Hitting the ice hard on his shoulder, Will rolled until he was on his back, the cold bleeding through his clothes. The air was all but punched from his lungs, and it was a struggle to gain breath. Above, the sky was dark and dotted with stars, though hardly visible in the constant light from the city. He tried to pick out constellations, but so few managed to shine through the ever burning light haze here. “Have you died?” A swish, blades cutting on ice, and a shadow fell over Will. Casting his eyes to the side without moving his head, Will sighed dramatically. “Obviously James. I’ve hit the earth like a dying star and thus shall become a part of it.” “You’re on ice.” “Then the cold shall lock my bones and freeze my already cold heart.” “Good lord Will.” The words were exasperated, but there was laughter in James’ voice. “Get up.” He extended a gloved hand, and with great dramatics, Will rolled his eyes and took James’ hand. He offered no assistance though, letting his body lie like a dead thing as his friend pulled on his hand. “Will.” He was really laughing now, a smile lighting his face that Will couldn’t help but return. Reaching, James took hold of Will’s other hand, attempting to use both to haul him to his feet. It had the opposite effect though, and precariously balanced as he was on his skates, it took little effort on Will’s part to topple him. A flash of a grin, one quick tug, and James was sprawled across Will, looking bewildered. “You bastard.” He said, muffled against the dark gray wool of Will’s coat. There was no real heat in the words, and Will laughed. He slapped James’ shoulder. “Off, you’re heavy.” “No. This is your fault. Live with the consequences. “Don’t you recall, I’m dead. I can’t very well live with anything.” “Oh for Pity’s sake.” Through much scrabbling and cursing and laughing, they stood. They gripped each other’s forearms, James to reassure Will, Will to steady himself as he wobbled on the skates. He was confident and adept at a great many things in life. Ice skating was not one of them. “Alright?” James asked, loosing his grip somewhat. Will cautiously started to ease away. He wavered, tipping alarmingly, and James grabbed his hand. He grinned ruefully at James, gripping his fingers tightly. “This might be the better option at the moment, lest I fall flat on my face next.” James huffed, taking a step to glide, pulling Will along. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Where would you be if your beautiful face wasn’t so beautiful?” “On the streets, desolate and without a hope.” Rolling his eyes, James led them around the rink, knit glove and leather glove gripped together, shoulders brushing every so often. Winter in New York was cold and biting, but the air was sharp and refreshing at night, even with the wind. At this hour, the open air rink was nearly empty, Will and James the only skaters. Peace settled in James’ chest, warm and content, the kind only fresh air and Will could bring about. Once Will was a little more comfortable on the skates, James took Will’s free hand. Facing each other, James swung them in a slow wide circle. He had to smile watching Will, who was all wild hair, flushed cheeks and wide eyes. There was a boyishness that made him look twelve rather twenty five, unbridled joy in his smile, so different from his usual flat expression or over dramatic theatrics. This was genuine, and happy, it made love swell up so hard and fast in James’ chest that it hurt.

Afterwards, in Will’s car with James driving, their coats damp and laid over the backseats, Will flopped back in his seat.
   “That,” He said, making James pause in the act of turning on the car. “Was excellent. We have to do that again.”  
Reversing out of the parking lot, James smiled.
   “I agree. Though maybe not too soon. You’re going to be black and blue for a couple days, I’m sure.”
  Will scoffed.
    “I’m just fine, thank you. One or two tumbles on the ice will hardly damage me.”
    “Six. You fell six times.”
    “I did not.”
    “You did. I counted. Even took a picture once” That might’ve been a lie. He did take a picture, not of Will busting his ass, but of his laughing face as he untied his skates.
   “Such treachery, from my best friend. You wound me.” Will declared, removing his gloves and slapping the far vent to aim more warm air in his direction. James pulled onto Main Street, side eyeing his passenger and raising a brow.
  “Would a hot drink make up for it?” From the corner of his eye, James saw Will pause.
  “With Alcohol?” 
  “Possibly. It’ll be hot nonetheless.”

