"Yes, I would. That would be very nice, thank you." She watched Rachel stand and enter the house. The blonde had asked Trace to spend the night on the sofa again as it made her feel very protected the night before. The detective agreed without hesitation. She was pretty sure there wasn't much Rachel would request of her that she would or could refuse. She sighed. This was all so very...domestic. Shaking her head, she went back to plucking out notes on her guitar.
Inside, the water was almost to a boil as Rachel filled the metal tea ball. Feeling a pang of cramps and a wave of nausea, she held her belly tightly until the feelings passed. Listening to the detective singing right outside the window, the blonde silently argued with herself again about whether or not to tell Trace about the baby. And once more, she talked herself out of it. Placing the steeping teacups on a tray, Rachel returned to the porch.
"...and she's buy-eye-ing a sta-air-way...to...heaven..."
"That was a beautiful song, Trace. I've never heard that one, either."
"Another classic where I come from."
"Sounds like you have a lot of fond memories from where you come from."
"Some."
"If you felt like it wasn't dangerous anymore to go back there, would you?"
Would she? Good question. Would she return to the Twenty-First century if she had the option to? She took a deep breath, inhaling clean, fresh air and looked over to her left at an unspoiled sunset. Then she looked over to her right, into the emerald gaze of a woman she would never want to expose to the modern world. She stared into the trusting eyes of a woman she suddenly felt she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Right here. Forever.
"No," Trace answered, softly. "I like it right where I am."
"Good," Rachel smiled, almost shyly. "I like you right where you are, too."
"Really?" The detective tried to gauge the intent behind the words - she knew what she wanted them to mean but she was sure it was just that the blonde was grateful for her presence, thankful to have someone, anyone finally on her side, who felt no misgivings about getting involved in this mess. Trace knew she made Rachel feel safe...if the blonde felt any more than that, chances were she had not realized the full implications of it.
"You're good company. And you work hard. And you're not afraid of anything. I am very appreciative of the first two." She shook her head. "But I don't know how foolish that last one may be."

Chuckling softly, Trace sipped her peppermint tea and went back playing her guitar. Without warning, she felt her loins clench and a current of sexual stimulus galvanized her center and then radiated outward through every nerve of her body. The detective broke out into an unexpected sweat and knew she needed to excuse herself to take care of this urge, somewhere privately and quickly. Putting the instrument aside, she took another sip of tea and stood up. "I...uh...need to use the outhouse and, uh, then I'm going to get washed up at the river and be back in for the night." She began edging away.
"Right now?"
"Uh...yeah..." She stretched and faked a yawn. "It just hit me how tired I am."
As the detective descended the steps, she knew Rachel didn't quite believe her but she was positive the blonde didn't have a clue as to the real reason for her hasty departure, either. Skipping the trip to the outhouse, she headed for her room in the barn. Leaning against the closed door, just in case Rachel had chosen to follow her, it would ensure she would not get walked in on, she unbuttoned her jeans and slipped her hand inside her underwear. Closing her eyes, envisioning the blonde, it took her no time at all to relieve the pleasurable yet almost painful pressure. Feeling incredibly less tense now, she waited for her breathing to regulate and she grabbed her night clothes, heading for the bathing hole.
***********************
40.
The next morning, Trace was up and about and had even made some coffee before Rachel was out of bed. She noticed that the blonde seemed tired, sluggish and, again, pale but the smaller woman arose and dressed quickly, cooking some oatmeal for both of them without showing signs of or admitting to any nausea.
Following breakfast, the detective set up temporary targets of firewood, rusted out tin cans of various sizes, old pieces of furniture which had been broken or had fallen apart, and chipped dinnerware at different intervals and decided on which tree stumps and other fixed objects were sturdy enough to be standing marks. She further made sure that whatever she was going to shoot at was in a direction away from the house, barn, stable, pasture and path that connected the road from town to the house. That way, if she missed, the only element in danger of getting shot would be assorted vegetation.
Observing Trace from the porch, Rachel was mesmerized by how confident and methodical the detective was. She also couldn't keep her eyes off the nicely defined bulging muscles on the brunette's arms every time she lifted anything off the ground that required a little effort. Realizing she was darned near ogling the detective again, she blushed furiously and returned to her chores inside.

Oblivious to her confused admirer, Trace continued to set up and readjust marks before and after shooting at them. It seemed to take her no time at all to get used to the weapons that would now be her lifeline if her unarmed self-defense tactics failed her.
After several hours of gunfire, the blonde returned to the porch to call Trace in for lunch and watched as the detective gripped the Colt in a manner she had never seen anyone clutch a pistol before. The brunette had the revolver in front of her at arm's length, holding the .45 with her right hand, her left arm bent and clasping her right wrist, supporting the weight for, what Rachel could only assume was, a more smooth and precise shot. The blonde knew that one aimed with a rifle but had only seen pistol shooting either from the hip or with an extended arm, the gun positioned somewhere between the waist and shoulders. Trace's form and style was obviously working because her accuracy was downright impressive.
Firing off all six bullets in rapid succession, Rachel saw as debris from the targets splintered out when the slugs hit their mark dead in the center. The blonde could not help but smile. Was there anything this woman couldn't do?
That afternoon, while the blonde engaged in cleaning out the chicken coop, Trace busied herself with rigging up a makeshift boxing bag. She took several empty burlap feed sacks, threading them together with leather straps and stuffed them with dirt and hay. She kept testing the weight, adding or removing contents until she was satisfied with the heaviness and resistance and then, having already tied a thick hemp rope tightly around it and up over a solid barn beam, she pulled the rope toward her, hoisting the approximate two hundred pound, four feet high bag until it was about a good eighteen inches off the ground. She secured the rope on a wall hook and then looked at her invention. It wasn't great but it would have to do.
Protectively wrapping her hands with material she ripped up from an old discarded linen sheet and then fitting Rachel's father's oversized suede gloves over them, the detective then began to work out, using the hanging sack as a sparring opponent. Trace felt good again to be moving, throwing punches, snapping kicks, practicing doing what she felt she had been born to do - fight. Ironically, the brunette never felt more at peace than she did when she was fighting.
****************************
Rachel making the two of them tea every night as they sat down on the porch during sunset became a welcomed ritual, as did Trace breaking out the guitar and plucking out a few tunes on it. Most of the songs the blonde had never heard before and the meaning of quite a few of the lyrics were alien to her as well. However, she got to the point where she stopped asking questions regarding what Trace was singing about and just enjoyed the private concert.

