say why? Why he wanted to know? If he was maybe just...just gettin' to know the town, if he..."

Even as she spoke them, she knew how flimsy these explanations sounded. Saw the painful look of pity in Javier's expression as he gently shook his head, reached for her hand to squeeze it lightly in his own, his thumb stroking comforting along her knuckles. "He did not say." Quiet words, pressing on remorseless. "But in truth, my lady, there is but a single reason he would have wished to know." Silence just a moment before he spoke again, sliding back into his smooth and ceaseless melody. "As I had tried to say, though, you must not blame yourself. Some men are simply faithless by their nature - particularly those of a criminal bent. The proper action now is just to take him from your mind. It will aid you nothing for you to worry-"




Blood and Iron Ch. 05



"Where?" Again she interrupted, demanded fierce and slightly feverish. Desperate. He was wrong. He had to be. He'd misheard, or misunderstood, or he was lying to her, or... "The brothel. Where is it?"

Sadness in his smile, prim and proper, neatly placed. Speaking still so maddeningly careful and refined. "Ah, señorita. I understand your upset. I do. But you do not wish to follow him. It is no place a proper lady should even have to see."

"Don't you tell me what I want." Her answer snapped back, sharp and aching. "I ain't feelin' like no proper lady, anyhow." Pulling back her hand from his, as the breath hissed quick between her teeth.

Still he smiled, slight and sorrowful. "Señorita, it will bring you nothing but pain, if you should go after him. I little feel that I should permit it."

"I ain't askin' for permission!" She fairly shouted back at him, fists shaking at her sides. Helpless anger twisted in her gut, curdled from her tension, her frustration at his smooth and stubborn disobedience. "Just tell me where he is!"

At least this had an impact - his lips finally flattened to a mild frown, looking back at her, a strange expression in his eyes. "Yes..." The sound of lingering surprise transitioned abruptly to even tones, quick and dispassionate. Almost curt. "I suppose not. Very well. The establishment is on the northern edge of town. A two-story affair, painted pink. What you find there...well, it is none of my concern, is it?"

He turned then, strode off with so little delay that Alice would have almost thought it rude, were she not preoccupied with her own departure. Hurrying back out the door, to the stable, atop her horse. Spurred out to the north without a pause, anxiety and dread pounding in her heart. Her father wouldn't be there, where Javier had said. He couldn't be. And if he was...

---

Seated on a thickly-cushioned chair inside those pastel walls, James itched with impatience at the slow routine and expectations of a visit to the brothel. The affected friendliness of idle chatter with the madame who had sidled up to greet him, asking where he'd come from, what he did. The excruciating introductions to the girls she had working there, stepping out to turn and curtsey for his eyes in light and flimsy dresses, baring leg up to the middle thigh. Despite his silent hopes, none of them looked a thing like Alice. Not in any way that mattered. No crimson hair or gaze of green, no athletic tightness of a body toned by work and action; they were soft and sloppy women, voluptuous to an extent that no longer quite appealed. Painted up in garish colors, the thick blush slapped atop their faces seeming like a mockery of the subtly enchanting tint that had touched from time to time upon his daughter's cheeks. And for all their steady, practiced smiles...there was nothing in their eyes. No fire, no joy. Hardly even any life.

It didn't matter. Not for what he had in mind, a simple satisfaction of his body's thoughtless wants. He'd picked a girl near at random, 'Isabela,' and sat for chafing moments through the stilted struggling of conversation that followed after. The brief acquaintanceship that lent a slight veneer of meaning to these mercenary couplings. In prior visits, he even had enjoyed it - the flirtatious little back-and-forth with a woman young and lovely, pretending for a time that she truly cared what he might have to say. Today it felt an awkward, pointless thing, each of them unskilled in the other's native tongue. It was a relief when at last she rose up once more to her feet, ushered him on into a private room to do the work that was before her.

He stood there now, beside the bed, waiting as she stroked inviting down her body's ample curves. Striving to call up the flame of lust that had so recently tormented him, frustrated with the damnable coolness of his flesh. It made no sense. He had a woman here, stretched out in thin and flimsy underthings, ready to be taken. The dark brown of her nipples peeking at him through her filmy négligée, topping dusky, Latin breasts. Duly-practiced purring in her throat. "I am waiting for you, señor..." - and yet it felt so empty, hollow. Scarcely a flicker of temptation to look at her, as though she were but a pile of clay, crudely shaped into a woman's form. A pale imitation, a laughable pretender, beside the angel that waited for him when he closed his eyes.

God, but he could almost see her, even now. The vision once again of Alice in the bath, exposed, unveiled in all her glory. The smoothly shaped perfection of her trim and tempting bosom, standing firm and proud, of her slender waist and gently arching hips. The subtle curl of rosewood locks above her so-expressive features, as beautiful in sorrow as she was in joy. And those little pillows of her lips, slippery and pliant when she pressed up close to kiss him, when she suckled softly at his finger, let her loving tongue to caress along his skin...

There was his arousal, twitching against the fabric of his trousers. Awakened by the memory, by the image of his daughter. Hardly even any guilt, now, to feel it flow inside him, through him, the stirring of this terrible desire. Pragmatism there instead, hands drifting to the buttons of his shirt, of his pants - he could pretend that it was her, that it was Alice there beneath him as he drove into this woman in search of his release. Let it be his daughter's flesh on which his fingers slid and squeezed, into which he thrust...it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, save that she was protected, that he did not truly use her for his body's selfish wants. So long as it was only just a dream. The shirt was off his shoulders as he dropped down to the mattress, as he let one hand to stroke along the woman's thigh and told himself it was another's. Alice...his beloved little girl, his little rose...

Engaged in this indulgence, James little heard the slamming of the brothel's outer door, was only distantly aware of heated voices in the parlor on the floor below. Not until the bedroom door burst abruptly open there behind him was his attention captured, did his startled gaze wheel round to see the figure standing there in heavy boots and sweeping duster. Her eyes already fixed to his, staring with so great and thick a welter of emotion that he could scarce begin to read it. Rage and heartbreak all at once, betrayal tight and anguished on her lips.

It was just a moment later that the madame appeared behind, clearly flustered, speaking swift and apologetic. "Forgive me, señor. She would not listen when I requested that she leave. Threatened me, she-"

"'ts all right." James interrupted, murmured low and quiet. Looking still at Alice, at her rigid jaw and burning gaze, as he felt the burden of his own half-undress, of the woman laying awkward there beside him on the bed.

A moment passed, a beat, the madame gingerly withdrawing from the scene, aware of something deeper here between them. That long before his daughter spoke. "Why?" Rasping from her throat, trembling in pain and fury. Her brow pulled taut and low, a tinge of red beginning already to stain around her muddy pupils.

He could only shake his head a trace, mutter grave and solemn. "You shouldn't'a come here, Alice." A thread of guilt, of shame along his spine. For the hurt that he had feared, now brought before him. For how lovely she appeared to him even now, stiff and quivering in anger.

She hardly responded to the words. "Ain't I good enough?" Stepping closer with a heavy tread, bitterness and accusation scraping rough across her tongue - he rose up from the bed himself, hitching up his trousers towards a semblance of decency. Distantly thankful that at least she had not burst in minutes later, and found him in a greater impropriety. "Ain't I pretty enough, ain't I...?" 

The words choked off without conclusion, dissolved into a jumbled ache of feeling that burned like poison in his ears, in his heart. He could only shake his head a trifle, answer low and ghostly. "Ain't about that."

"Ain't about that!" The laugh that shuddered out of her could just as well have been a sob. Repeating the words - mocking, incredulous, furious. Hysterical. "Ain't about that! Ain't never about nothin', is it? Ain't no reason why you run off when I turn my back, why you'd say I'm beautiful and then go out'n find yourself a whore!" Those fine pink lips twisted down in misery, as wetness glistened in her eyes. "You such a coward you can't even say it? That I ain't what you want at all, that you figure I'm just crazy? Only puttin' up with me because of obligation?"

Behind him, the woman James had hired tried subtly to gather up her clothes around her, to slink off from the center of this fight. But she had not passed two feet from the bed before the flame of Alice's gaze was turned to her, attention baleful and fierce, rage unhindered by any softer feeling. "And you," a snarl on her lips, anguish sharpened almost into madness. "You figure you can just show off a little leg t'get anyone you want? You think after all I done to find him, all I done to keep him from dyin', I'll just let you take him from me?" And as the last few words trembled off her tongue, her right hand came up clutching her revolver, pointing at the woman's chest.

A few things happened all at once. A little scream of terror as the woman tossed her hands into the air, let her discarded clothing to tumble to the floor as she exclaimed in Spanish. James, beside, hurried forth a step to stand between them, speaking with a calm and an assurance far beyond the tension that he truly felt. "You can't do that, Alice."

This intervention seemed to hit her almost as a solid blow, her shoulders tightening beneath a fresh collapse of misery. The ache almost imploring on her tongue, "You're protecting her?"

"No, I ain't." He denied it, swift and serious as he was able, scrambling for something to defuse this crisis here before it exploded into tragedy. "Listen now - I'm protecting you. You shoot this girl, and damn sure people won't be near as grateful as when you put away them crooked guards." Staring at her, at those enchanting eyes now boiling with rage and sorrow. Willing her to reason. "They'll be callin' for a noose around your neck."

"Think I care?" Alice spat back, blustered vicious, though he still could hear the hollowness of pain within her tone. "I'll put a bullet in anyone't tries. Anyone that gets in my way. Ain't no different than what you done yourself. Maybe then I'll even be..." Despite her striving of fire and ferocity, the words were crumbled to a cracked and aching ruin before she could complete the thought. A damp glitter in her gaze, as anger struggled mightily to hold back tears. Trying again, with even less success. "Maybe you'll..."

"Alice." He interrupted softly, the faintest note of chiding in his voice. "I know you ain't the type."

Quiet then, a silence that lingered on as Alice tried to recompose herself, to find her voice and force back the slight upwelling of her tears. Glaring back at him, wrathful and wretched at all once, an almost pleading in her gaze even as she still held her gun upon his chest. The way she had a week before, at their reunion, when he had offered only pitiful excuses for why he'd left her, all those years ago. A struggling of feeling in her features, tense and agonized, a keening of emotion that echoed painful in his heart. He hadn't wanted this, wished now that he had not come here, that there had been some other way. Whatever he had thought before, whatever chill of calculation, whatever grim and measured certainty that it was just what must be done...he did not have the stomach for it now, faced with the reality of her anger and her tears.

