THE GIFT TO BE FREE
by Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer


I came out of the dressing room wearing a new pair of jeans and one of those Western-style shirts that have panels made of different colored fabrics. This particular shirt was pale blue, alternating with a paisley design in shades of brown and gold.

"What do you think? Is it me?" I asked.

Kwai Chang Caine looked at me, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "How can what you wear -- be you?"

I shook my head. Sometimes he was just too literal. "Easy," I explained. "It tells the world how I wish to be seen."

"I had not -- thought of it in that way."

Considering the rather nondescript clothes he usually wore, I guess he hadn't. Or he just didn't care. He cocked his head sideways and studied me intently for a moment. "What is it that you wish this -- outfit -- to tell people?"

"Uh --" I glanced down at myself, suddenly self-conscious.

What did I want people to see when they looked at me? Well, for starters, I wanted to look as if I belonged. We were in Wyoming, hence the Western look. Something casual, interesting, neither too macho nor too obviously effeminate. (Granted, the paisley was pushing it in this respect. But lots of straight men wear gaudy patterns these days.)

I sighed as I surveyed my not-so-slender waistline. The jeans were a size 30; once upon a time, I had worn 26's. Back in those days, when I was young and pretty, I had been Jeremy Joe. Somewhere along the years, I became just plain Jeremy. It sounded more dignified, somehow. But I miss Jeremy Joe. Getting old just doesn't cut it, if you're a gay guy.

Meanwhile, Caine was still standing there, hands clasped in front of him, patiently waiting for an answer.

"Now that you mention it, I'm not really quite sure," I evaded, brushing a nonexistent fleck of lint off one paisley sleeve. "But I like this and I'm going to buy it. Wait a sec while I change back into my old clothes and we can get out of here."

He nodded. I ducked into the dressing room and got out of my new outfit.

The only thing I had to wear that was even half way clean was my sweatshirt with the MAID OF THE MIST logo that I had bought at Niagara Falls five days ago, but that would have to do.

Niagara Falls. More than half a continent away now, but it felt like only yesterday. I'd been ready to end my life there, for reasons that now seemed not quite worth it. Oh yeah, I was still over-the-hill, one step ahead of poverty-stricken, and pretty much a failure at anything I had ever tried to do. But death no longer seemed particularly interesting to me, ever since Kwai Chang Caine had pulled me out of the Niagara River before I could be swept over the Falls and helped me face my own self-hatred. Since then, the darkness in my soul hadn't seemed quite so overwhelming anymore. Maybe -- just maybe -- there was a chance I could find a way to make peace with myself. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I pulled the sweatshirt down over the top of my pants, readjusted my eyeglasses on my nose, and combed my hair. I hadn't gotten a lot of lucky breaks in my life, but I'd certainly gotten one when I'd offered Caine a ride way back on Cape Cod. He was headed for the West Coast, for reasons of his own.

I shrugged at my reflection in the mirror. I figured I'd drive him there. I owed him that. Besides, what else did I have to do right now? We'd gotten as far as the southwestern part of Wyoming in just under five days, and right now I was more than ready to quit shopping, find a motel, and crash for the night.

Little did I know that it wasn't going to be that simple.

As in every community that makes its living on tourism, there are any number of local festivals, celebrations, and every other excuse anyone can think of to draw tourists into town. On this particular weekend in late summer, it turned out that there was something called a Mountain Man Rendezvous taking place. It was Friday night and every motel in the vicinity of Taylor's Junction was hopelessly sold out.

Resigned to a long drive, I started out of town on Route 80, the road we'd been on all the way from Indiana. Not for the first time on this trip, I found myself a bit annoyed that my passenger couldn't drive. If my Escort had been an automatic, instead of standard, shift, I'd have been sorely tempted to try giving him a few quick lessons, I was that tired.

That was the bitter substance of my thoughts when Caine interrupted with, "We -- do not have to sleep in a motel."

"You got a better idea?"

He did this sort of half-shrug that seemed to be a characteristic gesture. "There is much -- open space around here. We could sleep outside."

I yawned as I considered the suggestion. "You think that would be safe?"

"I have done it many times. It is -- safer than driving, when the driver is about to fall asleep."

He had a point there.

"Sounds good to me. Since you've had more experience with this, why don't you pick out a likely spot?"

He nodded. "As soon as we are away from town, there will be many -- suitable places."

The sun was just going down when he indicated an exit onto a smaller road, then off down a rutted dirt road with an overabundance of curves that didn't look as if it went much of anywhere. I pulled the car off the road next to a stand of trees, not too sure about this now that the reality was upon me. I'd been known to snatch a few hours of shut-eye in a locked car while traveling, but this was different.

Caine must have noticed my hesitation. "You can sleep -- in the car, if you like."

"Nah," I replied, making up my mind. "I'm game if you are. I think I've got an old blanket in the trunk." I already knew he had his own stuff amongst the things he'd been carrying when I'd picked him up.

Caine cleared off a patch of ground not far from the car, then poked around in the bushes while I dug my blanket out from behind the spare tire. By the time I'd closed the trunk, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating something that looked as if it might have been a turnip.

"Want a bite?" he asked.

"Uh - no. Thanks." I think.

