Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

CINNAMON COFFEE! Let me start this one over. I get side tracked easily and started discussing the medicinal value of Ceylon cinnamon over the grocery store variety and that's not why I started this. I started this because I am aggravated, and my kitchen counter and floor are now very, very clean, and the kitchen smells really good, and I proved yet again that the older I get, the harder it is to rise from my Prayer Bones. The subject is Cinnamon Coffee, because I love both. Powdered cinnamon dusted on the surface of your big mug of steaming brew will not dissolve. It will, however, deposit on my iron grey mustache, it will weld to the inside of your chosen drinking vessel. (That was a major sidetrack on my first attempt at writing this. My tangent discussed having drunk coffee from tin cans and tin cups, deep copper mugs and heavy ceramic mugs, fine china cups and voluminous gag-gift vessels, but that's beside the point. We're talking about cleaning up my mess. I mean making cinnamon coffee!) I decided to make cinnamon infused coffee, and right away made some mistaks -- mysteks -- mastaaks -- errors! First attempt: Add paper filter to basket. Add cinnamon. Add coffee. Slide basket into coffeemaker. Add water. START. The cinnamon formed a much less permeable layer and I had an overflow from the coffee basket. Hot coffee and wet grounds all over the place. Cleanup, aisle one. Okay. Try it again. This time -- paper filter in basket, coffee in paper filter, healthy layer of cinnamon on coffee, insert, decant water into reservoir, START. The cinnamon formed a much less permeable layer and I had an overflow. Again. My temper shortened, I seized the end of the paper towels, gave an ill-tempered yank, spun the roll hard enough it wobbled with the dizzies afterward: another cleanup session, including wrapping layers of paper towel over the Swiffer to get under the fridge. Precise recounting of language involved, omitted, as this is a family venue, and after condemning the coffeemaker as the ill-bred spawn of an illegitimate escapee from a glass factory (and other less charitable terms) I tried ONE LAST TIME. This time, it worked. Filter in basket. Coffee in filter. Cinnamon on coffee. Shake basket. Cinnamon is much finer than the ground coffee, and when shaken from side-to-side, insinuates itself through the depth of the grind: a few shakes and a brew, and it worked, and worked well. Now I have cinnamon infused coffee. Now my kitchen floor is very clean. Now my kitchen counter is very clean. Now my knees hate me. But my kitchen smells very nice indeed!

TWO IRISH SONS The collision was little short of spectacular. The handmade wagon -- if you could call it that -- spent its kinetic energy by snapping the axle off, busting the bark loose on a tree and slinging its arm-waving, leg-thrashing pilot high into the air. The laws of physics will not be denied. A ballistic arc's height is determined by the energy imparted, and when a red-headed Irish lad is sailing downhill so fast that his guardian angel is streaming like a gauzy kite-tail behind him, desperately gripping the back of the lad's britches to try and keep up, well, the height of the arc may seem impressive when the projectile has huge eyes, splayed fingers and is experiencing -- yet again -- a distinct, undeniable feeling of utter impending DOOOOMMMMM. After tumbling end-over-end at least twice, after skidding on Colorado sod, after the world dropped out from under him, he found himself being received by the uplifted arms of a streambed -- dirt rose on either side -- just before he splashed down in the middle of the COLDEST WATER HE'D EVER BEEN IN JAYSUS MARY AND JOSEPH WHY ISN'T THIS FROZEN IT'S SO COLD! The main street in Firelands was no stranger to transportation obsolete and state-of-the-art. In a most unusual moment of necessity, a fighter jet with folded wings was obliged to taxi its length, escorted by a police cruiser, until it could come to a long enough stretch of highway to get airborne again, but that never officially happened; the US Navy dispatched a damage control team, who returned to report there'd been no damage, no holes burned in the pavement and no paint melted off parked cars by the jetwash: the damage control team was received in grand form, given a good meal, welcomed warmly, and as far as the natives were concerned, it was just another one of those well-will-you-look-at-that, I'll-have-another-beer moments. The main street not infrequently echoed to the sharp clatter of steel shod horses' hooves, though never at any great velocity, as steel on pavement is quite slick, and the local equestrians had no wish to damage their saddle-stock thereon. When traffic was light, an occasional bicycle sailed happily downhill, whizzing in delighted near-silence. Unfortunately, when the man door opened and washed the interior of the firehouse with bright, blazing sunlight, and youthful feet limped to where uniformed medics were checking inventory on the drug box, the situation was not quite so salutary. It seems that another red-headed young Irishman, in a happy fit of invention, tore apart a perfectly good pair of skates and fabricated his own skateboard, on the theory that: a) his father refused to buy him the skateboard he wanted, b) he couldn't afford to buy one on his own, and c) he'd outgrown the shoe skates. Disassembly, carpenter work, mark, drill, bolt: he had plywood to work with, and selected 3/4" marine grade, on the theory it would stand the stresses, which he'd seen others' attempts end in structural failure when bolts tore out or the skateboard snapped in two; he fabricated and glued stringers on the bottom, to further bolster its weight bearing capability; the glue was dry, he was impatient, there was no traffic. He paced out of the alley beside the Mercantile, set the board on the center line, planted a sneakered foot on it. He looked down the street, grinned the way a boy will when he's about to get in trouble, he pushed off, gently, stood on his newly fabricated conveyance. The coarse, rattling hiss of skate wheels on pavement built, as did his speed: he crouched a little, wobbling a bit, corrected for direction of travel, held his arms out just a little: he gained speed, fast, squinting into the wind of his passing, grinning with delight as his hair lifted and he felt cold wind-fingers caressing his scalp. He went past the glass double doors of the Sheriff's office at a good velocity. He sailed past the drugstore, wondering just how fast he was going to end up going. He did fine until a stray gravel caught in a flaw in the pavement, caused his sudden lift, and forward velocity became an uncontrolled tumble. He hit the pavement, rolling, skidding, came to a stop, the heels of his hands, his knees and a patch on his left hip all calling him unkind names. A red-headed Irish lad limped into the back door of his house. His Mama looked at her son -- wet, muddy, grinning, bloodied: she turned, seized his face between hers, turned it this way, that, looking for the familiar signs of a pugilistic exchange. "Well, ye're no' in a fight," she murmured. "Are ye hurt?" "Kinda," he mumbled as his Mama's eyes went down his clothes, as she seized his shoulders, turned him. "Well, ye've no' torn yer trousers, Saints be praised," Daisy said sternly, "now go an' wash off an' be quick about it! Makin' more work f'r yer puir mither! Scoot!" A red-headed Irish lad, chastised, went out the back door and pumped cold wellwater in preparation for his obligatory ablutions, per his Mama's order. "Now what happened to you!" Shelly exclaimed, seizing the Chief's son's wrists and staring with dismay at his bloodied palms. "I made a skateboard," he said, "but it kinda threw me." Shelly saw Fitz watching from his office, saw him withdraw, saw him close the door. "C'mon," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up. You've made a mess of those brand-new jeans, haven't you!" Sean Finnegan listened to his son's chastised report of his adventure: how he'd taken a wide plank, how he'd drilled and bolted two crossmembers as axles -- he'd dogrobbed axle hubs from broke down wagons and fast them to his conveyance, with no thought for steering -- he had four, mismatched wagon wheels, but they were well greased and turned easily -- he'd set up and run it downhill and didn't realize until he was underway that there were neither means to steer, nor means to stop -- and he'd ended up flat on his back in six inches of the coldest snowmelt streambed in the world -- Fitz came out after Marc was bandaged up. "Now you see why I won't buy you that skateboard," he said unsympathetically. He looked at Shelly. "How is he otherwise?" "He didn't hit his head," she sighed, "just some pavement rash, and those jeans are shot." "You know what your mother's going to say." Marc lowered his head. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know." Fitz ruffled his son's red hair, the way a father will in such moments. "When I was your age," he said, "I did the same damned thing, but I broke m'arm doin' it." Two medics looked at one another, realizing why they'd seen their Chief rubbing his arm absently: there had to be a reason, and now they knew. "I wondered about that," Shelly's father said: the two medics looked at one another, looked at Marc and his fire chief father. "You made a skateboard?" Marc asked, and Fitz nodded. "Yeah," came the grunted reply. "After I fell and broke m'arm, my Dad used it to beat my backside!"

I HATE THIS A pale eyed old lawman with an iron grey mustache set his jaw and eased his shining-gold stallion ahead. Something big, black and curly-furred paced alongside, easily keeping up with the big Palomino. Sheriff Linn Keller had done what he had to. He'd found the men who murdered a man for what he carried, took what was not theirs, and were in the process of spending it when he stepped into a dirty little saloon a day's ride from Firelands. When he came through the bat wings, when he stepped quickly to the side to get a wall to his back, the place went silent: only lawmen or men who knew violence, did such a thing, and when conversation stopped, when pasteboards were no longer slapped onto green-felt-covered tables, when the dice stopped chuckling, the piano player turned his head, then lifted his hands from the keys. It didn't take long to figure out who he wanted. He had the descriptions, and they had his: when a particular man wore his star on his lapel, instead of under it, when his coat was unbottoned and there was unforgiving frost in his pale eyed gaze, well, outlaws talk, and among the lawless, it was well known that when Old Pale Eyes shifted his badge from behind to in front, it meant there would be blood on the moon, and damn little of it would be his. One dove behind the bar -- shotgun! -- the other drew and dropped his half-cocked revolver: it hit the floor, and so did he. Linn swung fast to his left, cocked pistol thrust forward: men ducked, pulled back, flowed from the man's apparent path like water shears away from the bow of a fast-driven schooner: the second man came up, fired where the Sheriff had been, then dropped to the floor. The barkeep jumped like a scared jackrabbit and shouted something that doesn't bear repeating in polite company: when his cocked shotgun hit the floor, the sear jarred loose, and a swarm of shot missed his ankle by the width of his palm. The Sheriff took statements, spoke quietly with the town's marshal, arranged for the undertaker to box up the dead and plant them: he asked the barkeep how much they'd spent, and where, and when the Sheriff rode back to Firelands, he went straight for a cabin not far out of town. He wasn't sure when The Bear Killer fell in beside him, and it didn't matter, really: he was a man alone, a man with bad news to tell, a man riding out to look a new widow in the eye and absolutely gut punch her with the worst news of her entire life. There were times when he spoke aloud, when he threw ideas out on the empty air so he could see what they sounded like, but not today: no, he would address neither the emptiness, nor his horse's ears. The outlaws' effects, their horses and saddles, what little they had in the world, would convert to cash, unless he chose to keep the proceeds -- that's how he'd acquired his black Outlaw-horse, and the excellent little .38 revolving pistol in his off coat pocket -- he knew the dead husband departed with a certain sum, in gold, and that same sum was in the dead man's poke the Sheriff recovered from the outlaw behind the bar. Linn did not waste time wondering about the shooting. He honestly did not remember drawing, he knew only that his pistol fired, and when it did, it was looking right where it should be, and then it swung of its own accord and fired again, without his let-be, but with the same absolute accuracy: had he been so inclined, he might have compared this to similar reports from old lawmen, old gunfighters, from men who'd kept themselves alive by being fast, accurate, and necessarily violent. He did remember that he could see his front sight with a startling clarity, with absolute detail. He dismissed the thought, for he was nearing the cabin. He rode very deliberately up one of two trails leading to the cabin's clearing. He intentionally chose the drier, harder ground, allowing his stallion's iron-shod hoofbeats to announce his approach. The dark was gathering: a woman came out, anxiously drying her hands on her apron: she dropped the apron, turned and shooed curious children back into the cabin, drew the door to. Linn rode up, The Bear Killer with him. He swung down, dropped the reins, then he reached up and slowly, formally, removed his Stetson. The woman's face crumpled, twisted, reddened: her lips pressed together, then drew apart, he stepped into her as she started to fall, as she clutched at him, as she moaned, "No," in a quavering voice. She went to her knees: something furry and warm was hard against her side and her arm automatically lifted, draped over: she turned toward The Bear Killer, buried her face in his shoulders, muffling her grief as best she could. A black-furred mountain Mastiff planted his backside firmly on the packed dirt, and he raised his blunt muzzle to the first cold, shining stars to peer down at this sound of grief and misery. To a woman's choking sobs was added the deep-voiced howl of a friend of mankind, voicing the ancient sorrows his breed had seen: the woman cried all the harder, and The Bear Killer raised his muzzle a little more and howled again, singing an ancient paean of grief and of loss. A pale eyed Sheriff stood with his hat in his hand, his head bowed. He was not inclined to interrupt the floodgates of her fears, realized and curdled into reality: he stood, he waited, his stallion patient, unmoving, as The Bear Killer licked tears from the woman's crimsoned face. Linn said the words that needed said, that her husband was murdered, his body recovered, that his murderers were found and his death avenged, and Linn handed her the poke of gold with which her late husband set out not two days before. Linn asked if she wanted him to tell the young ones, and she shook her head and thanked him in a gentle voice. She gathered her dignity about her like a cloak, she raised her chin, and she turned toward her cabin door, and took her first step into widowhood. The Sheriff rode back, still silent, The Bear Killer pacing beside him, flowing like Death's shadow itself in the gathering dark. About halfway back to Firelands, Linn spoke the only words he had, other than to deliver this fell news to a woman who did nothing to deserve such grief: "I hate this." He rode slowly into town and heard an infant crying not far ahead. Sean, the great Irish fire chieftain, was sitting on the mounting block in front of his house, bouncing a fussy baby on his knee. Linn stopped, dismounted, and The Bear Killer came up and snuffed loudly at the squalling, blanket-wrapped package, before dropping his squared-off backside to the packed dirt, and pointing his muzzle to the stars populating the firmament overhead, and began to howl, gently this time: a little, red-headed Irishman wrapped in a blanket stopped, surprised, his young eyes wide, then his face started to screw up and redden again and The Bear Killer licked his young chin and jaw, and so prevented another youthful storm. Two chief officers sat side by side on a block of stone, in front of a snug, strongly-built house, talking in quiet voices: Sean described how worn out his Daisymedear was, and this wee red-headed Irishman hadn't quit squalling since twelve noon, and it wasn't until The Bear Killer sang with him that the pique was startled out of the child, to Sean's immense relief. He asked what brought the Sheriff out this late, and Linn told him: Sean laid an understanding hand across the man's shoulders and murmured, "I've done tha' very thing," and Linn nodded, for he'd known Sean had to inform line of duty widows back in Cincinnati, years before. The wee Irishman twisted, squirmed, turned red again: Sean looked at his son, concerned, and then a certain aroma announced the profound relief from what ailed the lad. Linn laughed, just a little: "You want to clean him up out here or inside?" "Out back, at th' pump, I'll get fresh water an' we'll no' stink up the house." Linn walked with his old friend around back of their house, and two men with experience at this sort of thing cleaned up a wee Irishman who was no longer squalling with discomfort. Both men labored in silence, getting the little, red-headed Finnegan nice and clean again; Linn washed out the dirty diaper (two changes of pumped water) and hung the dripping cloth over the clothesline. Two old friends looked at one another, at the dripping, washed-out diaper, then they both washed their hands, thoroughly, vigorously: they looked at one another and said with one voice, "I hate this."

