8.
Trace and Sandy had been out on their planned celebration night, blowing off steam. It had been four days since the shooting and the chase and three days since DeSienna's arrest and, as there had been no further incidents, it was almost off the detective's mind - almost - when the inevitable happened.
The night had started out pleasantly but went consistently downhill from there. Trace had barely got through the door and ran smack into one of her exes (and a prime example of why the detective didn't do relationships). And, unfortunately, an ex who was not pleased with the break up and still not ready to let go of the tumultuous relationship. Karen Wong was attractive and, for all intents and purposes, congenial...to everyone but Trace. She hid her insanity well and Sandy used to tease Trace about her and Karen skipping down the psychopath of love. Or lust, more accurately. She became dangerously obsessed with the police detective, a fatal attraction of sorts, and Trace had to file a temporary restraining order against her after they broke up.
Since then, Karen had only tried to contact her once and that gesture was met with serious reprisal, so it had not happened again. However, there were times that they ended up at the same places, out of coincidence and Trace left it alone as long as Karen kept her distance. Tonight, they found themselves standing shoulder to elbow at the bar. Trace acknowledged her politely, civilly, and walked away with two Coronas for Sandy and herself. Karen just glared at her, eyes boring holes into her back, resenting her for being there with anyone, even knowing Sandy was just a friend.
Trace tried not to let it bother her that Karen was there and did not want to possibly aggravate an already tense situation even more by insisting her ex leave the bar, as the TRO required Karen to stay at least five hundred feet away from the detective. Sandy was more disturbed that the obviously spiteful and unstable woman was there than Trace was. Looking back on it, she would have much rather dealt with Karen at her worst than what eventually transpired.
Dancing, drinking, releasing all the tension in her body that had built up over the past week, Trace hadn't let her guard down and enjoyed herself like this in what seemed like forever. The club was crowded and she danced with everybody. Or it felt like everybody. Except Karen.
She was having such a good time, in fact, that she couldn't hide her annoyance at Sandy, who elbowed her way across the dance floor and grabbed her quite roughly, and escorted her toward a wall.

"Wh -? What are you doing?!" Trace yanked her arm out of her best friend's grasp. She swallowed her anger, however, when she saw the look of sheer panic and fear on Sandy's face. "What's wrong?"
Leaning in, to be heard over the pulsating, loud music, Sandy said, "DeSienna is here...and I think he's brought his whole gang with him."
"That's impossible - he's in jail..." Following the direction of Sandy's subtle pointing, Trace was sure her heart stopped beating...after it jumped into her throat. There, at the front entrance, was Vincent DeSienna, surrounded by three of the biggest goons she'd ever seen. All she could think of was the tuxedoed, gorilla door man in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" in triplicate. Her instinct pushed her automatically toward the back door but once again, Sandy stopped her. "Don't bother, I checked. They're back there, too."
Crestfallen, stopping short of being downright panicky, she ran her hand through her long locks in contemplative frustration. "Fuck! How the fuck did he get out of jail?"
"Hello...! Earth to Trace...! He's a freaking DeSienna, I'm surprised he was in jail as long as he was and you should be, too."
"How the fuck did he know I was here? I know no one tailed us. I was extra cautious on that...how -?"
Realization struck them both at the same time. "Karen!" they furiously chorused.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Trace's mouth went dry. "How could she do this?" Her head swiveled back and forth between the front entrance and the hallway leading to the back door as though she were intently watching volleying in a tennis match. Had they seen her yet? Hopefully not. She reached for her cell phone to call in reinforcements, feeling around the area where the device was normally clipped to her belt. It was gone. Physically looking down, she visually searched her own waistline and then the immediate area around her. "Shit...Sandy, my cell's gone!"
"What do you mean?" Now the fear was beginning to rise in Sandy. Trace was never without her phone and Sandy did not have hers as she had dropped it and damaged it that afternoon. Suddenly this was turning into a real Murphy's Law kind of a night.
"I mean I don't know where it is...!" She was still frantically looking around.
"Did you leave it in the bathroom?"
"I haven't been to the bathroom yet." Trace's eyes suddenly locked with Karen's, who was standing at the bar, a smug yet contemptible expression crossing her normally delicate features. In an exaggerated movement, she raised her arm high into the air so that it could be seen above the heads of the other bar patrons. In her hand was Trace's cell phone. "That bitch!" the detective bellowed, her voice roaring with anger.

Sandy scoured the bar until she focused on what Trace saw. "Man...she wants her revenge. Bad."
"She's signed my fucking death warrant, whether she's realized it or not."
"Let's borrow someone else's cell...show 'em your badge, tell 'em it's a police emergency. Take your gun out, and -"
"No. No time. Besides, I don't want to do anything that might provoke these idiots to open fire in this crowd." Trace ushered Sandy toward the restroom area. "We've got to think of something fast or I'm never going to make it out of here alive...and you might not, either."
"Fire," she suggested, quickly.
"We can't start a fire, Sandy. Jesus, people might get hurt or killed."
"Who said anything about starting one? All we have to do is yell it and then we can move out with the crowd."
A look of satisfaction and relief washed over the detective's face. "No one would hear us over this noise...but if we could set the sprinkler system off..." she pulled Sandy into the ladies room with her.
Trace was never more grateful that Sandy smoked than at that moment. Sandy helped brace the detective who climbed precariously onto a stall wall, directly under a sprinkler valve and flicked on the lighter she had passed up to her.
Just then, a bar patron walked in and stopped, startled, by what she saw. "What are you doing?" she asked the two women. Before either of them could respond, she began to back out. "I'm going to get the manager..." and with that threat, she was gone.
"Yep, go ahead," Trace muttered, continuing her task. "I may get banned from this place but I'll be alive." In a matter of seconds, water was spraying everywhere and an ungodly loud alarm began sounding. Jumping down from her perch, getting soaked, she handed Sandy her lighter back. "Let's get out of here."
************************************************** ****
9.
It should not have worked as well as it did, both women thinking that it was almost too easy. But they had escaped, losing themselves in the thick of the crowd that moved quickly toward the exits, out into the streets, passed the henchmen watching the doors. The frenzied bar patrons had shot out of the club entrances, literally pushing DeSienna

