Seriously. I really couldn't leave it there, now. Could I? (bats eyelashes)

####

The stagecoach bumped and thumped and rolled along, squeaking on its springs, rocking to and fro. Dusty and Betsy sat companionably side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with Betsy giving Dusty a firm but gentle nudge if it appeared that he was nodding off again.

"I know you like your sleep, Dusty, but really!" she smiled, after the fourth nudge.

Dusty blinked his eyes open, refocussed on the road ahead, which was scrubby and pitted and had become lumpy as all hell. "Sure do miss my own bed sometimes," he admitted. "Mom used to flip over those blankets, plump up those pillows, boy, you could sleep for days in that bed, Betsy."

He carried on innocently describing the wondrous virtues of his bed back home while Betsy bit her lip and fidgeted, trying not to think of a sleeping Dusty all curled up in a comfy bed. Perhaps he'd be in flannel pajamas with a little night cap on with a tassel on the end. His hair would be all messed up and he'd be snoring gently and hugging a pillow.

Betsy...behave yourself!

"..and on cold mornings when I didn't have to get up, I'd just lay there and dream about the future. And I'd be all warm, and toasty and snuggly, and..." he closed his eyes and smiled to himself, savouring all the wonderful memories of his warm and cosy bed.

"Dusty, look at that bird!" Betsy interrupted quite out of the blue.

"Huh?" Dusty looked round at her. "What bird? That bird? That's the same old buzzard, Betsy. The same old buzzard you keep pointing out every other minute."

"Oh, well...it looked like a different bird to me," Betsy said, feigning ignorance.

"Never known anyone so taken with buzzards," Dusty muttered. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, yawning again. In front of him, the two horse team picked their way carefully over stones and scrub, occasionally hitting a pothole which gave Betsy the opportunity to bump up against Dusty, which if anyone asked about it, she'd say was the only way she was able to actively keep him awake. She did it now, even though they hadn't driven through a hole.

"Wake up, Dusty."

"I'm awake."

"Drink some more water. Here."

Dusty took the bottle and drank. "You have some too," he said, handing the bottle back.

"Oh, no, really, Dusty. I'm fine." Betsy clutched the bottle but made no attempt to drink from it. She couldn't put her mouth where his had just been. It was improper!

"But you haven't had any water since you've been up on the stagecoach, Betsy. Go on, or you'll dry up."

Some might say I'm already dried up, Betsy thought sadly. She held the bottle near her lips, but couldn't bring herself to go that extra distance, and she didn't want to offend him, even if he was virtually unoffendable, by thoroughly wiping his germs from around the neck. What should she do?

But Dusty wasn't even paying attention. He was looking off to his left, where the sun was beginning its descent in the West, so she tentatively wiped off a bit of the neck with the end of her sleeve, then put it to her lips and took a small sip. As soon as the water touched her tongue, she realised just how thirsty she was. Her throat gasped for the soothing liquid. She tipped the bottle up and drank from it in a very unladylike way, glugging it like a parched railroad worker.

When at last she'd finished, because there was nothing left to finish, she lowered the bottle with a contented sigh and looked over to find that Dusty was certainly paying attention now. In fact, he was utterly transfixed, his eyes out on stalks.

"What?" she asked, innocently.

"I never saw anyone drink like that before, except Freckles," Dusty proclaimed. "And even Freckles left some behind for the other horses."

Betsy looked alarmed. "Oh, Dusty, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drink all of it! I guess I was just a little more thirsty than I thought."

"Yeah, like a dry creek bed," Dusty affirmed.

Betsy recapped the empty bottle and put it back on the floor. "You have such a way with words, Dusty," she chided. "Calling me an old creek bed."

"Not an old creek bed, Betsy. A dry creek bed."

As if the difference was important! Betsy wiped her lips demurely. Well, at least there'd be no more worrying about whether or not to drink from the silly water bottle now that it was empty.. Besides, she reasoned, Dusty's germs were probably no worse than her own germs. In fact, Dusty's germs were probably just as cute and goofy as he was.

The stagecoach trundled along.

"Hey, Betsy," said Dusty after a short, companionable silence in which lazy summer flies drifted by and the horses snorted and blew hot breath through their nostrils, "do you want to have a turn?" He held the reins towards her, an inquisitive look on his face.