Shingle roof (original to the house) was getting close to the end of its service life. New metal roof installed last month. Quite the rainstorm two days ago. Found a drip puddle in the basement, water was trickling down the tin chimney stack. Climbed into the attic and found a drip beside where the chimney stack went through the roof. Contractor is coming to make it right. Brand new roof and it leaks. Grump.

THE CIRCLE The music was cheap, almost harsh, which was to be expected: it was also received with grins and with delight, especially as the onlookers could see the mechanical innards turning, they could see the striker rapping the side-mounted snare drum, they could see the heavy paper rolling off one spool and onto another. Angela Keller was delighted. She'd decided to be naughty that day. It was her birthday, she'd just turned eleven, she was a full hand taller than her Mama, and she found her Mama's high heels fit her. Angela carried them out to the barn and secreted them in a saddlebag: a moment before a mirror, a quick application of lipstick, and this tall, slender, fifth grade little girl, giggled and threw a leg over the saddle. Her Daddy's Outlaw-horse cantered across the pasture; she opened the gate without leaving the saddle, as was her custom, she closed and fast up the gate, and then she rode for town. Angela Keller, Daddy's girl and her brother's darling little sis, decided she would cause some trouble. The Irish Brigade crowded around the restored carnival music-maker: it originally lived in the middle of a merry-go-round, and ultimately would return to that position, as soon as the merry-go-round itself was restored: the lacquered horses were dismounted, they were being carefully restored by people who knew their trade; the mechanicals were being carefully inspected, new bearings were only just installed, with final restoration probably a year out. In the meantime, the German Engineer hauled in what he'd done, on a flatbed trailer, and was happily showing it off for his fellows. Nobody noticed the young woman who drew up a-horseback, on the opposite side of Firelands' main street: none saw her dismount, none saw her slip out of boots and shimmy out of blue jeans, and nobody saw her slip a feather-crested glittler mask over the upper two-thirds of her face. Her hair was brushed and shining, she wore a silk blouse and a pleated miniskirt and a pair of strappy heels, and she skipped happily across the street, toward this gathering of men and musical machinery. In times past, when Firelands was still very young, men were expected to be able to dance, and dance well: ever since the late Sheriff Willamina Keller started the many restorations, established the Ladies' Tea Society, ever since she made dance lessons a popular activity there in the huge round barn built under the mountain's overhang, their very own Irish Brigade would load up in one of the pumpers -- the cab was filled with muscled masculinity, the overflow rode the tailboard (quite against regulations, but nobody really gave a good damn, this was just from the firehouse to the barn!) -- so when a lovely young woman with really good legs came skipping up into the music surrounding the encircling men, nobody was terribly surprised that the red-shirted Irishman was able to fall immediately into a dance step with this surprising (and very lovely) young visitor. Angela spun and whirled, a quick waltz-step: she spun free of the first, seized a second: the Irishmen drew back a little and formed a rough circle, and within this circle of men with curled handlebar mustaches and red-wool, bib-front uniform shirts, one of their number and an anonymous, absolutely beautiful, young lady danced. Angela laughed with delight, her smile bright beneath the glittering margin of her golden mask, the feathers' plume waving in the wind of her whirls: each man trod a measure with this lovely vision. It was less that she dance with them, as they danced, and she floated, so naturally did she move with each individual one of the entire Irish Brigade. Angela spun free of the Chief himself, seized a tall, lean-waisted deputy: he, too, taken by her magic, danced and danced well, better than he'd expected: they watched as she spun free of this last partner, as she dropped a quick curtsy, then ran, laughing in the sunlight, back across the street, and down the alley, and was gone. None followed, and none saw Angela draw her jeans on, then her socks and boots, none saw her slip her Mama's pumps in the saddlebag, and her departure was at no more than a walk, and over soft ground, so as to give no audible signal of her means of travel. The Irish Brigade congratulated their very own German Irishman, their engineer, their mechanical wizard who was instrumental in restoring the Ahrens steam fire engine, the worker of miracles on pumps and Diesel engines and turbochargers and all the mysterious parts that made their shining red Kenworth fleet work and work very well indeed, this man with the skill and the magic to resurrect a carnival music machine ... ... a man who coaxed music from a machine, and a dance as well. Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller looked from his sister to his mother, and he saw a look pass between them. He knew they'd been out shopping. His little sis wore a dress when they went Shopping -- with a capital S -- something he personally detested. Shopping, to Jacob, was a military exercise, a raid in its purest form: get in, get it and get out, which is why both his Mama and his younger sis hated going shopping with him. His Mama and his little sis were girls, and girls like to Shop, and Jacob ... didn't. Angela was wearing a dress, and she was looking very innocent, and Jacob saw his Mama was looking just as innocent. He knew they'd been Shopping. Angela passed the steaming bowl of fried potatoes to him, and all thoughts of what the ladies might have been up to, disappeared in a fragrant cloud of bacon grease fried, thin sliced spuds: that night, at the Ladies' Tea Society dance practice, they'd warmed up and danced a few, and then Angela withdrew -- discreetly, almost unnoticed, save for two pair of pale eyes that missed very little -- she returned, and the instructor pressed a key on her computer, and a circus tune, the kind played by carnival music machines for a merry-go-round, came through the speakers. Angela Keller laughed and snatched the hand of the German Irishman, and Jacob and the other men either grinned, or stared, or gawped open mouthed, as a beautiful young lady with really good legs, high heels and a short skirt, rearranged the entire Irish Brigade and every man there, into a circle, and danced with every last one of them.

MORE FROM THE BOOKMARK, THAN FROM THE BOOK Jacob Keller opened the family Bible, picked up the bookmark, read it automatically. It was a single note sized sheet, folded in thirds, and it was originally sealed with absolutely bright-scarlet sealing wax. He tilted it a little to catch the light across it, and it was exactly what he expected. The impress was a rose. He looked at his father, a pale eyed lawman in the comfort of his own home, a man comfortable in moccasins and children: a small boy, and a girl of identical vintage, each occupied a thigh, and the Grand Old Man's arms were around both: Jacob wasn't sure who looked the most pleased -- his pale eyed Pa, who held the children; the children themselves, delighted to be in such proximity to a man who so obviously cared for them; or the green-eyed woman who looked at them with an expression of warm approval, the same expression she wore when she looked at the pale eyed youth standing with the fingers of one hand light on the open pages. Linn was looking at his children and laughing quietly, then he looked at Jacob, nodded. Jacob took a deep breath and read, his voice measured, deliberate, his pronunciation flawless: Esther leaned back and closed her eyes and rocked a little, smiling as she did, remembering what it was to be a child on her Daddy's lap, back in the Carolinas, back on the plantation. Esther's Daddy used to read Scripture aloud of an evening. Esther remembered feeling safe, and loved, sitting on her Daddy's lap with his arm around her middle, feeling the words vibrating in the chest she cuddled into as a child: she remembered feeling in that moment that everything was absolutely right with the world. That was before the War, of course, before the internecine hell that ripped her life apart, that saw most of her family murdered, that saw her turn into a red-headed Goddess of War when that small bunch of damned Yankees came to plunder more than the family silver: she'd killed with pistol and with shotgun, she'd laid wait in a closet and she'd run a damned Yankee through the belly with a saber taken from another damned Yankee, and as he lay choking on his very life on what should have been the inviolate territory of a teen-aged girl's bedroom, Esther Wales, as she was then, took a grim and dark satisfaction with knowing she'd looked into the eyes of the man she'd killed, both in the moment he reached for her, and in the moment when the light went out of his eyes, and he sighed out his last breath, and his soul with it, a damned Yankee, killed with Yankee steel. Jacob Keller read aloud, his syllables confident and reassuring, and Esther could hear the maturity he would achieve: he had not his father's deep, fatherly tones, not yet, but that would come with time. Jacob read with his fingers on the bookmark, and its handwritten message from a man he remembered. He read one chapter, as was their nightly custom: either he, or his father, would read from the Book, after supper and after the young were cleaned up and almost ready for bed: Jacob knew that before he was halfway through the chapter, the twins on his Pa's lap would be asleep, leaned against him, warm and safe in a protective father's arms: he knew he would step forward and take one, his Pa would carry the other, and they would bear the twins to bed, and tuck them in, and withdraw silently. All this Jacob realized, with one part of his mind, while another part read the words and turned silent print into spoken language. He came to the end of the chapter, and he read the note, his eyes passing over the distinctive handwriting -- the hand of a man who took pride in what he wrote, and that told Jacob the writer very likely took pride in all else that he did. He folded the note, closed the Bible, stepped around the little podium, advanced on an absolutely silent tread toward his father. Jacob picked up his little brother, hoisted him so the lad's cheek lay over Jacob's shoulder: Esther gave him that warm, approving, motherly look, and Jacob closed his eyes, briefly, an old grief aching in his young heart. Esther was not his birth-mother: she who bore him, she who'd looked at him with those same gentle, motherly eyes, was long dead, murdered, and her murder avenged: that Jacob was here, with his actual father, was little short of a miracle, and the miracle was due to the man who wrote the note that was now folded as a bookmark in the family Bible. It wasn't much of a note, just a few lines -- A father needs a son, A son needs a father. It was signed simply, S, and the Rose was sealed beside the single sinuous letter inked onto good rag paper. Father and son carried the Keller young to their bunks: they withdrew afterward, usually Linn retired to his study, and Jacob, to his studies: uncharacteristically, Jacob followed his father to the study door and said, "Sir, a moment, if you please." Linn stopped, turned: Jacob had the immediate impression Linn was not only not surprised, but that he expected Jacob's words. "Please come in." Linn's study smelled of books and just a light whiff of brandy: the stove pushed enough warmth to be welcome, but not so much as to be stifling, and Jacob saw its draft was most of the way shut. He nodded when he saw it, just a little bit of a nod, as he recognized the competent hand of their hired girl. Jacob waited until his Pa poured two brandies, handed him one: the two hoisted their heavy, cut-glass tumblers in silence, drank. Two pale eyed Keller men placed their empty glasses on the desk. Linn thrust his chin toward a chair; he turned, backed into his own, and the two sat together. Jacob did not miss the approving look his father gave him: Jacob showed due respect in accepting the brandy, in sitting as his father sat, and not before. "Speak your mind," Linn said quietly. "Sopris, sir." Linn nodded, once, slowly, his eyes veiled. "I owe him a great deal." "I owe him more," Linn admitted. "Sir?" "You know him as Agent Sopris." "Yes, sir." "He was that," Linn said quietly, "and much more. He did a great deal for this country no one will ever know about. His work ..." Linn frowned, considered. "We were members of ... multiple societies," Linn said carefully, "two of which I retain, one of which is utterly vital for reasons I will neither explain, nor will I accept question." "Yes, sir." "You remember he took you in and healed you." "He did, sir." "He treated you with courtesy." "He did, sir." "You were hungry and he fed you, you weren't quite naked but he got you scrubbed clean and into clean clothes, he healed your back and he held you when you woke with nightmares locked behind your Adam's apple, trying to scream their way out." Jacob's expression was haunted, the look of a man who was seeing an utter and absolute horror, something a thousand miles beyond the far wall, something that would shock a normal man into insanity and curl the hair on a bald man's head. "Yes, sir," Jacob said. "That is so." "You have been wondering about him, here of late." "I have, sir." Jacob did not wonder that his father divined his thoughts: he'd observed his pale eyed old Sheriff of a father knew things, it was simply a fact of life, one that Jacob accepted as a truism. “When did you see him last, sir?” Linn closed his eyes and turned his head a little – something Jacob saw only once before, when something caused the man considerable pain – Jacob opened his mouth to apologize, but Linn raised a forestalling palm without looking. “You remember your Aunt Duzy.” “Yes, sir.” “Sopris … thought a great deal of her.” “Yes, sir.” “She was a most admirable woman, Jacob. Let that be the memory we keep. She was a most admirable woman, a most capable woman, a woman of beauty and of breeding and …” Linn stopped, swallowed: Jacob held silent, seeing the genuine sorrow that escaped his father’s usual reserve. “He – Sopris – thought well of her,” Jacob hazarded. Linn nodded, slowly. “Was she not family, Jacob, and had not your mother set her cap for me” – his grin was quick, there-and-gone, and surprising – it wasn’t what Jacob expected to see – “well, I might have put one knee in the dirt and pled my case for her hand.” Jacob considered this for a long moment. “I see, sir.” “Sopris … held her in … very high esteem.” “Yes, sir.” Jacob frowned a little, leaned forward. “Sir … when Aunt Duzy died …” “He and I were the only ones at her interment, yes, and that was at his request.” Linn rubbed his palms together, slowly, thoughtfully, hard-earned calluses whispering to one another in the room’s quiet as he did. “I was the closest thing to a father she had.” Linn closed his eyes, took a long breath, blew it out. “He never said as much, but I’ve a notion he was about to ask my permission to pursue her hand.” Jacob nodded slowly. “And now, sir?” “I’ve not been back to Sopris Mountain but the one time since.” “They are buried side by side, sir?” Linn looked at Jacob: his was not the look of horror he’d seen in his son’s eyes, but rather of a deep and abiding sorrow, the kind a man knows when someone closer to him than his own brother, is no more. “Yes, Jacob,” Linn said slowly. “Yes, they are.” “Thank you, sir,” Jacob said quietly. “Normally … normally a man like him would have a grand funeral, a state occasion with orators both secular and religious.” Linn leaned back in his chair, his eyes wandering the juncture between wall and ceiling above and behind Jacob’s head, then he looked at his son and grinned a little. “He would have none of that. He said to let the streams deliver his oration, let feathered throats sing his praises, and instead of men declaring that he was flying with the angels, let those feathered angels that know the length and breadth of the skies, carry word of his deeds to the Almighty.” Jacob considered this, and was quiet for a long minute and more. “You’ve answered my question before I could give it voice,” Jacob finally said, his words slow, thoughtful, then he looked at his father and grinned – that same half-crooked grin he’d seen on his Pa’s face, a grin he honestly didn’t realize he wore. “Sir,” he said finally, “this is the first time I got more from the bookmark, than I did from the Book!”