"My own fault, ain't it." It was a mutter, a bitter, choking grunt forced out resistant from her throat. A rigid, rasping tightness to her stance, limbs held stiff together as though they might otherwise collapse into a heap; the gun dropped again into its holster, and Alice didn't even look at Isabela as she scurried from the room. Her eyes still fixed instead upon her father, speaking low and quietly accusing. "Bein' such a fool. Trustin' you again, when you even said yourself you was a liar." A harsh and broken mutter upon those perfect lips. "Lovin' my own pa this way, knowin' he's a thief, a cheat, a killer. Just..." Another bout of silence as she shook her head, swallowed - but when she looked up again at him, her eyes were dry. Defiant. "I figured I could be enough. That even if you ain't but the lowest man on Earth, I still could learn to be your woman. That you'd give me half a chance before headin' out to make love to a stranger."

He could manage just a little grimace, recrimination aching in his mind. The lowest man on earth - how close to that he felt. All his best efforts seemed just to lead to ruin, to disaster and regret. Seeking to spare her from his lusts, and succeeding only just to make her think that she was second fiddle to a prostitute...truth was feeble, quiet on his tongue. "I wouldn't'a been makin' love to her, Alice."

She snorted back, soft with dismal disbelief. Sarcasm twisting sour in her voice, a tone almost of resignation. "Right. I reckon you was gettin' ready for a game of pinochle."

"No," he shook his head, spoke low and solemn. "Just makin' time...you got to understand, there ain't no love in a thing like that. 'ts just about the act, about gettin' some relief." Her gaze in his, narrowed with frustration, with mistrust. Anger still thrumming just beneath her skin, apparent to the eye. "I wasn't lyin', neither. Leastwise, not when I said you were beautiful." A flicker of a smile on his dry, cracked lips - he could offer little more. "Man can't hardly look at you without thinkin' what could be, dreamin' it. I ain't even got the words to rightly say how fine a girl you are. Like an angel come down to earth, traded in your wings for blue jeans. Like a flower, growin' here in the dirt. A wild rose...don't reckon I'd even be here, if you weren't."

She was already working at some sharp rejoinder, self-pitying and bitter - but she had spoken no more than half a word before his final sentence seemed to strike her, before she paused, glanced back into his eyes. Perplexity and suspicion on her tongue. "What do you mean, you wouldn't be here?"

"Ain't you listened?" The faintest edge of humor, wan and little felt. "Way I feel for you, Alice...it ain't the way a father oughtta. And the way we been these past few nights, last night..." He shook his head, bit a moment at his tongue. The truth. Almost a relief to speak it, the things he hadn't wanted her to know. After all his bluffing, all his attempts to muddle through in search of a solution he could scarce begin to name...maybe it was time now just to lay his cards upon the table. "Got me close to givin' in, doin' something to you that I couldn't never take back." His eyes heavy, solid. "I can't let that happen. 'ts why I come out here, try to clear my head before I lose control. God help me, little rose, but this ain't 'cause I don't want you. It's 'cause I do."

For a few long moments she just stared at him, lips sealed shut. Breathing through her nose, quick and deep. Disbelief upon her brow, a look almost accusing twisted through her expression. Through her tongue, as at last she spoke, a high and forceful whisper hissing past barely-parted teeth. "What?"

James hesitated, frowned, uncertain of the meaning of the question. Tried to find a way to restate this appalling truth with at least a trace of delicacy. "I'm sa-"

He got through no more than that - cut off as Alice moved with all her practiced swiftness, as her fist abruptly caught him squarely on the jaw. Dainty knuckles crashing into bone, sending him to stagger back a step, head spinning through a quarter-turn. Grunting low, unthought, as the blow bloomed white and sharp along his nerves. Despite her skill, Alice did not have quite the mass or muscle of a man, and her strike made for more surprise than pain - but there was still quite enough to inspire a moment's daze and sluggish shock. And he had hardly turned again to face her, bringing up his hand to rub ruefully where she'd hit him, when the deluge started.

"You think that's better?" Her tone ascended from a whisper up almost to a scream. "Think I'll be happier, knowin' that you want me while you're sleepin' with someone else? That I won your eye and still can't have you?" Arms trembling with fury at her sides, hands curled into shaking fists. "You figure I'll be glad there ain't even any reason why you won't have me, why you'd sneak out behind my back to lay down with some woman you don't even know?"

"'ts nonsense, Alice," he mumbled back around his aching jaw. Unable quite to look her in the eyes, to face her pupils glittering like little stars. "There's plenty reason. I'm your father, I can't...thing like that, it ain't supposed to be."

Another moment passed, another breath - he could not help but flinch a little as she moved again in his direction, anticipating another blow. As she lunged suddenly upon him like a mountain lion on a deer, capturing her prey...but contact here was somewhat softer. Her modest bosom crushed against his chest, cushioning her impact, wiry arms slipping back around his neck to clutch him tight; there was no time in which to think before he was borne backwards for a step to half-collapse upon the bed, before her honeyed lips were pressed to his. A fervent kiss, insistent, defiant. Demanding - this was not the loving gentleness, the hesitation and the artless striving that had carried her before. There was anger in her motions now, in the mashing of her moist and pliant lips upon his mouth, fiery and fierce. But it was just as thrilling as before, intoxicating, her slender curves pressed firm against him, her shifting weight upon his lap as the sweetness and the naked hunger of this kiss slipped through the yawning cracks in his control. His own arms slipping up instinctive to her waist, to her back, while her roaming lips soothed his jaw's remaining hurt.

"No such thing as 'ain't supposed to be.'" Her fearless murmur traced swift along the whiskers of his cheek when at last she pulled away. Her fingers squeezing tight, emphatic at his shoulders as she glared into his eyes. "Don't make a lick of difference if you are my father. I love you, pa," the words sounding at this moment almost like a threat, a warning. "And if you feel the same, there ain't nobody out there that can tell us 'no.' Ain't no reason we can't have the same as any other man and woman could." Sitting there astride him, her taut and shapely bottom resting on his thighs. Her legs on either side, doubled back. "It ain't hurtin' anyone, for us to be together."

"It is." His voice was shallow, weak, striving vainly for the sternness that had served him well before. The words were all he had now - his body didn't listen, refused to take his hands from where they sat upon her back, refused to stop her as she pushed his shirt from off his shoulders, letting it to fall in a heap upon the bed. "It's hurtin' you, it's..." Silence, trailing off. He could not quite hold the reason in his mind, the harm that would befall her if they surrendered to this sin. But there were other answers. "Even if it ain't, that don't mean it's somethin' that can be. Folk'd likely string me up if they knew I done a thing like that with my own child."

"I ain't gonna tell'm." A reckless promise on her lips, hovering just inches now from his. One hand stroking up along his chest through the scratchy fabric of his underclothes, the other swiftly working at the wooden buttons of her shirt. "Ain't gonna let'm do it, neither. After all I done, all the years I spent, I ain't about to let nobody take you from me. Nobody." Her tone thick and solid with determination - while he could little keep his gaze from flitting down to see her fingers at their work, the baring of the skin above her breast, her narrow, steady shoulders, that tempting little strip of flesh about her waist, left uncovered both by her drawers and her corset... "'sides, you ain't ever taught me I should be afraid of what other folk would say, what they'd do." Her tongue seemed now to carry not the slightest trace of doubt. "Ain't nothin' in our way. We just got to...to do it."




Blood and Iron Ch. 05



"Alice..." His own voice had never seemed so thin, so hollow as it did this moment. Almost pleading. "Little rose..." A conflicted kind of anguish in those strong brown eyes, that at any other time would have made her hesitate herself, would have impelled her just to leave aside her own aching of desire, to nestle only softly there against him, offer as she had before that he did not have to venture any farther than his comfort. Slip into that twilight kind of closeness between the chastity of blood and the deeper wants that burned beneath her belly.

Different, now. Anger there inside her, tempestuous and wild, furious at him for what he'd tried to do, for the almost faithlessness he'd shown and the empty words he offered up in its defense. There was no cause for his unease, nothing that she would accept, nothing she should humor anymore. Her own shirt cast off onto the floor - she could feel the tickle of his gaze as it flickered guilty on her skin, as a touch of nerves stroked slowly at her heart despite the heat of her resolve. Her fingers fumbling for just a moment at the tie of her corset...then a better thought occurred, and she grabbed his hand from where he'd left it loosely grasping on her waist, brought it there instead. Her smaller fingers holding his against the strings as she glared fierce into his eyes. "You got to do it, pa. Take this off me." The demand uncompromising, firm and quiet on her lips.

God, but she was beautiful. He could think of little more than that, hesitating as the warmth and weight and scent of her whirled tempting in his consciousness. So vibrant and alive, thrilling, as enchanting in this fury as she was in her so-often softer sweetness. He could manage just the shadow of resistance, a token tugging of his hand away, unsurprised to feel her fingers briefly tightening around him as this feeble effort was refused. Faced against this little goddess slipped into his lap, fire blazing in the forest of her eyes...

It would be nothing new. His fingers twitched against the strings, grasping for their ends. The thought, the excuse, purring gently in his mind. He'd seen her bare before already; it would surely be no horror just to do so once again. To gaze upon those breasts of which he'd dreamt, which he'd felt against him in the night, halfway fondled as she'd roamed her body with his hand. She was asking for this, demanding it. What man would have the strength to stand against her will, the cruelty to refuse her?

The strings slid easily past each other with the tugging of his fingers, reaching for their freedom as though they, too, were only waiting for this moment, eager to release her body to the air. James breathing only shallow as he worked at her corset, his hesitation stilled enough to bring around his other hand to help, pulling at the slack until the whole affair hung loosely on her chest. An almost feverish excitement aching in his gut to lift the sturdy fabric from her body, to feel her squirm a bit upon his lap, helping it along. The weakness in his arm almost unfelt, attention fixed instead to the advancing inches of her trim and leanly-muscled belly, the subtle shaping of her ribcage, the exquisite moment as her breasts were caught on the edge of the corset. Just their milky, rounded bottoms exposed for him to see, a strange, delicious mirror of décolletage...

