***The tailgating begins for our duo...reviewing the plays and drinking the last of the beer. You never know what will be stirred up with all the preparation...or what brash actions can be taken as the players suit up (I know...it's a football analogy and not a western one...deal with it). And someone just may be in trouble...***

"Seems like whenever I get to liking someone, they ain't around for long."

"I notice when you get to disliking someone, they ain't around for long neither."

- The Outlaw Josey Wales

-o-o-

"Well, if there isn't going to be any shooting, I've got to get my rest."

- For a Few Dollars More

Taliswell left a few hours later, singing promises of unending cooperation and speedy decisions regarding witness jurisdiction. Mary asked if he would throw in a million dollars and world peace while he was at it. He responded with a salute true to her heart and an offer that elicited an amused snort from Marshall.

The partners were left to their final preparations before Mary's departure the next morning, Marshall attaching and calibrating any electronics she would have in her possession or attached to her person, and Mary quietly paging through the pictures of ranch personnel. They would have little chance to formally communicate once they adopted their roles, a nightly call on drop phones or a covertly palmed note the only safe methods of passing information. Tomorrow they would be on the clock; aware of each other's presence but unable to intervene if trouble raised its ugly head. The witness was sacrosanct; the object of protective idolatry in which the worshipers could only weep if those around them fell. A five pointed star the badge of Confirmation, and martyrdom ever too close for comfort.

"How's it going over there, Betsy Ross?" Mary asked, hearing Marshall curse under his breath as he sewed the button cam into her jean jacket.

Marshall ignored her as she snickered, then held up the completed project with a grin. "I would self-accolade, but that would only give you opportunity to crudely mock yet another skill I possess which you would deem…'girly.'"

"If the shoe fits…" Mary trailed off, attention focused more on the pictures in her lap than her partner's attempt to provoke her. "So what prompted Sheryl Christianson to rat out her brother-in-law? A hardworking, capable ranch manager who, by most of our accounting intel, holds mutual access to all the ranch's assets and stock options. No record, not even juvie, and has worked the ranch just about his whole life. Looking at this guy from the outside, there's just nothing that announces 'I'm a drug smuggling nonce with an itchy trigger finger.'"

Laying her jacket over a chair, Marshall grabbed two beers from the cooler and twisted off the tops. Something refreshing. He was still too warm. No matter how low he notched the air, the desert heat seemed to seep in through the cracks. The hot, dry invasion making him long for the cold, clear nights on the high plains. The heat was supposed to break in a few days, and he was looking forward to cool mornings in the saddle; his breath hanging in the air while the damp chill reddened his cheeks and made him think of warm biscuits. Breakfasts hunched around the fire as the endless sky slowly came to life.

Smiling slightly with the memory, he rested a hip against the dresser after handing a bottle to Mary. "The DHS is being tight lipped about the details she's offered, but I gathered there was an incident involving someone close to Mrs. Christianson which spurred her to action. I think she knew about the activity peripherally prior to that, but as to what specifically spooked her…" Marshall shrugged. "We'll get the whole story as soon as she's in our custody. It wasn't in the 'need to know' folder."

Mary snorted and shook her head. "Now I know how Dershowitz used to feel when we'd show up at his door. What the hell is Stan doing to get us more clearance? We're usually a bit more thoroughly briefed than this."

She flipped over another picture, the question apparently rhetorical. "Carter DuBois," she stated, staring at the photo. "Christianson's first lieutenant and probably the weak link that ICE has targeted. Senior ranch hand and scout, he's earned his bones at the Circle R for ten years. Some distant relation to Marcus Whitehorse. 'Ole Carter's going to be your new best friend." Mary looked up at Marshall with a grin. "Follow him around like a puppy."

Marshall tilted his beer at her in a facetious toast. "Hey, can I help it if I suffer a mild case of hero worship? Enthusiastic in my pursuit of wrangler greatness?"

Mary chuckled. "You always were a teacher's pet. Just keep it out of the back of my car this time, Romeo."

