Bill's thigh muscles were finally adapting to time spent in the saddle. Getting Blackbird from the livery stable was starting to feel as natural as checking out a shuttle and readying it for launch. The checklist was different: now he stooped to pick up each hoof to check the tightness of the shoes, blew gently into the gelding's nostrils to give the animal his scent, double-checked the cinch around the firm belly, but the sense of careful preparation was the same.

Just yesterday, after giving a grinning nod of approval at Bill's improving horsemanship, the livery owner, a short little man in a tattered military uniform, had suggested that Bill make longer-term arrangements.

"You know, Mr. Adama, you put down a week's hire on Blackbird, I'll reserve him special for you, won't hire him out to nobody else. Might save you some money over hiring him by the day."

Bill had hesitated a long beat before pulling out his wallet. He should stick to the daily rate, he thought. By rights, he…they shouldn't be here for another week. Duty was calling in a voice of cracks and pops over a faint comm signal. Responsibility dictated search and rescue protocol for pilots in need of assistance.

His voice sounded like a stranger's to his ears as he asked what the weekly rate was. He watched his hand take the bills from his wallet like it was acting on its own, handing the livery owner six dollars. As he swung into the saddle and headed out of town, he decided the biggest disadvantage of using this mode of transportation was that it gave him too damn much time to think…the "shoulds" and "musts" and "have tos" kept fighting with his wants with every hoof beat.

He had ignored the first packets, the coded inquiries asking for a sitrep. Years of training had slipped from his grasp when he realized there were specific requests for the President's health status. The coded signature had been Cottle's. There was only one reason the doctor would have included his own inquiries, separate from the others. Bill's mind went back to the tiny bandage in the crease of Laura's arm that had shown when she had slipped off her bright red wrap in the Raptor.

Something had shown up after they left. Malignant cells had grown in a petri dish while they had been playing at being healthy, enjoying the adventures of being more or less ordinary. He had wracked his brain, trying to remember signs of pain, of fatigue. His palm itched as he tried to remember anything unusual under her skin when he touched her breasts.

The first time he let his hand fall away from the comm without sending a receipt signal, the dereliction of duty had made him spew justifications, rationalizations into thin air in the musty cabin. He'd finally shut the system down and rode faster than was comfortable back into town. He'd felt every centimeter of the soft flesh of her breasts, trying to cloak his fear with rough passion. As he had shattered through a desperate orgasm, he promised himself he'd answer the next communication. He just wanted a little more time….for both their sakes.

He could stay non-committal when she worried out loud about the people of the Fleet, when she started making plans for their first days back in space. He could bite his tongue a little while longer. He just wanted a few more days of peace…a few more days of seeing Laura with flushed cheeks and joy in her eyes. He'd given the Fleet forty years. He'd give it all he had left, if he could just have a little more time with Laura Adama, before returning with the Dying Leader.

The first voice communication had almost strangled him as he opened the channel and spoke his first words to his son in weeks. The signal was poor, but he could still make out scraps of an argument in the background as Doc Cottle had taken the handset from Lee. The static had spit and growled as he and the doctor had gone back and forth with their fears.

The second communication had been clearer and more productive. Gaeta, Cottle, and one of the environmental specialists had worked out a sample testing protocol for the local conditions. There was either something very unusual about this area, this planet…or they had been handed an honest-to-Gods miracle. As long as it kept Cottle's projected horror at bay, Bill could wait for the answers.

He'd just have to lie to the woman he loved, violate her trust every second he kept the truth from her. To keep from telling her she should already be dead by now, he'd learn to live with the lies, deflect her concerns about the Fleet, the rescue. His stomach clenched as memories of black ops and military lies flooded back. He'd lied to the Fleet once, creating the carrot of a prophesied Earth. She'd understood the necessity of lying to create hope then. Maybe she could again, when the inevitable happened and the truth came out.

He just wanted a little more time. He was owed that much. And so was she.

He'd returned Blackbird to the livery, feeling the weight of Galactica hot and heavy on his shoulders as he unsaddled his mount and gave him a quick brush-down. Stepping out into the dusty street, he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the schoolhouse. He could just make out a flash of red hair atop a slim dark-clad figure, herding a group of children back inside. He figured he'd have at least another hour before lying to Laura again.

He tried to craft a description of his day that would stretch his couple of hours at the Bullock ranch to a day's worth of negotiation and planning. Maybe a shot of whiskey would help with that process, he thought. And if one would help, wouldn't two be better? whispered through his mind as he walked through the Gem's open doors.