What also became routine was the detective sleeping in the house. Within a week, she switched from the barn to the couch to the loft. She was not without one revolver or one rifle within reach and made sure that Rachel was equally prepared. Just in case.
She had yet to start bathing in the house and would continue to use the river until the blonde invited her to use the clawfoot tub in the anteroom. She had bought a straight razor in town and after a few nasty nicks and cuts finally got her legs and underarms shaved but it was a grooming habit she would practice sparingly from now on...she certainly couldn't help Rachel do much of anything if she were sidelined by massive blood loss...
Trace proceeded to get up every morning when the rooster crowed and ran on a path that she had created with the help of Moses and a rake, which took her approximately one-half mile around the house, the barn, the stable and the perimeter of one of the corralled pastures. Rain or shine, the detective jogged on that path, circling it at least ten times. She knew she needed to be in her best shape if there was to be a confrontation - and she had no doubt there would be one, if not many. Trace also worked out with her suspended punching bag after her jog and before beginning her chores.
Every third day, the detective reluctantly but faithfully mucked out the stalls, also checking tack and equipment for needed upkeep, becoming friendlier with all the horses, gaining Rio's trust, and provoking Zelda to become less shy around her. Every day, she saddled up Chief and rode around the boundaries of the property checking all the fence lines. Every five days, she target practiced, getting better and better with Colts and both rifles, until it was more unusual for her to miss than to hit. Every sixth day, she hitched Moses up to the wagon, directed him into town, picked up whatever supplies, groceries and necessities were required for the next week, had a beer or two at Wilbur's and slowly became more sociable with the townspeople, slowly integrating herself into the quirky, rural, Sagebrush groove, deftly avoiding the sheriff - or maybe it was the other way around.
In the meantime, Trace and Rachel became much more comfortable with each other, as though they had always lived together, shared space. Their interaction was always respectful, mutually esoteric and even though it borderlined on flirtatious, it never crossed that line into anything more. Rachel was afraid of what that would really mean and Trace was afraid her feelings would be too overpowering for the already overwhelmed blonde. For the first time in her life, Trace Sheridan thought about the impact of her actions on someone other than herself.
Every day for two weeks, the blonde suffered from some form of nausea and then went on about her day as though nothing was wrong. Every day, the brunette became more and more suspicious of the reasons behind Rachel's sickness.
*****************************************
41

What also became routine was the detective sleeping in the house. Within a week, she switched from the barn to the couch to the loft. She was not without one revolver or one rifle within reach and made sure that Rachel was equally prepared. Just in case.
She had yet to start bathing in the house and would continue to use the river until the blonde invited her to use the clawfoot tub in the anteroom. She had bought a straight razor in town and after a few nasty nicks and cuts finally got her legs and underarms shaved but it was a grooming habit she would practice sparingly from now on...she certainly couldn't help Rachel do much of anything if she were sidelined by massive blood loss...
Trace proceeded to get up every morning when the rooster crowed and ran on a path that she had created with the help of Moses and a rake, which took her approximately one-half mile around the house, the barn, the stable and the perimeter of one of the corralled pastures. Rain or shine, the detective jogged on that path, circling it at least ten times. She knew she needed to be in her best shape if there was to be a confrontation - and she had no doubt there would be one, if not many. Trace also worked out with her suspended punching bag after her jog and before beginning her chores.
Every third day, the detective reluctantly but faithfully mucked out the stalls, also checking tack and equipment for needed upkeep, becoming friendlier with all the horses, gaining Rio's trust, and provoking Zelda to become less shy around her. Every day, she saddled up Chief and rode around the boundaries of the property checking all the fence lines. Every five days, she target practiced, getting better and better with Colts and both rifles, until it was more unusual for her to miss than to hit. Every sixth day, she hitched Moses up to the wagon, directed him into town, picked up whatever supplies, groceries and necessities were required for the next week, had a beer or two at Wilbur's and slowly became more sociable with the townspeople, slowly integrating herself into the quirky, rural, Sagebrush groove, deftly avoiding the sheriff - or maybe it was the other way around.
In the meantime, Trace and Rachel became much more comfortable with each other, as though they had always lived together, shared space. Their interaction was always respectful, mutually esoteric and even though it borderlined on flirtatious, it never crossed that line into anything more. Rachel was afraid of what that would really mean and Trace was afraid her feelings would be too overpowering for the already overwhelmed blonde. For the first time in her life, Trace Sheridan thought about the impact of her actions on someone other than herself.
Every day for two weeks, the blonde suffered from some form of nausea and then went on about her day as though nothing was wrong. Every day, the brunette became more and more suspicious of the reasons behind Rachel's sickness.
*****************************************
41

Shaking off the excess water from the torrential rainstorm, Trace entered the house with the intention of advising Rachel about the break in the north fence. She was sure it was nothing but wind damage but would need to be fixed, just the same. She was about to call out the blonde's name when she heard the sound of a soft snore emanating from the area of the hearth. Removing her soaked overshirt, Trace quietly stepped closer, observing Rachel asleep in her mother's rocking chair. A small flame was flickering in the fireplace and Trace's breath literally caught at the vision before her. Rachel's natural beauty and innocence were only enhanced by the blazing light and all Trace wanted to do was reach down and take this woman into her arms. Oh, if only they were in another time.
Kneeling by the chair, Trace gently placed her hand over the blonde's which was resting in her lap. Squeezing it gently, the detective tried not to startle her. "Hey...Rach?" Her voice was soft but firm enough to stir the slumbering woman before her.
Slowly shifting her in chair, the green eyes fluttered open, pure and unguarded, slowly focusing on Trace, capturing the brunette with a warmth to match the logs burning in the fireplace. Rachel smiled easily at Trace and with a voice hoarse from having dozed off and her most recent dry heave session, she said, "I fell asleep."
"I see," the brunette responded, empathetically. "You've been doing that a lot lately. You okay?"
Unconsciously, Rachel's free arm moved across her belly, protectively. "I'm...I'm fine...why?"
The reaction did not go unnoticed by the detective. Trace's voice was tender, compassionate, "Rachel, are you...preg...with child?"
It was the kindness and lack of judgment in Trace's expression that immediately brought water brimming to the blonde's eyes. "How...how did you know?" She looked away, humiliation now flowing through every fiber of her being.
Pulling up a foot stool and sitting on it, Trace firmly took Rachel's hand in her own. The blonde did not pull away. "Well..." The detective's tone of voice was still soothing and benevolent, "...you've been tired a lot, you've had morning sickness, backaches, frequent trips to the outhouse. I have endured many of my various partners' wives pregnancies, I recognize the symptoms." Not being able to ignore the tears streaming down the pale face, Trace reached up and brushed a few drops away from the delicate cheek, cupping her jaw. "You don't have a husband, you don't have a boyfriend...a beau...no man in your life that I've seen any evidence of...yet you're going to have a baby. How does that happen?"
Turning her face away from Trace's touch, Rachel cried even harder. "I can't talk about it. I'm so ashamed."

