Last update for this week. I've borrowed some dialogue from the episode 'Money Trouble' which I think fits in nicely with my story :)

24 September

It could be tedious work, sewing by lamplight, hard on the eyes and the fingers, but the busyness of the previous few days had prevented Eloise from finishing her latest creation until now. A two-day long poker game had certainly resulted in a significant increase in the saloon's takings, but the side effect was that it felt as though she had never stopped for the entirety of those two days between serving, cleaning and generally trying to be a good hostess to many men who seemed undeserving of her good nature.

Those whom she had come to recognise from their regular patronage treated her with respect. They knew she wasn't a whore and acknowledged her as Hank's wife, though she was uncertain exactly who knew what about the reality of their situation. But there were others who took liberties, men who made crude comments towards her, the likes of which would have shocked her in years gone by and who tried to touch her inappropriately. Most times Hank was there, leaving them in no doubt as to his opinion on their actions, but on the few occasions when he had been otherwise occupied, or unable to be at her side as swiftly as he would have liked, she had successfully managed to encourage them to leave her alone with a sharp word and a hard eye.

"What the heck kinda time do ya call this?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice and, turning, saw Hank stood by the doorway, dressed only in his union suit and pants, gun in hand though, mercifully, down by his side rather than raised at her and she couldn't help but smile at the sight. "Don't shoot, I come in peace." He grinned at her. "You thought I was a robber?"

"No…"

"What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep. Guess I mustve sensed ya were in here." Meandering over to the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down. "What ya doin' anyways?"

"Just trying to finish this," she replied, threading the needle through the fabric again. "I told Loren I'd have these ready by tomorrow but I'm a bit behind and if there's one thing I've learned from my years in this business it's to not annoy your customers by failing to deliver on time."

After receiving her first shipment of materials, Eloise had focused her attention on getting back to what she knew best, making hats. So far, she had made, roughly a dozen, all different sizes, colours and styles and though the older man had been trepidatious, he had allowed her to attempt to sell them in the store where they had sold quickly leaving her with orders for at least five more and him with profit in his pocket. Returning to something she knew she was good at, as opposed to all the many things she had been trying to learn since her arrival in town had gone in no small measure towards boosting her confidence and she felt positive about the weeks that stretched ahead.

"Looks pretty."

"Thanks," she held the hat away from her, examining it with a critical eye. "It's perhaps not one of my best but…"

"Looks fine to me."

"Because you're so knowledgeable on what makes a good ladies' hat?"

"I know what looks good on a lady if that's what ya mean."

"I'm not sure they're the same thing but thank you for your praise at any rate."

"No problem. It's late though, don't ya wanna call it a night?"

"If I don't finish this now I never will," she replied, tearing the thread against her teeth. "I've only got a little bit more to do, then I'll turn in."

"Well…goodnight then."

Pushing the chair back, he rose to his feet, and her mind instantly pricked with the sensation of something being amiss. It was an odd feeling, but one she had become accustomed to experiencing, particularly over the last few weeks, as though she was somehow attuned to his emotions and could tell when something was bothering him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'."

Putting the hat down, she turned to look directly at him. "Are you sure?"

He hesitated. "Well, was kinda hoping ya might help me with this." Pulling a slightly crumpled looking piece of paper from his pocket, he set it down on the table in front of her.

"What is it?"

"A letter, from my grandmother." She looked at him in surprise. "What? Ya didn't think I had a grandmother?"

"I…suppose I hadn't really given it much thought."

"Well, I do. Nana. Bout the only person in my family who ever gave a damn about me." He paused. "Ya got any grandparents?"

"No, they've all been dead for years. I think I remember my grandfather, my mother's father, but I'm not sure if it's a real memory or just something I made up in my head. I think he was kind but, who really knows. My mother and father have never talked much about their own parents, save to tell me they weren't happy with them marrying so young." She paused. "Do you want me to help you read your letter?"

"Sure," he replied with a shrug, the type of gesture that always made it seem as though he was doing her a favour, rather than the other way around, but in the time that they'd known each other and, in particular, the time she had been trying to help him learn to read, she had come to recognise it as simply a defence mechanism. Sitting back down again, he shifted his chair closer to hers and smoothed out the paper, clearing his throat before beginning. "Dear Hans…"

"Hans?"

"Yeah."

"Hans?"

"Ya don't gotta say it twice. It's my name, my birth name."

"I…"

"What?"