It was not, in fact, alcohol, but rather tea, which suited Will just as well. Seated in a dim corner booth, Will placed both elbows on the table, mug between his hands, and lightly kicked at James’ ankle. James raised his brows, kicking back and making Will grin. “This was a good night. Thank you for dragging me out even though I was being a complete jackass.” Not without reason though. He knew, even if Will didn’t speak of it, that today was the anniversary of his Mother’s death. James sipped his tea, which while steeped a little too long, was gingery and rich. “You’re always a jackass.” He replied, attempting to hide his smile in his drink, but he knew Will could see it in his eyes. “I saw Mary Lee’s text earlier. Why didn’t you go on that date with her tonight?” James mock frowned at him. “And miss the opportunity to see you eat shit on the ice?” Never.” Will studied him silently for a moment, blue eyes steady, and then he smiled, and kicked James’ ankle again.

Settling on the bench, the sun’s lasting heat seeped through the stone, so warm it bordered on hot. I remained seated though. Before me, on the other side of the table, a man with scarred skin and lined eyes sat, gazing at his calloused and cracked hands folded on the weather-pitted rock of the table. I folded my arms and rested my weight on them, leaning forward slightly. He didn’t meet my eyes, even when I gently spoke. “Do you have anything to ask me?” The wind was my only answer for a several minutes, small gusts lightly stirring the bright young oak leaves of the single tree beside us. Behind him, the lake glittered, deep verdant green, moving ever so slightly in constant motion. Further back, the mountains, mirroring the ones behind me. “Why did he have to die?” The question was whispered, so low and croaking that it was hardly audible. Still though, I caught it, and I took a breath, thinking on my words. They came so easy on paper, but now, now they challenged me. “Would you rather,” I began, trying so very hard to make my voice soft. “That it was you?” He answered without hesitation. “Yes.” I smiled, a little sad. “No James. I don’t mean death. I’m taking about everything else.” A moment of silence, and he raised his eyes to mine. Such pain, such grief in those eyes, and I hated myself then, for the things I did to him, even though I thought I was telling the truth that was life when I put his hardships to paper. His face, so worn and marred, paled. “Think of how it pained you to loose him, and all that came after.” I said, so, so gently. He blinked, dark eyes bright with more than sunlight. “Death was a kindness, one I’m sorry I didn’t give you.” A tear, then a second, rolled down his cheek, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He inhaled a shuddering breath, keeping his hands on his face. “Why did this have to happen at all?” He asked, his deep voice choked. I pressed my lips together, my own eyes beginning to burn. I tipped my head back, the sun warm on my face even as the wind blew cool. “Because it had to. Think of what the world looked like Before, all that was so wrong. Now, think of watching that buffalo step over the fence in Colorado, and the broken high lines. The pavement on Old Creek road that’s almost completely gone now. The Mexican wolf you saw run through the mesquite field.” I closed my eyes and breathed for a minute, listening to his heavy, hitching breaths. A tear ran hot down the side of my face, into my hair. I opened my eyes and faced him. Watched as he held the side of his hand against the corner of his dark brow, obscuring the ragged scar that ran down from his hairline. It was more noticeable than the stitch marks running from the side his mouth, which was mostly hidden by his beard. But I knew, that scar hurt far more. After awhile of silence, and he had steadied his breathing and his face was mostly dry, he looked at me with bloodshot eyes and blotched red cheeks, expression somber, calm, but still slightly pained. Always pained. “I understand.” He said, gravelly and rough but resilient. I smiled, extending my right hand and placing it against his face, cradling his jaw and brushing my thumb over the scar where it cut through his eyebrow. The lines besides his eyes and mouth tightened, but he pressed into my touch. “I know you do, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you suffered to see a better world, even if it’s what had to happen for things to change. I don’t know if the world will ever look like this for me, it may not for many years. But for you, you’ll grow old, you’ll see the trains run in the distance and the animals at peace, the monochrome of the cities be overtaken with earth, the hum of electricity lost to wind and insect song. You’ll see every thousand star in the sky on clear nights as the coyotes howl, and when you die, you’ll die having left the world far, far better then you came into it. I can only hope my own death will mean as much.” James closed his eyes, crying once more, and turned his face more fully into my hand, bringing his own up to loosely clasp my wrist. I grit my teeth, my throat tight. Even though it was always my own fault, I hated when he cried like this. I hated to see him in pain, despite always being the cause. Perhaps that made it all the more worse. “I’m so sorry James.” I whispered, feeling him tremble beneath my fingers. He cast his eyes up to meet mine. His fathomless, shining eyes. “Is this how you feel?” He asked, raw and open. I smiled without joy, sure my own face reflected the pain in his. “Yes.” I said, smile fading. I looked at the mountains, in shades of green and blue with gray cliffs at the peaks, the crows wheeling on the air currents and sunset clouds painted in colors of fire that lit the lake up. The tall gold grass swayed, bees flower hopping between the bluebonnets and wild sage, early bats flitting above our heads. I smiled again, this time genuine and kind, and met James’ eyes. “Not always though.”