and his stooges out of their way, knocking a few down in the process, just enough confusion to distract the gangster from his worst intentions.
"Wow. That was close," Sandy remarked, unnecessarily, as they ran to her car parked two blocks away. "Now what?" she asked, unlocking the doors with her remote.
"Just...just drive," Trace told her friend as she climbed into the back seat and laid down.
Starting up the car, shifting it into drive, Sandy pulled away from the curb. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know if they know your car or not or what Karen might have told them but even if they don't, they'll be looking for two people not one. It may not work, but I'll just stay down here until we get out of the city."
"Where are we going?"
"Head west, get on 105. I'll tell you from there."
While they drove, Sandy continued to check her rear view mirror for headlights following them. Once they made it past the city limits, they were pretty much alone on the highway. Slowly, Trace rose from the backseat, cautiously looking around before she sat up completely. There were no lights behind them and no tail lights ahead of them.
"How much gas do you have left?" the detective rubbed her eyes, trying to regain her focus.
"Half tank. Where did you want to go?"
"I...uh...I think I want to go to Mark's."
"Where is that?"
"In the mountains. I'll tell you where to drop me off."
"Drop you -? Are you insane?"
"I'm not going to tell you where exactly Mark's place is, Sandy. If you don't know, no one can torture it out of you."
"You think they won't kill me, anyway? Christ, Trace! No one will ever believe that I don't know where you are. Take me with you, where ever it is," she pleaded, desperately.
"No. I won't turn you into prey with DeSienna as the hunter. You don't deserve that. It's bad enough one of us is going to have to be looking over her shoulder the rest of her life, both of us shouldn't have to."

"Come on, Trace, you can't leave me now..."
She was shaking her head before Sandy could finish speaking. "No. You will be fine as long as you're nowhere near me. Just - just don't go back to your place tonight, let things cool down." Reaching in her pocket, Trace took out ninety dollars in cash and handed the wad over the seat to Sandy. "Take this and get yourself a room somewhere. Tomorrow, call Bobby and tell him what happened...depending on what's going on, he'll be able to advise you from there."
Sandy continued driving, concerned silence filling the time. Finally she said, "What about you? What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I'll think of something at Mark's. If DeSienna finds out where I am, by the time he gets to me, hopefully I'll have a plan together and be out of there." Pointing to a poorly lit gas station/convenience store, Trace said, "Stop up there and let me out. I'll call Mark from that pay phone and tell him where to come get me."
"When will I hear from you?" Sandy inquired, slowing the car to a stop.
"When I feel it's safe. I'll call you." Trace exited the car and walked quickly around to the driver's side, leaning in the window and hugging Sandy. "Take care of yourself. Don't take any shit off anybody."
"You take care of yourself, Trace. I'm frightened for you."
Smiling ruefully, the tall detective told her, "I've been playing Russian Roulette with the DeSiennas for years. It was only a matter of time before I took the bullet."
"Don't say that! Jesus, Trace..."
"You need to get moving, Sandy. Now." Trace commanded her, stepping away from the car. "We'll talk in a few days, if not before."
"Promise?"
"Promise." She watched as the Firebird eased back onto the highway, heading further away from the city.
************************************************** *******
10.
"You just can't keep yourself from stepping into a pile of shit, can you? Not going to come up smelling like a rose on this one, huh?" Mark commented, rhetorically. He maneuvered his pick-up truck uphill through a thickly forested, dirt road that wound

around the mountain he called home. Taking nearly an hour to reach the house, it was close to midnight by the time he and Trace pulled in to his driveway.
He had picked up his phone on the second ring, alerting instantly on Trace's tone of voice, somewhere between forced composure and agitation. He didn't ask her why, when she asked that he come get her, knowing she would explain once they were together. After hanging up the pay phone at the store where Sandy had dropped her off, Trace then hiked directly into the woods for about a mile and a half, remembering the path that took her to the gravel road where she told Mark she would meet him.
After hugging him gratefully, she buckled herself in and unloaded her "story" to him as they drove. She neglected to advise him about the real reason Vincent was after her, knowing that he was too intelligent not to figure out that Trace may have been the reason he got shot and pensioned out all those years ago. Mark was too good a friend to ever have him find out any of the bad things she did, so she unraveled a tale of woe he would buy. He shook his head, sympathetically, cursing the DeSiennas for once again ruining another life.
Once inside Mark's humble abode, he cracked open a Budweiser, handing it to her, and embraced her again for comfort. He could tell she was angry but also ready to break down and cry, an emotion he knew she considered weak and would never reveal to him unless keeping it in would literally cause her to implode. Holding her so close benefited him, as well...it wasn't often he got to put his arms around such a sensuous woman. He knew Trace was a lesbian, that there would never be anything sexual between them but, respectfully, it didn't stop him from having his fantasies.
Finishing her beer, she asked if he minded if she took a shower. Handing her a fresh towel, he provided her with an old but clean set of sweats for her to change into. Afterward, sitting on the futon where she would sleep, sipping on a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, she seemed to physically relax, at least more than he'd seen her since she got into his truck.
"So," she paused, looking around at all the contraptions and gadgets that cluttered Mark's den, "invented anything interesting?"
"Well...interesting to you and interesting to me are two different concepts. I'm working on a few things that might tweak your shorts."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Aw, come on, Trace, you know you're really not interested," Mark grinned at her.
She regarded him seriously. He was an attractive man, in a "B" prison movie sort of way. Kind of rough and swarthy, muscular, with short hair and almost always a two or three day stubble, very much contradicting the science geek image that he conveyed to anyone who had never personally met him. He had an even, white smile that enhanced

that playboy look and an untapped charisma that only Trace rarely got a glimpse of. If she had been into men, she would have gone after Mark in a heartbeat.
She sighed. "I need to take my mind of my troubles, Marky-Mark, so tell me what you've been up to."
"Well...if you mean it then let's do the rounds."
He took her on a tour around his den and office, showing her and explaining about all his new inventions, some that were finished and quite clever and a few that were still crude and in various stages of creation and completion. The internet had provided him with a plethora of areas that aided him in his research and the knowledge he gained was invaluable when combining it with his imagination.
Downstairs, in his basement, he led her to what looked like a seven-foot plexiglass tube, and beamed at her, contentedly. "And here is my baby...my pride and joy, my future Nobel Peace Prize winner."
Trace studied the cylindrical shaped object before her with question and amusement. "What is it?"
"This? In lieu of a more scientific name which I doubt you would understand anyway, I call it my retro molecular transference device."
She shook her head, laughing. "That sounds like something Frankenfurter and Riff Raff would come up with. What does it mean?"
"It's a...uh...time machine."
Nearly choking on her tea, Trace looked at the tube, then him. "You're kidding. You mean like in 'Time After Time' and 'Back To The Future'?"
"Well, not quite as elaborate or dramatic but...yeah, something like that."
"Seriously? Have you experimented with anything yet?"
"Just plants and objects and a few annoying rodents."
"And?"
"And...nothing...I'm not sure anything has made it to where I've sent it and
I haven't figured out a way to get anything back yet. And don't ask me why I can't just reverse the process because, for some reason, it doesn't work that way."
Trace nodded, "Damn, Mark...still, that's pretty impressive."