"Ashamed? Why? What do you have to be ashamed of?" Trace pressed gently. "What did you do?"
"I don't know," she was beginning to get hysterical, "but I must have done something because he came here and took me and -"
"What? Wait - who 'took' you? When? What happened?" This was not what Trace expected to hear and the thought of it instantly brought pain to her heart and an angry knot in her chest that seemed to hold her lungs hostage.
"I can't talk about it, Trace, I can't."
"Yes, you can. You can talk to me."
Rachel shook her head, biting her lip, unable to speak.
Trace's eyes were now as dark and stormy as a raging sea. "You were raped, weren't you? You did not willingly have relations with the father of your child, did you?" The only audible response to this was a soft whimper from the obviously deeply wounded blonde. Furious, but not at Rachel, Trace had to, once again, visibly swallow her rage. She laid her head on the blonde's hand, counting to ten and then she looked up at the distraught woman, who was looking down at her. "Rachel, you have no reason to feel ashamed, do you understand? You didn't do anything wrong. You were raped. You are not pregnant by choice. It's not your fault, you didn't do anything to deserve it."
"How could you know that? You weren't there."
"Okay, let me guess what happened - you were somewhere, probably here, minding your own business, going about your day, when this man came out of nowhere and forced himself on you. You did not invite it, you did not ask for it, you did not want it...but it didn't matter. He took what he wanted anyway. You fought him, you screamed 'no' and 'stop' and he ignored you. And he hurt you. He violated you against your will."
Stunned, Rachel stared at her, wide-eyed, her voice barely audible. "How...how did you know that?"
"Because I used to have to arrest guys like the one who did that to you. It's always the same story. I know all about how they work."
"No one is ever going to believe me."
Trace took both of Rachel's hands and held them to her. "I believe you. I know what happened."
Silence enveloped them, the only noise in the room being the crackling of the fire. Both women looked at each other for a long time, eyes locked in a strange battle of emotions.

Feeling her stomach flutter and heart flip, which generated those odd but pleasurable sensations throughout her body that seemed to gather in her groin, Rachel was the first to break visual contact and look down. Trace was sure she was blushing but in the dim glow of that wavering light, it was difficult to tell. Then the blonde spoke in such a hushed tone, Trace almost didn't hear her. "You are so wonderful to me...why can't you really be a man?"
"Why? What good would that do?"
Suddenly shy, Rachel turned away, squeezing Trace's hand tightly. "I would marry you."
Swallowing hard, stunned, Trace felt nearly strangled by her overwhelming want for this woman possibly within reach. "Y...you would?"
Nodding, the blonde still couldn't look at Trace. "Does that shock you? It does me."
Answering her in a voice thick with desire, trying to keep the circumstances of the confession in perspective, Trace needed to clear her throat just to be able to vocalize sound. "Um...no, it doesn't shock me." Shifting her position, Trace knelt once again by Rachel's feet, placing her forearms across the blond's lap, interlacing their fingers. She could hear Rachel's breath stop but the blonde did not resist the position. "Rachel, where I come from, it doesn't matter if a couple is a man and a woman, a man and a man or a woman and a woman. All that matters is who your heart tells you to fall in love with."
Rachel looked inquisitively at the detective, not being able to tear her eyes away from the magnetic pull of Trace's gaze. "I'm not sure I understand..."
The connection between them was now undeniable. "I think you do." When that was greeted with placid, yet complicated quiet, Trace continued. "Just don't limit yourself. That's all I'm saying. You can't make yourself love someone if the feeling isn't there and you can't always control who you fall in love with. The people in my town understand that."
"Where you come from two women or two men can get married?"
Hmmm...no way to explain the civil union as opposed to marriage in terms a nineteenth century woman would understand - frankly, she was more than a hundred years progressed and why there had to be a difference still confused the hell out of her, so she just simply said, "Yes."
"Two women or two men are allowed to publicly love each other as man and wife do?"
"Yes." Okay...so it was a lie and it wasn't. Again, much too complicated a subject to get into at this particular point and time and because Trace was masquerading as a male, it now all seemed somewhat incidental.

"Are...are you one of those women?"
"I have never been married to a woman but, yes, I have had love affairs with women."
Rachel suddenly looked like she wanted to bolt from the room. Trace felt a slight tug, as though the blonde might yank her hands away but then another expression took over - curiosity.
"Rachel, please understand. I would never hurt you. I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable, never do anything to make you ask me to leave."
Relaxing, the blonde pressed her hands more securely into the brunette's. "I know that. I know you would never hurt me." Awkwardly, Rachel cleared her throat. "Do, um, you think about me like that?"
Sighing, Trace again rested her forehead on their joined hands, then looked back up. "Would it frighten you if I said yes?"
The detective could tell that the blonde was immediately flushed, obviously never having been confronted with this particular issue before. "No," she responded, in a whisper.
Nodding, Trace couldn't keep the smile off her face. "So...what are we going to do?"
"Um...about what?"
"You're delicate condition? You're not going to be able to hide it very much longer."
Hanging her head again, the blonde's voice took on a tone of shame again. "I don't know. I don't want this child. It's a part of someone horrible. But the good lord gave me this child to carry, so I will do what I have to do."
"You know what?" Trace began, gently, "I was born from a similar situation. My mother was a prostitute, a whore, just like the women on the second floor at Wilbur's. She got pregnant with me and she never knew which man out of a possible hundred - or more - was my father. There are legal ways where I come from to ...uh...get rid of the baby before it's born but she chose to keep me. And...here I am." The brunette's smile was sincere.
The love and admiration in Rachel's eyes could not have been more clear. "It will be hard to raise a child alone here. It will just bear out everybody's inclinations that I'm wayward."
Lightly massaging the blonde's fingers with her thumb, Trace said, "You don't have to raise the child alone." Off Rachel's questioning stare, the brunette said, "Let me make a suggestion and hear me out before you say No."

