A/N1: Make sure you've got your school supplies (Part One), and that you've got your dancing shoes (Part Two).

Heaven and Hell

Book One:

Bring My Coffin Along

CHAPTER SIX:

Tuitions and Intuitions

Tuesday, September 8, 1885
Idaho Falls

Part One: Lessons

Chuck woke chilled.

It had been warm on Monday and the heat had settled on Chuck by the time he and Nehi had stabled the horses. Nehi went on the sheriff's office. Chuck went to his room.

He worked distractedly at lesson plans, but although the sun was setting, the heat was rising and still upon him. After a sweaty, fussy few hours, he gave up and prepared for sleep. He looked out the window and saw a streak of lightning, heard and felt a peal of thunder. Storm. The coming of the whirlwind.

Despite the threatening storm, he threw open his window, letting in the air. After turning back his blankets, he tucked himself in.

He mooned up at the ceiling and it mooned down at him, white, impassive. Rain began to fall. White. His mind, unsettled, wavering, slipped to a book. Moby Dick, Melville's Passion of Emptiness, of void spaces. Ishmael: It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me. For a moment, Chuck pictured Ahab, consumed, comfortless and incomplete, hounding the White Whale. But then Chuck's mental scene transfigured, and he was staring down a black gun barrel at colored bottles, and then at Daniel Shaw. Shaw stared back, unmoved - his black irises whiting the whites of his eyes.

That image in his mind, Chuck drifted off.

The morning air, cooled after the storm, was responsible for Chuck's chill. He got up and shut the window, then poured water into the basin and washed. He stood for a time in his underwear staring at his two options for his first day of class. The newish Western garb and the black Boston suit. His dithering lasted long enough that he heard Mrs. Fitzsimmons' call him from the hall. "Breakfast, Mr. Bartowski. Big day, first day. Rise and shine!"

Chuck had risen; he was far from shining. Taking a deep breath, he donned on the Western clothes and grabbed his cowboy hat. He considered its whiteness for a moment, then shook his head, trying to shake Melville's whaler's grip on him. Carrying his cowboy hat in his hand, and his tablet and pen in the other, he went to breakfast. For a moment, he thought yesterday's heat had addled him: he was seeing double: there were two Mrs. Fitzsimmons standing by the table.

"This is my sister, Mrs. Constance," the real Mrs. Fitzsimmons reported with a quick nod toward her mirrored image. "We're twins."

Chuck stood in place. Mrs. Constance giggled. "We get that reaction from new folks."

Recovering, Chuck laughed. "Identical twins, I take it."

"Only outwardly," Mrs. Fitzsimmons said. "Otherwise, we are perfectly distinct."

Chuck raised one eyebrow, "Constance?"

The sister's exchanged a look. "Yes," Mrs. Constance answered. "I am Martin Constance's wife, the sheriff's brother. He owns Large Mart Hardware. He's a big guy…"

"Oh, oh," Chuck added, catching up, "Large Mart-in, Martin, I get it. I like it." He laughed again, glad for his mood to lighten, at least for a moment.

Mrs. Constance giggled and looked at her sister again. "You're right, Clarel, he is handsome - and nice."

"I know my lodgers, Mirabelle." Mrs. Fitzsimmons left for the kitchen. Chuck asked to sit and Mrs. Constance waved to a chair. "I realize this is confusing. A twin - and a twin married to the brother (not a twin) of the man Mrs. Fitzsimmons was out walking with on Saturday, as I take it from your question you know. She's been chasing Mark for years. Lucky for me, Martin was heavier - and slower. I'm very pleased to meet you - Chuck, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I, you."

"I came by this morning to meet you and to talk to you."

"Talk to me?"

"Yes, my son, Johnny, will be one of your pupils. He's older, and he's a good boy, he is, but he's at that...difficult age. Resents his father and ignores his mother. I wish I didn't have to say this, but I expect he will...challenge you. I want you to know - my husband and I both want you to know - that we support you.

"Clarel already has a high opinion of you, as do...many...in town. I hope you can reach him. He's not just a good boy, he's smart too. Too smart, perhaps. Miss Reynolds kept him in tolerable check with smiles and charm. Johnny was...smitten. Her sudden departure has made Johnny more difficult and I suspect he will hate anyone who takes her place."