"Well, I just never thought…I mean, to think that…that you're not really Hank…"

"I am Hank," he said quickly. "Bin Hank fer years, ain't ever really gonna be anythin' else but…Nana…well, she don't know that. She's the only one who still calls me Hans." He looked down at the letter and she couldn't help but sense that, for all his protestations, he liked the fact that his grandmother still used his birth name.

"So, Hans Lawson?"

"No…Lawsenstrom. Ancestors are from Norway. Guess that's where the blond hair and blue eyes come from." He looked at her sideways. "Don't go tellin' no-one. Don't want folks thinkin' I'm one of those immigrant types. Nobody in town knows the truth 'cept me… 'cept us."

For a moment, all she could do was look at him, at the almost pleading look in his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation that he trusted her with the identity of his true self. "Nobody?"

"No."

"I won't say a word." He nodded and she looked back down at the letter. "Your Nana's handwriting is beautiful," she said, admiring the copperplate script.

"Yeah, always thought that, even if I could never read anythin' she ever wrote."

"The letter's dated two months ago," she frowned. "How long have you had it?"

He shrugged, "A while. Usually just tried to guess what she was sayin' in it and hoped anythin' I ever sent back to her made sense."

"But how did you…?"

"Paid some folks in Manitou. They write what ya want 'em to, and send it," he shrugged again. "As easy as that." He turned back to the letter before she could say anything more. "Dear Hans…thank you for your letter. I en…en…"

"Enjoyed.

"…enjoyed hea…hea…"

"Sound it out."

"…h…e…a…r…hear…hearing your news." He paused and took a breath. "I am well b…but tir-ed…"

"Tired."

"…tired…some…sometimes when it is hot. I hope…"

Eloise found herself tuning out of the words and listening only to the rich timbre of his voice as he read on, stumbling occasionally, but quickly finding his way. Their first few lessons together had proved somewhat difficult, Hank frustrated by his seeming lack of knowledge and blessed with only limited patience. So many times he had stormed away from her in anger, returning only to apologise and ask her to continue helping him, his expression one of anxiety, as though she might say no. It would have been a lie to say that, on occasion, having taken the brunt of his anger, she hadn't wanted to refuse, but every time she had agreed to continue, the pride she felt at seeing how much progress he was making outweighed any other feelings she might have had on his demeanour. The sad thing was, he knew more than he ever gave himself credit for. Perhaps if someone had just taken more of an interest in him when he was a boy, he might have been reading long ago.

As he continued to read, a lock of hair, at first tucked behind his ear, came loose, swinging softly down across his face and she felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, touch it and push it back again. The very thought of it made her breath catch in her throat and her stomach tighten, remembering the picnic on her birthday when she had thought, for the briefest of moments, that he was going to touch her. It was only when he eventually looked up from the letter and met her gaze that she felt able to speak.

"That was…very good," she said, and he smiled proudly. "You're really coming on so well. We'll have you reading everything and anything by Christmas."

His smile slipped slightly, and he looked away, "Yeah…Christmas." Carefully he folded up the letter and slid it back into his pocket. "Maybe ya could…help me write a reply, save me the trip to Manitou."

"Of course. I'd be happy to."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, then lifted the hat she had been working on and looked at it from all angles, as though practiced in the art. "Looks just about done to me."

"I just need to fix that bit of lace at the back," she said, taking it from him, almost relieved that the conversation had moved back to something she was more able to control. "It's proving difficult to get it to sit straight. It shouldn't take me long though."

Rising, he moved over to the bar, retrieved a bottle of whisky and two glasses and brought them back to the table. "Here," he filled a glass and slid it to her.

"I'm not sure that drinking whisky is conducive to ensuring the lace is straight."

"One glass ain't gonna hurt, is it?"

"No," she agreed, looking down into the honey-coloured liquid before draining it, wincing slightly as the sharp taste hit her throat. "Thank you."

Sliding his chair back from the table, he put his feet up on top of it, leaned back and retrieved a packet of Cheroots from his pocket. One lit, he blew smoke into the air and met her gaze again, a soft smile playing around his mouth. "Don't mind if I sit with ya while ya work, do ya?"

The tightening in her stomach retreated and a warm sensation flooded her, which rationally she knew was better attributed to the whisky rather than his request but made her feel so many things that she couldn't put a name to.

"No," she said softly, "I don't mind at all."

25 September

"Right, let's try this again."

"I'm still not entirely sure how this is going to help me in any given situation."

"Why not? Reckon ya look good in a gun belt."