On the grass hill, the ground was chilly, but dry, and the wind was light and cool. It shushed through her loose hair and raised goosebumps on her bare arms. It’s wasn’t uncomfortably cold, but she slid the jacket on. It was soft black leather, a couple sizes too large, the whole back colored by the bands emblem, all fire and bones and desert. Florence shrugged it on, relaxing in the warmth and comforting familiarity. It smelled like him, despite her numerous thefts of it. As the idle, time killing radio music continued to play and the crowd talked a steady background of noise, Florence glanced around. Her odd ensemble of an outfit didn’t stick out amongst the concert goers. In fact, it seemed a bit tame next to the goths and cowboys and indie rockers. It was a little amusing, and heartening, to see such an eclectic cast of people, likely from other towns and states, with vastly different lives, all gathered to hear the same music. Wonderful, though she was irritated by the toker she could smell a few rows down. This was music, genuine music. She couldn’t imaging not being stone cold sober for this. Nonetheless, Florence was glad to be there. She hadn’t attended a show for several years, not since they made a real name for themselves. She wondered how long it would take someone to notice she was wearing the lead man’s jacket, smiling a little to herself. Her smile remained as the lights dropped and the music faded, and in the dark of the stage she could see their figures moving like ghosts in the shadows, taking up their instruments and places. The crowd, incredibly, fell to near complete silence as he began to very lightly pluck his guitar strings. Florence wasn’t expecting that sort of respect, but was gladdened. He began to sing, slow and thoughtful , the only accompaniment to his voice the guitar he played and the wind rustling the grass, a single soft light on him. Tears glassed her eyes. When his voice and last cord faded out, so did the light, and for one solid, breathless second, silence reigned complete. Then the stage exploded in light and sound. The drums thundered through the ground, bass notes thrummed in the air, golden beams blared out the stars in the sky and left after images in her eyes. Her skin rippled with goose flesh from the sheer force of sound, the beat pulsing up through the ground to her feet, up her legs and into her chest, matching the pace of her heaving heart. Her breathing was shallow, thin cold oxygen creeping into her tight lungs. Her eyes closed, not concerned with seeing so much as hearing, focused on his steady voice and the rising music. Tipping her head back to face the clear sky, Florence inhaled the chilled air, felt the wind like hands in her hair, the music beating like blood through her veins, his voice in her ears, sad and soft and melancholic, speaking of distance lands and remembered death, of the beautiful places of the world and lonesomeness of living, of dark deserts and the vast space filled with stars. Opening her eyes, Florence watched the stage lights flash across the black sky, glimpsing stars between the strokes of yellow and green and white. The song ended, and he began the next with only vocals, absent of any instrumental backing. She heard his voice, strong and distinct, and thought while there weren’t many beautiful things left in the modern world, of the few that remained, music was still here, and still as beautiful as it had always been.

