A/N: Moving along, here comes some more western fun. I believe all my details are correct, but if I am mistaken, please let me know. I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.

Two days pass where I do little more than assist David, Al and Annie in the running of the clinic. But that little I do is actually quite a lot. There's more work to be done than I could have ever imagined. I find myself exhausted at the end of each day. My headaches still strike me at the strangest moments, but I've learned that there is nothing significant in their arrival. I dismiss my encounter with Mr. Grissom as just another one of my 'spells', and focus my attention on the tasks at hand.

For the record, cleaning bed pans has got to be one of the most unappealing tasks this side of the Mississippi. It's just my luck that there's no shortage of bed pans either, the clinic is almost to capacity each day with the sick and injured.

There are no sick people in what is termed the 'ward'; those with sniffles or scalds or other minor ailments are seen by Al or David and sent to Mr. Grissom for various remedies. The ward is full of the injured; men with devastating wounds they received in the mines. Some are caused by explosions; the charred flesh makes those pretty distinctive. The gunshots are pretty obvious as well. But some could have been caused by numerous things, one of which is the axe of another miner. Or a knife. A large knife.

Two men in the clinic were part of a mining group attacked by Indians during a raid. Most of the men in that group were killed, but these two men escaped. Not without injury though, both had received arrows in their backs as parting gifts from the raid. One man was not as lucky as the other; his arrow had punctured a lung. The other man would be well enough to leave the clinic by tomorrow. However, he wouldn't be doing any mining for quite a while. His right arm would be in a sling until the muscle tissue healed. I was fortunate enough to be the messenger of this news, and I assure you, it did not go over well.

I found the concept of random attacks by Indian savages disconcerting. I questioned Annie about our safety, and she assured me that such raids, although not unheard of, were relatively rare. White men were making something of a truce with the local tribes, allowing them access to the mines and, somewhat sneakily, having the Indians perform some of the more dangerous work for a pittance of a wage, or for whiskey. It seemed the younger men of the local tribes had a definite taste for the bitter amber liquid; they were willing to do just about anything to have it.

Of course, in Annie's mind there was nothing to fear. El Vaquero would protect us. I kept my scoff to myself. Annie made no secret of her devotion to the local hero. I have yet to see or hear of any recent escapades of the man who rescued me and potentially murdered my brother.

But thoughts of that are not at the forefront of my mind. The reality of the harshness of the land, combined with the intense amount of work I'd done in the past two days, instills a new respect within me for this supposed simple life. I can only imagine the grit and determination the Sara before me must have had. I spend a lot of time thinking about her. This in itself is enough to make my head turn cartwheels, since I am, in fact, her.

Greg does stop by each day, and although we do not play chess, we do spend time together. He takes me for short walks around the town, explaining the shops and their proprietors with such overzealous descriptions that I find myself laughing at the poor people long after our tours of the town are over. Greg is a much more interesting and informative guide than David. I find myself at ease in his company. I wonder why Sara has not taken a stronger interest in the young man; he is clearly entertaining and quite fond of her. Well… me.

I muddle over this during dinner, as well as afterwards when I help Annie clear the table. As I am scrubbing the tin plates in the large ceramic sink, she surprises me from behind with a tap on my shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" There's a ton of implied meaning in her question; she needs something from me.

"I'm feeling much better. What is it you need, Annie?"

She smiles at my intuition, just like I suspected she would. She is an open book to me, one with very large print. However, to my surprise, she proceeds to explain one of my chores that I was unaware of. Caring for my horse, Pista.

"I have a horse?"

"Oh yes, dear. She's rather bone-headed for a filly, but you are quite fond of her and she of you. She's been rather restless out in the barn. You haven't been to visit her since your… since then. She's starting to crib."

I didn't know what cribbing was, but apparently it is not a good thing for horses to do.

"Take me to her," I say, a glow of happiness dancing in my belly. I have a horse!

I'm stunned when I see her. She's absolutely beautiful. She's a dark chestnut color, with a coal black mane and tail. Her head is small; her eyes bright. I adore her instantly. Annie leads me to her stall where I see the damage she's done, and that the stall needs some serious mucking. Pista tosses her head, nickering as I approach. I smile and want very much to ride her.

"I can ride her, right?"

"Honey, you're the only one who can."

So with Annie's help, I take Pista out of her stall, give her a quick brushing with a curry comb, and saddle her up. She fidgets and stomps with obvious impatience. Annie helps me up and just as I settle my weight in the saddle, Pista gives a little leap, shooting us out of the barn like a rocket.