Chuck nodded. "I will do all I can. I appreciate the foreknowledge and support. Let me tell you, though, that I have my methods, and they take time. The slow cure is the only real cure. Miracle cures are almost always fake. You have my promise I will be patient and will do my best."

Mrs. Constance smiled, her relief palpable. "Clarel," she called, looking away from Chuck and into the kitchen, "be sure to bring a new jar of those strawberry preserves, and a pile of biscuits. Our teacher needs to fortify himself."

Chuck walked along the main street toward the school, full of strawberry preserves, biscuits, and Ahab. From Hell's heart, I stab at thee. Chuck looked up as he passed The Bar None, and saw Carina, head and bare shoulders leaning out of an upstairs window, her eyes closed, her face in the sun. She opened her eyes and noticed him. Looking around first, she waved guardedly at him and gave him a warm smile. He forgot Ahab. Chuck waved back without looking around, causing Carina to frown. She shook her head, No. She ducked back in the window.

The Bar None made Chuck wonder again about the blonde rider. He had been wondering if the blonde rider was Sarah Walker. It fit in some ways: her hair, her rumored skill at riding. But if it was her, what was she doing there when the Number Gang held up the stage? Why had she just watched it all, assuming she had been there all along? Why not help once the Gang rode away? Why vanish? It did not seem to him to make sense, given the little of Sarah he knew from his own experience. Granted, that little was very little, but still: would she have just sat by while the Numbers did what they did - trampled Bob, shot Steve, pistol-whipped Chuck, threatened Carina, stolen money and valuables? Chuck did not believe it - or he did not want to believe it. But he knew of no way to solve the mystery that morning, so he forced his mind on school, on the first day, always a difficult day. It helped him that he had Friday ahead of him, the Fall Festival, his evening with Sarah Walker. Nothing could come of it but it would be a few hours with her and he would take what he could get. Maybe he could find out more about the rider talking to Sarah at the Festival.

He was there early. Langston Graham had left him a key with Mrs. Fitzsimmons, and Chuck used it to unlock the red doors. He left them standing open and entered.

The building had been freshly cleaned, and, as Langston had promised, the Sunday changes were gone. Everything gleamed, even the wooden floor. Chuck walked to the front and stepped up to the desk. He put his pen and tablet on it, then turned, picked up the rag, and wiped the already clean board, just burning nervous energy.

He picked up new chalk from the wooden tray running along the bottom of the board. Working from memory, he wrote out these words on one end of the board:

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and suits of woe.

Hamlet, Hamlet, Act I, Scene II

Chuck stepped back and looked at the words. They were legible. Chuck had decided to use the quotation as the lesson for his older students.

On the opposite end, he wrote a list of words, all one syllable or two syllables, to serve as both a penmanship and spelling lesson for younger students. Language, logic and rhetoric would be the focus before lunch. Mathematics and science after lunch. He stepped down from the desk and turned again toward the board, reading the Hamlet quotation to himself. He thought of Jill, dead and bloody, and of sobbing Molly in his arms. It should not have ended like that for Jill. For Molly. For Chuck. I have that within which passeth show. He was glad he'd not chosen to wear his black Boston suit, although the quotation had not consciously been any part of his decision against it. All forms, moods, shapes of grief. Jill, Chuck's father, his mother. It didn't matter if he did not seem sad - he was sad, sad at a depth he had yet to plumb. From Hell's heart… He took a deep, trembling breath and walked toward the doors. He unwound the bell-rope and he began to ring the bell, its clear tenor note sounding all around Idaho Falls, announcing the first day of school.

The students were all seated, looking at Chuck with a mixture of curiosity and dread. He knew that the latter was not entirely personal. It was the recognition that another year of schooling had come - he caused the dread, but was not really its object. The former, the curiosity, was, however, mostly personal. They had not expected his cowboy attire and his height seemed to puzzle many, particularly the youngest, who sat in the front and who had to lean their heads back whenever he stood. The raised platform made it all worse.

Chuck stepped down and asked the students to tell him their names. He wrote them on his tablet as they did. He started at the front.

A tiny girl, blond and delicate, painfully shy, whispered: "Faith Stone, sir."

Another small girl: "Emily Whittier."