“There’s a world that was meant for our eyes to see.” Standing the precipice of the coming new decade, at the crest of a mountain with a curving road winding ahead, he looked into her eyes and waited, hand out stretched for hers, the sun shining in his eyes and wind playing through their hair. “Will you follow me?” He asked, voice soft and sad, though he smiled a little. She hesitated, glancing from his hand to his pretty dark eyes, her own fingers knitting together tightly. “If you won’t, I’ll say goodbye.” It wasn’t a threat, just a statement free of doubt. There would be no resentment if she said no. And she did, with a slight shake of her head. His smiled genuinely then, wistful and sad but understanding. He nodded, and a stray strand of hair fell over his forehead, catching at his lashes. He let his hand fall, turning to face the distant mountains. She hitched forward awkwardly, making as if to reach for him but stopping herself. “Why must you go at all?” She asked, a pleading note in her question. He sighed heavily, eyes on winding yellow and gray lines running into the foothills. The sun was a line of fire tracing the horizon, the mountains outlined in orange. “What good is living the life you’ve been given, if all you do is stand in one place?” And so they parted, her getting in her car for the small quiet life of stability and home, to live and die in the same place she was born. As for him, he started walking, boots beating like a steady heart as he treaded pavement, the sun drawing up wavering heat from the asphalt. The growing breeze buffeted against his body, carrying the biting edge of cold from the north where he was headed. There was no certainty in where he was headed or what he’d find, or if he’d even ever return alive, but on he walked, bound for the ends of the earth.

A wall of glass before her, Cerulean at the water with longing and pity. Longing for the feel of the cold water rippling down her spine, and pity for the animals inside, knowing it was a far cry from the waves of a real ocean. She understood though, why they were in their. Most of the sea live in this aquarium were rescues, animals that fated to die had they not had human intervention. Granted, some may have fared well enough by adulthood to go back to the wild, but they lived good lives, even if it was in a kingdom of glass. They were well fed and cared for, with a decent amount a space, and safe from the less upstanding sort of humanity that would uncaringly feed them trash or kill them for convenience. As the tiger shark swam past a second time, Cerulean turned away, walking down the dark, blue lit tunnel to leave. There was only one other visitor this late to closing, a man, leaning one should against the glass and closely watching the underbelly of a sand shark swimming up by the surface. He glanced down as she walked by, his features soft and eyes dark and impossible wide. She nodded politely as she passed, but a hand around her wrist stopped her before she was out of reach. Hesitant but not hostile yet, she paused and looked back at him. “May I help you?” She asked, in her clear, concise voice. He didn’t speak, just raised his chin and flared his nostrils, taking a deep breath. If she had hair on her neck, it would have raised. His hand was still around her wrist. His palm felt smooth but think like polished leather, and his nails were ever so slightly digging into her pale, nearly translucent skin. Glancing down, she blinked. A long black claw curled from his middle finger, the tip just barely pressing aging the prominent blue vein in her wrist. She could see her own pulse beginning to pick up. Looking back to his face, she saw curiosity and uncertainty in his wide, sad eyes, and his heavy brows furrowed as he gazed at her. A strand of thick, short hair fell forward, brown black and with a bright shine. Something about this man was odd. He wasn’t necessarily familiar, but he reminded her strongly of…something. Something she had seen in the water. Abruptly holding very still, Cerulean held her breath and looked hard at the man, just as he was staring at her. Before she could speak, he beat her to it. “What are you?” Unmoving in both face and body, Cerulean didn’t react to the question outwardly. Inside, her stomach twisted. She gotten peculiar glances before, but nothing like this. But clearly this man was similar to her, normal people didn’t have inch and half long claws protruding from their fingers, so she raised her chin and stepped forward, looking him directly in the eye. “Mermaid. What are you?” Without any hesitation, he replied, dropping her hand, “Selkie.” Frowning, Cerulean leaned away a little, wary. “Seal” Human and seal cross, both things that killed things like her. He nodded, the blue lights dancing on his cheeks and throat. He sniffed the air, narrowing his big puppy eyes that made sense now. “Fish.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement. “Yes, fish,” she replied, but she grinned an unkind smile that was more about baring her pointed teeth. “The kind that bites.” He raised an eyebrow.