************************************************** ***
11.
By the time Trace woke up and roused herself from the warmth of the comfortable futon, Mark had already been down to the store and back, having retrieved his mail, two coffees, two cheese danish rolls and a local newspaper. Accepting the cup from him, Trace couldn't help but notice the somber expression on his face. In contrast to his sunny, talkative, friendly mood the night before, he was silent and brooding.
"What's wrong?" she looked up at him after taking a long swallow of coffee.
"Um...what kind of car was Sandy driving last night?"
Hesitantly, with dread, she answered, "A 2002 burgundy Firebird...why?"
Mark just shook his head, solemnly and tossed the paper to her, walking to the kitchen to get napkins for the danish pastries.
"NOOOO!!!" It was a wail, a voice of pain like he had never heard from anyone, especially his ex-patrol partner. "Those fucking bastards!! Why? Why her?? I'm the one they wanted...!!"
"They haven't identified the body yet, are you sure it's her?" Mark asked, sitting beside her on the futon.
"Oh, God, I'm positive. An African American woman, dressed in a black leather skirt and a lilac-colored blouse, found dead in a totaled maroon Firebird?" Trace fell back against the pillow, her arm covering her eyes, not being able to control the tears. "How did they find her? No one followed us..." She sat up quickly. "Mark. I've got to get out of here. You're in danger...anyone around me is in danger now."
Grabbing her before she catapulted off the futon, Mark put a reassuring arm around her. "Okay, just settle down a minute. Sandy's car went off the road about a hundred miles from here in the other direction. So unless they talked to her first, they won't have any clue where she dropped you off. And, even if they did, the guy who owns the gas station never said anything about any strangers around asking any questions about anyone. And, trust me, he is the highway busybody, if anything out of the ordinary was going on, he would have told me." His tone was as soothing as it could be but it didn't stop Trace from hugging her knees to her and rocking.
"You know these guys, Mark...they won't stop until they find me, until I'm dead. I am not going to be responsible for your murder as well."
"Trace, come on, you can't just leave, you have to have a plan. Now calm down and lets put our heads together here."

There was an awkward silence between them as they both thought the same thing: Trace was a dead woman, regardless of what they came up with. Her premature end was inevitable. Unless...
"Mark! What about your time machine?" She blurted, suddenly.
Eying her incredulously, he responded, "What about it?"
"Can it transport me?"
"What!? Are you nuts? I am nowhere near close to that kind of experimentation yet, and even if I was, I can't get you back!! And...and...like I said, I don't even know if the objects I've played around with have made it to wherever they go alive and in one piece!!"
"So what? Either way, I'm dead. I have nothing to lose."
He looked at her, almost pleadingly. "I do."
"Then help me do something. I can't stay here and I will be a target wherever I go. Please, Mark...I am desperate...!"
"Then move to the Swiss Alps, to the jungles of Central America, to Alaska, somewhere remote where it won't be worth it to them to look."
"This man will never stop looking until he physically sees my dead body. I am not going to spend the rest of my life hiding, waiting to be ambushed, waiting to die."
"Trace...I'm not -"
"Look, Mark, think of it this way, if I make it, you can start working toward your Nobel Prize."
"But I won't know if you make it, that's my point." He scratched his head, exasperated. "Trace, even if I was positive it worked, honestly, you're not exactly the woman I'd handpick for this experiment."
"Why not?"
"Because it's set for over a hundred years ago - the old west. You know nothing about the culture, don't own a dress, every other word out of your mouth is 'fuck.' Five minutes of listening to you and they'd hang you for…for God knows what."
"I could learn..." she argued, unreasonably.
"In a day? Even I'm not that much of an optimist." And then he got an idea.

**********************************************
12.
Looking at the finished product, Mark was pretty pleased with himself. Standing at arms length from him, Trace was dressed in the comfortable, old pair of Frye boots she had worn the night before, a pair of Mark's black jeans that hung a little loosely on her, which Mark assured her was a good thing and a faded black denim shirt Mark couldn't wear anymore. The hardest part for both of them was binding Trace's chest down with a bandage used to wrap the body to protect broken ribs. The brunette was pretty well endowed, a fact that needed to be hidden if she was going to be successful at this. Her face scrubbed of all make-up, all earrings and other modern jewelry removed, her hair now clipped in a shaggy boyish cut, Trace looked like an exotically adorable younger man. It just might work.
He knew he was crazy to go along with this but he also knew she was right. If she was going to die anyway, at least (he hoped) it wouldn't be horrifically excruciating or at the hands of the DeSiennas.
"Okay...you'll need money..." he continued.
"That's not a problem, I have enough money to get me started," she told him.
"Uh, no," he smiled at her, patiently. "Money looked different back then. We need to find you jewelry and trinkets you can used to pawn for money, things that aren't too modern or don't look too suspicious." Mark ran to his bedroom and, was gone for less than five minutes and returned with his hand closed. "Here."
Trace displayed her palm and dropped onto it were two gold bands, a small diamond ring, two diamond earrings, a pearl, sapphire and a jade necklace. "What's this?"
"My great grandmother's jewelry."
"No, I can't take this -"
"Yes, yes, you can. You have to. You'll need it. And it's style and design is closer to the era you'll be in. I won't miss it. It's just been sitting there in this small cedar box for a few generations."
They studied each other for what felt like an eternity before he pulled her into a strong embrace. She pulled away and kissed him on the cheek. "You ready?"
"Yeah," he told her quietly. "Are you?"
************************************************** *****