I BELIEVE I HAVE Annette waited patiently for her husband to finish washing up. His coat, vest and shirt hung from their peg near the wash basin; he'd unbuttoned his red longhandles and tied the arms around his waist so they'd not drag in the dirt. She frankly admired her husband's lean, muscled form, she carefully did not look at the old scars on his back -- he'd never spoken of them, and she'd never asked, but her green-eyed mother-in-law discreetly drew her aside, and over tea and little finger-sandwiches, she explained the hell Jacob survived at the hands of a man who was much better off dead -- the man who put those whip scars on a boy's back, because the boy dared to challenge the man who was trying to whip his pregnant mother to death. Annette blinked, looked away, looked back: she shivered at Esther's almost whispered description, even these many years later: no, she preferred to admire her husband's attributes, and frankly, she admired the hell out of this pale eyed lawman with the carefully sculpted handlebar mustache. Jacob, like most men of his era, took a bath once a week, whether he needed one or not. In between, when he came home, more often than not, he'd strip to the waist and make noises like a bull in a flooded creek, before toweling off, resuming his civilized attire, and coming into the house. Shaving was reserved for the warmth of indoors: the business of spinning up soap in a cracked mug dedicated to the purpose, shaving his face with a carefully-stropped straight razor, was acttivity he performed indoors. Hot water for shaving was more easily got than hot water for a full bath. Annette paced forward, reached around him, pulled his loosely knotted longhandles sleeves free: Jacob ran his arms in them as she held them up: he turned, she buttoned him, from the belt buckle up, pasing to caress the manly fur on his chest, to look up at him the way a woman will when she is pleased to be in the company of a man worthy of the name. Annette raised her face, an invitation, and her husband did not have to be invited twice. Jacob hugged his wife, hoisted her off the ground, gave her a little shake -- "to loosen up your back bone," he'd told her once, and she'd learned to relax her back and let her spine produce a momentarily painful, then profoundly relieving, rippling series of pops. Annette's eyes were deep, lovely, and dedicated entirely to her husband's face. She tilted her head, pulled back a little: Jacob released his embrace, she took his hand, drew him toward the barn, until they were halfway between the house and the barn. She looked up the mountain, at clouds shining in the sun: overhead, the clouds were heavier, thicker, a little rain pattered around them, not much. Between the rain-heavy cloud overhead, and the mountain peak adjacent, a cluster of clouds, bright, colorful, not quite blazing, but containing most of the hues of the rainbow. Annette smiled a little as she took in the rugged purity of the mountain above them, the color-blazing glory of clouds beside the dark and sullen rain cloud that retreated steadily eastward, pouting a visible rain-drizzle as it went. "Jacob," Annette said gently, "do you remember when you first brought me up here?" Jacob nodded. "I'd never been outside the city, before you brought me out here." Jacob nodded again. "I was used to streets and buildings, people and markets, shoulders rubbing shoulders ..." Her voice trailed off. "And a sky that I wanted to pull down and wash." Jacob waited. Annette looked back up at the reddish clouds, now disappearing over the far reaches of the snowy mountaintop. She tilted her head and regarded her husband quite frankly. "I've come to appreciate why you love these shining mountains," she whispered, lifting her face again, "and I've come to appreciate you." "Mrs. Keller," Jacob murmured, running his hands down his wife's arms, until he gripped her hands in his, "are you trying to seduce me?" Annette's hands gripped his, her eyes half-closed, her long, curved lashes framing her gaze. "Yes, Mr. Keller," she whispered. "I am." Jacob smiled, just a little. "Mrs. Keller," he said, "the hired man is gone for the day, and I do not anticipate we will be interrupted in the barn." "The children are with their grandfather," Annette whispered, "and I gave the girl the rest of the day off." Jacob bent a little, ran an arm behind Annette's knees, picked her up. "Mrs. Keller," he said, "I believe you've planned for this." "Mr. Keller," she murmured in reply, "I believe I have."

Each one has memories attached ... these two take me back to my EMT and Paramedic clinicals!

TO DADDY, FROM BRENDA A nurse in a white uniform dress, stockings and shoes, jerked her head to the side to avoid the flying bedpan. Stainless steel hit the wall behind her with a loud clang!, another as it hit the polished tile floor. “OUT!” she shouted, the unmistakable crack of authority snapping the air as effectively as a blacksnake whip: “EVERYBODY OUT!” An old man drew his arm back to heave a half-filled urinal. Willamina Keller, RN, seized his wrist, twisted the container from his hand: she set the plastic vessel on a sidetable, blocked the roundhouse punch that was aimed for her soft ribs. An old man’s whiskered face was planted firmly against the yellow-painted, hand-plastered wall, a wall as old as he was: his arm was twisted up behind him, a woman’s weight against him, and a quiet voice hissing in his ear, “Do I have to call the MPs?” The old man’s loud-voiced reply revealed his dislike and his utter disdain for the MPs in general, and for the ones he’d seen the night before in particular. Willamina’s grip was unrelenting as she pulled the next trick out of her warbag: “STAND AT ATTENTION IN THE PRESENCE OF A SUPERIOR OFFICER, SOLDIER! LOCK THOSE HEELS, I WANT TO SEE THAT SPINE STRAIGHT!” She released him suddenly, stepped back, hands up, bladed: surprised, he turned, cocked a fist. “Daddy,” Willamina said in a little girl’s pleading voice, “please don’t hit me again!” She saw movement from the corner of her eye, waved the people in the doorway back: she didn’t know who they were and she didn’t care, all she knew was she had to break through the old man’s illusion, or replace it with her own. “Daddy?” she asked again, allowing a little quiver in her voice. The old man sagged, his eyes squinting: “Brenda?” he asked, then “My God, Brenda, I’m so … it’s your old man, Brenda …” Willamina stepped in, took his elbow, turned him toward his bed: he whirled, seized her, dropped his face onto her shoulder: “My God, Brenda, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean –” “I know,” Willamina soothed: another nurse came in, the doctor behind her: Willamina nodded at the syringe the other nurse held, shifted her eyes to the old man’s shoulder, nodded again. She held him as he relaxed, she helped him back in bed, she pulled up a stool and sat, holding his hand: the old man wept quietly, sorrowed until he passed out. The doctor was still at the nurse’s station, writing orders, when Willamina finished charting, when she slid the patient’s chart back into the slot by the doorway, when she paced on silent, crepe soles down the hallway. The doctor looked up. “When do you get off?” he asked absently. “An hour ago,” she said. “I just clocked out when it hit the fan with the old man.” “I’m glad you were there,” he admitted. “We were ready to turn Security loose on him.” “Skin tears and broken bones,” Willamina said quietly. “I wanted to break his train of thought long enough to get some vitamin H into him.” “Good old Haldol,” the white-coated physician muttered, closing the order book and rising. The elevator’s dented doors clattered shut and the doctor blinked, surprised: he’d intended to ask Willamina to dinner, but she was gone already. Several years later, a rented Jeep pulled into the national cemetery, cruised slowly, as if the driver was looking for some landmark. The Jeep stopped, the driver emerged: a pale eyed woman with Marine-short hair, in a class A uniform, carrying a single yellow rose with a ribbon tied beneath the full, rich blossom. She walked quietly toward a group of people, toward a coffin suspended over an open grave: she fell in beside the honor guard, waiting motionless with them as the final words were spoken over an old veteran’s coffin. After the volleys, after the final words, after the family drifted away and departed, she approached the coffin, before it was lowered into its cement vault. She laid the rose on the bronze casket, laid the ribbon out so it could be read. To Daddy From Brenda A pale eyed Colonel Willamina Keller turned away from the grave and walked, alone, back to her rented Jeep.

ONE NIGHT, IN SEARCH OF COFFEE Pale eyes swept slowly across the cement lot of the All-Night. Invisible in the shadow, unmoving, silent, a curly furred Mountain Mastiff the size of a young bear sat, scenting the air: beside this great canine warrior, a shining-black gelding, tall, tough, mountain bred and accustomed since birth to the thin air of these higher altitudes: blood coursed, thick and rich, through great veins, feeding muscles toned and conditioned by the rough terrain of these high mountains. Between the two, the eyes searched, stopped, a memory populated the area just to the right of the far set of pumps. A car came burning through the lot, not long after a robbery was attempted, and the robbers either shot, or subsequently captured: there'd been a drive-by soon after, a warning, a gesture of revenge, at least until a rancher pulled a .270 from his pickup's gunrack and drove a round through the rim of the passenger side front tire: another patron pulled a .357 and put a round through the shooter, who dropped the jammed pistol and fell back, dead. Another memory. Prom Night, when a car pulled in, almost enveloped by steam or smoke: they barely got off the highway before the car stopped suddenly, both doors flew open, a young man in shiny, brand-new shoes and a brand new suit jumped out of the driver's door, lost his balance, fell and rolled into the ditch, while his date, a classmate, jumped out the passenger door, turned and skipped backwards, hiking her hemline and staring in shock as the car suddenly caught fire. It was not how they wanted their evening to go, but it was memorable: years later, as man and wife, they laughed together at the memory of a young man, chagrined, climbed up the short, steep bank, stared in dismay at flames engulfing the engine compartment: he came around the front of the car, looked at his hands, wiped them on the front of his trouser legs -- his front was dry, his backside from collar to cuffs, wasn't -- the young woman smiled, and giggled, and gripped his arm: she pulled him into her, kissed him soundly and whispered, "I always thought you were hot stuff!" A shadow flowed from deeper shadow: Deputy Marnie Keller emerged into the light, The Bear Killer on her left, her Daddy's Outlaw-horse on her right: she scanned the interior as soon as she was able, satisfying herself all was well within, before she made entry. Marnie and The Bear Killer paced silently back to the coffee machine: The Bear Killer looked up, tail polishing the tile floor as the clerk extended a dog biscuit from the box she kept under the counter for that purpose: delicately, carefully, the great, blunt-jawed Bear Killer took the treat, crunched it happily as she caressed his head and shoulders. Outlaw-horse didn't come inside, but he stood with his head sticking through the doorway: the clerk laughed, thrust her hand into an open bin and skipped across the shining tiles, unwrapping a peppermint as she did. The gelding's ears came forward, he extended his head, happily rubberlipping a greeting as she divested the Horse Crack from its cellophane jacket: she twisted another one free, extended them both, rubbed the Sheriff's gelding under the jaw and cooed to him the way girls will baby-talk a favorite pet. Marnie added milk to her coffee, took an experimental sip, closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. She left a dollar beside the register and joined the clerk at the doorway: Midnight looked sleepy, and very pleased with himself: he was every bit the Attention Hound that The Bear Killer was, and he was willing to give two sets of caressing hands about a week to stop touching him. Marnie took another sip of coffee. "How was the football game?" the clerk asked. "I would tell you your brother scored the winning touchdown," Marnie teased, "but that was last year." The clerk laughed. "I don't see how they could tell. It'd been raining all week and five minutes into play, everyone was a uniform mud color!" "I know," Marnie laughed. "They had to hose him off to see what team he was on after he scored!" "Did you present the flag tonight?" "No. No, the Veterans' honor guard marched it out." "I always did like that. Was the marching band good?" "Oh, they were great! -- but the flute section was a little lacking. Just not the same since you graduated." "You mean since the Marching Band did the backstroke down the Fifty Yard Line at Homecoming!" she laughed, then looked at Marnie, smiled. "Thank you," the clerk murmured, then, "How's the coffee?" Marnie grunted as she took another pull on her rapidly depleting cupful: she managed to nod by way of reply. "I cleaned the pot when I came on," the clerk said. "Daddy was in the Navy and he said their Mess Chief didn't ever clean the coffee pot, and he brewed coffee with salt water." "Ick," Marnie replied, making a face. "They got a new guy when the Chief took leave. The new guy scrubbed out the pot, made coffee with fresh water, and the Old Man himself came down to talk to him." "Oh yeah?" "Oh, yeah!" the clerk laughed. "Daddy said the Old Man was so happy at having decent coffee, that he had the Chief transferred out and this new guy got promoted!" "We're out of milk at home," Marnie admitted. "I tried using some oat milk eggnog Mama picked up." The clerk made a face, and Marnie nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. "Zero stars, do not recommend!" She tilted the cup up, drained the contents, hummed a little as it warmed her clear down to her belt buckle. "Thanks," she said quietly. "I really needed that."

