If It Were Not So - Part 3

-by Jo Anzalone and Sharon Ferguson

She didn't dare move for the longest time, his hand wrapped so trustingly around hers, firmly as if he had anchored himself to their clasp, slipping off into sleep once more, almost childlike in his security. An owl screeched past the window, and Rachel noticed there was less ruckus in the night air from revelers. His hand was so warm, so encompassing...when she was sure that sleep had taken hold, she gently turned his arm so that his hand lay across his chest, pulled the covers until he was wrapped, for the nights got cold here in the desert. Then, securing her satchel, she blew out the lamp and crept out of the room. Her own pallet would have to wait a bit more.

She could hear just a few people remaining in the saloon below, the main lantern lights dimmed until only wall sconces lit the halls and bar. She hesitated...there was no other way down, with the only other access to upstairs room being on the outside. She would just have to say it was something for Cort...or... or....

Horace was looking up at her at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Just closing up for the evening. How's our marshal?"

Rachel used the moments it took to descend to formulate her thoughts. Cort's rejection of the badge was best left as a single announcement, and by him.

"Much better," she replied when she had reached the bottom, hoping desperately Horace wouldn't ask where she was going. "The soup did him some good, and with a little luck and a good night's rest, he should be able to function a bit better in the morning."

"Good, good," said the barkeep. Rachel glanced around to see who else remained. There was a small group of poker players at a far table, but aside from Horace, everyone else had gone home. "Things have been pretty quiet here. You packing up to leave already?"

Nope. Wouldn't escape curiosity this time, either.

"I left some boxes in one of your backrooms when I first came here, remember? I need them now. I...I think since Cort is doing better now, I should move to a room of my own. Is there one I can use?"

"Well, sure! I can put you up in that side room...just go up the stairs and its at the far end of the landing...Ellen used it."

Damn, that woman's going to haunt this town, thought Rachel as she climbed the stairs, boxes tucked under her arms. One was long and slender, labeled 'tripod.' She had a prepared answer for anyone who got nosy about that...telescope, inherited from family, traveling on a scientific excursion, doctor's orders to get away from coastal damp...no one had bothered.

She opened the door to the room. It was pitch black, but she found a waiting kerosene lamp on the dilapidated bureau. In the dim light of the lamp, she was able to start laying out her things, undressing quickly, removing now-dry skirts, unlacing the corset, laying out pants and top to give her ease of passage to the rendezvous point.

Her feet slid across something that didn't quite sound like wood planks. She looked down and saw a piece of paper on the floor.

Herod's dinner invitation. Rachel crumpled it up and threw it out the door to blow away into the night.

*Let that man's name be erased. Let him die in the dust, get lost in the wind. If there was any soul that was forsaken, it was his. He will look up from hell and see Cort live...*

According to her watch, set to match the time of Redemption, it was about two o'clock in the morning. It would hopefully only take her fifteen minutes or so to get to the abandoned house, provided there weren't any surprises along the way. That's what the rapier was for.

She pulled it out of the long slender box, an involuntary sigh of admiration escaping her lips as she smiled down at the gleaming blade. 'Sindri,' she called it. Finely balanced, with black metal pommel, swirling hand guard, hilt, the blade itself shone as if new, even though she had owned it for several years now. It was sharp, as sharp as surgical knives, an illegality that she was ridiculously vain about. Only thing was it had never been blooded, having mostly been a centerpiece to hang on the wall, sometimes used in well-protected practices; her pride and joy, specifically made to satisfy her fantasies of a wandering life in tunic and knee-high boots, with rogues to parry, dragons to slay, clever banter to throw around...

She found herself grinning as she got dressed. Let someone come at her in the night. They'd be ranting and raving the next morning of the knife in the dark, the shadow of sting....

When she was dressed and her sword at her side, she blew out the lantern, slipped out into a pitch black night, for there was a new moon, and climbed over the railing at her door, jumping down to the ground one story level with a slight 'oof!' Then, with baited breath, took off across the ground between the saloon and the stables to the abandoned farmhouse just beyond the town's borders.

She stopped a few yards away from the ramshackle wood hut, which sat hunched in weird angles as the weight of its decay bent it until it looked as if a giant had sat and crumpled it. While she had been sure no one ever bothered coming out here, she withdrew her sword, poised to sweep away anyone who may choose to pounce on her.

Fortunately, it appeared no one had been out here yet. Clearing away some of the rubble, she pulled out the hidden items that she had been so desperate to get to.

On a small stable plank, she placed a laptop. Next to it, a handheld device that had once been a global positioning computer, but now acted as a power source for the laptop. In several minutes, she had the laptop humming, its bright screen light coloring her face red and blue. Connect modem...click function...signal sent. Waiting...waiting...

"Rachel," came Terry's staccato voice, Aussie accent loud and clear. "Speak, luv, you've got me worried."

"Sorry about that...there were problems," Rachel replied, biting her lower lip to keep herself from snapping at her boss. Why wasn't she able to get a visual? By the sound of it, he wasn't exactly in a position to complain of her lack of communication. Was that thunder she heard? "Terry, things have NOT been working out like you said they would!"

"Haven’t much time here," he shot back. He sounded annoyed. "Are you going to be able to bring him on through?"

"Well, now that's the whole issue isn't it? Not 'Rachel, did you get shot at?' or 'Rachel, you must have had a time of it in town,' or even 'Rachel, can I send you help?'" The pitch of her voice rose with each question.

"He refusing to budge?"

"Tonight's the first night I've had a lucid conversation with him! He's been feverish for the last 48 hours. And even then, he's still dealing with all the shit from the last several days. What do you think?"

"Sid said he'd be just fine! What'd you do to him, Rachel?"

"*Sid* doesn’t ever take into account that human bodies can have their problems. He thought like the silly goose nanocritter that he is!" Rachel shot back. "Cort, however, has a lot more to deal with than you think...like a crushed hand, for one thing...I knew it would be broken, but not this badly. We need to come on over NOW or you send someone who knows how to do hand surgery."

"Well, luv," Terry huffed, half in laughter and half in incredulity. "I would if I could, but you see, I'm in a bit of a quandary myself."