The next to speak was a boy, older than Faith and Emily, but still young. He had a mass of curly dark hair and bright eyes. But he seemed frightened. To frightened to speak. Chuck walked toward him and bent at the knees so as not to tower over the boy. "And your name?"

"Anthony Rizzo, sir." The answer had barely been given when an older boy in the back row fake sneezed: "Whoreson!"

Chuck stood up. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so eager to tell me your name. Is that spelled with an 'H' or with a 'Wh'? Is it your surname or your first name?"

The other children, excepting the two smallest girls, burst into laughter. The boy blushed and glowered. "That's not my name."

Chuck gave the boy a mild look. "Forgive me. What is your name?"

"Johnny Constant."

Chuck wrote it down and then turned back to Anthony. "I'm glad to have you with us, Anthony."

The other students told him their names. The final two were older girls, seated next to Johnny Costance, Izbel Jenks, a curly-headed girl with a quick, pleasant smile (Chuck looked at her a second time because of her name), and Ruth Justus, a softer, attractive version of her mother. Her eyes were guarded and she seemed to be studying Chuck, tracking everything he did.

Chuck told the older students to copy the Shakespeare and to reflect on it; they would discuss it. He then spent time with the younger students, helping them to copy the words from the board, correcting their penmanship, then spent a few minutes explaining the meaning of each word. He left the youngest to write the words several more times, practicing. Those who were a little older he asked to use each word in a sentence.

He turned his attention to the older students and they worked to understand what Hamlet was saying - Chuck explained the opening of the play - and to understand the hard words. They talked about the forms, moods, and shapes of grief, and Chuck took the time to explain the complicated extended metaphor, the complex use of seeming and being, that was integral to the quotation.

The morning passed. After lunch, Chuck began work on simple arithmetic with youngest children, multiplication with those slightly older, and he discussed the opening of Euclid's Elements, again working from his memory, considering the definitions of 'point' and 'line'. At first, the students were lost, befuddled, but soon they were engrossed, arguing excitedly about the definition of a point as 'that which has no part' and wondering if it made sense to think points existed, whether something with no parts could occupy a position in space.

Chuck was quickly engrossed too. He took breaks to work with the younger students, but he came back to the discussion with the older ones. Even Johnny Constant seemed reluctantly interested in Euclid.

The first day ended. After the students left, Chuck erased the board and straightened the classroom, then he sat down at the desk and put his head on his arms, exhausted. He had not picked up anything heavy, physically heavy, but teaching was far from light work.

Wednesday, September 9

The next day was much the same.

But just after Chuck called the roll, a young black woman came running into the building. She stopped, self-conscious, when everyone turned to look at her.

"Yes," Chuck said, "I'm Mr. Bartowski, the teacher, may I help you?"

She looked both terrified and excited. "I'm Monica Stutts. My dad is the cook at the railway camp. Most days I have to help him, but he told me I could take the wagon and come once in a while, and today was...once in a while. May I attend...part-time?"

"Certainly, Monica. Welcome." She sat down at the back on an otherwise unoccupied bench. Ruth Justus and Johnny Constance stared at the newcomer then at Chuck.

When school ended on Wednesday, Chuck walked up the street to The Bar None. He was to buy the drinks for Nehi he owed him for Monday's shooting lesson. They had a plan to go again on Saturday. As he walked through the swinging doors, Chuck thought about the warnings he had gotten from Carina, Casey and from Devon. Going into the saloon, even in the light of day, was imprudent. But Chuck did not like the idea that someone like Athaliah Justus could control where he spent his time.

As he walked in, he saw Nehi at the bar, his hat tilted back, talking with a balding, chubby bartender. The bartender was listening as Nehi told a story about an argument between two preachers and a donkey. Chuck slipped up to the bar to listen, and looked around. In the one corner, Langston Graham was sitting with Mark Constance. Each had a glass of beer in front of him. Each nodded at Chuck and he nodded back. Nehi finished his story and the bartender gave a belly-laugh. "That's a good 'un, huh, Jeff?" Nehi asked the question, red-faced and laughing at his own story. He saw Chuck and sobered.

