Author's Note: This takes place several months after the TV episode "Obsession", and is a sequel to my story "Fortune". Thank you to FFN reader Doe214, whose comment on "Fortune" led to the repressed memory angle of this story.

Chapter 1

The parlor featured green floral drapes and pink upholstered love seats. The room was bright where it should be bright, and dim where it should be dim. Around the bar, where mirrors reflected light, bottles of liquor winked invitations. In shadowy alcoves clients got to know the parlor girls over drinks, before getting to know them even better upstairs. The name of this place was the Peony Palace, and every girl here went by the name of a flower. Chris was cozied up in a corner with copper-haired "Marigold". Buck had disappeared a while ago with "Morning Glory".

On a pink striped settee in the center of all this, sat JD Dunne.

He didn't want to be here. He had his own reasons, and had fended off Buck's cajoling since the first night they arrived in the city. Then something strange happened at supper, and afterward, JD gave in. He still didn't get it, couldn't see what had gone wrong. The two of them were with Chris, sharing a meal, when Buck started again with the teasing. He said since JD and Casey called it quits a month ago, JD needed to break free, loosen up. Chris was looking down at his plate, cutting into a piece of meat, and then Buck said something else – what was it? JD furrowed his brow, thinking back on it. Buck was laughing when he said it. "Last chance, JD. We catch the train home tomorrow. Unless we decide to stay an extra night."

That was all, but when he said those words, Chris's head came up with a snap and something almost electric crackled in the air between the two men. Chris didn't say a word, simply set his fork and knife aside, stood up, and left. JD watched him go, open mouthed. "What –?" he started to say, but Buck raised a hand. "Forget it, kid. He's been in a mood since we got here." The words belied what his face said, though. Buck just seemed – lost – and sad, staring after Chris. JD would have sworn his eyes held a shimmer. He looked past Buck toward the door Chris had walked through. A moment later, he set his mouth in something like a smile, and said, "Sure, Buck, I'll go."

Together, they had walked to the Palace, and within moments, a working girl attached herself to JD's arm. She steered him to a cozy seat. Calla was young and pretty, but all sharp edges. Her bony shoulders poked from a skimpy dress. Her pointy face wore a mechanical smile. Leading JD along, she called him "Sugar".

Calla laughed and used Buck's words ,"loosen up", when JD turned down alcohol. She said she'd bring him a glass of fruit punch, and sashayed off to the bar. He saw her across the room, pointing at him, speaking to the bartender. She laughed again, and as the brittle sound carried across to him, he lifted a hand to the back of his neck. There was a chain there, a necklace he sometimes wore, hidden beneath his shaggy hair. JD ran his fingers along the chain, closed his eyes and rubbed at tension in his neck muscles. It was hot in the parlor, and stuffy with smoke.

He didn't want to be here.

Oh, he'd been in this kind of place before. Buck had seen to that, and JD had gone along with pleasure. But he was older now, and lately, had felt uncomfortable, even guilt ridden. The reason it bothered him, though – he had never talked to Buck about it.

"Told ya you're too tight." It was Calla, back with the glass of punch. She pushed it at him as she lowered herself onto his knee. The drink was cherry red, cool and refreshing as he drank it down.

"Is it good?" she asked. Her fingers were at the top of his shoulder, kneading. It felt very good.

His head dropped into a nod. "Sure."

"And this?" She unbuttoned his collar. Her hand slid down his neck, farther inside his shirt. Of course it felt good. Of course he wanted what she offered. JD closed his eyes, leaned into the feel. Then came the unexpected yank at the necklace, and a snort of mirth. Calla pulled the chain out, drew its length toward her, appraising the medallion it carried. "Silver," she said. "Bet it's worth somethin'."

Wary, he brought his hand up, covering hers, but Calla pulled away to scrutinize the medallion. "Ohhh." Her tone was mocking. "This here is a religious thing. You're a choir boy." Her fingers loosened and she laughed low, tucking the necklace back under his shirt. "There's your problem." She patted his chest. "Why would you wear it to a place like this?" JD said nothing. Calla removed the glass from his hand, leaned in and delivered a whiskey flavored kiss. "Wait here," she ordered, sliding away. "I'll get you another drink–a real one this time." Her smile was predatory. "You're gonna loosen up, JD. Then I'm gonna knock the religion right outta you."

And suddenly, he didn't want any of it. He didn't want a drink, he didn't want to "loosen up", and he didn't want her.

-o-

JD left the Peony Palace and wandered the streets, taking in sights and sounds. Denver was a teeming place on this warm night. The crowded saloons were stifling, patrons elbow to elbow at the bars. People spilled out the doors, drinks in hand, to pack around the fronts of the businesses. Men pulled women close and nuzzled their necks. The blowsy women laughed and clung to the men.

