TRANSIT

by ROSE

Special Thanks To: Aithine, for an outstanding edit, great humor and a love of history to rival my own; and to xangel for excellent critical commentary, encouragement and taking a road trip with me through Redington Pass in the name of research. You guys rock.


I.

Chris moved restlessly beneath the worn blanket, unable to get comfortable and sleep. He wanted nothing more than to be back in the dim familiarity of the saloon sipping whiskey, or sitting on the porch with the brim of his hat tugged down, dozing in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. Instead he was in the middle of the San Pedro valley with only Ezra Standish for company and an affidavit from Judge Travis in his saddlebag to deliver to the law in Tucson in the hopes of setting an innocent man free.

Usually Chris liked the freedom of wide open spaces, needed that quiet and solitude when the press of people in town got too much, but tonight the desert stillness wasn't helping. He was jittery and ornery and didn't really know why. For a moment he was tempted to kick Standish awake and keep riding, but the horses needed rest even if he didn't. Besides, then he'd have to listen to Ezra piss and moan about getting his beauty sleep interrupted, and that was just more trouble than Chris was willing to put up with in his present mood.

I need to get laid while I'm in Tucson, he thought. Visiting the working girls was not something he indulged in much back in Four Corners; Chris was a private man, and there was enough gossip about him in town already without adding tales about his sexual affairs to the mix.

Of course, Tucson was still days away, which didn't do him much good right now. There was always his hand, but he was not particularly comfortable with that idea under the circumstances. Chris spared a glance off to the right where Ezra lay, nubby gray blanket pulled far enough up that only the top of his chestnut hair was visible in the dying light of the fire. The man seemed out for the duration, but Chris knew appearances could be deceiving, especially where Standish was concerned.

Better not, he decided and couldn't quite stop a sigh of resignation from escaping.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Larabee?"

"It's nothing," Chris said gruffly. "Go back to sleep."

"If I could sleep through your incessant tossing, believe me, I would. May I suggest checking your bedroll for errant peas?"

Chris chuckled in spite of himself. "That's pot calling kettle."

"So happy I could amuse you," Ezra replied dryly.

With one last snicker, Chris closed his eyes in an attempt to will himself to sleep, only to open them a moment later when his blanket was unceremoniously pulled away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to get some sleep," Ezra said mildly, nimble fingers tugging at the buttons of Chris's trousers. "Since you're so clearly incapable of taking care of matters yourself, I thought I would lend a hand. So to speak."

"Ezra!" Embarrassment warred with indignation before giving way to pure, unmitigated need as those clever fingers slipped inside the worn denim to capture hard, aching flesh. Chris's head fell back against the bedroll with a dull thump as his hips thrust upward into that knowing touch. "Ah, fuck."

"Language, Mr. Larabee," Ezra chided softly. Chris managed a laugh that hitched and wobbled into a breathless moan as Ezra's hand sped up, stroking his cock with ruthless abandon. It was rough and fast and exactly what Chris needed, just fucking Ezra's fist until he came with a ragged shout.

Exhaustion quickly followed in the wake of his orgasm and Chris let himself drift in boneless lassitude. He was dimly aware of Ezra tucking his cock back inside his trousers before doing up the buttons once more, of a blanket being drawn up over his body, the soft brush of lips against his forehead and a quiet voice murmuring Good night, Chris into his ear.

He was asleep within minutes.


Chris woke to the smell of bacon frying. Something about that was not right and he cautiously opened one eye, expecting trouble and finding only Ezra. Which had to be wrong, because there was no way on God's green acre Ezra Standish had gotten up before him, especially not on the trail. Yet there the man was, shaved and dressed and apparently making breakfast in the early dawn light.

"There's coffee if you want some," Ezra said.

Chris sat up in his bedroll and nodded. "You're up early."

"Yes, well, contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of rising before the crack of noon when the mood strikes."

That made him grin. "I'll remember you said that."

"I'm sure you will," Ezra said, holding out a battered tin cup for Chris to take.

As he reached for the proffered cup, Chris had a sudden image of Standish's long, neat fingers wrapped firmly around his cock. He felt his face flush and looked up to find Ezra frozen in place, eyes wide and a little wild, outstretched arm trembling almost imperceptibly. The man was scared, Chris realized with sudden clarity, afraid of how his actions the previous night would be viewed in the harsh light of day.

More to the point, he was about to drop the damned coffee right in Chris's lap.

He took the cup gently from Ezra's shaking hand. "Much obliged."

Ezra blinked then nodded slowly and withdrew back to the fire.



They ate in companionable silence, something Chris hadn't thought the normally garrulous Southerner capable of. Then again, he wouldn't have thought Ezra capable of climbing into another man's blankets before last night, either, so what the hell did he know. Little sneak was just full of surprises.

Suddenly, the remaining trip looked a lot more interesting.


They made good time, reaching the banks of the San Pedro river by mid-afternoon. The Rincon mountains rose before them in ever increasing swells, their age-rounded tops covered with a light dusting of snow. Chris eased back in the saddle and took a long, thoughtful look at the low gray clouds building up in the northwest. "We'll camp here tonight," he said.

Standish looked surprised. "There's still plenty of light."

Chris nodded towards the clouds. "Bad weather comin'. Don't want to be stuck halfway up a mountain in fading light when it breaks."

Had Vin or Buck been with him, Chris might well have pushed on for another few hours. Standish was another matter. Even after so long working together, Chris still had no clear idea which way the man would jump in a given situation and that made him nervous.

"Something on your mind, Mr. Larabee?"

"Just wondering if we should turn south, take Old Spanish Trail instead."

Ezra paused in the middle of unpacking his gear for the night. "I was under the impression time was of the essence."

"Redington Pass is no picnic."

Ezra was silent, fixing Chris with a long, level stare. Finally he said, "Have you ever been through Donner Pass, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris couldn't quite suppress a shudder. "Nope. Don't aim to, either."

"The Chinese call it 'the tiger', and I assure you the name is ... quite apt."

Chris's eyebrows rose. "You've been through Donner Pass?"

"Alone and with winter hard on my heels. It is not an experience I care to repeat."

"Who were you runnin' from?"

That got him a grin and the flash of a gold tooth. "My fiancee."

II.

Chris rubbed his aching side. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard, not even for one of Buck's tall tales. "You are so full of shit."

Standish put one hand to his chest in mock affront. "It is God's honest truth, Mr. Larabee. Every last word."

"Even the goat?"

"I was vexed, sir. Well and truly vexed."

"That's not vexed, Ezra. That's-"

"Inspired?"

"Depraved."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Another wide, wicked smile. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Even ones involving livestock."

That set Chris to laughing again. "You could've saved yourself a lot of trouble if you'd just married the girl," he said when he finally recovered his breath.

The smile never wavered but the merriment in Ezra's eyes vanished with the abruptness of a slammed door. "I fear I am not a marrying man." He rose smoothly and made a show of brushing the dust from the sleeves of his red coat. "Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to step down to the river and wash up while there is still light to see by."

Huh, Chris thought, and watched him leave.


An hour and a half later, Chris was beginning to wonder if the damned Southerner had gone and drowned himself.

He hadn't heard anything untoward, just the wind in the cottonwoods, the quiet murmur of the river and the occasional stamp and snort of the horses, but that didn't mean everything was fine. If anyone could get in trouble just washing his hair, it was Ezra Standish.

Better go look for him, Chris thought, and hauled himself to his feet.

He followed the sandy riverbank downstream until he spotted a flash of red in a nearby stand of trees. As he drew closer, he saw that it was Ezra's coat, draped neatly over a low bush. The brocaded waistcoat hung beside it and off to the right, propped up against the gnarled trunk of an enormous mesquite, was the man himself, still in his shirtsleeves and apparently fast asleep.