"Oh, I din' see ya. I's all a-caught up inna story…" Nehi paused and squeezed his eyes shut. "That story weren't aimed at ya, Dee-vine. I know yer no preecher - and not no donkey neither." He tried not to laugh, but Jeff did, and then Nehi did too. Chuck joined the laughter, although he had missed the punch-line.

"No, neither a preacher nor a donkey, but maybe a horse's ass."

Nehi cackled in delight, as did Jeff. Chuck was still laughing when he looked up and saw Carina standing at the top of the stairway that led from the bar up to the rooms on the second floor. She pulled her flowery robe closed and glared at Chuck. She came down the stairs, apparently torn between attending to Chuck and ignoring him, and somehow doing both. Chuck put a small cloth pouch of tobacco on the bar in front of Nehi, and a small package of rolling papers. He ordered two shots of red-eye. Putting his hand on Nehi's shoulder, he whispered his thanks. A moment later, he met as she crossed the floor.

"Hello, Miss Miller. I am here on a teacherly errand. A worker here, Mrs. Rizzo, has a son at my school, and I would like to talk to her him."

Carina's annoyance vanished and thanks replaced it. "That's kind of you, Mr. Bartowski, I know she has been hoping you would visit." Then, under her breath. "She really has, Boston. Thanks." She raised her voice. "Follow me."

They climbed the wide stairs side-by-side. Carina's face wore a pleased smile. She led Chuck along the balcony to a room at the end of the hall. Knocking, she called out softly: "Zondra, the teacher's here, like I said he would be."

Rustling noises came from inside the room, then the door opened. The woman standing there was, like Carina, wrapped in a robe. It was the woman who had called out Carina's name when the stagecoach arrived in Idaho Falls. Carina: "Chuck Bartowski, meet Zondra Rizzo. No Mrs., as you well know."

Chuck extended his hand and smiled. Zondra looked at him and shook his hand. Chuck saw that the room contained a large bed, unmade. Off to the side was a door, and beyond it, a pallet rolled neatly on the floor of a tiny room, presumably the place where Anthony slept. The small room was empty. A heavy dresser on one side of the room had a comb and brush on it, and a mannequin head beneath a blonde wig.

"Can you give me a minute, Mr. Bartowski. I'd like to dress and we can...it would be better if we talked downstairs." Zondra glanced at Carina, who nodded. "I need to change too, Boston. No need to the signs out when the shop is closed. I'll be down in a few minutes with Zondra."

Chuck went back downstairs. Langston was still talking to the sheriff, so Chuck walked over to them. Langston pushed out a chair with his foot and smiled. "Sit down, Mr. Bartowski. I heard kids in the street today talking about Euclid. I take it you are to blame for this unforgivable development?"

Chuck laughed silently. "I suppose. We talked about the definition of 'surface' today, and the students were...puzzled."

Langston's smile grew. "I can well imagine. What is that definition again?"

"A surface is that which has length and breadth only."

Sheriff Constance huffed. "I thought that was Mrs. Justus. No depth."

Chuck smiled but gave the sheriff a look. "What brings her to mind?"

"She was in my office today. It seems she saw a girl," - the sheriff glanced at Langston - "a black girl from the camp, go inside the school and not leave. She was...concerned."

Langston shook his head. "It isn't Christian, I know, but I sometimes wish she lacked breath and depth. I can't say I'd be sorry to render her my professional services…"

"It's true, Sheriff Constance, her name is Monica Stutts. Her father is the cook at the camp, she said."

Constance nodded. "I know him. So does Langston. A good man."

"Well, his daughter is brilliant, I believe. It seems she has read Shakespeare's Hamlet on her own, and with considerable understanding."

"Justus' campaign against you is just beginning. I have to say, your visiting here is not perhaps the best strategy," Constance noted.

"I refuse to strategize against that woman. I would rather be as wise as a dove."

Langston raised an eyebrow. "Be careful, Chuck, she's as innocent as a serpent. She has fangs."

Carina and Zondra were on their way down the stairs, so Chuck excused himself and moved to an empty table. He waited for the women to sit down then he joined them. Jeff brought over a tray with three cups of coffee. He put the coffee down and stared for a minute at Carina, then he went back to the bar. Carina shook her head. "Some days…"

Zondra broke in. "So, what do you think of Anthony, Mr. Bartowski?"