“I heard maids were deadly, that they dragged sailors to their death with their lovely voices and beauty.” Cerulean cocked her head to the side, her hair falling to form a yellow curtain tinted blue. “Find me beautiful do you seal?” She asked her most sweet and lilting tone. She wasn’t yet certain if she needed to kill him of if she wanted to drag him to her boat and ride him. He grinned, a show of far more impressive teeth then hers. “Yes.” He answered honestly. Decided harm wasn’t necessary, yet, she tipped her head toward the exit and started to walk, her body half turned towards him. “This place is ready to close, and I have a boat on the dock. Care to join me?” She asked it with a more genuine smile, holding her hand out in invitation. He took, claws still out and his own smile lining his eyes. “Yes, yes I do.”

Taking a seat on the creaking wood of the old picnic table, his feet on the bench, Gabriel placed the little chest beside him and contemplated it. It wasold, dusty and a bit banged up. It was a conglomeration of metal and leather and wood, in the same fashion as antique trunks. On the front was a small brass lock, the key of which Gabriel turned over in his hands. Leaning to the side, he used it and unlocked the chest. Leaving the key in the lock, he opened the chest. The lid came up with a groan and a show of dust, and Gabriel huffed to blow it away from his face. After the air cleared, he peered inside. The interior was pasted with sheet music, sepia toned. A few he recognized, others were indiscernible. Boots knocking on the wood bench, Gabriel shifted to get a better look inside. The first thing to catch his eye was a worn snapshot tucked against the back. The edges were torn and browned, but the color was still good, even if a bit blurred.It was of himself as a very small child sitting beside his father by the lake. He smiled, a little sad, faint memories of that day they all spent fishing and barbecuing on Memorial Day. There would be no more days like that. The next thing was a leather drawstring pouch, which once opened revealed a rosary. It was mother of pearl beads wire wrapped in dark bronze, with tiny, vibrant orange garnet accents and a caravaca crucifix. Gabriel ran it through his hands, the faceted stones cool and shining in the early morning sun. He looked at the rosary for a long time, recalling his grandfather sitting in the den early in the morning before anyone else was awake, praying quietly in the low light and silence. Gabriel didn’t realize his grandmother had kept it, had thought it had just gotten lost with time. Returning it gently to the pouch, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and set it aside. He sifted through the contents of the chest, finding a cassette tape with no label, a battered paper crane he vaguely remembered making when he was ten, a golden Irish claddah ring that had been for her engagement. At the bottom, underneath a tattered leather bound copy of Watership Down, he found a fine Damascus knife, bone handled, tiny rust spots on the flat of the blade. He ran his thumb alone the blade, a thin line of bright blood following. Still sharp. It was his mother’s hunting knife. Again, something he’d though lost, after everything happened. Somehow, his grandmother had managed to hold onto all the things that held the most memories of their family. All stowed away in a small chest in the attic closet. With a heavy, shuddering sigh, Gabriel swallowed around a knot in his throat and looked up at the house, standing tall and empty, memories wondering it’s halls like ghosts, smiling in the pictures on the walls and chiding from the notes on the fridge. It was alone as he was, just as he was bound here and unable to leave, built up on the rocks and red dirt of the mountain side, unmovable with time and age. Looking around at the sprawling green fields and corn crops and barns, at the glint of the lake in the distance, he smiled. There were worse places to die, and you weren’t really alone when you lived in a house full of ghosts.

The wind was cold at his back, pushing him onward and taking cool fingers through his hair. It bit at his ears and reddened his skin, stiffened his joints and made his eyes tear, but still there was no snow. The sky was a flat slate of gray, the sun absent, and the forest was cast in muted light with deep shadows crawling the ground. The forest floor was blanketed with pine needles, some browned and dead while others were still green. They softened the tread of his boots, and he walked through the woods mostly quiet, head down to watch his step, rifle heavy at his back. He paused when he noticed the silence, kept his head down as he listened. The birds had lost their songs to the wind and they’d gone with it, leaving a tense absence in their wake. Only the drifting breeze talked, muttering in the trees. When he raised his eyes, it was to find the sight of wolves before him, thirty feet away and pale as specters in the gray. Their fur ruffled in the moving air, but they remained still, watching him with unwavering yellow eyes. While the hair rose on the back of his neck, he made no move for his rifle. He stood, non threatening, his shoulders hunched and his head ducked, hands in his pockets. His heart was thumping a little harder than normal, and his pulse was fluttery, but he wasn’t exactly scared. Unsettled, certainly, but not afraid. The wolves on the property had always been docile, never even gone after the livestock. They were still wild though, and many in numbers. Only three were visible, but he knew there were others he couldn’t see in the thick of the brush, waiting for the actions of the ones in front of him. The front wolf, the closest, was a scarred up female. He’d seen her before, running with the lean male off to the right. If he wasn’t mistaken, the smallest of the trio was a cub of theirs. It was less intense as it’s parents, lifting and lowering its head, flickering it’s flagged ears and swishing it’s tail. It was curious.
