***I'm baaaack! Took a little break out to the old west myself...mountains, fresh air and real life cowboys. Hmmm...wonder if I could've fit one into my suitcase? Well, I return you to our cadre of craziness at the Circle R. The shooting fallout hasn't quite resolved. There are those other than our marshals affected.***

I worked every day... very hard... there was a woman who didn't like me. She called me bad names... sometimes she beat me. One day she was calling me these bad names, her face in my face, and I hit her. I was not very big, but she fell down. She fell hard and didn't move. I stood over her with my fist and asked if any other woman wanted to call me bad names...No one bothered me after that day.

– Dances with Wolves

-o-o-

I've been standin' on one leg for three damn years waitin' for God to do me a favor... and He ain't listenin'.

- 3:10 to Yuma

Sheryl lay staring at the ceiling, watching the amorphous shadows of the lone juniper outside the window creep and sway along the chipped paint as her thoughts mirrored its jumbled dance. The house was quiet but for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the muted sound of pop music from the radio in the kids' room, but her mind would not rest with the late hour. She sighed and shifted, again searching for a comfortable position for both mind and body, and rolled over onto her stomach to try a new view. Tyler whined and mumbled through a dream in the other room, and she couldn't help but wonder if his recently disturbed slumber reflected the stress she was under.

She almost wished she had never called the feds. Had never set events in motion that now had her in a constant state of anxiety during a wait that had become nearly unbearable. Ignorance is sometimes bliss. Not knowing salvation slept nearly on her doorstep might be better than the gnawing pain in her gut reminding her of mortality's waiting maw. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face into the pillow. No. Even in her usual mindset of letting the world solve its own problems, Sheryl knew all the gods and their sidekicks wouldn't have graced her with another restful night had she turned her back on the sight of those girls in the river.

A branch of the tree tapped at the window and she startled, still wired at high alert since hearing about the shooting in town. Somehow she knew the stakes had risen with the news. Not just for her situation, but for all the people involved. She hadn't seen Brad and Carter since she fled the kitchen, but the light in Brad's office was on even as she went to bed. They were either plotting or planning escape…and she suspected the former. Shivering, she pulled the comforter up to her chin and contemplated crawling into bed with Leanne. Maybe she wouldn't feel as vulnerable there.

The phone vibrated on the nightstand, and she looked over at it suspiciously. It was well past normal conversation hours. Slowly reaching for it, Sheryl momentarily wondered if she'd be sleeping in a different bed tomorrow. A glance at caller ID had her chewing on her bottom lip in brief indecision. She finally answered.

"It's kind of late," she quietly chastised.

"I saw that you had called, and you didn't leave a message." Eliot's voice was low to match her own. "You hate when people call and don't leave a message. Makes you nervous."

Sheryl smiled at his indirect rebuke and scooted up in the bed to rest her back against the headboard, nervousness falling away with the covers at the sound of his voice. "And you always tell me it's because they had nothing important to say."

His chuckle always caused a warmth to spread through her chest, and she had to consciously quell errant wants as she sat in her dark bedroom in a state of emotional upheaval. She had called him in a moment of fear, instinctually seeking a protector from perceived threat to self and family, but the time for rescue had passed.

"You were busy. I didn't want to bother you," she explained, grimacing at the whine she heard in her voice. She reached over to turn on the light.

"I was out of range, actually. Brad had me checking the perimeter fence on the east ridge for some reason." He cleared his throat. "I didn't see that you had called until just a few minutes ago."

The mention of Brad's name had her blurting out the question before she could stop herself. "Did you hear about the shooting?"

"What? No, what shooting? Who got shot?" Eliot's voice rose with worry. "Are you okay?"

Sheryl chewed on a cuticle, her own anxiousness reignited. "Not here. In town. Someone was killed. I was just calling to tell you."

Eliot was silent for a minute. She started to wonder about reception right before he spoke. "Sher, this isn't first time people in town have gunned each other down. I've never seen it warrant your attention before. Certainly not to the point that you'd call me about it. What's going on?"