"Next you'll have me in pants."

"Reckon ya'd look good in them too."

Hank watched as, laughing, Eloise looked down at the gun belt slung around her hips, so seemingly out of place on a woman wearing a dress rather than a man, and yet there was something about the sight of it that made him twitch involuntarily.

"I feel ridiculous."

"Quit whinin' and do it. Ten paces, count 'em out."

"One, two, three…" turning her back on him she moved away as instructed before reaching ten, pausing and turning back to face him. "Now what?"

"Now we wait for Jake's signal," he replied, gesturing to where the other man was leaning against the back wall of the saloon watching them with an expression belying the fact that he was clearly trying not to break into fits of mirth.

"Ain't ever seen anything so stupid in my life."

"Shut up and give the signal."

"As if this is ever gonna happen."

"Just do it!"

"Fine…" Jake sighed, pausing for clear dramatic effect. "Draw!"

He gave her the benefit of at least a good second as she grabbed for the gun, but her fingers fumbled against the edges of the holster, and the crack discharge of his own unloaded weapon reverberated around them before she had even touched her own.

"Yer dead," he said, smiling victoriously at her.

"I wasn't ready!"

He shrugged, twirled the gun and slid it back into its holster. "Still dead. Lots of folks buried in the ground, rottin' cause they weren't ready."

"But like Jake said, when is this scenario ever actually going to happen? Surely it's much more likely than someone's going to come at me at close range, if they're going to come at me at all, which hopefully, they won't."

"Alright…" he said, moving towards her. "Ya want a more realistic example?"

"Yes! If I'm ever counting out ten paces and then turning to face someone else with a gun waiting for Jake to shout draw, then something has gone seriously wrong."

"Yer tellin' me. I'd have to be dead fer a start." The words had left his mouth before he had even realised it, and he cursed himself inwardly as her eyebrows raised. "Fine," he recovered himself. "I'll give ya a realistic example. Take the gun out the belt, put it in your skirts and turn yer back on me."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"Why ya gotta question every little thing? Just do what I tell ya."

Removing the Derringer from its holster with a sigh, she unclipped and dropped the belt onto the ground before secreting the gun within the folds of her skirt. "Turn my back?" He nodded, smiling as she rolled her eyes but did as asked. "Alright, now what? Are you planning to just shoot me in the…" breaking off, she gasped as he suddenly hurried up behind her, pressing the barrel of the Colt tightly against her back.

"Give me the money," he said, deliberately keeping his voice soft, low and yet undeniably menacing.

"What money?"

"Whatever money ya got."

"I don't…" she gasped again as he increased the pressure on her back. "So…what am I supposed to do now? Do I…?"

He placed his free hand gently on her waist and slowly started to squeeze. "Give me the money, or shoot me," he said, moving his mouth closer to her ear.

"How am I supposed to…"

"Grab yer gun, turn and fire…I want the money, ya know where it is, I don't, so I ain't likely to shoot ya until ya give it to me."

"Easy for you to say."

"Do it."

Though she tried to hide it, for obvious reasons, he felt her move slightly against him, her hand reaching into her skirts, grasping slowly for the hilt of the gun. She was breathing slightly faster now and there was a tremble in her body that he could feel through his hand. It gave him pause to think that she was afraid of him, then told himself it was merely the situation.

"Man ain't gonna wait all day," he murmured. "Other ways to try and find the cash. Ya'd likely be dead by now if this was real."

"Maybe…maybe I'd want to be."

Her voice was quiet, almost breathless in quality and he found himself momentarily thrown as she moved slightly, her back pressing tightly against his chest, his abdomen reacting as nature intended. One swift movement would have seen his arm around her waist, securing her to him and, in his mind, he saw her head fall back, the pure expanse of her neck open to him, his lips lowering to touch her skin… his grip on her lessened, the gun weighty in his hand, but suddenly she pulled the Derringer from her skirt, stamped down hard on his foot and whirled to face him, pulling the trigger in one fluid movement as pain shot through him.

"Ow! What in the hell did ya do that fer?!" he demanded, hopping around in front of her. "Ya were just supposed to try and shoot me!"

"I did…after I trod on your foot," she smiled with seemingly smug satisfaction. "You're dead."

"Crazy woman…ya better hope if ya ever do that to a man pointin' a gun at ya that ya don't miss, cause if he didn't want to shoot ya before, he sure as hell would after ya done that to 'im." He muttered, sitting down on the bench and pulling his boot off. "Right now, I'm sorely tempted to load up and blow yer head off fer that, Ellie. And I don't know what yer laughin' at," he glowered at Jake, who was bent double."