.

.

Al Swearengen was trying to get through his paper in peace, teacup at his elbow as the afternoon sun slanted into the saloon. Whores between tricks were taking advantage of the afternoon lull, a couple taking a needle to a waiting vein, a few others washing each other's hair and letting their locks dry in the last heat of the day's sun.

His first clue that something was amiss was the entering back-lit figure going to the bar, ordering whiskey as he walked instead of coming over to talk with him. The second was the sharp clink of an empty shot glass on the bar before Johnny had time to turn and replace the bottle. Al watched Adama's blue gaze look away from his own reflection in the mirror as he ordered a second time, motioning Johnny to leave the bottle handy. He sighed and folded his paper as he pushed his chair back and headed over. It's always fuckin' something, he grumbled to himself as he put on a concerned expression and leaned against the bar.

"What's your problem, Adama? You look miserable today."

Bill held out his empty glass to Johnny for refilling.

Something around Adama's eyes told Al to shoo Johnny to the side bar, out of earshot. It was that last glass, Al figured later, that had tipped the scales and had Bill Adama confiding in him. He wasn't slurring his words yet, but he'd gotten to the talkative stage, or what passed for "talkative" with him.

"I'm just going through some…things with my wife."

Al examined Adama's face and found no anger there…more a disconcerting mix of anxiety and grief. Time to pick at this a little, see what unravels.He leaned closer.

"Well, we've got plenty of ways to take your mind off that." He nodded over to the unoccupied girls. "You wantin' to stay with redheads?"

Bill glared at him through eyes that were beginning to look bloodshot. "That's not what I need. And don't offer anything like that to me again."

"All right…." He cocked an eyebrow and made a show of examining Bill's face. "You look run ragged. You even shaved today?"

Bill rubbed his face. "Maybe not."

"Let's go have a word in private, hmm?"

Shrugging, Bill pushed back from the bar and headed to the stairs, walking like he was headed for the gallows. Al looked at his back as BIll climbed the stairs. He shook his head at Johnny's proffered bottle. From the looks of the man, it was time to bring out the big guns. He pointed down to the cabinet holding a few bottles of Basil Hayden bourbon, taking one from Johnny as he grabbed a couple of fresh glasses. Climbing the stairs, he quirked an eyebrow at Adama walking into the office without waiting for Al. He shook his head. This didn't look good.

.

.

"Have a seat and quit jumping up and down to look out the window. I'm sure she's still right where she's supposed to be this time of day. Now, what the fuck is going on?"

It might have been that next shot that did it, smooth and smoky, top shelf quality. Bill drank a little slower as he settled into the chair.

"My wife...she talks about going back home. She feels she abandoned her people back there. She thinks she should go back and take care of her responsibilities."

"Sounds laudable enough. So?"

The broad shoulders hunched as Bill sank lower in the chair, head down. Al could barely hear him as he muttered, "I'm afraid she'll die if she goes back."

The fuck? Woman looks healthy as a horse.He frowned.

"Is that likely?"

"Yeah." Bill banged his glass on the desk. "She dodged it once. I doubt she'll be that lucky again."

Al's brow furrowed as he ran over likely scenarios. He smoothed his mustache as he thought, watching the hangdog look on the face of the man in front of him. The pieces finally clicked together and he gave Bill a look filled with as much sympathy as he could muster.

"I get it."

Bill looked up, a bit owl-eyed. "What?" he said with some confusion.

Al leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. "She's got a warrant out on her, doesn't she?"

"A—"

"Can't say that I'm surprised. She's got that look about her, no disrespect intended."

"What look?"

"The look of a woman who'd kill a cocksucker threatening her or those she cares about. Useful at times, but a pain in the balls if exercised with incaution."

"She's not a"—Bill's eyes flicked to one side. "She's never done anything that she didn't have to do to protect others."

Al nodded solemnly. "As is so often the case. I take it, though, that no matter how noble the reasons, she still likely faces the six foot drop if she returns?"

Bill's face twisted as the meaning seemed to sink in. "Something like that."

Al stuck a toothpick between his teeth, worrying at it while he thought. He strolled over to the window and gazed out over the town. "So what are her thoughts, Adama? She's not lackin' for brains. She got a plan for navigating her way around a warrant?"

Silence hung in the air longer than he liked. A glance in the mirror hung by the window told him Adama hadn't moved, was still studying his hands. "Adama?"