Marshall blushed slightly as he sucked air through his teeth and looked elsewhere, and Mary was momentarily enchanted. The mere mention of an interrupted tryst and he was toeing the carpet like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Yet put him in the field with a rifle, and he'd drop a man at three hundred yards without a blink then turn to you and ask what's for dinner. A soldier who retained the soul of a scholar…or a poet with the heart of a warrior…

I really need to stop looking at the damn man's bookshelves, Mary thought as she shook herself out of the daydream. Marshall began to muse out loud, saving her from revisiting an earlier emotional tangle.

"Marcus Whitehorse," he began. "New Mexico businessman who bought the Circle R ranch about fifteen years ago. It was a failing cattle ranch and he turned it into a thriving working guest ranch in two years. It's now a sought after destination for budding wranglers of all backgrounds, and one of the few working ranches in the States open year round. Whether you want to spend days rounding up cattle or use your time branding calves and docking lambs, the Circle R offers something for everyone."

"Read the brochure, did you, Cowboy?" Mary drawled. "And what's 'docking lambs' anyway?

"It's the process of cropping their tails about a week or so after they're born," he replied, watching Mary's puzzled look linger. "You cut their tails off. Leave about an inch or so."

Mary suddenly felt ill and paled slightly. "Are you kidding me? While they're awake? Why would you do that? I'm not doing that!"

"Relax…relax." Marshall gestured soothingly, slightly surprised by her vehement reaction. "Even if they're doing that this week, it's not mandatory. I'm sure there's plenty of guests who choose not to participate. Maybe you should pass on the branding too." She looked genuinely distressed.

Mary shuddered. "Yeah, I think I'll call in sick that day. Frying ants with a magnifying glass is as close to animal mutilation as I'd like to get, thanks much." She continued to mutter under her breath as she tossed the photos on the bed and picked up Sheryl's file. Changed the subject.

"Sheryl knows we're coming, but she's not being told who we are. I'm still not entirely comfortable with that." Mary looked to him for confirmation.

"Taliswell's team is just too afraid she'll give herself, or us, away if she knows our identities. They promised her two marshals, told her when we'd be there, but the who was left out of the equation." Marshall levered off the dresser and joined Mary on the bed, picking up the pictures she had discarded. "I hope she doesn't give herself away trying to figure out who we are."

"Exactly," Mary agreed. "Either that or she finds herself in trouble and doesn't know who to go to." She was looking at a small picture of Sheryl and her two kids standing next to a young looking horse. "I really think she needs to know who we are, Marshall."

"Mare," he said warningly, "we can't play by our rules here. You know that. You won't do anyone any favors…including Sheryl. If she twitches and this doesn't go down, she's not going to have anyone to save her." Marshall saw the photo she was staring at. "Or her kids."

He watched her roll her lips between her teeth, caught up in a mental struggle wrapped in an ethical dilemma. Reaching out, he brushed a few strands of hair off her shoulder, hoping the gesture conveyed understanding and support.

"How long has her husband been missing?" Mary asked.

Marshall frowned, not sure what she was thinking. "Two years. Why?"

Mary was suddenly all motion, shoving the papers and pictures into the folder and pushing off the bed. She grabbed her jacket and gazed about the room, eyes dark. Poised for flight. Marshall now felt anxious for no apparent reason, and found himself leaning towards her. Mary had her hand on the door knob, noted his shift in position and looked over for a moment before refocusing on the floor in front of him.

"Two years," she murmured. "That's when it gets hard…when it all starts to go bad. That's when you stop hoping."

She was out the door and gone before he could stand up, leaving behind ambient eddies carrying her scent and a sour hint of fear. Marshall walked over to stand with his hand on the door as if to will her back. A daughter with a missing father. A woman making her own way while obstacles were heaped in front of her. Mary had begun to identify with Sheryl and her family at a level he wouldn't fully understand.