Then the cloth was gone, slipped free. Cast aside and instantly forgotten as he gazed again upon her naked bosom. The skin there pure and white, protected from the sun; a little scattering of freckles along its upper curves, running down enchanting from her shoulders. Shining with the faintest sheen of sweat, from exertion and enclosure - he could just barely smell it on the air as he inhaled, a subtle sourness that tickled so delightful in his consciousness, that wet his tongue with urgent, undeniable desire. The supple softness of her breasts, sitting bold and brazen there before his eyes, fleshy teardrops clinging to her chest. The fruit of her young womanhood at their peak of ripeness, succulent and firm. Their shape a thing that spoke so deeply into the minds of men, rousing instincts and desires that cared not a thing for reason, for what was right or wrong, for what could be...how mad, then, that as he glanced up into her eyes he caught a trace of worry there amidst her anger and resolve. As if she were somehow uncertain of how she might compare to the woman who had been there before, to her swollen curves and all-too-practiced wiles. As though there were any question for whom his ardor groaned and struggled, who it was that stirred the beating of his heart into such a fevered pace.

"Touch me, pa." Softer now, a touch of almost plaintive thickness to her voice - but the words still had the flavor of an order, a command. One that he could hardly help but to obey, fingers rising eagerly to grasp again upon her waist. One hand slipping up along her side, tracing out the lines of wiry, practiced muscle, feeling in his grasp the shadow of her bones beneath. Arriving there beside her breast, his thumb stroking up to just before its lower curve. A moment's hesitation, like a man before some holy relic, fearful that just a touch might bring down wrath and vengeance. Then he glanced up again into her features, and the subtle tinge of color that simmered on her cheeks sufficed to spur his lust past all misgiving. His better arm around her back, pulling her closer yet against him as he boldly grabbed her breast, cupped it in his injured hand. Giving it at first just the softest, loving squeeze...oh, and how his fingers tingled as he did, exhilarated triumph erasing all their normal awkward weakness.

How divine, as well, to hear the gasping little inhalation which issued from her throat at this first caress. Preceded by that alluring pop again of moisture as her pink and perfect lips were parted, the tips of pearly teeth peeking out for him to see - if he could tear away his gaze from her exquisite breast beneath his hand. If he could focus his attention on anything beyond the feeling of her luscious flesh, bulging barely outward to the space between his fingers as he kneaded at her bosom, calloused digits scraping roughly on her pure and private skin. Her tiny, pink-brown nipples standing tall like eager soldiers, proud and stiff; delight thrummed warm and wicked in his veins to pinch one firmly between his thumb and finger, to hear the answer of her squeal only just restrained, ringing sweetly in his ears with a shivering of pleasure.

It was not enough. Hunger growling ever stronger in his belly, only sharpened by this taste, by the heady rush of masculinity and power as he grasped and fondled at her naked flesh. As he pulled her lower body closer yet to his, hips squeezed together with his arousal burning there beneath, straining for her despite the damnable cladding of their clothes that blocked the way...so tempting, this girl, this woman. Her other breast ignored for longer now than he could bear; there was no other choice but to dip his head down to her chest, caress his lips on that delicious, silken treasure. To gently bite her nipple, provoking yet another strangled, fervid cry, before he soothed it with his tongue, sucking at her as though she were a nursing mother, as though to draw his sustenance from the heaven of her breast. A different kind of satiation taken there instead, the flavor of her body singing subtle on his tongue, sweat and youth and vigor mingling together into the headiest of brews. Sweetened by the sounds of satisfaction that trickled down like honey from her lips, little sighs and murmurs vibrating from her throat as he attended ardent to the cleaning of her bosom.

"Oh, pa..." It was a whisper, a whimper, a breathy purr that tingled through his nerves. Her fingers tangled in his hair, urging him against her breast, while her slender hips ground a slow, instinctive rhythm in his lap. And how great a thrill it was to hear her satisfaction, her delight, to feel it in the arching of her back and the sudden clenching of her fingers on his scalp. As though her joy were echoed in his soul, every note of pleasure that he gave her returned to thrill and tremble in his heart. God, this girl. His girl, his rose...

"Tell me you love me." Another whisper, close above his ear. More of imploring now than of command, the words shaking on her tongue, rich and husky with sensation. The gleeful pride at having given her such feelings now mixing with a chill of sudden disappointment as she pulled away, as her dainty nipple vanished from between his lips - he could not resist to give one final, loving squeeze upon her other breast before he released her, before he looked up again into her muddy, glowing eyes and let her words push past the haze of lust that whirled in his mind.

A moment there, staring at each other. Fervent feeling etched in her expression. Determination in the firmness of her jaw, in her slightly narrowed gaze, the flame he still saw softly burning in her eyes. Her bosom glistening from his attentions, heaving with her rapid, shallow breaths. Beautiful. So impossibly beautiful...there was no question what he would answer. "I love you, little rose." Quiet, despite the great trembling of feeling that underlaid the words, the affection and desire, concern and adoration. His hand clasped to her middle thigh, stroking mildly upon it through her jeans. Comforting, perhaps, as thought was reawakened, stirred feeble in this unexpected calm. The eye of the storm. "Don't figure I loved anyone before the way I feel for you." Confession. Honesty. "Ain't ever wanted any woman half as much. If this was only about me..."

Silence for a time, his tongue struggling with the shape of what he had to say. As his battered conscience now just pleaded with the rest of him to try for what was right, and found a greater fortune in humility - he was almost surprised himself to push upward once more to his feet. Alice unresisting for the moment, silent, carried up beside. She stood now just a foot away, staring up into his eyes, waiting. Listening, as he stumbled through his all-too-clumsy words. "Alice, if this was just for me, I wouldn't hesitate a second. I wouldn't. Figure even if it got me sent to hell, it'd be worth it just to spend one night with you. That notion that you had, about tryin' for what I had before, about us livin' like you was my wife, bein' together..."

His voice failed him for a moment, looking down upon her face. Choked off into a thick and mournful stutter, imagining what couldn't be. Deeper, rougher, when he spoke again. "You don't know what I'd give for that to be. For it to be possible, for me to be worth it. But the fact is, I ain't nowhere near the man that you deserve. Even if I weren't your pa, if we was only strangers...hell, Alice, I'm more'n twice your age. Don't have no prospects out there for me, or any wealth to speak of. Ain't even got a place to hang my hat." His moustache bristled up a trace with a wan and empty smile. Grasping at her unresisting hand as she looked back up at him, silent, and he briefly wondered if she at last was truly listening. "You deserve a man that can buy you the moon. That'll still be there for you when you're gettin' on in years yourself. Man who's done somthin' better in his life than just kill and cheat and steal." His thumb stroked softly on her palm. His voice a whisper. "'ts why we can't. Ain't cause I don't want you. Ain't even cause it's wrong, maybe, the thing itself. Just cause you got to find yourself a better man than me."

Finality. The seconds flowing slowly past as he gazed into her features, a conflicted, queasy sickness clutching at his stomach. Despite all he had said, he didn't want to give her up, didn't want any other man to have her. Part of him didn't. His selfish heart, the lusts that throbbed yet in his marrow...but he still forbade himself to look upon her nakedness, the bosom he had so recently caressed, lavished with his tongue. Looked instead into her eyes as she slightly cocked her head at him, as a little smile quirked crooked and unreadable across her lovely lips. As she brought his hand up to her face, held it soft against her cheek. His fingers gently curled on her skin, cradling her beauty in his palm as though it were a priceless jewel, a work of art...he could feel her muscles twitch there just before her lips were parted, before at last she answered. 

"Pa, that ain't for you to say." Tender now, kinder than before, but still with a flicker of her fire burning there beneath. "I don't mean to settle down with anyone except the man I love. And that's you." Satisfaction just to say it. To speak the words, bright and bold and certain - it didn't matter, none of what he said. Not before the feeling flowing warm inside her, looking up into his eyes as she felt the roughness of his calloused hand upon her cheek. The belonging, the possessive adoration. He was hers, no one else's. Her pa...the sensation of his fingers, of his transcendent tongue upon her breasts still spinning dizzy in her mind as she stepped closer, as she kissed him once again. Softer this time, not half so angry as she had been before, but still carried by a fervent need to taste his stern and weathered lips, his whiskers scraping on her skin. His hand released from where she held it, slipping down across her jaw, tracing at her neck...hesitating at its base. A flush upon her cheeks as she felt his thumb stretch out across her slender throat, give it the slightest, careful squeeze. Just enough for her to feel the blood flowing in her veins beneath his fingers, to spark her body's blind, instinctive panic, waking like a shiver down her spine - she only craned her neck up higher, offered it to him. Exposed. Vulnerable. The feeling of it aching brightly in her heart; she wanted just to strip off all her armor, to give herself to him, naked, raw. Have him take her, teach her, make her a woman. His woman. Pa...

That was when he kissed her back. His rigid, stony stillness abruptly giving way to flame and ardor, to the kind of kiss he'd briefly given her that night out on the trail. His lips so hot and fierce, crushing urgently to hers as his arm tightened round her back and trapped her close against him. A delighted, wordless whimper rising from her throat, muffled almost into silence by his mouth on hers. A bloom of heated hunger flooding slickly there between her thighs as he almost growled in answer, a raspy sound from deep inside his chest that seemed to resonate along her nerves, all her body set to tingle with the sense of what it meant, of his desire. Her fingers sliding frantic on his chest, across the scratchy crimson fabric of his suit, seeking out the simple wooden buttons that held it shut, that kept them from each other. Worked free, one by one; her hand slipped beneath to touch directly on his skin, to tangle in the forest of his greying hairs. To clutch it in her grasp as he roughly thumbed again upon her rigid, aching nipples, as she felt his tongue explore beyond her lips to brush against its opposite, and trembled with triumphant joy at the nearness of her dreams.

It was just the work of moments for her eager fingers to release her belt, drop her jeans down to the floor. Joined shortly after by her father's trousers, and by her boots, kicked careless from her feet. Standing there before him now in just her drawers and woolen socks - and yet her skin, her body felt the flush and heat of being bundled up before the desert sun. Tingling in every place he touched her, his large hand stroking down along her spine, or caressing on her arm, or squeezing still so perfectly possessive at her breasts. A liquid warmth now so familiar set to flow amidst her thighs, her hips, to trickle slow and sweet and urgent there between. A deep and dusky fire that crackled with the memory of his finger thick inside of her the night before, and the feelings so unbearably divine that it had given her. Impatience now to taste the rest, the reality, the deed that loomed so huge and vague and all-important in her swiftly-beating heart. Exultation blending with a quiet buzz of nerves - she would be his at last, completely, the way that she was meant to be. Taken. Claimed. Made into a woman. Her pa returned again to teach her, to consummate the hidden dreams of a thousand lonely nights.

