Welcome to the Nightmare Saloon

Deleted Scene from "Ring of Fire"

       Matt pulled into the driveway of his sister's house in Long Beach and cut the motor on his Suburban.  He was still feeling irritable, and now concern and fear had crowded into his conscious mind, as well.  The serenity of Seana's house was one of his retreats, a place he could go and unburden his soul, get a willing ear and a comforting shoulder.  Not to mention really good cookies.  He started to open the door as he always did, and was surprised to find it locked, so he rang the bell.  It was a minute before Seana answered, looking harried, but her irritated expression turned to delight when she saw him.

      "Well, if it isn't brother Matt," she said, opening the security door and letting him in.  Matt kissed her plump cheek as she hugged him.  "Why didn't you just come on in?"

      "Door was locked, Seana," he said.

      "James must have locked me in on his way out," said Seana, referring to her husband.  Matt trailed her into the spacious living room, where the constant battle to keep an adult room free of the influence of four children raged.   "So, what crisis brings you to my door this time?"

      "Why do you assume there's a crisis?" asked Matt.  Her youngest child, Patrick, was sitting in his fenced-in play area, stacking blocks.  The boy glanced up at his uncle and frowned.

      "Say hello to your Uncle Matt, sweet."  The toddler glared.  Seana just laughed.  "He's being shy today," said Seana, leaning over the fence to rumple her son's dark hair.  "What else am I supposed to assume, Matthias, darling?  You only come here on your own during a crisis.  Last time I saw you was when Becky left."

      Matt hung his head, dropping onto the sofa.  "Wow, I didn't think it'd been that long.  Okay, maybe I should come more often.  I'm sorry, Seana."

      "That's all right, honey, I'm teasing you.  How about some coffee?" Seana asked, smiling warmly.

      "Might as well.  I don't think I'm getting any sleep, anyway.  The other kids in school?"

      "Yes," Seana replied, bustling off toward the kitchen.  "Jimmy's started third grade this year and has a horror of cursive writing.  Mary and Beth are doing well in first grade, both still excited about getting to go all day.  I'm sure they'll be over that in no time, though.  But of course they're still delighting in confusing their teacher about which one is which."

      "You gotta have some fun when you're twins," said Matt.

      Seana was an old-world hostess, and believed in treating her guests, even family, with a certain style.  She returned with a tray containing a beautiful coffee service, including creamer and sugar bowl, cups and saucers, and a two-tiered plate of tiny cakes and cookies.  Matt smiled as she set the little coffee table and served him.  Of the three of them, Seana had been the most influenced by Sean Patrick's Victorian-style raising.  Gracious manners and the correct fork were important to her.  Seana knew Matt well enough to know how he liked his coffee.  She poured for him and added a goodly amount of cream.  Her sugar cubes were decorated with tiny violets that swam to the top of the coffee when the sugar melted, and it was only at Seana's house Matt allowed sugar in his coffee.  She put one cube in, and he watched as the flower drifted to the top.  For herself, she filled her cup only half-full of coffee, put in six sugar cubes, and filled the rest with cream.  Matt chuckled.

      "Not on another diet, are you?" he teased, taking one of her awesome shortbread cookies that had been dipped in chocolate and rolled in crushed pecans.

      Seana made a face at him.  She had been fighting with her weight for almost as long as Matt could remember, an effort not at all helped by her fondness for cooking. Matt could remember when she'd been barely able to reach the counter, standing on a foot stool while Sean Patrick taught her how to cook.  She'd surpassed their uncle in flexibility and style when she was in high school, and gradually became the main cook for the family until her marriage, which had somehow derailed a semi-serious consideration of culinary school and life as a pastry chef.  Instead, she had chosen to be a wife and mother, and Matt never saw any sign that she regretted that decision.  Seana was easily the best-looking of all of them, in Matt's opinion, with her dusky skin, rich black hair, and sparkling dark eyes, but Seana had always been happily plump, and had lately edged into near obesity before she forced herself to watch her calories more closely.  "I'm going to try something this year," she said, sipping at her coffee-flavored sweet cream, "And see if I can lose twenty pounds before the holidays, so afterward I'm just at status quo."

      Matt chuckled, looking fondly at his sister.  "You know I'll give you personal training, whenever you ever want.  I promise, I'd be out here every day, just say the word."

      "You're the muscle-man, Matt, it's just not my style," replied Seana with a sigh.

      "Honey, if you build up your muscles just a little you wouldn't have to worry quite so much about the calories," said Matt in a wheedling tone.  "You won't be bulked up like me, it's just toning and conditioning.  You'd be surprised.  And, bonus, you'll be healthier."

      "I know, I know.  You think I don't get enough exercise chasing after the kids?"

      "No, not really," said Matt frankly, looking at Patrick in his pen.  "He's going to be joining the others in school next year, and then where will you be?  Besides, honey, think about them.  A healthy mom is better for them, too."

Seana stuck her tongue out.  "I'll think about it, Matt.  Now then.  You haven't told me what's bothering you," she said, turning the conversation back to him and deflecting him from the standard lecture on her weight and lack of exercise.

      "Ah, that," said Matt.  He ate another cookie and drank some coffee, then told her in as few words as he could about the Hiera Sacra woman, Sean Patrick's behavior toward her, and, most disturbing of all, the appearance of the big Texan vampire hunter in Los Angeles.  Seana listened without comment until he reached the end.

      Then she said, "It sounds as though Uncle Sean Patrick had very little choice, Matt.  If he'd let her just leave, she could have come back, only with others.  More vampire hunters.  He'd have had to run away." Seana and her four children adored Sean Patrick.  He was the same kindly uncle to her children as he'd been to Matt, Seana, and their sister Tara before their parents' death forced him to become their father.  He was the guy who came with gifts and games, who played guitar for them and sang and took them to Disneyland when the sun set.  He was everyone's favorite uncle, and it didn't matter to any of them that he couldn't play ball in the sun or go with them to the beach on long summer days.

      "Better than taking her in, having her stay in his apartment.  Suppose she kills him in his sleep?" asked Matt.

      "Uncle Sean Patrick's always been pretty good at reading people, Matt," said Seana, filling his coffee cup and putting a little more into her own. 

      "Oh, come on," snapped Matt.  "He trusts everyone."

      Seana just smiled serenely.  "I'd be tempted to trust her, if he does.  Besides, he's a big vampire.  He=s managed to live over a hundred years without your assistance."

      "It took the entire rest of the family to stand in for me," muttered Matt.  Seana laughed.

      "Nonsense.  He might be a little boyish at times, Matt, but I like to think he's reasonably canny when he needs to be.  He's managed to avoid vampire hunters all this time, and even escape from them more than once." She considered the cookie tray, but noticed Matt's eyes on her and sat back from it with a sigh.  "Besides, from your description of his behavior, it sounds to me like he's attracted to her and just wants to get to know her better.  Of course, keeping her prisoner isn't the usual way to win fair maiden, but when it comes to a vampire and a vampire hunter, the rules of romance may be different."

      Matt gave her a look.  "You're taking this pretty lightly."

      "I just think Sean Patrick couldn't have gotten this far without knowing what he's doing just a little bit, and as for your vampire hunter in the restaurant, well, you're tired and have vampire hunters on the brain.  Could it be the man just looked like the one who came to the ranch, and your panic and tiredness just combined them inside your head?"

      Matt frowned.  "I don't... I don't think so, but...  Damn, maybe you're right."  He rubbed his face with his hands. 

      Seana leaned across the table and patted his hand.  "Sean Patrick needs to live his own life, and you know what he really wants more than anything else in the world is to see you live yours instead of his."

      Matt bit his tongue, hard, before he spoke again.  "It'd be easier if I didn't have to worry about him."

      "And how often does he give you opportunity to worry about him?" asked Seana reasonably.  "I mean, really.  Not just those worries in your head that a legion of vampire hunters is going to descend on him at any moment."

      "Well, once they hear his name it could happen, Seana.  You know that," said Matt.  "Okay, maybe, just maybe, the man I saw at Denny's wasn't the same guy who came looking for him that time in Texas.  But what if he is?  What if he's the guy who was looking for him at cousin Jesse's place a couple years ago, too?  Remember?"

      "You may be right.  And I suppose it's true.  He sure would hate to lose the bar, but you know he'd vanish if he had to," said Seana.  "And I'm not going to worry about it until it happens.  He knows he has places to go and people he can trust if he needs to hide out, and he won't hesitate to go if he has to.  But who in the world can get into his apartment without the code?  Besides, Matt, I think he leans on you because you're there.  If you had better things to do, he'd get along just fine without you, just like he did when he first left Texas and came here alone.  You remember what Grandpa used to say about him."

      "Yeah, I remember," said Matt.  He helped himself to another cookie. 

      "And maybe you don't want him to get along without you, either," said Seana, probing.  Matt felt his face flame.

      "No, it's not that," he said, squirming.  He was way too tired to argue.

      "I worry more about you than him, Matt," said Seana.  "I think if you'd just let go and enjoy yourself you'd worry less about things you have no control over.  Becky's been gone for months now.  Are you seeing anyone?"

      "No," he said, grumpy, and glared at the cookie tray.

      "That's what you need to do," said Seana with calm practicality.  "Uncle Sean Patrick sort of lives through us, you know.  The whole family thing.  You're the one the 'Matt O'Connor' name continues through, and you know more than anything in his heart of hearts he wants to see YOU have children, another generation.  I know he loves my kids more than chocolate, but if you get married and have some actual O'Connor children it would make his decade."