"Son of a bitch," Chris muttered.

He was sorely tempted to fill his hat with cold water from the river and dump it on the fool gambler's head. Problem was, Standish was damn near as twitchy as Chris himself, and you did not startle a man like that unless you wanted your ass blown off. Ezra's shoulder holster and derringer rig might rest in the grass beside his hat, but the Remington was still on his hip and Chris did not doubt for a minute the man's ability to clear leather and fire before he was even fully awake.

No prank was worth dying for, no matter how richly deserved. Chris cautiously edged up to Ezra's side, expecting him to open his eyes at any moment. Instead the man slept on, oblivious to the world around him.

That was-not right.

Frowning, Chris dropped down on his haunches and studied the Southerner's face, noticing for the first time the bruised shadows under Ezra's eyes. He thought back to the morning, how Ezra had been up before him. Wondered now if the man had slept at all. Probably not, judging from the look of things, and yet he had ridden hard all day today-and the day before as well-never once complaining about the pace, or asking Chris for a moment's rest.

Chris sighed and shook his head. "Ezra. Ezra, wake up."

Ezra started, hand automatically reaching for the revolver on his hip. Chris caught his arm before he could draw. "Easy there."

"Chris?"

"Yeah." He gentled his grip on Ezra's bicep, rubbing the muscle apologetically. "Got worried when you didn't come back."

"My apologies. I must be more tired than I thought."

Chris nodded and slid his hand up to squeeze Ezra's shoulder. "Yeah, you look it."

That earned him a scowl. "Now that is an ungallant thing to say, Mr. Larabee."

He let his hand continue wandering, brushing his fingers lightly over the warm, bare skin of Ezra's neck. "I was Chris a minute ago."

"I was asleep a minute ago."

"You call me Chris in your dreams?"

Ezra opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say was promptly lost as Chris leaned forward and kissed him, stilling that too-agile tongue with his own.

"Sweet Jesus," Ezra breathed after, eyes wide and a little dazed.

Chris just smiled and stroked a knuckle down the flushed skin of Ezra's cheek.


It stormed that night, brief but intense bands of rain that rolled in over the mountains on a steady course east. The gentle burble of the river rose to a dull roar as the waters swelled with runoff, prompting Chris and Ezra to move their camp further back into the trees as a precaution even though they were already above the high water mark; Arizona in March was unpredictable at best, and Chris had no desire to be drowned in a fifty year flood if he could avoid it.

The rough tangle of oak and mesquite gave some protection from the elements but not much. As the temperature dropped and the wind rose, Chris huddled under his pile of sodden blankets, silently cursing the heathen weather. It was cold, wet and thoroughly miserable, and things were only going to get worse as the night wore on.

"Damnation!" he spat, and surged to his feet.

"Chris?" Ezra's voice was thick with fatigue. "Are you all right?"

He didn't bother to reply, just gathered up his blankets and stalked the scant few feet to where the Southerner lay. Dropping his armload of bedding atop Ezra's, he nudged the other man with the toe of his boot. "Scoot over."

There was a moment of stillness that stretched out for several long, painful heartbeats. Then Ezra sat up, calmly smoothing Chris's blankets out on top of his own before shifting over to make room. Chris hunkered down and crawled in beside him, fitting himself neatly against the curve of Ezra's back before twitching the topmost blankets over their heads.

"That's better," he said as their combined body heat slowly warmed the woolen cocoon. Wrapping one arm around the Southerner's trim waist, he pressed his face into the back of Ezra's neck and promptly went to sleep.

III.

Thanks to the previous night's rain, the trail through Redington Pass was a slippery morass of mud and loose, jumbled stone. As the narrow path wound higher, windswept grasslands gave way to steep granite walls, often with a drop-off of several hundred feet to a boulder-strewn canyon below. It kept the pace to an agonizing crawl, with frequent stops to rest and check the horses' hooves.

Even the vegetation was unfriendly, the usual mesquite, pine and juniper mixed thickly with cholla, coachwhip and cat-claw acacia capable of lacerating a man's clothes to shreds in the event of a misstep. This was wild, dangerous country and you either gave it the respect it was due or you died, simple as that.

Chris called a longer halt at noon, ostensibly to rest the horses and eat but mostly because he was bone-tired and sick to death of riding. The pass was twenty-seven miles of rocky switchbacks and washes choked with mud and debris from the storm, and that kind of trail just ground a man down after a while. Even Ezra looked unwontedly grim as they shared a cheroot between them in silence, each man locked up in his own weary thoughts.

"This as bad as Donner Pass?" Chris asked, suddenly fed up with the unrelenting quiet.

Ezra looked thoughtful, taking a long pull off the cigar before handing it back to Chris. "Different," he said, "though I suspect each will try to kill you in its own special way."

Chris chuckled and blew a series of hazy blue smoke rings. "Ain't that the truth."

"How much longer until we reach the valley?"

"Two hours, maybe more." He shrugged. "Depends how bad the rest of the trail is."


It took three hours to reach the end of the pass, by which time Chris was covered with mud, torn by cactus and wishing to God that he'd just stayed back in Four Corners.

The Santa Cruz valley stretched out before them in a vast, rolling plain. It was greener than Chris remembered, but the last time he'd been through this way it had been high summer, the washes had all been empty and the pass full of dry, blowing sand. Dragon weather, as Ezra liked to call it, and Chris was more than inclined to agree.

But it was March now, and the dragon days of summer were long months away. To the north, clouds were building up behind the Catalina mountains, thick and grey with the promise of more rain. And as much as Chris wanted to be out of the weather and in a soft bed with clean sheets, he knew there was no way in hell they would make it to town that night, the horses were just too damned tired. Hell, he was just too damned tired, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and cussed low and long.

He heard the dull thwop of hooves against the wet, packed sand as Ezra drew his mount up alongside him. "Am I to take it we will not be enjoying the fine hospitality of Tucson this evening?" Ezra asked quietly.

"The next time I try to talk you into doing something noble, shoot me."

Ezra chuckled. "While I would prefer a non-lethal means of persuasion, I heartily agree with the sentiment. So, where will we be spending the night?"

"Agua Caliente," Chris replied.

"Caliente?" Ezra's eyebrows rose. "Mr. Larabee, are you offering me hot water?"

Chris smiled. "More like tepid this time of year, but--"

"Sold, sir. Pray, lead on."


Agua Caliente was a series of loosely connected ponds and marshes, frequented by travelers, ranchers and the odd assortment of ducks. It was a hot, sticky, mosquito-infested mire in summer, but at this time of year, with temperatures still down in the forties at night, it was their best bet for a comfortable evening.

They turned northwest, picking their way carefully through the saguaro that covered the rocky foothills before finally smoothing out into flat valley plain. Mesquite grew thickly along the trail, mixed with prickly-pear and the ubiquitous cholla, and the smell of water was heavy in the air, along with the sweetness of the first spring wildflowers.

"Oh my," Ezra breathed as the trail abruptly opened up to a startling swath of verdant green. "Mr. Larabee, I do believe you have outdone yourself."

Chris grinned. "Thought you'd like it."

"Oh yes," Ezra said, dismounting his horse with the stiffness only long hours in the saddle on a difficult trail could cause. "It's ... lovely."

There was a wistful note to the Southerner's voice, something Chris hadn't expected to hear. He cocked his head and watched carefully as Ezra walked to the edge of the pond and knelt, dipping his hand slowly into the water.

"Ezra? You ok?"