"Me?" Betsy's hand flew to her collar. "Dusty, I don't know how to drive a stagecoach!"

"It's easy, Betsy. You just hold these in your hands. Here." He continued holding the reins towards her.

"I can't, Dusty! What if I do something wrong, and they start running?"

"Bolting."

"What?"

"It's called 'bolting', when horses go crazy and out of control and start galloping off and you can't stop 'em. Not 'running'."

"Well, it makes me feel better to know what it's called when it actually starts happening!" Betsy cried, attempting to push his hands away.

"Betsy, don't be scared. Look, I'll show you." With that, Dusty reached over and picked her hand up out of her lap.

"Dusty! What are you doing?" Betsy couldn't believe he had just put his hand right in her lap!

"Just put your fingers here, and your thumb here." Dusty had the reins in one hand and her hand in the other. Despite her indignation, Betsy couldn't help but notice how warm his hand was, how his fingers felt surprisingly strong. He transferred one rein into her hand, and placed her thumb over the top. "Don't twist it too hard around your fingers, and don't hold it too tight," he told her. "Just in case they pull. Knew a man back East had his pinky broke that way."

Betsy was hardly listening. Her whole body had gone strangely boneless. He was practically on top of her- or rather she was practically on top of him- and he was manipulating her fingers with his own, putting the reins carefully into each hand and making sure she had a firm grip on each one. If she leant forward just a little more, she'd be able to brush her lips against the hair that nestled on the back of his collar. As it was, she could already smell him- the sweat on his neck, the day's accumulation of dirt and grime, and what she could only think must be his own personal Dusty smell, warm and quite unmistakeably male.

Betsy blinked, shocked at her own thoughts and at her body's physical reaction to his proximity. This was most improper! But at the same time...

Oh, Elizabeth. What are you getting yourself into?

She composed herself as well as she could, given that he was still so close and was now looking expectantly at her, waiting for her to say something.

"Like this?" she uttered, flapping the reins up and down.

"No, not like that, not unless you want 'em to bolt." He put his hands on hers, stopped her reckless arm movements. "And I don't think Mr. or Mrs. Brookhaven would be too happy if we ended up in a ditch."

We might end up in a ditch if you keep touching me like that, Betsy thought helplessly. She held the reins a little tighter, and then the stagecoach lurched and she fell back and pulled on them. The horses heads went up and they slowed, confused. "Dusty!" she cried.

"It's okay, Betsy, they don't mind you pulling a little, just don't flap 'em up and down, and don't hit 'em on the rump, 'cause that just means 'go faster'." He was leaning on his elbows, grinning at her. "See? You're doing fine."

"Ohhh, I don't know, Dusty..." but she had to admit it didn't seem that difficult to just sit here with the reins hanging loosely from her hands as long as the horses kept moving in a straight line.

"Hey, Betsy, maybe if you just held onto the reins for a little while, I could take a nap," Dusty said, leaning back and pulling his hat further down over his eyes. "Just for five minutes."

"Don't you dare, Dusty," Betsy warned him ominously. "I need you to stay awake now and make sure these horse don't run! I-I mean, bolt!"

"But look at you, you're a natural. Come on, Betsy, I'll just close my eyes for a couple of..."

"No, you won't," Betsy said, nudging him hard. "I'll make sure you stay awake, mister!"

Dusty laughed, and pulled himself upright, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes."Guess I'd better do as I'm told, huh."

"You're darned tootin'."

"Darned tootin'? Betsy, you sound like Lulu."

"Well, no doubt if Lulu was here instead of me, she'd be driving this stagecoach like a pro," Betsy said, feigning disinterest.

"No, she'd be sat there whinin' about the heat and tryin' to switch places with Mr. Brookhaven so's she could go inside with Mrs. Brookhaven, and I ain't sittin' here with Mr. Brookhaven telling me all stories about how rich he is and how when he gets to California he's gonna open up one o' the world's most biggest banks."

Betsy laughed. "I see your point. That is, if there is a point."

"Trust me, Betsy, there isn't anyone I'd rather be sittin' up here with than you. Really."

Betsy looked at him. He certainly appeared sincere. She couldn't tell beyond the untidy hair and the goofy grin. But she liked his goofy grin anyway. She liked it a lot.

The stagecoach bumped along, and Betsy held the reins, and decided she quite liked being in control after all.

###

THE END...maybe...