Caught. She cursed stress and confusion. "Nothing," she snapped. "It's just that Brad and Carter were really worked up about it. Pissed, you know? It's nothing now."

She silently recalled the overheard conversation in the kitchen. Brad hissing in anger,…I've got enough cleaning up to do around here… Her shudder had nothing to do with the thin t-shirt she wore. Eliot's voice snapped her out of her reverie.

"Something's not adding up for me here, darlin'," he drawled. "And when you start trying to pull the wool over my eyes, I worry. I'm coming over."

"No, you're not," she replied, immediately concerned. She threw off the covers and sat on the side of the bed. "We're all in bed and the kids are asleep. There's absolutely no reason for you to come over here, Eliot." Except to save me from my self-engineered fate.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." His southern fried Shakespeare brought a smile to her lips despite her irritation. He continued before she could voice another protest. "Seriously, Sheryl, you sound…off. It's been an odd night for me too, something in the air smells like a rat, and I'd feel better just knowing you and the kids are safe and sound. No ulterior motives, I promise." Again the sultry chuckle, and she damned the man for the effect he could have on her. "Unless…"

She sighed loudly and purposefully in order to dissuade his train of thought. The last thing she needed right now was to allow Eliot access to her emotions. It would be too easy to let that man step into her life and her heart…too damn easy. There had been a few moments that lingered into minutes between them recently, and she traced her fingers across her lips in remembrance. No, she decided, gripping a fistful of sheets instead, not now. She needed a clean break.

"We're fine, really," she tried to inject finality into her voice. "Please go home and get some rest. I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"See, the thing is, I'll be there in five minutes, so there's really no point in me turning around to go back home right this minute. Rude of me, actually, not to check in with you when I'm this close," he wheedled.

A thrill of anticipation sparked in her belly, and Sheryl growled in frustration as she stood to grab the sweatshirt hanging on the bedpost. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's impolite to drop in on a girl unannounced?" She pulled on the shirt and shoved her feet into a pair of tattered slippers before padding down the hallway into the kitchen. "Especially when she's already in bed?"

"I promise I'll knock on the door instead of sneaking in through the bedroom window," he teased. "A concession to appropriate conduct. But, somehow, I don't think I woke you."

"Knock quietly," she replied, and severed the connection with a sigh. Flicking on the light in the kitchen, she contemplated brewing a pot of coffee for about a second before reality set in. This was a social call she didn't want, and she planned on having the man in and out within a very short period of time. Long enough to reassure him she was fine, but not long enough to lay down the welcome mat.

-o-o-

The wind had picked up since he left the Redpoint barn, and now increasing clouds scuttled rapidly across the moon, hinting at a shower before morning. Needed moisture, he knew, but the unsettled weather only served to heighten his uneasiness as he climbed out of the truck and walked to Sheryl's door. He vaguely recalled some line in a novel about the weather being a reflection of the devils in men's souls; demons plucking the stars from the sky as the night deepened and torments neared. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. Spooked. Shaking off the uncharacteristic dread, Eliot softly knocked.

She opened the door just as he was noting Brad's lack of upkeep; chipped paint on the trim and a ripped screen over one window. It stirred his anger, this blatant neglect, and as Sheryl stood before him he looked her over with the same concern. Rumpled pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, her hair was in a loose braid with some stray tendrils curling over her forehead and ears. She looked tired and slightly irritated, and the spark of challenge in her eye made him grin.

"I certainly hope you weren't expecting sleeping beauty," she said with a raised eyebrow, then studied his attire with the same assessing eye. "It's not like you dressed up either."

He looked down at his dusty boots and jeans and chambray shirt sure to sport a few stains and wrinkles. The hat was in the truck, and Eliot unconsciously raised a hand to smooth back his hair. His state of dress reminded him of why he had come here before going home. He met her gaze with his now serious one.

"I was worried."

She looked over his shoulder towards the main lodge, then dropped her eyes to his chest before jerking her chin in the direction of the kitchen to invite him in. Eliot glanced behind him to note Brad's office light still on, set his jaw and stepped into the house. The door was shut on the troubles of the night.