"Yes, of course. The trees--" He stood and nodded to the mix of willow, cypress and desert palm that crowded the water's edge. "For a moment they reminded me of a place I once lived. Never realized how much I missed it until now."

That had to be the most plainly honest thing Ezra had ever said to him. "Didn't mean to make you sad," he said gruffly.

Ezra smiled a little too brightly. "Not to worry," he said with a dismissive wave of one hand. "Now, I must insist you come down at once before you become permanently affixed to your horse's back."

Chris shook his head. "Ezra--"

"At once, sir, and into the water with you! It is a bit tepid, I'll agree, but that is a vast improvement over our more recent accommodations."

Chris allowed himself to be drawn down out of the saddle, but when Ezra would have guided him to the water and likely pushed him in, clothes, boots, hat and all, he dug in his heels and caught the gambler firmly around the waist. "Hold up a minute."

"Mr. Larab--"

Chris pressed a finger against Ezra's lips to shush him. "Didn't mean to make you sad," he repeated.

Ezra closed his eyes, opened them again when Chris gently stroked his cheek. "You didn't," he said quietly. "Honestly, Chris. I'm fine. Just--a little homesick, I suppose."

"Where's home?" he murmured, bending to kiss the tender skin beneath Ezra's ear.

"Savannah," Ezra gasped, hands coming up to grasp the front of Chris's duster. "But I spent several--Jesus, do that again--summers on Amelia Island."

Chris licked his way down Ezra's throat, tasting sweat and dirt and something indefinably Ezra. "Where's that?"

"Coast. N-near the Florida-Georgia border. I had f-family there."

He had the top three buttons of Ezra's shirt undone, grateful the man had worn plain, sensible cotton for this leg of the trip rather than his usual layers of finery. Made undressing a hell of a lot easier.

Ezra twisted in his grasp. "Chris, wait."

He paused, frowning. "What now?"

"I'm filthy."

"Noticed that."

"You're filthy."

"Noticed that, too."

"I don't--. Not like this. Please."

Chris took a half-step back, keeping his hands on Ezra's shoulders as he studied the other man's face. Need was obvious, in the flush that colored his skin, the darkening of the sage-green eyes. But beneath the want was fear, old and trembling and threatening to break free.

He took a deep breath, and stepped back again. "Go take your bath," he said quietly. "I'll start setting up camp."


Chris wasn't even aware he'd dozed off until a gentle hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it. "The hell--?"

Ezra peered down at him with a mixture of concern and amusement. "I've heard of people falling asleep with their eyes open," he said, "but this is the first time I've actually seen it."

Chris scowled. "Wasn't sleeping."

"Then I must assume you have developed a sudden interest in spiritualism and were communing with the higher powers in an attempt to divine our future. Tell me, o great sage, what have you learned?"

"That you're cooking dinner," Chris deadpanned.

Ezra grinned. "It would be my pleasure."

Chris knew he should get up, dig some fresh clothes from his saddle bags and then head to the pond to wash, but for now he was content to lean back and watch Ezra putter about the campfire. The bath seemed to have restored the Southerner's equilibrium, but it also meant a return to his usual style of dress. Even a few days ago, Chris would have thought that mere vanity but now he could see it for what it was: hiding in plain sight. It was too easy to get distracted by the fine clothes and the bright flash of that gold-capped tooth and miss the man underneath.

He shook his head and grinned ruefully. If anyone had told him at the start of this trip that he'd wind up contemplating Ezra Standish naked in all senses of the word, he probably would have refused to go--and been poorer for it.

Oh, you got it bad, Larabee, he thought, and chuckled quietly to himself.

"May I ask what you find so amusing, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris glanced over at the fire, saw Ezra busy with the Dutch oven and smiled. "Ain't nothin' but a thing," he said lightly, before hauling himself to his feet. "Think I'll go have that bath now."


The pond was cool, but not uncomfortably so. He washed thoroughly, luxuriating in the rich, creamy lather produced by the seemingly innocuous bar of soap Ezra had given him as much as the sensation of being truly clean for the first time in days. Another time he might have stayed in the water until his skin pruned up and the ducks began to consider him one of their own. But soothing as it was to just sit and soak, the urge to return to camp was stronger, and Chris dragged himself back to shore to towel off and dress.

When Chris had made camp earlier, he had deliberately left off setting up the bedrolls, figuring they'd sort sleeping arrangements out later. As much as he wanted to spend the night with Ezra curled warmly beside him, he hadn't wanted to force the issue given how skittish the man could be.

As he walked back into the camp, the sight of both sets of blankets neatly arranged into a single bedroll and placed a careful distance from the fire stopped him in his tracks.

Ezra sat atop the blankets, calmly playing solitaire. "You're just in time for dinner."

"Good," Chris said when he found his voice again.

Ezra smiled slyly, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. "You're looking a bit flushed, Mr. Larabee. Are you feeling all right?"

"Just tired," he answered honestly.

Ezra immediately looked contrite. Setting his cards aside, he rose and quickly moved to take Chris's arm, leading him to the blankets. "I'm an ass," he said apologetically as Chris settled into the bedding with a relieved sigh. "You're dead on your feet and I'm too busy playing coquette to notice."

Chris snorted at the mental image of Ezra as a southern belle playing host to a gaggle of admiring beaus. "Make it up to me later," he said.

"Oh, I intend to," Ezra replied and kissed him softly before withdrawing. "Stay put. I'll bring you some food."

Chris wasn't sure how he stayed awake long enough to eat, but he managed. He also wasn't sure how Ezra found the energy to not only cook, but wash the pots and dishes after. Chris felt as though he had been pounded with rocks--which, in a sense, he had--and he knew damned well that Ezra was little better, for all he hid it well.

But even Ezra had his limits. Chris was just on the edge of sleep when he felt the blankets being drawn back and a warm, solid body settle next to his. He burrowed closer, was rewarded with strong arms gathering him in, and finally drifted off with his head resting comfortably in the curve of Ezra's shoulder.

IV.

Sunrise was little more than a faint glow on the other side of the Rincons when Chris awoke. Ezra slept peacefully beside him, and Chris propped himself up on one elbow to watch for a while. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been content enough to simply lie beside someone and watch them sleep. Not since the death of his wife, surely....

Thinking of Sarah made him wonder what the hell he was doing. This was more than just scratching an itch, though how much more remained to be seen. He had no clear idea what Ezra wanted, and was fairly sure the Southerner didn't know either. That made things difficult.

It had been a good fifteen years since he'd been with another man. Buck knew, and Sarah; he'd kept no secrets from either his wife or his oldest friend. And while Buck never quite understood that occasional need to find his pleasure in the hard lines and angles of a man's body, he'd never condemned Chris for it, either.

He was drawn to strength; he knew that. Both Sarah and Ezra had it in plenty, though they expressed it in different ways: Sarah with a quiet confidence that anchored him; Ezra with a mind and a spirit that challenged him.

It was a pretty puzzle, one that would take time to sort out.

But for now, there was a handsome man lying next to him and that was all he needed to know. His heart might not be sure what was going on, but his body certainly remembered the way of it and he pressed a kiss to the side of Ezra's neck, drawing a soft sigh from the sleeping man.

Ezra's throat seemed to be particularly sensitive, so he concentrated on that, laving the delicate skin with his tongue while his hands worked the carved shell buttons that held the fine linen shirt closed. He was mouthing a line down Ezra's chest when he felt fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him up into a kiss that was long and slow and sweet.

"Morning," Ezra said, voice still blurred with sleep.

"Morning," Chris replied and bent to kiss him again.

