4 December

"Now, are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes Mother, quite sure."

"Well, I suppose if you have forgotten anything, you'll be back before you know it." Flora smiled broadly at her daughter as they stood beside the train. "I shall miss you, but my sorrow is mitigated by the fact that you'll soon be home again."

"Yes," Eloise replied, allowing her mother to embrace her once more. "We'll see you very soon. Make sure to give our love to Father."

"I will. I'm sorry he didn't feel well enough to accompany us. And Hank," Flora turned to him. "Take care of Eloise, won't you?"

"Sure thing," he replied, kissing his mother-in-law briefly on the cheek as the train whistled loudly and steam swirled around them. "Best git on board."

In a flurry of last hugs and kisses, they stepped onto the train, waving to Flora for a final time before making their way along the carriage to their compartment. As she removed her hat and sank down into the seat, Eloise felt a wave of fatigue wash over her, despite the sound sleep she had had the previous night. Perhaps it was the effort of having to keep up so much pretence. Pretence that she and Hank loved one another, pretence that she was happy about her decision, pretence that she was looking forward to what life might have in store for her in 1870.

The days on the train sped by, the landscape changing rapidly with each passing moment and, finally, five days later, they rolled into Denver, later than anticipated due to an obstruction on the tracks. Hank had grown quieter the closer they had come to their destination, his silence almost angry in its quality. On numerous occasions she had been poised to ask him what was wrong, but she had refrained from doing so, unwilling to enter into some form of argument, the likes of which she could sense brewing, despite not knowing why.

By happy coincidence or not, they were booked into the same hotel they had stayed in during their last trip to Denver to see Zack and, with an aching familiarity, as they entered the room, Hank immediately ministered to making a bed on the floor.

"Hank, please…"

"Please what?"

"Please don't sleep on the floor. It's not necessary."

"Ain't comin' into yer bed."

"It's not my bed, it's…" she paused, suddenly unsure how to characterise it. It wasn't their bed, after all. "It's cold and I'd prefer it if you didn't catch your death as a result of misplaced gallantry."

Sighing, he tossed his belongings onto the bed, before washing quickly at the basin, checking his gun and heading back for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Need a drink."

"Oh…"

He didn't pause to ask if she wanted to accompany him. Seconds later, he was gone, and she found herself standing alone in the room, unsure what to think or what to do beyond getting ready for bed. The hour was late and there was still a full day's journey on the stagecoach to come before they reached home. Mechanically, she undressed, laying her clothes carefully on the chair provided, changed into her nightclothes and slid between the cool sheets.

Sleep came quickly and she wasn't sure how long she had been in that state before the sound of the door banging jerked her back into consciousness when, through a haze of sleep, she saw him re-enter the room. He stumbled around drunkenly, shedding clothes in the process and she tried hard to keep her eyes closed, to remain in a pretend state of slumber. But she found herself cheating, focusing her gaze beneath hooded lids, watching as more and more of his body became visible to the naked eye in the dim light. She couldn't help but take in the chiselled contours of his chest and stomach, the strong shoulders and thighs, finally definitively screwing her eyes shut as he made to remove his union suit and underpants.

He flopped down hard onto the bed beside her, an action that would surely have woken her had she not already been awake, and the sweet cloying smell of cheap perfume suddenly hit her. Without needing to ask, she knew where he had likely been. This was a city after all and whorehouses would be ten a plenty. He of all people would surely know exactly where to find one. Opening her eyes, she ventured to look, only to find him face down, naked beside her, distinctive red marks visible on the top of his back, the origin of which she didn't need to think too hard to identify.

To think that she had almost given herself to him. To think that she would have allowed him to love her, right there in her parents' home where it would have meant nothing more to him than sleeping with a nameless whore. But why was she surprised? Didn't he bed Olivia with regularity? Hadn't he likely bedded every other woman in the saloon at one time or another? It was clearly no stretch to recognise that he used women to make himself feel better about any given situation.

When he had spoken about how she would feel once her maidenhood had been given to him, she had assumed it had been said out of some concern for her welfare, but his words to her the night he and Jake had been on watch for the Indians came back to her.

"Ya'd just be one more in a long line fer me if I take ya to bed…"

Turning away from him, she screwed her eyes shut again and willed sleep to take her once more.

If that was the kind of man he was, then perhaps she was better off without him.