She didn't expect to be dropped from mid-air...she had mistakenly thought if she made it at all, she would just 'beam' there like Captain Kirk. When she hit the ground, it was with a bone-crushing thud that knocked her unconscious.
************************************************** ******
13.
The petite, pallid, slender blonde stepped cautiously, listening for any unusual or suspicious noises around her, ready to use the shot gun she would now carry with her at all times. She was still skittish and frightened from her attack three weeks earlier and wasn't at all pleased that on her first foray outside the sanctity of her ranch, one of her horses got loose and trotted away. She should have just let him come back on his own but with all that had happened lately, she couldn't be sure if he would return or meet with an untimely demise at the hands of the ruthless Crane family, who were doing everything they could to intimidate her off her land.
Any sane person would have just taken the monetary offer and let them have their way. But her resolve went way beyond what anyone one else considered rational. Small as it was, compared to others in the area, this ranch had belonged to her mother and father and it meant too much to her to just give it up. It was all she had left of her family. It was her home and she stubbornly did not care that it was blocking the influentially, territorial, strong-arming Crane clan from their direct cattle drive route eastward or their mission to own all the property west of the booming little town of Sagebrush. She had paid dearly for her obstinacy - slaughtered cows, burned crops, crippled horses and the worst of all, her rape.
Ben Crane was the youngest of the Crane boys, the only one who hadn't married yet and was under a lot of pressure from his family to do so. But Ben was a notorious philanderer, considered merely roguish by his father and brothers but was known as a violent womanizer in the town. Ben was a mean drunk who preferred the company of the wayward women who resided above the saloon because he knew he could treat them any disrespectful way he pleased and pay them enough to take it.
However, now with the strong insistence of his family to take a wife, he cast his eye upon Rachel Young, perhaps the most beautiful woman in the valley, easily the comeliest of any female Ben had ever seen. After all, why shouldn't he have the best? Besides, it would solve the problem of gaining access to the land she owned. It never occurred to him that she wouldn't be interested, that she would resist his offer, that she would have the audacity (much less the courage) to turn down a Crane.
Well, he had to admit that his reputation wasn't the most proper and maybe that was the deterrent. And she had been polite but firm in her refusal, even though he had taken a bath, donned his best Sunday suit and brought her a bouquet of flowers. However, a Crane never took no for an answer and he thought that he could just wear her down. He was, he knew, very handsome, rich and charming, when he put his mind to it, and he felt

that the lovely Miss Rachel would never get another offer like his. So, why had she been so difficult? It wasn't right that she lived on this big spread of land by herself, her father losing his battle with cancer three months before her mother, who passed away a year earlier from consumption, her beau had been killed in a train robbery almost right after her mother died. She had to be lonesome and she needed a husband to take care of her and all the manly responsibilities that owning a ranch entailed.
Ben Crane tried several times to call on her but Rachel Young would have none of it. The more persistent he was, the stronger her unyielding nature became. Stubborn woman. He was getting to be the town joke and began to feel humiliated at some of the more brazen comments aimed at his manhood. One evening, nearly a month ago at Wilbur's Saloon, the more he drank, the more his anger soared. He rode out to the Young ranch, well after dusk, and caught Rachel leaving the stall of a new mama and her colt.
She fought him fiercely, screamed, yelled, struggled, begged, pleaded...but she was no match for his physical strength or nasty alcohol-induced demeanor. By the time he was finished, she had nearly passed out from the pain and injuries her body had sustained from the brutal attack.
She was weak and terrified, in shock, embarrassed and at a total loss for what to do next. Crane, reeking of stale whiskey and bitter tobacco, rolled off her, smug, arrogant, plainly lacking any shame. He staggered to his feet, pulled his trousers back up, sunk back to his knees and drew back his arm at her. She flinched, cowered, instinct directing her to cover her face but her limbs wouldn't respond. She prepared herself to feel the blow of his fist again but something stopped him from following through.
"Now look at ya. Ain't too good for me now, are ya? You're a nice piece of tail, Miss Rachel, and I'll make sure the whole town knows it, too. I'll make sure if you don't marry me, then no man will want ya." And, with that, he left the stall, mounted his horse and rode away.
She laid there for several minutes after he was gone, frozen, her brain feeling paralyzed, not fully believing or comprehending what had just taken place. Tears involuntarily crept down her face as she slowly sat up, her favorite gingham work dress now in tatters, every movement excruciating, every bone in her body, every inch of her skin, feeling agonizingly damaged. She brushed straw and hay out of her hair with a shaky hand, her trembling fingers then inspecting the cuts and bruises on her cheek and lips. And then there was the blood on her dress. There seemed to be so much blood.
She had been a virgin, scheduled to marry her childhood sweetheart, Thomas Baines, and she had been saving herself for her wedding night as any respectably brought up woman did. But then Tommy had been killed in the crossfire of a train robbery gone horribly awry. He had been on his way back to Sagebrush after finishing school and earning his law degree...he was coming home to her, to marry her when the unthinkable happened. He had been sitting in his seat, minding his own business when a stray bullet from the revolver of one of the marshals pursuing the robbers went clean through his heart. It was

as if the bullet had penetrated her heart as well, even though she was safely a hundred miles away, tending to her herb and vegetable garden. In a little over a year, she had lost the three most important people in her life...who could blame her for becoming a recluse?
Rachel had been warned by her mother that she might bleed on her wedding night, sometimes the breaking of the hymen would cause that, but if it happened, it was natural and she shouldn't worry about it. Certainly her mother hadn't meant it would have been like this...no, Tommy would have been gentle and loving, he never would have hurt her. Not that she had been even thinking about it, still being in mourning and all, but Ben Crane was right. No man would want her now. Yet that was the least of her worries, as she slowly rose to her knees, feeling as though someone had inserted a fist, which had grabbed hold of her female organs and yanked down with all their might. She collapsed to a fetal position, convulsing in pulsating pain and then she couldn't stop herself from heaving up the contents in her stomach on what was left of the clothing remaining on her battered body.
Hours had passed before she felt able to leave the stall and even think about making her way back to the main house. Once inside, she bolted her door closed, not daring to face her reflection in the mirror, afraid of what she knew she would see. She utilized the indoor pump to fill the kettle that she would use to heat water for her bath. She barely waited for the liquid to roll to a boil before she finished filling the tub with tepid water right from the pump. And she scrubbed what skin wasn't already raw and bleeding until it was.
In the twenty-five days since, she had lived off her own land, not leaving the ranch. Once a week, Caleb Tipping's boy, Isaac, rode out to the property with a regular feed order from his store, so the stock was always taken care of. When he looked horrified by her appearance, she explained away her bruises by telling the teenager that she had been trying to break the new mustang she got and was thrown for her efforts.
Even if someone had believed she had been raped, no one would have done anything about it because her attacker had been one of the all-powerful Cranes. She would heal herself, keep her own counsel and do the best she could to keep her home and sanity intact. And then other incidents started to mysteriously happen to her animals, her property, her livelihood. That's when she started carrying around the shotgun everywhere with her. She swore if Ben Crane ever came near her again, she would blow a hole in him bigger than the entire Texas territory.
************************************************** *****
14.
Rachel blinked, thinking the sun was playing tricks on her at first and then praying the man lying motionless on the ground in front of her was not dead. Approaching carefully, she first gently prodded the person with the barrel of her gun. There was no movement.