Taking a deep breath of frigid air, he kept his eyes on the female and took a step forward. She didn’t move. He started walking, slowly, and as he got closer, both dominate wolves eased to the sides, parting to either side like a Red Sea. The young wolf, less experienced, got nervous and back off, vanishing in the dark of the forest. The male and female remained, like statue sentries as he passed. And then they followed. Skin crawling, he continued through the woods, conscious of the wolves behind. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if he had enough bullets to match the pack’s numbers. If he inclined left, he could hit the ridge and double back to the horse fields. They were still a good distance from the house, but the wolves knew better then to enter the pastures, because death was imminent when one of those fences was crossed. So with that in mind, he turned left and walked, steadily, unhurriedly. There was rule with the wolves. Do not run. When he got to the fields and was crossing through, he halted, turning to look back from where he come. A little ways up the hills, where the forest began, the wolves lined up, watching him. He looked to his right as one of the horses approached, sidling up beside him, the mare’s bright eyes on her predators. She rumbled in her chest, so close he could feel it, and she tossed her head. He put a hand to her neck, a comforting gesture, and pushed lightly, guiding her away. When he glanced back, the wolves were gone, and the birds where singing again.

Gently tugging on the reins, Sid guided his mare to turn, continuing on down the valley. He watched with careful eyes as he rode, letting the mare choose her path as long as she kept the right direction. She was a keen girl, and always acted on Sid’s Will without hesitation. Before Texas, he wouldn’t have thought loyalty like that could be had from a horse. But he hadn’t thought much of horses at all before. That was different now. Many things were. While Sid was eyeing the brush line off to the right, the mare halted. She stood quite still, and Sid looked at the back of her head. Her ears perked forward, and she whickered. Sid waited, looking in the same direction she was. After a moment, a horse appeared, up out of a ditch and riderless. Sid’s mare called out again, and the horse quickened it’s pace to meet her. Sid’s chest tightened and his heart beat hard, pushing his pulse faster. He knew, even before he could properly see him, that the horse was a big stallion with tiger striped legs and scarred jaw from a mountain lion. He wore a handmade saddle on his back, with an Aztec blanket underneath. Gripping the reins till his knuckle whitened, Sid kicked the mare in the belly, just barely, and she began to run. Sid only slowed her briefly enough to grab Dutton’s hanging reins, snatching them when the stallion tried to approach his companion. He jerked when Sid caught him, but was soon following without complaint. Sid urged them both towards the ditch, attempting and failing to hold back fear, and the horses could sense it. They did as told, but they were anxious and fidgety. At the edge of the ditch, Sid paused. It was wide, twenty feet or so, and perfectly capable of taking a horse into, but there was a reason Dutton lost his rider in here, and while Sid didn’t know that reason, he wasn’t going to test it. Sliding from the saddle, he walked ten feet back and tied the horses to a small oak. He walked away, though his mare’s high whicker got him to glance back. She was straining the reins, gazing at him with bright eyes that he could see even in the near complete dark. He shook his head and she swished her tail. Dutton stood, silent and still, looking at the shadows in the ditch. Sid turned away from them and stopped, listening. “Lucy?” His voice seemed loud in the quiet valley, though he was speaking just above conversation level. He waited, holding his breath. “About time Sid.” Abruptly, the tension bled from Sid and relief flooded him. His stomach swooped and his felt dizzy. He ignored it and scrambled into the ditch, searching until he found an old fence line, half the wire broke and on the ground. Thankfully, the moon was full and bright, and he could see reasonably well. He called for Lucy again, and when she answered she was startlingly close. Following the fence a couple yards, he found her on her back, the skin of her face and hands standing out in the dark. Her hat lay a few feet away, haphazardly sitting on a small bush, and her boot was hitched up on the fence, the upper and second wire in a twisted knot around her calve and ankles. Caught when she and Dutton ran by it undoubtedly. When he knelt down and touched the mess, he felt tacky wetness. When he pulled them back, his finger tips were black in the moonlight. “You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question. Lucy sighed, eyes glittering in the sliver light. “Some of the blood is from my leg, some my hands.” She extended a hand out, showing more black blood. Sid nodded. “I’ve got dikes on my saddle, I’ll get them.” But he didn’t stand yet. He shuffled closer on his knees and used the hand not stained with blood to touch her face. She smiled tiredly and he stroked her dirty hair back. “You’re husband is going to be sick about this when we get back. And I might be too.” He told her. Lucy grimaced. “I know. Not the only ones either.” She jerked her chin, gesturing behind him. He turned and saw the horses standing at the edge of the ditch. His mare huffed when she saw him looking at her. “You and I both owe those horses your life.”