9 December

Morning brought with it a hangover borne from cheap whisky and too many cigarettes. It felt like his head had been run over by a wagon and as he chanced to open his eyes, almost immediately regretted it. A second attempt saw him more able to focus, his gaze falling on Eloise's sleeping form beside him. She was lying on her back, hair wild around her head, her face turned away from him, her body rising and falling in gentle sleep. For a moment, he simply stared at her, painfully aware that if things were different, he could have slid under the blankets next to her, pushed himself against her warm body and awoken her for morning pleasures.

As it was, he suddenly realised that he was naked, and memories of the previous night's activities instantly came flooding back.

A small drinking den, a blonde whore, a bed that creaked.

The whisky had been strong enough to dull his senses, and the whore pretty, if too skinny in places, but though she had moaned under him and he had found no difficulty in satisfying himself or her, it hadn't been enough to completely make him forget his feelings.

Muttering an expletive, he rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed, hoping that the room would anchor itself at some point. Casting his gaze around, he saw his clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor and, once he felt able, began gathering them to re-dress. By the time he had done so, she was awake, sat up in the bed, watching him coolly.

"Mornin'."

"Good morning."

He wondered if she might ask him about the previous night, but she remained silent as she slid out of the bed and moved behind the modesty screen to dress herself. He waited, looking out of the window down to the street below until she had completed her task.

"Best git some breakfast 'fore we head for the stage."

She nodded, allowing him to leave the room first before following him down to the dining room where she sat silently, observing the surroundings but making no effort to engage him in any form of conversation.

"What's wrong?" he asked finally, as they were served coffee.

"Nothing."

"Bin in a funny mood since ya woke up."

"No, I haven't."

"Then why ya actin' like ya ain't speakin' to me?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "Maybe because I don't appreciate sharing my bed with a man who's just been with a prostitute."

"How…?" he broke off, unsure he wanted to know the answer to the inevitable question. Given the ingestion of whisky and his naked state upon awakening, he couldn't vouch for what he might have said or done.

"How do I know?" she asked for him. "I could smell her on you. And given you saw fit to lie next to me in a complete state of undress…I saw she had left her mark on you too."

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though he owed her an apology and yet unsure exactly why. It wasn't as though he had been unfaithful to her. "Said it weren't yer bed."

"What?"

"Ya said it weren't yer bed."

"I…" she hesitated and then looked down at her plate. "Fine. You're free to do whatever you like after all."

"Damn right," he said, with slightly more conviction than he had intended.

"Have I angered you in some way?" she asked, raising her head again. "I feel as though you've been different towards me ever since we left San Francisco."

"Different how?"

"Well…angry."

"Ain't angry."

"No?"

"No. Yer the only person round here who seems to be angry on account of what I do in my own time, which ya got no say over in any event." He could hear the harshness of his tone, knew it was unfair, and yet couldn't seem to stop himself. Perhaps this was the best way to truly convince her that he wasn't a man worth giving up her most precious asset for. "If I wanna git drunk and sleep with whores, I will."

"Why change the habits of a lifetime?"

"Exactly."

"Well maybe we should just have the affidavit drawn up now and lodge the request for the annulment before we go back to Colorado Springs."

Her words brought him up sharply, suggesting a course that he hadn't previously considered and, despite everything, wasn't sure he was quite ready for. "Ain't got time 'fore the stage leaves."

"Maybe we should make time."

"And be stuck here for another three days 'fore the next one? No, thanks." He drained his cup. "We stick to the original idea. Git Jake to witness it, then ya can lodge it on yer way back. S'pose I can trust ya to at least do that."

"Of course you can," she replied tightly. "After all, why would I want to remain married to you for a moment longer than necessary." Pushing her chair back, she rose quickly, turning and leaving the dining room before he had time to react.

Not wanting to appear as though he was chasing her, he waited an appropriate amount of time before rising and following her path back to the room, her opening the door to him as he approached, laden down with her bags.

"Give me those."

"I can manage," she snapped, pushing past him and making for the stairs, leaving him with no option than to gather up his own belongings and meet her in the hotel lobby where she stood stiffly by the entrance.

"Don't git why yer mad," he said, as they made their way out and across the square to where the stagecoach was hitched and ready to leave. "Ain't done nothin' I ain't done a thousand times before."

"No, you're just enjoying rubbing my nose in it."

"Why do ya care? Ain't gonna matter soon."

"No, it isn't," she replied tightly. "I just don't understand you."

"What's there to understand?"

She turned to look at him, her face pinched, but her eyes pained. "You've always been good to me, always. Haven't I always defended you to everyone as such? Before we left San Francisco we talked about remaining friends, writing to one another, visiting one another and yet, the moment we stepped on that train you turned into someone I don't recognise."

"Like ya said, can't change the habits of a lifetime. Besides, told ya before I ain't a good man."