      "I'll get married someday, Seana," said Matt, weary, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.  Maybe.  He was starting to truly doubt it.

      "Somedays always have a way of catching up with you," said Seana. 

      "Dang it, Seana, I'm only thirty-two," Matt snapped, getting irritated.  "I have plenty of time for someday, and I'm not ready to just leap at the first woman who throws herself at me.  God knows enough of them do that."

      "Well, how can they help themselves?" she said, smiling at him.  "If only you weren't my own brother_"  When Matt looked at her in horror, she laughed at him.  "See, now I have you thinking about something else, don't I?"

      "That's why I come here, Seana," said Matt, realizing what she was up to and chuckling.  "You always could do that."

      "That's what I'm here for.  I just wish you'd come around more often." Seana rose to refill the coffee pot, and bent to kiss her brother on top of his head.  Matt gripped her hand briefly, giving it a little squeeze of affection.  "I like seeing you.  Hard to imagine it, but I sometimes get lonely without other adults to talk to during the day." She paused to rumple Patrick's curly hair again as she passed the playpen.  The three-year-old gave her a winning smile, that O'Connor smile most of them seemed to have.  When Seana returned from the kitchen, she put the coffee pot down on the table and lifted Patrick out of the pen.  "Come see your Uncle Matt, Patrick," she said, giving him a cracker.  The toddler gnawed on it while he viewed Matt through big, solemn, blue eyes.

      "Hey, buddy," said Matt.  Patrick leaned back against his mother.  Matt grinned.  "He's still not talking to me, eh?"

      "You don't come over often enough," said Seana.  "He needs to see you more.  Come with Uncle Sean Patrick sometime."

      "How many times you see him?" asked Matt.

      "As often as once a week, depending on business," said Seana.  Matt's eyes widened.

      "Really?"

      "You see, you don't pay that much to his activities," said Seana, grinning.  "Patrick's never shy around his Uncle Sean Patrick, are you, honey?"

      Patrick looked up at her and asked, "Unc' Sn' Patik comin'?" in an enthusiastic voice.

      "Not today, button," replied Seana, smoothing his hair again.

      "Why do I not know this?" asked Matt.

      "I don't think Uncle Sean Patrick tells you everything he does," said Seana, "and he likes to come out and play with the kids."

      "Not to mention your cookies.  I should have guessed, he was probably here on Monday.  These are his favorites," said Matt, taking another chocolate-covered shortbread.

      "Yes, he was here Monday.  Come with him sometime."

      Matt leaned back on the sofa.  "I will do that, I promise." They talked casually for a while, until Patrick was comfortable enough to sit on Matt's lap. 

      Matt was nodding when Seana took the toddler away and said, "Stretch out on the couch for a bit, Matt.  Get a little sleep."

      "Don't mind if I do," he murmured.  He couldn't remember his head actually hitting the sofa pillow.

 

A Little TARDIS Fanfic

Life Outside the TARDIS

 

                There was no one at the door when Amy Pond opened it in response to the ring. All that she saw was a smallish package sitting on the porch, covered with unusual stamps and postmarks that she was certain no Earthly post office had ever had. It was addressed to "Amelia Pond."  There was only one being in the universe who still called her Amelia.

                "Rory!  He's sent us a package!" she called.  She didn't need to say who "he" was.  Rory came out of the kitchen, his expression as mild as if she'd notified him the daily news had arrived.

                "What's he want this time?"

                "Don't know yet, haven't opened it," she responded, but a thrill shot through her.  It had been a long time since they'd last seen him, since he'd dropped them off for their own good. She both understood and was still angry with him for it at the same time, although they had, miraculously, managed to ease their way back into what passed for a real, normal, everyday life.

                "Well, open it," said Rory, with a brief flash of impatience. Amy made a face at him and saw his expression soften, ever so slightly, around the eyes, as it often did when she looked at him.

                Amy did so.  She pulled back the paper to reveal a book, the title of which was Van Gogh: The Life. A blue sticky note on the front said, "It's only a theory, Pond, but you know you made an impression. Be of good cheer." Amy started to smile.

                "What is it?" asked Rory.

                "You weren't with us yet," said Amy. "But I told you we spent some time with Van Gogh."

                "Ah, yes, during the time I'd been wiped out of time," said Rory.  Amy loved the way his tone seemed to imply that being erased from history was a fairly commonplace incident. "So what's this, then?"

                Amy was skimming the summary on the book's dustcover.  "Their theory is Vincent didn't kill himself, Rory. That he was shot accidentally and he claimed it was suicide to protect whoever it was shot him."

                "I guess it could have happened."  Rory didn't sound like he believed it.  Amy scowled at her husband.

                "I think the Doctor wants me to believe it, though," she said, running her fingers over the cover, remembering her brief friendship with this wonderful, strange man fondly.  "And I want to, Rory. I want to think he wasn't in that much despair. He hurt so much, but he had so much beauty…"  Her eyes went to the print on her wall that she had gotten from a poster company online.  It was the Vase of 12 Sunflowers, the painting which said For Amy in Vincent's spidery lettering. Everyone, historians and books and art teachers, they all thought it had always said For Amy, but Amy remembered it differently.  It hadn't said that before the Doctor had taken her to meet him. She had even read an article where several biographers argued who "Amy" might have been.

                "He did that for me," she said, pointing to the painting.

                "You told me," replied Rory.  He put an arm around his wife. "If you want to believe this, Amy, I'm with you," he said.

                "I love you, stupid."

                "I know."  So very Han Solo of him.  Who would have known Rory, domestic god that he was, gentle nurse and quiet supporter of all her insanity, was also the most kick-ass man in the universe? Amy kissed him. "Is there anything else?"

                "No other messages, no.  Just a book for me, I guess," said Amy, flipping through the pages to see if the Doctor had said anything else.

                "Then I will finish the dishes."  Rory went back into the kitchen.

                Amy slowly started to turn the pages, skimming the words but not really reading them.  "Would you go?  If he came back?" she asked.  "And wanted us to go along again?"

                "What, and risk making another Time Lord baby?" asked Rory in a dry voice.

                "You know you'd go."

                "Hell, yes, I would," replied Rory.  "Even if our next daughter is also kidnapped and raised as a weapon and regenerates into our best friend as a toddler and then again as a dangerous jail-breaking assassin."

                "And one of our best friends," said Amy, thinking fondly of her daughter.  "I wonder when we'll see her again."

                "Next time she can break out of jail, I suspect," Rory responded over the sound of the water.

               Amy rolled her eyes, throwing herself down on the sofa and turning the book to the first page.  Written over the dedication was "For Amy – All my love, River."  Would she ever be just plain mum? "Do you think we would have another, Rory?" she asked.  Her voice must have sounded plaintive, because the water turned off and Rory came out of the kitchen wiping his hands.

               "If you want more kids, Amy, we'll have more. As many as you want," he said.

               "I'll be fine," she said, offering Rory a smile. "I'll write a note to the group tonight."  Rory nodded, but continued to look at her in concern. "Get back to work."  His eyes crinkled a little, but he returned to the kitchen.

               Their "support" group, all people who had, like them, traveled with the Doctor.  Who knew there had been so many?  Barbara and Ian, both former teachers; Tegan Jovanka, the flight attendant from Australia; Sarah Jane Smith, the journalist who still dealt with aliens;  as did Martha Jones-Smith and her husband Mickey; there was Jo Grant-Jones and Wilfred Mott and an amazing number of others, some of whom had left on their own and others who had been abandoned, all of them struggling, still, with normal life, life outside the TARDIS. Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood had even come once, to hug and kiss Sarah Jane and Martha and, eventually, everyone else there.

               Amy closed her eyes, running her fingers over Vincent's painted likeness.  She missed her friend, the TARDIS, the excitement, even the dangers.  Maybe especially the dangers. The Doctor had been part of her life her whole life, since the night he had landed in her garden and turned her world inside out. But she had lived without him before, all those years she spent waiting. She could wait some more. It was a different life, but it was a good one. She had Rory, and she had memories, and somewhere she had  a daughter older than she was.

               "Do you need help?" she called over the sound of the water running in the kitchen.

               "I won't turn it down," was the pleased response.

               Amy tossed the book to the sofa and ambled into the kitchen to wipe the plates.

 

I Am Writing

Writing NaNoWriMo this year ate up my entire November -- I reached 50,766 words, so I won, although the story (such as it is) isn't quite done.  I'm not sure what to post here next.  I'll dig through the archives and see what I can share next.  Hopefully I have readers who give a damn and want to read 'em.

At some point I wouldn't mind at least putting WIPs here, or snippets from my "real" writing, the stuff I'm still vaguely trying to find publishers for (I haven't actually submitted Ring of Fire to anyone in some time; I think I want to spend some of this coming year going over it again and finding a new list of possible agents/publishers.

For now, I'm working on putting together and fixing up the Rule of Three story, trying to think of a good title (always a weakness of mine) and polishing it up.

Thanks for reading!

Rule of Three, Finale

Maybe We'll Stay

594 Words

Prompts:

• Relationships mend/are torn asunder
• The final event becomes another secret for generations to come

 

              He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but it caught everyone's attention, including Emily's, making her green eyes widen. Zahn lifted his chin, trying to emulate the regal poise his parents had worked hard to drill into him.

              Not unexpectedly, the man who had shot Lefty snarled, "Duke's got no power here."