WHISTLE HOOK Deputy Marshal Willamina Keller thrust one foot, then the other, into her fireboots. She stretched the elastic over the brim of her brown uniform Stetson, shrugged into the yellow slicker with reflective strips she glued on herself. Chauncey Marshal Joe Hunt grinned at her as she turned to head for the roadway. "Does this mean I call you Whistle Hook now?" he teased. Willamina turned, smiled thinly: "Call me anything but late for supper," she said, "but if you hear that whistle, get the hell off the road!" "Aw, now, nobody's comin' up Thirteen from that end! It floods by the Old Folks' Home and nobody comes through there!" Willamina gave him One of Those Looks and clumped away into the steady rainfall. Sunday Creek flooded with regularity -- it was yellow with acid mine drainage, not as strong now, as the abandoned coal mines had been leaching sulfur and iron into the water for more than a hundred years -- and emptied into the Hocking River, below the village's sewer plant. The Hocking was high, thanks to a week's intermittent rain, the last two days, near nonstop: the water was across South Main now, and Willamina had knocked, beaten and profaned the village's yellow-and-black-striped sawhorses together, placed them in the oncoming-traffic lane below the rise where State Route Thirteen came into a "T" intersection, hesitated, then officially turned left and followed the mighty Hockhocking River, past what used to be the county poorhouse, past the village's wellfield, and snakewobbled its way along the riverbottom to Athens, the county seat. To the right it became State Route 682, which headed for the same county seat, only on higher ground -- as a matter of fact, Ohio University was supposed to be built on the high ground, and would have been, had not the surveyors gotten drunk and reversed the two places on their hand drawn maps. Willamina turned on the flashing yellow lights, one on either end of the sawhorse, she hung the reflective orange diamond from the center of the sawhorse -- HIGH WATER, it read -- she clumped her way back toward her car, parked under the new gas station canopy. She turned, frowning, then looked toward the Marshal and the other deputy. They were away from the intersection, headed toward the flooded roadway on the south end, probably looking for anyone coming through the side streets to skirt around the road closed sawhorse they'd set a little north of Willamina's warning. She turned again, heard the unmuffled big-block and the sound of a vehicle fighting its way through floodwaters. Her hand knifed into the gap in her raincoat, one snap parted as she seized the whistle from its hook: her other hand reached under the tail of her yellow plastic slicker, seized the three cell Mag Lite, yanked it free, thumbed the switch as she brought it up over her shoulder and pointed it southward. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it -- The car was coming and it was coming fast: whoever was behind the wheel was making up for lost time, "laying the coal to her" as her Daddy once said: Willamina waggled her flashlight across the windshield, she took a deep breath, she stepped to the side. Her ears screamed their protest as the whistle's tocsin reflected off her hat brim and hit her in an unwanted version of tortuous surround sound -- Town Marshal Joe Hunt heard the whistle, spun -- Two lawmen jumped back as a speeding car blasted over the rise and down what was usually a straight stretch of blacktop. Willamina heard the water blasting away under the impact of a full size sedan with a large displacement engine hitting it at well over the 35 MPH speed limit. The engine died almost immediately. Willamina ran to the high point of the little rise, relieved to see two lawmen on their feet. She honestly did not care about the condition of the dim bulb driving the car. The Marshal looked at the car, looked at Willamina. "Hey Whistle Hook," he called, "let me borrow your boots!" Willamina raised her hand and one finger -- it speaks to her charity that it wasn't the middle finger -- she jogged back to her car: Joe waited, heard the trunk lid slam, and Willamina came running down the wet pavement, fireboots in one hand, her well polished Wellingtons on her feet. "Here," she said: she stood, one hand gripping the back of the Marshal's belt, his arm on her shoulder as he hooked out of his own boots, thrust into Willamina's warm, dry fireboots. She and the other deputy watched as Joe slogged through slow moving brown floodwater, rippling in the streetlights, wading out to bring the driver to higher ground. "I'm surprised you let him wear those," the deputy said. "I saw the look you gave him when he called you Whistle Hook." "Yeah," Willamina said quietly, folding her arms, then she looked at the deputy and smiled. "I didn't tell him both boots leak."

SOMETIMES IT'S NOT PREDICTABLE I stood on the crumbling concrete sidewalk in front of one of two surviving row houses in Old Washington. I blinked, surprised, wondering how in the hell I got there, and then I relaxed a little. This was my imagination. Ahead, on the right, the post office: I turned, looked up hill at Emma Bond's house, the swing where that fine old woman and I used to sit and swing and discuss the world. Emma Bond was the friendly neighborhood rebroadcast center. If it was to be known, she knew it, but a gossip she wasn't. I turned, looked up the street at the Old Colonial Inn. When Morgan's Raiders came through here, they came right up to this T intersection and boiled both ways, they raided the post office, the general store, they terrified the blacksmith and he tended their horses in an absolutely fear-silenced, sweat-drenched angst, for these were those Rebel devils he'd read about in Harper's Weekly, the ones that slaughtered men, snatched up women and ate children roasted over a fire in the middle of the street. I wondered, as I looked around this little town where I used to live, where the apartment was that General Morgan himself stopped, and tapped at a door, and swept off his fine plumed hat when a woman answered. I smiled a little at the story I'd read: how he asked politely if he might have a drink of water, and how she'd burst into tears and confessed that a moment before, she'd had a pistol pointed at him through the window, for she recognized him by the star that he wore on his breast. General Morgan bowed his head for a long moment, then looked up and said in a gentle voice, "Mrs. Morgan is often on her knees, imploring God Almighty for my safety. I doubt me not in that moment, that my wife was imploring the Almighty to keep me safe." He drank the water she brought him and thanked her courteously, and went on his way. There, in the Colonial Inn, one of his officers lay down for a much needed rest, but when the shout went up that the Yankees were sighted in pursuit, he rose and hastened to join his men, and left the pocket-case containing his wife's image there on the dresser beside the bed. I closed my eyes and took a long breath. I opened my eyes and smiled. I was no longer in Old Washington, Ohio. I was in Firelands. I stepped up -- one step, two -- and instead of standing on decaying cement, I stood on a familiar boardwalk, one I've trodden many times in my imagination. I no longer had a row house of locally-fired, weathered brick on my right. I had a brightly-painted saloon, and over the windows, the carefully-crafted, freshly-repainted sign, THE SILVER JEWEL. I nodded, shifted the rifle slung muzzle down from my off shoulder, paced forward, gripped the bright-brass, hand-lacquered door handle, hauled the door open. I took a moment to admire the frosted scrollwork on the inside of the glass. I stepped inside and it smelled just as I'd imagined: tobacco smoke and beer and the sweat of honest labor, a woman's perfume -- Tilly must've only just vacated her station behind the mahogany hotel counter -- pigeonholes behind the counter, some with keys, some without. I looked around. Empty. I turned, looked at shining beer mugs, at ranks of heavy glass bottles with old fashioned labels, at the beer tap with the long neck I knew ran to the underground storage, where the beer would be kept pleasantly cool. Curtains were brightly colored, clean, the brass foot rail, though worn, was polished, the floor was little short of immaculate: I looked up at the stamped-tin ceiling panels, carefully fitted, the seams fiddlestring-straight. "Someone," I murmured, "took the trouble to make sure those were just right." "Yes they did," a voice said behind me. I turned. "Mr. Baxter, I presume." He was exactly as I'd imagined: the hair, the ribbon necktie, the white apron, a long bar towel over his off shoulder, and he was using its tag end to polish a beer mug. "I didn't start here until after the Sheriff did," he said, "so I wasn't here when she was put up, but ..." He looked up at the ceiling, smiled. "I've put those up myself." He smiled a little at the memory. "It's not easy to get that long a seam, dead straight!" I nodded, looked from the ceiling to behind the bar, and -- Gone -- I sighed. "That's imagination for ya," I muttered. "YES IT IS AN' DON'T YE FERGET IT!" an indignant Irishwoman declared from behind me. I turned, grinned. "Daisymedear!" I exclaimed, delighted, and she shook a wooden spoon at me, frowning. "Don't you Daisymedear me, you scoundrel!" she scolded, her syllables rapid, sharp-edged, her voice loud, pitched to penetrate a man's inebriation or his inattention. " 'Tis only me husband calls me that, an' if ye think ye'll put yer hands on me I'll take me fryin' pan to ye like I did Dirty Sam!" I laughed with absolute delight at this diminutive, fair-haired, milk-skinned, nose-freckled wife of the big Irish Fire Chief: I blinked, and she was gone, and someone I knew from years before stood there, blue-eyed and fair-haired, smiling as gently as I remembered. "My God, you're young," I whispered. I was afraid to move, afraid to destroy whatever fragile magic this could be. "I regret not marrying you," I said softly. "You were needed elsewhere," Dana replied, smiling that gentle smile I remembered from the days when we were in college together. "If you'd married me, you would never have done all that you have" -- she smiled a little more -- "and I was needed elsewhere, too." Dana Lynn Messman, my first love, faded, and was gone. I looked down the hallway, to the back door -- behind it, Shorty's livery; a stage door on the right, Daisy's kitchen, on the left -- all solid and real, not at all as ethereal and tentative as my imagination first painted them. I turned back, looked around, stepped outside, frowned. The Sheriff's office, yonder, that little log fortress: to the left, Digger's funeral parlor, windows shining and freshly washed, I saw the display coffin inside the parlor -- I swung my gaze left, to the Mercantile, and I knew if I turned left and paced up the boardwalk, down the steps, across the alley, back up another short stack of steps, I would come to the original library and newspaper office. I wondered idly if they had a typewriter, then I realized I hadn't researched when the Smith-Corona hit the market, and I shook my head. I felt a step behind me, turned. Mr. Baxter stood there, arranging the towel neatly over his shoulder. "You're trying to come up with a story," he said quietly. "Yes," I nodded. "You're trying too hard." "I'm used to posting one a day right along regular." "Your well is dry," he said, giving me a wise look: "you're tired. Look at what you've done. Your father in law just had surgery, you've stayed with him and tended house, you've fixed meals and handled laundry detail and trash detail and gotten groceries and made sure he didn't have to exert while he healed up. Your wife's not been entirely well and you're taking care of her." I nodded, took a long breath. "You're carrying a rifle you've meant to sight in for three months. You've been so busy doing for everyone else, you haven't done for you." "I write for me," I countered. "I've laid a number of ghosts with my stories." "You have that," the barkeep with the neatly-pomaded hair and fiercely-curled mustache agreed, "but when you run yourself too short, those ghost come philtering up out of their graves, no matter how many rocks you pile on top of 'em." I sighed, closed my eyes. "You're right," I muttered, and opened my eyes. I was no longer in Firelands. There were no more shining mountains rising aggressively behind wind-dried buildings or the wagon-rutted main street. I looked at my laptop, at the metal bookcase I had yet to get moved into the spare room to hold my wife's scrapbooks and albums, I looked at the TV set and the talkies in their chargers ranked on top of the wooden entertainment center. My wife coughed from my left: she reached for the big steaming mug of tea I'd brewed for her earlier, took a sip. She looked at me and said "That asthma attack just took everything out of me. Thank you for getting my inhaler." I leaned my head down into my hand and considered that maybe Mr. Baxter is right. I can't think of a damned thing to write today. Maybe I'll just take things easy and try again tomorrow. By then Angela might walk up and kick me in the shins, or Jacob could gallop past, Old Pale Eyes might lay his hand on my shoulder and offer a quiet suggestion. It's hard to tell. Firelands is sometimes less than predictable.

Still standing up on my knees for you both!