"Okay."
"Everybody in town thinks I'm a man. God help me but they do. And they already suspect we've more than likely been intimate. Let me marry you and give you and the baby a name and respectability."
"Me marry you? How could that be respectable? You're a woman..."
"Yes but only you and I know that. And then, when you do meet a man who you would like to spend your life with - if you do - I will leave," Trace told her, instinctively knowing that would be a lot easier said than done. The palpable stillness suddenly seemed deafening. "Well, you think about it." Slowing sliding her hand out from Rachel's grasp, Trace stood up and stretched. "Would you like some coffee?"
"It's okay, I can make it," the blonde told her.
"No," Trace responded, a little too quickly. "No, I'll do it. You sit still."
"There is nothing wrong with my coffee," Rachel argued, playfully.
Trace made a hideous face. "No, not if it's your last request before the hanging," she quipped, "Your coffee would kill you first."
"Fine, then you make it," the blonde said, trying to sound indignant. It didn't work. With Trace staring at her, amused, with a raised eyebrow, Rachel broke into a grin.
"By the way, there is a small split in the north fence. I don't think it was anything other than wind. I put a temporary barrier there but I'll have to go back and repair it tomorrow."
Rising from her chair, Rachel nodded. "Thank you."
"Sure." As the blonde stepped by her, Trace gently fastened her hand to Rachel's elbow. "Are you going to tell me who did this to you?" the brunette inquired, non-confrontationally.
"No," Rachel responded, crossing her arms and continuing through to the kitchen.
That's okay, Trace thought to herself, I'll find out anyway. She had no doubt it was someone associated with the Cranes.
*****************
42.
Had Trace really suggested marriage to the blonde? The severity and weight of that idea hit her like an anvil dropped from the top of a ten story building. Marriage? In the past,

despite a few disastrous attempts, Trace's longevity (and faithfulness) in a relationship barely lasted much beyond foreplay. And now she wanted to actually marry someone? Well...as a matter of fact, yes, she did. And not just 'someone,' she wanted to marry Rachel Young. The more she contemplated this, the more elated she became.
Trace had never felt like this before, as though her heart was trying to burst through her chest, every extremity tingling, all nerve endings standing at attention. Whenever she looked at or thought about the blonde, her pulse raced, her blood pounded through her veins and her body reacted to Rachel's presence in spite of itself.
It was, to put it mildly and bluntly, the most wonderfully fulfilling and exhilarating feeling the brunette had ever experienced and she had experienced a lot. No one who knew her, from her own time, would believe this. A fact that made her smile and deeply blush at the same time.
"What are you thinking about?" Rachel inquired, bringing the brunette back to the present. Seeing the detective smile was not unusual. Seeing Trace turn red was. Fleetingly, the blonde hoped the taller woman's thoughts had been of her which, in turn, caused Rachel to become a telling shade of crimson herself.
Shrugging, not missing the blonde's reaction, Trace still held onto the tail end of a smirk. "Just thinking about how good supper was and what a good cook you are."
This, of course, made Rachel pinker and threw her off. Stammering, she finally was able to get out a shy 'thank you.'
There had been a significant change in their relationship just in the past hour. Trace's suggestion of and willingness to marry the mother-to-be had displayed a selflessness neither of them expected. Rachel presumed when the detective discovered she was with child, Trace would pack up and move on, disgusted, and it would not have mattered how the baby was conceived. She never even considered the brunette would unquestionably stand by her. The detective had once more surprised her with her kindness, compassion and understanding.
Her entire body flushed when she thought about the other momentous change between the two of them. This extremely handsome, capable and noble woman was in love with her. Trace didn't have to say it for Rachel to be able to feel it. And the main reason the blonde felt it, was that she was in love with Trace. In love. On the one hand, this scared her witless. What if anyone ever found out Trace was not a man? Two women loving each other the way a husband and wife did just wasn't right, it wasn't natural. Yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world. On the other hand, it thoroughly and almost insatiably excited her. Not even Tommy had conjured up the sexual feelings within her that Trace had, now that she had finally recognized and acknowledged them for what they were.

Rehashing their conversation before dinner prompted the blonde's knees to weaken and she reached out to hold onto the table to maintain her balance. Sneaking a look at the brunette, Rachel was relieved Trace had not noticed. She was not ready to openly confront her feelings for the detective yet or the possible meaning behind them.
Just then a deep roll of thunder growled over the house. "Storm's getting bad. Are all of the horses in?" The blonde's voice was shaky. She hoped the brunette thought it was nervousness due to the worsening weather.
"In and fed and tucked in and read a bedtime story for the night. Zelda kept wanting a drink of water but I knew it was only because she didn't want to stay in bed. But Rio seemed quite snug."
She favored Trace with a mock reprimanding glare and then she broke into a small chuckle, a sound that made the hard-ass detective's heart melt. "Well, don't be so sure. That mustang is not fond of the wind when it howls like that and I'm sure the added noise just makes him more restless."
"Will he get destructive? Should I go out there and stay with him until the storm calms down?" Trace was sincere about her offer but hoped Rachel would say no.
"If I thought it would do any good, yes, but this might go on all night. We can't baby him or we'll be out there all the time."
"I like that horse, Rachel. I'd like to make him my horse...if that's cool...okay...with you."
The blonde crossed her arms, studying the brunette. "He's cantankerous. He's not really wild but he's not tame, either. If you can break him, he's yours." She sighed. "I'm certainly in no position to do it." She looked toward the window as a bolt of lightening lit up the sky.
About four seconds later, more thunder cracked and rumbled and the rain could be heard heavily beating on the roof. Trace was sure if there had been electricity in the house, it would have been out. She placed three more logs over the two already aflame, stoking the embers, so that the wood easily caught fire.
"Tomorrow, I thought we could have rabbit stew again. Or maybe we could spit-cook it."
Trace's expression revealed that this idea was not agreeable to her. "Do we have to? I mean, it was delicious, Rachel, it's not that but...they're just so damned...I mean, darned cute..." She still had not gotten over eating Flopsy without knowing it until it was too late.
This made Rachel smile. "Why, Trace Sheridan, you big baby," she playfully taunted. "You can beat up men without a second thought, probably kill them if you had to, but you can't stand the thought of hurting a little bitty bunny?"

The detective did not like being challenged and hated being teased. But the irony of Rachel's words were true and forced a frustrated, embarrassed smile from the brunette.
"We never did go fishing like I wanted to. We are going to need something other than vegetables to eat, Trace. You don't hunt but even if you were able to kill it, something tells me you have never cut out a steer. I need the chickens for the eggs. We can't afford to keep buying our meat and soon there won't be enough food in the pantry for even the field mice to trouble themselves."
"I have money..." the detective began to protest.
"For how long? You don't make any money helping me out here and once it is gone, it's gone."
"Rachel...what happened to your cattle?"
"We had five cows, two calves and one steer. They were grazing on the south pasture one day. Went out to herd them in and they were all dead. Not rustled. Slaughtered. It was awful." She shuddered at the memory. "That night I got a visit from Gideon Crane and two of his cousins. Told me if I had sold my land to his daddy this never would have happened. I reported it to Ed Jackson and he told me I couldn't prove who did it and even with Gideon saying what he did, he didn't admit to anything."
Trace nodded. "And your crops?"
"Everything in the north sweep, which was most of the vegetables plus a field of corn was burned to the ground. Now I tend to what I can only keep an eye on from the house. Which doesn't leave me much to sell to Mr. Foster anymore. And before you ask, I had four other horses but they were spitefully crippled and they had to be destroyed."
"All because of the Cranes wanting your land?"
"Yes."
"It stops here and now, Rachel. I promise you. It's done." The conviction in Trace's oath was impenetrable. And it sent a shiver down the blonde's spine both for the intensity of the pledge behind the words and the passion with which they were said. She could only shake her head. The detective couldn't possibly have any idea what she was up against.
Tonight before bed, she would pray for Trace.
***********************
43.