              "No, but my uncle the Corregidore of California does," replied Zahn. "And my cousin Damian, the alcalde." It was risky, dropping Damian's name. The alcalde wasn't exactly popular, and it showed on the faces around him. "But I won't be calling for help to deal with you. If you just walk away now, you will be able to walk." He tightened his fists, trying not to see Emily's growing panic out of the corner of his eye, keep his mind on the fight in front of him and not the possibility of his friend dying behind him.

              He dared to look sideways.  Emily had vanished from his sight. There was a scrape, a click, and then Lefty's voice, thick with pain but as stubborn as always, saying, "Don't you be counting me out just yet. You ain't by half finished the job."

              Zahn smiled, feeling the weight of their friendship at his back. "Is this how you always greet newcomers to Renaissance?" he asked, squaring his shoulders, not letting his eyes flick to the revolver on the floor but keeping it in sight.

              "He was cheating," snarled his opponent.  He obviously saw where his gun had fallen, too. He dove for it at the same time Zahn did. Zahn was bigger, stronger; but the other man was determined, and had both hands around the barrel. Zahn heaved with his shoulder, crashing them both into the wall. A derringer cracked, bringing a shout of pain. Zahn sat up and saw another shooter, wringing his hand. Emily had produced the little gun from somewhere, probably the depths of Lefty's coat, which was wrapped around her.

              "Watch out behind you, Zahn," she said calmly. "And you. How dare you accuse my brother of cheating?" The derringer was only a two-shot, but she obviously meant the second bullet to find a target, too.

              Lefty had slipped back to the floor, struggling to continue the fight but obviously fading quickly. Emily's jaw tightened, bringing out a strong family resemblance. Zahn rolled to his feet, dragging the other man upright. At the same time, the doors of the saloon swung open. A broad-faced sheriff , followed by several deputies, poured through.

              The small town was very well-organized. Within a few hours Lefty was under a doctor's care and the two other men were in a jail cell. Emily sat holding Zahn's hand by Lefty's bedside while they listened to what had happened at the saloon's gambling table. "I wasn't cheating," said Lefty while the doc stitched him up. "You know that, right, Em?"

              "Well, I always know," she replied with a secretive smile.

              "You really Alexander Von Theissen?" Lefty asked Zahn. "Earl of the Bronx, Count of Moswetuset? The runaway?"

              Zahn blushed, but nodded. "Yeah. That's me. You know about that, eh?"

              "I read the newspapers. " Lefty lay back on his pillows. "Why'd you run off?"

              Zahn looked down at Emily's hand in his. "Father wants me to marry a vapid, vacuous idiot because she's the eldest daughter of the King of the Carolinas. I didn't feel like being a pawn in a political game. So I left."

              Left smiled slowly. The medication was probably kicking in. "In that case, you may marry my sister."

 

Rule of Three 3

Oh, By The Way

591 Words

Prompts used:

• Relationships unravel or strengthen
• A long-kept secret is revealed

 

               It was a beautiful night. Emily leaned on the balcony and took a deep breath. She had reveled in a long soak in the copper bathtub, then dried her hair in the evening air, enjoying the feeling of not being dusty.

               The door to the balcony opened and Zahn leaned out. "I thought I'd find you here."

               "Where's Lefty?"

               "Downstairs, in the middle of a hot game, naturally," he replied, closing the door behind him. "Does he think he owns you, Em?" he asked, putting his arms around her.  Emily leaned into his embrace.

               "He's just very protective," she whispered into his shirt. He'd bathed, too, and smelled wonderful.  "He's been my only family since our parents—" she stopped speaking suddenly, biting her tongue.  Zahn made a comforting sound but didn't ask. She adored him for that, he never pressed her for information she wasn't ready to share. "He raised me."

               "I want to marry you, Em," whispered Zahn, his mouth close to her ear. "I'm not fooling around, you know.  I love you."

               "I love you, too, Zahn."  She tilted her head to his, loving the feel of his mouth on hers.  She wound her fingers in his thick hair, pressing herself against him, not caring about the scandalous fact she was wearing only her night dress. They had stolen many kisses and embraces, but rarely had it been leisurely, secure in the knowledge Lefty wouldn't reappear suddenly and catch them.

               Zahn drew back first, his color heightened and his body tense. "I'd better stop, or I won't be able to," he said, sliding his hand down to grip hers. She held it tightly, loving how strong it was.  "Why won't you marry me, Em?"

               "I want to," she answered, touching his dear face. "You know I do. But I can't leave Lefty, not yet.  He needs me."

               "He can live with us, as long as he stops threatening to shoot me," said Zahn, his tone dry.

               Emily laughed. "I don't think he's serious."

               "I hope not. Em, I'm glad we have a minute to talk. There's something I've been wanting to tell you. Something important," Zahn started, when gunshots shattered the quiet evening.  Up and down the streets gaslights flared up, and shouts echoed up and down the main street.  Zahn pulled Emily off the balcony.

               "Stay here," he commanded, his tone unlike one she'd ever heard from him before. For a second she actually obeyed him before she grabbed Lefty's long coat from the peg on the door and dashed out onto the landing behind him, pulling the coat around her shoulders.

               When Emily reached the stairs, she saw Lefty slumped against the bar, his silver-inlaid revolver dangling from his right hand, his left pressed to his side.  Blood stained his shirt, seeping between his fingers and dripping down his denim pants. She screamed her brother's name, rushing down to him.

               "Stop!" roared Zahn, throwing the shooter up against the wall of the saloon, knocking over the card table . Cards and poker chips flew everywhere. "Stop this right now." His voice still carried that tone of authority. She froze, even though she wanted desperately to reach Lefty.

               "You son of a bitch.  This's between him and me," growled the man.

               "You pick a fight with him, you pick a fight with me," replied Zahn. He straightened, his head lifting. He glanced at where Emily stood at the foot of the stairs and continued, "And I am Alexander Von Theissen, son of the Duke of New Amsterdam."

 

A Nightwalker in Impressionist Colors, Part XIII

It's long, but I need to wrap this up before NaNo begins, and Rule of Three will wipe out the rest of October.  So, the Conclusion:

 

               They stayed until well past last call, Sean Patrick returning to the stage to sing harmonies with Alan until the bar turned off the sound system and tired, annoyed bartenders started herding everyone out into the cold.  As a group, they crossed the street to where everyone was parked, breath blowing puffs in front of everyone except Sean Patrick, who was barely breathing because of the cold. "How can you people live like this?" he muttered, pulling Lori close against his side.

               "You get used to it," replied Alan. He was actually only wearing a plain Navy peacoat, his ungloved hands in his pockets.

               "Don't know if I want to," said Sean Patrick, shivering, tucking his face deeper into the thick wool of his scarf.  "It's cold enough to freeze my freakin' dick off."  Then he glanced sideways at Lori.  "Pardon."

               Lori just laughed.  "I just hope that doesn't happen, handsome.  Oh, damn it!"

               "What?"

               "I forgot my purse.  Wait here a sec. I'll be right back."

               "Hurry, gal."  Sean Patrick fumbled with a cigarette as Lori rushed back to the bar before they could lock the door, while the others said goodnight and started to get their own vehicles warming up.  Alan waited with him, leaning on Lori's Mustang while Sean Patrick smoked and stamped his cold feet on the asphalt.

               "Might get some snow tonight," Alan observed.

               "I don't miss snow," replied Sean Patrick.  "That's something we never get in Los Angeles."

               "Did it snow much in San Antonio?"

               "Not too much, but sometimes we'd get flurries in the north fields. I hated it long before I was a vampire."  He blew a stream of smoke into the cold air, looking up at the stars.  "I'm gonna miss that sky, though."

               There was a sharp squeal of tires on the street.  Sean Patrick looked up just as Alan shouted "Lori!" and then he was moving before he could think about it. Somehow he was already running, as fast as only a vampire could, his heels slipping slightly, as she stepped off the curb and a battered pickup truck careened wildly around the corner. He reached her the same instant the truck did. It hit them both.

               He felt her slip from his grasp as he was thrown onto the hood.  He smashed, hard, into the windshield, catching just a glimpse of a frightened, dazed face before he saw sky, streetlights, and then darkness again as he bounced off the side of the truck, then rolled down. He hit the frozen asphalt and felt the back tire roll over his torso, then lay there, dazed, vaguely aware of the taillights disappearing down the block.  It all took less than a second, barely a heartbeat, leaving him staring at the sky through a haze, the odd idea flitting around his mind that if he could lift his head, look at his body, it would be just like one of those cartoons, his torso flattened in the center with a tire tread running through it. That was what it felt like.

               "Sean Patrick. Can you hear me?"

               Alan's white hair swam into view above him, his dark-skinned face a mask of panic. Sean Patrick felt his mouth move, but he couldn’t get enough breath to speak. "It's okay, don't try to talk," said Alan, then looked up and shouted, "Someone call nine-one-one!"

               Sean Patrick tried to protest, moving one hand feebly.  His fingers barely twitched. No ambulance, no police, no hospitals. That would be bad. He'd have to be declared dead again, start over, and that was always so damned hard, so much damned paperwork. But Alan didn't seem to hear or notice. There were shouts and screams and somewhere far off a siren started to wail. Alan took off his coat and threw it over Sean Patrick, oblivious to the cold. "Stay still," he commanded, but Sean Patrick couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to.

               He could hear voices, all worried or frightened, and the smell of human fear and panic was rising over the cold scent of the town and the prairie. Sean Patrick could feel his head spinning as the pain started to wash through him, brushing the haze aside. He struggled to move, but every effort to lift an arm or draw a breath sent agony searing through him. He needed to breathe, but he couldn't. If he couldn't breathe he couldn't talk, couldn't tell them not to take him to a hospital. He just needed a little blood, to heal.