Ezra opened easily beneath him, licking his way into a deeper kiss that left them both breathless and moaning. Strong hands ran up and down the length of Chris's spine, found the sweet-spot in the small of his back and slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt to trace spirals on his skin with a single, maddening finger.

Chris shuddered and gasped, grinding hard into the hollow of Ezra's pelvis. He was going to come in his pants in a moment and drew back just enough to tug at the buttons of his fly and release his cock before sinking down again. Ezra had somehow managed to push his own trousers down around his hips and they found a rhythm quickly, all heated skin and sweat and pure, driving need.

It couldn't last, not at this pace. A few more thrusts and Ezra was coming hard and hot against his belly, eyes closed and back arched, his mouth open in a wordless cry of pleasure that dragged Chris over the edge to his own release.

He collapsed against Ezra, nuzzling warmly into the sweat-dampened hair just behind the Southerner's ear. "Too heavy?"

Ezra chuckled, tightening his arms around Chris's waist. "Chris, I probably outweigh you by twenty pounds."

He nipped sharply at Ezra's earlobe, partially for the remark but mostly because he felt like it. "You callin' me skinny?"

"I think trim would be more accurate," Ezra replied with an unrepentant grin. His hands began to wander down Chris's back again, sliding under his shirt to run smoothly along his ribs. "Or perhaps lean."

"I like lean," Chris said, breath hitching when one of Ezra's hands brushed across a nipple.

"Sleek," Ezra purred, hooking one ankle firmly around the back of Chris's leg as Chris leaned in and caught his mouth for another long, leisurely kiss.

"Mornin', boys," said an amused female voice.

It took Chris's sex-fogged brain several seconds to register they were no longer alone. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered blankly into the trees before finally spotting the dapple grey mare with her smirking rider on the edge of the nearby trail. "Morning," he said cautiously.

The woman grinned and urged the mare in closer. She looked about forty, with a tanned, weather-beaten face and dark, silver-shot hair in a braid down her back. Her clothes were plain but serviceable, a tan canvass duster worn over green riding britches and a simple white shirt, but it was the brass-plated Henry rifle cradled almost negligently in her arms that concerned Chris the most.

"I was gonna ask what you were doing on my land," she said, "'cept it seems pretty obvious, now I've gone and got a closer look."

Chris felt a flush crawl up his cheeks and did his best to ignore it. "Wasn't aware this place had been bought. Been a while since I was last here."

She accepted this with a nod. "Well, it's mine now. You and sisterboy best get packed and skedaddle afore my oldest finds you. He ain't what you might call understanding."

"We'll do that, ma'am. Sorry to have troubled you."

The woman nodded again. "Boys," she said, touching the brim of her hat in farewell before kicking the mare into a trot and disappearing back down the trail.

Chris let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and flopped back down into the blankets. "Hellfire," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "You all right, Ezra?"

"Never better."

Chris glanced at him sharply, but the Southerner was already rising from the bedroll and setting his clothes to rights. "Ezra?"

"You heard the lady, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said in that pleasantly neutral tone Chris had come to detest because it meant the man was hiding a world of feeling. "We'd best be on our way."

"Ezra--" A note of warning crept into his voice.

"We have been asked to vacate the premises," Ezra replied coolly. "I am vacating. What else is there to say?"

Chris felt his teeth grind in annoyance. "Suit yourself."

"Believe me, I shall. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to wash up before we leave. I'm feeling a trifle sticky at the moment."

Oh, hell, Chris thought, and watched him go.


By the time they rode into Tucson, Chris was ready to strangle the man with his bare hands.

Redington Pass was not, in fact, hell. Hell was being forced to listen to Ezra chatter amiably about a whole lot of nothing for four solid hours, and all in a perfectly polite, vaguely cheerful tone of voice that made Chris want to hit something.

Repeatedly. With a very large axe.

It was frustrating because Chris knew, he goddamned knew that Ezra was upset and that this wall of noise was a defense to keep him from finding out why. He'd thought at first it was offended Southern dignity at being caught--quite literally--with their pants down, but hell, they'd been under the blankets and the lady rancher seemed to find the whole thing funny, so why the fuss?

He gave Ezra a sidelong glance. The man was off on another tangent again, something about making up for the financial losses incurred on such a long trip by finding a high stakes game while in town. Chris let the words fade into a meaningless buzz and just studied his companion from the top of his neatly brushed hat to the rich crimson jacket to the long, clean lines of the well-tailored pants. The boots that were polished to a high gloss despite the fact they'd been riding hard for the better part of a week. The ruffled cuffs of the fine linen shirt peeking out beneath the sleeves of his coat.

Sisterboy.

Chris rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Yeah, he thought slowly. Yeah, that would set Ezra off but good.

"I want you to find us a place to stay," he said abruptly, interrupting whatever Ezra had been blathering about for the last several minutes. "I'll check in with the sheriff, see when we're needed at the courthouse to testify. We'll meet at the livery later."

Ezra blinked, then touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. "As you command," he said.

"That'll be the day," Chris muttered as he watched Ezra's bay shift from a walk to a smooth, ground-eating trot and disappear into the dusty, crowded streets of Tucson.


Chris found the sheriff's office easily enough and was directed from there to the courthouse to speak to the clerk, a thin, droopy-looking fellow with lank brown hair and a perpetual squint. He peered up at Chris and blinked a few times, as if trying to bring him into focus. "Who did you say you were?"

"Larabee," Chris said. "Chris Larabee, from Four Corners. I'm here with Ezra Standish to testify on behalf of Shelby Brooks."

The clerk took down the information. "You boys made good time. Didn't expect to see you till the hanging, if at all."

Chris felt the vein in his temple throb at the assumption of Brooks' guilt. "We took Redington Pass."

That got the clerk's attention, and opened those squinty little eyes up a bit. "In this weather? Lord, that Brooks fella must be a damned good friend."

"No, just an innocent man wrongly accused."

The clerk snorted. "Aren't they all? Trial's tomorrow at ten a.m. with Judge Spicer. Dress appropriately."



Chris needed a drink after that, and found a saloon conveniently located a short walk down the street from courthouse. Two shots of whiskey later, he was starting to feel more like himself. It was just past one in the afternoon, which left an awful lot of hours to fill between now and the trial. He rubbed at his eyes. A nap, maybe. That would mean heading out to find Ezra--

"Good afternoon, Mr. Larabee."

--unless Ezra found him first. "Thought we were going to meet at the livery."

Ezra shrugged. "Yes, well, having had some experience with the courts myself, I decided there was a high probability you would come here first."

"Can't fault your logic."

"I procured rooms for us at the Hotel Mariposa on Calle del Arroyo," Ezra went on. He placed a key on the bar next to Chris's hand. "The livery's right up the street if you want to see that great black behemoth of yours stabled for the night."

Chris took the key and pocketed it. "You found a game yet?"

"Several, but only two look promising. Ah well, the day is young."

Chris ordered a third shot of whiskey and downed it fast. "Trial's tomorrow morning at ten," he said. "I want you up and ready to go at nine."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Larabee."


The Hotel Mariposa was a fine establishment, hardly the most expensive in town, but still far better than Chris would have chosen for himself. His room was clean and neat with sturdy, age-darkened oak furniture and what looked like a real feather bed. Chris unpacked his kit, laying out a fresh shirt and pants to air while wondering if they were what the fussy little clerk would consider "appropriate" dress for court. He hoped they weren't.

It occurred to him that he hadn't the faintest idea which room was Ezra's, or if they were even staying on the same floor. Chris shook his head. He didn't want to be alone tonight. Buck would tell him to go find himself a willing woman, but it was Ezra he wanted in his bed, not some nameless bangtail. Trouble was, he didn't know if Ezra wanted the same thing.

