§ § § - August 5, 2006

Stacey awoke by slow degrees, trying to figure out why her mattress was so hard and why it felt as if she had left the bedroom window open in the middle of January. The floor rocked all of a sudden and her eyes flew open from the fear that she was experiencing an earthquake. The canvas roof that arced over her head was letting in copious sunlight, and she blinked several times before her memory returned at last, in one huge avalanche.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing when assorted joints and, seemingly, her entire back protested. "Well, sleepyhead, you're finally awake," said a girl's voice. "Ma's been wondering what happened to you."

Stacey squinted at her, still a little bleary-eyed. "Huh?" was all she could manage before she recognized Tiffany Gale—or rather, Emily Rogers.

The girl grinned at her. "Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, aren't we?"

"Leave her alone, Emily," ordered the voice of an older boy, and Stacey recognized it as belonging to Mills Brentwood—no, no, Caleb Rogers, she corrected herself. It reminded her that she wanted to corner Roarke and have a long, stern talk with him. "Pa said she had trouble sleeping last night and to let her be."

"She's had trouble sleeping ever since we left Paterson," Emily scoffed, picking up a bucket. "Pa never made any allowances for that before, so why start now?"

"Because we're all getting sick of sleeping under canvas and listening out for Indians and coyotes," Caleb retorted. "I've been having some trouble myself, mind, so don't you start in. Say, Carrie, since you're up, how 'bout coming on out and helping us with breakfast?"

About to say she couldn't cook, she was cut off before she began when Emily thrust the bucket at her. "Here," she said, "you can fetch some water. Ma can't start our oatmeal without it." Caleb nodded and climbed out of the wagon, rocking the floor again, and Emily waited till he was gone before she said conspiratorially to Stacey, "You can take as long as you want, sis. I'm getting really tired of nothing but oatmeal every day anyway." She giggled and clambered out in her brother's wake, leaving Stacey alone to struggle out of the long johns and heavy flannel that had served for pajamas and to change into the dress Roarke and Leslie had given her.

"Well, damn," Stacey muttered to herself, laboriously buttoning her shoes again. "I am so mad I can't see straight. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Just wait till I get hold of that Mr. Roarke, I'm gonna give him such a piece of my mind…"

"Carrie!" shouted a woman's voice. "Stop dawdling and come out this instant. I need to make breakfast before we get going, and you're holding up the entire train!"

Stacey forced herself to call back, "Yes, Ma," before hooking the last of the buttons closed and getting to her feet. She nearly got tangled in her skirt climbing out of the wagon, and tried to avoid all eyes as she hastily scanned the landscape and, to her relief, located a river flowing serenely some little distance from the campsite. She struck out for it with determination, telling herself grimly that if she was really stuck here, she might as well make the most of it.

She dipped up a bucketful of water and trudged back to the campsite, handing it over to Christine Vandermeer's doppelganger, Mary Anna Rogers. The woman dumped the water into her cooking pot and handed the bucket right back to Stacey. "We need some more," she said, peering oddly at her. "What's happened to you, girl? You've been a slugabed today. Not yourself at all."

"I couldn't sleep last night," Stacey ventured weakly, and at Mary Anna's faintly exasperated look, elaborated, "Worse than usual, that is."

"I don't think you're ever gonna turn her into a country girl, Ma," observed the last member of the Rogers family, Josiah, the character portrayed by Sammy Hastings. He was a couple of years older than Caleb; Emily was the baby. In her stories Stacey had always planted Carrie in the birth order between Josiah and Caleb, but right now she felt younger than Emily. "Carrie's a city girl, first and foremost. By the time we get to Oregon she'll likely be dead of insomnia."

Irked, Stacey retorted, "Thanks a lot." Swinging the bucket in a righteous wrath, she strode to the river again, hearing Josiah's laughter behind her and feeling her face get hot. She was really steaming by the time she got to the riverbank, almost enough to jump in.

"And how is your fantasy going, Mrs. Kendall?" asked a genteel Latin accent from quite near by. Stacey jerked up straight and found herself glaring at Roarke, who stood calmly next to one of the trees through which the river flowed, immaculate and enviably twenty-first-century in his white suit.

She was so mad she lashed out instantly. "It's a complete bust, Mr. Roarke," she snapped. "You really blew it, let me tell you. This is not what I wanted! I expected you to set things up so I could play a role and meet the actors! I didn't want to live this stuff in real life! Don't you get it? I wanted to be part of the television series!"

Roarke looked just a little startled. "Oh," he said. "I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Kendall."

"Sorry just isn't gonna cut it," Stacey retorted. "I want you to fix this right now! I want to go back to 2006 right this minute, and I'll wait while you set this fantasy up the way I wanted it in the first place, so that I can be on the TV show and not on the actual Oregon Trail. I paid for the fun stuff, not the cold hard reality."