TOTENKOPF Deputy Sheriff Marnie Keller slammed the cruiser's door and stomped toward the group on the football field. "NOW WHAT'S THIS I HEAR ABOUT A BUNCH OF HELL RAISIN' TROUBLE MAKIN' SORTS!" she yelled, her voice pitched to carry: she shouldered her way into the center of the group, then she threw her head back and laughed, seized two of the men, hugged them to her and laughed, and they laughed with her: a half dozen men crowded in, demanding their turn, some hoisting her off the ground they way they used to hoist her pale eyed grandmother, back when they were young, when they were skinny, when they were football players for Firelands. Football practice was at an utter and absolute halt. Most of the players had some idea what was going on. The coaches all did. The remainder of the Firelands High School Football Team did what puzzled young men do when a woman comes in and causes utter confusion. The stood, and they stared. Marnie curled her lip, whistled, thrust a knife-hand at the head coach. "HEY COACH! HOW'S THEIR ROAD WORK?" "LACKING!" came the shout. "THEY NEED CONDITIONED!" Deputy Sheriff Marnie Keller looked at one of the fathers, lifted her chin, then grinned in absolute delight. One of the fathers raised a pole, and on the pole, a pennant, and on the pennant, a skull, missing its lower jaw. "FALL IN, DAMN YOU, OR I'LL HAVE YOUR GUTS FOR GARTERS!" Marnie screamed. "EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU MISERABLE EXCUSES FOR A HUMAN BEING, FALL IN!" Fathers of the football players fell in, the way they had for a pale eyed Sheriff who used to scream at them in the same manner, a pale eyed woman who ran with them, who ranked them and spaced them and paced them, a woman the fathers remembered as one of the most inspiring people they'd ever known. "Firelands, Delta Mary Seven, on site for assigned special detail, out of vehicle." "Roger that." "GUIDON!" Marnie barked. Five wide, four deep, the Firelands Football Team, arranged into ranks by their knowing fathers, looked at one another: the fathers, behind, made a smaller block, but their ranks were just as precise. "DRESS RIGHT, DRESS!" Marnie waited until fathers slipped between the ranks, explained to sons and sons of friends, waited until the ranks were dressed. The guidon was carried to the front, and Marnie's eyes narrowed: she thrust a knife hand at the skinniest member of the football team, called him by name, waved him to the front. She stood him between two linebackers in the front row, then had him pace forward -- "Pace off on the left, toward me, halt!" She thrust the guidon into his surprised hands, then laid her hands on his shoulders. "You," she said quietly, "are the patrol leader. You'll set the pace. Everyone will look to you for that leadership." He looked surprsied, then grinned suddenly, the way a young man will when he is suddenly given a good dose of confidence. "ALL RIGHT, WHO'S THE MEDIC?" Teammates looked at one another, turned and looked at a young man in the next to last row. "MEDIC, FALL OUT, WITH ME!" Fathers looked at one another and grinned, but did not break ranks. Marnie laid her hand on his shoulder, guided him to the rear of her cruiser. "You know CPR," she said. He nodded. "You teach CPR." He nodded again. "That's the best way to learn something, teach it. How about first aid?" "I'm too young to test for EMT, but I passed their course." Marnie stopped, looked at him again. "I thought I recognized you!" she said quietly, then opened the back of the cruiser. "This should be old home week for you, then." She thrust a backpack into his arms. He grinned -- a quick, boyish grin: it was the same backpack he'd trained with when he took the training with the Firelands Fire Department. "Here. Let's get this on you. Turn around." He ran his arms through the padded shoulder straps; Marnie adjusted them just a little, ran the waist belt around him, nodded, then reached into the cruiser and brought out two bottles of water, thrust them into their pockets on the front of his orange-nylon harness. "I need you right where you were," she said. "You'll fall back with any Tail End Charlie, anyone with cramps, any injury." He nodded. "BACK IN RANKS, SOLDIER," Marnie yelled, jogging to the front: "YOU'RE NOT ON VACATION HERE! ALL RIGHT, YOU SORRY BUNCH, LET'S SEE IF YOU CAN KEEP UP WITH A MERE GIRL! YOU WILL RUN IN STEP, YOU WILL STAY WITH ME, YOU WILL SING WHEN I SING, YOU WILL STOP WHEN I STOP, DO YOU GET ME?" "WE GET YOU SIR!" every one of the grinning fathers shouted, their enthusiastic, unified yell echoing off the brick side of the high school building. "GUIDON, UP! DETAIL! FORWARD!" The Firelands Football Team, both past and present, leaned forward into a nice easy run: strong young men, motivated by a pale eyed woman, the way the Firelands Football Team had been motivated, falling into a unified running cadence the way their fathers had, when their fathers were their age. Willamina's Warriors, and their sons, ran once again behind a pale eyed woman, and behind the same hand embroidered Totenkopf guidon that led Willamina's Warriors not many years before.

I SLEEP WELL, THANK YOU “You ran.” “Yeah.” “You ran from me.” “Yeah.” “You should know better.” “I wasn’t thinkin’.” “No, I’d reckon not.” Two men spoke in quiet voice, near a spring, at a trickle of a stream’s headwaters. It had been a long ride: lawman and lawbreaker, one fleeing, one pursuing: the lawman’s horse was the better of the two, and when the fleeing horse flagged and Sexton realized he’d had it, he turned to face his pursuer. Sheriff Linn Keller rode up on him, slow, satisfied he wasn’t coming into an ambush: he knew Sexton was a stranger hereabouts, he knew Sexton had no associates this close to the Nation. He came up close, stopped. Two men sat horseback and regarded one another. Linn took a long look at the man’s horse. “Might want to dismount,” he said, “water your horse an’ build a fire. I’m for coffee.” Two men dismounted together. Sheriff Linn Keller turned the wheel, just enough, just enough, then came off the throttle, braked briefly, quickly, firmly, straightened his cruiser. The vehicle he’d just tapped swung, rubber screaming: Linn came down harder on the brakes, watched as the fleeing felon he’d just pitted, caught the shoulder, jerked back around straight, then dropped into the ditch and stopped, fast. Linn laid on the brakes, hard, reversed quickly, stopped. “Firelands, Firelands One,” he called. “Pursuit ended, send the squad, Orrin McVey’s barn.” “Roger that, One,” he heard. Linn thumbed the button, released the shotgun: he was an old lawman, and an old lawman likes his shotgun, and as he came out of the cruiser, he slammed the action open, slammed it shut, running a green-plastic Remington 00 buck round into the chamber. He sauntered up to the driver’s side, looked through the window at the deflated air bag, at the man laid over the steering wheel, groaning. Linn waited. He watched as the man reached down, saw the seat belt come slack: one hand was welded to the steering wheel, the other one came up, shaking, open. Linn waited. He saw the man reach over, try to open the door, saw him shoulder against the closed door – twice, a third time. Linn made a spinning motion with his hand: Roll it down. The window whined as it lowered, quickly, smoothly. “Out,” Linn said, his voice unsympathetic. The driver started out the window, struggled out to belt level – Linn saw movement behind the driver – Rear seat – Threat – Linn took a fast sidestep, shotgun rising by itself, he felt the comb of the gun hit him under the cheekbone and he saw the sideglass explode outward and the shotgun shoved him back and he wondered Who in the hell just fired my gun? and his off arm jacked the fore end and rammed it forward and he saw a figure drop out of sight. Linn strode forward, seized the driver by the back of the belt, yanked him out, hard: he hit the ground on his back and laid there as Linn knocked out crazed sideglass with his gunmuzzle, took a look inside. He drew back, looked at the driver, still flat on his back, half on the gravel shoulder and half on pavement. Linn looked down at him like he was examining a specimen in a Petri dish. “You ran.” “Yeah,” the driver gasped, grimacing. “You ran from me.” “Yeah.” “This is my county,” Linn said quietly, his voice a deep and menacing rumble. “Mine. You don’t run from me.” A pale eyed lawman with an iron grey mustache hunkered by a small, smokeless fire, another man hunkered on the other side of the steaming coffeepot. “You ran from me,” Linn said. “Yeah.” “This is my county,” Linn rumbled. Mine. You don’t run from me.” The Sheriff’s voice was quiet, which made it all the more menacing. The criminal stared into his tin cup of scalding coffee. Of a sudden he had no more appetite. Linn watched as the wrecked SUV was winched onto a rollback, as it was tarped down: the squad was there and gone, taking the driver in, with a deputy accompanying the prisoner, as the prisoner was cuffed to the ambulance gurney. The shots-fired team already had the evidence markers picked up, the scene was cleared, Linn looked around, then got back in his cruiser. He went a hundred yards to a handy turn around, pointed his nose toward home. Skid marks and tore up mud in the roadside ditch, and a brief, bright sparkle of shattered safety glass where the wrecker driver broomed it off the pavement, were the only indicators anything ever happened here. Sheriff Linn Keller sat, impassive, as His Honor the Judge pronounced the criminal guilty, and passed sentence: death by hanging, may God have mercy on your soul. The church busybody scuttled up to the Sheriff so soon after the Judge swung his gavel that Linn was satisfied she had to have a head start on His Honor’s hammer. “Sheriff,” she scolded, “that poor man is going to die!” “Yes, ma’am,” the Sheriff replied mildly. “You, you, you brought him here so he could be hanged!” Linn’s pale eyes were patient as he regarded the sputtering old woman. “Sheriff, how can you sleep at night!” Sheriff Linn Keller stood in the courtroom and smiled gently at the town’s busybody. “Ma’am, I sleep well, thank you.” The inquest, as usual, was public: the Sheriff’s testimony, as it generally was, was concise, brief, to the point: a gun was pointed at him, this constituted a threat to his very life, he acted to keep himself alive in the only way available to him, and that was to send a charge of heavy shot into the fellow who’d just taken a shot through the rear window glass, at him. It was not a surprise to the Sheriff, the Judge, nor the prosecutor, that this was no-billed. His Honor the Judge swung his gavel and dismissed the proceedings. The town busybody scuttled up to the Sheriff less than a heartbeat after the Judge’s gavel smacked the desk top, disapproval in her expression and indignation in her posture. “Sheriff,” she scolded, “you killed a man!” “Yes, ma’am,” the Sheriff agreed, tucking his Stetson under his off arm. “But that’s terrible, Sheriff! How can you even sleep at night?” The tall, lean, pale eyed Sheriff of Firelands County, Colorado, stood in the courtroom, facing the town’s busybody. He smiled ever so slightly, the curled ends of his iron-grey mustache lifting a little as he did. “Ma’am,” he replied honestly, “I sleep well, thank you.”