"What are you into now, Terry?" He may have been her boss, but she'd been with the company long enough to have this familiar conversation. Always, and it seemed ALWAYS, Terry was in some scrape or another. It probably made him feel things were normal if she were in dire straights as well.

That thought wasn't terribly comforting, though.

"Mountainside...Peru...a Southern belle...you tell me...are all Yank sheilas this stubborn? Ow!"

Rachel decided she didn't care anymore. She needed something...suggestions, advice...or permission to forsake the rule against anachronisms and just perform the transfer in Cort's room....anything to get the mission over with.

"Where's Bud, Terry? Why isn't he manning this while you gallivant with some debutante?"

"Last I heard from Bud is that he was on assignment himself, but don't ask me to get into it. Sid said he was handling that one, and I have my hands full here."

Rachel groaned. She looked at her watch: three-fifteen. Sun's up in an hour and a half.

"When do you want me to set the Warp, Terry? I need to know, because I'm at a loss as to how to break it to this poor guy that his reality is in perpetual loop."

"Your discretion, luv. You just need to contact Bud or Sid before you do. Over and out."

Connection broken.

Rachel sat back on her heels, wondering if she had gained any vantage point by doing this. And the last person she wanted to talk with was Sid. When amongst his Brothers and under Terry and Bud's watchful eye, Sid was the perfect gentleman. Alone, however, meant witnessing every charm and innuendo his several hundred personalities could think of to throw at her. A lesser soul would have succumbed long ago, but she knew Sid would have no respect for them. It had happened to others that had worked there.

Packing up her items once more and hiding them in the burial place she had created under the rubble, Rachel pulled out her sword again, if for no other reason than to feel safe going back. Not much time before she had to get up and help Cort face the day of reckoning.

Looked like it would have to be same old, same old: take it as it comes.

She climbed the stairwell, entered her room and collapsed on the bed, only just remembering to take off her sword. Sleep, blessed sleep came first.

It was morning. A single sunbeam, no wider than a pencil, slipped its way through a hole in the curtains, creeping up the sleeping man's cheek. When it reached an eyelid, the intensity of its focused light made the man blink. Cort opened both eyes, lying still, The sunbeam, its business done, continued across his pillow and down the far wall. He followed its slow movement with his gaze, not turning his head.

The room was only vaguely familiar, mostly having been seen through the haze of pain and medication. He tried to remember where he was, why he was there. Finally turning his head, he saw the remains of bandage rolls, jars of ointments, scissors on the bedside table. In a loose curl of white gauze lay the star.

Oh, yes. That. Ellen.

No. It wasn't the star that mattered. It was the gauze. She. She had bandaged him, taken care of him. Her name came then, splashing up into his memory, sparkling along his neurons with the shining drops of itself.

Rachel. That was it. Rachel.

Suddenly he jerked to full awareness, his muscles tensing. Rachel! Where was she? His eyes scanned the room for traces of her.

She was real...wasn't she? He hadn't dreamed her? He had to be sure.

Using his left hand, he pushed back the covers and struggled to a sitting position, sliding his legs off the side of the bed. He was breathing rapidly, a sense of anxiety filling him. She couldn't be a dream. He remembered her. He did! She'd asked him to wait. But where was she?

"Rachel?" he called, standing quickly. Too quickly. His knees buckled and he fell heavily onto his left hip beside the bed.

Maybe she was a dream after all. Why would someone like her be in this godforsaken shell of a town anyway? She didn't fit, not really. She was much more like someone he would have made up in his sleep. Someone who would be tender and kind...and full of grace. Someone different from everyone and everything in this town of ugliness and decay. Only dreams were like that.

He turned his torso so that he was facing the bed, folded his forearms on its top edge, and lay his face on them, closing his eyes.

The watch in her hand read ten-twenty seven. *Damn!* Later than she wanted, later than she should have slept. But the padded mattress, while no Select Comfort or Serta, was a sight more comfortable than a thin wool blanket on the wooden floor and her body refused to cooperate with a brain screaming that a certain sick person was probably wondering what the hell happened to her. It was only because of Katie knocking on her door and entering with a plausible reason of bringing wash water that she managed to drag her bones out of the covers.

She was still wearing the pants and shirt from the night, and Katie stared as if she had seen a ghost.

"You dress like she did," the girl said. Meaning Ellen.

"Oh?" Rachel bit back a retort. Ellen had done something no other man or woman had been brave enough to do, at least in that girl's eyes. "I'm nowhere near like her, though." That, at least, she could truthfully say without offense.

"My goodness! What's that?"

*Oh shit* Katie saw the rapier, lying full upon the floor where she had dropped it. The young girl picked it up, blue eyes wide with wonder. She was used to seeing guns and ammo, not sleek swords with bright edges. It was like a thing of dreams.

"That is my weapon of choice," Rachel found herself saying, unable to prevent a well of pride from taking over her caution. "I had it specially made. Would you like to see it?"

Katie nodded. Rachel drew it out, delighting in the rasp the blade produced as it slid from its scabbard. In the sunlight now penetrating the room through a small window, the sword gleamed, a sleek sliver of sharp beauty.

"They used to name swords, you know," Rachel went on, as Katie took it from her and examined every inch of it.

"Really?" Katie laughed. "Does this have a name?"

"Sindri. It means 'small and sparkling.'"

"It does that," Katie agreed. "But...what good is it against a gun?"

Ah. Trust the young to come right to the point.

"Well, it doesn't. I'm not trained in guns," Rachel admitted, as Katie handed it back to her. "And if you were to pit me against a gun-man, he'd win in a single bullet. But," she added, as she slid the sword back into its casing. "When these were popular, one counted on a different sort of honor to settle arguments. And if used well, can be just as deadly as a bullet."

Katie was silent for a few minutes as Rachel pulled out a new dress to wear, a dark blue calico with green sprigs and pink rosettes.

"I wish..."

Rachel slipped on her camisole and pantaloons and handed her corset to Katie to help lace it up. She paused to watch Katie as she worked through some emotions that had surged upwards into her freckled face.

"I wish...that I had had something like that..."

Katie couldn't finish the sentence, tears welling up as memories...