               The sirens grew louder, filling his ears. People were everywhere, their voices echoing in his head but their words meaningless. A young woman's face appeared. She was wearing a heavy jacket with a fake-fur collar, and the badges of an EMT on her chest and arms. "Mr. O'Connor?" she said, shining a pen light into each of his eyes. "Don't try to talk. Hold still," she commanded.

               Sean Patrick shifted his gaze from her face to the man who knelt near him. They were lifting him gently, putting his head and neck into a brace, and something similar seemed to be going around his middle. Cold air touched his skin. Panicking, he searched the crowd around him for Alan's white hair.

               "Don't worry, Mr. O'Connor," said the male EMT. "We know. You're going to the right place."  There was a prick of a needle in his arm and he struggled against the drug. No! They couldn't take him to the hospital!

               In the moment just before unconsciousness claimed him, he thought of one other thing.

               Where was Lori?

 

               Sean Patrick took a breath. It still hurt, badly, but he was able to do it. He knew the scent that filled his nose as he drew air in. Sterile, antiseptic, medicinal, all bravely trying to cover over the unmistakable odors of sickness and death.  He was in a hospital. God, another morgue. It was always a morgue.

               Better than a coffin, he supposed.

               With as much care as he could, he breathed again. It didn't smell like the morgue. The death was far away. There was a mattress under him, a bed made with stiff but clean sheets, not a hard metal slab. A blanket covered him. Shallow and slow breaths as he tried to remember details, and classify the scents around him amidst the hospital smells. Dakota Bob had been here, but was not now. Alan was here, sleeping. And another, familiar and comfortable scent, one he really needed right now.  "Matt?" he tried to speak, but while he was sure he'd said something, he honestly couldn't feel his vocal cords moving, nor did he hear anything. He tried to open his eyes. That didn't work, so he started to mentally catalog the myriad pains in his body.

               There was a slow and steady beeping near him. The pain seemed intense, yet oddly dulled. There was something pinching the back of his hand, as though a clamp was attached to the thin skin there. His chest throbbed, but it was a distant throb. Drugs, that had to be it. Drugs strong enough to work with his vampire circulation and keep the worst of the pain at bay. He struggled again, forced his fingers to move.

               "I think he's awake," came Matt's deep voice, a soft rumble, as warm and welcome as a cozy blanket on a winter night.  Sean Patrick felt Matt's big square hand close around his own, not the one that was being pinched. "Sean Patrick?"

               Sean Patrick tried to speak again, dragging his aching eyes open. It was too bright, everything was too blurry, but it seemed like Matt had leaned close to hear. "Shouldn't have me on morphine," he thought he said, but Matt just frowned at him as though he were speaking Russian. "I'm an addict." He moved his eyes from the indistinct face to the bag that hung nearby, dripping clear fluid into the painful pinch on the back of his hand.

               "Oh!  Don't worry about it, Sean Patrick. If you weren't on morphine I don't think you'd be able to stand it," said Matt, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

               "Is he talking?" asked Alan's rough voice, sounding weary.

               "Sort of.  I think he was worried about the morphine," replied Matt, squeezing Sean Patrick's hand again.  There was a scraping sound and Matt sat down, having dragged a folding chair closer to the bed. "Do you know where you are?" he asked.

               Sean Patrick didn't try to talk again. The effort was making him dizzy. Instead, he twitched his fingers against Matt's hand in acknowledgement of the question. Then he frowned and tried to squeeze back, suddenly struck by everything. He was laying in a hospital bed, with drugs dripping into his hand, and yet he was not breathing.  Not well, anyway.

               "It's the magic wing, Sean Patrick," said Matt, somehow understanding anyway. "I didn't know about this kind of thing, either. Apparently it's not completely unheard of here. They have specialists to take care of wounded vampires."

               "Nightwalkers," a businesslike voice came from the doorway. A woman in scrubs bustled in, carrying a plastic bag filled with dark, thick liquid. "We don't take care of just any vampires here, what do you think we are?" She bent over Sean Patrick and smiled at him.  "Coming around, are you? I'm Nurse Stephens, I have some experience in Nightwalker care. Pleased to meet you, Mr. O'Connor."

               He managed a smile, which appeared to please her. "I assume you're hungry. Don't try to answer, breathing's going to hurt for a while. Fangs out, if you please."

               Sean Patrick stared at her, confused, a moment, then realized what was in the bag she held. She wore an expression that expected acquiescence to her order, so he didn't try to argue. He extended his fangs.  She held the bag for him, and slipped an arm under his shoulders. He winced as she lifted him slightly, but he bit into the bag. The blood was fresh, and human. Like the blood Lori had given him, it was free of anticoagulants, the taste like heaven itself. Sucking it out of a plastic bag wasn't the best way to get it, but at the moment it was absolutely perfect.

               Blood sent healing power flowing through his limbs and cleared his vision. Now he could see the room without the blur, as well as Matt and Alan. Neither of them looked like they'd gotten any sleep, and Matt was unshaven, dark circles of worry under his eyes. He still looked like a movie star. Sean Patrick pulled back, licking his lips as his fangs receded.

               "That's better," said Nurse Stephens. "A few more of those and you'll be feeling more like your old self." She carefully laid him back down, checked the drip on his hand, and gave his hair a familiar ruffle. "Call me if you need me."

               Sean Patrick blinked a few times, and was able to reach for Matt, tugging him closer.  "What are you doing here?" he whispered. This time Matt could hear him.

               "You think I wouldn't come? I was on a plane almost before Alan hung up the phone," replied Matt.

               "Sorry," Sean Patrick breathed. It wasn't the first time Matt had gotten a phone call like that.

               "I'm given to understand this one wasn't your fault." Matt was trying to sound jovial, but it was falling rather flat. 

               Sean Patrick closed his eyes. Breathing required a lot of effort, and the morphine, coupled with the fresh blood, was pulling him back into blessed darkness.  Again, as he started to slip away, he remembered. He struggled to stay awake. "Lori. Where's Lori?" his voice was barely audible, even inside his own head.

               Matt's tired face looked even more weary. "I'm sorry, Sean Patrick," he said with as much tenderness as his rumbling voice could manage.

               Then Sean Patrick couldn't struggle against the drugs anymore.

               The next time he woke up, he felt much better.  Stronger. The scent of the hospital seemed more cloying. His first thought was how much he hated it. The second was the realization that Dakota Bob was the one sitting next to him now. He opened his eyes. Matt and Alan were gone.  "Where's Matt?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

               Bob looked up from his book.  "I sent him to get some sleep.  I don't think that youngster's put his head on a pillow since the accident. Are you hungry?"

               "Yes," Sean Patrick admitted. Bob reached for the button and pressed it. Sean Patrick lifted one weak arm, then the other, looking at the IV taped to the back of his hand. "Lori?" he asked that question first this time, not worrying about anything else. Nothing else mattered right now.

               Intense sadness passed over Bob's usually immobile face.  "They tell me she probably died instantly, Sean Patrick. There was nothing that could be done. When you both got hit, she was thrown one way, you another. She hit the sidewalk hard."  He was blunt, not cushioning the blow, but his voice was calming, doing something to ease the hard knot that started in the middle of Sean Patrick's chest. "She never woke up. You didn't fare much better."

               "The driver of the truck?"

               "Young. Scared. Drunk. He ran. They tracked him down. He's being held for vehicular homicide and assault with a deadly weapon. Matt doesn't think you'd want to press charges for the latter."

               "Matt's right," muttered Sean Patrick, his chin sinking down onto his chest. At that moment Nurse Stephens came in with another bag of blood.

               "Hello, Professor," she said, smiling at Bob.

               "Jean," he responded, nodding at her.

               "Here we go, Mr. O'Connor, fangs out."

               "Yes, ma'am," Sean Patrick responded, this time able to take the bag and drink on his own.

               "You're making very good progress.  Doctor Berman is pleased." She fluffed up his pillows and checked the IV.

               Sean Patrick licked his fangs, then continued to drain the bag, not really caring what it looked like.  Bob and the nurse made small talk as she made sure Sean Patrick was comfortable and everything was working right. Then she took the empty bag and bustled out again.

               "Do you know everyone in this town?" he asked when she was gone.

               "Not quite, but nearly everyone who went to USD," replied the Indian.  "Are you going to be all right?" he asked then, concern flashing in his dark eyes.

               "No," replied Sean Patrick. At least he was being honest. He sank into his pillows again, the hard knot in his chest returning, worse than before.  Lori. Soft auburn hair and bright talent, young vibrant life, snuffed out in a second, and he was left alive.

               As though he'd heard Sean Patrick's thoughts, Bob said, "If you'd been human, you would have died, too."

               "That doesn't help."

               "Knock knock," came a voice from the door. Sean Patrick looked up to see Ben, Janie, and the rest of the gang come in, followed by Jimmy Takahashi. A wave of guilt passed through Sean Patrick at the sight of Lori's brother. "They said we could all come in, you were awake."

               "I'm awake," replied Sean Patrick. "At least for now. They're keeping me pretty drugged up."

               They passed through the awkward, tense first moments, fumbling with pleasantries, trying to come up with something to say, dancing around the obvious, the bad.  Ben, his face pale and drawn, was filled with a false cheer, and asked questions, looking over the machines Sean Patrick was hooked up to. "I thought vampires just healed, like that," he snapped his fingers. "I was surprised to find out you needed to go to the hospital."

               Sean Patrick shook his head.  "Not like in movies," he said.