Well. Only one way to find out.

He hunted through his gear until he found a blank scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. Scribbling a terse reminder that they were due in court at ten the next morning, he folded the note in half and headed downstairs to the front desk.

The desk clerk looked up nervously as Chris bore down on him. "May I help you, sir?"

"Got a message for Ezra Standish," he said, holding out the note.

"I'll see that he gets it," the clerk replied, taking the note and tucking it into one of the wooden mail boxes lining the wall behind the desk.

Second row, third from the left.

Chris smiled. "Much obliged," he said.

It would be hours before the gambler came home to roost, and Chris decided to use the time to his advantage. Tucson was the territory capital and had a lot to offer in the way of distractions. It was tempting to hole up in one of the many saloons that lined the narrow street, but it would be to his advantage to remain sober tonight and he bypassed the bars with a regretful sigh.

Instead he wound up in a shop purporting to have a wide variety of imported French soap. He had no idea what the stuff Ezra used was called, only that it smelled faintly of almonds while most of this lot was heavy on the florals. Not wanting to wind up smelling like somebody's maiden aunt, he was headed for the door when he spotted a single cream colored box printed with the word L'Amande in bold black script almost lost amongst its brightly colored brethren.

He picked up the box and gave it an experimental sniff. Almonds.

"I'll take this," he said to the shopkeeper, "and directions to the nearest bathhouse."



An hour and a half later, Chris was thoroughly clean and ensconced at a corner table in the hotel dining room that afforded a good view of the front lobby. He ate slowly, just picking at his food, all the while keeping a careful eye on the front desk. When the clerk disappeared to assist a well-dressed woman with an enormous trunk up to her room, he rose and quickly headed to the desk. After a brief glance around the lobby to make sure no-one was looking, he leaned across the desk and snagged the spare room key out of Ezra's mailbox, tucking it into his pocket before casually returning to the table to finish his meal.


The wooden bob on the end of the key had the number 203 etched into it, which was two doors down and across the hall from Chris's own room. He stood in front of the door for a moment, took a deep breath and knocked. "Ezra? You in there?"

No answer.

He knocked a second time, just to be sure. When there was still no answer, he pulled the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The room was the same as his own, but with a westward facing window that looked out over the roof of the feed shop next door. He could see the Tucson mountains in the distance, their distinct, conical shape almost indigo against the backdrop of the setting sun.

It would be full dark soon, and he didn't expect Ezra back much before midnight, if that early. The man had the sleeping habits of a coyote, and much of the personality of one to boot. Chris smiled at the thought, imagining the flash of Ezra's gold-capped canine in the light of the waxing moon. Yeah, he was a Coyote, all right.

He prowled around the room, making note of Ezra's personal effects laid out neatly on the dresser: a monogrammed, sterling silver brush with matching comb; the small porcelain shaving cup with its boar-bristle brush; an ivory handled straight razor resting on a neatly folded white hand towel. And next to the shaving kit, inside a small paper bag, a cobalt glass bottle of sweet almond oil and three brand-new bars of L'Amande soap.

Chris shook his head, grinning. No wonder the shop only had the one bar left; Ezra had bought all the rest.

There was nothing left to do now but wait. Chris calmly unfastened his gun belt, then looped it over the bedpost within easy reach. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tugged off his boots and socks, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. It felt awkward to be stripping down in the middle of another man's bedroom, as though the act was more intimate in such a genteel setting than dropping his trousers and rubbing himself to orgasm against Ezra's stomach ever could have been. It was--more real somehow, and even a little frightening, though he shook it off quickly and tried to convince himself that the shiver crawling down his spine was from the slight chill in the room and not nerves.

Naked, he folded his clothes and placed them in a neat stack in the chair by the window. Turning back to the bed, he folded the quilt down and crawled beneath the covers. With the sun completely set, the room was dark and still. Chris considered lighting the bedside lamp, but was worried Ezra would see the faint glow coming from the gap beneath the door and refuse to come in. Instead, he settled comfortably into the mattress, folded his arms behind his head and waited.

V.

Chris was dozing lightly when the sound of a key turning in the lock brought him instantly back to full wakefulness. There was a creak of hinges and then light from the hallway spilled into the room, turning Ezra into a blank silhouette as he stood frozen in the doorway. After a moment the gambler sighed, closing the door behind him and locking it again with a quiet click. "You're nothing if not persistent, Mr. Larabee."

Chris rubbed sleepily at his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Just after one."

"Any luck at the tables?"

Ezra crossed the room and stood in front of the dresser with his back to Chris. "Some," he said, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it neatly from a peg on the wall before turning his attention to his guns.

"That's good."

"Mm," Ezra said noncommittally. He slipped out of the waistcoat, folded it neatly and placed it inside the top dresser drawer. The suspenders were next, sliding down his arms to hang loosely about his waist.

Chris was mesmerized by the slow flex and roll of Ezra's shoulders as he carefully unbuttoned his shirt. "Tired?"

"A bit," Ezra replied, meaning he was probably exhausted. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah," Chris said, voice gone suddenly hoarse as Ezra pulled off his shirt and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, revealing broad shoulders and a deeply muscled back. "Yeah, it has."

Using the dresser for balance, Ezra lifted his left leg and tugged off his boot and stocking, the action drawing the striped broadcloth trousers tight against the curve of his ass. Chris shifted restlessly on the bed as Ezra repeated the process with his right boot. "And what have you been up to this fine evening, Mr. Larabee? Besides the obvious breaking and entering."

"Took a bath," Chris said with a grin.

Ezra shot him a brief, comical look of surprise over one shoulder. "My, my, my, that's twice in as many days. Someone might think I've had a civilizing effect on you."

"They might at that," Chris said quietly.

Ezra did not reply, hands busy unbuttoning his trousers before sliding them down to pool around his feet. Still with his back to Chris, he stepped out of the puddle of fabric and kicked it off to one side. Beneath the trousers he wore a pair of white silk drawers, tight as second skin and about as revealing.

Chris licked his lips and let his hand slide down his belly to his crotch, gripping his cock almost painfully. "Ezra--"

Ezra reached into the paper bag and pulled out the bottle of almond oil. Uncorking the top, he poured a small amount into one palm and began massaging it into the skin of his hands. "What do you want, Chris?"

"I want you to turn around."

Ezra hesitated a moment before complying, and the thin silk did little to hide the evidence of his arousal. Still working the oil into his hands, he leaned back against the dresser and stared: first at the flush Chris knew covered his face and throat, then down his chest and stomach to the spot beneath the quilt where Chris's hand moved with slow, deliberate strokes.

Ezra closed his eyes briefly and let out a deep sigh. "You are going to be the death of me," he said with some asperity, grabbed the bottle of almond oil off the dresser and walked over to the bed.

"If I wanted you dead, I'd shoot you," Chris said mildly.

Ezra looked briefly skyward. "Please. Spare me your attempts at humor." Sliding beneath the sheets, he nudged Chris with his knee. "Roll over."

Chris's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Pardon?"

"A little slow tonight, are we? Roll. Over." When Chris still made no move to comply, Ezra sat up with a scowl and folded his arms across his chest. "Mr. Larabee, you have made a point of pursuing my attentions over the course of these last several days. Now your tenacity is about to pay off and you have the sheer audacity to balk? Either get on your belly or get the hell out of my bed. I honestly don't care which at this point."

Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard--and rolled over.

Ezra chuckled. "There. That wasn't so difficult, now, was it."

"Ezra--"

"Not another word, sir. Not one word."