Oh. Rachel felt the floor fall out from under her feet. All her own troubles seemed so feeble next to the sorrow in Katie's eyes.

"It's okay," Rachel hastened to say, taking her by the shoulders and forcing the girl to look her in the eye. "It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong. He was wrong, not you. Don't ever forget that. Don't let him win," she stressed, searching for the right words.

"He...he..." Katie gasped for air.

"Raped you. Sweetheart. He was wrong. You didn't deserve it. You did nothing to deserve it. You have o believe me," Rachel urged.

"She....she tried to tell me...and I didn't listen...and now she's right...and I...and..." Katie broke down.

"Don't let him win. You didn't deserve that," Rachel repeated. Katie closed her eyes and tried to absorb her words. Already a grownup was emerging from her spirit, bereft of a mother who could have cushioned many women who were complicit to that kind of evil.

"You did nothing wrong," Rachel repeated, unable to think of anything more worthy of saying.

As if that were enough, Katie took a deep breath and nodded, to file away those thoughts. Shaking off the moment, she then helped place the corset around Rachel and began lacing it up. When Rachel was dressed, she paused one last time.

"I didn't know my Mama very well. She died when I was real young. But," she added, with a small smile. "I like to think that she was like you. Thank you."

Before they entered the saloon, Katie gave her an update, which was just as well, because without forewarning, Rachel would have been completely unprepared for the crowd awaiting her in the saloon, which seemed to have become a default gathering place of the committees that had formed in the wake of Herod's death.

There was the Church society, which had heard of the burning of Cort's mission and wanted to meet with the priest to find out just how serious it was. There were the various businessmen who, in the wake of the apothecary's murder, demanded to know what the new Marshall was going to do about the encroaching lawlessness. And then there were various rogues scattered throughout the crowd, who didn't say a word, but Rachel clued in on as ever watchful for weakness in the scheme of things. All this when she first walked in the door. She was quite certain that a dash for the stairwell up to Cort's room would result in a fury of arms and denials. At this moment in time, they knew her to be an obstacle to all their answers.

Horace was practically crippled with abject apologies.

"They're waiting to talk to Cort, Miss," he said, trying to direct her to a chair where she could have easier access to those who wanted to plead their case. "I keep telling them he's been awful sick, but they say they've waited long enough. They want to meet the Marshall."

Rachel sighed. She had been afraid of this.

However, before she was able to formulate any sensible speech to explain herself, explain why law had not immediately returned, they all heard Cort's voice at the stairwell, weak but undeniably firm.

"I have something to say about this."

Every eye turned, looking up at Cort where he stood, two steps from the top of the wooden stairs, his left hand clutching the railing with every bit of strength at his command. He licked his lips, trying to keep that firm tone in his voice, but the mere act of standing was draining him fast. His eyes sought Rachel's, hoping that slender thread between them would somehow let him remain upright long enough to speak his piece. He managed a small smile for her, taking in her blue dress, liking the look of it...liking the look of her.

About a half hour earlier, he'd managed to struggle to his feet and collapse across the bed for a few minutes. When he felt able, he pulled on his freshly-laundered shirt and coat, running his fingers gratefully over the careful mending. All he could think of then was making his way to the stables, getting a horse, and heading out in the general direction of the horizon. But then Horace had knocked, bringing him a glass of milk and some slices of toast.

"Thank you for taking care of me so well," he'd said to the barkeep, raising his right hand enough to indicate the bandages.

"Oh," Horace had replied with a shrug. "That's Rachel's work."

"Rachel?" Cort had said, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

"Yes, the young stranger in town. She's the one bandaged you, fed you the soup."

He'd had to sit down on the edge of the bed, regathering the parts of himself that had just burst into pieces of light. She was real. Truly real. He swallowed hard, his jaw working.

"Thank you, Horace," he'd whispered. "More than you know. Thank you."

"Didn't do nuthin' much," Horace replied, grinning though as he remembered the bath and the long johns. "She's downstairs now in the saloon 'case you're wondering. Lots of folks gathered there now. All talking 'bout you. All wantin' answers."

It had taken him a good ten minutes to make it from the bed, across, the room, and down the short hall to the stairs. He stood there at the railing for the next couple of minutes, just looking at Rachel.

Again he swallowed hard and had to blink a bit. Lordy, but she was beautiful. Beautiful and...real.

Then, very carefully, he'd gone down one step, then two. He'd intended to do the whole staircase but by the second step knew that was all he could manage. So he stopped there, his knuckles white with the force of his grip on the railing. His legs seemed made of mush. Was it the lingering effects of sickness and injury he wondered, or was it the sight of Rachel? The stairs tipped a bit, so he planted his boots further apart, trying to steady himself. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders and said, "I have something to say about this."

When he knew he had everyone's attention, he continued. "Herod is dead, yes. And there is much work to be done in your town, much rebuilding." He breathed slowly, deeply, holding on. "Some of you folks seem to think that because I have possession of Ellen's father's badge that makes me the new law in town." Again he licked his lips. They seemed dry and thick to him, making it hard to form his words. He looked around the room, his eyes deliberately settling on each person in turn. "I am no lawman. I have no right to be." He continued looking. "I do not want to be. I am...was...a priest." Unbidden tears stung his eyes. "I know I have broken my vows...I know...," he swayed slightly. "I know...I...." The stairs tipped violently and he grabbed the opposite railing with his right hand, hard, then in slow motion his whole body began to curve forward.

The instant she saw him at the top of the stairwell, teetering like a cut tree, Rachel began moving toward him. *One, two...* she found herself counting the moments it would take before his body gave way, found herself marveling at the reserve of strength he was mustering. She had seen many of those moments in movies where motions slow down to where every second counted, every second passed with futility towards a predictable end (but you had to try anyway). Now she was doing the same, every second that brought her closer was one more step to causing him to fall...and all she could think to pray was: *please don't use that hand, please don't...*

He grabbed the rail with his right hand as the last bit of reserve seeped away in his emotion, grunted in pain as the splints twisted in their bandages; he managed to hook his arm around the banister instead as his body went down and forward until he was half-hanging from the rail and half bent over the lower steps.