She couldn't bear a moment's more delay. Pushed blindly forward 'til the two of them collapsed again upon the bed, a tangled heap of limbs and naked flesh. One more kiss to strain against his lips, urgent and devoted, before she had to pull away to finish working at his buttons, her fingers trembling with tension and excitement as they descended on his stomach, as he watched her from above, silent now but breathing heavy. Growing nearer to the hardness she had felt pressed against her thigh the night before, into her belly just moments prior. That portion of the male body that any girl who grew up on a ranch would know was something vital, seen on bulls and stallions out to stud but always hidden from the eye on men. A secret now almost revealed, her fingers working out the last few buttons concealing his groin. Tracing out a shape beneath the fabric that she could not quite believe, that must be a mistake...

But no. Her insides fluttered almost with dismay as the last few buttons were released, as she gazed at last upon his manhood, a stiff and throbbing spear of flesh descending down into a thatch of tangled hair, so dark that it was almost black. A wrinkled satchel dangling beneath, bulging with its contents. Her eyes shocked wide and disbelieving - this wasn't like the drooping digits that she'd half-spied from time to time, furtive glances from a distance at the other cowboys when they stepped off the trail to relieve themselves. Not like his finger, which itself had felt so huge inside of her the night before, which she'd thought would be almost the same as what she contemplated now. This...it was thrice as thick, at least, and long enough that her stomach clenched with fearful instinct at the thought of its assault. That this would go inside her...they suddenly made sense, the whispered rumors a girl couldn't help but hear, of what a woman could expect from her wedding night. Of blood and pain and injury - surely it would tear her body open, if this thing were forced into her narrow passage. Would rend her flesh apart in splitting agony, and stain the mattress with her blood.

He must have seen the stricken look upon her face, the worried paling of her features. A whisper of a smile curved faintly on his lips, struggling for comfort beneath the hunger of his gaze. "It ain't gonna bite you, Alice." Hoarse words, quiet, tension gnawing at his tongue. Sitting pushed up to his elbows, hands clutched loosely at the blankets there beneath him. "Nothin' to be scared of."

She shook her head a trace, trying to deny the stinging implication...but she could not do so honestly. Could not speak, eyes fixed upon his organ as it gently bobbled in the air, shifting with his slight, unconscious motions, jostled with his every heartbeat. Flush with nervous, queasy fascination, taking in the shape of it, the lightly arching shaft that ended in a bulbous head, a crown of smooth and scarlet flesh emerging from the paler hood of skin around it. Long and jagged veins protruding from the side, wide and mighty as the Mississippi, throbbing with his pulse. A musky scent that filled her nostrils as she knelt up close, thick and heavy, faintly foul but somehow still compelling. Masculine...her own heartbeat pounded in her ears. He'd created her with this, all those years ago. Brought her into being, planted in her mother's womb. Her father's staff, strong and solid here before her, prepared to do its duty. If she was prepared, herself.




Blood and Iron Ch. 06



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.

© 2005 Warlord

I moved on my knees, in slow motion, until finally only a thin shrub screened me from the tiny glade. Peering through the brush, I shrugged off the pack, still holding the crossbow at ready. In this clearing was an especially small house. Almost a doll house, but well built, made with slate roof, fieldstone and timbers. 

After seeing no movement, I dug out my brass telescope. Suspiciously, I glassed the surrounding woods, open space, and house. Finally, at full magnification, I peered in through the visible windows. The house appeared deserted, and I could see and hear nothing of the surrounding woods to make me more than wary. I was already wary – actually, I was scared that I might have found the robbers and an ambush. Two for the price of one!

Tucking my telescope away, I picked up my crossbow, and, leaving the pack on the ground, I moved stealthily into the lee of the building. Standing still, I swiveled my head, looking in all directions. Finally, I paused with my ear against the wall, but I could hear nothing. 

Moving carefully, I went to the single doorway. I studied the ground in front of the door. The grass was long and unworn, showing no evidence of recent traffic. Reaching into the compartment on the inside of my left wristlet, I removed my Swiss Army Locksmith knife and my lock picks. 

Leaning the crossbow against the wall, I bent over the door lock. It had a simple, unwarded tumbler, with ample room for my picks. In seconds I was standing inside the little house, holding my crossbow as I closed the door. I could see everything from my vantage. 

The closet next to me was half filled with leather and fur coats. The main room had a. square dining table in front of the stone fireplace. A single cabinet with a hand pump completed the modest kitchen. A hanging red blanket half covered the doorway into the sleeping room. Two strides, and I was in the abandoned sleeping room, looking down at the cot that filled it with its Buffalo robe covering. 

Abandoned was exactly the word. The look, smell, the very feel was of place long deserted. 

I walked the one long step to the kitchen table, setting down my crossbow. I looked out each window, studying the clearing and surrounding forest, but there was nothing to see. I searched the cabin's nooks and crannies, but found nothing about the former inhabitants. No books, papers, pictures or personal effects, save simple clothing along with the coats and boots in the entryway. I did find one door key that I left hanging. By now, I was thirsty. 

Checking the hand pump, I found that – as expected – the leathers were dry. Searching just a bit, I found a jar of water. I used it to wet the leathers and prime the pump. It was only a matter of two good strokes on the handle, and it pumped full stream into the brass basin. I found another quart container that I filled, then dropped in a couple of iodine water purification pills. 

Yeah, it was probably late, but this abandoned cabin cried out for caution. I shook up the water, then let it settle as I pulled out my map and carefully marked the cabin's location. I spread the map out on the table. I began to study the great woods surrounding the Inn and crossroads.

With this quiet time, I had a better appreciation of the lay of the land. As I poured the water into my collapsible cup, drinking to hydrate myself, I contemplated the route I'd take the rest of this morning; paralleling the roadway, searching for the brigands and their likely ambushes. Not to mention a certain large cat. 

I refilled the jar of priming water, dumping the last of my drink, then I needed to toss the basin. I looked around before I opened the door. I poured it out on the ground just beyond the threshold stone, making a satisfyingly large muddy spot. 

Picking up my crossbow and scanning the room to make sure it was much as I found it, I stood on the threshold as I locked the door. Still cautious I stepped around the puddle as I moved carefully to my pack, finding it undisturbed. I stood on the verge of the clearing as I contemplated another mystery! Who was the owner of this cabin who overcame the pervasive conditioning to live here in the great woods?

I moved around the clearing and pushed through the aspen brush until I found another game trail. I moved cautiously along the trail until I came to the edge of a swamp. The game trail turned north, staying on dry land. Mr. Deer did not want wet feet.

I moved to the road verge. This part of the road traveled through swamp on both sides. They built a cordwood road, an expedient common in Minnesota road building. They threw logs (something they have in abundance) in the swamp, one after the other, until they had a solid wooden foundation for their gravel; a sturdier version of the old time corduroy road. 

Though, come to think of it, this was 'old times", I guess. The down side was the back breaking, jolting ride as your car wheels – or, I guess now, coach wheels – hit every log.

The water level was over the road, with the sheen of water joining the two swamps. I moved back along the trail, confident the animals would show me a crossing. 

I paused again when I saw the ground disturbed right on the edge of the swamp. Moving slowly, I walked forward with my crossbow ready. Blood and bits of fur in the mud showed where a Muskrat had died violently. Luckily for me, the big predator was no longer around. 

I knelt in the mud, studying the massive paw prints. They showed injuries, with one forepaw half gone and another with a claw or two ripped out. He had a limping gait as he left. If this was the saber tooth, he had apparently been pushed out of his pride and must be quite injured to give up his preferred larger prey for a measly 'swamp rat'. A human would be a tasty morsel indeed as hungry Smilodon lay in wait for his killing rush. Just another thing to fucking worry about!

I walked north along the swamp, away from the road. Just after I glanced at my watch and noted the proximity to noon, the game trail swung into the swamp. I cut a staff and followed along. The mossy hummocks were yielding under my mocs, and I found a slow moving creek cutting through the swampland. A windstorm had knocked down several trees, with their leafy crowns falling in the small creek. As more silt and debris filled in around the leafy boughs, the water backed up, surrounding a hill, making it a dry island in the center of this increasingly wet zone. 

I quickly found out why the animals chose this route. Downstream from this impromptu dam, the water was shallow, with several dry patches making an easy crossing. For me, the island was a better find. 

I waded the creek below the dam, then another downed tree made a bridge over the creek back to the island. I used my staff as a balance pole while crossing that bridge. 

Moving to the top of the hillock, I found a grassy vale with shade trees screened all around by aspen brush. The massive roots from a downed oak gave shelter from the north. I dumped my pack in the grass, then wandered the hill for a bit with my throwing axe, collecting downed wood and stacking it against the Oak roots, using them for a reflector. With no one to observe I used a Trioxane tab to ignite the damp wood. I soon had a cheery fire.

Now I took my spyglass and observed the woods and swamp around me. Afterwards, I walked around the tiny glade to see if my fire or any smoke was visible. Nothing showed in either case.

Returning to my fire, I dug in my pack to find the food and drink Cori had tucked away only this morning. Opening the oilcloth bundle, I found a smaller bundle with sandwiches made from thick pieces of homemade bread and slabs of beef. In another bundle, I found assorted fruit slices, while a third held vegetable wedges. 

I pulled out the tin container and found the coffee steaming hot. This enchanting worked better than the best thermos I'd ever used! I was warm, fed and sipping my coffee as I checked my location and carefully marked my map. 

While I drank my coffee I dug my two guns out of the pack's secret compartment. I had a foreboding about this magical realm. It was long past time to test them. 

First my Colt .45 Automatic -- after screwing the silencer on the barrel threads I stroked the slide and immediately fired into the dirt clump of the overturned oak roots. 

Nothing. 

Ejecting the misfire, I tried again and then once more. All duds! Examining the shells found the primers fully indented. I pulled one apart to verify that it had its powder charge. They were mine, brought here, so I was confident that they worked in MY world at least. I tossed them into the hot coals of my fire followed by a couple unfired rounds from the same clip. Next, I brought out my Ruger .22 auto and a couple tries brought only squibs. Again, I tossed the misfired ammo in the blaze along with a couple untried rounds. 

I was puzzled, sipping my coffee watching the ammunition melting into slag puddles. Neither powder nor primer ignited despite the intense heat. Magic had trumped simple chemistry in this case. Magic so finely calibrated that it could differentiate fire starting from firearms! I had much to think about as I tucked the useless guns back in the pack basket's secret compartment. 