Chris snapped his jaw shut and pressed his face into the feather pillows, shoulders quivering with tension. He heard the unmistakable squeak and pop of a cork, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the first touch of cold oil against his spine. "What--?"

"Relax, Chris," Ezra said in the gentlest tone he'd used so far. "I need you to relax and trust me. Can you do that?"

Chris took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then let it out slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I trust you."

Ezra pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck. "Good."

Strong hands began to warm and spread the sweet-scented oil over Chris's skin as they kneaded the tightly corded muscles of his shoulders and upper back, smoothing out every knot and kink that had developed over the course of their journey. He felt himself sink further into the mattress as Ezra's fingers worked a steady path down his spine, only to arch up again when they reached the small of his back. Here the touches slowed; gentled. Became just the lightest brush of fingertips, flickering across his skin in ever-widening circles.

Arousal flared, bright and hot, catching in Chris's throat with a long, shuddering breath that rendered speech impossible. He reached out instead, groping blindly until Ezra caught his seeking hand and let himself be pulled up into a long, hard kiss that was equal parts desire, desperation and need.

"I want--"

"I know."

Chris levered himself up on his elbows and glanced back over his shoulder to see Ezra toss his drawers to the floor. Another kiss, swift and sharp, and then Ezra was behind him again, urging him up onto his knees. He dropped his head back down, hands knotting and twisting the poor feather pillow as Ezra mouthed a leisurely path down his back. Warm hands stroked up the inside of his thighs, then slid around to firmly grasp his hips as Ezra's tongue slicked briefly across his anus.

"Jesus!" One hand shot out to grab the headboard with a white-knuckled grip while the other dug deeply into the feather mattress as Ezra continued to flick him with little catlike strokes, dagger-tip tongue turning his bones liquid inside his skin.

All at once the teasing stopped. Chris brought his other hand up to brace against the headboard as he tried to catch his breath; lost it again when he felt the blunt, wet tip of Ezra's cock press against him.

"Chris?"

Ezra's voice was tight with strain. He had no voice to answer and pushed back instead, startling a curse from the other man that became a low, guttural moan as the slick head of his cock slid into Chris's body. "As you command," Ezra gasped, and pressed inside with a long, slow burn that robbed Chris of both breath and reason.

They began to rock, gently at first, then with increasing speed and urgency until they built into a swift, pounding rhythm. It lit a fire at the base of Chris's spine, spreading molten heat throughout his body until it coalesced behind his eyes with the strength of a July sun.

When his vision cleared again, he was lying flat on his belly, Ezra's body a trembling, sweat-soaked weight across his back. He shifted experimentally, heard Ezra mumble something incoherent against the back of his head that he hadn't the energy or the wits to decipher. It'll keep till morning, he decided, and made a vague attempt to grab the quilt before it finished sliding to the floor. Ezra chuckled into his hair, then pushed himself up enough to retrieve the bedding, covering them both with the quilt before sinking back down again. "Am I too heavy?" he murmured into Chris's ear.

"No," Chris said, and pulled him closer.

Ezra continued to nuzzle Chris's ear, one hand sliding down to curl almost possessively around his hip. Chris shifted against him, rolling to one side so that Ezra could snug up behind him, crotch pressed firmly into the curve of his ass. "This is nice," Ezra whispered, feathering kisses down the side of his neck.

"Yeah." He let his head fall back, opening up the line of his throat as the kisses became small, nibbling bites. His cock was already beginning to stir again, hardening further when Ezra coaxed him onto his back in order to mouth a damp trail down Chris's chest. "We have to get up tomorrow," he gasped, fingers tangling in Ezra's sweat-spiked hair as the man moved steadily lower, tongue tracing concentric circles around Chris's navel.

"And I do dearly love my sleep," Ezra said, eyeing Chris's fully erect shaft appreciatively before taking the head into the wet heat of his mouth.

Any further concerns vanished abruptly from his mind, along with his name, his age and his ability to form complete sentences. All that mattered was Ezra: the softness of his lips and tongue as they moved with languid ease up and down Chris's length; the maddening press of a finger that teased the over-sensitive entrance of his body.

Ezra pulled away suddenly, crouching down between Chris's widely splayed legs with an almost predatory look of want glittering in his eyes. "How sore are you?" he asked, reaching out to gently stroke the tender skin of Chris's inner thigh. Chris pulled his knees up and back in wanton invitation and Ezra gave a husky laugh. "Well. That's--remarkably eloquent."

Ezra reached out and snagged the cobalt bottle off the bedside table, giving it a brief look of regret as he took note of how much oil they had already used before pouring out a generous handful. Chris licked his lips with anticipation, watching the dark, swollen head of Ezra's cock appear and disappear beneath slippery fingers as Ezra slicked himself thoroughly. Then Ezra was moving again, positioning himself between Chris's thighs and biting his lower lip in concentration as he made the first, slow push inside. So careful this time, easing his way in by breathless increments, shoulders and arms quivering at the strain of keeping himself upright.

Chris let his eyes roll back in satisfaction, wrapping his legs firmly around Ezra's middle and holding him in place for a moment, wanting to savor the warm, solid weight of the man on top of him. It made him wonder if this was how Sarah had felt when they had made love, this strange sense of completion at having Ezra's cock sunk deep within his body.

He looked up into Ezra's face, watching the rapid shift and play of emotion going on behind the green eyes that the Southerner couldn't quite hide. Ezra swallowed convulsively, perspiration beading his forehead and upper lip. "Chris? Are you--?"

He nodded, wrapping a hand around the back of Ezra's neck and pulling him down for a long, deep kiss. "Move," he whispered.

Ezra complied with a lazy undulation of his hips that made Chris groan and kiss him again, hands moving restlessly across the sweat-slicked muscles of Ezra's back before finally settling on his hips and clutching hard. Ezra gave a small, almost broken-sounding whimper, burying his face in the join of Chris's neck and shoulder as he continued to thrust with that same unhurried pace, their bodies moving in perfect cadence towards the inevitable, sweet and slow like sun-warmed honey.


Rain drummed against the windowpane, mixed with the louder rattle and tap of hail. Chris grumbled sleepily, pulling the quilt over his head in an attempt to block out the noise. It didn't work. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he rolled over onto his stomach, flinging out an arm to catch Ezra and finding only cold sheets and an empty space on the mattress beside him.

It took a long moment to fully register the fact that Ezra was not in the bed; longer still to realize that the top of the dresser was bare, the red coat gone from its peg. It was as though the man had never been in the room at all, and Chris felt his sense of reality skew even further when he spotted his own kit sitting neatly beside the door.

Chris closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose as the first dull stirrings of anger began to pound behind his eyes. "I'm going to kill him," he whispered, and meant every word. Because it wasn't just him that Ezra had run out on, it was Shelby Brooks as well, a seventeen year old boy about to be hanged for a murder he hadn't committed--couldn't have committed, because he'd been playing cards with Ezra in Four Corners at the time. Except, Ezra wasn't there to tell the judge that and, if the quality of the feeble light making its way in through the window was any indication of the time, Chris had overslept the start of the trial by a good two hours, thereby missing his own chance to testify that he'd seen both Shelby and Ezra in the saloon on the day in question.

"Son of a BITCH!" he shouted, kicking his way out of the tangle of bedding and damned near falling on his face in the process.

He stalked over to the chair by the window that still held his clothes from the night before and mechanically began to dress. His chest hurt, a cold, hard ache of loss that he'd never thought he'd feel again, hadn't ever wanted to feel again. Not like this. He wanted to crawl deep inside a bottle and never come out. He wanted to rip Ezra's heart out with his bare hands and stuff it inside that sweet poison mouth until he choked.