As if those inexorable seconds finally let go of her, Rachel dashed up the stairs to catch him, just barely getting her arms under and around him in time to stop the slide down the stairs, to push him aright. He leaned against her gratefully as she helped him turn and sit on the steps.

"Oh, oh! Your hand!" she whimpered as he brought it to his chest, face twisted in pain. "I should have wrapped it better. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Give him some whiskey," someone called and one of the customers swept up a shot glass brimming with amber liquid to bring to Cort. "That'll dull the pain," he said to the priest. "I fell on top of a raging campfire one night. Burned me bad. Damn fool thing of me to do, but I if it weren't for a bottle of whiskey to drown the pain, I'd a-cried like a baby."

"Which you did when we woke up the next morning. Damn fool, you'da never fell in the first place if ya hadn't had half that whiskey bottle in yor belly," his partner groused, shaking his head as the rest of the saloon shook with laughter. "That's why ya didn't feel anything," he concluded, and raised his own glass to Cort.

Rachel could feel a chuckle rumble through Cort in spite of himself. He still had an arm around her and she had to admit she was loathe to move it. It felt right, complete, to be tucked into the space next to him, encircling her as he did. Several times, she caught him glancing at her, sending a fast warmth through her body, until she was sure she would become a puddle on the stairs. She began wondering how she was going to get him alone again.

She wondered if it showed on her face.

"What are we supposed to do then?" cried one lady, a fussy woman who radiated effrontery not only over Cort's announcement, but the very fact that she had to enter the bar to begin with. She was overly dressed in that manner that the Victorians had excelled, every ribbon, ruche, flounce and furl she could think of piled on top of a not-too-appealing figure. "We can't live in a town where people don't respect the law!"

She and Cort shared one last glance before he chose to answer. Rachel bit her tongue, wishing she could have a moment or two with this clueless member of Redemption. Apparently, she was one of the more sheltered set existing in this God-forsaken town, one of those who managed to be convinced that people like Herod were on the right side of the law.

"Ma'am," he said, pausing a moment to grit his teeth, trying to get enough of a handle on his pain so he could talk. "If you can no longer live in this town," he breathed deeply, "it's not up to me to keep you here."

He pressed his eyelids closed briefly, opened them, and continued. "I am not the savior of this town. Or any town. I've got no answers for any of you people." He looked at Rachel, saying almost in a whisper, "I've got no answers, Rachel. Not any more."

Pain ran through his hand like lava in his veins and he gasped with it. Through clenched teeth he murmured, "Can you get me up the stairs?" He blew out short, sharp breaths. "Now?"

"Of course, yes!" She told him, but even as she rose and tried to let him lean on her as they turned to make their way back to his room, she had some serious doubts as to whether or not she would be much help to him. He was tall, very tall, to her five-foot-two-inch frame and powerfully built. She might be able to steady him if they held still, but maintaining balance as they walked was a feat unto itself. They made it as far as the very top of the steps before Rachel had second thoughts, getting more upset that everything she had tried to do seemed to make matters worse for Cort.

"Here," came the voice of the cowboy that had offered the whiskey and he was on Cort's other side, pulling him up to grant more support. Cort nodded in gratitude.

Unfortunately, the clamor rising from the saloon below was less than grateful. Some called out they had been cheated, others were plain resentful that Rachel had monopolized the one person they could rely on to give some answers; some just grumbled in general. Herod had held such a tight rein that now the fetters were loosed, no one could imagine a different future.

"Don't listen to them," Rachel told Cort, as he reacted to some of the slurs being thrown up the stairwell. "If they were in the same position, they'd not think of anything but their wounds."

They had paused briefly, letting Cort lean on the wall to catch his breath. He indicated his right hand. "It's not...this... Rachel," he whispered, and the look in his eyes let her know without saying which wounds he really meant. He leaned his head back against the plank wall, tipping his chin high, closing his eyes. He stood like that a long moment, then looked down at her.

"I think I need to lie down," he said softly, his face going a bit grey.

Something about the color of his face and the tone of his voice made Rachel panic; more than that, the look in his eyes when he brushed off the pain of his hand spoke volumes of a deeper pain, one she had only gained an inkling of the night before when he spoke of the metal star.

*What to do? What to do?!* She looked in askance at her helper, whose own grizzled face was inscrutable as he waited for the pair to regain their bearing.

"Can you make it to your room? Its right there," she told Cort, pleading with him with her own eyes *just a bit further*.

Katie (*God bless her!*) came bounding up the stairs, sent by her father to check on them.

"Go get my things," Rachel told her. "And Katie..." The girl stopped to listen. "Put you-know-what in its box and bring it as well. I don't want anyone finding it." Katie grinned brightly and dashed away.

Cort was trembling, shaking, looking as though he were going to pass out.

"Hang on, hang on," Rachel babbled to her charge as she and the cowboy practically dragged the young man to his room. "We're almost there..."

When they had settled Cort, the cowboy hovered a bit, nodding down at him for a moment.

"You do what the young lady tells you, hear?" He said, finally. "She's the boss." Then, he winked at Rachel and left.

Rachel busied herself taking off Cort's boots, checking his bandages, cleaning up the bedside table, sweeping the metal star into a draw...trying not to look at his face again, because she was sure she would break down. He tried to talk to her, but the panic in her was too insistent, the voice of alarm too loud. She was nowhere near a point where she could bring up the subject of her mission, nowhere near the goal of letting him know there was a way out of this place.

She pretended to busy herself at the bureau after checking his mangled hand. *As if I could do any good! This is getting to be too much, too much. I'm gonna have to either just quit and go home with my tail between my legs, or drag him along whether he understands me or not. But if only he weren't so weak!*

Katie knocked and came bounding in with her satchel and the long box containing Sindri, brimming with interest once again.

"Will you show him what's in here?" She asked Rachel, indicating the rapier box.

"Maybe later. Listen, I need food and water..."

"I've already eaten, Rachel," came Cort, whose own voice held a tinge of frustration.

Rachel turned on him and gave him a stare.

"Who's the boss lady?" She asked.

"You are," Cort replied.

"Thank you. Katie, food and water...and...Katie?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Thank you...both you and your father. Very much, thank you!"