I looked up in the trees above me for a hiding place for my pack. Digging in the basket I found a twenty meter coil of eight millimeter mountaineering rope. I clipped it to a carabineer on my belt along with two Darby Handcuffs. The smaller quiver for 'war' quarrels also went on my belt. 

After putting away the remains of my meal and snuffing the fire, I carefully climbed up in the beech tree overhead. The pack was hung from a high overhanging branch by one of my chain and padlock combinations. Back on the ground I looked around carefully, but I still seemed alone and unobserved.

With my Katana back on my belt and crossbow in hand I crossed the creek. I moved south along the swamps periphery until I was again paralleling the road. It was slow going. I took my time, feeling the nearness of the highwaymen with every step. 

That's why the encounter was such a shock!

One moment I'm in thick brush the next I'm in an open grassy area right by the road and face to face with a greasy looking fellow in a leather jerkin. I pointed my crossbow at him, which garnered a big smile with many missing teeth as he raised his hands slightly then backed up against a tree. He spread his arms at shoulder height. 

Watching his eyes carefully I was wondering what his display was in aid of. He was looking everywhere but at me when suddenly his eyes flicked up over my shoulder as I sensed movement. I fired the crossbow! 

The ringed broadhead, slamming into his chest, pinned him to the tree. Tossing the crossbow onto a grassy spot, I pivoted to the left as I drew my Katana in a 'water wheel', bringing it around as I spun. The blade slammed into the iron-bound head of a massive wooden maul, wielded by a giant. Okay, not a giant, but plenty big enough that he wielded that massive sledge like you or I would a sixteen ounce carpenters hammer.

After parrying my stroke he swung at my head; I moved feeling the breeze as the war hammer missed. I wasn't armored enough to take even one hit from him. I had to end this before he got lucky. 

I slashed at his ankles and he quickly dropped the hammerhead to block me. My right hand dropped off my hilt as I drew a throwing knife from my thigh holster. I snapped a quick sidearm throw that ended with the blade buried in his cheek, biting into his gum. 

He yelled, swearing loudly, as his hand reached for the embedded knife. I stepped over his dropped hammer to make a horizontal cut along his upper chest, side to side, the blade sliding along one of his ribs. My sword blade bit deeply. The adrenaline I was feeling powered the keen blade through his sternum, cutting through muscle, veins and arteries and out the other side. 

As the blade exited I stepped back quickly with the blade up in guard stance. He was attempting to raise the hammer. My stroke had done massive damage as it cut his aorta, trachea and esophagus. His chest cavity was filling with blood and bile as his brain lost oxygen. He made eye contact with a hateful look, as he collapsed like a tree falling. I quickly moved driving the point of my katana into his eye in a killing strike. 

Now I came out of my tunnel vision to look around for other threats. His partner was still pinned to the tree. I stepped forward, slashing his throat then pulled him loose. He sagged lifelessly to the ground. 

I shoved the point of my Katana in the soft ground as I half collapsed against a tree. The adrenaline, leaving my body, left me shaking. The incident was over before there was any time for me to think, only to react. I patted myself, looking for a cigarette. The makings must still be in the pack...

I walked across the road but apparently my two were alone. Rolling the two bodies over, I cuffed their wrists behind their backs. First I dragged the 'greasy' one out onto the road; then, using my rope tied around his ankles, I laboriously hauled the hammer-wielding giant over next to him. 

It was time to look at this situation more carefully. They were preparing to deploy their ambush -- a heavy rope hawser strung between a couple of big trees, spanning the road four to six feet off the ground. Greasy had a bronze short sword, with a horn re-curve bow and several barbed headed arrows lying in the grass, while the giant had his hammer and a small dagger on his belt.

On a hunch I checked their feet. Greasy had hobnailed leather boots while the Giant had sandals. BIG sandals! 

I pulled off their footwear and walked further down the road, toward the woods boundary. I found a vast mud puddle along the road's edge. The sandal tracks led into it, then the hammer grounded and the sandals backed out. Giant was in the puddle before he realized. Seemed to indicate that they walked in along the road before sunrise when the water was probably quite chilly on his 'less than dainty' toes. A bit farther and I found another muddy spot that had a boot heel print that matched the one in my hand from my greasy antagonist. I pondered the situation, slowly walking back to the ambush site. 

Kneeling down, I used my folding plier tool to unscrew the ringed broad head sticking out of greasy's back, then jerking the quarrel shaft loose. The ringed broad head went in my pouch while the bent shaft tucked in back of my belt as I reloaded my crossbow. 

While I was engaged I heard the sounds of horses splashing through the swamp water that was over the road. Many horses. We spotted each other at the same time. 

They were half dozen lancers cantering abreast. With a loud shout, they lowered their spears to horizontal and kicked their horses into a gallop. The thunder of their hoofs was deafening in the quiet of the woods, while the sun glinted off the shiny blue black spear points. 

To be continued



Blood and Iron Ch. 07



This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.

© 2005 Warlord



As the horsemen closed, my vision fixated on those sharpened points. Clearly they were from the "spit'em and let somebody else sort'em out" school. No pansy ass "innocent until proven guilty" bullshit for these bad boys. 

Their abruptness, however, left little time to explain my presence here in the big woods. With the looming cavalry, it was rapidly dawning on me that standing in the road at an active ambush site, with my sword in view and loaded crossbow in hand, might be an error. A big one, maybe my last one! And grounding that crossbow was not slowing them. 

Just as I made a despairing curse at Robert for his 'fucking secret keys', a strident bugle call echoed through the woods, followed by the insistent ratta-plan of a kettledrum. 

The lancers' discipline and training more than matched their aggressive tactics. Spears snapped up to vertical as four galloping horsemen altered course to pass me, taking a blocking position in the road. Two horsemen skidded to a halt as they bracketed me mere feet away, their lances leveled while their excited horses danced in place. 

The drumming and bugle calls continued in counterpoint, as more horses thundered up to join the van. Mounted crossbowmen charged past, linking up with the advance guard, as more guardsmen dismounted up and down the road -- some facing me with drawn sword, others facing outwards. 

Guidiron, along with the Halbmond of the mounted bugler among a cadre, announced the leadership cantering to the fore, closely followed by a massive black coach with its still﷓pounding war drum mounted on the roof. The coach was festooned with heavily﷓armed soldiers on the roof and hanging from every window and door.

My eyes were drawn past the coach to a lone figure in black armor laying over the horse's neck approaching along the road margin at a 'horse killing' gallop, passing the others while continuously whipping the frothing horse already at a dead run. 

Closer, the figure was up off the saddle, holding the saddle horn, with only one foot in a stirrup, still lashing the horse. As the horse threatened to trample me, the black clad figure dropped off, running next to it holding the saddle, then let go, throwing her helmet on the ground, grabbing me in a fierce hug. The impact took us both off our feet, rolling on the ground. 

Luckily, I ended up on top. Not very chivalrous, I know. But God Damn It, she was the one in the heavy plate armor. 

Even at that, I was bruised and out of breath as the noncom helped me to my feet. By contrast, Nadia bounced to her feet, grabbing me and again crushing me to her chest. Another experience fairly ruined by combined breastplate and mail. (Okay, the kiss was nice. Turns out Nadia is a world class kisser, with the softest, 'poutiest' lips this side of Angelina Jolie.) 

I was even more out of breath as she pulled back fractionally. I was looking deep into those green eyes with little flecks of gold, as the catcalls and whistles built in volume. She held me at arms length, examining me with a critical eye as she asked loudly with much concern, "My hunter, are you all right?"

The noncom answered for me, "He barely survived our rescue, never mind the greeting, your Grace."

She looked over with one eyebrow up, and in a withering tone said, "Fuck you, Nolan."

He nodded calmly, saying blandly, "Yes, of course your Grace, as you wish."

While their little byplay was going on, I was catching my breath and observing the scene. Aside from the clot of soldiers who were standing around grinning and watching us, the rest were vigilant in surveillance of the forest with their weapons at ready. Observant Lancers were continually up and down the road. 

Looking back at the Nadia, I saw an adorable smudge of dirt on one cheek, with more dirt streaking her armor, and even some in her hair from our rolling around. Her long black shiny hair was lying over her shoulder, done in a single tight braid held by alternating silver and gold colored bands. On second thought, they probably were silver and gold!

I looked around for the black baron Radcliff. He was next to the carriage, still mounted. The tallest horse in the company, of course. Tallest fucking horse I'd ever seen. Of course! His face in that perpetual scowl I was now so used to. Of course. 

A deep well-modulated voice spoke up loudly, "Why don't you just drag him into the ditch, Nadia?"

My head snapped around to see a tall, black clad figure slouched comfortably on horseback, with one leg casually hooked over the saddle horn. Long blond hair framed his handsome face, which was marred by a long crescent scar puckering one cheek from jaw to temple. His eyes glittered even in repose, but he seemed in good humor with his swipe at the princess.

The comment caused a grinning Nadia to turn facing him. She clearly took no offense. Nadia seemed altogether comfortable in this company, and from what I could see, they respected her as a comrade besides her rank... or perhaps more to the point, despite her rank. 

Nadia looked up to ask good﷓humouredly, "You have a problem with my behavior, Logan?"

Logan leered as he drawled, "Certainly not, Nadia. My concern was only and always for the tender sensibilities of these poor horses."

Now his eyes found me and I got full benefit of his measuring gaze as Logan said softly to no one in particular, "I have no problems that can't be dealt with on the practice square or outside the castle wall at dawn."

He lifted the reins, breaking his intense scrutiny, and his horse turned, walking away slowly as he slouched in the saddle. At that moment, Radcliff's big black horse shouldered into our circle. The noncom Nolan had his back to the black baron, and I caught the flash of his smirk as he winked, just before his countenance returned to its professional mien. 

Radcliff was in full cry immediately. "God damn you. Explain what the fuck is going on here, immediately. You impertinent cocksucker, I'll leave you kicking at the end of a rope if you don't tell me everything to my satisfaction right now."

I stepped back, gesturing silently to the two bodies. Although they hadn't been completely ignored, they certainly hadn't gotten much attention before now. Then I drew their awareness to the rope hawser. Nolan pointed, and the bugler stepped down, pulling the saddlebags off his horse. They were both kneeling next to the bodies examining them and their weapons, while scrutinizing the contents of the bugler's kit. 