His partner's past rarely revealed itself with any detail, only occasional remembrances of events retold with an undercurrent of warning: stay away. He had never probed too deeply, and he wouldn't start now, but their witness' plight may bring some things to light, it seemed. Marshall took a deep breath and turned back to the room in order to prepare for bed. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what demons lurked in those shadows.

/\/\/\/\\\\\\\\\\\\/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/\/\/\/\

The sun cleared the horizon while Marshall made a coffee and biscuit run to the local McDonalds. Darkened streets were now cast in a rosy glow, and Mount Tucumcari appeared in degrees as a monolithic marker on the horizon. Its slopes stubbled with desert scrub and pine, the landmark was more mesa than mountain, but the rolling, monotonous plains surrounding it enhanced its status. He stood for a moment beside the car, watching the liquid light pour down the shadowed sides of the mountain, appreciating the starkness of the wilderness so close to the small town.

Once an anticipated stop on the old Route 66, Tucumcari was now another struggling, rural town digging in its heels while being dragged towards obscurity. It was saved by geography, the bowl of the desert plain an unfriendly environment for survival, and the highway celebrated in many a song was still the only road leading into Texas in this part of the state. A trucker's paradise after miles of monotony, Tucumcari offered at least the minimal comforts of civilization, and the travelers were generously thankful for the rest.

Donning his sunglasses as the sun's rays finally pierced the gloom of dawn, Marshall ducked into the car with his morning offerings for his partner. She was sure to be surly this morning, given the hour, and he wasn't sure if her mood would be further dampened by the events of the prior evening. He hoped she had slept.

-0-0-

Mary groaned as she lobbed her go bag onto the bed, eyes scratchy with lack of sleep and a general inclination towards unpleasantness beginning to take a firm hold. She had been kept awake by the dreams. New faces blended with old, and the shadows that haunted her for years beyond count had emerged to wreak their torture, awakening her drenched in sweat and whispering screams. With no relief apparent by the pre-dawn hours, Mary had dragged herself out of bed for a shower and took the extra time to re-read the files and become familiar with the layout of the ranch. She needed to focus on the job, not the assumed emotional state of the witness or her children. It wasn't the time.

The knock on the door was welcome; a harbinger of caffeine and sustenance. Mary opened the door to her smiling partner and grunted a greeting as she snatched the coffee cup he proffered.

"Umm…you look…" he hedged.

"If you say anything other than 'glorious', you'll be heaving your breakfast over the balcony," Mary snapped.

She felt him watching her as she shoved the remaining items into her bag and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her boots. Mary had no desire to discuss her inner turmoil with Marshall at this point…or ever, but his steady gaze and quiet presence often worked better than injected truth serum.

"I didn't sleep well. Kept thinking about the witness," Mary said, feigning interest in her boots.

Marshall didn't immediately respond, the crinkle of the bags as he set them on the small table the only indication he had moved from his spot near the doorway. Mary knew he was thinking. Assessing.

"We can renegotiate the terms of contact if things seem to be getting dangerous," Marshall finally offered, voice soft and patient, "but right now there's no indication her well being, or her kids' well being, is threatened. And if she feels like that changes, I'm sure she's got an emergency contact number for Taliswell."

She slowly tugged the hems of her jeans down around the boots, stalling for time and digesting his words. "What if he can't get to her in time…if we can't get to her in time? You know how fast things can go sideways in cases like this."

Marshall narrowed his eyes as he watched her on the end of the bed. She was fidgeting with her pants; small, purposeless adjustments that belied the calm in her voice. Her head was bowed and her hair obscured her face. Hiding.

"This isn't just about timing," he stated.

Mary sighed then tossed her hair back as she stood and stomped into her cowboy boots while she headed back into the bathroom. "You know what?" Her voice echoed off the tiles with an irritated lilt as she gathered her things. Emerging, she continued, "You're right. It's not just about timing. It's about finally getting up the nerve…the courage…to do something right and having it thrown in your fucking face." The last word was punctuated by the rattle of the hair dryer as it was rudely shoved into the bag.