He thought of Casey, the girl at home, their on and off relationship, how they barely touched each other, and his hand stole up to where Calla had touched him. He could feel the St. Michael medal there through the fabric. JD thought of Calla and of the thing that kept him from going upstairs with her. The thing that made him turn down alcohol, so that he wouldn't drink enough to not care what was right or wrong. The thing he had never told Buck –

He would not chance creating a child. The medal was all JD had of his own father. He'd never known the man, had barely any knowledge of him, and he wouldn't impose that fate on any other child.

A turn at the next corner would lead to the hotel, but JD didn't want to go there yet. He was keyed up, jumpy, too many thoughts in his head for sleep. A tiny shop across the way caught his eye: Tearoom Belarae. The lettering was colorful, fancy, and advertised more below the name. Tea. Gifts. Fortunes Told. Words to the Lovelorn. Madame Belarae Knows All.

"Gifts" was what stirred his attention. Maybe if he returned home with a present for Casey, they could be a couple again. He crossed the street and went in.

A sweet pungence filled the small room. Incense. Not the same scent as in the church of his youth, but JD knew what it was. Alone in the dimly lit area, he looked around. Candles on small tables provided scant lighting. Beyond those, a curtained doorway led presumably to a kitchen. Dusty objects adorned the shelves of a side cupboard. According to a small sign, these were the gifts, but they didn't seem anything like gifts to JD. More candles. Glittery polished rocks. Dried herbs tied into bundles with red cord. A single slim book with a leather cover and no title. When JD riffled the musty pages, the faded lines inside suggested poetry.

He didn't notice the woman who watched from behind the gauzy curtain. A slow smile curved her lips.

She dropped a veil over her face and stepped through the doorway, JD looked up from the book. If not for the veil, he would have seen the gleam of recognition in the woman's eyes. "Welcome, JD Dunne."

JD gaped at having been called by name. He wondered if they'd met before, but no, he didn't recognize her. Not if this was her usual garb – a low-cut form-fitting blouse and maroon skirt with a lavishly embroidered sash. A black silk cape draped far down her back. She wore more jewelry than JD had ever seen on a woman at one time, gold and silver chains, bangle bracelets, at least eight rings. Her iridescent veil didn't so much obscure her face; rather, it had the unsettling effect of making her features seem to waver. JD stared.

In an old-world accent, she spoke. "Madame Belarae knows all."

"Oh." JD hesitated. "So you know why I'm here?"

The night was warm; his face wore the shine of sweat. He still held the little book of poetry. "You're thirsty," the woman said. "You need refreshment, perhaps a teacake to accompany it." She made a small hand gesture. "You're a visitor to our city and would like to take a gift home to the young lady in your life."

He was impressed. "How did you know I'm not from around here?"

"I know many things." She waved toward a table. "Sit, please." She continued to speak as JD sank into a chair. "You come from the southern territory. You did not travel here alone."

Astonished at her ability, JD nodded, and Madame Belarae went on. "Your work carries danger and there are also personal trials that trouble you. If you like, I can look into your future and help you to understand your path."

"Do you read palms?"

"Sometimes." She cocked her head as if in consideration. "For you, though, it will be reading of the leaves. My special blend of tea I believe will suit you." With a fluid swish of the cape, Madame Belarae disappeared behind the curtain. She returned moments later bearing a tray with a china teapot, cup and saucer. "Drink your tea carefully," she instructed as she poured. "Save the leaves."

JD sipped at the steaming tea. His mind was a tangle. He knew about charlatans and frauds. Side shows and medicine wagons with their quack salesmen came through town regularly. But this woman knew his name and where he came from. She knew he held a dangerous job. Was it possible her talent was genuine? Could she give him real direction for his future? He formed questions in his mind, ready to ask at her prompting. Still, he startled when she asked sharply, "What questions do you have for me?" Gulping the tea, he coughed. "Uh, my girl –"

"An eternal struggle. You want to know if the girl loves you."

Nodding, JD took another big swallow. "Well, we argue a lot, but when we're apart, I miss her. A lot. And, we haven't been exactly – close. I wonder if it's meant to be. If we'll ever really be together. I want to know if I should – pursue her." Before he realized it, he had spilled his feelings about the Peony Palace and Calla, his guilt and uncertainty. Unsteadily, he set the cup down. Its clatter against the saucer sounded distant. JD blinked against a foggy sensation stealing over him.

Madame Belarae touched his wrist. "Leave a small amount in the cup," she reminded. "It's time for the reading. The pattern of leaves will reveal your fortune."

Glassy eyed, JD watched as Madame Belarae swirled the china cup three times, then inverted it over the saucer. Liquid drained onto the saucer. She lifted the cup, carefully turning it upright again. The wet leaves were scattered inside, some singly, others in lines or clumps. To JD, it looked entirely meaningless, but the fortune teller bent over the cup, studying its contents and murmuring to herself.