He wanted to throw himself at Ezra's feet and beg him not to leave.

Chris placed both hands on either side of the window and leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold glass pane. "Goddamn," he said, voice barely audible above the relentless patter of the rain. "Goddamn it all to hell."

Someone knocked on the door. He ignored it. The knocking came again, louder this time. "Mr. Larabee? You in there?"

Chris frowned. That sounded like-- "Shelby!?"

"Yessir! Can you let me in?"

Baffled, Chris walked to the door and opened it. There stood Shelby Brooks in all his sandy-haired, pimple-faced glory, a little damp around the edges from the rain and grinning like a cat in cream. "Shelby?" Chris said again, utterly bewildered and more than a little dazed from having his world turned on its ear so many times in one morning.

Shelby's thin face furrowed. "Lord, I know Ezra said you was feelin' poorly, but I didn't know it was this bad. Whyn't you go set back down? You're white as a sheet."

"You've seen Ezra?"

"Well of course I seen Ezra." Shelby shook his head. "Mebbe I'd best get a doctor."

"No!" He caught the boy's arm and dragged him into the room. "Tell me what happened. How'd you get out of jail?"

"Well," Shelby said, scratching his head sheepishly, "I don't rightly know all the details, but it seems Ezra ran into Judge Spicer last night at a poker game and they had themselves a little talk about my case. Met up for breakfast early this mornin', and then they come an' let me out after."

Chris closed his eyes and laughed silently. Son of a bitch, he thought. Goddamned ratfuck son of a bitch. "Where's Ezra now?"

Shelby looked thoughtful for a moment. "Reckon he'd be somewhere near the Rincons by now."

Of course he was, and in the middle of a driving rainstorm, too. "He say where he was headed?"

"Nope. Just asked directions to Old Spanish Trail, and told me to look in on you 'round lunchtime as you was under the weather. Mr. Larabee? You sure you don't need a doctor? Your face done gone a powerful shade of red."


Ezra wasn't headed for Old Spanish Trail. Chris was as certain of this as he was of his own name. No, Ezra was headed for Redington Pass, as fast as that fancy bay of his could go in this weather.

Thank Christ he don't know about the pass at Agua Caliente, Chris thought, ducking his head lower against the relentless pounding of the storm. I'd be bringing him back in a bucket. If I found him at all.

The Southerner had a good three hour lead on him, meaning he'd be up into the mountains by the time Chris hit the bottom of the pass. With any luck, the trail would be so bad Ezra would be forced to stop before he got too far, giving Chris a chance to catch up. And when he did....

"Gonna kick his contrary ass all the way back to Tucson and then hog-tie him to the bed," Chris spat at the elements. "Swear to God!"

Unimpressed, the rain fell harder.



By the time Chris reached Redington Pass, he hadn't the energy to spare for cussing. All his focus was taken up by trying to keep himself and his horse from sliding off the side of the mountain as the trail wound steadily higher. It was like riding through an open stream, water sluicing over the rocks, coursing down the mountain in paths worn deep from countless heavy rains. At least the hail had stopped, but he knew that was only a temporary respite. There was likely to be sleet further up, and snow in the highest elevations.

He found Ezra's horse wandering near the bottom of a washed out gulch two miles in.

There was no sign of Ezra, only his horse, saddle and gear still on its back, reins hanging down to trail through the muddy water pooling on the ground as the bay paced nervously back and forth. Chris stopped a careful distance away, dismounted and ground-tied his own horse before cautiously approaching the fretful gelding.

"Easy, Chaucer, easy," he murmured, reaching out to take the dangling reins. "Gonna be all right now."

Chaucer whickered pitifully at him, tugging on the reins in an attempt to return to pacing by the gulch. Chris blinked the rain out of his eyes and peered past the horse, a cold knot of fear twisting his gut when he spotted Ezra's hat caught in the remains of an upturned mesquite.

Chris let go of Chaucer and walked to where the hat lay, squatting down to work it free of the confining branches. Turning it over in his hands, he stood and brushed the worst of the mud and debris away, silently praying that when he finally brought Ezra down off the mountain, it would not be wrapped in a shroud and slung over the back of his horse. "Ezra!" he shouted.

Nothing. Just wind and rain and the rush of water tumbling down the mountainside.

Frowning, Chris scanned both sides of the trail, hoping to catch the tell-tale flash of a red coat amidst the trees. "Ezra, answer me, goddamn it!"

"Language, Mistah Larabee."

He whirled as Ezra stumbled out of the trees not ten feet behind him, looking like a muddy, bedraggled mess and swaying slightly on his feet. Dropping the hat, Chris closed the short distance between them and grabbed the Southerner's shoulders in a fierce grip. "Dammit, Ezra!" he shouted, giving the man a shake that set his head to bobbing on his neck. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Ezra's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "Ah lost mah hat," he said finally.

The non-sequitor caught him completely off-guard. "What?"

"Mah hat," Ezra said with exaggerated patience, his accent thick and slurred almost to the point of unintelligibility. "Ah cannot find mah hat."

"Your hat," Chris repeated numbly, noticing for the first time the dazed, unfocused look in Ezra's normally keen, bright eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Chris reached out one hand to gently card through Ezra's wet, mud tangled hair, carefully feeling along every inch of scalp until he encountered a large, fleshy lump just above and behind the man's right ear. Ezra flinched away from the touch, giving Chris a confused look as if he couldn't quite understand where the sudden pain had come from.

"Jesus," Chris whispered, pulling Ezra into a rough embrace. "What happened?"

"Ah fell," Ezra mumbled into his shoulder. "Ah fell and lost mah hat."

Chris ran a soothing hand down Ezra's waterlogged back. "It's all right," he said gently. "I got your hat, everything's gonna be all right."

Ezra's arms came up, slowly winding their way around his waist and holding tight. "Chris?" he said, sounding so small and lost and so very un-Ezra that it scared Chris more than the nonsense about the hat had done. "Get me off this mountain."

Chris pulled Ezra closer, trying to shield him as best he could from the cold, blowing rain. "I will," he said.


They were going to have to go back to Agua Caliente.

Even if the road had been passable, Tucson was just too far way. Ezra needed warmth and shelter and he needed it now. Agua Caliente was their only choice.

Chris prayed the lady rancher's good humor extended far enough to allow them the use of her barn until the storm passed. There was no way Ezra could survive the night out in the elements, not with a head injury and soaked to the bone.

Just getting them both down from the pass in fading light was hard enough. Ezra could barely stay upright in the saddle much less guide his horse, his face ghost-pale and twisted with pain beneath its coating of dirt. Chris was forced to lead the pair of them, walking with one hand firmly on the bay's bridle, his own horse tied to the back of Ezra's saddle with a length of rope.

Finding the ranch was another problem, as Chris had only a rough guess to its location. In that instance, nightfall turned out to be a blessing as the lighted windows of the main house acted as a beacon, giving him something to aim for through the tangle of trees and seemingly endless sheets of rain.

His own strength had been pushed beyond its limits and then some by that point, but he had promised Ezra to see him safe and by God, Chris always kept his word. He couldn't feel his feet inside his boots anymore, and the wet leather of Chaucer's bridle bit deep into the palm of his hand, his fist clenched so tight he wasn't sure he could let go even if he wanted to.

He led the horses right up to the front porch and pried his cramped fingers loose from Chaucer's reins, hissing through his teeth at the pain. Ezra was only semi-conscious, slumped in the saddle like a sack of potatoes and Chris knew there was no way in hell he was going to get the man down without the both of them winding up sprawled in the mud.