I freak out and lean back in the saddle, desperate to regain control. After a few moments of bouncing around, Pista slows drastically and eventually stops. We're out in the middle of the desert, the barn and the town far behind us. The sun is low in the sky but there's at least an hour of daylight left. We're just standing there when Pista actually turns her head, looking at me with this "What the heck are we doing?" expression.

"Beats me. I couldn't ride you if I tried." I lean forward and to the right when I say this. In response, she starts walking towards our left. I sit back and she slows.

Ah. I lean forward; she starts up again. I lean to the right and she turns left. I take a better hold of her reigns and start to work her. Somehow my body remembers this skill. I can ride! Within ten minutes or so, we're galloping across the sandy land, leaving dust in our wake. Tears are beading at the corners of my eyes and I've never felt so free in my life.

Pista is enjoying this as well but when she starts to labor, I slow her down to a lope and then a walk. She catches her breath while I scan the horizon. Luckily for us, we did a full circle. We're now about a half mile away from the barn. There are enough lights in the windows to guide us if it gets too dark, but I'm not eager to wander my way through the desert at night.

We walk for a while, the sun retreating and blanketing us in twilight. The barn is no closer and I'm starting to get a little nervous. It's then I hear the sounds of another rider approaching us at a breakneck pace. I kick Pista into a canter but the rider comes from out of the desert and cuts in front of us, stopping about fifty yards ahead. Pista rears, squealing a challenge and scaring me half to death. The stallion snorts in reply, pawing the ground aggressively. I'm beyond panic when a short, high pitched whistle cuts the air. This stops Pista's rebellion and she plants herself in place. I'm extremely grateful, as my horsemanship is newly remembered and far from perfect.

The rider walks towards us slowly, the stallion's head jerking as he fights for control from the man astride him. The man mumbles a warning while doing something with his feet, and his horse quiets. Mine hasn't moved so neither have I. Within moments they are next to us, entirely too close for comfort. My Pista, the slut, is sending out flirty puffs towards the stallion. He seems to be returning the interest. Well at least one of us is enjoying ourselves.

While the horses are getting acquainted, the man dismounts. He's dressed entirely in black, the cold glint of the gun in his hand entirely too visible in the waning light. Its dark barrel is pointed straight at my chest.

"Dismount," he growls.

I do, and with amazing luck, I do not fall flat on my face or my ass. I turn to the man, swearing I will not succumb to the fear I feel. I'm staring into the darkness, hoping I look bitchy and defiant when he grabs me and kisses me, hard.

His tongue is deep in my mouth before I can even fathom a protest. There's a flaring of something inside me. The twinges of desire I felt before with Mr. Grissom are nothing compared to my response to this man. I feel the fabric rubbing against my face; he's wearing some sort of hood or mask. It doesn't take long before I realize who exactly is kissing me.

I am not impressed and push away from him. I hear his chuckle and it rankles. So I do what any proper lady should do - I slap him, hard. He catches my hand, pulling me back towards him.

"Fiesty, aren't we Sara?" His voice is deep, a rumble in the night. I glare at him and snit, "Shouldn't I be?"

I take a deep breath, fuel for the storm I'm going to rage at him. "What the hell gives you the right to ride out here and scare the bejeezus out of me and my horse! Who the hell do you think you are?"

He laughs at me. "You don't recognize me? Pity, because I know you. Quite well."

The innuendo is clear and I struggle to slap him again. "I don't know what the hell happened between you and me before, but I can assure you, it isn't going to be happening again!"

More laughter. I'm getting seriously annoyed. I rip my arm from his grip and head towards Pista. To my dismay, Pista seems to have trotted off towards the barn, his stallion at her side. Lovely.

"Seems like you've lost your mount," he says, standing behind me watching our horses disappear off into the distance.

"You lost yours too."

"I've got something else you can ride," he murmurs in my ear.

"Look," I snap, pointing my finger into his face, "I don't know who you are, well, okay, I do… but I have no idea what happened prior to three days ago and I don't rightly care if you saved me or not, because… because… oh, just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

"And you think that's going to work with El Vaquero de la Noche? 'Leave me alone?' I'm the man who ravages women and steals honest men's claims and murders Union doctors, aren't I?"

I step away from him, now very alert and more than a little scared. He knows what the Sara before me thought of him.

"Yes I know your opinions of me, beautiful. I also couldn't get within ten feet of you prior to your accident, so you'll have to forgive me for taking liberties with you just now. I knew that you'd be caught unawares out here. I couldn't resist the opportunity."

I just stare at him in shock. I've been had. I feel like I betrayed Sara, but… I'm Sara. My head starts to throb again. Great. And what's with the sexual stuff? I haven't felt this … aroused by the advances of man since… well, since I don't know when. This is now two men, in almost as many days. What's with that?

