I would like to say a huge thank you to the people who have kindly left me feedback for "Lost". It is very much appreciated.

I would also like here to thank my beta-reader, KC, for her work in encouraging me to keep going. Her kind words are also hugely appreciated.

This story is a sequel to "Lost", and assumes that the reader will be aware of the events of that story, especially the way they have shaped Frank's emotional life. However, if you have not read the previous story, it should be enough to know that he is not a happy man, and misses someone very dear to him more than he is willing to admit, even to himself.

Disclaimer: I do not in any way lay claim to these characters, created as they were by people far more talented than myself. And lucky to have a certain actor interpret their characters. (Does that sound jealous? No, I thought not.) I am making no profit whatever from the telling of this story. If anything, I suspect it's costing me money 

Enough said. A short first chapter. More to follow.

The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Crowd.

Frank surfaced round about midday. He was lying half on, half off his camp bed and his hips hurt. His hand still cradled the empty bottle of tequila he had sunk last night. Only way to escape. Only way to sleep.

Someone was in the tent with him. It was supposed to be his tent, but people wandered in and out of there, he was never sure why. His stuff had disappeared long ago, into the chaos that was the show.

He groaned and turned half over.

"You awake now, Hop?" Phoebe Ann looked him over, her expression as serious as ever. "You ready to do some rehearsin'? Your horse is a better time-keeper than you."

He didn't bother to reply. She'd said what she wanted to say and he knew she'd leave him be now, to get some sort of grip on the day.

A half hour later he stood, costumed as the good guy, with his overlarge white hat and his pretty shirt that someone had embroidered just for him. Underneath the white he felt filthy and hungover and he had a bad feeling that everyone knew the white was a lie.

Hidalgo didn't make him feel any better. His horse was in great shape, lean, muscled and fit, looked after by wranglers who knew their business. And Hidalgo knew his, too, knew his marks and how many times he had to go round the ring, and just where to stop. Frank hadn't quite worked out if his horse pitied him or mocked him. He was beginning to care less and less which it was.

He sighed. Someone was shouting some instructions to him and he followed them, riding around, sitting tall in the saddle like he really meant it for once. When he was done there was no one there to applaud him yet. They would, those people who paid out their dollars to be entertained by the travesty; they would shout and cheer and throw coins into the dust. If he'd been sober, he'd have told them it wasn't like that, not even when he'd told his stories. But he wasn't, and he didn't even try any more. The truth was what Buffalo Bill said it was. Simple.

He returned to his cot. Someone had put a new bottle of tequila within reach and it was enough to blur the edges of the time before the show. People came and went, around him, beside him. Someone put a plate of food in his hand, even stayed while he ate. Then he was pushed into the limelight, did his stuff and he was applauded. The hero. The man who defeated the bad guys. Yeah. Good old Frank.

As he slipped into the helpless darkness again, his hand on the bottle, he heard someone wish him good night. He had no idea who.

TBC