The subject of marriage did not come up again the following week, nor did the internal admission regarding the discovery of being in love with each other. The conversation the night of the terrible storm had been soul baring, to say the least but, because it was also new and unchartered territory for both Trace and Rachel, for entirely different reasons, the topic was deftly avoided as each woman was not exactly sure how to broach it again.
Both desperately wanted to openly analyze their feelings but neither dared to bring it up just in case the exchange had been a scenario really born of sympathy or misplaced chivalry. Trace knew it was not, her feelings were as genuine and valid as she had ever felt in her life but the depth was just as frightening to her as it was to the blonde, who was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she was actually in love with a woman.
Rachel would start out every morning arguing with herself about the moral implications of that and how it had to be something else. She would go to bed every night after spending concentrated time with the detective during the day, believing it could not be anything else but love, regardless of Trace's gender.
Their interaction was friendly yet it remained infuriatingly neutral and any subject coming close to touching upon what they talked about the night of the storm was cautiously danced around. Still, it was constantly, individually, thought about as was Rachel's pregnancy but other issues needed to be attended to that diverted them away from the obvious.
The most pressing for Trace was that she got her period. This was utterly unwelcome, not just because it was a figurative pain but a literal one, as well. The detective had always had a rough time with first day cramping, her female organs contracting as though trying to eject one or both ovaries. Rachel, of course, had a remedy for this: peppermint herb boiled in milk and drunk hot. It worked...until it wore off. The blonde made sure this concoction was in abundant supply as the brunette's menstrual distress appeared to debilitate her immensely and make her very grumpy, indeed.
As for what was used to deal with the blood...well, this was something Trace was definitely going to have to improve on. The menstrual belt and cup Rachel had, as uncomfortably antique as it was, was all fine and dandy - if one wore a dress - however, with the detective having to wear trousers, the device would just not work. Instead, Trace made the best of rags she wrapped around small beds of cotton, washing the materials out nightly and discarding the batting that could not be cleaned, dried and re-used. She constructed ten of these little pads so that she would always have one to change into and fastened them in place with safety pins.
It was spartan but it absorbed the flow and, for the most part, stopped the blood from leaking through to her jeans. Accustomed to wearing tampons, this made her feel like she was walking with a king-sized pillow between her legs. It took some adjusting but, putting it in perspective, it was a minor cog in this new wheel of life Trace had incorporated herself into.

In the interim, the detective was very industrious with her time. She efficiently completed her daily chores, each one getting easier with practice, not to mention patience. Every morning, after grooming the horses and inspecting the tack for deterioration of any kind, Trace saddled up Chief and checked the perimeter fence of the Triple Y Ranch, dutifully noting and fixing any weakness or damage in the property line. Returning, she then mucked out the stables when they needed it, cleaned the rabbit cage, noting that Mopsy and Cottontail seemed to be getting a little heavier every day and ensured that the horses had enough to eat and drink. Then she would assist Rachel in anything the blonde needed done around the exterior of the house, barn, stable and open grounds.
Every afternoon, she followed Rachel's direction and worked with Rio to gain his trust. She had plenty of carrots and apples to offer him, treats he began to look forward to whenever he sensed Trace anywhere near him. Conditioning of living in the wild since birth predicted that the mustang learned to listen for predators on the attack and his ears would go up as soon as anything approached him. He adapted quickly to the detective's scent and the sound of her gait and reacted accordingly when she came into his line of vision.
Slowly, letting the tall brunette know he was beginning to feel confident with her, Rio allowed Trace to gently run her hands all around his head and neck but only after he got his treats. He then associated the tasty delicacies and relaxing massage with the tall detective, who was showing him he had no reason to fear her. This became a ritual with Trace speaking to him soothingly and lovingly, to the point where if the brunette wasn't with him by a certain time every afternoon, he would poke his head over the stall door and look for her.
On the fourth day, Trace hung a halter and lead on a hook by the stall door and left it there, letting Rio get used to its presence and learn it was nothing that would hurt him. Rachel advised her that in a couple days, Trace could attempt to loosely place the rope around the mustang's neck and if he did not put up any kind of a struggle or react negatively in any way, she could try leading him around. If Rio got spooked, which was always a possibility, Trace could quickly and easily remove the rope. The detective began to look forward to any time she spent with the mustang as she seemed to find a spiritual buoyancy in her connection with this horse.
By late afternoon, every other day, the detective would work an hour of target practice in with the four weapons she was easily familiarizing herself with. She was altogether proud of how efficient she was becoming with such different guns than what she was used to. She checked her ammunition and made a mental note that she was going to have to start loading her own bullets and be a little more frugal with her supply.
On the days she was not honing her proficiency with firearms, Trace was working out her self-defense skills in the barn with her hanging punching bag. She imagined the heavy, dangling dirt and hay-filled burlap container as the scum who raped Rachel. The poor, unsuspecting sack didn't stand a chance.

Then Trace spent her time busily working on and perfecting a coarse prototype shower out of a wooden beer keg with holes in it, suspended by a hemp cord over the limb of an oak tree. Connected to the barrel was a crude version of an elevated sluice where water from an offshoot of the river about twenty yards from the house could be pumped through and then held by a valve to stop or regulate its flow. When the small floodgate was lifted by yanking on a string accessible to the person standing underneath the cask, a stream of pent up water would rush into the keg and drain out through the several tiny openings Trace had created with a large nail. For privacy, the detective built a wooden stall that would enclose the showering individual, covering their modesty from shins to shoulders.
Her reward for this innovative contraption was Rachel's reaction when it was done and Trace demonstrated how it worked. The blonde clasped her hands together and nearly squealed in delight, not so much at the idea of being able to bathe this way but at the excitement and enthusiasm the detective couldn't hold back at exhibiting her 'invention.' Rachel's appreciative, complimentary and almost childlike behavior caused Trace to mentally reinforce her sudden, intense love for this young woman and her substantially inherent need to protect her.
Every evening, after supper, Trace and Rachel would sit on the porch and drink tea while the detective serenaded the blonde with some strange songs she had never heard before. Sometimes the younger woman would request a repeat of something she found catchy and worth listening to again but most of the time she just let Trace play and enjoyed the music. She had never heard a voice like Trace's before, so clear and deeply soulful, impressively always on key, with a range of several octaves.
Suggesting that maybe Trace should sing in the church choir brought about a raised eyebrow and a look that needed no commentary to accompany it. That was obviously a bad idea. Someday she would have to ask the tall detective why she appeared to carry such a disagreeable opinion of anything religious.
****************
44.
In the next couple of days, Trace continued to work with Rio. After he got used to seeing the halter hanging in his stall, the detective brought the device over to him and let him examine it, smell it, see it up close. Still speaking gently and encouragingly to him, she slowly slipped the noseband on him, to which he snorted and moved his head slightly. Under Rachel's guidance, the detective did not remove it, she just stopped what she was doing and let the mustang settle down while she used comforting words to calm him.
Delicately, she helped the halter over his sensitive ears, leaving the chin strap loose. Although he didn't appear to like it very much, he consented to keeping it on when Trace plied him with more carrots and apples. Never known for her patience, even the brunette was surprised at her equanimity with this animal. She certainly did not have it with Chief,