               "Nightwalkers do heal quickly, Benjamin, but not instantly," Bob put in, his calm voice easing the stiffness in the room. "As Sean Patrick says, not like in the movies. Suppose," he continued, adopting a professorial tone, "a human had been hurt like this and survived.  What do you think would happen?"

               "I don't know. Years of therapy, I guess," replied Ben, shrugging, but answering the Professor's voice like a good student.

               "Exactly. A human might have been in a coma for, say, weeks. Then struggled with healing and physical therapy for months, probably years. Our nightwalker here, he was in a coma for a few days. He'll struggle with healing and therapy for weeks, maybe months. A human might carry the scars forever. A nightwalker, maybe years."  Bob looked at Sean Patrick. "Maybe more than that. But after a while, he'll be fine."

               "After a while," echoed Sean Patrick. "I don't even know how badly I was hurt. The way Matt said I couldn't stand it if it weren't for the morphine, made me think it sure wasn't good."

               "It was extremely bad, my friend," said Bob. "I don't even know if the children here realize."

               Sean Patrick looked from Bob to each of Lori's young friends. Children, indeed, even if they looked the same age as him. He wondered if they occasionally forgot he wasn't actually nineteen, not like them. The years had left no mark on him, but he barely remembered what it had actually been like, being nineteen. He flexed his aching hands.

               "You had a spinal cord injury, Sean Patrick," said Matt's voice from the doorway. "That's how bad it was." He still sounded tired, and there was that undercurrent of fear in his tone that gave Sean Patrick another twinge of guilt, for putting his godson through this again, as he had years ago when he'd hit a red light late at the same time someone else jumped their green early. That accident had put him in the morgue. Los Angeles had no magic wing, no way to tell a vampire wasn't actually dead as long as his body still existed.

               Matt came all the way into the room, gripping Ben's hand briefly in greeting as he sat down, leaning heavily on the bed rail. "If you'd been human, you'd be permanently paralyzed, or dead, too." Matt's unconscious echo of Bob's words made everyone quiet down.  Sean Patrick jerked his head up, and scowled slightly at his godson.

               "We'll talk later, Matt," he said as firmly as he could. "I'm still pretty wiped.  Could I talk to Jimmy a few minutes?  Alone?"

               Everyone said goodnight and quietly shuffled out, leaving Jimmy, who came to the chair Matt had vacated. "You know no one in our family blames you," he said, sitting down and patting Sean Patrick on the shoulder. "You were good to her. She cared about you."  

               "I'm sorry, Jimmy.  I'm so sorry."

               "It's all right, Sean Patrick. I know," replied Jimmy, opening his hands. "You did all you could. We know that."

               "I want to help, Jimmy," said Sean Patrick. "Anything I can do, anything at all. Medical bills, funeral expenses. Please. Let me."

               "I'll talk to my folks. I'm sure they'll appreciate it," he said, patting Sean Patrick again.

               "I loved her. I haven't even had a chance to process any of this."  Tears were starting to come, pricking his eyes, even as pain and weariness was threatening to take him back into oblivion.

               "You need to rest. Go back to sleep, Sean Patrick. We'll talk again. I want to ask your doctor about whether you can come to the memorial service we're having for Lori. I'm led to understand you might or might not be able to come."

               "I want to go. Please. Let them know. I have to be there. I assume I've already missed the funeral."

               "We'll see what we can do," said Jimmy, nodding.  "It's in a few days."  Once more, he patted Sean Patrick, then stood and left the room.  The door closed behind him. Sean Patrick dropped his head back into his pillows and let himself cry.

               The next day and the next were marked by brief periods of wakefulness where there was always someone there to distract him, to keep his mind busy, and always some nurse or other with a big bag of blood, and they stayed to make sure he drank every drop.

               But finally he woke with an empty room around him, giving him a chance to take a mental catalog of his various aches. Most appeared to be centered in his chest and stomach, although his arms hurt, too, especially his right arm, which had been the side the truck had hit.  He shifted slightly in the bedclothes, running his hand experimentally over his middle.  There were wrappings holding his ribs in place, and he wondered if they'd been broken as well as his spine. Probably, it would explain why breathing had hurt so much. It wasn't so bad, now.  The bones were knitting, rapidly, considering the good care he was getting.

               He was prodding experimentally at his torso for tender spots when he suddenly sensed a vampire, close by and moving closer. Of course, he couldn't be the only vampire around. This was the 'magic wing' of the hospital, after all. There should be other vampires. Nightwalkers. He looked up as his door opened and a slim, straight-backed man with a mid-twenties face and ancient eyes, wearing a doctor's coat, came in.  He smiled at Sean Patrick and took the clipboard from the foot of the bed.

               "Good, you're awake. I've wanted to meet you," the vampire-doctor said.  The name on his coat read "Berman."

               "You're my doctor?" asked Sean Patrick.

               "Yep," was the casual reply. "Have you fed yet today?"

               "No, not yet. I don't think." It was hard to keep track of how many days had actually gone by. "Depending on what day it is."

               "Well, Stephens says you've been doing very well in general, but your nephew tells me it's hard to get you to feed regularly." He fixed Sean Patrick with a stern look as he reached for the buzzer and pressed. "You will heal faster, and stay healthier in general, if you feed regularly. That means every day, at least three times a day."

               "Where does the blood here come from?" asked Sean Patrick.

               "Healthy, voluntary donors, just like any blood bank," said Dr. Berman.  He hung up Sean Patrick's chart and came to press his fingers against the side of Sean Patrick's neck.  It took forever to get the pulse, but Dr. Berman appeared to be extremely patient.  "I understand you'd like to go to your friend's memorial service today."

               "If at all possible," said Sean Patrick.

               "I'm not ready to discharge you. I want you where I can keep an eye on you, and make sure you'll do what you're told until you're completely healed. You're going to need a couple weeks of physical therapy, at an outside guess."

               Sean Patrick glared at the other vampire. "I owe it to her to pay my last respects," he growled.

               "Don't take that tone with me, youngster," said Dr. Berman with annoying good cheer. "I am going to allow you to go, but you are not being discharged. You will return to the hospital afterward, and I've already enlisted your nephew to make sure of that."

               "How long have you been a doctor?" asked Sean Patrick meekly, accepting the orders without further argument, although he was bristling inside. He didn't too often meet someone older than him.

               Dr. Berman didn't answer right away.  He stepped aside as another nurse came in with a bag of blood, and he waited while Sean Patrick drank.  When the bag was completely empty, the nurse took it away, her dimples dancing as she smiled at Sean Patrick.  Dr. Berman watched her go, one side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile.  "You've already charmed all the women here. I understand that's one of your talents."

               "I can play the piano, too," replied Sean Patrick in a snide tone.

               Dr. Berman tsked his tongue against his teeth. "To answer your question, I have been a practicing physician since 1862.  I dressed my first wounds at the Battle of Shiloh."

               "What side?" asked Sean Patrick.

               "I'm afraid I'm a Yankee."

               That made Sean Patrick grin. "Well, I don't have any feelings one way or the other on that one. All my family, we were just plain Republic of Texicans. I was born in 1863."

               Dr. Berman didn't ask if that meant born as a human or reborn as a vampire. "You are just a baby."

               "You aren't that much older," said Sean Patrick, "if you started up in '62."

               "I didn't say that was my first career," replied Dr. Berman. "I marched into the war as a soldier, coming off a previous living as a political analyst and newspaper writer. Before that I was a college professor, teaching physics.  And believe me, teaching the sciences was never very easy in those days. At least in straight math I could avoid the eye of the church."

               Sean Patrick looked closely at him. "How old are you?"

               "Given the state of records at the time, I'd hazard a guess at having been born between 1312 and 1325, give or take, and that was the Julian calendar.  I'm not as ancient as some, but I've been around a while. I've seen advancements in medicine that would make your head spin."

               "Well, that's been just since I was a boy," said Sean Patrick. "We were just learning about hand washing."

               "True enough." Dr. Berman leaned on the bed rail a moment, his brows furrowing over his narrow nose. "Professor Red Horse tells me you were made by Amanda.  The Vampire."

               Sean Patrick blinked at the precise way the doctor chose the word, almost spitting it as though it were an epithet. "Yes," he said.

               Dr. Berman narrowed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.  "Well, he's right, but I'm really not sure how," he muttered, then he shrugged.  "Fascinating.  Anyway, as to you leaving the hospital. It's not entirely normal procedure, of course, but in the case of nightwalkers sometimes procedures can be changed. I've already told Matt you're to be brought back as soon as you start showing any signs of fatigue, and you get an extra pint when you get back. Speaking of which, how often do you feed daily?" He took Sean Patrick's chart again and started jotting notes on it.

               Sean Patrick, still scowling in confusion at the remark about his sire, shrugged. "I don't know.  Maybe a pint, if I find someone willing. If I'm really hungry, I might try for more."

               "Oh good God, man, no wonder," snapped the doctor irritably.  "You should be getting no fewer than four pints a day, and better to get six."

               "Six!?" Sean Patrick yelped, startled, then modulated his voice. "Six pints? How in God's name does one get six pints a day?"

               "Family, generally.  I understand you have one?"

               "It's not as large as it used to be," muttered Sean Patrick. "At least, not the ones who live nearby. I can't ask the ones I do have for something like that, not every day. How do you still have family?" He turned the conversation to the doctor.

               "Mine's actually significantly larger now," replied Dr. Berman, "and that's not your business.  Your business is to take care of yourself so you can take care of them.  And conversely, they're there to take care of you. Listen to Matt. He's there to help you."