She looked for obvious wounds such as bullet holes, slash marks, rope line around the neck...but she saw no evidence of any of that nor did she see any blood anywhere.
She wasn't above thinking that Crane might have sent one of his men to trick her, so she was guarded when she knelt down to study the situation more closely. If it wasn't a ploy, this person was hurt somehow and she just couldn't leave him there to die or to suffer alone for the coyotes, buzzards and God only knew what else to finish him off. Seeing nothing to convince her that there was anything to be concerned about on this cowboy's back, she rolled him over with great effort to observe the front side of him.
She started at the man's boots, which didn't look like any cowboy footwear she had ever seen before, then noticed that his denim trousers also seemed different...or maybe that was just the way they fit over this slender man's lower frame. As her eyes traversed up this stranger's body, her focus was suddenly pulled to his head. This was no one she had ever seen before and, having grown up in Sagebrush, she thought she knew everyone. Although, there were always saddle bums moving through town at any given time, picking up enough work to get them enough money to move on to the next town.
Her gaze finally focused on the drifter's facial features and her heart stopped as she looked at the most striking face she had ever laid eyes on. The features were sculpted, high cheekbones and tanned complexion which could have indicated a possible Indian or Gypsy heritage, long dark eyelashes and shaggy, black hair cut in a style she'd never seen any man sport in these parts. The nose was slender, almost womanish, but it seemed perfect on this face. The lips looked soft and they were slightly parted, an expression which immediately got Rachel's heart beating again, only a little faster than she was used to. She wasn't sure exactly what emotion was washing over her but she knew it wasn't fear.
Her hand automatically brushed against the cowboy's face, feeling no stubble, no evidence of a beard and she guessed, despite his long and well filled out form, and this stranger must be young or reiterated the notion of some Indian blood in him. Transfixed, she had to mentally chastise herself to continue searching for injuries. Rachel's free hand moved down to the stranger's denim shirt, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Finding a tear in the fabric, she then felt something odd. She began unfastening the metal buttons, opening the shirt to reveal an unusual looking wrap, a binding of some kind. Spotting a circle of blood, approximately the size of her fist, Rachel assumed she had found the wound that must have made this stranger pass out.
Feeling the odd stretchy material of the binding, she put her fingers on the dark, moist area that appeared to be bleeding. Separating the layers of the wrap to see what type of wound she was dealing with, when she found skin, she saw a small jagged cut that did not look like a bullet hole or a knife slice. Her eyes grew wide, however, when she immediately noticed something else. Cleavage.
Startled, she glanced back up at the fascinating face and found herself looking directly into the most intense pale blue eyes she had ever seen. Before she could react, a hand

grabbed her wrist, holding her in place securely, strength she was surprised to find in a woman.
"What are you doing?" the stranger asked, tersely. Her voice was raspy but her register was a low alto, one that could have been possibly mistaken for a callow male.
"N-nothing...I...I was checking to see if y...you were hurt..." She sounded terrified and confused.
Trace realized how tightly she was holding this woman's wrist and quickly eased up her grip and then let her go. Rachel lost her balance and fell back on her rear end, dropping her rifle. She scrambled backward, picking up her shotgun, got to her feet and fixed the weapon at Trace.
"Who are you? Why are you dressed like a man?" Rachel's voice may have been shaking but her aim was steady.
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Well..." she hesitated, "...you don't have any whiskers..."
"All the men in my family have light beards." Trace scratched her chin for emphasis and moved to leaning on her elbows. She had to squint to protect her eyes from the sun, which was still high in the sky behind Rachel.
"And," Rachel's face reddened in embarrassment, "you have breasts."
Trace smiled at her. "And you would know that because...?"
"I was checking to see if you were hurt."
"Uh huh." The brunette nodded, not taking her eyes off the blonde.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you're pretending to be a man," Rachel reemphasized.
"Shit," Trace swore. "Not even here, what, thirty minutes and I've already blown my cover." She shook her head, disgusted with herself.
Rachel was more than mildly surprised that this woman did not seem at all afraid of facing down the barrel of her shotgun. And her words were peculiar. Blown her cover? What did that mean? "Answer my question," The blonde demanded, readjusting the hold on her shot gun training it on Trace as she slowly, stiffly sat up.

The Twenty-First century police detective rubbed her eyes and then directed her attention to the Nineteenth Century woman. Her long, golden blonde hair probably bleached lighter by whatever time she spent outside in the sun, was pulled back away from her face and shoulders by a ribbon. She had intelligent, piercing, emerald green eyes and a lovely face. Her slender figure was covered from shoulder to toe by a dress that showed off her more than an adequate bust line, trim waist and then billowed out from there. When Trace's eyes moved back up Rachel's body and pinned her with a defiant glare, the blonde set her jaw and matched her recalcitrance.
Casually putting her hand up in surrender, Trace attempted to massage away the dull pain in her shoulder with her other hand. "Okay, okay, relax. You can put that thing down, I'm not going to hurt you or try anything. I promise." Rachel lowered the shotgun to her side but her posture remained alert. "What year is it?"
"What?" The blonde blinked, wondering what was wrong with this very handsome woman.
"Year...what year is it?"
"Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine. Why don't you know that? Did you hit your head?"
An exuberant smile crossed Trace's face. "He did it!! Yes!!" Her enthusiasm and odd behavior startled the blonde, who leveled the weapon at her again. Once again, the brunette raised her hand. "No, it's - never mind. I'm just a little fuzzy from my...um...fall."
"You fell? Is that how you got cut?" There was a hint of concern in her voice.
"Cut?"
Rachel indicated the bloodstain on Trace's wrapped chest. "There."
Looking down, the detective's hand instinctively went to her breast. "Shit." She reached inside the binding and felt around. "Yep. Damn it." Looking around her immediate area, she spied a jagged rock she must have landed on. Well, thankfully, it wasn't bleeding profusely or too terribly painful. Her entire body ached from the impact. She knew she'd have a few bruises but was pretty sure nothing was wrenched, sprained or broken.
"You curse a lot. And you still haven't answered my question."
Sighing, Trace knew she couldn't put it off, any longer. "I'm not from around here, which I'm sure you already noticed."
"Where are you from?"
"Um..." She had to make up a name...if she said Union City and that was the name of the town now, the blonde would know she was lying. "...Cottonwood?"