FAIR IS FAIR, OLD MAN “Sir?” Jacob sat in front of one of the computer monitors, frowning at the screen. “Yes, Jacob?” “Sir … I found something in a back issue of the Firelands Gazette.” “Oh?” Linn’s eyebrow raised, dropped: he rose from his desk, came around behind Jacob, a fatherly hand warm and reassuring on his son’s shoulder. “You made the obituaries, sir.” Linn laughed quietly. “That’s a back issue, all right!” – he looked at the date, his other hand came up and he squeezed both Jacob’s shoulders, gently, and Jacob heard his father murmur, “I was about your age …” Linn Keller came home from school with a funny look on his face. His Mama gave him an approving look as he came through the door. Somehow she was not surprised at the expression of near dismay on his face. “You made the obituaries,” Willamina said quietly. “Supper in a half hour.” “Yes, ma’am,” Linn said quietly, unslinging his messenger bag and hanging Stetson and jacket in their places: he hooked off his well polished Wellingtons, padded sockfoot into the kitchen. Willamina waited, smiling, the way a mother will when she knows something good was said today. Linn drew and drank two tall glasses of water: he set the glass in the dirty side of the sink, turned, leaned back against the counter with his palms hooked over its edge. Willamina watched as her son tried to puzzle an answer from the design in the kitchen floor tiles. Finally he looked up, just as the oven timer went off. Willamina opened the oven door, pulled on a set of oven mitts and pulled the meatloaf out, set it on the cooling rack. “Mama,” Linn said quietly, “you amaze me.” “How’s that?” she smiled. “You worked all day, God knows what-all you’ve had to handle, and you come home and fix supper.” Willamina lifted the lid on the potatoes, turned off the burner, carried the steaming pot and lid over to the sink: she drained off the water, raising a great cloud of steam, waited for Linn to pick up the heavy crock bowl and bring it over, then transferred the boiled potatoes into the big pink mixing bowl. Linn stepped around behind his Mama, got out butter and milk, while Willamina thrust beaters into the mixer: Linn waited until she traded mixer for a hand masher, addressed the potatoes vigorously, smiling all the while, adding a pinch of this, a dash of that, a few twists of the pepper grinder, a double pinch of salt (potatoes always need salt!) – and finally, pats of butter, a long splash of milk, and she began spinning the hot compound into her usual light, fluffy, mashed potatoes. “I couldn’t figure why guys would thump me on the shoulder and tell me congrats, man, why girls were looking at me like they’d never seen me before. It wasn’t until three teachers and the principal winked or nodded or told me “Well done” that I realized it wasn’t some sophomoric joke.” “Yes, sir?” “The principal saw my honest puzzlement so he had me come into his office … I remember he sat on the corner of his desk.” “To emphasize this was not an official visitation,” Jacob hazarded. “Bingo,” Linn nodded. “He picked up the Gazette, paged through it, turned it back and folded it over and handed it to me.” “And you read about yourself in the obituaries.” “I did,” Linn chuckled, “and found out why everyone was acting different.” Husband, wife and firstborn son sat together at the supper table: mashed potatoes and gravy, meatloaf, fresh sourdough bread, cut into thick slabs, with locally made butter: Linn ate in silence, aware that his Mama was making this an Occasion, and he had the feeling it was linked to his having made print in the local paper. Richard ate and talked as he always did, asked Linn how school was going, asked Willamina about her day, listened closely as Sheriff Willamina Keller discussed her investigations, her findings: Richard made mention of a few of his own endeavors, then he looked over at Linn and said, “You made the paper.” “Yes, sir.” “How’d you arrange that?” Linn stopped eating. He very carefully placed knife and fork on his plate, sat up very straight, looked very directly at his father. Silence hung for several long moments: Linn considered and discarded three rather cutting retorts, but realized that his youthful sense of prickly honor would not serve him well in this moment. Linn’s answer was cold, his words insultingly slow. “You’d have, to ask, the editor, sir.” Richard grunted, shook his head. “The obituaries,” he muttered. “Some people will do anything to get their name in the paper, but … the obituaries?” Willamina saw the veil Linn dropped behind his eyes. Linn was silent for the rest of the meal; when done, as he always did, he gathered up plates and silverware and carried them to the sink. Linn routinely washed dishes; he did so tonight, but he did so in absolute silence, his back to his father – a fact that was not lost on his pale eyed mother. As usual, Richard paid no attention. Jacob Keller read the obituary, glowing on the computer screen, black letters on a white background, a widow’s tribute to a family that lived nearby. She described how her afternoon nap was interrupted by the sound of a mower, as a neighbor boy rode it around her lawn, following up with a weed eater, immaculately barbering the yard her late husband used to tend. She described how she’d startled at a tap at her door, how she’d peered out the window to see the same lean, youthful neighbor with a cloth covered woven basket … he’d brought her supper, knowing it was the anniversary of her husband’s death, knowing she’d probably not feel like fixing a meal. She wrote of hearing an odd scraping sound outside, through the winter, how she parted the curtains and saw the same school-aged neighbor shoveling her walk and her driveway – how he just showed up, shoveled it off, then swept it as well, and disappeared into the winter’s dark. It was the woman’s obituary, but she’d written it herself, and she spoke to the many kindnesses she’d experienced, but she made special mention of a young man, still in school, who went out of his way to make sure she was well, and provisioned, how he’d seen her tire was flat, how he’d removed it, taken it for repair, brought it back and reinstalled it, and her unaware of it until a month later, when she realized one of her tires was brand new. Jacob nodded slowly. “She wrote her own obituary,” he said slowly, “and she mentioned you in it.” Jacob heard his father’s voice, gentle, deep, reassuring as the warm hands that laid on his shoulders. “That,” he said, “is why I speak to the things you do right.” “Thank you, sir.” The Sunday following, Reverend John Burnett addressed an observation from the pulpit – how difficult forgiveness could be, especially when it came to forgiving the man in the mirror. “Fair is fair,” he said: “we are not the most terrible moment of our lives. We are not the worst mistake we’ve ever made. Neither is anyone else.” Jacob considered this as they rode home: his arm across his chest, his other arm bent, frowning, forefinger tight against his nonexistent mustache, he silently considered their Parson’s words. Linn backed the Jeep into its usual spot; the family dismounted, and Linn looked at his son, then headed for the barn. Jacob followed. Father and son whistled up their saddlemounts, father and son swung into saddle leather, father and son rode side by side: Marnie and Shelly watched them stepping out lively, two tall, lean men on two really good looking horses. They stayed side by side as they crossed the far field, across the stream, around back of the original main street, across behind the bank and then up Graveyard Hill. Jacob was not at all surprised when his father halted, dismounted at the family section. Father and son, side by side, walked up to one of the newer graves. Jacob knew it was his grandfather, a man he never knew, only from what he’d heard, what he’d read: he removed his Stetson when his father removed his own. Linn stood on the man’s grave, glaring cold-eyed at the oval portrait laser engraved in glass-smooth quartz. “Jacob,” he said, “I reckon the Parson is right.” “Yes, sir?” “The man in the mirror is the hardest one to forgive.” “Yes, sir.” “Here lies the second hardest.” “Yes, sir.” Linn’s jaw slid out a little. “By now, Pa,” he said, “God Almighty has burnt away your sins, so this won’t hurt you now and that’s a shame. I’d honestly like to beat you within an inch of your life. You made mistakes with me I’ll never forget and I don’t count that a bad thing. You taught me with your mistakes.” Jacob looked at his father, surprised. “You showed me how not to treat my sons,” Linn said quietly, menace thickening his voice. “So here it is, if you were alive, what I’m about to say would hurt worse than any beatin’ I could give you.” Linn’s eyes were pale, cold and hard as he glared at the impassive image engraved on a shining-smooth quartz tombstone. “I was taught an abusive parent never, ever remembers abusing their child, and that’s as may be, but it is a maxim that the abused child never, ever forgets having been abused. The hurt done a child can override and negate all the good the abusive parent ever did, so here it is, from the child you wounded.” Linn took a step close to the tombstone and said slowly, his voice edged with a deep and abiding anger, “Old Man” – he hesitated, took a long breath -- “I, forgive, you!” Jacob waited to see if the earth was going to shiver and crack and yawn open, if the tombstone was going to split down its middle, or maybe the image in the portrait oval was going to scream in agony or in anger. Nothing happened. Linn took a step back, looked to the side, to the next grave, the other half of the tombstone. “Bless you, Mama,” Linn said softly, then he looked at Jacob. “Sir,” Jacob asked quietly, “if he was that bad … why forgive him?” “The Parson said it right today. No man is his worst mistake. Not me. And not…” Linn’s eyes went to his father’s tombstone. “And not him.” “I see, sir.” Father and son replaced their Stetsons, turned. “Like the Parson said,” Linn replied. “Fair is fair.”

HOW WOULD YOU FRIGHTEN ME? Sheriff Jacob Keller sharpened his skills as a master woodcutter sharpens his ax. He sharpened his skills frequently. Sheriff Jacob Keller practiced in the Earth-gravity arena his pale eyed sister built to maintain her bone mass and muscle tone; his quarters were also Earth-normal, which was more comfortable for he and his bride both: his wife, a woman of breeding and of sophistication and culture, was a popular dance partner, and she delighted in teaching dance: it was a popular activity, as was common in the early days of the seminal Firelands, back on Earth, well more than a century earlier, and the namesake colony on a cold and distant planet rejoiced that they shared in this happy activity. It was a joke among the colonists that those who surrendered themselves to Mars-normal gravity, didn’t really have to dance with this strong and beautiful woman, they’d just let her throw them around and look good doing it. While not entirely accurate, it was true that Ruth could unintentionally overpower her lighter-muscled dance partners. As she was a woman of culture and of breeding, she was careful to never intentionally do this (although it was the delight of her younger dance students to lift their legs and allow it!) Ruth came back to their quarters, her face flushed and damp, smiling: Jacob met her with an embrace, held longer than either expected, an embrace neither really wished to surrender: for whatever reason, this pale-eyed Earther, and this woman from another planet altogether, formed a soul-deep bond of genuine affection. Ruth begged a moment’s indulgence, for she was in need of a shower – something she’d never known to exist, until Jacob introduced her to the luxury of her own personal rainfall – he’d explained how the shower’s individual Recylo turned the soapy water that spiraled down the perforated drain, returned seconds later through the shining, chromed shower head, pure and untainted – Ruth listened politely, and promptly forgot, knowing only that when she turned a fluted knob – so! – water came from the shower head – so! – and she took the time to get herself, as Jacob described it, “Kissing Clean.” A shower, clean clothes, and she sat at her vanity, working on her hair, humming a little as she did, smiling as she caught the odor of supper being laid on their little table. She finished quickly – her mother stressed the importance of looking presentable for her husband, for men judge by looks, and a wife must look good for this man who’d chosen her above all other women – Jacob met her, raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “Beef roast,” he murmured, “and a few things my Mama used to make!” Husband and wife ate, uninterrupted: Ruth knew Jacob “had an ear out,” as he called it, for the chime, the annunciator that would indicate a situation to which he would be obliged to respond: he’d recruited two deputies, knowing that no one individual could handle the demands 24/7, 365 (a phrase which still puzzled Ruth, for their day used a different time-scale, and their year was not the same as an Earth year.) Ruth savored the roasted vegetables, sprinkled with a cheese of some kind: she’d learned to delight in the difference between the cuisine of her nativity, and that of this new world: she ate with a good appetite, despite her mother’s admonitions that a proper young lady must eat sparingly, lest she appear to be a glutton. Dishes and what little was left uneaten went into the Recyclo slot in the wall: Jacob insisted on clearing the table, leaving his wife to sit and watch his smooth, well-coordinated efforts. As they often did, they remained at the table and talked. Ruth leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced under her chin. “Jacob?” “Hm?” “Jacob, am I beautiful?” “You’re damned right you’re beautiful,” Jacob said softly, “and don’t you forget it!” Ruth’s eyes dropped and she smiled. “Jacob,” she asked, “how would you terrify me?” Ruth knew she’d honestly surprised her husband. Jacob blinked three times, quickly, frowned a little and looked to his left, blinked again, his face suddenly serious. He looked back at her, reached across the table, his hands open. Ruth lowered her hands and placed them in her husband’s gentle grip. “Ruth,” he said quietly, his voice as serious as his face, “are you familiar with Aesop’s Fables?” Ruth nodded. “Is there a fable about playing with tar?” “I … no, I don’t recall one.” “Ruth, if I handle something that is filthy, that is muddy, or if I handle something covered with tar … it’ll stick to my hands.” Ruth nodded, her eyes never leaving her husband’s. “You used the word ‘terrify.’” “Yes. How would you terrify me?” “Is it customary to terrify one’s wife?” Jacob asked carefully. Ruth wet her lips. “I … have known it to be done,” she replied with an equal caution. “Has anyone intentionally terrified you?” Ruth looked troubled: Jacob knew her eyes, swinging left, meant she was recalling a memory, and not inventing. “I have known terror,” she whispered. “Was it something done deliberately to you?” “Yes,” she whispered. “Was your mother terrified?” “Yes.” “In the same way?” “Yes.” “What happened?” Ruth closed her eyes, shook her head. Jacob’s hands tightened, very slightly, just enough to say I’m here, you’re safe: he leaned forward, his voice quiet, reassuring. “Ruth, I’ve known terror. I’ve seen it and I’ve waded knee deep through it and I’ve seized it by the throat and brought utter destruction upon it. I’ve known terror and I know I am capable of great evil and I can bring true horror to bear. “I’m contaminated, Ruth. I’m contaminated and filthied by every terrible thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve tried to learn from them, to use them as compass-points to show me where never to go.” Jacob’s voice lowered, until it was an intense whisper: Ruth knew this meant this man, this husband, this other half of her heart, was speaking a stressed truth, something he’d never spoken of before. “I could terrify you,” he admitted. “I could bring utter and absolute fear and pure, unadulterated TERROR to your soul, and I could do that from experience. “Ruth, I see people at their very worst. I deal with monsters and I wade through the evil people do to one another. I’ve seen things and I’ve handled situations that would curl the hair on a bald man’s head and all that has stained my corroded soul, so yes … I have the capacity, I have the ability, to terrify you.” Jacob released his wife’s hands, stood, came around the table, held his hand out. “Take my hand.” Ruth did. “Stand, my dear.” Ruth stood. Jacob held her hand in his, laid his other hand, warm and protective, over her knuckles. “Tell me why you’re asking me this.” Jacob’s voice was little more than a whisper. Ruth looked into her husband’s pale eyes and she looked into his soul and she saw a genuine concern. Ruth lowered her hand to her belly, her fingers spread, and she dropped her eyes, then looked back up at her husband, bit her bottom lip uncertainly. Jacob released her hands – His eyes widened – Sheriff Jacob Keller SEIZED his wife under her arms, HOIST her off the floor, SPUN her around, THRUST her up to ARM’S LENGTH – Ruth Keller never forgot the moment, she remembered for the rest of her entire life the moment she told her husband, without words, that she was with child. She remembered his utter and absolute delight, his laughter, and how he expressed his unadulterated, soul-deep, JOY. Clearly, concisely, and, just as she’d told him, without words. She remembered how he lowered her down, how he crushed her into him, how she felt his now-silent, no-less-delighted laughter, his arms around her: she remembered how he released her, how he went to one knee, looked up at her with shining, pale eyes. “I’ll bet my sister knows,” he laughed. Ruth put her flat fingers against her lips and giggled as Jacob rose. “I’ve told no one,” she whispered. Jacob took her in his arms again: further speech was precluded as their lips met – Ruth was struck by Jacob’s embrace: no longer strong, possessive: now he held her carefully, kissed her delicately, as if she were fine china instead of strong and serviceable ceramic. “I’ve told no one,” Ruth whispered again. “Tell no one until the time is right,” Jacob cautioned. “My mother …” Ruth said hesitantly. “We will tell her together.” Ruth’s eyes sparkled in the artificial light, but there was nothing artificial in her smile. “I’d like that.” That night, husband and wife lay, warm and safe under quilts and layers of happy anticipation, side by side, looking up at the nighttime ceiling, and holding hands, as they commonly did. “Dearest?” Ruth squeezed Jacob’s hand in reply. “Why did you want to know how I would terrify you?” Ruth rolled over, cuddled into her husband: he turned up on his side, lay an arm over her. “A friend of mine was … her husband did not want children …” Jacob felt the sadness in her words, or perhaps he felt grief radiating through her flannel nightgown. “How bad?” “She died.” Ruth felt Jacob’s slight head-motion that meant he wanted to shake his head: she’d seen this in the past, and she knew without looking the look of suppressed anger his face would assume. “You were afraid I would do the same,” he whispered. “A woman fears many things, my husband,” she whispered back, “and I have never borne a child before.” “Nor have you been a wife,” Jacob continued for her, “especially to an outworlder.” “Yes.” Jacob’s arm was protectively over his wife’s ribs, his hand strong, wide and flat across her back. “Never lose your caution, my dear,” Jacob said, his voice deep in his chest, rumbling with a quiet strength. Ruth relaxed, content in the feeling that her husband’s arm, possessively across her, was an iron arch that would let nothing – NOTHING! – cause her harm! I haven’t found how he would terrify me, she thought drowsily. I have found how to bring him joy. Another thought displaced these, and that new, intruding thought brought a tickle of fear with it. “Jacob,” she whispered, “does this mean you’re going to keep me heavy with child?” Ruth felt her husband’s silent laughter shivering their bed a little. “Years ago, some fellows and I were talking about our life’s plans and I said I wanted to raise horses and children. “One of the girls asked me how many and I said ‘Oh, about a dozen or so.’ “She was shocked.” “Why was she shocked?” Ruth whispered. “She thought I wanted a dozen children,” Jacob chuckled, “and she was imagining my poor wife, barefoot and pregnant!” Ruth sat up in bed, regarded her husband with alarm. “Jacob,” she quavered, “is that your plan for me?” Jacob sat up as well, caressed his wife’s still-flat belly with the backs of his bent fingers. “I’d like to have at least a dozen saddlehorses,” he said, “but I have no intent to sire my own Irish Brigade upon you!” Next day, when he spoke with his sister, he confirmed his suspicions that Marnie already knew Ruth carried new life, safe and hidden beneath her beating heart, even though she’d not been told of this new condition. “What did she say when you said you’d like a dozen?” Marnie asked, for she knew the story – she’d been there when it happened – Jacob grinned and replied, “I told her I’d not sire my own Irish Brigade upon her, I’d have to have at least two other women to help bear the load.” “Jaaacoooobbbb,” Marnie said, her voice inflecting upward just a little, a warning note he’d heard before. “And what did she say to that?” “She yanked the pillow out from under my head and held it over my face, and I laid there laughin’ like a damned fool!”