At last she raised her head and spoke. "I have the information you want, but before I give it, I must ask for payment. I will tell you, JD, my services are expensive. What can you pay?"

"Um." JD shifted in the chair, dug through his pockets and clumsily extracted money. The coins and crumpled bills slipped from his hands to the table. Dull minded, he stared down, flexing his fingers, wondering why they felt numb.

Madame Belarae regarded the offering and ran a finger down her cheek. She sighed. "In truth, I have little interest in this type of payment. I prefer something, oh, shiny." Behind the veil, her eyes fastened on a spot where JD's unbuttoned collar failed to hide the glint of silver. "Do you have any jewelry? Gold? Silver?"

JD's mind worked slowly, but he touched his neck and drew the chain out. "Like this?"

Eagerly, she grasped the silver medal. "This will do."

Later, JD could recall only bits of what she said, and considered what he did remember to be useless, complicated and odd, as if she were speaking more of herself than of him and Casey. She assured him all lovers have misunderstandings. "Even I have been through this. If fate has decreed your pairing, you will know it. My own love and I were forced apart, but today I know our reunion is at hand. Our bond is unbreakable."

"An unbreakable bond? How will I know if me and Casey have one?"

"You will feel it, as I do. My love is near. He senses my presence, as I do his. His very essence is on the air. Unmistakable." Madame Belarae lifted her head, tipping her neck back, as if to bathe her face in this "essence".

JD's shoulders slumped in disappointment. He didn't feel that sure about anything in his life. "My future–" he began.

The woman sat back haughtily. She appeared offended. "I see you're not satisfied with my assurances. You feel you didn't get your money's worth."

"Well..." JD had begun to feel exactly that – and very uncomfortable. He didn't want to make this strange woman angry, didn't know what to say, couldn't remember how much he'd paid her anyway. Seeing her reach into a pocket of her skirt, he thought she was maybe going to give his money back, but what she pulled out was a silver chain. She held it high, suspended from one long-nailed finger. The medal on it swung like a pendulum, gleaming in the candlelight. JD blinked. His hand went to his throat. Why – how did she have –?

Madame Belarae spoke in a low tone. "This is dear to you?"

"Y-yeah," he stammered. "Special."

"Then I will give it back, if you do something for me." The pendant caught the light as it swung, mesmerizing in its motion. "I've done a service for you, JD," Madame Belarae said. "It's important for you to act in kind. You see, I depend upon referrals to keep myself in business here. So you must send a friend who also needs advice. A man who has lost at love. A man so in despair, he dresses in black. Do you know a man like that?"

Dully, JD nodded.

Madame Belarae returned the necklace to her own pocket. "If you do as I ask, I'll return your charm. Now it's time for you to go."

JD rose, and nearly toppled over. His legs were weak, the room atilt. Madame Belarae took his arm, steadied him, and led him to the door. "Remember. Send only the man who has lost at love, not any other." She pulled the door open. A cool night wind had sprung up, and it swirled through the shop. Madame Belarae's dark cape caught the air and billowed out, flapping.

It reminded JD of a bird.

-o-

The Peony Palace was a three story brick house set back from the street, with a big front porch, and lawn on three sides. On a smaller porch in the back, rolling a slim cheroot in his fingers, Chis Larabee leaned against a post. The thin line of smoke he released disappeared immediately on the breeze. It was 3 a.m. and no one else was here behind the house. Anyone looking toward where he stood would have seen a dark form wrapped in black, a wide brimmed hat angled to shield his face. Chris wore his trousers and gunbelt, but he was barefoot, and when the black duster he was wearing parted with the moving air, it was clear he was shirtless beneath it. He'd left the lady's bed only minutes ago.

The owner of the Palace was an old friend of Buck's, and the three men from Four Corners were invited there as her guests. Chris's lady friend Marigold was lovely, attentive. He could stay with her all night, reach for her again, and she would satisfy him, but she was, after all, a working girl, doing her job. No working girl could ever take the place of the woman Chris had loved and lost to a fire.

Buck's remark about staying an extra night had almost kept Chris from coming to the Palace. Incensed at the memory it called up about the night of Sarah's death, he had paced the floor of his hotel room, walking off the anger, reasoning it away; Buck was not responsible for what happened. But even with the initial anger gone, something remained. Ever since he'd hit town, an out-of-sorts feeling had nagged at Chris. At first, with the business they'd come to carry out for Judge Travis and the demands it made on their time, he was able to ignore it. Now the job was done, they were free to leave, and would board a train at noon. But the simmering black mood persisted, seemed to exist for no reason. Chris wanted out of the city and away from it. He was glad to be going home.

One last drag, and Chris stubbed the cheroot out against the post. He would return to Marigold. As he turned and crossed to the door, he thought something brushed the crown of his hat. But there was really nothing there.