"Mrs. Kendall," Roarke said gently, "while I apologize profoundly for the error, I must point out to you that you never actually specified the television series when you asked for this fantasy. You merely asked to spend a weekend playing the character you created for yourself in the world of the show."

She stared at him. "Oh, come on, you gotta be kidding! I'm not cut out for this kind of thing. I can't cook, I can't hunt, I can't even sleep! I can barely fetch water! Mrs. Rogers told me we had to have more water when I brought back a bucketful. I could barely carry it as it was, and it was only half full! No, this isn't what I asked for. I wanted to be on the TV show. That's what I…"

But he was already shaking his head. "I'm sorry…but once a fantasy has begun, I cannot change nor stop it. Here you are; you must make the best of it."

"You can't be serious!" Stacey cried.

Roarke nodded; his expression was regretful but firm. "You are not the first person who wished to alter a fantasy in progress."

"What if I pay you extra?" Stacey begged desperately. "Mr. Roarke, you don't understand. I just can't go through with this. You can't honestly tell me you're completely unable to stop a fantasy. I mean, what if somebody's mother dies right in the middle and they have to go home immediately? Are you saying you can't even stop it then? I mean, come on!"

Roarke stared at her in surprise for a few seconds, then visibly repressed a smile. "I am unaware of such an emergency in your case, Mrs. Kendall, although of course, if something of the sort did happen, you would be notified promptly." He shook his head a little. "Merely having little faith in your own capabilities doesn't qualify for emergency status. This is the fantasy you asked for, and it is the fantasy I am granting you. It's yours; now it's up to you to make the best of it that you possibly can."

Stacey, determined, stood her ground. "I wanted to be on the TV show, and that's what I'm demanding. If you don't give me the fantasy I asked for, then I want my money back and I'll go straight home."

"Indeed," said Roarke, looking unperturbed. "Are you quite certain?"

"Dead certain. Either put me on the TV series, or pay me back and I'll leave. I'm telling you, that's what I asked you for. You'll have to prove I didn't."

Roarke nodded once or twice. "Very well, Mrs. Kendall. I'll return when I am able." So saying, he lost himself in the trees; Stacey started after him, but when she got past the tree he had been standing beside, she saw nothing but foliage and trunks. She let out a loud, disgusted curse and dunked her bucket into the water, then struggled mightily to pull it out.

"For cryin' out loud, you're taking forever!" complained Josiah's voice from behind her. "Here, gimme that." He grabbed the bucket handle and easily hefted it out of the water, then shot her a condescending look. "Come on, Miss Useless, at least you can tidy up the wagon."

Humiliated and fuming, Stacey followed him, wishing she could simply plant herself beside the tree where she and Roarke had been talking and wait there for him. She was anticipating the moment when he returned, admitted he'd goofed and brought her back so that she could participate in the TV series the way she'd wanted in the first place. Boy, would she gloat then…it would be a treat to see the last of this forsaken bit of nowhere.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie burst out laughing when Roarke told her what had happened. "You're kidding!" she exclaimed. "She's not backing down?"

"No," said Roarke with a heavy sigh. "I am afraid I must ask you to locate Mrs. Kendall's original letter for me, so that I can show it to her and make it clear that she did not in fact ask to be placed on the television series."

Leslie, giggling, got up from behind the desk. "I'm sorry, Father, but I think it's funny. I guess that should teach her to be very careful what she asks for, huh? Are you going to change her fantasy for her if this doesn't work?"

Roarke gave her a look. "Surely you jest."

"I probably am," Leslie admitted, snickering. "I can't wait to find out what her reaction is when she sees the letter. Hmm, let me see, I probably stored it in the usual place in the credenza." She knelt in front of the proper drawer and pulled it out, vaguely regretting the loss of her accidentally-acquired X-ray vision which had finally faded away for her around mid-July. There had been times when it had really come in handy.

It took her only a few minutes to locate it, however, and she slowly stood up and pushed the drawer shut without really thinking about it, becoming engrossed in the letter. She smiled a little at its contents, and when she finished reading and looked up, she saw Roarke watching her. "Well?" he prompted.

"What did Mrs. Kendall tell you she said, exactly?" Leslie asked, approaching the desk.

"She claims that she asked to be placed on the television series for a weekend, as I told you. Since you are now holding the missive in question, perhaps you'll be kind enough to refresh my memory as to precisely what she requested."

He was royally annoyed, Leslie realized, and smiled again. "Okay, Father. Let's see. Dear Mr. Roarke, my name is Stacey Buckner Kendall and I live in Maine. I'm a huge, huge, lifetime fan of Trail to Oregon, the old TV series, and ever since I first started watching it, I've wanted to be part of that world. I imagined myself being a part of the show, and even wrote stories about it with a new character I created for myself, named Carrie. I'd give anything to be there for one weekend. I loved the show and everything about it, and I still do. I've even read about the time period it took place in, and the whole thing sounds really romantic. I loved the way the actors got to portray history and wished I could do the same thing. Could you consider granting me my fantasy? I'm willing to pay five thousand dollars—practically my entire savings. It's been my dream for decades. Thanks for your consideration. Sincerely, Stacey Buckner Kendall."