nor did he express it with her. They had reached a state of mutual tolerance and that's how it stayed. There was no doubt, he was Rachel's horse and very loyal to her.
Once Rio was used to the sensation of wearing the halter, the detective began to lightly tug on the strap, leading him around his stall, then the stable, a little bit at a time. Rachel told Trace the most important thing was not to rush him and, instead of being anxious about this, both human and horse were finding great solace in each other's company.
The detective had never bonded with an animal before and could only now understand how rewarding it could be. The repugnant thought of anyone doing harm to the mustang - or Rosie, Moses, Chief and the precious little Zelda - horrified and infuriated her and then recalling Rachel telling her that her other horses had to be killed because of intentional maiming by the Crane clan made her even more determined to 'get even' with these brutes.
*********************
When it was time to go into town again, Trace had made a list of personal errands she needed to attend to, added to the usual business that took her to Sagebrush. First she intended to see Joseph Turner at the pawn shop. Then, depending on what transpired from there, she would open an account at the bank, talk with a few businessmen in town and after that, get what she needed for the ranch, buying a few extras like a buttery soft, French-milled soap that was lightly perfumed with lavender as a gift for Rachel. The anticipated look on the blonde's face would be worth the small extravagance. She wondered when the last time was that Rachel received or bought herself something nice.
With Isaac Tipping nowhere in site, which the detective found a bit unusual, Trace finished loading the feed and mercantile supplies on the wagon and looked over at the saloon. She was hot, tired and a beer would taste very good right about now. Rachel was not going to start dinner until dusk, so one mug shouldn't do any harm. Securing her load, she left Moses tied up to the post, patting his neck affectionately and strolled across the street to Wilbur's.
Pushing through the swinging doors, it was still hard to believe that she was actually living in the real old west. Staying on the ranch was definitely a reminder but coming into town was the clincher. She stepped up to the bar and Silas grinned at her and poured her an ale. It had only taken her a few visits to main street Sagebrush before she was known and, it seemed, pretty well liked.
Her 'male' facade was working, no doubt about that, she was automatically being taken for a tall but gangly young man and, no matter how much she protested, one of possible Native American descent or of gypsy heritage. Not that it mattered, she certainly would not be ashamed of or be offended by being either. It was the attitude of prejudice with which it was always stated that bothered her more than anything. Besides, for all she knew, she could be part anything as her father's ancestry was a mystery. She knew her mother was of Greek descent and that's what she attributed her darker features and

complexion to but the piercing azure eyes must be a paternal trait as her mother's lifeless orbs were chocolate brown with gold flecks.
Well, whatever they thought she was, she knew her appearance was deceiving and anyone who confused her tall but lithe (lanky for a man, anyway) frame for inexperience and weakness would be making a deadly mistake. Hopefully, the scumbag who had raped Rachel would fall victim to that bias of thinking 'youth' and weight mattered. She had already proven to two men and the sheriff that it didn't.
Just the thought of that ugly incident and how horribly violated and destroyed the blonde must have been, set Trace's teeth on edge, nearly making her quake with rage, after her first swallow of the contents of her glass.
"Why, hell, Trace, you look as ornery as an undertaker in a ghost town. What's that expression for?" Silas cracked, pouring a shot of whiskey for himself. He held the bottle up to the detective.
Snapping herself back to reality, Trace shook her head, declining the offer, remembering her last encounter with that nasty stuff. "Nothing that this can't cure," she smiled, slightly raising her glass.
"Or that..." Silas nodded toward the staircase.
Following the direction of his gaze, Trace noticed Cassandra bounding down the stairs, making a beeline for her. The brunette couldn't help but smile at the redhead's blatant attraction for her and unbridled enthusiasm every time she saw her. Cassandra was not a bad looking woman, light-skinned, hazel-eyed and full rosy lips that Trace could, once again, only imagine what they could accomplish. It would be nice to take some comfort and ease some sexual tension that had built up to nearly volcanic proportions but there were two problems involved: the first being, if Trace allowed this prostitute to 'service' her, her secret wouldn't be a secret for very long and second, she wasn't Rachel.
Cassandra stopped her gallop and sashayed the last five or six feet to Trace's side, making an obvious show of her arrival. Leaning her elbow on the bar, Cassandra pursed her lips at the brunette and said, "Buy a lady a drink?"
Smiling, Trace bowed her head, shaking it in mild disbelief, looked back up into clearly interested eyes that today were taking on the color of her dark green dress and said, "I guess if I see a lady anywhere around, I'll be sure to do that."
The five male saloon patrons and Silas laughed uproariously at that and Cassandra pretended to sulk until Trace reached over squeezed her upper arm briefly. "You know I'm just kidding, right? What'll you have?"
"You." Her expression was sultry and practiced. She stepped so close to Trace, the brunette could feel the redhead's breath against her neck.