During this interlude Nadia grabbed my arm, pressing against me, those moist full lips and little pink tongue poised inches from my ear. Once again, armor and chain mail ruined what might have been a lovely effect. The only heat I got for my trouble was from the laser﷓like glower of the black baron. He, for his part, sat in his saddle muttering about what was going to happen if he didn't get an answer "right fucking now." 

Nolan finally stood up, followed by the bugler, now holding two pieces of paper. The bugler spoke directly to the Baron, "Both of them, Sir. They match the descriptions we have of members of the highwaymen. There is no doubt with the giant and the big hammer."

Gesturing with his papers as he continued in our silence, "This bowman, with his short bow and barbed arrows, is also known to be part of the rabble."

Radcliff was off his mount and kneeling next to the giant just that quick. He stared pensively at their faces poking them with his finger. Looking up he asked in an aggrieved tone, "Where the fuck ARE they?"

Nolan musing answered what was likely a rhetorical question, "Giant hasn't been seen in the kingdoms since the robberies started. The bowman is unremarkable. He could blend into any market day in Castle Town, or the less savory river taverns outside the walls of our own King Holm might be a haven for him."

He glanced around as he continued to ruminate. "The gold coin offered as reward even for him made it however unlikely to find succor even in those rude haunts. Still, as a group they are not being identified and reported, even with the many silvers being offered for information about their warren."

The bugler looked into my questioning glance, saying, "King Oswald has long since offered reward of 100 silver coins simply to point out the robbers nest."

Nolan commented, "The lack of response in the kingdoms even among the poorest would indicate a well hidden lair perhaps deep in this very forest."

At their shuddering over the scary forest, I came to a decision. I was definitely feeling light﷓headed from all those poised, plump, pouty lips but fuck it! Loudly and clearly I said, "They're not hiding in the forest."

The princess was suddenly an arms length away staring intently as the Baron regained his feet, looking stonily at me in dead silence. I continued in the same tone, "Baron, Princess and gentlemen, I give you this bit of information for free. The robbers walked up this road today before dawn to this ambush site. They did not come through the forest nor spend the night here."

Gesturing down the road I said, "You may find their horses or a wagon at the edge of the wooded area."

Nolan looked at me speculatively as he asked, "They were readying their ambush. That's how you took them?"

I nodded. He shook his head still looking at the giant as he said matter-of-factly, "Even with your surprise, winning single-handedly against him was hardly easy."

There were nods of agreement around the circle. Nolan pointed silently and the two bodies were loaded into the coach's boot. As they passed him, he asked, "Do your shackles bear your mark?"

I nodded. Robert had marked the cuffs and chains with our, now my brand, either on the frame or on a tiny brass tag. In fact he marked all the gear for this world with our special symbol, Ouroboros. 

This snake devouring his tail held a special place for him. I can remember his fascination from our earliest time together. I had not thought of it until just now: one of my first memories of our friendship is of his father presenting matching silver rings to us of Queztacoatl, the Aztec winged serpent devouring his tail. The serpent circles our finger with the head in place of a stone. 

For years, I wore the ring wrapped with tape until I grew into it. Now it's always on my right hand. I glanced down to see the sun glitter off the snake's ruby eyes. I held up my knife for the bugler, who made note on his papers of the round snake symbol embossed in the haft, while Nolan supervised lashing the bodies into place. 

We were standing by the boot when Nolan commented, "These highwaymen will be displayed in the public square at King Holm. King Oswald makes the reward at that time. You can pick up your cuffs there."

I looked at him with a bit of distaste, pointing at the two bodies saying, "They'll be pretty ripe by then."

He smiled. "We'll buy an enchantment in River Town, good for the trip at least."

Radcliff was up on his horse. Gone any semblance of reflection, back to his dark angry visage. He looked down at me and barked angrily, "Your money?"

I must have looked puzzled by the abrupt question. Nadia smilingly offered an explanation. "The reward is made when we have The Raising, the bodies are hung in the square displayed for a fortnight then moved outside the walls where they hang until thoroughly rotted. 

When I stood in quiet contemplation of that little ceremony Nadia continued brightly, "You or a representative receives your gold during the raising ceremony. If you have no one in King Holm..."

Radcliff barked loudly, "There are always the lenders."

Nadia frowned prettily. "But they will charge him usurious interest just for safekeeping of his gold."

A safekeeping charge instead of interest! Wait until the banks back home hear about that one. Then her eyebrow came up and she smirked. Nadia's eyes opened wide in apparent wonderment as if she'd just had that second come into a brainstorm. "I'll hold your coins for you, hunter Brock. You can contact me when you reach King Holm. In fact..."

She began to worry her braid, unplaiting her hair. One of the rings in her braid was different. A finger ring cleverly placed with the stone inside her braid out of sight. The huge blood red ruby was now revealed among the black tresses. 

Nolan's worried tone cut through. "Princess Nadia, Please your Grace."

Now I heard the steel in the Princesses voice as she barked, "Nolan, you overstep."

He was quite unabashed as he pressed, "Yes, your Grace, when I must."

She stared hard at him, and he met her gaze coolly. Nadia spoke evenly. "I will do this, Nolan. Attend me, please."

Reluctantly, he slowly acquiesced. "As you wish, your Grace."

I was still confused, even as Nolan reached over, gently taking my right hand holding it palm up. In the silence Nadia held up the ruby ring. Its quite substantial red stone glowed with internal fire as it caught the sun. The massive setting with the writhing snakes around the stone and finger, and its one snake holding the stone in its distended mouth was oddly unsettling. Nadia set the ring in the center of my palm; Nolan closed my fingers around it. 

Nadia nodded curtly. "Thank you, Nolan."

Still unsmiling, he replied briskly, "Your Grace."

Then he stalked off his back stiff. Nadia smiled as she said serenely, "This is my ducal ring, Brock."

At my start of surprise she smiled happily and I heard a strangled sound from way up on that tall horse of Radcliff's. She looked delighted now as she continued, "This ring has been in my family for more than one hundred generations and is well known in the kingdoms. We too favor snakes in our heraldry."

She paused, smiling happily, then continued, "This ring will gain you entry in any of the several kingdoms castles or its forts, government, or military installation. Further, it will allow you use of military transportation or membership in our convoys. Finally, displaying it allows you entry into King Holm and its many castles."

Her eyes narrowed a bit as she frowned continuing in a low tone, "This allows entry into Castle Ethelinda, show this at the town gates. They will direct you to me." 

Looking at her then over her shoulder at the very somber faces around us it was starting to dawn on me that something was going on here. That something might not be so very good for me. (Yeah, and what was your first clue there, Sherlock? Aw, shit!) Suckered again by a good looking woman. 

I put on my brave face as I bowed my head saying, "Thank you for this my lady and for the trust it represents."

Nadia smiled as she spoke gaily, "I do understand that your work here may not be finished. Know that your reward in King Holm will be in my safekeeping. I look forward to your arrival at Castle Ethelinda..."

Here her voice dropped an octave and she looked intently into my eyes. "...Soon."

Her fingers lingered, then Nadia turned away Nolan was all business, now, as the bugler began blowing. The column reformed, while Nadia was remounted on a fresh horse. A trooper handed over my crossbow as I stood in wonderment from the side of the road, watching as the cavalry moved through dappled woods and was swallowed up in a cloud of dust. 

Just before they were lost from sight, a tall slouched over blond turned and waved. 





Blood and Iron Ch. 08



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.

© 2005 Warlord

*

That went well – NOT!

I was back on my island hillock, sitting against a pine tree, with my cape intertwined in the boughs above me shedding the persistent drizzle, while the wood fire past my feet sputtered.

My Brunton Optimus backpacker's cook stove was next to me under the canopy, heating my MRE and boiling the water for my tea, while the uncovered light crystal was on my opposite side. I'm an indifferent cook, but enough Tabasco seems to make almost anything better. I mixed together the Beef Ravioli and Spaghetti with meat sauce rations in my one pot, and it was steaming hot. My tin cup held boiling hot tea, with a generous slug of honey. Eating by myself on top of this darkened hillside provided the opportunity to review recent events

My plan had been to disappear into the north woods and spend my time alone. I needed that solitary time to get over the disaster that was our sham marriage and my betrayal by Bill and Natalie (The Bitch). The disappear thing seemed to have been successful, but the hermit act was a dismal failure. 

I was in the company of more people than ever before, sexually involved with two slaves at Luther's Inn, had killed two natives, and now the lovely Nadia and I were a 'something' and by way of her ruby ring I was up to my ass in a circumstance that looked, paddled, and quacked like some sort of a palace intrigue. 

A cold drop of water ran down the back of my neck, while I sat turning Nadia's ruby ring over and over in my fingers. How the fuck did she know that left to my own devices I'd have 'blown off' those gold coins and gone back to my reclusive existence in the cabin?

I still could! I could toss this ring in the swamp, go back and turn the key, and just forget it ALL! 

Fucking Robert!

Right now he was sitting somewhere laughing his ass off. He KNEW I'd never be able to turn that fucking key back once I got here. 

I sat staring at the fire: What key did Robert choose? 

Where did HE end up? Once I was safely bundled off to the north woods cabin, I was betting that Robert had disappeared, through another convenient portal, to his chosen place of magic where he could lose that hated green oxygen bottle. 

Would I ever see my best friend again? 

Covering the light crystal, I settled in with my space blanket around my shoulders, staring at the fire until it or I went out.





Blood and Iron Ch. 09



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

*

I settled back, sipping my ale. They were looking at me expectantly, so I finally offered, 

"When I'm hungry, taking what I need from some rich bastard who never earned it and has too much anyway, aint really stealing is it?" 

Goddamn, where the fuck did that come from? But Alvis and Howard were wreathed in smiles. Howard nodded as Alvis said, "Just so. You gotta take care of yourself. Make your own way. Otherwise there's the debtor's collar…"

They both winced earnestly at the mention of that collar. Howard leaned forward conspiratorially. "This is all a secret, but we will take you to meet our chieftain…."

I put up my hand rather emphatically, and Howard mumbled to a halt. I looked around the room carefully, then back at the two of them. I took a deep breath, saying slowly and carefully, "It can't be too much of a secret, with you two drunk idiots talking about it in a tavern. I go nowhere after dark with anyone, certainly with neither of you. I meet your leader here tomorrow night. If I find something else for work, I won't be back. Don't follow me."

Alvis laughed, as Howard looked aggrieved. "No need to go on like that. We're not drunk and we aint idiots."

Alvis then asked with a snarky tone, "Where the fuck you gonna find work? Decided to take up hunting?"