Katie practically bounced out of the room.

Rachel practically threw herself onto her satchel, tossing out items as she dug for the needle and vial of painkiller, not caring if her watch or comm-device came into view. No time left for subtlety or illusion. With a flick, the cap on the ready made syringe came off and she drew the amount of medicine she needed. Then, without much prelude, chose a spot on Cort's wounded arm, and moved to apply the needle.

Unfortunately, Cort had been all too aware of what she was about to do, and flinched away, his expression now a bit distrustful.

"I have to give this to you before she comes back," Rachel argued, indicating the syringe. "It will help the pain. Please...trust me."

He stared at her for a few moments, then nodded, giving his arm back to her.

Watching intently, he let her do this strange thing to him, wincing just slightly as the needle pierced his arm. What was this all about? He had no idea, but he watched her face as she withdrew the puzzling object and read there only compassion and concern. He figured it must be some new-fangled way of giving medicine as he'd seen the bottle she'd filled the thing from. Vaguely, he wondered where she'd come from that she knew about such things, but cotton balls seemed to be filling his head, one by one, piling up, leaving no room for conscious thought.

"Mmmm...better," he murmured, his head slowly turning to the side on the pillow. "I think I...."

Rachel sat on the floor at the side of his bed, gently tucking his incapacitated hand under the covers and then folding her arms on the edge to lay her head down, trying to collect her feelings, her thoughts before making the next move. His head had turned to face her as the medicine took effect and she stared at him for several moments, retracing with her sight the lines she had studied so intently in his film before arriving. The halo of hair curled slightly, framing his features.

She listened to Cort drift into a soft slumber once more, squelching another wave of frustration that his recovery was taking longer than she had anticipated. She hated having to give him the medicine, as it was only a panacea to the severe nature of his broken bones, but he was proving to be a bit unpredictable and she needed time to think....think...

Since she arrived, it had been on reaction after another, one mishap after another, all assumptions and plans gone awry and down the tube. Terry was in Peru, caught up in plans of his own, and Sid...well, she didn't like bothering Sid any more than she absolutely had to. It was bad enough that he was able to exist in the first place, an anomaly she had never fully gained a handle on since she joined NanoCorp ("a subSIDiary of Virtual Research" Terry explained with a merry wink at their interview). And it was hard enough to reconcile that with the reality that not only did Sid LOOK like a particular actor of a certain Antipodean extraction, he was an actual manifestation that had somehow defied the natural laws of time and space.

Yes, that was bad enough. What was really confusing though, was the selective way Sid ingratiated himself to the world, despite his supposed makeup - oh yes, she knew all about that. A computer generated man with extreme amounts of intelligence and self-awareness (and an unholy amount of charm and guile) now a 'respectable' member of the community, albeit a rather mysterious one, and CEO of a research company, employing many technological and industrial entrepreneurs with a mind toward the revolutionary The presence of this company was such that even Rachel, a struggling student in the nearby college, couldn't resist the appeal for interested interns.

The job had called for someone willing to travel, able to apply basic medical skills, adapt to a new environment..."blend and beguile"...as Sid had put it, to retrieve others born of the same actor...to what purposes were unclear...having observed Sid in the work environment, Rachel quickly learned it was probably best she not try too hard to find out

Suffice it to say, NanoCorp was a comfy "bedroom" branch of a research facility that took great pains to not only trust its employees to keep deep secrets, but carry through with assignments with skill and accomplishment.

Why Sid and Terry thought she could have fulfilled any of those requirements was still baffling her as well, especially since it had been an interview that wobbled between the very formal and the very flirtatious, with Terry acting very much the straight-forward no-nonsense businessman and Sid plying her with every bit of flattery he could come up with. Rachel had walked out of the office building feeling as puzzled and discouraged as Dorothy after meeting the Wizard of Oz. The gorgeous green glass complex nestled in the middle of rolling parklands probably had a lot to do with that impression: it was a veritable Emerald City hid in obscurity outside the city, a complex that everyone seemed to know about but couldn't quite explain.

Still, they accepted her application, a meager little application that had begun as a request for a mere secretarial job while she finished her master's degree; before she knew it, she was part of a retrieval in Mystery, Alaska.

Rachel found herself smiling as Cort's REM cycle kicked in and his breathing took on the deepness of dreamless sleep. She couldn't help herself: she reached up and cupped her hand on his shoulder, recalling how intensely good it felt to be next to him. Whatever spark had been lit when she first approached him on the steps of the saloon now flowed like a stream, an invisible thread that had wrapped itself around her heart when she first arrived.

*No, sooner than that,* Rachel corrected herself. This whole situation had begun as research, comprised of curling up on her couch and viewing the subject of her next retrieval, all objective and dispassionate; but, by the time Movie Cort stood in the street, rolling up his sleeves, adjusting his gun-belt, preparing himself for a gunfight, Rachel had a strange feeling this retrieval was going to be nothing less than her life's goal.

Katie breezed in with a tray, smiling as Rachel indicated a quiet entry, and set it down on the bureau.

"You comin' back down?" she whispered.

"I probably will," Rachel whispered back. "It may not be a good idea though. Is everyone still angry about Cort's refusal to be marshal?"

"Aw, just some," Katie replied, crouching down next to her, giggling somewhat as the man in the bed began snoring. "But not as many as you think. Not a job many people would want after all that Herod did. Can't be blamed if he don't want it either. I just feel bad for him...his hand and everything. Plus, how Herod treated him."

Rachel huffed. "Tell me about it," she said.

"There is a man who is might interested in you, though," Katie added, tweaking her sleeve. "Won't say if he knows you or not, but he seemed to think you'd be interested in him."

For a flash, Rachel thought of Sid, perhaps to confirm that her report to Terry was true, that Terry had contacted him and told him...

"Did he say his name?"

Katie shook his head.

"He has a strange accent, though. Pappa says he's from Russia. Don't know about that myself. Cain't even think of where Russia is. Is that near Alaska or somethin'?"

Rachel grinned at the young girl, wishing she had time to give her a geography lesson.

"It could be thought of that way, I guess," was all she said, and got up. "I think I'll come down with you. We just need to make sure he gets rest."