"Chuck, please. And I think he's a bright and likable boy. But I do agree with what Carina told me. He has difficulties reading and writing; he reverses things, I've noticed. His verbal abilities themselves would make me consider grouping him with the older kids but he needs to catch up with them in reading and writing. Don't worry. I am sure I can help him. Can he come to Mrs. Fitzsimmons once a week after school?"

Zondra nodded enthusiastically. "Sure, sure he can. Thank you!"

"I'm glad to do it." Chuck looked at Carina. "Faith Stone's mom works here too, right?"

"Yes, and she's...busy. Anthony's out back, playing with Faith. Do you need to talk to her mom? Does Faith have a problem?"

"No, no problem, I just wanted to invite her to come with Anthony. She's a little behind, but there's no other difficulty. I can work with them both at the same time."

Carina gave Chuck a look. "You want to do this at your landlady's place, the woman who likely scrubbed the floors and walls of the room I stayed in as soon as I left?"

Chuck grinned. "She has her moments - and she has her moments. I'm confident I can talk her into it. Maybe even talk her into giving the kids some of her strawberry preserves."

Carina narrowed her eyes. "You pull that off Boston, and I will climb through your window one night and give you some of my strawberry preserves."

Chuck choked on his swallow of coffee.

Part Two: Falling

Friday, September 11, 1885
Idaho Falls Fall Festival

Chuck had gone shopping at Patel's Dry Goods. He bought a new shirt and jacket, new pants and shoes, ignoring the slightly spooky feeling the owner, Lester, gave him. The man kept insisting on clarifying that he was an Indian from India, and not an Indian of 'the Western sort'.

Chuck had struggled to get out of the store, away from the small man.

Chuck's purchased jacket and pants were brown, his purchased shirt blue. He wore no hat. Passable, I look passable. He had done his best to get his curly hair to seem domesticated instead of wild. His heart was hammering in his chest.

The doors of the stables were open. The Festival was due to start soon and Mrs. Fitzsimmons told Chuck that she saw the Walker carriage arrive. Mrs. Fitzsimmons had not been excited to find out that on Wednesday that Chuck would escort Sarah Walker to the Festival. She asked Chuck repeatedly if he was sure that Daniel Shaw knew, if Jack Walker knew. Chuck explained that they both did.

Mrs. Fitzsimmons stopped asking but she never seemed reconciled to the plan. She had looked at Chuck pointedly before he left: "Be careful tonight."

Despite Mrs. Fitzsimmons, Chuck nervousness was of a positive, anticipatory sort. He had gone to sleep each night during the week with Sarah's blue ribbon beneath his pillow. It was in the pocket of his new jacket. He did not understand the token, but he knew it was a token, that it meant something, and that it had been in her hair. It was precious to him.

He walked into the barn and into John Casey. Chuck bounced back but caught himself before falling. Casey smirked and looked Chuck up and down. "Hello, Mr. Fancypants," Casey deadpanned. Casey wore the same clothes he wore on the stage, except he had added a string tie. Around Casey's thick neck, it looked like an undersized noose. Chuck was about to comment when Sarah stepped into view.

She wore a white dress, but not the plain one she had worn at church. This was embroidered around the neck and around the sleeves, around the hem. The embroidering was white too, but of a slightly creamier hue, so it was noticeable. The white that had haunted Chuck all week, Ishmael's white, vanished, replaced by a white still mystical but not appalling. It was fascinating, distracting, otherwordly. In contrast with her dress, her hair seemed more golden, purer, spun sunlight. He knew he was gaping at her but he could not help it. She smiled at him, her eyes shy but pleased.

"I've brought Miss Sarah to town for the Festival," Casey said, stepping between them. "I'm working for Jack Walker now. I'm his new foreman."

Before thinking, Chuck blurted out: "You're a shepherd?"

"No," Casey growled, "I'm the foreman on a sheep ranch. The shepherds work for me."

Chuck smirked at Casey. "Never thought of you as sheepish." Chuck heard Sarah giggle.

Casey frowned. "More jokes like that, schoolmarm, and I will make this a long evening for you."

"Boys," Sarah said, curtailing her giggles. "Get along. I'm sure you two like each other, so act like it."

Casey rolled his eyes. Chuck looked past him at Sarah. "I like him. He bears me, barely." Casey nodded.