Rising sunlight shone through the pale curtains, faintly lighting the room in early morning tones and catching the dust motes in the air. It was blessedly warm on Gideon’s bare back, and he heaved a deep and contented breath, turning his head up to see Florence’s sleeping face. Her eyelashes were clear in the light and the veins were visible under the thin skin of her eyelids. Gideon was partly on top of her, one leg between hers, arm around her stomach and his head on her chest, allowing him the sight of the stark line of her jaw and the curve of her throat. Shifting subtlety, he took her hand that rested on the bed, holding it loosely. Her other was in his hair, where it had tangled before she fell asleep. After a squeezing her gently, Gideon eased back to sit. Under the comforter, his leg was still over hers, and he felt when she moved, turning her head to face him and folding one arm over her chest. Florence was lovely in the dawning light, tousled hair and fair, flushed skin and relaxed body, naked save for the blanket covering her hips. Her mouth was kissed red from the previous evening, and tiny little bruises were blooming on her throat from his teeth. The bed clothes around her were disarrayed, the blanket half on the floor and one of the pillows no where to be seen. All those little things suggested more happening last night than what actually did. The intent had been there, but they’d been kneeling on the bed, wrapped up together and both trying to undresses the other, and she had undone his belt and slid it from his dress slacks, he’d been trying to unbutton her dress blindly, and her knee slipped on the edge of the mattress, he’d lost his balance, and Florence was the one who hit the floor. Gideon had made an honest attempt to catch her, but all he managed to do was face plant on the bed with one arm stretched over the side. He imagined they looked like some bastardized mockery of a scene from the Titanic. She had looked up at him, sprawled on her back on the floorboards, khaki dress rumpled, underwear around her knees, her chest all misshapen from both her bra and dress being loosened. Her copper hair was half obscuring her face, and she peered through the strands to meet his gaze silently. He stared back, wide eyed and shirtless, his own long hair a wreck. He was only wearing one sock. He knew this because he could see the match laying beside Florence’s shoulder. His mouth trembled. A swift grin crossed her face before she had lost it laughing, and after that, though they had both lost their clothes completely, sex had been forgotten in favor of a little wrestling and much beating with pillows, an act which Florence said was recompense for getting shoved off the bed. They’d tired after awhile, and discussed writing, of books and music, and what state they’d be in two days from now. Montana it was. They’d realized early on that tours and book signings could be lined up side by side, which meant they could both work, without an issue for either, be travel together. It was a good combination; she didn’t need much for autographing, so he could take up as much space as needed for sound equipment and instruments. The only thing, probably the smallest problem, was that Gideon now got a separate room rather then pile in with his band mates, including his best friend. Despite that, the guys had generously and easily accepted Florence into their wolfish little pack, even reserved, stoic Heidi. She was the keyboardist, sometimes vocalist, and the coolest tempered of the group. She and Florence had not, despite being the only woman amongst all the men, immediately become friends. However, they got on well enough, and sometimes they would decide to bunk together when Gideon missed the guys to much. All in all, it worked shockingly well. Their lives had slotted together so seamlessly that sometimes Gideon expected the anvil to drop, for it to crash, but so far it hadn’t, and Gideon was going to enjoy, and enjoy mornings like this one. A slight nudge at his leg brought his attention to Florence. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t realized she was awake, watching him with a fond expression. He smiled.