Roarke frowned. "Her wording was ambiguous at best, don't you think?"

Leslie, feeling suddenly caught in the middle, cleared her throat and hitched a shoulder, the way she'd so often done as a teenager when he was in a bad mood or scolding her. "Well…I suppose it was, but…I have to admit, to me it sounds like she wanted to be part of the show, not the actual time period it took place in." Roarke's dark eyes widened, and she cringed a little. "I'm sorry, but it does."

"May I see that, please?" Roarke extended his hand, and she gave him the letter, which he read at least twice while she watched. "Leslie," he said finally, "she does not state specifically that she wished to be part of the television series."

"Maybe not," Leslie protested spiritedly, "but she talks about the show, not the time period. I figure it was easy enough to decipher from the context."

"She states that she wishes to have the chance to portray history, and that she was fascinated by those times," said Roarke. "From that, I inferred that she would like to go back in time and experience them."

"You really thought she'd want to return to the Oregon Trail itself, and not the show that highlighted it?" Leslie said, shaking her head. "It doesn't look that way to me. Don't you remember what she said when she was telling us about it, just before you sent her into her fantasy? All she could talk about was the show and its influence on her life, both then and now. If you ask me, that's what she was expecting, not a trip to the nineteenth century. I hate to tell you this, but I think this is one time you goofed."

Roarke stared at her as if he thought she was betraying him, and this was the scene that Christian walked in on. "Hello, Mr. Roarke…uh-oh. Something's wrong, isn't it?"

Leslie smiled at him. "Hi, my love. We're just having a difference of opinion."

"Over what?" Christian inquired curiously.

Roarke seemed to think about it a moment, and Leslie suggested, "Maybe Christian can break the impasse, Father. Why don't you let him read that and see what he thinks."

"Very well," Roarke agreed and gave Christian the letter. The prince frowned at the first line, then glanced back and forth between his wife and his father-in-law.

"What impasse am I supposed to be breaking?" he wanted to know.

"Read the letter," Leslie urged, "and then tell us what fantasy you think she was asking us for."

Christian looked dubious, but obliged anyway. Like Roarke, he read the letter twice, much more slowly the second time, scowling at some lines as if he wasn't sure what language they were in. Finally he shrugged and handed the letter back to Roarke. "I think she's asking to be on the television series."

Roarke stared at him, and Leslie grinned. "That's what I think too, but Father interpreted it a whole different way and sent her back to the actual Oregon Trail."

Christian's eyes lit with surprise, and then he began to laugh. "Ach. And don't tell me, Mr. Roarke…you've gone to check on her, and met with her wrath."

"Succinctly put," Roarke agreed, sighing. "Perhaps I am in the wrong, if someone other than Leslie thinks she wished to be on the television series. Unfortunately, as I informed Mrs. Kendall, I can't stop her fantasy now."

Christian eyed him askance; Leslie was bolder. "Can't, or won't? There's that old mantra, Father…you know, 'the customer is always right'. If she asked to be on the TV show, and you didn't give her that, then you're obligated to fix the problem. Right?"

Roarke shook his head impatiently. "This is not the first time that a guest has evinced apparent dissatisfaction with a fantasy, but it's certainly the first time my own assistant has sided with the guest in question and insisted I change things midstream. Frankly, I think the two of you unduly influence each other. What I need is an impartial third party."

Christian put in, "I have to ask why you'd bother, when in the end it's your decision anyhow, Mr. Roarke. And from where I stand, it appears you're not going to change your mind."

"This may have happened before," Leslie said gently when Roarke didn't reply right away, "but I don't think the dispute's ever been so clear-cut before. I think, just this once, you'll have to call a halt to this version of the fantasy and set things up for the one she really wants."

Roarke read the letter one more time, then sighed to himself. "Perhaps you're right. Very well, I'll begin making the arrangements, and when it's ready, Leslie, you can bring Mrs. Kendall back." He folded the page as he spoke and returned it to its envelope; dropping it on the desktop, he left the house.

Christian studied his wife with interest. "Do you suppose Tattoo ever put up the sort of elegant argument you just did, and came out on the winning side?"

"I don't know," Leslie admitted and grinned. "To tell you the truth, I didn't really expect him to give in. He's never made a change before just because a guest threw a fit over semantics. He always let the situation stand—must've figured it was good for the guest. You know, teach them something."

"Some people don't want to be taught," said Christian, chuckling. "They just want what they want, without complications. I'll look forward to seeing how this one ultimately turns out."