They sat on the couch ten minutes later, Eliot with ice water and Sheryl with a cup of tea. Niceties were exchanged for the time it took to prepare the drinks, and he had watched her hands shake while pouring the hot water. Had seen her furtive glances in his direction and the clenched jaw. She was wound tight, and he doubted it was because of his nocturnal visit.

"So," she sighed, setting her cup on the coffee table and turning towards him slightly. "As you can see, all is well and there's no reason for worry."

He took his time leaning forward to set his sweaty glass on top of some decorating magazine left askew on the table, trying to buy some time in which to think of a way to get through the barricades she had erected. She was ready to dismiss him, and he was loath to leave. They had been dancing around each other for too long, and the panic he felt tonight when she told him about the shooting had only emphasized his need to be with her…be there for her. Time seemed short for some reason, and he leaned back to rest his hands on his knees before tilting his head to look at her.

"What I see is an anxious woman whose hands are shaking as though it's below zero in here. The same woman who calls me and hangs up earlier in the evening, then claims she just wanted to tell me about a shooting as though it were the latest score from the ballgame." Sheryl had dropped her eyes to her lap and was now twisting one of her rings around her finger. Eliot pushed a little harder. "Something happened this evening to make you nervous…scared, even. Something about that shooting spooked you enough that you called me, and that means you needed me. Needed me for what, though?" He paused as she blew out a long breath and looked up to stare towards the hallway. Plotting escape as he narrowed in on the issue.

"Did you need comfort in a friendly voice? Did you think I might have more information for you? Or…" he waited for her to glance back at him, "did you need protection?"

Her eyes widened for a moment, then she scowled as she made to push herself up off of the couch. "I think it's time for you to go, Eliot."

He reached over to grasp her arm above her elbow as she stood and they were both startled into stillness by her wince and gasp of pain. Their eyes met as they both understood mutual conclusion, and as the wind quietly rattled the loose screen, Eliot gently slid his hand down her arm to tug at the sleeve of her sweatshirt; coaxed her back onto the couch.

"Please tell me that didn't happen tonight, Sher," he said softly, sick with the thought that he hadn't been there when she had called.

She stared at her mug and rolled her lips between her teeth before shaking her head in response. Silent, with hands motionless in her lap as though she was afraid sound and movement would invoke a negative action from him. But this quiet admission of occurrence was more than she had ever said with words.

"Yesterday," she whispered, still staring at the mug. "And it was Carter this time, not Brad."

She took a deep breath and seemed to sink a little more into the couch. Weary. Possibly relieved of some burden. "He only grabbed me. Brad likes to hit." She reached up to stroke the fading bruise on her cheek.

Although he had suspected the abuse for a long while, Eliot was still unprepared for the white hot anger that burned through his soul with her words. A primitive reaction that fueled a crazy desire to rip the door off its hinges and stalk across the fields on a hunt for retribution, war cries howled to the moon. A kind of rage that drove normally sane men to rash action. He squeezed his eyes shut as he willed the anger into the background; not forgotten, but placated with promises of later expression as he needed to remain calm when dealing with the now frightened woman sitting next to him.

He slowly reached out to capture the trembling hand she still held against her cheek and lowered their joined fingers to rest atop his thigh. "How long?" he asked.

Sheryl looked over at their hands, then up at his face with a one shouldered shrug. "Since about four months after Gary disappeared. It's gotten a little worse in the last few months, but that's probably because…" she trailed off with a furrowed brow and stared back down into her lap.

He peered at her. "Because what? What's going on, darlin'? The whole bunch of you have been on edge for the past few weeks, and now this shooting has gotten you worked up even more. Talk to me."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard before squeezing his hand as she spoke. "I think Gary's dead. Almost sure of it, and I think Brad killed him. I don't know why he did it, but I think he somehow blames me for the whole mess."

It wasn't about the shooting, or the call tonight, but she was talking and he wasn't going to pull her off track. "I'm sorry, Sher. I really am."

She turned and reached out to grip his knee with her free hand, face earnest as she met his gaze. "Do you think he's dead, Eliot?"