He ran the tip of one long finger through the ring left by his whiskey glass...around and around and around...as he kept his steely grey eyes on the staircase. When the young woman finally appeared at the top and started to descend, he lifted the fingertip to his lips, slowly and deliberately licking the moisture away. He was a patient man, his movements precise, controlled. Smiling almost imperceptibly, he watched her pause half-way down, scan the room, searching him out as he had known she would do. "Come to me, my little blue moth," he thought, blinking his eyes in slow satisfaction.

He was 42, taller than most of the men in the saloon at the time, with a sense of coiled power in his bearing which, even as he sat at the small round table, bespoke a large hunting cat. His black hair, swept back from his angular face, was already touched by grey wings at his temples. The sharp definition of chin and nose gave him a rather arrogant appearance, heightened by the way he held his body, tipped his head. He was dressed in a well-made, dark suit of that day, a large diamond stick-pin a bit ostentatiously perched in the middle of his maroon cravat.

As she walked across the plank floor, coming directly toward him, he stood, bowing gallantly, expertly, at her approach, then pulled out the chair opposite his for her to sit. She would sit. He knew that. Returning to his own seat, he met her cool gaze, each taking the measure of the other. "So," he thought, "this...female...is the one who thinks to snatch my prize." Inclining his head slightly, he introduced himself, his accent smooth, unpinnable. "Dimetri," he said. "Dimetri Zoloft. At your service." Again that trace of a smile flickered briefly in the corners of his lips.

Rachel searched and searched her mind for any recollection, any hint at all as to why this man sitting across from her, emanating a mysterious arrogance, would want to talk with her. For the moment, she settled with the idea that he was yet another patron of Redemption's questionable resources, and watched Dimetri as he introduced himself.

"That's very kind of you," she said, putting on her best manners as well, a slight drawl from her native Texas coming out...she couldn't help it! Accents always had a way of doing that with her.

He had to be from out of town...Herod was the only one who managed to afford such fine threads and he was...well... "Please forgive me, but...do I know you?"

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. "When two people are just met, it is enough...in many circumstances...if only one knows the other." He smiled inwardly as he watched her attempt to sort out who he was, why he might be there.

When he was ready. When HE was ready. He leaned toward her, the flame inclining itself toward the moth. "And the young man you helped up the stairs...how is he doing?"

*Doesn't beat around the bush, does he?*

Rachel cocked her head in thought, frowning slightly. Whoever he was, he was slick. And dangerous. That much she could sense.

And he wanted to know about Cort.

*Okay. Right now, everyone here wants to know about Cort.*

But who was Dimetri? Dimetri...Zoloft?! Is that truly Russian?

*How odd a name like that shows up in a time and place like this...*

Rachel found her fingers tugging at a wrinkle in her skirt, growing more and more comfortable under the piercing grey eyes, the barely perceptible smile that already had her unnerved in its Mona Lisa complacency. She repressed an urge to shudder and leaned forward slightly herself.

"The young man is recuperating...slowly, but well. I'll tell him you asked about him," she added, hoping that might trigger more information from this...Russian...enigma.

"No need," he said, leaning back now, tipping his chair slightly.

"There is a place and a...time...for everything under the sun." He smiled. "Or so I've been told." His eyes traveled openly, brazenly over her features, down her neck, lower. "And you. What has someone...like you...found to interest her in Redemption?"

*Why did I not include a Brillo scrub in my supplies?* Rachel mused as she sat back, suddenly feeling dirtier than any piles of dirt that had blown its way through Redemption since her arrival.

"I don't see that it's any of your business, Mr. Dimetri," she replied, evenly, adding her own frosty smile. "And if you aren't going to be forth coming with your business with me, I'll just be on my way." She stood to indicate she was through with this conversation.

"I await your good...pleasure," he said, standing and bowing slightly from the waist. "Till we meet again, my dear." He looked up the stairway again, deliberately letting his gaze linger at its top. "Don't bandage him...too...tightly. You wouldn't want to inhibit the flow of his blood, now would you?" So saying, he turned smartly on one heel in a most disturbingly military fashion, and walked toward the door.

In his room, Cort's cotton balls were beginning to settle into a comfortable lump somewhere low down in his skull, not enough to knock him out longer, yet still keeping his pain level manageable. He lay there, having determined Rachel was not in the room at present, recalling what the townspeople had called out as he'd gone back up the stairs. He rubbed his left hand wearily across his jaw. He'd made a complete sweep of it now. He'd let absolutely everybody down. From the moment he'd kicked the door into Ratsy's face...and enjoyed the doing of it...he should have known how it would all go down.

He'd met Herod's eyes then, as John had stood there at the gun store counter, waiting for his arrival. John Herod was not deceived as he himself had been. John Herod...knew. He'd felt like some character on a stage, acting out a script Herod had written. At every turn he'd done the thing that would please the man the most.

Such a light of pleasure in his eyes when he watched Cort kick the door.

And then the gun. Oh, God, the gun. Smooth and sweet in his hand like it fitted there, belonged there. And it did, damn him, it did. His fingers had moved in that familiar way, that never-forgotten, that can't-be-forgotten way, twirling it, moving it quickly, easily the cold metal replaced the rosary. Even during the Kid's description of the gun, his fingers had twitched, eager for the touch of it. Even despite Herod's clear reminder of the last time he'd held a gun in his hand. Even despite what he'd...used...it for.

Despite it all, his fingers had yearned for the feel of it. Even as he had said, "The Lord supplies me with everything I need," he was demonstrating his skill with the weapon that had gotten him what he'd needed without the Lord.

Then his mind was filled with the presence of the small chapel where he'd sought solitude to pray. The sounds of the children playing were muffled by the thick, adobe mission walls. There was only a small kneeler at the little altar with room for two, him on one side, God on the other. He'd spent hours there in its cool, shadowed comfort. Had that been real? He closed his eyes tightly, tighter, trying to get back there. But Herod was laughing at him and he saw his own fingers slipping a bullet into its cylinder.

His eyes flew open and he grabbed the water glass by his bedside, flinging it across the room, shattering against the door a split second before Rachel opened it.