Pressing down on the breaks, the truck slowed, the roaring of the wind dying as the heat pressed in past it through the open windows. The asphalt burned and heat rose in waves. The air was dead still, not so much as breath of wind. Forty yards ahead, the Mercedes red hide gleamed in the sun, and Houlihan eyed it with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. No cars in her mirrors, she sidled up beside the red piece of metal money and idled to a halt in the road. The front left tire was the one that gave out, leaving half its rubber a quarter mile back. A man kneeled between it and the road methodically loosening lugs, and Houlihan watched the back of a stiff collared white shirt plastering to his back with sweat. When he realized she wasn’t just a passerby and twisted round to look, she saw the front was just as soaked. Curiosity won out, and she decided to take pity on the poor bastard. “Need a hand there?” She put on her best Texan drawl and smile for him, grinning all the more when he noticed the curl in her lip and sharp edge to her otherwise pleasant tone and narrowed his eyes. Pretty brown eyes that next to immediately clocked the 22 racked above the backseat. Nonetheless, he brought a knee up ( Mercy help the man, he was wearing kakis dress slacks) and propped an elbow on it, turning the wrench in his hands as he tipped his head back. “Do you have a phone with signal?” he asked in such a deep, smooth voice and clear annunciation that it had Houlihan weary. She huffed.
“No, but a I got two hands which is what I offered you. We sure as shit don’t have a tow truck.” Without waiting for his reaction or response, she let off the breaks and lurched forward, easing onto the dirt and parking. She killed the engine, grabbed her hat and got out, feeling the sun like an abrupt slag to the face. She approached, a lilt in her gate from the weight of her 45. on her hip. He hadn’t changed position, just turned his head to keep his eyes on her. A foot and a half away, she stopped, arms crossed, jerked her chin at the mess of a tire. “Want me to work on that a minute?” He looked at her from under heavy furrowed brows, and finally snorted derisively and held out the wrench. “By all means.” Flashing a grin she wasn’t sure came across as nice, Houlihan grabbed the wrench and got to work. In a long life of living on unpaved roads and potholed, uneven highways, changing tires was old hat. And yes, she got just as sweated up as he did, but she halved the time it would have taken him, and it was doubly faster with having an extra set of hands to get the spare and lift it on. Both on their their knees, each with a handful of lugs to thread before switching to the wrench. Side by side, Houlihan could feel the heat coming off him, and smell him too. She wasn’t any better off, particularly since she’s was coming off cattle work when she ran across him. He didn’t seem bothered, more relaxed now that she’d lost the mocking air and wasn’t here just to see what kind of spectacle he’d make of himself. And if Houlihan was honest with herself, she wasn’t as leery now either. If he’d wanted to jump her, or try to, he’d had plenty of chances. He didn’t, just helped when it was needed or got out the way when that was the better option. Going back and forth to tighten the bolts, Houlihan finally paused. She wiped sweat from her face, smearing her cheek with dirt. She held out her other hand. “My names Lucy Houlihan by the way.” He smiled, genuinely, and took her hand. “Sidney Grisome, pleasure to meet you Miss Houlihan.” She leaned back on her calves, letting her hand drop to her thigh. “I’m from round here, but I can tell you’re not.” It was half question, half statement. He sighed, pushing his hair back. It was about the same color and length as her own. His mouth turned up ruefully and he cast his eyes up from under his lashes. “California.” “Of course you are.” But she was laughing, and after a moment, he was too.