"Say, have you heard anything more about the robbery, Casey? I talked to the sheriff again yesterday and he says he has no clues, nothing."

"Me either. I want my watch. My dad gave me that, and if I ever find Number Two, he's gonna be telling the same time forever."

"Did they take anything from you, Chuck?" Sarah asked, stepping beside Casey.

Chuck looked at her for a minute. "No, not really.'

"Tell her, Chuck," Casey said turning to look at Sarah. "They stole the teacher's apple." Casey smiled at that, a granite smile. Chuck blushed. Casey went on, nodding at Chuck's blushing face. "That there's about the color of that apple, bruising too."

Chuck had hoped his bruises invisible but he knew that his nose was still yellowed from Number Two's pistol.

Sarah looked at his face. "The bruises are almost gone, Chuck, and they were honorably won, to hear Casey tell the story - when you aren't around."

Casey cleared his throat. "Festival's a-waitin'"

For Chuck, the Festival was magic.

He could not tell what Sarah thought of it, though. She danced with him, helping him understand how the unfamiliar dances went. He was grateful that she seemed unembarrassed by his awkwardness. There were other men there, a number from the railroad camp, men Chuck took to be handsome, more comparable to Daniel Shaw in looks that Chuck would ever be. Several asked Sarah to dance but she firmly refused. A couple of men took the refusal hard but Casey seemed to always be nearby when it happened and his presence kept complaints at a minimum.

Sarah was not expressive during the evening. She seemed to enjoy herself, but all her actions and reactions seemed to be contained, unrevealing. She laughed and made small talk but wasn't focused overmuch on Chuck. She seemed simply to be enjoying the Festival. Chuck enjoyed himself too, just being near her, but he felt a little lost, unsure of her, the evening. The magic was bitterwweet.

The evening was drawing to a close. Sarah sat near Chuck on one of the flat wagons that had been drawn into the street. No one was watching them. Her white shoes swung just above the ground and she had a glass of punch in her hands. Flushed from dancing, she was transcendent, incandescent: beautiful, angelic. Chuck heard woodwinds again, soft and entrancing music, distinct from the tune the fiddle-player was playing for those still dancing.

Chuck had made himself look away and was watching the dancers. The whole scene struck him as heavenly, the dancers other angels, turning, smiling, not earthbound. Blessed spirits. He realized he had been staring for a while and he returned attention to Sarah. She looked away as he did: she had been staring at him, he was almost sure.

She hurried into a comment. "Chuck, how's school going?"

"It's gotten off to a good start. Some students are resistant but on the whole, I'm encouraged."

"I would like to learn from you," Sarah said, so softly Chuck thought the words unreal, but her head dropped, and he knew she had spoken them. She looked up and gave him a playful smile. "Izbel Jenks tells me you talk beautifully about Euclid."

"You know Izbel?"

"Yes, her father works for my father. He is Roan Montgomery's partner in the law office."

"Oh, I haven't met Mr. Montgomery yet."

"He's often out of town on business. I'm sure you will run into him. I'm surprised he's not here. Unlike him to miss a party."

"And you heard from Izbel how?"

"Her father brought some papers to the ranch. He left them with me. She rode out with him and was full of her handsome new teacher."

"She said that?"

Sarah shrugged. "It was...implied. But she was full of points and lines and surfaces."

Chuck laughed. "Is she related to Nehi?"

"Yes, she's his niece. Nehi's younger brother is her father, our lawyer."

"Nehi's brother is a lawyer?" At that moment, Nehi passed by them, wobbling, holding a mug of beer, most of which he was spilling on his boots as he tried to dance to the music.

Sarah chuckled indulgently at him. "It seems surprising, I admit. But the Jenks are surprising folks. How do you know Nehi?" The look she gave him was more interrogative than her tone.

"He's taken me riding, let me see some of the area."

Sarah pursed her lips and her eyes bore into Chuck's for a moment. "Oh, I see. Well, he's a good guide. It's a beautiful country, great for riding."

"Do you ride?"

Sarah looked away, back at Nehi, who was draining the last of the beer from his mug but still dancing. "Seldom. Daniel likes for me to ride with him sometimes, so I do, but that's all the riding I manage."

This was the first time Shaw's name had come up during the evening. Chuck had not missed it.