If the strange "Russian" gentleman had unnerved her, the crash on the other side of the door to Cort's room did so even more, the clash and tinkle of shattered glass stopping her heart, followed by extreme fear of what she would find on the other side. She flung open the door to stop whatever delusion the poor man would be suffering.

What she found, instead, was Cort sitting up in bed, green eyes ablaze...hate? Fear? Grief? She quickly shut the door behind her, glancing around to see how far the glass had scattered. Cort didn't appear to be hurt or in any throws of fever-induced hallucination. He only sat and stared for a minute. Rachel stood stock still, waiting to see what he would do next.

He was trembling. Every bit of the last week had gone into that violent hurl of the glass. His breath was coming almost in little pants. He didn't even see Rachel come into the room though his gaze was fixed in her direction, so caught up was he in the inner explosion of the moment. Then, suddenly, she was there, standing amidst the shattered glass. He gasped with the shock of the thought that he had thrown the glass and she had been there all the while.

"Oh God, Rachel!" he said, his eyes widening. Then, because he didn't know what else to do, he held out his left hand, palm up, toward her.

With a sharp release of breath, Rachel rushed to sit next to him, putting her own hand in his outstretched hand, to show she had not been hurt, that she was right there.

"What's wrong? Talk to me," she encouraged, hoping to calm him. She could see his shoulders shudder slightly, as he enclosed her hand with his. "I thought you were still asleep, that's why I was gone. Has something happened?"

He was too choked with emotion to speak, still, in fact, trembling with it. All he could manage was to take the small hand she put in his, draw it up to his cheek and hold it there As she leaned in, allowing him to move her hand, he stared at her face, remembering completely what it had felt like to believe she was not real.

Her breath was warm, sweet, and with an almost dreamlike expression, he let himself focus on its source. Her lips were parted slightly and he found his world filled with nothing more than the little whispers of her breaths that came and went through them. As he concentrated on that, he felt his trembling stop, his own breathing slow, gradually matching hers breath for breath.

Minutes passed, then more. Still he held her hand to his cheek but began almost in slow motion to move it forwards until it was in reach of his mouth. His gaze moved from her lips to her hand and he kissed first one knuckle, then the next, and the next, closing his eyes before he reached the last.

Slowly, then, he lowered her hand, still keeping his own curved around it, settling it onto his lap. Only then did he look in her eyes, only then did he speak. "Rachel," he said, a certain sense of wonder in his voice as he spoke it.

Leaving her hand in his lap, he lifted his, cocking his head, running his forefinger down the line of her cheek as he simply...looked...at her. After a long moment, he folded his hand into a loose fist, pressing it to his mouth, his eyes not wavering from hers.

"Why, Rachel?" he whispered from behind it.

In her life, brief as it was at twenty-six years, Rachel had heard, and read, plenty of those moments when the pulse and sensation of some desired one made all the surrounding world disappear; and she often thought she could imagine it, even smile at its cliche with cynicism.

Not so now, as Cort lifted her hand to his cheek and captured her gaze with such an intense expression of emotion, the caged heart in her chest expanded to take over her lungs. Her lungs melted to become the flutter of air escaping her lips, every limb of her leaning like a flower to the sun, all sensation ringing out like a bell when he turned his face to kiss each knuckle, lips brushing with single strokes of the heart…

...one

...two

...three

...his green eyes closed with a final knell...four.

He spoke her name, but she didn't quite hear him, for liquid fire had passed through her with each kiss, and Rachel couldn't hear his breath any more, so timed was he to her pulse. His hand reached her face and she had to close her eyes briefly herself, unable to stop the rush of blood to her face where he touched.

Then, he drew his hand away. She willed every particle to stay exactly as she was, not wanting time to pass anymore...except that Cort would break that spell and ask:

"Why?"

She fell out of that suspended moment like a stone, swaying slightly from its release. Her heart stopped.

She gave him the only answer she could think of, the only words that came near to describing what she felt,

"Because," she whispered back, "I love you."

He stopped breathing. Completely stopped. He had expected maybe some explanation of liking to help folks, of passing through and being distracted by Herod's little game...something. Not this.

In the hours he had lain in bed, not able to move much, not able to do anything much at all but think, he had thought of the week just passed, of times further passed, and he had thought of her. He watched her sometimes when she thought he was still sleeping as she moved quietly about the room, or just sat beside him. Watching her move was...well, it did something to him. Not like what Ellen did. Ellen was raw, animal lust in the face of death. Rachel was sunlight on a field of tall grass. She made him want to walk gently, to lie down and let the wind blow over his face, to reach up and feel the sunlight tangible on his hand. She made him want to touch her softly, slowly, with no hurrying.

There was nothing about her that was at all like Ellen. Rachel was entirely female in that way that made him want to encase her with his maleness. She was the sort of woman that made a man stop and wonder why he'd not seen her before and how he could possibly walk further if she didn't walk beside him.

He'd thought all these things, and more, as he watched her...never expecting, not once, that she would think of him...similarly.

Finally he sucked in a breath, his eyes locked in the depth of hers, looking there for the truth...and finding it. What he saw made him almost dizzy because he could find no reason for it on her part. She'd not seen him before he sat on the steps after it was all over, after Herod was lying dead in the wreckage of the street...had she? She knew nothing of him except that he was good at killing men and that he needed help. There was no thing...not one thing that she knew about him that would make her love him. How could there be?

And...yet….

He had been so alone...so separated from all his foundations...all he had believed...had hoped...about himself, who he was, who he was capable of being. Just to hear her say those words...those unexpected words...and to see the look in her eyes...now, the look that she had right now... my God!

He swallowed hard, his throat gone all thick on him. Ah...if only...if only. He reached slowly up again, curling a strand of her hair about his finger as he had longed to do before. He wanted to speak...to say...something. But the only words that he could think of were those of the rosary.

How strange. Hail, Mary...full of grace. Blessed art thou among women. He couldn't say...that...but he was so full...so filled and filling both that his body spoke for him and with his face mere inches from hers a single tear tracked its way down his cheek, dropping upon the back of her hand.