               Sean Patrick scowled still more, sinking into his mattress.  Six pints! Who could he hit up, every day, like that? Dr. Berman relaxed slightly and smiled at him.  "Cheer up. You're doing fine," he said.  He gave a wave and left, whistling as he walked into the hallway.

               Sean Patrick was dozing over a copy of American Gods when Matt came in with a wheelchair.  Sean Patrick sat up.  "What's that for?"

               "You, stupid," replied Matt.

               "I can walk," said Sean Patrick, twitching his legs experimentally. They felt heavier than a fully loaded semi tractor trailer.

               "Oh, really?" Matt lowered the rail on the side of the bed and gestured.  "Come on, then."

               Sean Patrick favored his nephew with a sour expression and worked his way sideways, turning his body with more effort than he'd thought it would take and panting a little as he paused to rest, his feet off the side of the bed.  "What am I going to wear?" he asked, stalling as he tried to find the strength to move. "I haven't even asked about my things."

               "I took your room at the B-and-B," said Matt. "Your stuff is fine.  And I have your suit here."  He took a large FedEx box up from the seat of the wheelchair. "We'll get you dressed first."  He opened the box to reveal Sean Patrick's favorite suit, a black-on-black embroidered western suit modeled after one of Johnny Cash's, which he had not brought with him to Dakota this time. It had been neatly and professionally pressed and packed so it wasn't even slightly wrinkled. At Sean Patrick's look, Matt explained, "I called Seana and had her send it."

               "Thank you," said Sean Patrick.  He disconnected the IV and tried to stand. Matt caught him as his knees buckled, his legs lacking the strength to hold him upright. "Shit," he swore, clinging to Matt.

               "I told you," Matt grumbled, lifting Sean Patrick back to the bed. "Now let me help you, God damn it."

               He tried not to feel humiliated as Matt, surprisingly patient, helped him dress. Finally Sean Patrick was seated in the wheelchair, trying to bend his feet enough to get into his boots.  "I'd rather wear my Paul Bonds," he said, as Matt tugged a plain black boot onto one foot. 

               "Sorry," said Matt, giving him a wry expression. "You were wearing them the night of the accident."

               Sean Patrick opened his mouth to say "so what," but then it sunk in what that meant. "They cut them off, didn't they?" he said, more resigned than irritated.

               "Had to."

               He slumped. It wasn't the cost of the boots, hardly inconsequential, but they had been custom made for him as a gift from Matt's youngest sister Tara. "Shit. I don't suppose you added that into the insurance settlement."

               "The kid who hit you barely had liability. His insurance company's already paid us everything they're going to, unless you want to sue him.  Lori's parents are," said Matt.

               Sean Patrick slumped still further. "No. We don't need to do that."

               "I thought not."  Matt straightened Sean Patrick's string tie and stepped back. "Not bad.  You ready?"

               "I think so," replied Sean Patrick, although he didn't feel ready at all.

               "You ever think about becoming a nurse?  You're good at that," said Nurse Stephens from the door.

               Matt chuckled. "Nah, I haven't got the temperament for it," he said. Sean Patrick made a rude noise and Matt swatted him on the back of the head. "I'm a bit on the impatient side."

               Nurse Stephens chuckled as Sean Patrick scowled at Matt, then she carefully covered the IV stent in the back of Sean Patrick's hand. "Now then. Do not overexert yourself.  You haven't even started physical therapy yet. Dr. Berman says it's all right, but I wonder."

               "I'll be all right, honey," said Sean Patrick, smiling up at her. "And I promise, I won't run off."

               "Damn right you won't."  Matt gripped the handles of the wheelchair and spun it to face the door.  "You don't want to be late.  Let's get a move on."

               It was still icy cold outside, something Sean Patrick had forgotten about while trapped inside the hospital. The sun was mostly hidden behind threatening dark grey storm clouds and a frigid wind was whipping in off the prairie. It cut through the heavy wool suit like razor blades. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he gasped.

               Matt cursed. "Sorry, I forgot," he muttered, shaking out a blanket and throwing it over Sean Patrick, tucking it in around him like he was an invalid.

               "You couldn't have gotten my overcoat?" Sean Patrick said through chattering teeth.

               "You were…"

               "Wearing it the night of the accident, I know. I have others."

               "In Los Angeles," said Matt.  "Now shut up and let me get you in the van."

               Sean Patrick huddled in the blanket while Matt rolled the chair to the loading curb where a rented Dodge caravan stood, marked with a "temporary parking" permit.  Sean Patrick had been expecting something that could hold the wheelchair, but Matt just lifted the vampire into the passenger seat and left him to buckle himself in while he folded the wheelchair and stuck it in the back of the van.

               Snow flurries started to pelt the windshield as they drove to the church.  Matt's expression darkened as he started the wipers going. Matt didn't have any more experience with driving in this kind of weather than Sean Patrick did, so it was slow going.  Matt's huge shoulders hunched forward as he concentrated on the road ahead of them. He said nothing, and Sean Patrick felt like he was hunched, too, closing in on himself as they crawled through the streets toward the church.

               He'd never been inside a Lutheran church before. He was rather surprised to see it didn't look all that different from the Catholic churches he'd gone to all his life. "I was kind of expecting less ornate, more grim and foreboding," he whispered to Matt. "This looks almost like a Catholic church."

               "A church is a church," replied Matt, folding up the blanket before wheeling Sean Patrick into the front vestibule. A few people were there already, clumped in mostly silent groups around the door that led into the chapel. There was a podium with the guest book, and a place for gifts to the family.  Into that, Sean Patrick slipped the envelope with the check he had written, and then signed his name.

               "I don't know. I knew a fellow who lived through the Reform. Always gave me the idea that a Lutheran church would be a dark, austere box with no decorations at all, breaking away clean from Catholic claptrap."

               Matt grunted something. Despite all of Sean Patrick's best intentions, Matt had grown up completely estranged from the church and was, for all intents and purposes, completely atheist. Sean Patrick sometimes felt he'd failed somewhere. What Matt said was simply, "Plenty of claptrap here."

               Sean Patrick didn't respond. 

               Jimmy detached himself from a cluster of people and came up to them, shaking Sean Patrick's hand. "I'm glad you could come," he said. "Come and meet the rest of the family."

               Lori's family didn't look any more Japanese than she had. Lori's father was a slim, slight man with dark hair and Lori's eyes, except for the slightest hint of his Asian ethnicity; her mother was taller than her husband, and from her Lori had gotten her bouncy auburn hair. Both of them wore the lost, empty expression he'd seen many times before on parents who lost children, no matter what age. Still, they somehow managed to smile at him, that ghostly "thank you for coming" smile people wore at funerals. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. O'Connor," said Mr. Takahashi, gripping Sean Patrick's hand tightly. "Lori spoke very highly of you."

               "You made her very happy, Mr. O'Connor," said Mrs. Takahashi, shaking Sean Patrick's hand when her husband released it.

               "I'm sorry for your loss," said Sean Patrick automatically, that most irritatingly weak platitude he'd said so many times before. He couldn't remember how many funerals and memorial services he'd been to in his life, how many people he cared for who had died. "She was a wonderful young woman." And I loved her, he added inside his head, swallowing a lump that was rising in his throat. He was already tired, the lack of morphine starting to tell on his strained and mending muscles and bones, but he couldn't let it show.

               The service wasn't in the huge main chapel, but a smaller and more intimate one down the left-hand wing.  Matt rolled Sean Patrick up the aisle to a spot near a pew where there was a space for handicapped worshippers, then sat next to him in the pew. As always happened, women stared at him, whispering. Matt pretended oblivion, but Sean Patrick could see him returning clandestine glances. Being engaged hadn't changed him at all.

               The altar before them was draped with flowers and banners. A portrait of Lori that had probably been her high school senior picture stood on the upright piano, and of course several of her paintings, including a print of Nightwalker, were on display as well.

               Alan came in and sat next to Matt. Slowly the pews filled, soft voices murmuring around him as Sean Patrick bent his head over the rosary he pulled from his pocket and mourned silently, not listening as Matt and Alan chatted together.

               A slim young man who bore a resemblance to both Lori and Jimmy went up to the altar and stood behind the podium, swallowing before he spoke into the microphone, "Thank you, everyone, for coming."  He stood silent a moment, then said, "I'm Thomas Takahashi, Lori's oldest brother. It's not really a surprise to me she had this many friends."

               Sean Patrick mentally ran through a decade as he listened to Lori's brother, his beads sliding through his fingers methodically, silent prayer he knew was for himself more than anyone else. He had no doubt that Lori, wonderful person she had been, would be rewarded in the afterlife. He'd always been a believer. He never had found reason to stop. Thomas invited others to come up and speak, then slipped back to his seat, wiping his face. A pretty woman Sean Patrick guessed was a wife or girlfriend gripped his hand and hugged him.

               Several minutes passed before Alan got up and went to the podium. His soft voice didn't seem to need the microphone as he talked about his friendship with Lori. He told a humorous story about posing for her that made the family smile, then sat down again. After another long silence, Jimmy got up and went to the podium.  "I know this might be an unusual request," he said, "but I think Lori might like it if Sean Patrick sang something for her."

               Sean Patrick started, his attention abruptly shifted from the rosary in his hands to the altar, and then around him, to the others in the audience. Several looked as though they would appreciate something, anything, to take the heat off them, save them from having to stand up and try to talk or share their private pain. Singing would save him having to try and come up with words he simply couldn't say. After a moment, he nodded, and Matt wheeled him up the ramp to the piano. There was no hesitation as he flexed his fingers over the keyboard.  "Lori told me once this was her favorite song," he said, and started Bridge Over Troubled Water.