Taking a subtle step away from Cassandra, Trace tried to be gracious. "You can't drink me."
"Wanna bet?"
That drew a round of 'Oooooh's from the boys in the bar but Trace didn't blink. She slowly, appreciatively, gave the redhead a once over and smiled again. "Cassandra, I am sure you could make my toes curl if I gave you a chance."
"Well?"
"Sorry...although I'm sure your charms exceed most men's wildest dreams, I'm not going to give you that chance."
"Why? Don't you like me?" She pouted.
"It ain't that, Cass," Joseph Turner, standing by the staircase, jumped in, "Trace, here, is getting his toes curled by Rachel Young."
Pinning him with a glare, the force of which should have knocked him clear across the room, in a voice even and definite, Trace said, "Mind your manners, Joseph. Miss Rachel is a lady. I won't have anyone talking about her like that."
"Come on, you're telling me you're living out there on that big spread, just the two of you, and you two have never - "
"Never what, Joseph?" Trace interrupted, not believing this idiot didn't get the hint to shut up.
"You know..." Grinning lewdly, he gestured obscenely with his hands.
"I told you no, Joseph. Miss Rachel is a lady. She has nursed me back to health and given me a place to stay and that is all," Trace replied, crisply.
"Well, you're probably better off," Cassandra shrugged. "Word has it she's no virgin."
"Word has it?" Trace snapped. "Whose word?" The look in the brunette's captivating eyes turned ice blue and she was no longer playful.
"Well," Joseph said, "Ben Crane, for one. He said he's had her and she's real...uh...spirited in the bedroom."
"Who the fuck is Ben Crane and why would he say something like that?"
None of them really knew this cowboy, Trace Sheridan, that well but somehow each and every one of them realized they had just stepped over a line. Cassandra mistakenly

thought she could sooth the savage beast in Trace. Reaching out for the brunette, she said, "You don't want to mess with Ben Crane, Trace."
Swatting the redhead's hand away, a motion which startled everyone, most of all the prostitute, Trace glared at Joseph. "I said: who the fuck is Ben Crane?"
No one in the saloon could believe that someone actually existed who hadn't heard of Ben Crane. They all exchanged glances. Silas cleared his throat. "Uh...the Cranes are cattle barons, Trace. They run this town. When they're here."
"That much I know." Trace stated, still not impressed. "And the Cranes, including Ben, are away, heading up their cattle drive to Kansas, right?"
"Right," Joseph offered. "They get fifty dollars a head delivering them to Dodge City. They round 'em up and drive 'em twice a year and this is one of them times. They own most of the property that surrounds the town. All except for the Young spread."
"And that spread - which Rachel won't sell - is right in the middle of their drive route, which adds an extra half-day to their trip east," Silas added, reiterating again what Trace was already aware of and then he said something the detective did not know. "Ben asked Rachel for her hand a few times, hoping it would solve the problem but she turned him down every time. Guess he finally gave up."
Gave up, my ass, Trace thought. An idea started forming in Trace's mind, putting some missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together that was Rachel's life before she entered it. "So why would this Crane dickhead say what he is saying?"
It was obvious the normally amiable Trace was not receptive to this particular subject at all and the atmosphere in the room had changed. The tension in the air was thick and suddenly everyone in the saloon wished they had somewhere else to be. Including Cassandra, who was still a little stung by Trace's action.
"Look, Trace, Crane told us he's had Rachel...that's all I'm telling you," Joseph told her.
"And you believe him?"
"Why would he lie?"
"You tell me." Trace glanced from face to face, her eyes challenging every one of them. No one said a word. "Okay...just for shits and giggles, let's say he had her. What's the problem?"
They all exchanged looks with one another, then back at Trace, almost embarrassed. It was Silas who finally spoke. "Well...come on, Trace...you wouldn't want a woman who's already been -"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence, Silas," Trace warned. "First, that's an insult to Cassandra and second, if what this Crane asshole said is true, why does that make her undesirable and not him?"
Even the three men playing poker at the table against the stairs looked up at that one but no one responded to the ridiculous question.
Laughing, caustically, Trace said, "Let me get this straight, he beds her and he's a big stud and she's a whore? How come he's not considered a whore?"
"You're kidding, right, Trace?" Silas asked, a nervous little laugh getting caught in his throat.
"No, I'm not," she began, agitated. "Women are sexual beings. They have urges, wants, needs, desires just like men. But, no, we can't allow women to express that, to behave just like us because then we lose that control over them." Trace noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra smirk and look down at the floor. "Men come in here and pay for the pleasure of Cassandra's services and that's okay, we all just look the other way because that's what men do. But women...the minute they show any inkling of enjoying the sex act like a man does, deriving any pleasure from it at all, she's a whore, a hussy. Ain't right, guys," Trace told them.
Joseph, Silas and the other men all snickered. "Damn, Trace! How you talk sometimes," Silas shook his head.
"Yeah, yeah, but let's just look at this for a second...say this prick, Crane, is telling the truth and he and Miss Rachel got romantic and frisky one night and they had...relations. Who are you going to respect more? Rachel, who most of you have known since she were born - she's a good, kind, law-abiding woman who's had some pretty horrible things happen in the past year, who may have made a mistake with Crane? Or him, who slept with her and bragged about it to everyone, knowing it would ruin her good name? I don't see where there's even a choice here, boys."
Amazingly, her words sunk in and they all considered this.
"But," Trace added, employing what Bobby Montesano used to tell her was one of her most annoying traits - rubbing salt into an open wound, "I still think either he's lying or he took her against her will."
Matthew Reddick, one of the younger men playing poker, put his cards down and said, "Uh...Trace...are you accusing Ben Crane of rape? Because that could be real dangerous around here."
Knowing she had hit a nerve, Trace almost smiled at the reaction. "I'm just throwing out the scenario...you draw the conclusion yourself. Somehow, just hearing how you talk about this Crane pig tells me that Miss Rachel wouldn't willingly give him the time of

day, much less give him anything else - if you understand me. And," she said, her voice steady and stern, "make no mistake, the threat of a Crane being pissed off at me doesn't scare me. Bullies never scared me."
"If the Cranes don't scare you, then you're a fool, Trace," Cassandra stated, shaking her head.
"Yeah...maybe, but I don't want to hear any more of that talk about Rachel Young. She is a good, decent woman and she has been a saint to me," Trace advised them.
Silas smiled. "Kind of sweet on her, ain't ya, Trace?"
Knowing she was blushing, Trace broke into a smile. "Well...yeah...I mean, shouldn't I be? Look at her. She's beautiful."
Matthew Reddick folded to a bobtailed flush, cleared the three dollars he had won previously off the table and stood up, putting the money in his pocket. He passed the detective with a smile. "Ya know, Trace? She deserves to finally have something good in her life again. Rachel is a good woman." He clapped the brunette on the shoulder and left the saloon.
***************************************
45
One beer had turned into four and it was just past dusk when Trace steered Moses to the hitching post outside the front door. She could smell dinner, as she hopped down off the wagon and decided to unload the supplies afterward. Unhooking the old horse, Trace led him to the barn, took the reins and harness off, placing them in the tack room and made sure the he and the other horses had enough oats and water. Then she strolled back to the main house.
"Hey," she greeted the blonde as she walked in.
Smiling more brightly at her than she ever had before, Rachel had just finished setting the table. "Hi. Go get washed up. I thought you were going to be late."
"Yeah, me too, for a minute," Trace moved to the pump and basin. "Kind of lost track of time at Wilbur's."
Concealing a wider, rib-busting proud smile, Rachel said, "Yes, I heard you defended my honor there today."
Stunned, Trace looked over at her. "How did you find that out?"