"I've never heard of it...where is that?"
"Far from here."
"How'd you get here?"
"Uh...my horse threw me?"
"Why do you say it like you're asking me? Did your horse throw you or not?"
"Yes. Yes. My horse threw me. You haven't seen him anywhere around have you?"
Rachel suspiciously squinted. "What did he look like?"
Think fast, Trace. "He was a...pinto with a...um...brown mane and tail. Black saddle."
"Haven't seen anything like that around here. A painted pony, huh? You Indian?"
"Me? No." Not that I know of, Trace finished to herself. "Why? Do I look Indian?"
"Looks like you could have some Indian in you. Or Gypsy. So - are you running from somebody or not?"
What to do, what to do. Maybe this woman could help her. She definitely needed a friend and maybe explaining her circumstances in terms that the smaller woman might understand would make a difference. Not only that, Trace thought, as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, giving the blonde a more than appreciative once over, maybe she could introduce this little cutie to a little Sapphic pleasure while she was here. Trace gave herself a mental slap. Those kinds of advances would probably get her executed in this era. Damn...maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. "Well...it's like this. I'll tell you if you put that gun down and we can get out of the sun."
Not budging, Rachel said, "You'll tell me now."
Trace knew she could be on her feet and disarm the blonde in a heartbeat but she also knew that would be a mistake. This woman wasn't a killer. She was frightened, Trace could sense it, could see it in her eyes. She certainly wouldn't make any points by bullying her. Relaxing, Trace broke into her friendliest smile and shrugged in concession. "All right... may I ask your name?"
"Rachel."
"Rachel, I'm Trace. And yes, Rachel, someone is after me."
"What did you do?"

"Actually? Nothing." She surely wouldn't understand the dynamics of the vendetta, so Trace decided to keep it simple. "I made someone very angry with me and I did everything I could to fix the situation but nothing worked. So now he wants me dead."
Her eyes widened in shock. That would explain the disguise but what could a woman have possibly done that was so bad to have caused a posse to be after her? "Why?"
"Because...well...where I come from, Rachel, things are more, um, advanced. Women are allowed to be cops -"
"What's a cop?"
"Police...uh...peace officers..."
"Peace officers?" The expression of confusion on Rachel's face told Trace she didn't understand the vernacular.
"Marshals and sheriffs and deputies and jailers."
At first she nodded in comprehension but then she raised an eyebrow, as though she felt the brunette was pulling her leg. She almost laughed. "You must think I'm a fool. Women can't be the law. I've never heard of such a thing!"
"I'm serious. I am not lying to you. I was what was called a police detective in my town and -�
"Detective? Like Pinkerton?"
"No. Yes. Well, not exactly. It's sort of like that but I was more of a sheriff. I arrested some men who had friends and relatives that didn't like that very much. But they were very bad men and they needed to stay in jail. The leader of these men vowed to kill me. And I know he would, so...that's why I came here."
"Will he come here looking for you?" Rachel's voice suddenly took on a small intonation of dread.
"I doubt it. He has no idea where to even start looking for me."
"Then why must you keep dressing like a man?"
There was no way Rachel would understand the dynamics of that, either. "Because...I can't guarantee he or his gang won't eventually ride through the area hunting for me." Trace's blue eyes seemed almost pleading, which caused Rachel's cautious green ones to soften. "I know this is a lot to ask because we don't know each other but I need your help."

"What could I possibly do to help you?" Her voice was laced with skepticism. "I won't put my life in danger for someone I don't even know. Besides, I'm still not sure you're telling me the truth."
"You're right. You don't. I'm not asking you to hide me; I'm asking you to keep my cover -"
"You're what?"
"My disguise...I'm going to need to stay here a while - a long while - and I'm going to need to continue to convince everyone that I'm a man."
"Why?"
"Um...well, first...as I said, if this man and his friends ride through town looking for me, they'll be looking for a woman, not a man. Second, like I said, where I come from things are a lot more progressed. As an...uh... enforcer of the law, I am a lot more aggressive than any of your women and most of your men. I need to live here as a man. Trust me. Otherwise, men here will want to kill me, too."
"I still don't understand."
"I don't either but that's the way things are. You seem like a very kind woman, Rachel, and I am pretty sure you wouldn't do anything to intentionally send me to my death."
"No, of course not!" the blonde exclaimed, indignantly. "But I cannot have a man living in my home."
"Why? You're husband?"
"I'm not married."
"Really? A beautiful woman like you?" Trace's smile was engaging. "Why not?"
Rachel cast her eyes downward. "I'm just not." It wasn't the fact that Rachel was not married that made her break eye contact with Trace, it was an odd, not easily undefined feeling the brunette generated in her that caused a burning in her cheeks. For the second time since meeting this stranger, Rachel's heartbeat sped up.
Reading her reaction, Trace knew there was a story behind it. Now was not the time to pursue it. "Like I said, I'm not asking you to hide me, just to keep my secret."
As if Rachel had not even heard her, she continued, her gaze still on the ground. "It's just not proper. And even though I know you are not really a man, the town would not."
"It's okay, I understand."