"I need some help here!" he shouted, but the front door was already banging open, the lady rancher and a tall young man Chris supposed was her son spilling out into the wet, gusting night.

"Lord Almighty, what happened?" the woman said, reaching out to help Chris ease Ezra down out of the saddle.

"He hurt his head," Chris said, slinging one of Ezra's arms over his shoulder while the rancher woman took the other.

"Best get him in the house," she said. "Clem, see to the horses."

The young man--Clem--hesitated. "Ma--"

"Do what I say, boy!"

Clem obeyed, but not before giving Chris a look that promised trouble if he dared do anything to harm his mother. They were strangers, after all, and armed strangers at that, even if Ezra was in no shape to hurt a mouse. "I'm sorry," Chris said, as they half-led, half-carried Ezra into the building. "Didn't know where else to go."

"You did the right thing," the woman said, guiding them down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom in the very back. "Name's Vera, Vera Callard."

"Chris Larabee."

Vera looked at him sharply over Ezra's shoulder. "The gunslinger?"

He smiled grimly. "Yeah."

Vera whistled as they eased Ezra down into a chair by the door. "Lord," she said. "Clem'll be right pleased when he finds out yer famous." She nodded towards a trunk at the end of the room's single bed. "There are blankets yonder. Get out of them wet things while I take a look at sisterboy."

Chris wasn't about to take umbrage at the epithet under the circumstances, but Ezra had other ideas. He lifted his head and glared fuzzily at Vera. "Ezra," he slurred. "M'name's Ezra. Not s-sisterboy."

"Pleased t'meet you, Ezra," she said, catching his chin with a firm hand to hold him still as she studied his eyes. "Hear you got your bell rung hard."

"Ah fell."

"Right into a mud puddle from the looks of you." She held up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holdin' up?"

Ezra blinked. Frowned. Blinked again.

Chris felt his stomach churn uneasily. "Ezra?"

"Ah can count them just fine," Ezra said. "Ah just can't say it."

Vera gave Ezra a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Don't you worry none about it," she said soothingly before turning to Chris. "He's concussed, but it don't seem too bad. Gonna have a great-grandmother of a headache come mornin', but a few days rest should set him to rights."

Chris nodded. "You're a nurse?"

"Was," Vera said, "durin' the war." She jabbed a finger in Chris's direction. "I meant it when I said to get outta them wet things. You can undress him, too, while you're at it." She grinned wickedly. "Figure you don't need no help with that."

Chris blushed as scarlet as Ezra's coat.


With Vera out of the room, Chris quickly shucked down to his jeans, carefully hanging his hat and duster from a hook on the back of the closed door before turning to Ezra. The gambler had managed to sit up straight in the chair and was struggling valiantly to disentangle himself from his much abused coat. Chris sighed and bent to help, sliding the heavy, waterlogged wool off Ezra's shoulders before easing each arm from its sleeve.

"Thank you," Ezra said wearily as Chris hung the coat next to his own.

Chris nodded, then knelt on the floor to pull off Ezra's boots. "That was a fine thing you did for Shelby," he said softly.

Ezra shrugged, wincing. "The opportunity presented itself. All I did was take advantage."

Boots and socks taken care of, Chris set to work on the straps of the spring-loaded derringer rig buckled to Ezra's forearm. "Would you have run if it hadn't?"

Ezra was silent for a long moment. "I would have waited until after the trial," he said at last.

Chris nodded. "Figured," he said, setting the derringer carefully aside. "Still don't explain why you ran at all."

There was a brief warning knock and then the door creaked open, revealing a slim girl of about sixteen carrying a stack of clean, white towels and a pitcher of steaming water. "Mama thought you might like to wash up," she said. "She's makin' hot tea for you both."

Chris nodded. "Much obliged, Miss--?"

"Penelope."

She continued to stand at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on Chris's narrow hips as he knelt on the floor at Ezra's feet. For one disconcerting moment Chris thought she was staring at his rear until he followed the line of her gaze and realized she was looking at his gun. He raised an eyebrow and she blushed. "Are you really a shootist?" she asked with a breathless kind of wonder.

"Reckon so," he said.

Penelope gave him a shy smile. She was a pretty little thing, with her mother's dark, curling hair and wide, grey eyes and Chris found himself smiling back almost in spite of himself. A moment later Ezra smacked him in the shoulder hard enough to topple him over backwards onto the floor. "What the hell was that for!?" he shouted.

"Ah am right in the room," Ezra snapped.

Chris closed his eyes and grabbed at his temper, trying to remind himself the man was injured and not entirely in his right mind. "You're the one who ran out on me, remember?" he said through gritted teeth.

"Ah was provoked."

"Provoked," Chris said slowly. "How the hell were you provoked? I did everything you goddamn wanted!"

He rose to his feet, dimly aware of Vera grabbing Penelope by the arm and dragging her out of the room before closing the door firmly behind them. "Explain it to me, Ezra. You wanted me to back off, I backed off. You wanted me on my belly, I got on my belly." He tossed up his hands in exasperation. "What else could I have done?"

Ezra cradled his head carefully in his hands. "I know," he said quietly. "I know. You've been--perfect."

"Then why did you run?"

"Because you've been perfect!" Ezra finally looked up at him, and his green eyes were full of such sorrow that it almost hurt to look at them. "I'm in love with you, Chris," he said. "Have been practically since the day we met."

Chris sat down. Hard.

Ezra smiled wryly. "My sentiments exactly."

"I didn't know."

"I'm well aware of this." He laughed bitterly. "Now do you understand?"

Chris swallowed; nodded. "You left before I could."

"Precisely."

"Just one problem."

"Which is?"

"I'm not leaving."

"Chris--"

"I'm not," he repeated doggedly. "You think I chased you all the way to Redington Pass just to tell you what a jackass you are?"

"And what happens when we get back to Four Corners?" Ezra demanded. "When you see the lovely widow Travis again? When we're back amongst the rest of our merry little band? No, Chris. This wasn't meant to last. It couldn't. And I--" His shoulders slumped, weary; defeated. "I am not strong enough to look at you every day, knowing what we shared, however briefly."

Chris moved across the floor until he was directly in front of Ezra. He placed a gentle hand beneath the man's chin, lifting the bowed head until he could look into to Ezra's tired, sad eyes. "I'm not leaving you," he said, quiet but firm. "Last night--. I never done that before, let a man take me that way. But with you--" He shook his head. "I haven't felt like that since my wedding night, Ezra. If that's not love, then I don't know what love is."

Ezra blinked once; twice. Opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off when Chris leaned in and kissed him, soft and sweet and full of promise. "I'm not leaving you, Ezra," he whispered when they parted. "Not now, not when we get back to Four Corners, not ever."

"I believe you," Ezra said. "God help me, I believe you."

Chris smiled and smoothed the matted hair back from Ezra's forehead. "No more running away?"

Ezra shook his head, then winced and swallowed visibly. "Lord, Ah'm goin' t'be sick."

Chris scooted hastily out of range, grabbing the porcelain wash basin off the nearby stand and shoving it under Ezra's nose. "Easy," he murmured, running one hand down Ezra's back with long, soothing strokes as the man shuddered and retched. "Easy."

"Lord," Ezra said again, wiping his mouth with the back of one trembling hand. "Feels like I was kicked by a damn' mule."

"I'll bet," Chris said, carefully setting the basin aside. "Need to get you in bed."

"I'm afraid I'm not going to be much company for a while," Ezra said apologetically.

Chris smiled again, brushing his fingers tenderly across Ezra's cheek. "We got time," he said.

FIN.


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