               The familiar words flowed through him, making their way over his aching throat. Singing when he wanted to cry was a challenge, but it wasn't the first time. The lyrics gave him the words he needed, as he promised Lori he would be there to dry her tears, there to lay him down over her troubled waters. But she had no more troubles. Now he had to traverse his own, by himself.

               A voice joined his, taking on the harmonies, and he felt Alan's hand on his shoulder as he reached the climactic point of the song.  He was somehow able to finish, bending his head over the keys as he played the final chords, and the music slowly faded. There was silence around him, no one even seemed to breathe.  Sean Patrick drew in a deep breath himself, and whispered to the keys, "Goodbye, Lori."

 

Rule of Three 2

Rule of Three, Part II

 

Family Matters

528 Words

 

                "Thank you, darlin'." Lefty nodded to the girl at the counter, taking up his package before leaving the little store. Zahn had pushed the car up to the garage, but Emily was watching an airship floating overhead. She'd always loved the ships, always stopped whatever she was doing to watch one sail by, breathless at the soft chop of the motors.

                Lefty was less enthralled.  He glanced up, gauging the size of the vessel and making a guess as to the number of people on board, the wealthy and the influential, and all their money.  If only he could get them passage, just one trip to New Amsterdam or Chicago, he might be able to make their fortune. With luck.

                He turned his gaze back to Emily, only to see that Zahn was looking at her, too. Lefty's blood started to simmer at the expression on Zahn's face. It took a moment for Lefty to calm down, fighting back an urge to kick his friend in the teeth. He drew a deep breath, looking up and down Renaissance's dusty main street. This could be a good place to stop for a while. A saloon always meant a little extra money. With luck.

                "There's water," he said, walking back to the car.  "And a little hotel."

               Emily didn't move her gaze from the rapidly dwindling airship, but she put her arm around his waist when he gripped her shoulders.

               Zahn wiped his face with a handkerchief.  "We're gonna stay?" he asked.

               "I figured we could use a rest," replied Lefty, unfolding the map he'd just bought. "This looks like it's the only stop for miles. If we're planning on going for any length of time, it sure wouldn't do any harm to get a little rest and restock."

               Emily hugged Lefty. "I'm okay with stopping. It'd be nice to sleep in a real bed for a change."  She turned her bright smile to Lefty, her green eyes sparkling.

               Lefty smiled back.  "Let's check out the hotel, then." He glanced over his shoulder at Zahn, who was watching Emily again. His gaze quickly shifted to the car when he saw Lefty watching him. "You gonna take care of that, Zahn?" he asked. There must have been something in his tone, because Emily poked him in the side, bumping her hip against his. "Come on, Em," he continued, ignoring her hints as he turned her away from the service center toward a sprawling brick building. "Looks nice."

               "It's very cute. And, I note, a saloon. With gambling." She favored him with an arch expression.

               "We do need a little money, honey," he said. "You go ahead and get us some rooms. I'm gonna help Zahn get the car inside." He winked at her.  Emily, laughing a little and shaking her head, continued on toward the hotel. 

               "Gimme a hand," said Zahn.

               Lefty drew a deep breath, his fingers playing on the gun at his hip, before he bent to help Zahn shove. As he did, he said, "Zahn, so help me, if I ever see you lookin' at my sister like that again, I might just forget we're friends."

 

Prompts used:

• One of the characters is revealed to be not who or she is
• A relationship becomes complicated

It's An Honor

The first part of my Ren 3 Blogfest story was honored by An Eclectic Muse withthe Liebster Blog award:

 

 

Thanks so much, Barb!  Hope you enjoy the rest of what I come up with as the prompts arrive!

I'll go back to the Nightwalker when Ren3 is done!

 

Rule of Three 1

Rule of 3 Blogfest

WEEK 1

• There is an argument
• Someone might fall in love

 

Arriving

 

          Nobody knew why he was called Lefty. He was right-handed, or appeared to be so; still, the moniker hung on him comfortably, like an old shirt. He blinked slowly as Zahn raged, "I told you it was the wrong road. You never, ever listen to me!" Zahn wasn't even sure why he still hung around with Lefty, what it was that made Zahn even like him.

          "Deal, buddy," drawled Lefty. "We'll get there. See?  There's a town right ahead."

          Zahn cranked the car another time, letting steam fill the engine to shoot them forward another mile, past a sign that read "Welcome to Renaissance."  The second "s" in Renaissance was backward, lending a odd, childish quality to the otherwise official-looking sign. It was the first glimpse of civilization he'd seen in the days it had taken to cross the Schiavona. 

          "Where are we?" Emily sat up in the back, her sandy-blonde hair tousled with sleep.  She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

          "Someplace called Renaissance," Lefty replied, cracking his knuckles.  "Looks like a trading post more'n a town. A whole three hundred and thirty folks."

          Zahn gave a final crank to the engine.  "We're out of water. I hope there's someplace we can refill."  He glanced around before turning his glare back to Lefty.  "And then maybe find us a map, so we know where we are and how to get to the Roundeli."

          Lefty yawned, refusing to argue with Zahn, who was quite honestly spoiling for a fight.  Still, he simmered in silence because Emily had leaned over his shoulder, peering through the isinglass windshield at the town ahead of them. "It isn't much, that's for sure," she said, already awake enough to regain her normal perkiness.  Zahn's fighting side calmed at her nearness, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair.

          "But there surely is a pump," said Lefty, pointing to a ramshackle building which had a sign banging against the wall in the rising wind which read, "Autos serviced, Water, Bicycle Repairs, Tires."

          "I guess that's where we have to stop first," Zahn replied with some amount of resignation. He cranked and turned, hoping there was enough steam to get them to the garage.

          "And then some food," said Emily, pulling her hair back into some semblance of order, piling it loosely on her head and jamming in several pins.

          Zahn felt the car under him shudder, then heard the thud as it died completely.  He started to swear.  Emily pressed a hand to his shoulder as Lefty started to chuckle.  "Push 'er in, buddy.  I'll go see about the lay of the land." He shoved open the door and eased his lanky frame out. Dust billowed around his boot heels with each step. Emily slid out after him, stretching, refastening her vest, and shaking out her skirts.

          "Come on, handsome," she called to Zahn with a smile.  "Let's get pushing!"

          Sighing, Zahn heaved himself out of the driver's seat. "Let's go."

 

A Nightwalker in Impressionist Colors, Part XII

    Lori rested on him, listening to his breathing quieting until it was almost nonexistent, feeling the extremely slow but steady beat of a vampire pulse against her face. It seemed to throb once for every fifteen or twenty of her own, just enough to let her know that what she'd learned from Dakota Bob about 'Nightwalkers' was true.  Not undead creatures at all, but creatures imbued with delightful magickal life. Extraordinary.

    She still couldn't sleep. She was a little drunk, thrilling from the sex, relaxed and warm and lazy, but somehow too wired to let it all go. In sleep she wouldn't remember the amazing things she'd heard about her paintings, the way people had complimented her art, the one thing that had always been her defining point.  She closed her eyes a moment, remembering when she really had gone for Sean Patrick, and that was when he had, out of the blue, mentioned her art not even realizing it was hers.

    She'd never met anyone else who had known her art before they knew her. Lori let out a slow breath, not wanting to disturb him, and eased carefully out of the circle of his arm.  He stirred, but didn't wake up. Funny vampire, he could wake instantly most of the time, and then sleep like this. Like he trusted her or something. When she came out of the bathroom, she eased part of the curtain open and looked out. The sun was coming up, cold red light starting to show the bleak winter landscape. He chosen one of the quaint little Bed & Breakfasts this time, and it was decidedly more homey than the hotel room had been. He'd gotten a suite of rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room and a little office as well as a private bath. Lori had always wanted to see the inside of this old house, way out by the vineyards on the edge of town. It was as pretty as she'd hoped.

    The bathroom was old fashioned, but they had installed a gloriously modern bath, which she filled with hot water and bubbles.   She soaked until the water grew chilly, then got out and pulled on the luxurious rust-colored robe that hung on the door.

    There was more light in the rooms, coming in over the tops of the curtains, giving her ample illumination to make her way into the sitting room. He'd been reading Slaughterhouse Five and something called The Life of Pi the last time he'd been here; now there were three books sitting on the table, David McCullough's John Adams, Living Dead in Dallas by Charlaine Harris, and, oddly enough, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.  Grinning, she looked at the popcorn vampire book and the kiddie book, so oddly out of place with someone who seemed to be such a serious reader. She wondered if he read any other vampire books, stories about creatures that really had so very little in common with him.

    Flipping through the pages of the Harry Potter book, she found four receipts from the gallery. On top was the purchase order for a print of The Nightwalker, and she chuckled when she saw Jimmy had written "he gets print #1" on it. Behind that one was a receipt for Capture A Moment. "Silly boy," she muttered.  "That was supposed to be a gift." He'd also bought Cat's Eyes and, of all absurd things, Lone Horse. Lori sighed.

    "Did you get any sleep?" Sean Patrick's voice behind her made her jump. He leaned over the back of the sofa, looking drowsy and tousled.

    "Not really," she said.  "You actually bought Lone Horse?"

    "I like it," he replied.

    "It's a boring, uninspired throwaway. I hung it there to fill a space."

    "It's pretty, and I like cowboy art. You know that about me already."

    "But you could have gone for one of the Dakota studies, or something," she fretted. "You buy stuff like that and I'm going to think you're only supporting my art because you're my friend."