Nothing Cort could have done could have opened up the floodgates for her own feelings than seeing a tear slide down his cheek. Now Rachel reached up and cupped his face in her hand, shaking her head in remonstrance. There had been so many lights of joy, amazement, doubt, regret flitting over his expression, it did seem as if he couldn't do anything but shed a tear. But that drop now rested like crystal grief on her hand and it almost hurt to feel it on her skin.

"No, no...don't cry. Do anything...say anything, but don't cry," she crooned, smoothing away the trail the tear left with her thumb, and then, unconsciously, pushed away a strand of hair hanging in his line of sight. "I didn't want to make you cry," she added, wondering if she had gone too far.

He still had said nothing. But then she touched his cheek...and that chain, not the chain that Herod had fashioned, but the stronger chain, the one that had wrapped, snake-like, coiling around the core of his being for days now...that chain began to stretch and strain...and when she touched his hair...it broke. Not with some loud clanking snap...but softly, more as though it just dissolved quite soundlessly.

He leaned forward, his mouth opening, finding her upper lip, holding it between his, precious, soft, yielding, then moved on to her lower, fuller one, ripe with promises only felt and not yet spoken.

Then he claimed her whole mouth with his, and lost himself inside her, swallowed whole by everything he was feeling, needing to seek her out in her inward places, to make her his, to leave no part of her untouched, no part that had not known his presence.

When he was through, when he had both given and taken all the fullness of the moment, his lips lingered on hers, his need more vast than he had known. And so he kissed his way slowly up her face and softly lay his lips on one eye then the other, finally breathing out her name, "Rachel. My Rachel." And the sound of it was like a prayer, somehow sacred and filled with light.

That thread, the spider-silk tension, the silvery strand woven so firmly as Cort moved through his story, the one stream between her heart and his lips, the sweet sealing of one kiss...top...then another, bottom...soft, testing, tender...*that* thread now unfurled like a carpet of light at her feet, his presence all encompassing.

Then the carpet...his mouth, oh his mouth!...plunged, taking her with it, leaving nothing to the senses but that of a falling elevator, with only his lips to keep her from being lost for good...his mouth took her completely, pulsing like a heart, to claim, to aver, to possess...

Only when he released her mouth to kiss her cheek did Rachel realize she had reached out to cling to him, pull him closer, a sigh escaping as he murmured "Rachel, my Rachel" upon her face. With a responding sigh, his mouth traveled to nuzzle her ear, his own breathing staggered and shallow.

He was in the river again, floating with the green that had come to him in his fever, his pain. Only now the green had a face, had a name, was...Rachel. And the river was moving because all that made him him was in some sort of flow as though his very molecular structure were reforming. He let himself be carried in the current. It was too strong, too vital, was all there was. There existed only that flow where his being curved itself around hers and together they were going...somewhere. He didn't know. He didn't really care. Caring would involve coherent thinking and all his mind could do for him at the moment was yield itself with his body to the power of the flow.

Both dying and birth must be something very like this, this moving from one place to another, one existence into something wholly new. One moment your reality was one thing and the next it...wasn't.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, holding on as his mouth explored the curve of her neck, kissed the soft hollow of her throat, completely lost in the wonder of her. The scent of her filled him and his masculinity responded, wanting...wanting...everything. His lips worked lower, finding the upper swell of her breasts.

Fists banged loudly on the door. "Miss Rachel? Miss Rachel? Are you in there?" It was Horace. "Miss Rachel, it's Katie. She fell down the last 3 steps and hurt her leg. Doc's gone. Can you come? Can you come and check on her?" His voice was anxious, urgent, and he knocked again, intent on finding her.

Cort gasped, pulled out of the river as though he were a trout, and sat there on the bed, blinking, trying to breathe in much the same manner as a suddenly landed fish.

Now the stream was molten air, changing flow, drifting the carpet where she hovered, wrapped by pure light; air that wafted male and strong, male and protective, curling around her until she floated down, down, falling like a petal onto the surface of a deep and silent river under shade trees, green and rising, filtering the raw heat of the sun until it bathed her in gentle radiance.

One petal became many, petals clumping until she could feel the trace of water over her skin, the trace of lips...his mouth moved downward, following the stream to an anticipated estuary, kissing curves, sloughing borders....

BANG! BANG! BANG!

*OUCH!*...the sound of fists on the door yanked her out of the stream with unholy cruelty, hurting her in ways she couldn't name. She and Cort sat staring at each other, breath coming hard for both of them, the fever pitch of love-making bruised with shock. Cort glanced at the doorway, a ghost of his darker side flashing in his eyes.

"Miss Rachel, are you in there?" Horace asked again, sounding a bit unhappy.

Cort leaned to kiss her cheek and whispered, "Go. It won't take long." Rachel's lower lip turned down in a pout the way it used to when she was a child. She was not happy herself, the shock now curdling into vestiges of anger. *Will the drama never stop?!*

"Don't send me away," she argued, but Cort gave her his slight grin, one that killed her every time she saw it, erasing any resistance.

"I'll come get you if you take too long," he argued back, but the hand falling from its entrapment in her hair was reluctant, his fingers brushing her shoulder and back as he released her. Rachel responded with a shiver. Such promises...

"Coming!" Rachel called, trying to keep her voice from sounding rebellious, defiant. "Give me a minute!"

She made her body move, even though it screamed to crawl into the bed next to Cort and finish what he had started, and stood up to straighten any rumpled appearance. With one final pout in Cort's direction, she flung open the door, fully aware of the disarray her hair was in. Let Horace think what he wanted.

"What's the problem?" She asked, all clinical now.

Horace reiterated Katie's dilemma. She had been going too fast down the stairs, as was her wont, "that child prattling something about a sword and I don't know what's got into her lately, but she come down somethin' fierce on her knee. Said she twisted her ankle, but it look worse than that, Miss Rachel and she asked for you..."

"Okay, okay," Rachel nodded, trying to make her brain follow her body's suit, which wasn't leading very well in the direction of nursemaid anyway. "Do you have anything cold to put on it...?" she asked as she followed Horace and closed the door. She didn't dare look at Cort again, otherwise she'd tell Horace and Katie to go to hell, that she'd not be out until the next morning...

Part 4

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