He stares back at me, not the least bit ashamed of what's happened between us. The urge to pummel him is overwhelming. No wonder Sara hated this guy. He's a pompous ass.

"You're a pompous ass."

I hear the smile in his voice. "I've been called worse."

I start walking towards the barn. It's dark now; the barn is a blurry smudge mixed between other smudges and dim glows from various windows.

He follows me. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes. I'm going home. If you're going to rape and kill me, you'd might as well do it now and get it out of the way. If not, go find the horse you rode in on and get yourself lost."

He grabs my shoulder, forcing me into his chest. My head spins as he lifts my chin so that I am forced to stare up at him. The darkness makes his face a cold wall of black. I search but I cannot see his eyes. Only shadowy indents where I think they should be.

"I could, you know. Take you here and have my way with you, since you think I'm capable of such crimes."

I blink and my insides grow cold. "Are you the rebel from Tennessee?"

He laughs. "Do I sound like I'm from Tennessee?" He releases my chin but holds my shoulders tight.

"You didn't answer my question," I say with forced courage. "You could be disguising your voice. You might not even have been born in Tennessee."

He growls at me; I'm pissing him off. "You are impossible. Listen well, Sara - I did not murder your brother!" He gives me a little shake as he says this, determined to get through to me.

I turn my head. "I don't know if you did or not. But Sara thought you did, and I have no reason to not believe her. Given your conduct tonight, I have no reason to judge you as anything more than a rogue and a brute." I pause, as he's still holding me. "Are you going to get this over with, or can I go home?"

He's silent. I wonder if I pushed him too far. My tummy flutters, whether it's in fear or anticipation, I'm not quite sure. But he lets me go, whispering quietly. "Go home, Miss Sara." He steps away from me and whistles, a warbling sound that doesn't really have any particular melody. In a few moments, his stallion returns. My Pista is no where to be seen. I've barely a moment to fret for her safety before El Vaquero says, "She's at the barn."

He then places his hand on the small of my back and leads me to his horse. He helps me mount before settling himself behind me. He uses the same riding technique to control his stallion as I did with Pista. We trot towards the barn, the jarring gate slamming me up against his chest. I know he's doing this to get his own jollies, which makes me more and more aggravated. By the time we're close to the barn, I've got a full head of steam brewing.

He dismounts first before offering me a helping hand. He's staying in the shadows, ensuring that I can't get a good look at him. I slap his hand away. "So now you think to treat me like a gentleman? For the record, I do not appreciate being taken advantage of and I can assure you, the next time I step out in public, I will be armed and I will most certainly shoot you where you stand!"

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it…" He yanks me out of the saddle and into his arms. We're kissing again; I can feel myself yielding, allowing his tongue entry into my mouth and enjoying the warmth of his body against mine. He senses this and … stops. Just pulls away from me, leaving me disoriented…. and desperate. Dammit! Damn him and damn me for being so weak-willed. I'm sure the old Sara would have never let this happen. Of course not, she would have brought her gun. There's one sitting neatly in a holster, hanging on a peg in her room. She was smart. Unlike me.

"You sure you're going to shoot me the next time we meet?" he purrs.

"Absolutely," I snarl. Before he can pull any other stunts, I stomp off towards the barn.

Pista is there, standing at the doorway to the stalls like this is no big deal. She snorts and stamps at me, her whole attitude expressing "Well, where have you been?"

I open the doors and she makes her way inside. I turn and see the dust as El Vaquero gallops away. With a sigh I enter the barn, following Pista to the grooming area where she's waiting for me to tend to her. I remove her saddle, blanket and bridle. She's wet, so I get out the soft brush and the curry comb and spend the next half hour brushing her down. Caring for her is therapeutic; I realize I must have done this many times before, as the whole process seems to come to me out of habit.

Once she's calm, I automatically get her some oats and hay, as well as fresh water. Someone, most likely Annie or David, has cleaned her stall while we were gone. Thank heaven for small favors. I owe them.

Once Pista is settled, I make my way back towards the house. The clinic lights are out, but the light in the kitchen is still on. I walk through the kitchen's door and there's Annie, sitting at the table, waiting for me.

"Have a nice ride?" she says. Her tone is a little too light, a little too friendly. I'll bet that Sara was very good at math. Because I just put two and two together in record time.

"Not exactly, Annie. I ran into your hero, El Vaquero. It was a most traumatic experience. He is everything that I thought he was, a rogue and a scoundrel." The half-smile on Annie's face dissolves into a sullen scowl.

"The evening wasn't a total loss, though. I got reacquainted with Pista, and from now on, I'm not leaving this house without my gun."