    Sean Patrick laughed. "Hey, you're lucky I didn't tell you goes with my décor," he said, raising a somewhat mocking eyebrow. Lori stuck her tongue out at him. "Honey, when I walked in that back room, the first thing I saw was that horse. It spoke to me. Isn't that what art's supposed to do?"

    "I suppose," she admitted, although she looked askance at him, doubting him. There had been a number of paintings she'd put up because she needed to fill space, but they weren't exactly ones she'd planned on selling, she'd sort of expected they'd end up as nothing more than place fillers until she had better and then she could get rid of them all. "It's just a painting of a horse," she muttered. "Nothing artistic about it."

    "It's a beautiful portrait of a gorgeous pale gold palomino, just like a gold palomino I raised, years and years ago," he said.  He came around the sofa and put an arm around her.  "He meant a lot to me, and it looked just like you'd painted him just for me, a real painting for me, not a picture of me.  That painting looks just like Le Roi Du Soleil, a horse I owned back during the war.  I raised him from a colt, he was my best buddy, and I called him Roy. I have some old faded photographs of him, but this is like he's right there again."

    "The war?"

    "World War II," he said, chuckling. "If I remember correctly, Roy was born in thirty-five or thirty-six.  He could run like the wind."

    "What's with the racehorse name?" she asked, tucking his receipts back into his book.

    "Well, he was a registered thoroughbred," he replied with a grin. "He had his registry name, even though I never raced him, I could have. He certainly sired some winners in his time. He lived thirty-two years, and was running and jumping five-rail fences well into his twenties, before I let him out to pasture."  He hugged her around the neck. "I miss him sometimes."

    "You like to ride."

    "Yep," he replied.

    "You'll have to come back in summertime. There's a couple of stables that do midnight rides."

    "I'd love to," he said. "I used to take the kids for night rides when we lived in Malibu."  He kissed the side of her head.  "Come on back to bed now, honey." He stood with a flourish, sweeping her up off the sofa into his arms. Lori swallowed a shriek of delighted surprise.  "You look good in my robe," he said.

    Lori hugged his neck. "I somehow thought it was the hotel's, you know, one of those complimentary things."

    Sean Patrick laughed at her. "Honey, even the Four Seasons doesn't have robes like this one," he said. "You don't wanna know how much it cost."   

    Lori rubbed her cheek against the velvety softness of the robe's lining, her fingers smoothing the silk exterior. "Sure, tell me."

    Sean Patrick tossed her lightly to the bed, following after.  She lay back as he untied the belt. "You may have guessed I rather like luxury."

    "No kidding," she said, gripping his face and looking at him. "Put your fangs out," she demanded. "I want to see."

    Sean Patrick raised an eyebrow, but he did as she asked.  She watched with delighted fascination as his eyes turned from brown to a glowing, warm umber, and his jaw lengthened as the wicked fangs extended.  Lori examined him.  "Maybe I should ask you to sit for me like this," she said, running her fingers over the edge of his jaw.

    "Thinking on it, maybe it's not such a good idea," he whispered, his voice lisping around his fangs.

    "It's not like anyone who ever saw it would know who you were," she said.  "Here," she wiggled out from under him and grabbed her sketchbook from the nightstand.  "See?"

    Sean Patrick took it from her, sitting back to study the sketch she'd made of him, fangs out, and he frowned a little. "Is that what I look like?" he asked.    

    "Yeah, don't you know?"

    "I don't show up in a mirror, honey.  I've never seen myself fangs-out."  He continued to study the pen-and-ink drawing she'd done from memory, but she was pleased to see, comparing it to him there, she'd captured him pretty well. "I suppose I could have someone take a picture, but that's chancy."

    "Well, it's pretty perfect, if I do say so myself," she said with pleasure, holding it next to his face before carelessly tossing it back over the edge of the bed and holding out her arms to him. "I'm betting you haven't fed."

    "You'd lose, Bob fed me before the show," he replied, gathering her close. "And if you'll recall, you just offered yourself, not five hours ago."

    "Still hungry?" she asked, leaning her head back to show the expanse of her neck. She saw the glow of his eyes as he bent over her. Losing herself in the heat of passion, Lori opened herself to him. He was, for the moment, everything.

 

    "Oh, she's getting tired of me," said Sean Patrick, taking a healthy swallow of his beer and putting down the glass as Alan waved to the waitress for another round.  "There just hasn't been anyone new to capture her eye."

    Alan shook his head. "It's still not how I see it," he replied, sitting back to allow the waitress access to the table.  She placed a fresh pitcher down, followed by the big barbecue bacon burger for Sean Patrick and a rather gigantic T-bone steak for Alan. 

    Sean Patrick eyed Alan's plate.  "I should have ordered that," he said with regret.

    "Buyer's remorse," said Alan, cutting into the steak to reveal it was thoroughly pink inside, bloody rare.

    "Ah, man," muttered Sean Patrick, biting into his own rare burger. "We even like it cooked the same way."

    Although Alan heaped butter and sour cream on the baked potato that come with his steak, he appeared to only eat those, leaving most of the potato behind. Sean Patrick ate all of his fries, and was eyeing Alan's potato, when Lori finally came in.  She dropped into the empty chair between them and poured herself a glass of beer.

    "Five more sales," she said triumphantly.

    "Good for you," said Alan. "Set for life, yet?"

    "Hah. Now it just means I have to work nine times as hard to keep up the pace, and still finish school. I'm going to be very very busy for the next few years."  She paused as the waitress came back to the table to clear away Sean Patrick's and Alan's plates, and ordered her own burger. Another pitcher of beer hit the table as Ben and Janie joined them.

    "So we're gonna lose you soon, I take it?" Alan asked, going back to the conversation he and Sean Patrick had been having earlier.    

    "Time for me to get home," Sean Patrick replied, sitting back with his glass and crossing his ankles under the table. "I have enjoyed every second here, but I do have a business to run."

    "Well, we'll be seeing you in March," said Ben. "We set that up before we came back up here."

    "I hope I get a chance to finally get to see the Nightmare," said Lori, "but it won't be until the semester's over. I have too much work to do."

    Sean Patrick looked at her, but her attention was on her dinner, and not really on anyone at the table. He nodded at Alan, who smiled back, shaking his head.  A tight little pain was starting in the middle of Sean Patrick's chest, but he forced it down, trying to squeeze it before it could squeeze him.

    "Hey.  Are either of you two going to sing tonight?" asked Janie, refilling her glass.

    "I'm game," said Sean Patrick, glad to put away his internal mooning for a time. Bob was right, he was definitely falling for her, if he hadn't already gone. He was going to miss her, more than just a little. He tossed his napkin to the table and finished his beer. "Order me something stronger, would you, honey?"

    "Sure," said Lori, sparing him a quick smile.

    "What can I sing for you? Anything. This one's for you," he said, bending over her just a moment, just to smell her hair. She'd probably spend tonight with him, probably, but once he was gone tomorrow, he had a feeling that the promised "visit to Los Angeles" would be a long time coming.

    Lori looked around the table, then up at him with pleading eyes. "Could you sing Bridge Over Troubled Water?" she asked in a soft voice.  "I know it won't play well here but it's my favorite, and I'd love to hear you do it."

    Sean Patrick brightened.  "Well, now, honey, why didn't you tell me you liked Simon and Garfunkel? I can do that." He winked at her and sauntered to the stage, meeting the waitress who brought him his Jack on the Rocks.  He sat down at the piano, running a quick scale to warm up, then began the tune.

    Someone in the audience made a derisive noise at the sound of the soft folk song starting.  Sean Patrick glanced up and grinned.  "Now, now," he said into the mic.  "None of that.  I do requests from anyone who asks, and this is for a special lady."  He started to sing. Within a few bars the grumbling seemed to fade away, and by the end, the room exploded in cheers.  Sean Patrick smiled again.

    "One more for her," he said.  "What else do you like, sugar?"

    Lori made a face at him.  "Anything by Billy Joel," she called back.

    "Except 'Still Rock-and-Roll To Me,'" shouted Alan.  Lori punched him, and a lot of people laughed.

    Sean Patrick chuckled and lightly ran his fingers over the keys, running through songs in his head. He decided on 'Miami 2017,' which was long and hardly a dancing song, but it was great on piano and one his favorites.  By the end people were sending up requests and he fell into his old favored pattern of playing and singing any song anyone wanted to hear, the rest of the guys coming up to join him.  Eventually Alan swung himself up to join them. After the first set, Sean Patrick excused himself, letting Alan sit at the piano.

    "Why'd you stop?" asked Lori when he returned to the table.

    "Because I want to dance," he replied, taking her hand in his.

    "You dance, too?"

    "Of course I can dance."  He swung her up and into his arms. "I learned to dance when I was a boy, just like any well-brought up young man."

    Lori laughed. "That's right, I forgot. Victorian gentleman that you are! I just hope I can follow a real dance."

    "You'll do fine." He led her into the Texas two-step the band was playing.

    Sean Patrick considered telling her how much he was going to miss her when he left, but she looked so happy as he squired her around the floor he was loathe to spoil it by saying anything that would make him come off as wistful or needy.  Even if he was, at the moment, a little of both.

    "So have you enjoyed South Dakota, this time?" she asked, as they danced close to one another as Alan sang the old "Waltz Across Texas."

    "I have," he replied.  "Even if it is colder than a penguin's backside out there." 

    Lori laughed.

    "And even if you don't like my taste in art."

    "You're awful.  I'm going to re-do Lone Horse just for you, and you'll see the difference," she said, still laughing at him.

    "I look forward to it."