Her question carried undertones that caused him to catch his breath. She wasn't just asking for confirmation, but for permission. Permission to release herself from vows to a dead man. He had to give her an honest answer.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Eliot met her chocolate gaze. "I do. You're not the only one who thinks that, and there's more than one story to support your theory."

Surprise became gentle grief in moments, and her lower lip trembled slightly as her eyes became wet. "I knew it," she whispered. "I really am alone."

He cupped her jaw in his hand and rubbed his thumb softly over her high cheekbone, ducking his head slightly to catch her eye again. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She looked at him with an odd expression for a moment, almost regret, then leaned forward to brush her lips lightly against his. Once, twice, and then Eliot shifted to pull her closer and captured her lips firmly with his own. A residue of sugar from her tea lingered on her mouth, and he tasted her with a moan; felt her respond in kind and snake her hand up his thigh to his belly…chest. She rested her weight into his embrace and he felt her soften…felt himself harden in response. He slid his hand down her back to grip her ass and smoothly repositioned them both so that he reclined against the cushions with her lying on top of him, her warmth spread across his chest and thighs making his clothes seem too tight. Her pajama bottoms allowed him to feel every curve of her thighs, and he reluctantly returned his hands to her back to resist further temptation.

Sheryl hummed in pleasure as Eliot's rock hard body pillowed her own, reflexively tilted her pelvis against his with the contact and felt him grip her back in response; controlled, yet not willing to let her go. She could kiss him for hours. He tasted like spearmint, freedom, and other things that made her think of porch swings under the stars on a sultry, Southern night. Boldly, she ran her tongue along his bottom lip only to gasp in surprise as he gently sucked it into his mouth and deepened the kiss until she had to bury her hands in his hair and just hold on. Ah, gods…It had been too long since she had taken pleasure in a man, and she could lose herself in this one.

Lose herself.

Reality returned with ill-timed clarity, and she pulled her head back to gently break the kiss, Eliot's head coming off the pillow to follow hers until their lips broke contact, and Sheryl placed her hands on his chest to prevent him from pulling her back down. He was flushed and beautiful, hair mussed upon the couch pillows and a half lidded gaze full of desire tempting her to throw caution to the wind. Instead, she pushed up further until she straddled his thighs and stared silently down at him. This was a man who would come to her rescue, would offer her pleasure and possibly something more…this man she would never see again in three days. She closed her eyes with the unexpected pain, briefly nauseous with loss.

"You okay?" he murmured, still gripping her waist. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head and attempted a small smile as she gazed down at him. "No." Slowly extricating herself from his embrace, she knelt next to the couch and idly stroked his chest. "I just need to stop…as much as I don't want to." She needed him to know that. "The kids are just down the hall, and it's a small house…" The excuse sounded lame, but he seemed to understand and smiled a crooked grin of his own as he reached out to gently stroke her hair, played with the end of her braid.

"What kind of honorable cowboy would I be if I awakened the young 'uns while I ravished you?" he teased.

Sheryl chuckled and stood, helping Eliot into a sitting position. He was holding her wrist now, seemingly reluctant to break contact in any way. Eyed her thoughtfully.

"You want me to stay?" His question carried more hopefulness than he probably realized.

She weighed the solid feeling of safety against the looming loneliness. Was a night of anxiety-free sleep worth having to let him go again in the morning?

"Mommy?" the thin, quavering voice carried down the hall. Tyler.

Eliot glanced towards the hall, then back at her with raised eyebrows. She relented. "Do you mind? You're welcome to the shower, of course, and I'll get you some sheets for the couch."

He stood and caught her up in an embrace with a swift and firm kiss. "Much obliged," he whispered in her ear. A wink, and he was moving down the hallway before she had time to react. A faint murmur of voices from the kids' room filtered out, background to her own tumultuous thoughts.