Head not rising, Bill finally answered. "She doesn't know."

The toothpick went sailing out the window as Al turned, eyebrows high. "The fuck do you mean, "She doesn't know"? How do you not"—he bit off the rest, remembering his own dilemma, the fat crooked cop he thought he'd gotten away with gutting in Chicago. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.

"You were on your way West when you got word of the warrant, weren't you? Figured you'd get out of the reach of the United States legal system and just…disappear. She'd never have to know. And now, family feeling or some such fucking thing's rearing its head." Al nodded to himself, seeing the scenario play out in his mind. "Course, then your problem becomes one of deceit added to the risk to her, as I'm guessing she'd be none too pleased that you knew she was in danger and didn't let her know."

Bill reached across the desk and poured himself another shot of bourbon as he nodded his head. "There's agreements, oaths between me and Laura that said we wouldn't keep secrets from each other, that we'd uphold certain principles.…"

Al walked back to his desk and sat, pouring himself a last shot before slipping the bottle back into his drawer. "Not claimin' to be versed in vows and the like, are there not some promises about "to have and to hold", and forsakin' all others, and other verbiage that, seems to me, would discourage a bride from volunteerin' to put her head in a noose without pursuing alternatives?"

"We've done that before…pursuing alternatives." Bill finally smiled. "The first time, it was close- I didn't even have time to discuss it with her…I just gambled on a long shot, and it worked." His face softened, the pain in his eyes dissipating bit by bit. "That was before we were really together…and she wasn't in a position to argue then."

Bullshit, Al thought to himself. Cocksucker had been in love with her even then…it's written all over his mug. Maybe he just hadn't figured it out yet.

Al spoke again. "And now, trouble's come back."

Bill shifted in his seat. "Maybe. It's still being looked into. I just don't want her risking her life by going back until we've determined the full extent of the risks."

We?

Al's eyes were hooded as he examined the man in front of him, taking in the shaggy black and silver hair, the shirt beginning to show some wear, the ungroomed mustache. Even under the circumstances, there was something formidable about this man. Maybe it was the iron-hard intelligence in the eyes, or the purpose in the line of his jaw…even half on his way to a hang-dog drunk, this wasn't a man to underestimate.

"You got a secret telegraph apparatus stashed out there, Adama? You communicatin' with clandestine partners when you visit your wagon?" He smile was shark-like and didn't reach his eyes. "That why you haven't brought it into town for repairs, haven't hauled in the rest of your possessions?" His eyes glittered when he saw Bill tense up and shoot back a glare of his own.

"Our agreement was that you wouldn't pry into our business as long as it didn't interfere with your interests."

"Bein' kept in the dark about your "business"when it's got you so rattled doesn't give me much of a foundation for making that determination."

He got to his feet again, his stroll this time taking him behind Bill. Al stood, rocking on his heels and watched Bill's shoulders squaring, back straight. Al suspected Bill knew exactly how far away he was standing, gauging risk and proximity as he made a point of not turning. It's what Al would have done, had the positions been reversed.

"Is this supposed to intimidate me?"

Al studied the broad shoulders, squared but loose, ready. Bill's hands were open and relaxed now, resting lightly on his thighs. Not just guns and ordinance,he thought. Adama's got hand-to-hand experience as well. Might be best to let that "We" comment simmer for a while.

"Just thinkin', Adama." He walked in front of him again.

"About what?" Bill's look was wary but more confident that most who'd sat in that chair.

Leaning against his desk, Al rubbed his mustache absently. "Couple of things. First, I'm thinking maybe you don't realize that since we were annexed into Dakota Territory, the long arm of Federal law most certainly reaches clear to Deadwood…I can attest to that myself.

"Now, you and her not appearing to have ready cash to bribe your way out of a warrant, I wouldn't expect any lawman to look too hard here…them that come this far to serve a warrant usually prefer to haul a bag of money back out of town rather than a trussed-up prisoner, unless there's more of a bounty on her than this kind of thing usually merits. To hedge your bets on that score, though, it's my opinion that Mrs. Adama needs to know what kind of danger she's in, see what kind of call she leans towards makin'. Take that for whatever you think it's worth."

Al glanced out the window, looking at the empty hotel window across the thoroughfare and imagining the cool redheaded schoolteacher in a full fit of temper.

"Second, do you not think it likely that she'll consider your deception, when she learns of it—as they always do, it seems—as unforgivable?"

Bill clenched his hands into fists. "If it means not watching her die…I can live without her forgiveness." His face was stoic, except for the faint lines of desperation around his eyes.