"She got ya Hank, she got ya good…" the other man guffawed. "Nice going Eloise."

"Thank you, Jake," she replied with a curtsy. "I'm sorry Hank, but I suppose a woman has to use whatever tricks she possesses if she's not accomplished with a weapon, and it seemed like the appropriate move to make." She paused. "Do I need to get Michaela?"

"Think I'll live," he replied, pressing down on his toes. "Liable not to walk again but…"

"Oh, stop exaggerating. You've been shot in the shoulder, and you can't handle having your foot trod on?"

Sliding his foot back into his boot, he got to his feet again and faced her, limping slightly with the throb of pain. "That was a dirty trick, Ellie, but s'pose I oughta give ya points fer creativity."

"If it's any consolation, you did frighten me a little."

"Just a little?" he raised his eyebrows, thinking back to the way her body had reacted to him.

"Well, in reality, the robber in question had the gun pointed at my head, not my back."

"Like this?" Lifting his gun again, he cocked the hammer once more and held it up, close to her face, causing her to gasp again.

"No…" she said, once recovered, "it was more like this." Moving forwards, she pressed her forehead against the barrel, her gaze meeting his. "That's when I was most afraid."

His stomach dropped suddenly, the sight of her, with his gun aimed right between her eyes, filling him with a fear that he hadn't known he possessed, and, after a few seconds, he lowered the weapon and stepped back. "Yeah, well, reckon that oughta do it fer today. Gotta keep practicing though."

"I…uh…think I've seen enough of this little game," Jake said suddenly, looking between them. "I got customers to see to. See ya tonight, Hank."

"Sure," he replied, as the other man walked away, glancing back at her and wincing at the small, red, rounded mark on her forehead where the barrel had been. "Anyways, best git set up for tonight."

"Sure, I just need to drop those hats into Loren and then I'll be back to help," she replied good-naturedly. "Thanks for the lesson."

Moving past him, she touched his arm briefly and then made her way back inside the saloon, leaving all he could offer in response a soft, "Yer welcome."

XXXX

By the time ten o'clock rolled around, Eloise could feel a headache starting behind her eyes. What with working so late the night before and then the stress of Hank's so called 'lesson' in the garden, it had been a long day and the noise of customers, mingled with the choking smoke of cigarettes only added to her fatigue.

Hank was sat at a table with Jake and Loren and, as she happened to glance over, saw him signalling to her for another round of drinks. Dutifully, she came out from behind the bar and walked over to their table, filling their glasses in turn.

"Who'd have thought it," Loren said, "Hat maker by day, saloon hostess by night."

"I prefer milliner but, in any event, it sounds like the plot of one of those terrible novels you sell, Loren," she quipped.

"Could be your memoir," Jake commented.

"I'm not sure anyone would want to read it."

"Oh, I bet there's lots of things folks would like to know about you," he said, raising his eyebrows in Hank's direction.

"Reckon a woman's entitled to her secrets, Jake," Hank replied, looking up at her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied, smiling down at him unsure whether the brush of his hand against hers as she moved away again had been intentional or not. She crossed the room back towards the bar again, narrowly missing one of the girls flying past towards the bedrooms, an eager customer in tow, and was about to serve the gentleman in front of her when a sudden cacophony of catcalls filled the air, followed by a hushed silence.

Turning she saw, to her shock and surprise, none other than Myra walking across the floor, dressed in her nightgown and bed cap, heading directly for where Hank was sitting. As she watched, he pushed his chair back away from the table and Myra perched herself onto his lap with the practiced ease of someone who had done it many times before and saw no shame in it.

"Well, look who it is," Hank said. "What's the matter, Myra, trouble in paradise?"

"I'm hungry, Hank, what ya got to eat?" Myra replied jovially, winding her arms around his neck.

"Uh…well…"

"Ooh, eggs!" Reaching for the jar on the table, Myra pulled out an egg and bit into it greedily before Hank gently took it from her.

"I think she's been missing all her friends over here," Loren quipped with a growl of laughter.

"Ain't things lively enough for ya at home?" Jake drawled.

"I'm surprised ya stuck it out this long but then who can figure out women…?"

Hank's words were suddenly cut off by Myra kissing him firmly on the mouth.