They both laughed uproariously at the idea. Alvis grinned. "Tomorrow, then. If nothing else, we buy you a meal."

I nodded tightly. Standing up, I knocked out my pipe, emptying the bowl in Alvis's ale mug. I scooped up my crossbow and was out the door, into the night.

Moving swiftly away from the tavern, I jumped over a low stone wall on the edge of a field and stood in the weeds, observing the entrance. Alvis, the ferret, had a discreet wrist sheathe on his right arm. He might be a lefty, making him ambidextrous as a practical matter. Despite his tolerance of my antics, he might very well be competent and that plus ambidextrous and quick would be bad things, perhaps very bad things. 

I eased away from the road about two hundred yards, and started back the way I'd come. My eyes were soon accustomed to the darkness, and I made very good time to the muddy lane. I was presently standing in the grove, across from the robber's nest. I dug out my telescope, and made a discovery. It was magicked to be a night glass. Through it, I could see the farmhouse clear as noon, despite the overcast and lack of moonlight. 

I sat, well hidden, observing the house. There was little to pique my interest. About midnight, the sound of hooves at a gallop brought me out of my reverie. 

A charger came dashing up the path, spraying mud in all directions. The horse had no sooner skidded to a stop, than the rider was out of the saddle, pounding on the farmstead door demanding admittance. I got an excellent look at his face as the open door illuminated him.

The ground tied horse was standing quietly, and I had just decided to take a closer look when the meeting broke up. The door was jerked open, and the horseman stomped out into the yard. Tor accompanied him out the door, and the horseman jerked the saddlebags off his mount and tossed them to him.

The horseman shook his finger in Tor's face and admonished him loudly, "Just get it done, and no fucking excuses. She dies or you're all forfeit."

After a hard eyed look he leapt up on the horse and without a backward glance cruelly spurred his mount. Two jumps; they were out of sight down the narrow road. Tor gazed down the empty lane for a long time then his shoulders slumped as he carried that bag into the house.

Okay, I definitely wanted that look-see now. 

With my crossbow in hand and Katana loosened, I moved across the lane and close to the farmhouse. I was once again standing an arm's length back from the gaps in the kitchen shutters, listening to an altogether subdued group as Tor and Donna (his 'woman' turned out to be named Donna) stacked coins on the table, while Jeremy whined about the peremptory nature of their orders.

Tor couldn't get angry; he seemed resigned as he told Jeremy, "It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Not even how many guards and outriders. We must kill her when her coach rolls through the forest on the way to the Port City or we have to flee for our lives."

Jeremy droned on, "Couldn't have been a worse time to lose Giant and Henry."

Donna looked at him incredulously as she barked, "When's a good time to have your friends killed, you dumb fuck?"

Tor was shaking his head; he looked like he had quite a headache. Finally he looked over at Jeremy, asking, "Where the fuck are Harold, Howard and Harvey? And Alvis? Of all the nights for them to be off getting drunk and whoring."

Donna looked over, saying in exasperation, "You paid them, what do you expect when they got coppers rubbing together in their pockets?"

Tor finally roused himself. He looked over at Jeremy, and, in a tone that brooked no argument, he said, "Find them. Get out there right now and find them, sober them up and have them here. No fucking excuses. Not a word, Jeremy. All of them here at dusk for that meeting; then we go to the forest, set the ambush and kill her."

Tor stared malevolently at Jeremy, who slowly rose with great show of unconcern, donned his cloak, and walked out the door and down the muddy lane without a backward glance. 

Jeremy was no sooner out of earshot, than Donna started her own entreaty, asking Tor to grab all the loose gold and silver coins, load them in the horse cart, and they'd run for it! 

Tor ignored her as he went to a cabinet, brought out a gallon stoneware jug, and shambled dejectedly out of my sight. Donna sat silently at the table with her head in her hands. 

I eased away from the farmstead moving back to my vantage in the grove thinking about what I'd seen and heard. 

The robbers weren't just thieves, but also had a more nefarious purpose as assassins and likely spies. Their robberies a perfect cover for these tasks. Somebody big and important, with a long, deadly reach, pulled at least some of the highwaymen's strings. In exchange, of course, he fingered fat scores for them. It was a perfect partnership until now. 

Today a female, somebody rich with a coach and outriders was their target. This somebody so important that the puppet master was pulling strings HARD prepared to wipe out his carefully constructed crew if necessary in order to execute her. 

Was it Nadia? Somehow I did not think so. After all, she just left the bullseye. The puppet master had a chance and did not take it. No, this was clearly about somebody else.

Funny; I'd already come to my decision. Must have happened while I was outside the farmhouse. I counted up the people involved and discovered that it did not matter. I was committed.

I moved back in the grove until I found a deadfall. I rolled up in my cloak and rain cape, lying against the big fallen log, and went to sleep. My last thought as my eyes closed were of that buxom blonde in the farmhouse





Blood and Iron Ch. 10



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

© 2005 Warlord

*

I came down out of my 'warrior mind' to confront my recklessness. I had a 'clean sweep' here; I'd killed everybody who could ferret out the conspiracy and help me save the girl. Whoever she was!

I looked over at Tor, sitting incongruously in his chair with his head far back and throat, gaping killed so quickly, so thoughtlessly. My sensei tried to teach me "mind like water," a heightened perception and rational assessment in combat. So far, I did not impress myself. I knew sensei would have MUCH to say, little of it complimentary. I was going to die, here, in the mud, outsmarted by primitives because I quit using my brain! I bowed to sensei in apology, then knelt in contemplation. 

Standing up, I studied the two bodies. Grimacing, I grabbed Jeremy by the ankles, dragging him out the door, followed by Tor. Leaving them next to the house, I walked across the lane, carefully looking and listening, but there was no sign of anyone else around. I lifted my pack and headed for the barn. There was one person left who might give me some answers - Donna. 

I dropped my pack by the entryway to the barn, stopping to retrieve my light crystal. I was uncovering the crystal as I walked in. Donna grimaced, squinting in the sudden bright light. I greeted her calmly. "Hello again, Donna." 

She yelped in surprise at my voice. Her eyes snapped full open staring at me in horror. I placed the crystal on the floor close to her before I threw open the big door just past the wagon she was shackled to. 

I wandered around this corral, gathering wood just a few feet from the opening, even pulling a couple railings off the wooden fence. I had my back to Donna, so I used another Trioxane tab to start the fire. The unpainted, weathered railing blazed up into a blistering fire, hot enough that Donna flinched away. 

I kicked her ankles apart as I stood towering over her, saying evenly, "Donna, I want you to tell me about your friends and the woman you would kill."

She was still gagged, shaking her head emphatically. Kneeling, I studied her until her eyes dropped again. Using just the pad of my thumb, I pressed on nerve bundles in her legs and arms. As the pressure became pain, her body writhed while Donna's breath whistled though the ring gag. 

The metal circle of the ring gag in Donna's mouth fascinated me. I pushed my index finger deep in her mouth until she choked, unable to close her mouth or bite. She gulped and heaved, with her body convulsing as I withdrew my probing finger. 

A flickering, brief vision of Natalie, vulnerable, in place of Donna, put me back on my heels. I had to be careful. With few limits on a hunter's behavior, my bitterness toward Natalie could spill over, with ugly results. 

Crouching as I showed Donna my Tanto. In silence I held up my finger, she froze as I slipped the blade along her cheek under the gag strap with a tiny movement severed it. The gag fell away as Donna stared at me in shock. Showing her the dagger again, I said seriously: "You will tell me everything. I may not kill you, but you won't be pretty anymore."

At her hiss of indrawn breath, I walked out by the fire standing with my back to her. Turning and looking in the barn, I saw a piece of scrap iron hanging on the wall. She watched in trepidation as I shoved the end of that iron into the coals at the center of my fire.

Now I knelt next to her, saying quietly, "If I cut you here…" and as I gently touched her skin with my fingernail alternating with the intense 'acupressure'. Donna screamed, jerking her body away as far as the shackles allowed. 

Her eyes were red from her tears, throat hoarse from screaming as I picked up the iron, glowing on the end, moving it inches from her face, saying softly, "This will hurt terribly and mark you forever." 

Donna stared past the glow into my face, begging hoarsely, "WHO are you?"

I stopped, saying loudly, ""Please, who are you, sir?"

She shook her head as I waved the glowing metal, reclaiming her attention. In a defeated tone, she asked, "Who are you, please, sir?"

I nodded calmly as I said, "Someone who can do as he pleases." 

Her eyes widened as with a shaky voice, she asked, "Am I your slave?"

I waved the hot iron in time as I corrected her, saying slowly, "Please sir, am I your slave"

Her head went down, then came up, as, resigned, Donna repeated, "Please, sir, who are you?"

I tossed the iron back into the fire as I answered: "Brock, a hunter."

She shook her head as she thought aloud, "Tor was right. Fucking Howard." 

Now she looked at me saying all in a rush: "You're the crossbowman. Tor suspected a trap. He wanted to question you closely. He only risked it because we required a bowman, and we hoped you were already part of The Thistles with us. He'd have killed Howard and Alvis outright for even talking to you except for that possibility and because all were crucial to kill the Princess. Princess Veronica, King Oswald's daughter."

Donna stopped suddenly, her eyes big as she quickly added, "Sir."

I nodded in a distracted manner as I processed the information, asking her, "Who pulls the strings, Donna?"

Donna frowned prettily as she thought then replied, "Lord Chasseur delivers messages to us with instructions and information from Cinquedea; otherwise, Devlin or the spice merchant."

I smirked as I said, "Lord Chasseur is the man on the big black horse?"

Donna started as she replied, "You saw him arrive?"

I nodded. "Yes, I saw him. But Donna, the name 'Chasseur' is a fake. It's a word that means 'one who rides a horse'."

Donna started looking at me with an "O" of astonishment. I recalled an earlier comment of hers as I asked, "What did you mean, 'I might already be with you?' Don't you know all your gang members?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, Brock, sir. We know only few of 'The Thistles', Clark the tavern keeper; Devlin the merchant in River town; and Cinquedea himself

I nodded, as I asked quietly, "How might I have proved my bonafides, Donna?"

She smiled more calmly as she answered, 

I nodded as she continued, "Identification by sign and countersign with the current words: Clover and Rapier."

Now I was confused as I repeated, "Clover and rapier?"

Donna was enthusiastic as she answered, "Oh yes, Brock sir. You might say 'the fields are filled with clover' with the countersign 'the rapier is sharp' and then you would know that person is one of The Thistles.