"All right, then," Al said in vaguely soothing tones. "I'll assume you know your own mind on that score, and I'll not pry any more than I already have. But I'd take it as a compliment, your comin' to me if there's any assistance you find I could render that might help Mrs. Adama's situation."

"Thanks for the offer. I'll work something out." Bill was still stone-faced but his cheeks had lost their color.

Time to make a peace offering,Al decided.

"Getting to another subject, I take it negotiations with Bullock are going as smooth as one could expect?"

Bill slowly started to relax his muscles, coming down a notch from his "ready to fight" posture. "Yeah. He sent this." He reached in his shirt pocket and handed Al a small sealed letter. Opening it, Al stared at the writing for a second before gabbing up his glasses. Muttering about aging eyes, he began to read.

Finally putting the letter down, Al smiled, letting it go up to his eyes for a change. "Not bad, Adama. Not bad at all. Seems to be settin' some old grudges behind him."

He tapped the letter with his glasses, asking Bill questions about the ranch investment between thoughts, weighing Bill's responses with care. When Bill grabbed a sheet of paper off the desk and began sketching routes and building outlines, Al nodded in approval. He looks to be the type who could best find solace in solving problems and doing useful things. Handy traits in a—his mind shied away from "friend"—ally, then. Handy traits in an ally.

Once I figure out who his other allies are.

Al set his glasses aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "One last thing, Adama…a couple, actually. I'd appreciate it if you'd help make the case for the Bank of Deadwood to invest in this venture, as I'd prefer not to put too many of my own eggs in fuckin' Bullock's basket." He looked away then, a slight flush coming to his ruddy weathered cheeks. "I, ah…thought we might could meet over dinner at the Ellsworth home tomorrow night. Bring Mrs. Adama if you like, give you both a chance to meet one of Deadwood's feminine luminaries for a change."

Bill's lips held a wry twist as he got up. "I met her the other night after our late meeting, but we weren't properly introduced."

Oh, yeah, the evening the child spent the night elsewhere, as did the mother, Al recalled with a half-smile.

"Might be best if you don't share that meeting with Mrs. Adama." His flush deepened. He had to deal with enough winks and nudges from his own crew. He didn't care to take that from a schoolteacher, although he suspected he'd get more of an icy disapproving look than snickers from her.

"I already told her about running into Mrs. Ellsworth."

Al looked up at the stern tone, surprised at Adama's demeanor. Looks like Adama's a master of the icy disapproving look as well.

"We don't keep secrets…" Bill's voice trailed off as the ice in his look melted, leaving him suddenly shame-faced and guilty.

"Right," Al said, voice dry. Unless it interferes with you gettin' your way when it comes to protectin' her.Al decided to keep that thought to himself. "Well, handle that matter as you see fit, in your passin' along my invitation." He took a long look at Adama from head to toe, then pulled a scrap of notepaper from his desk and picked up his pen.

"Hold on a minute before you leave, if you would." He scribbled two names and addresses on the piece of paper and handed it to Bill. "The first one's a dress shop owner, the other is a tailor, carries a line of ready-made goods. Tell 'em Mr. Swearengen sent you." The thought of the fear-tinged deference that would cause made him smile. "For the most part, I'm no expert on women other than whores, but I'm guessing that your wife would be happier if she had a dress more suited to a proper evening out than to the school house. And get a fuckin' suit or the like for yourself."

Bill looked doubtful. Taking the paper, he said, "Who's paying for this?"

Al's smile grew larger. "You might say I am. I'm payin' them with the benefit of my continued good nature towards their businesses and their persons."

All the military bearing he'd first seen in Adama slammed back as Bill stepped forward and leaned over the desk. "I didn't sign on to be part of a shake-down racket. They'll give me invoices for everything and you'll take it out of my pay, understand?"

"An officer and a gentleman still, I see." Al felt strangely relieved to see the renewed confidence in the old soldier. Whatever he might need to do to protect his wife, he looked more ready for it now than when he'd walked in.

He walked Bill to the door. "You may want to call on the dressmaker first. I hear she's got a finished dress in that bright red your wife prefers. If you're gonna have to tell her some unwelcome news, a gift in hand might sweeten the taste."

His brow knitted, Bill nodded thoughtfully. "Redis a good color on her…but that's asking an awful lot from a frakkin' dress."

Al watched him leave, once again ruminating on just where the hell these two came from…and what might be out there, following.