For a moment, Eloise felt frozen, in shock at what she was witnessing and suspended between what she should and shouldn't do. She opened her mouth as though to protest, but no words came out and, even if they had, they would have been drowned out by the gales of laughter and whooping from around the bar. She took a step back towards the table and then stopped.

Hank made no effort to pull back from Myra. In fact, he pulled her closer to him, his hand straying to the bed cap on her head.

"Myra!"

Seconds later, Horace appeared, similarly dressed in his night attire, carrying a lamp. Upon seeing his wife in Hank's arms, his face broke into an expression of shock and surprise, and he pushed through the throng of customers to reach them. "Myra!"

"Leave her be," Hank said, pulling off the bed cap and tossing it to the ground. "She's a free woman."

"She's sleeping!" Horace exclaimed.

"Sleeping?!" Loren echoed.

"She walked in here with her eyes wide open!" Jake advised.

"She walks in her sleep, she…she don't know what she's doing!"

Hank laughed softly as Myra continued to kiss him, as she fought away Horace's physical attempts to separate them and pressed herself tighter against him, a knowing smile on her lips. "Ya know exactly what yer doing, don't ya?"

"Wake up Myra…" Horace shook her violently, "Wake up please Myra honey!"

A moment later, Myra's expression changed to one of horror. Seeing Hank in front of her, she pulled back and suddenly slapped him squarely in the face, extricating herself from his embrace. "I'm a married woman!"

"Don't bother me none," Hank replied, pushing the hair back that had fallen across his face as a result of her attack. "Fact is, ya kiss better now."

"I don't…Horace, I…" Myra looked beseechingly at her husband who put his arm around her and swiftly guided her back towards the door.

The conversation in the bar quickly returned to normal, but Eloise found herself rooted to the spot, still holding the whisky bottle in her hand, watching as Hank, Loren and Jake recounted the event together, all three of them laughing. It clearly hadn't bothered him at all. He had welcomed Myra's advances, wanted them, was likely disappointed that they had been cut short. If Horace had never appeared and Myra never awoken…her stomach turned over at the thought and then she felt foolish, so very foolish.

"Hey, what has a man gotta do to git a drink around here? Hey…hey!"

She suddenly felt rough hands take hold of her arms and shake her, bringing her suddenly back into the moment, facing the man she had previously been about to serve, his angry face inches from her own. "I'm sorry…I'll get you a drink…"

"Hurry up about it!" he declared, releasing her with such force that she stumbled backwards against the bar, dropping the bottle on the floor in the process, glass and liquid collecting and seeping at her feet.

"Stupid bitch!"

She opened her mouth to reply, but Hank was suddenly in front of her, arguing with the man, pushing him backwards, their voices raised, and a glance around the room showed that everyone was looking at her. Instinctively, her hand went to the inside folds of her skirt, the hilt of the Derringer brushing against her fingers before she closed them firmly around it.

"Another one who can't talk nice to a lady," Hank turned to look at her as the man loped off towards the doors. "Y'alright?" She found she couldn't speak, and his gaze flitted downwards then back to meet hers. Stepping forwards, he clamped his hand over hers, pushing her back against the bar, preventing her from removing the gun. "The hell ya doin'?" he asked softly.

For a long moment, she simply held his gaze, wondering if he could recognise anything within hers as to how she felt about what she had just witnessed. He looked confused, concerned, but there was nothing resembling understanding. "Nothing…" she breathed, finally loosening her grip on the gun. "Let go of me." Instantly, he released her and moved back. "I'm sorry about the mess."

"Don't matter bout that, Olivia!" he called. "Git this cleaned up, would ya?"

She didn't even want to look in Olivia's direction, could only imagine the look on the other woman's face at being given the task. All she wanted to do in that moment was run. "I…do you mind…?"

"Go on, git out of here."

Before he could say any more, she turned to walk away, catching Jake's eye in the process, then moved as slowly and deliberately as she could across the floor and out of the bar, unwilling to draw any more attention to herself than there already had been. Once out of sight, however, she ran down the corridor, threw open her bedroom door and collapsed onto the bed, tears pooling in her eyes.

It didn't matter. She didn't matter. For all their closeness, her teaching him to read, him teaching her how to shoot, him telling her about Clarice and Zack, his grandmother, his birth name…none of it mattered. None of it meant anything and she had been a fool to think otherwise.

They were friends, nothing more than that. The very idea of anything more was ridiculous in any event. His love and desire for Myra had been on display for everyone to see. No-one could have been in any doubt where Hank Lawson's feelings lay, where they would always lie.

And they didn't lie with her.