I shook my head, staring off into the distance, as I contemplated my continued health depending on not laughing during this childish secret word shit. I looked down at Donna as I asked, "So why didn't Alvis just ask me?"

Donna looked shocked at the question. "Tor would have killed him he'd so much as breathed the secret words in a tavern. Only Tor could put the questions."

I pondered how close I came to being found out and killed. Only Tor's distrust of his subordinates saved me. I knelt next to Donna unlocking the cuffs. At my gesture Donna brought her arms around in front of her and I relocked the cuffs in front of her. This gave me an opportunity to look Donna in the eye from close ranges as I asked an all-important question. "Why, Donna? Why are you telling me all these secrets?"

Donna looked back at me levelly as she answered calmly, "They are not here. Only you are here, Hunter Brock. Besides, you are different from them. Tor would have burned me without hesitation."

She nodded as she continued, "I will be honest with you in all things, doing anything and everything that you ask. Perhaps by that you can be persuaded to save me from 'the raising'."

Donna shuddered again at the thought of that barbaric hanging, looking in my eyes as she repeated in little more than a whisper, "Anything and everything, Brock sir."

I shook my head clearing it of the jarring overlapping images of Natalie then looked down at Donna, nearly naked in the ruins of her shift. I reached down grabbing the center chain of the Darby cuffs, pulling Donna to her feet. The adrenaline had come surging back and I was intensely horny. 

Pulling her along I walked out of the barn. Donna followed in docile manner. Walking us into the house I glanced back to see her eyes get big as she spotted the bloodstains from Jeremy and Tor. I kept her moving into the bedroom. 

The bed was barely a double, the mattress a feather tick suspended on a framework of ropes. I shoved Donna to her knees. Again she was unresisting, which, in some murky fashion, increased my need to control her. 

I removed my armor, weapons, and then my clothing, quickly disrobing leaving an untidy mound in the corner of the room. Striding quickly back to Donna and grabbing her blonde hair, I pressed her into my crotch, scrubbing her face against my balls. I tipped her head back, studying her face while reaching down, pulling her jaw down with my thumb. Shoving my hardening cock in her open mouth I mashed her nose against my belly. I held the back of her head as she struggled then abruptly I released her head. 

I was almost idly stroking my hardening cock, staring down as Donna bent forward on her hands and knees, gasping and choking. Reaching down with my finger tangled in her blonde hair, I pulled her upright at eye level with my cock. 

Donna looked up at me, smiling as she willingly opened her mouth, engulfing my cock. Her head came far forward as she swallowed my cock far back in her throat. The pressure on my cock as she swallowed was exquisite. Her head bobbed with her blonde mane swaying. At my touch she stopped, continuing to stroke me while looking up at me. 

My belt pouch was lying on the floor. I retrieved the key for the restraints on Donna's wrists. At my brusque gesture Donna held up her arms presenting her cuffs. I unlocked the cuffs, tossing them and the key on a rude table. She rose gracefully stepping out of her ruined shift as she took my hand leading me to the bed. 

Donna lay back in the soft mattress pulling me on top kissing me as she caressed my body. She stroked my slick cock as she spread her legs widely, pulling me to her center. I slid deep inside her, surprised as her wetness engulfed me. I grabbed her thighs roughly as I stroked into her while Donna pulled at my shoulders loudly encouraging me. I "slam fucked" her, fingers squeezing her breasts. My balls tingled as I slammed forward, my cock spasming deep in Donna as I shouted my completion. 

I collapsed bonelessly with my weight fully on Donna. She held me close with her arms and legs tight around me as my breathing slowed. She nuzzled me stroking my back as my eyes closed. 





Blood and Iron Ch. 11



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

© 2006 Warlord

*

I looked carefully into the drawer before reaching, in but there was no obvious snare. The drawer was completely lined in deep pile to prevent "hollow sounds" from revealing this void, as well as preventing movement and muffling sound from the three small leather bags the drawer contained. Opening the bags, I dumped the contents on the top of the large chest.

What is it with these people and snakes!?! 

The signet ring was a hooded cobra motif, with a large marquis cut star sapphire of a rich blue coloring. Next was an ornate skeleton key, with a cobra and sapphire gem set in the bow. Then another "key," with its sapphire and cobra bow and its blade consisting of a short, pencil thin square shaft ending in a "cross" point, akin to a Phillips screwdriver but not pointed. I sat back on my heels as I studied my find. Then it dawned on me what this was about. 

These primitive locks with their skeleton keys almost fall open with any kind of key, and were dead easy to pick with the simplest tools. One defense of the time was subterfuge. 

My guess was that this lock was outsized with ostentatious decorations and ornate engraving. To open it, the key goes in the obvious keyway, then the minuscule screwdriver key would be inserted into an insignificant opening concealed by embellishments, and turned to actually open the lock. 

Now that I had the keys, it was "only" necessary to find this cobra sapphire lock. 

Since the puzzle box was here in the possession of the robbers, the owner or person with best information was probably dead! Given the traffic on the main road the robbers preyed on, "my" lock could be anywhere from Coast Castle to King Holm. 

I smiled grimly. One more mystery to layer on top of all the others.

Putting the ring and keys back in the leather bags, I replaced them in the drawer of the puzzle box. I closed the drawer, carefully returning the wooden laminations to their original locked condition. The puzzle box then joined the rest of my loot at the bottom of the ladder. 

I tossed a handful of assorted coins into my belt pouch, with another assortment going in my concealed money belt. Finally, with a last look around, I began handing my booty up the ladder.





Blood and Iron Ch. 11



I let the blade fall back into the scabbard as the princess laughed saying: "Is that all you men think of?"

I grinned: "Not the "only" thing we think of in the presence of a beautiful woman but I am curious my lady. It is a very simple blade…"

Veronica smiled as she interrupted: "And you were expecting something ornate, garish, gilded, perhaps crusted with jewels?"

At my slightly chagrined nod, she continued: "Logan would not allow it. He is my fencing instructor, an unforgiving taskmaster even to a princess. But then my enemy at sword point would hardly be affable."

She rubbed the red horse as she giggled merrily: "The entire castle thinks we're fucking. They have no idea, I've actually learned to fence from the best swordsmen in the kingdoms."

Looking into my expression, Veronica smirked: "Brock don't look so shocked. I've been riding since before my second birthday when father put me on a horse. I've spent my life around stables and barns. Even a princess can't avoid reality around a stable."

I nodded again as she gave my ruby ring a speculative glance saying: "He isn't fucking 'her,' either."

At my start of surprise, Veronica laughed, continuing, "Logan finds the ladies of nobility, tedious and annoying. This of course makes him endlessly fascinating to many, but not Nadia or I. We know Logan finds his pleasures in the low dives along the docks. It is the danger I think…."

Veronica's blue eyes settled on me as she studied me in silence. The blue became glacial as the silence built around us. There was no smile, just her neutral expression and penetrating gaze as she asked flatly, "Your companion, Brock, she was part of the highwaymen who preyed on this road? The very ones intent on attacking my party?"

I nodded as I said, "Yes, your grace."

"She should be in chains, hunter, and on her way to The Raising. Yet clearly you wish her spared. She is lovely, but somehow I don't believe sex is the key to it. Tell me, Hunter Brock. Tell me why I must spare a woman who would have killed me."





Blood and Iron Ch. 12



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

© 2006 Warlord

*

If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Princess Veronica had the shades down, drapes drawn and shutters closed. I was getting nothing from hers. Softly I said, "I gave my word, your grace."

"Even knowing you could not keep it, Hunter?" she asked, in that same cool cadence with no expression. 

I nodded as I agreed. "Yes, your Grace, knowing that I did not speak for anyone but myself, but knowing even more that I wish Donna to live. She told me much…"

One eyebrow came up just fractionally as she interrupted, "But they are dead."

I shook my head, saying, "No, not all. There is 'something'. Far more than robbers, Princess, and I want Donna, who has some knowledge of this 'something,' to accompany you on the rest of your journey."

Into her palpably quizzical silence I forged on, "It is not highwaymen or isolated thievery, your grace. Some agency is making widespread disorder. I do not know who is responsible or the purpose of this chaos, not yet. I have 'not yet' the full knowledge that I need. This unknown something is a danger to the kingdoms, and especially to you."

I took a deep breath, saying forcefully, "I am convinced, your grace. Nadia, you Veronica, and Donna hold keys to my unlocking this treacherous mystery."

I realized my subconscious mind had supplied those words. In sudden clarity as I spoke them I understood their truth. In the shared silence that followed I stared into those hypnotic blue eyes. 

Sudden gonging as Hjordis pounded an iron plowshare announcing supper caused us to start in surprise. Veronica smiled as she offered, "Very persuasive, Hunter. Do you always thus convince your prey that they must willingly step into your enticing traps so that that you may capture them?"

Before I could respond, she laughed softly, saying, "Never mind, let us eat, drink and talk. I will feely tell you about my trip with Hjordis. I expect the same candor from you concerning this 'something' of yours."

She glanced over to the cook fires as she said softly, "I find myself persuaded to let your comely seafarer live. I am open to being fully converted."

With that, Princess Veronica turned, leading her horse to the stables and leaving me musing at the corral fence.





Blood and Iron Ch. 12



I had to keep in mind there was at least a possibility that antipathy Burke and Carlyle had accumulated by their disagreeable personalities, and unpleasant dealings was causing the Princess to focus her suspicions on them. I searched my recollections of the Chasseur horseman but nothing helped me to identify the rider. 





Blood and Iron Ch. 13



This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental. 

© 2007 Warlord

*

Ronnie smirked at me. "Suddenly, hunter, so little confidence in your persuasive abilities?"

She laughed, and Hjordis and Donna joined her. As the laughter tapered, the princess watched me carefully, her eyes again doing that shift thing from amused to appraising, as she said, "I wish to see the bandit's treasure."

Her impassive blue eyes focused on mine, she repeated, "Their cache, my hunter. Where is it?"

I stared into those mesmerizing blue eyes, answering simply, "Under the barn, your grace."

One eyebrow came up a smidgen as her eyes probed mine. "Show me."

In a lithe motion, the Princess bounced to her feet. She reached down, proffering her hand, then grinning widely when I ignored her offer, getting myself up far less gracefully. She smiled at Hjordis and Donna, reaching out and saying pleasantly, "Please come along." 

The princess turned to the ever attentive Blade, saying briskly, "You as well, with Jeremy, and bring light crystals please."