I WOULD COUNSEL WITH THEE A Daughter’s Nightmares Jacob Keller opened the door, grinned, shoved out his hand. “Please come in,” he said, and his wife and children looked toward the door and smiled to hear the welcome in Jacob’s voice. Jacob’s father Linn removed his cover as he crossed the threshold, handed it to the hired girl with his usual wink, then he looked at his pale eyed son. As usual, he was immediately to the point. “I would counsel,” he said, “with your wife.” To Jacob’s credit, his face betrayed no surprise: he turned, lifted his chin. “My dear?” he called, then turned back to his father. “Might I offer you my study?” Linn looked a little uncomfortable; Annette came up, her head tilted a little, curious as she looked from her pale eyed husband to her pale eyed father in law. Linn frowned and chewed on his mustache for a moment – unusual, Jacob thought, he’s never this indecisive – Linn lifted his chin, the way a man will when he comes to a decision. Linn stuck out his arm. “Walk with me,” he said quietly: the hired girl draped Annette’s shawl about her shoulders – the girl smiled a little as Linn gave her an approving look – the pair turned, stepped out the door into the afternoon sunshine. They walked together, slowly, toward the barn: Jacob corralled his young, keeping their spontaneous curiosity from flowing out the door and joining Grampa and their Mama. “Your Grampa,” Jacob explained, “needs some expert advice, and he wants to talk to your Mama without interruption.” “Aw, Pa,” the youngest complained, “I wanna walk on the ceiling!” Jacob laughed. His youngest had been but a wee child when his pale eyed Pa took him around the waist, whipped him upside down, planted his wee sock feet on the ceiling overhead and had him walk across the room at Christmas time. Every year since, this laughing heir of their pale eyed blood line strutted up to the Sheriff, put his knuckles on his belt and demanded, “Walk on the ceiling!” – and the laughing Sheriff would seize the little fellow with big, callused hands and whip him upside down and plant his sock feet on the ceiling, for this yearly ritual. “You’re gettin’ kind of big for that,” Jacob cautioned, “and your Grampa’s back is givin’ him hell these days. Might be you’d best not ask that anymore.” A little boy’s pooched out bottom lip and round-shouldered shuffle betrayed the lad’s disappointment, and his silence indicated his acceptance of a gently-worded order. Jacob looked out the doorway, the closed the door: that sunshine looked really good, but there was a chill in the air, and there was no sense in trying to heat the outside. He closed the door quietly. “Annette,” Linn said slowly, “you know a young man has petitioned me for Angela’s hand.” “Yes, I’d heard,” she replied as they walked slowly together, her hand on his arm. Annette knew the man was thinking – she could almost hear the gears rolling around behind those pale eyes – Just like Jacob, she thought, and once again she felt a deep and almost filial affection for this lean-waisted old lawman with the iron grey mustache. “You know the Judge asked her to go up Seattle way to find out something.” Annette looked curiously at her father-in-law. She’d known Annette had gone to the seacoast, she knew Annette had taken a sailing-ship northward, she’d heard Annette was shipwrecked and feared lost, until the telegram arrived to tell them otherwise. The telegram prompted father and son to stand in their little whitewashed Church, hat in hand, and shoulder to shoulder, two strong, quiet men who looked at the rude cross on the back wall and eloquently voiced their relief, their gratitude, their rejoicing that one of their own had indeed not been swallowed by the Deep. Annette and her young stood silently in the rear of the church as two men, with one voice, with their usual great length of speech, spoke their hearts. With one voice, they said “Thank you, Lord.” In all of Annette’s life, she honestly did not think she’d ever heard such an absolutely sincere prayer – not before, and not since. Annette blinked, returned the lean old lawman’s words. “Yes,” she said. “I had heard that.” “Angela hadn’t talked much about it,” Linn said quietly, pale eyes busy, studying the edges, the depressions, assessing points of potential ambush, places of shelter, of cover, of concealment: habits established in wartime and reinforced after years of badge packing, manifested themselves in his everyday life. Annette waited patiently: the man was ordering his thoughts, arranging them in strictly regimented ranks, that he might march them out as words, words that made the greatest sense with the fewest syllables. “Her ship hit a reef, or so she said,” Linn continued quietly, then paused. Annette had the impression of holding the arm of a carved marble statue; silence fairly cascaded from him like an invisible avalanche for several long moments. “Angela told me, finally … she described how the ship shivered and groaned, as if its living soul were mortally wounded.” He looked at his daughter in law, his pale eyes troubled. “She’s seen men die, Annette.” The pale eyed old Sheriff’s voice was little more than a tight-throated whisper. “She’s held an injured man’s hand as he surrendered his essence to the Eternal, and she’s heard men groan as their soul realized it was being lost to Eternity, so when she tells me the ship groaned as if its very soul were being torn away, I tend to believe her. “She stayed with the ship until it slipped under, then she struck out in that cold water. She was determined to find a float, or to swim until she made landfall. “She was … a great fish came through the water and grazed her. She said she twisted away and saw its teeth, and its eye …” Linn’s voice was softer, more distant, he was staring now, staring at someone else’s memory, a memory he regarded with the horror of a man who knew that nothing he could possibly do, could ever make it right, make it well again. “She said its eye was lifeless, dull, as if this watery murderer was already dead. It grazed her as it passed, and she said it felt like sandpaper when she twisted away. “She fetched out her knives and it made another strike at her and she drove her knives into it. She said she tried to drive a blade through its eye. “Something came through the water like a freight train and hit that great toothed fish. Angela heard the impact and she felt it hit and she lost her right-hand knife as the fish nearly bent in two with the impact. “Whatever it was that came through the water and rammed the fish that was trying to eat her, came up under her and bore her to the surface. She gripped what she thought was a curved saddlehorn on its back, and they broke surface and she took a great gasping breath” – Linn had to stop for a moment, as he saw through his daughter’s words the memory of rows of sharp, white teeth, of black water, seeking her life, of a swift, shadowy savior, lancing through the cold universe that wanted to claim her young life. “She said it breathed through a hole in the back of its head, and it made for shore – she could hear breakers, and the fish she rode stayed high enough she could breathe. “She said the fish stopped and rolled over and she fell free and went under, then she got her feet under her and realized she was standing on sand and on rocks and she stood up.” Linn took another long breath, blew it out, the looked at Annette. He swallowed. “She turned and that fish that brought her to shore came up under her hand and blew one last time, as if to say something, and then it swam away and was gone.” Annette took Linn’s arm again, looked up into his face, then leaned her head against his chest. Linn’s arm held her to him and she felt him shivering, just a little. “My little girl,” he whispered. “I let her go to Seattle. The Judge asked my permission to send her, the way he sent Sarah, and …” Silence, for the space of a handful of heartbeats. “She came home – you know that already” – she heard the sardonic grin in his voice as he said the words – “she took a long bath to wash off the dust of her journey, she changed into a fresh gown, and she went in to see the Judge. “He rose when she swept into his chambers. His Honor listened with his usual grave courtesy as she said that her ship had been wrecked, and lost with all hands, and that she regretted that she’d not been able to make Seattle.” Annette looked up again, surprised at the honest sorrow in the old lawman’s features. “She thanked His Honor for the confidence he’d shown in her, but she wished to decline any future assignments, and then she turned and left before he could reply.” “The poor dear,” Annette whispered. “I had no idea.” “Nor had I,” Linn admitted, “and I count that my failure.” Harsh self-accusation coarsened his voice. “I did not know the full story until …” He looked down, took a long breath. “I woke one night and heard someone … I went … Angela was in the kitchen. “It was full dark and she had a steaming cup of tea in front of her, and she had my brandy, and she had half a glass poured out, and she was staring at it. Just staring. “Her eyes were … huge. “I sat down across from her, and she stared into the brandy she’d poured, and she started to talk. “It was silent in the house. “Her voice was little more than a whisper as she … she described sleeping in her berth, she described the ship’s … whatever it hit, how it sounded, and she knew she had to dress, and quickly. “Bless Sarah for teaching her knives, she had her leather cincher around her waist as soon as she had her dress on. “She said the ship was abandoned, boats launched, she alone remained, clinging to the mainmast, feeling it vibrate as the ship drove blindly through rough water, how it rolled, how she felt its agonies as she clung to the mast … she said it smelled … the mast smelled of mountain timber and of tall, straight trees on the mountainside.” He looked at her and whispered, “She said that she realized she had but minutes to live, and in that one moment, she smelled … home.” Linn looked at his son’s wife with anguish in his voice and distress in his expression. “I’ve been with men as they died, and their last words were of their mother, their last thoughts of home, unless they were screaming.” Linn took another long breath. “Angela … did not scream. She knew these were quite probably her last moments on earth, and her last thoughts were of home.” He looked out into the distance … he looks so old, Annette thought with surprise. He didn’t look old when he came through our door. “She’ll have that nightmare for a long time to come,” Linn said. “Did she … drink the brandy?” “No,” Linn said quietly. “No, she poured it, and she stared at it, and she saw it happen all over again, deep in that glass of distilled California sunshine, but no … no, she didn’t drink it. “I poured it back into the decanter after she went to bed.” Annette waited, knowing the Sheriff did nothing without purpose. “I need your advice,” he said finally. Annette nodded. “She woke last night. I heard her gasp and choke and I went into her bedroom and she came out of bed sounding like she was drowning, and she threw herself into my arms, and I just held her as she shivered, as she choked, as she left her nightmare tangled in the bedclothes and ran barefoot for her Daddy.” Linn looked at Annette. “What advice do I give her swain … he’s a fine young man and he has a good business mind, he’ll provide well for my little girl, and I’m satisfied he will be a good husband. His reputation is excellent – believe me, I checked!” – she saw a sudden combination of approval and wisdom in his look – “but … how do I warn him of her nightmares? How does a woman, a wife, wish to be comforted when she relives the worst terrors of her lifetime?” Annette considered this for a long couple of minutes, frowning a little as she considered: she let her father in law see her frown, see her nod, see that she was considering his words, for she knew a man had to see that she was actually listening. She looked up at him, laid a hand on his. “You know Jacob saved us from slavers,” she said. Linn nodded. “My worst nightmare was being seized and gut-punched to keep me quiet. I was seized and bound and a cloth ball forced between my teeth and tied tightly to keep me quiet: I was thrown in a closed carriage with three others, all tied, all silenced, to be sold on the Barbary Coast. I was to be sold to the fleshpots, I was to be chained to a crib and rented out by the half-hour.” “I remember,” Linn said quietly, and she heard a deep, quiet, controlled anger in the man’s words. “That was when I first met Jacob, when he stopped our abductors. He freed us and we rode atop the carriage, the kidnappers were tied within, and he drove us to the nearest police-station.” Her voice was quiet, but with a hard edge as her worst memory turned into words. “The Chief of Police and the Mayor were expounding on how they’d stopped crime in fine shape. “The other girls swarmed them and screamed in their faces, telling them what happened.” “How’d they like that?” “Oh, they didn’t,” Annette sighed, “but the reporters crowded around them, shouting questions and scribbling their answers. “Jacob dragged the crimps out of the carriage and threw them to the ground, he threw the one he’d shot and killed atop them, he mounted Apple-horse and I climbed up behind, and … you know the rest.” Annette leaned her head against Linn’s arm, sighed tiredly. “When I have that nightmare again, he holds me until I stop shivering. I cling to him until the terrors pass.” “What advice would you give me, then,” Linn asked, his voice deep, fatherly, “that I might say to her intended?” Annette bit her bottom lip, nodded. “Tell him,” she said slowly, “tell him what she experienced. Tell him it is the one most terrifying moment of her entire life, and tell him that women re-live these terrible moments in the darkness and in the silence. “Tell him that he should hold her and let her cry, or let her shiver, or let her cling to him, but tell him” – she looked very intently at the Sheriff, her hands tight on his – “tell him above all else, if she wishes to talk, to listen. “As God smiles down upon us, tell him above all else, to listen, really listen!” Annette’s face shone with the conviction of a Prophet, with the sincerity of someone who knew exactly, deeply, and absolute sincerity, what she was talking about. “Jacob listens,” she whispered. “And you listened to Esther. That one thing is the most important. The most!” Linn nodded, laid his free hand carefully over her fingers. Sheriff Linn Keller, widower, father and grandfather, knew the value of consulting with those who knew what they were talking about. He was more than satisfied he’d come to the right authority, and that he’d just gotten the good sound advice he needed.