Rachel finally lowered the gun to her side. "Were you really a sheriff?" The interest sounded genuine.
"Absolutely. If you have a bible, I'll put my left hand on it and raise the right one to God."
That must have been the right thing to say. Rachel became pensive. "Well...if anyone asks, I could say that I found you hurt and that I'm nursing you back to health..."
"Yeah, that would work," Trace added, hopefully. "Then the town could gradually get to know me."
"And I really could use some help with the land..."
Trace cocked her head and shrugged. "You'd have to show me what you need done - I haven't ever worked land at all."
"You'd have to sleep in the barn."
"With what?" An unpleasant thought crossed her mind...the odor of pig, chicken, cow and horse shit - or smelling like it - was something she didn't think she could get used to. "What else lives in the barn?"
Rachel almost laughed at the brunette's expression. "Nothing anymore. I had cows but they were all slaughtered," she said, sadly. "Now I keep equipment in there for the field. There is a small room in the back. You can stay there."
Alerting on Rachel's demeanor at mentioning the cows, Trace figured she'd save that question for another time, too. "I really appreciate it, Rachel. Uh...would it be possible to get out of the sun now?"
The blonde thought about it briefly, then lowered the rifle to her side, pointing at the ground. "Okay. I should take a look at your cut, too. Looks like it needs tending to."
Something about the thought of this tiny, adorable blonde putting her hands on her made Trace most eager to get back to her house, too. You can take the girl out of the sleaze but you can't take the sleaze out of the girl, Trace smirked to herself.
Standing up, the detective unobtrusively studied Rachel. The young woman was at least seven inches shorter than she was, nice little body from the limited amount the dress showed off and all around extremely pleasing to the eye as Trace was noticing more and more accompanying Rachel back to her property. If she was subtle, maybe she could make the most of landing a century back in time.
***********************************************

15.
Entering the quaint cabin, Trace was fascinated by its truly rustic atmosphere. It was somber, which made sense with the lack of electricity, the darkness of the log walls, the wood floor, the small windows and the obviously hand-made curtains closed over them. A quick visual sweep showed a neat and orderly provincial home with the absence of anything modern, one that should have exuded warmth but there was a hint of sadness that seemed to envelop the air and Trace sensed that there was more to this little blonde than met the eye.
"Sit over here and take your shirt off," Rachel instructed, pointing to a hard wooden chair pulled slightly away from what Trace assumed to be the kitchen table. She was not looking at Trace when she said this as she was busy pumping water into a bowl.
Raising her eyebrows, shaking her said slightly, the detective began unbuttoning her shirt as she sat. "We hardly know each other," Trace mumbled to herself, chuckling.
"Pardon?" the blonde asked, her attention now focused on pulling a small glass jar down off a shelf in an anteroom that held what looked like an iron claw foot bathtub.
"Nothing," Trace replied, removing her denim top, feeling the strain of her jarred muscles and bones. She was starting to show signs of bruising and pain was beginning to settle in. She looked down at her wrap, surprised to see the blood had absorbed into the material and spread over most of her chest. "Aw, Christ," she sighed, annoyed.
"I would appreciate it, while you are in this house, you not use the Lord's name..." Rachel stopped as she saw Trace, seated, covered in only the bloody wrap from the waist up. It wasn't the condition of the wound that rendered her speechless; it was the condition of the body the wound was on. "...in...vain."
"Sorry," Trace winced, as she stretched out her arm, attempting to pull the kink out of the muscle in her shoulder. Had she been looking at the small blonde, she would have been very amused by her expression.
Rachel had been a little shocked by Trace's height when she stood up for the first time to accompany her back to the cabin. That alone would make it a little easier to convince the town's people that she was a man, as the blonde had never seen a woman six feet tall before. She further noticed the absolute confidence with which Trace carried herself, again a trait she had only ever witnessed in men. There was a very powerful aura that surrounded this woman and it frankly had Rachel a little rattled. Suddenly it didn't seem so far-fetched that she could have been someone with authority...like a sheriff.
Now, though, Rachel could physically see the strength in this strange woman, not just sense it. She had muscles like a man, too...but not really. They were visibly defined, shifting under the tall woman's skin, but not coarse or bulky. She also had strong shoulders, Rachel observed, before her eyes traveled down to the bare skin below the

bloody wrap. That was also muscular without an inch of excess skin anywhere. The small blonde forced her eyes back to the task of tending to the wound, embarrassed and confused that she had been almost gawking. At another woman. In a most un-ladylike way.
Staring specifically at the items in her hands - gauze, a canning jar with a light liquid in it, a bowl of water and a dry cloth, Rachel found her voice. "Um...we're going to have to take that off." Setting her load on the table, she purposely avoided looking at the dark haired woman
Trace glanced down. "This?"
"Yes, I need to stop the bleeding and clean that wound. You don't want it to get infected."
Alerting on her discomfort, Trace said, "Listen, if you're uncomfortable with this, I can do it..."
Suddenly indignant, the small blonde shook her head. "No, I'll do it." She placed the cloth in water and unsealed the jar, dropping the gauze in to absorb the liquid. "Doesn't that hurt?" Rachel inquired, as Trace began to unwrap her binding.
"Right now, everything hurts," the detective confessed, her body now seriously aching and stiffening up. Peeling the last two layers of her wrap off, Rachel's quickly averting eyes to the brunette's now exposed breasts did not go unnoticed by Trace. Despite her rising pain, the detective was actually charmed by Rachel's obvious modesty and couldn't stop her mouth from curling into a slight smile. Reaching over, Trace grabbed her shirt and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned. It covered her breasts but the open garment allowed Rachel the freedom to work, undistracted.
"You didn't have to do that," the blonde said, quietly, very grateful that she had.
"I know but I feel better," Trace lied. "So...whatcha got there?"
Pulling the gauze out of the jar and placing it directly on the oozing, bloody jagged cut next to Trace's right breast, she was prepared for the quick jolt and sudden intake of breath from her patient as she put her free hand on the detective's shoulder for support. "It's nettle tea. It will stop the bleeding." She took Trace's hand and positioned it on the gauze. "Hold that there until I tell you to remove it."
"Tea will stop my bleeding?" the detective asked, incredulously.
"Yes, nettle tea will." Rachel wrung out the wet cloth and began cleaning the area around the wound. This required her to step between the detective's legs for better access to the stained skin, a natural position under the circumstances and something that should not have left the blonde's insides shaking. Yet it did. What was it about this woman that was so nerve-racking? Trying not to think about it, Rachel concentrated on washing all the