Marshall's eyebrows climbed skyward, but he remained silent. "How many times do we see it, Marshall?" Mary was staring at him expectantly now. "How many times do we see some poor schmuck sacrifice themselves, their family, to do the right thing, and then the imbeciles so far removed from the situation they might as well be on another fucking planet decide to pull the plug?"

"No one's pulling the plug, Mare."

She tongued the inside of her cheek at his remark, then set her jaw. "Does she know? Does she know that if the DHS doesn't get this bust she'll be thrown to the wolves? Did anyone tell her that? Or did they let her think she would finally be safe. That she would finally be able to get out and have a safe place to live…raise her kids?" She was on a roll now, and that meant she was pacing. Mary brushed by Marshall on her way to the closet and he stepped back a few feet to give her space.

"What do they think is going to happen to her if we don't get her out of there now? That her life will just go back to normal? That no one suspects anything? It'll all be hunky fuckin' dory and she'll live happily ever after?" Mary spotted her alarm clock and grabbed it, yanking the cord from the socket as she answered her own questions. "No. It won't. Let me tell you what will happen. She'll live in fear. She'll go to bed scared…she'll wake up scared. She'll jump at shadows and turn on all the lights. And then…she'll come home one day to find someone waiting for her…" Her voice cracked ever so slightly as she abruptly cut herself off.

He heard the catch. Watched her set her hands on her hips and breathe in deeply as she gazed at the ceiling, her back to him. Her tension and anger had crawled across the carpet to creep up his own legs and settle in his gut. Marshall swallowed with indecision. He knew his partner's story had become less the witness' and more her own by the end. Nighttime haunts that had now been voiced. He needed to offer comfort, but this was Mary, and he chose his words carefully.

"There aren't going to be any wolves," he began, his words measured. "She'll have you. She'll have us, and Stan will find a way to get her out, bust or not. The threat is too high and DHS doesn't really know how we work…what we can do."

His words reached into her anger and fear and tamped them down. Dispelled the unwanted and unprecedented rising panic as she had begun to slip into the past. Mary closed her eyes and stretched her shoulders as she took a few deep breaths.

"Fine," she said finally, twisting her head to look at him over her shoulder, "but just so you know, I'm going to be calling this one on my gut." She silently challenged him to argue with her.

Her partner met her stare, blue eyes clear with understanding, then nodded once in agreement and solidarity.

She gave him a quick, rueful grin, then turned her attention back to packing.

Marshall noticed her adjust one ankle in her boot as she again traversed the room, his attention now turning towards her departure as the crisis seemed to have temporarily passed. "Are you sure those boots fit? I wanted to go with you when you got them sized."

"They fit fine, Marshall," she sighed. "My sock is just scrunched up." She just wanted to go now.

"Did you wear them around for a few days first? Otherwise you're going to get blisters." He continued to watch her as he moved over to look into her bag. Mary hurried over to pull it out of his reach and onto the other side of the bed.

"The boots are fine, nitwit. And keep your hands out of my stuff. I'm pretty sure I'm capable of packing by myself."

Marshall, denied his inspection, looked around the room to see if she had forgotten anything. "Where's your hat? There's no way you're going to ride out in the sun all day without a hat. Not with your coloring."

She cocked her head and stared at him. Undecided whether to be amused or irritated by his mother hen routine. "It's in the closet." A small, unbelieving chuckle escaped her as he pulled the hat from the shelf and turned it over in his hands with a critical eye.

"Give it," she snapped, grabbing it out of his hands to toss it on the bed. Mary now stood in front of her partner and placed her hands on her hips with a crooked grin, feeling strangely saucy. "And I have clean underwear on too. Do you need to check that?"

Marshall would never quite know what compelled him to lose his mind at that moment. He would chalk it up to prolonged hyperthermia and the scent of citrus shampoo.

He surprised her as he stepped forward to nearly close the distance between them. "Interesting offer. What if I take you up on it?" His lips curled into their own small smile as he watched her grin tremble and fade.