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

Brad sat in the chair and stared out the window in his office. Ended up only staring at his own reflection once again as the inky darkness beyond revealed no secrets…or answers. He had sent Carter home after the man assured him of Parker's silence in the matter. He didn't want to know the details of the solution, but knowing Alverez's penchant for breaking things, especially living things, he only hoped they had covered their tracks well. Carter wanted to stay in the office until Garcia called, but Brad just couldn't shake the uneasiness that bubbled up with the man's presence. Carter was predatory lately, and Brad had an idea he had his eyes on only one prize; the seat Brad was currently sitting in. Better to keep conversations between the upper echelons of underground activity a puertas cerradas.

His gaze wandered over to the lone cell phone sitting atop the desk. It had come in the mail today, no return address and a postmark impossible to read, but the instructions included were crystal clear. This was now the only phone he would use to call, or be called, by Garcia. The feds were too close again, and they could only assume everything was tapped and traced. He had used a cheap bug detecting device he ordered online to check his office and Carter's work area, fairly confident they were clean, but the feds, if they were anything, were good at what they did. And their fucking geeks were even better.

Reaching for the phone, he spun it lazily as he looked up at the clock. The second hand stuttered forward, each click loud enough to make his eye twitch, and Brad again calculated the time that had lapsed between Garcia's promised call and the actual late hour. Nearly three hours now. A Gordian knot of nervousness and fear curled in his gut. He needed this deal with the devil. Needed this light at the end of the tunnel. If Lúcho got cold feet…Brad let his head fall back onto the chair with a grunted curse and rubbed his palm across his eyes hard enough to see spots. He was up to his hairline in debt, Whitehorse was about two seconds away from discovering his financial maneuverings, and he had a cave full of underage, underfed bitches that would have to be offloaded somehow.

The cell phone buzzed and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He snatched it up and forced himself to count three rings before answering. Game on.

"Lúcho, I believe this is well past the time you suggested." Take the upper hand.

Brad had to hold the phone away from his ear slightly, the Spanglish vitriol nearly scalding him. He caught about a third of Garcia's rant, blame crossed into threats and back around to demands. Waiting the angry man out, Brad held onto his own anger by a mere thread. Finally, Garcia chose English to finish his filibuster, and Brad tuned into the information now being imparted.

"A counterfeit ring?" he asked, puzzled. "That's what the feds released to the press? Why the hell would they only have one agent in town to bust a bunch of paper dolls? Do you believe that?" He peered hard at nothing as Garcia offered his own doubts. Sat forward quickly when the tone of the conversation became more accusatory.

"Do you really think I have a leak, Lúcho?" Brad's voice was mean in return. "I cleared every fucking ranch hand myself. Double checked references, IDs…hell, I even had them all pee in a fucking cup! They're all legit. My employees are clueless and the guests are all too new. I even eliminated a potential source, just to be sure." Standing, he began to pace. "I can send you the file on everyone if you're so goddamned sure the information is coming from my end. Would you do the same?"

The voice on the other end was loud in response, and Brad gritted his teeth. "Yeah, it's a real fucking shame that you lost your clean up crew. Not my problem, though, is it?" He furrowed his brow. "A token of gratitude on my part? We're playing tit for tat now? Three days, Lúcho, three days. Don't waste my time."

As usual, the man on the other end was better at intimidation, and even though Brad had steeled himself to remain unmoved by any threats, he found himself placating Garcia by the end of the call. Tired of the cold sweat that trickled down his back, an idea began to swirl in the back of his mind that made even his blind morality turn its head away.

"Fine. If it will keep you off my ass," he sighed irritably. "I'll send an extra package with the third truck. Consider it a replacement for the toy you lost on the playground."

Grunted agreements were replaced by the silence of disconnection, and Brad threw the phone across the room, remotely grateful it didn't fall apart. The pack of cigarettes he dug out of the drawer was empty, and he swore emphatically as he yanked open the file cabinet for a new carton, shredded the cardboard in his quest for stress relief. He didn't even bother to open the window when he lit up.

"Goddamn Mexicans."

***I just hope the sweetness of Eliot and Sheryl masks the stink of Brad. Poor Sheryl...poor Eliot...and Brad is surely up to no good. Please let me know if you're still enjoying the story! Yep, click on the magic words: REVIEW! ***