"Right. Your husband-to-be." Sarah's face had emptied. Chuck could not tell anything about what she was thinking or feeling. "When is the wedding? Have you set a date?"

"A date?" Sarah's blue eyes flashed above a deep frown. "No, I have not set a date. A date! Why ask me that?" Her eyes were icy after the flash, her manner too. "I believe our evening is done. Please walk me back to the stables. I don't see Casey, but I am sure he will meet me there as soon as he sees I have left."

Chuck wanted to apologize but he was not sure what he had done. Asking about the wedding did not seem like a breach of propriety. And everything had been good between them all evening, at least as far as Chuck could tell. He decided it was best to surrender. He stood and walked away from the Festival with her.

She walked quickly and did not look at him the entire distance, did not speak. He had not expected anything from the evening beyond the evening itself, but it now looked like that was going to be marred by his question.

The stable doors were closed. Chuck increased his pace, and reached the doors before Sarah. He opened one enough to allow them to enter. Inside, a lantern hung on a post lit the scene. No one was there.

Sarah crossed her arms. After a moment, she faced him. "I want you to stay out of my affairs with Daniel. That is our business, no one else's. If I want to tell you something about it, I will volunteer it."

"I'm sorry, Miss Walker. I intended no offense. I did not realize I was...I had...I did…"

And suddenly, Sarah was in his arms. In his arms. She was kissing him as if no one had ever kissed anyone before, as if the kiss were being invented in that barn. The kiss overturned him, overthrew his world, blindsided him.

He reeled.

She was so real in his arms and he held to her as if she were the only fixed point in the universe. For a moment, they were themselves a point - in Euclid's sense. Not two but one. They were that which has no parts. Her surface was against his surface, her body, so alive and so warm, firm and yielding all at once.

There was a noise at the door. She stepped out of Chuck's embrace and, unconsciously, reached up to straighten her hair. Casey came in. He looked at the two of them curiously.

"I'm ready to go home now. Thank you, Mr. Bartowski, for everything."

"Thank you, Miss Walker."

She did not look at him again. She climbed into the carriage and Casey opened both doors and went to get the team of horses from their stall.

Chuck walked out of the stables and back to Mrs. Fitzsimmons, but he had no memory of the journey.

Saturday, September 12

Nehi and Chuck had been shooting again. Chuck was getting better all the time. They did not talk. Nehi was nursing a serious hangover. Chuck was too, although his had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with Sarah Walker's delicious and inscrutable lips.

He had not slept after the Festival, or not much. He fell asleep around dawn and managed a couple of hours before chatter between Mrs. Fitzsimmons and her sister woke him. He had dawdled in his room, moving aimlessly from bed to armchair and back again. He spent a long time staring at Sarah's ribbon. It seemed of a piece with the kiss, or the kiss of a piece with it - both precious to Chuck and both, somehow, heartbreaking too.

The evening made him less suspicious that she was the blonde rider. The wig in Zondra's room had already suggested that it was Zondra and not Sarah who was the rider. Chuck still did not understand the rider or what she was doing, what part she played, if any, in the hold-up, what she was doing sneaking into The Bar None at dawn. Chuck had decided he would try to figure the mystery out, if he could.

Not that his hands weren't already full with teaching and his slow-moving vendetta.

But the memory of Sarah's kiss dominated Chuck's Saturday and kept him from having much to say to Nehi. Chuck walked to the fallen Ponderosa pine to pick up a bottle that had fallen off the trunk before it had been shot. He bent down to pick it up when he saw a sort of trough along the bottom of the tree's opposite side, a trough presumably caused by the thunderstorm earlier in the week. Chuck noticed something metallic and shiny in the trough. He bent down to pick it up. It was a hair comb, and it came up from the ground trailing dark brown hair. Chuck dropped it and stepped back.

Nehi noticed. "Snake?"

Chuck shook his head, staring at the ground. Nehi joined him and saw what Chuck saw.

"Goddamn," Nehi said.

Nehi got on his knees and started digging in the dirt. In a moment, the decomposed face of a woman stared at them with the remains of her eyes. Nehi turned and looked up at Chuck, his eyes huge, full of terror.

"Goddamn," Chuck whispered.

A/N2: Ditto.

Thoughts?