"Elizabeth Reddick came over to visit. Brought us an apple pie. Matthew hasn't allowed Elizabeth to come over here in almost a month. She said Matthew got home from playing cards and told her that Joseph Turner was saying some things about me that weren't very nice and you almost hit him."
"I didn't almost hit him. I felt like it...but I restrained myself. Good Lord, people have big mouths around here."
"So...did you defend my honor?"
Trace looked over at the glowing blonde who was grinning radiantly at her. It was contagious. "And if I did?" She was about to wipe her hands on the towel when Rachel's smile turned to a stern smirk. "What?"
"Wash your hands again, Trace Sheridan, and this time use soap!" she pointed at the basin. "Those hands are not clean!"
Trace held them up, displaying both palms and then knuckles. "No, but they match," she said in a playfully defensive tone. Shrugging in defeat, the brunette returned to the pump. "You didn't answer my question," she continued, scrubbing her hands in an exaggerated manner with a powdered, gritty borax. She anxiously looked forward to Rachel's reaction when she gave her the perfumed soap she bought her.
"If you did, I just wanted to say thank you." She said it almost timidly, after she placed a bowl of steaming hot potatoes on the table.
Wiping her hands - again - Trace studied the beautiful woman next to her. "You're welcome," she replied, sincerely, her tone almost loving. "Rachel, did Ben Crane rape you?" she questioned, gently.
It came out of nowhere, like a hard slap. Closing her eyes, Rachel stopped in her tracks. "Leave it alone, Trace," the blonde said, quietly, her now open eyes pleading and fixed on the brunette. "Ben Crane is a dangerous man."
Approaching her slowly, non-threateningly, Trace said, "Ben Crane doesn't scare me, Rachel. I've dealt with hundreds of Ben Cranes. He's an overgrown bully and bullies never scared me." Her tone was still gentle, caring.
Rachel's voice, however, was panicky. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's a very powerful man, he and his father and brothers. You don't want to make a Crane angry. They run this town, they keep money flowing into this town. No one in Sagebrush, no matter how much they hate the Cranes, will back you up if you cross a Crane -"
"Hey, hey..." Trace's voice was loud enough to override Rachel's rising hysteria but soothing enough to let her know she wasn't arguing with her. "The town is afraid of them, I get it. They're not nice people, I get that, too. And they own Sagebrush so, in a way,

they are holding the town hostage, I understand. But that does not give them the right to browbeat, antagonize, intimidate or rape anyone."
Approaching the brunette quickly, frantically, Rachel took her by the shoulders. She was crying. "Please, Trace, I'm begging you, don't go up against the Cranes!! They will kill you," she was practically sobbing, then her voice broke into a desperate whisper. "And I can't lose you."
The impact of that hushed confession stunned Trace into momentary silence. She pulled the frantic blonde into her comforting arms, and rubbed her back with one hand while tightly holding Rachel against her with another. The response from the frightened woman in her embrace simultaneously surprised and excited her. Rachel held her back, almost intimately, like a lover, burrowing into her uninhibitedly as though releasing her would have caused her to vanish into thin air. "Shhh, shhh, it's okay...I'm not going anywhere... I promise," Trace consoled her, quietly, lightly pressing her lips several times to the top of the blonde's head, absently, an action that seemed to come naturally.
She suddenly felt Rachel's body stiffen and Trace closed her eyes, mentally cursing herself for stepping over that line. She knew - whatever Rachel may have been feeling - was all new and bewildering and complicated and she was trying not to force her rapidly growing love and libidinous feelings on the blonde. As strong as Rachel was, she was still very fragile. Holding her breath, Trace decided to let Rachel make the next move.
An immediate reaction or response did not appear to be forthcoming from the blonde but neither did moving out of the brunette's embrace. Allowing the moment to play itself out, she finally heard Rachel nervously clear her throat. "Trace?"
"Yeah?" A thousand thoughts invaded her brain at once. But one seemed stronger than all the rest. She would ask Trace to leave, regardless of her not wanting to "lose" the detective. Trace was disgusted with herself for not having more self control. In modern times, her gesture would have meant nothing - right here, right now, it said much more than she felt Rachel was ready to handle.
"Did you mean what you mentioned last week?" Rachel's voice was somewhat muffled but her question came out clearly.
"I said a lot last week...what specifically?"
"About...getting married..."
Now it was Trace's turn to freeze. More from confusion than anything else. Never in a million years would she have ever expected this from the traditional, moral blonde. She stepped back putting herself at arm's length from Rachel. Reaching over, Trace gently placed her finger under Rachel's chin and lifted, forcing their eyes to meet. "What about it?"

"I want to get married...if you still want to." There it was out. Rachel had been thinking about the offer since the brunette brought it up that night of the storm. It had been difficult to think about anything else. She tried to look away from the detective but she couldn't. The expression on Trace's face was too priceless.
"If I - of course, I still want to. Why do you want to?"
"I've been thinking about what you said and...I know you would be good to me, protect me, take care of me. I know I won't find a husband, especially not being...with child. And nobody has to know the truth except you and me."
Trace's hand was now caressing her face and the blonde closed her eyes and unconsciously leaned into the touch. "I will never hurt you, Rachel. And I will make sure no one else ever hurts you again." She stepped closer and lightly massaged the blonde's belly. "I will raise this child as my own flesh and blood."
Falling into the brunette's arms again, Rachel hugged her fiercely. "I feel so safe with you. I don't care if you're a woman."
Looking skyward, Trace mouthed the words, 'Thank you.' The two women's eyes captured each other's again and Trace said, "I know you mean it."
"I do mean it. I don't care. I just never want you to leave me."
"Sweetheart, I will be here as long as you want me here, need me here." Trace didn't know when things had changed but she wasn't about to question or try to analyze it.
"I think I will always need you..." the blonde admitted, looking down, "...will always want you."
A surge of solid rapture washed through Trace's body, coursing through her veins like water through a firehose, jolting her between the legs like nothing ever had before. Heat radiated outward, igniting ever nerve in her body. She could not tear her eyes away from the flawlessly beautiful face, now staring directly at her once more.
"Would...you..." the blonde's voice was shaking, "...kiss me? Like a man kisses a woman?"
"You mean, like, romantically? Like lovers?" The detective's voice was hoarse, desire for this woman almost incapacitating her.
Blushing, Rachel smiled. "Yes...like that."
"Then let me kiss you like a woman kisses a woman. Romantically. Like lovers."