bloody wrap. That was also muscular without an inch of excess skin anywhere. The small blonde forced her eyes back to the task of tending to the wound, embarrassed and confused that she had been almost gawking. At another woman. In a most un-ladylike way.
Staring specifically at the items in her hands - gauze, a canning jar with a light liquid in it, a bowl of water and a dry cloth, Rachel found her voice. "Um...we're going to have to take that off." Setting her load on the table, she purposely avoided looking at the dark haired woman
Trace glanced down. "This?"
"Yes, I need to stop the bleeding and clean that wound. You don't want it to get infected."
Alerting on her discomfort, Trace said, "Listen, if you're uncomfortable with this, I can do it..."
Suddenly indignant, the small blonde shook her head. "No, I'll do it." She placed the cloth in water and unsealed the jar, dropping the gauze in to absorb the liquid. "Doesn't that hurt?" Rachel inquired, as Trace began to unwrap her binding.
"Right now, everything hurts," the detective confessed, her body now seriously aching and stiffening up. Peeling the last two layers of her wrap off, Rachel's quickly averting eyes to the brunette's now exposed breasts did not go unnoticed by Trace. Despite her rising pain, the detective was actually charmed by Rachel's obvious modesty and couldn't stop her mouth from curling into a slight smile. Reaching over, Trace grabbed her shirt and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned. It covered her breasts but the open garment allowed Rachel the freedom to work, undistracted.
"You didn't have to do that," the blonde said, quietly, very grateful that she had.
"I know but I feel better," Trace lied. "So...whatcha got there?"
Pulling the gauze out of the jar and placing it directly on the oozing, bloody jagged cut next to Trace's right breast, she was prepared for the quick jolt and sudden intake of breath from her patient as she put her free hand on the detective's shoulder for support. "It's nettle tea. It will stop the bleeding." She took Trace's hand and positioned it on the gauze. "Hold that there until I tell you to remove it."
"Tea will stop my bleeding?" the detective asked, incredulously.
"Yes, nettle tea will." Rachel wrung out the wet cloth and began cleaning the area around the wound. This required her to step between the detective's legs for better access to the stained skin, a natural position under the circumstances and something that should not have left the blonde's insides shaking. Yet it did. What was it about this woman that was so nerve-racking? Trying not to think about it, Rachel concentrated on washing all the

blood off the detective's chest and abdomen, the proximity of their bodies difficult to completely ignore.
Trace, on the other hand, was completely at ease with this small, adorable blonde so close to her. It was almost worth the pain she was in. Her face reflected her amusement as she watched Rachel studiously clean all the blood off her, gently but with enough pressure to get the job done.
Leaning to the side to wring out the cloth in the bowl of water, Rachel caught Trace's eyes in her peripheral vision. She continued until water from the cloth was running light pink instead of deep red. "Why are you staring at me?" she asked quietly.
Why indeed. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was. You're just so efficient. Are you a nurse?"
"A nurse? No. I work here on the ranch. I grow vegetables and herbs and sell them to Luther Foster for his grocery store. Sometimes my neighbors come here to buy some herbs and I sell them or I barter."
"For what?"
Engaging her in conversation appeared to have rendered the blonde a little more secure around Trace. "For necessities." Rachel submerged the bloody cloth once more, wrung it out and began one final cleansing of the area. "You can give that to me now," she instructed, taking the gauze from Trace. The detective, whose psyche was still in the twenty-first century, almost asked the blonde how she dared to handle blood without gloves...and then she remembered...these were the days where bodily fluids weren't contaminated or potentially lethal.
Kneeling down to get a better look at the wound, Rachel inspected it, thoroughly, oblivious to the position she was in. Trace didn't ignore it, though, and subtly studied the blonde as her warm hands felt around the detective's sore, open flesh. A rather lewd smile attacked Trace's face, and she thought, 'heh, while you're down there...' but her fantasizing was interrupted.
"Hmmm..."
"Hmmm? Hmmm what?" Looking down, she was surprised to see that the bleeding had stopped. "How'd you do that?"
"I didn't, the nettle tea did it. It has healing components in it, it will make your blood coagulate. It was used a lot in the war."
"What war?" This question was greeted with two very large green eyes, staring at her in pure astonishment. Uh oh. Trace tried frantically to remember her American history. Shit. The Civil War, you dolt. "Oh, oh right, the war. War Between the States. Right."

Not looking convinced that Trace wasn't just guessing, she shook her head and returned to inspecting the cut. "You been living in a cave?" Rachel asked, a hint of sarcasm entering her tone. She stood up, placing the gauze into the bowl, moving it aside.
As the blonde returned to the anteroom, Trace watched her, not being able to hide her grin. This was really going to be interesting - she now realized another big reason why she would not have been Mark's first choice for this experiment. She failed American history. Twice. "Can I button back up now?"
"No. I want to put something on that," Her arm extended out toward Trace while she searched her shelves. "Ah. There you are." She reached up and plucked off another jar.
"What are you going to put on me this time? Coffee?" There was sarcasm in Trace's voice as well, as the blonde walked back over to her.
"No. Honey."
Smirking, Trace said, "Wow, we've known each other less than an hour and you're already calling me honey?" Off the befuddled, then impatient look she received from Rachel, she was about to do some major back peddling when the blonde held up the jar in her hand.
"Honey. I'm going to put honey on you."
Shut up, Trace, just...shut up. In another setting, a hundred years from now you'd be in your glory, she thought to herself. "And what will that do...other than get me sticky?"
"Don't you know anything?" Rachel was smiling at her, in spite of herself. She removed the lid from the jar, dipped her fingers in, pulled a glob out and paused before she applied it to Trace's wound. "Honey attracts water. Germs cannot live without water and they die. Which means no infection and quicker healing."
Impressed, Trace watched while Rachel rubbed some honey off her fingers with her thumb and tenderly applied the gooey substance along the jagged cut. Then she did something that made the detective's jaw drop and prompted her to tightly cross her legs when Rachel, finished, stepped back. She stuck the fingers that never touched Trace's skin in her mouth and sucked the rest of the honey off them. Trace could not believe the rush that seized her loins at seeing the blonde do that and immediately knew Rachel had no clue as to how erotic that came across.
"Let me get you something to keep that cov - what?" Seeing Trace's expression startled her. Not being very worldly, she mistook the stricken look of lust on the detective's face for discomfort. "Is that hurting? It shouldn't cause it to hurt more..."
"No," Trace rasped, putting her hand up to stop her from coming as close as she had been before. "It's fine. Really. Thank you. Yes, something to cover it would be nice."