The Firelands Gazette Bruce Jones, Editor, Reporter, Photographer, Janitor and now Plumber, and DUZY WALES, EDITOR-AT-LARGE Reprinted from the late 1880s edition, as a matter of HISTORICAL INTEREST AND EDIFICATION BLOOD AND TEETH ON THE COURTROOM FLOOR --- Attorneys-at-War! --- Justice Incensed, an Affront to Propriety! --- On This Date, in the Year of Our Lord 1865, in the County of Firelands, Colorado, the Court of the Honorable Donald Hostetler, in the matter of … oh, hell, what does it matter now? Our own Michael Moulton, Attorney at Law, an established member of our Community and respected Practitioner of his honorable Trade, squared off in Court against his professional Counterpart, and presented his Case before the Bar. The Courtroom was packed: not a seat was to be had, men lounged against walls and convenient Pillars and Posts, and all watched as His Honor the Judge ceremonially ignited his First Cigar of the Session, after which he raised up his Gavel and brought it smartly down upon its Sounding-Block. It was perhaps an omen that said Sounding-Block split down its Center and broke in Two under this first Blow. His Honor the Judge proceeded to foul the Atmosphere about his silver-haired Head with great and evidently savored clouds from his hand-rolled Cuban, and he called for the First Case of the Day. Prosecution brought their case before the Judge, naming the Defendant as a Rascal, a Scoundrel, an individual whose choice to separate himself from the Rule of Law marked him as Persona Non Grata, as one whose Company in our gentle Community should no longer be Tolerated: his Offenses, grievous in nature and numerous in quantity, were enumerated in detail: multiple of these were Egregious and Shocking to the common Conscience, and caused the Defendant some Discomfort to hear these well-deserved Accusations. The Attorney for the Defense, one Samuel Mattingly, rose multiple times to Object: each objection was without Justification, as this was the Opening Statement, and not Subject to Objections, and was so was Declared by His Honor, with sharp raps of his Gavel upon the bare Desk, his broken Sounding-Block having been removed by the Bailiff, and given over to a small Boy, who removed the same broken Device from the Courtroom for Repair. Prosecution, in the person of our own Mr. Moulton, was Interrupted with a Strong and Hostile Voice by said Mr. Mattingly, who rose and Accused the Prosecution of Fabrication, Prevarication and multiple other Offenses: as His Honor enthusiastically Hammered his Desk and Demanded Order, the Party of the First Part did then advance in a Threatening and Menacing Manner toward the Party of the Second Part: both Men removed their Coats, raised their clenched Knuckles, and Satisfaction being Demanded, and over the objections of the Judge and the Loud and Enthusiastic Encouragement of the Gallery, our honorable and dignified Courtroom became an Arena of Bloody Contest! Mr. Mattingly, being of a hot and intemperate Choler, committed a serious – indeed, a most egregious – Error in choosing other than Words for his Contest, as was evident in short Order. Mr. Moulton is known to our Community as a Patient and Long Suffering Man, and our Mr. Moulton is known as a Man of regular Habits, one of which is to Spar in a formal Gymnasium, twice a Week, with men who are Skilled at the Gentlemanly Art of Fisticuffs: we are given to understand that our own Mr. Moulton was, indeed, a renowned Boxer at University, all of which was apparently quite Unknown to his Challenger. As Mr. Moulton was set upon First, before multiple Witnesses of an utterly Unimpeachable Character, when the argument turned to hard-driven Knuckles instead of reasonably and persuasively crafted Words, the Contest was carried with a quick series of Jabs and a few, well placed Blows: when Mr. Moulton drew back two steps, fists raised to guard against another Attack, his Opponent was doubled over in Pain, bleeding from a seriously misshapen Nose, and two Teeth were spat out upon the courtroom Floor, having been removed from their natural Seat by a legally launched set of lawyerly Knuckles. Our Firelands Courtroom is normally a place of dignified Discussion, our Firelands Courtroom is ordinarily the scene of Persuasive and, at times, Powerfully Voiced Opinion: today, as near as can be Remembered, is the first Time Blood has been Drawn in the pursuit of Justice. His Honor the Judge’s summary ruling was that: First, Mr. Mattingly was personally charged with, and found guilty of, assault with intent to cause Harm; Second, Mr. Moulton, as the attacked Party, was innocent of any Wrongdoing; and Third, as the Defendant was represented by the Loser of this Physical Contest, that his Case was in like wise Lost: the Defendant was removed by the Sheriff to the local Calabozo, the injured Party was removed by a Deputy to our local Physician for his gentle Attentions, no doubt pained several times Over: first, for Losing his Case; second, for having gained the Offense of the Bench, which is a thing not forgotten in any Future Cases said Attorney may attempt to Represent in this Courtroom: and, finally, the more Permanent Effect of having lost two front Teeth, which cannot be easily Regrown by any Science known to Man. Reprinted from the Original Edition, As a Matter of Historical Interest. B. Jones, Editor D. Wales, Editor-at-Large

Oh, yes ... the most dangerous animal in the woods ... a green butter bar LT with a compass, a map and a Jeep!

SIR, TELL ME ABOUT WOMEN A father and his son sat together in the father’s study, two pale eyed men considering an open book. “You want to know about women,” Linn said quietly. “Yes, sir.” “I one time published a book, you know.” “Sir?” “Yep.” Linn nodded solemnly. “Titled it, ‘All I Know about Women.’ It went some five hundred pages, and every page was blank.” Joseph’s eyebrow raise skeptically. “Women are all different, Joseph,” Linn said slowly. “Your Mama and my Mama, both women, both very different. Your Mama is truly one of a kind. Mine” – he tapped the color photograph – “is descended from a long line of Valkyries.” Joseph’s expression leaned out a little, as if he were a bird dog striking a hot scent. “Here’s my Mama. Here” – he turned the page – “is Marnie. Here” – another page – “Sarah Lynne McKenna. Each one could be a twin for the other.” Joseph looked at Sarah’s portrait, frowned as he studied it. Linn uncovered the page opposite. It looked like the same woman, it was a portrait Joseph had seen before – this was his Gammaw, in a gown of her own making. The two were not quite mirror images, but they were so near identical as to gain a long, hard study from the son’s youthful eyes. He'd seen these before, but never side-by-side. “Now let’s take Marnie.” Linn pulled a folder from a stack, opened it, sorted through its several pages, pulled out a printed out picture, laid it atop Sarah McKenna’s portrait and beside Willamina Keller’s lookalike portrait. Joseph’s lower jaw slid out as he compared the two. “I … never saw Marnie … in that dress,” he said slowly. Linn drew the picture to the side, to reveal Sarah McKenna’s oval portrait again, and Joseph gave this the same close study. “Now.” Linn pulled out a photograph of Angela – a full length shot, carefully composed – “we know this lovely young lady.” Joseph nodded. Another page. Angela, in the same gown as Sarah McKenna, as Willamina Keller, her hair styled after the same fashion as Sarah’s coiffure, as Willamina’s wig: Joseph looked at these several images, looked at his father. “Does Angela look like them?” “No, sir. No, sir, she’s dressed the same but she doesn’t look like them.” “Is Angela as deadly as the others?” Joseph looked very directly at his father. “Yes, sir,” he said, without hesitation. “Yes, sir, she most certainly is.” “Is she different from my Mama?” “She looks different, sir.” “Is she different in temperament?” “I … never knew Gammaw that well,” he admitted. “Is Angela different natured than your sister Marnie?” “She is, sir.” Linn nodded slowly. “So here we have women who look alike, women who dress alike, these women” – he tapped his mother’s, his daughter’s, and his ancestress’s portraits – “these women look enough alike to be clones. I knew Mama as my mother and I know Marnie as my daughter so it’s hard for me to say that they are identical.” He smiled, just a little, and added, “They’re pretty darn close, though. And from all I’ve read” – his eyes went to the neat rank of reprinted Journals on his bookshelf – “I’d bet good money Sarah Lynne McKenna acted like both my Mama and your older sis!” “I see, sir.” “Now women in general.” Linn leaned back a little in his high back, armless chair. “Women are marvelous and mysterious creatures, Joseph, and I don’t have ‘em figured out.” Joseph leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his face resting against his thumbs, unblinking eyes on his pale eyed father. “Give a woman a ring and your love and she’ll give you a home and children. Give her your love and your faithfulness and she’ll give you more happiness than you knew could ever be possible. Give her grief and she’ll give you more absolute concentrated misery than you thought could ever exist.” “Force multipliers,” Joseph murmured. Linn snapped his fingers, thrust a bladed hand at his son: “Exactly!” he nodded. Linn leaned toward his son, winked, added in a confidential voice, “I’m a lifelong girlwatcher – like the old mountain man said, I loves the wimmens, I surely do – but I don’t anywhere near have ‘em figured out.” Joseph almost looked disappointed. “I can tell you women like being treated like ladies, except for the ones that’ll backhand you for opening a door for ‘em – a woman did that to me last year, called me a chauvinist pig – women like it when men do for them, when men make ‘em feel special.” “Yes, sir.” “Women compete with one another and women manipulate men, sometimes out of meanness and sometimes for reasons they may or may not know. Too often when they say something they mean something else. That’s why we look for the words beneath the words, the meaning behind the meaning.” “I see, sir.” “You sweet on a girl?” “No, sir, but …” Joseph’s ears reddened and he managed a shy grin. “I kinda thought I’d like to be.” Linn nodded. “I’ll give you the same advice a wise man gave me,” he said slowly. “If you’re sweet on a girl, set down at her Mama’s table. Take a long look at her Mama, ‘cause in twenty years that’s what your girl will look like. Eat her Mama’s cookin’ because that’s what your girl will always cook like.” “Yes, sir.” “My Pa made mistakes raisin’ me, Joseph, and maybe even those mistakes were things he needed to teach me.” “Sir?” “I was sweet on a girl in college. Pa didn’t want any part of her. She was not from the mountains, she was a city girl, he just … didn’t like her.” “Yes, sir?” “He was pretty damned narrow minded and that taught me not to be so narrow minded as he was." “I see, sir.” “He set some bad examples for me, Joseph. I’ve tried to learn from them.” “Yes, sir.” “I don’t think I’ve been a whole lot of help.” Joseph looked at the open book, the pages, the open folder. “I don’t need help quite yet, sir. I just thought it wise to lay some foundation.” Linn nodded again. “In this,” he said approvingly, “you are wise.” “It’s kind of hard to answer a question when there’s no specific question, sir.” Linn laughed, nodded. “Yeah, my crystal ball run out of batteries last week, and the Mercantile doesn’t carry that size.” “Sir?” “Yes, Joseph?” “The girl you were sweet on in college …” Joseph let the question dangle, and Linn realized his son was learning more than he’d realized: this was a trick he himself used in interrogations, the open ended question, the invitation to let the other fellow complete the thought. Silence grew long between them as Linn's expression softened, as he looked at his son. “Sir, did you ever see that college girl again?” Linn blinked a few times, looked away. “No,” he admitted softly. “No, I … didn’t know much about women, Joseph, but I knew enough … if I was breaking it off, I broke it clean and we never … communicated … after that.” “I’m sorry, sir.” Linn’s momentum carried him through memories he’d not waded through for a very long time. “I tried calling her, once … it was a year after I’d married your Mama, and I found Dana died a year to the day before your Mama and I were married.” Joseph was honestly not sure what reply would be appropriate, so he trod the more cautious path and made none. “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I followed my heart,” Linn said in a soft and thoughtful voice, “instead of being an obedient son.” “Yes, sir?” “I’d have probably run a water plant in Canal Fulton and been a retired widower by now.” Joseph waited for his father to surface from the pool of regrets and memories he’d waded into. Linn smiled – a sad little smile, something Joseph had never seen, something that told him his pale eyed father’s defenses were gone – Linn took a long breath, looked at his son. “I’m sorry. Ask a German for the time and he tells you how the watch is made.” “I’m sorry, sir. I had no intent to bring you old sorrows.” Linn shook his head. “They’re mine, Joseph. My ghosts to deal with. I’ve earned every last one of ‘em and they’re mine to carry.” Shelly came padding downstairs in fuzzy slippers and her shapeless terrycloth bathrobe, rubbing her eyes and smiling at father and son and their early morning conference. Joseph looked at his Mama's sleepy smile, and his father's look of absolute, adoring affection, and he knew that whatever there was between his parents, it was something very good, and he offered a silent request to his Creator that he'd be lucky enough to experience this same thing, in due time. In due time, he did, but that's a story yet to be told.