"So you have to be cruel about it?"

"Ya've always known 'bout me."

"Yes," she nodded. "I've always known that you drink too much whisky and sleep with prostitutes, but you've never flaunted it the way you did last night. I suppose I've realised for the first time how true your words were when you told me I'd have regrets if I allowed you to bed me. If we had…and then you had…" she broke off as the stagecoach driver stepped forward to take their bags before turning back to look at him again, her eyes glinting. "I can only imagine how wretched I'd feel." She turned away, allowing the driver to help her up and into the coach.

He paused before joining her, letting out a long breath into the cold morning air. Despite the habit of seeking comfort in whisky and women, neither had brought it. His head still throbbed, and he felt a shame that he'd never truly experienced before at the cheap encounter. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Eloise and yet, in the cold light of day, it was clear that, in every way possible, he had.

Wretched was a good word for it.

XXXX

It was dark and cold by the time they arrived back in town, the last of the evening drinkers slowly stumbling from the saloon, many of them greeting the travellers as they did so. He held the door for her, the first sight she saw when entering being Olivia's face. The other woman's expression cycled through surprise, confusion and then pleasure at the sight of their return, though Eloise knew it wasn't because she was pleased to see her.

"Yer back early," she said, sashaying around from the other side of the bar. "Weren't expecting you back for at least a few more days."

"Things change," Hank said shortly.

"Glad that they did," she said, moving closer to him. "Good to have you back."

"I'll say goodnight," Eloise said, hurriedly moving away through the bar towards her bedroom, unwilling to be party to whatever reunion Olivia had planned which Hank would no doubt be delighted to partake in. She slammed the door with more force than intended and then stood looking around the room that would soon no longer be her own, feeling a sense of loss that she couldn't rationalise. It was a room in a saloon that she had occupied for only a few months. She would be returning to her family home, the place she had lived all her life, and yet her stomach ached at the prospect.

As she took off her hat and made to undress, there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for invitation, it swung open, and Hank filled the doorway.

"You haven't got the room back yet. The least you can do is wait to be admitted," she said acerbically, jumping as he threw one of her bags inside.

"Left this in the bar," he said. "Thought ya might want it 'fore it gits rifled through by whores with light fingers."

"Thank you." She waited for him to turn and leave but instead he lingered, as though it was on his mind to say more. "Was there something else?"

"No," he said finally, turning to move away and then pausing. "Only…"

"What?"

"I…uh…just want ya to know that, well, if we were properly married…I wouldn't have done it."

"Wouldn't have done what?"

"Slept with the whore."

"Oh…" she felt her face colour. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing we aren't properly married then, because I doubt it's something I would have been able to forgive."

"No, guess not."

"I suppose, by the same logic, if we were properly married you wouldn't be going now to Olivia's bed, would you?" She wasn't sure where the question had come from, or indeed the wisdom of asking it. They weren't properly married. Neither owed any duty of fidelity to the other. But her hackles were still raised as a result of his overall attitude towards her.

"Who said I'm goin' to her bed?"

"Aren't you? Habit of a lifetime, remember?"

His eyes hardened and, for a moment, she braced herself for an onslaught. But, to her surprise they softened again. "If we were properly married, I'd be comin' to yer bed, and nobody else's. Gotta be the least ya can expect from a husband. Make sure ya marry a man who feels the same way 'bout it as I do."

He turned and moved back out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving her standing alone surrounded by a million thoughts and feelings, many of which she knew she was best keeping inside herself, but one at least that she found herself desperate to explore. Pulling open the door, she pursued him down the corridor, catching him at the door to the bar.

"If you feel that way, why have you never been married?" He frowned. "Why did you never marry Clarice or…or Myra, when you had the chance?" She half-expected him to tell her to mind her own business, but instead he simply looked at the floor.

"I'd have married Clarice, but she never wanted that, even after she fell pregnant with Zack. She liked things the way they were between us. She liked whorin' and I ain't stupid enough to think that there probably weren't men that she went with that weren't part of business. As for Myra, guess she just never felt fer me what I felt fer her." He paused, and she could see his mind ticking over, a realisation dawning. "S'pose, when ya look at it like that, neither of 'em did."

She wanted to move closer to him, wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him that, for all the failings of the other women, she did love him and that there would be no other man for her but him within the confines of a proper marriage, but her feet were rooted to the spot, the sight of his naked feelings at the memories preventing her from saying or doing anything.

"Anyways," he said after a long silence. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she heard herself reply softly as he disappeared from view.

XXXX

"If you don't want me, why are you here?"