Now? He calls me on my BS now? Mary thought frantically, mental gears grinding. Her breathing quickened with unexpected anticipation, and she felt a heaviness in her belly. She swallowed as she tried to quell the nervousness feeding on the lingering anxiety from earlier.

"I'd probably break your leg and put you down like a lame ass," she retorted, hoping it had some snap to it.

He stepped closer and raked her body with his eyes. "Now you've got me thinking about asses again," his voice had dropped at least an octave. Mary opened her mouth, but the desire in that one long look rendered her momentarily speechless.

Marshall had expected another smart ass comeback…possibly a physical rejection, but, instead, he was riveted by the transformation on his partner's face. Her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushed, and as her eyes darkened to mossy brown he leaned in, drawn to the biological signals of arousal.

He lightly stroked her cheek and jaw with the back of his knuckles. "And hot pants…" he murmured, slowly drawing the fingers down to her chin and dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Mary caught her breath, the contact rooting her to the spot and dragging her gaze to his face as he lowered it to hers. "…and halter tops," he whispered.

Mary sighed a quiet 'oh,' eyelids fluttering shut as Marshall gently brushed his lips across hers, and she reached out instinctively to rest her fingers on his chest. She should push him away. Should protest this blatant invasion of her space, her mouth. But the feather light contact of his lips and the heat she felt under her fingertips worked some desert magic and she found herself lifting her face to offer him more.

The loud knock at the door had both their eyes flying open in surprise. Mary hadn't realized Marshall had a hold of her arm until the grip prevented her from drawing back.

"That will be Taliswell…again," he whispered against her mouth, a chuckle in his voice. His breath smelled of toothpaste and coffee.

Mary grinned and ran her fingertips down to his stomach before gently pushing him back. "Seemingly, right on time." He was looking at her with a twinkle in his eye that had her holding back the giggles of a schoolgirl.

Another, more demanding knock had Marshall rolling his eyes and turning to the door with a muttered curse and a slight blush, grimacing slightly as he tugged on his jeans.

/\/\/\/\\\\\\\\\\\\/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/\/\/\/\

Sheryl stood by the great room's large picture window in the main lodge and gazed out upon the expanse of gravel parking lot before her. She had finished the morning preparations for the new set of arriving guests, paying a little extra attention to detail and cleanliness as all fifteen of the prospective wranglers were women. She felt like a schoolgirl waiting for her first date to show up at the door; nerves on edge, palms slightly sweaty, and an anticipation-dread that made her regret the egg sandwich she had had for breakfast.

More likely than not, there was a marshal on the shuttle scheduled to arrive any minute. Maybe two. They promised her two. There wouldn't need to be more. Sheryl had researched the witness protection program and Marshals Service on the internet; googled everything she could find and then erased the search history. She was leaving nothing to chance now, no clues for anyone to discover that would hint at her plan of action. Her perceived betrayal. The marshals would keep her safe…and get her out. There was no other option in her mind than leaving the ranch with her kids and the clothes on their backs by Monday.

Rubbing the thin, cotton material of the drapes between her fingers, Sheryl recalled the book she was currently reading with Tyler. She felt like that castaway. A Robinson Crusoe who finally attracted the rescue boats with a distress fire. Tired and worn down with eyes glued to the sea, still able to stand tall in rally as hope appears as a speck on the horizon. The burnt orange shuttle bus with mustangs on the sides lumbered into the parking lot with a throaty rumble and a cloud of dust. Sheryl couldn't help but smile in small victory.

She finally pushed away from the window and grabbed her bucket of supplies, confident she'd make it through another day; not knowing a pair of eyes watched her from the loft balcony as she exited.

*** Holy cow! What did ya put in the coffee, Marshall? Our boy took his brave pills and it seems to have paid off. Now, who wants to stuff Taliswell into a trunk for interrupting yet again? And poor Sheryl...Mary's fears may not be unfounded. ***

***Of course, I will beg and plead and offer my first born (really...today you can have her!) for REVIEWS! Spread the love! ***