Hank closed his eyes and sighed heavily, unwilling to enter into an autopsy of the current, unsatisfactory situation. With maddening familiarity, following his conversation with Eloise, he had found himself at Olivia's door, welcomed into her bed with the promise of being welcomed into her body, only to find himself unable to muster the requisite desire.

It had been different the previous evening, when his mind had been addled by drink. Then he had simply been acting out of rote familiarity, his body programmed to know what to do. Here and now, however, he was sober and kissing and touching Olivia had little to no effect on him, not for want of trying on her part. She gazed at him invitingly, kissed him passionately and stroked him in a way that usually elicited exactly the right response.

But he couldn't look at her and, when he closed his eyes, all he could see beneath his lids was Eloise.

"Ain't like you not to be able to perform."

"Maybes ya just don't do it fer me anymore," he replied harshly.

"Well maybes in that case, you should get the hell out."

She'd always been one to talk back to him and, ordinarily, he had accepted it with little issue. But now, something in her tone made him snap and, with lightning speed, he leapt out of the bed, grabbed her by her arm and pulled her to her feet. "I don't know where the hell ya git off thinkin' ya can talk to me like that, but I ain't havin' it, Olivia, ya hear me?!"

"What are you going to do, throw me out?"

Her tone was challenging, her expression one that held confidence that he wouldn't do it, that there was no other whore in the building that could satisfy him the way she had been able to since Myra had left, and he hated her for it. Hated her for thinking she held any power over him.

"That's exactly what I'm gonna do," he replied, pushing her roughly away from him. "Tomorrow, ya pack up yer things and ya git out."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You can't do that. I got a contract!"

It was almost laughable. Myra had begged and pleaded with him to let her out of her contract and now this whore was going to beg him to honour it? "So what? Ya gonna wire a marshal and have me arrested fer not enforcin' it?"

"I'm…I'm sorry," she said, her tone softer. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I never meant to upset you, please…"

"Shut up or I'll make ya leave now."

"But, I don't got anywhere to go!"

"Ain't my problem." He gathered up his clothes and quickly re-dressed, conscious of her watching him.

"You need me, Hank, you know you do!"

"No, I don't. Ain't that special. Can git any number of girls to take yer place."

"Like Miss Eloise from San Francisco? Planning on getting her to raise her skirts for the customers?" He turned to face her. "No, course not. Wanting her all fer yerself." Despite her bravado, he could see that she was shaking. "Only problem is, despite yer fake marriage, she'd probably rather die than lie under you!"

The blow sent her sideways into the wall, causing her to cry out with shock and pain, but he didn't care. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her towards the door, threw it open and dragged her down the corridor. To her credit, she fought him, kicking, pulling and yelling, causing the other girls to peer out from behind their doors, but he ignored all of them. Perhaps this would show them what would happen if they tried to defy him or say anything about the one woman he cared for.

Reaching the bar, he threw Olivia roughly towards the door and she stumbled, falling against one of the tables before righting herself.

"Git the hell out."

"Can't just throw me out, Hank," she replied shakily.

"Can and I am. Now git."

Her eyes slid past him, and he looked over his shoulder to see Eloise hovering in the doorway, her gaze flitting between them.

"He's trying to throw me out!" Olivia exclaimed. "Can't let him do it, Eloise, you can't! I got nowhere to go."

Eloise stepped towards them, "Hank…"

"Ain't yer business."

"You can't just throw her out onto the streets in the middle of the night!"

"Watch me." Taking hold of Olivia's arm again, he manhandled her towards the door.

"Stop!" Eloise rushed forwards, pushing herself in between them, forcing him to let go of the other woman's arm. "Don't do this, Hank, please!"

"Think she gives a damn about ya?!" he rounded on her. "She hates ya, and ya know it! Why do ya care what I do with her?!"

"Because she's a human being and she doesn't deserve to be thrown out, half-dressed, with nothing to her name! Please, Hank…" she moved closer to him. "Please don't do this. I don't know what she did but if she has to leave, fine. But let it be tomorrow when she has her belongings and some way of finding somewhere else to go."

Any other woman and he would have struck her too for interfering, but looking into her beseeching expression, all he wanted to do was grab her and pull her to him, feel the warmth of her body against his, tell her…everything.

Did she have any idea, any idea at all, of the hold she had over him, despite it all?

"Fine," he said finally, stepping back. "But she leaves tomorrow, and she don't ever come back, ya hear?" Eloise nodded and he shook his head before turning away. "Goddamn you woman." He kicked out at one of the chairs, sending it careering across the room. "Goddamn you!"