He shrugged. "Perhaps -- some berries?" he suggested, indicating a small pile of bluish, juicy-looking things lying next to his knee.

I don't know what they were, but they tasted pretty good.

Making a pillow out of the bag containing my new clothes, I rolled up in my blanket. I had to admit it wasn't really too uncomfortable. Or maybe I was just exhausted. I was still trying to figure out what kinds of insects were making all that noise when I drifted off to sleep.

I was rudely awakened a couple of hours later by something hard nudging my shoulder. When I opened my eyes and quickly put on my glasses, I found myself staring into the wrong end of a shotgun barrel. Perhaps people who routinely deal with firearms may not feel this way, but to me that barrel looked about six feet long and a yard wide.

"What are you two jokers doing out here?" demanded the person holding the gun. It was a woman, but that made me feel not one whit more secure, especially since I could now see that there were two other women behind her, both holding pitchforks aimed in our direction.

"We were -- sleeping," Caine answered simply, while I was still gathering my thoughts.

As he sat up, the shotgun moved over to focus on him instead of me. Maybe he looked more dangerous than I did, -- he was certainly bigger and more imposing -- or maybe he'd merely drawn her attention. Be that as it may, I didn't move a muscle. Neither did either of the determined-looking pitchfork-wielders.

"You always sleep on the ground?" the woman asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

She had short gray hair and the kind of sharp and piercing eyes that reminded me of my high school geometry teacher. Those fierce eyes narrowed at Caine's answer, and I knew she had just pegged us as homeless tramps. Not good.

"We couldn't find a motel room," I said, to set the record straight. "And we didn't feel like sleeping in my car." I jerked my chin in the direction of my beat-up Escort, just barely visible beyond the bushes. She noticed the car but still didn't look too happy.

"Well, you're on private property. Best you just get in that car and be on your way." She gestured with the shotgun. The other women nodded, glaring as us as if we were potential rapists, at the very least.

I got up, slowly and carefully. "Yes, ma'am. We'll do that right away."

Caine was already standing. He bowed slightly to the women. "We are -- sorry -- if we have disturbed you."

Then all hell broke loose.

Somewhere up the road a woman screamed "Fire! Fire in the barn!"

The cry was taken up immediately by more voices, and I heard the high-pitched shrieks of terrified horses added to the racket.

Exclaiming "Merciful Goddess!" the woman who had been holding the gun on us tossed her weapon aside and began running down the dirt road, followed quickly by her two younger companions. Caine went after her, leaving me no choice but to bring up the rear.

By the time I had covered the kilometer or so between us and the farm buildings that unexpectedly appeared around the next curve of the road, the fire was raging in full force. The barn was wooden and old. Already flames had cut through the roof and were reaching for the sky. It was clear that no one would save that building, but I saw several people run inside. I couldn't imagine why, until I realized I still heard horses screaming over the crackle of the flames. The owners must be trying to save their livestock.

Smoke and fire billowed up into the darkness as I drew closer to the scene of chaos, trying to catch my breath and take in what was going on. My first impulse was simply to stare open-mouthed at the conflagration.

Several people led horses through the open barn door. Watching closer, I realized that one of them was Caine. (Now, why did that somehow fail to surprise me?) As for myself, I sure as hell wasn't going into a burning building to rescue an animal. If Caine or those women wanted to do it, that was their business. I had more sense than that.

So I just watched for several minutes. Without really meaning to, I moved closer, drawn by the excitement of what was going on. Heat from the blazing barn prickled against my skin. Surely, the entire structure would soon collapse in upon itself. No one went in now. If there were any more horses left inside, they didn't have a chance. I was just hoping all the would-be rescuers had gotten clear when I saw a stumbling figure leading a horse appear in the midst of the smoke pouring from the doorway. It was too small to be Caine, so I figured it to be one of the women.

"Come on, come on!" I yelled, my voice lost in the crackle and rush of the flames.

Just outside the door, the horse reared up, knocking its rescuer backwards into a clump of bushes. As the horse bolted and ran, I could see the girl trying weakly to pull herself loose. A piece of the front wall of the barn collapsed not far from her. The rest would obviously follow soon.

I'm no hero, but I couldn't just stand there and watch someone burn to death. I ran forward into the fierce heat and
light, grabbed a flailing hand, and jerked her free of the smoldering branches.

We ran as fast as we could away from the barn. The wall collapsed with a sharp crack. Burning bits of wood and sparks filled the air around us. We'd almost gotten clear when something hit my shoulder from behind with enough force to throw me forward to the ground with the girl beneath me.

I thought we were dead for sure, but then nothing else landed on top of us. The girl rolled clear, looking back at me wide-eyed. Before she had a chance to warn me, I realized my sweatshirt was on fire, ignited by whatever it was that had struck me down. I didn't feel the pain yet, but there was that "Oh, shit!" realization when you know you're in real trouble just a split second before it hits.

My first impulse was to take off my shirt, but some part of me remembered that you were supposed to roll on the ground and smother the flames. That went so counter to my basic instinct to get the fire away from my skin that I hesitated.

Caine appeared from out of nowhere and wrapped his cloth jacket around my shoulders, pulling it tight against the flames, which -- sure enough! -- promptly went out. He hauled both me and the girl to our feet. The three of us ran to safety, as my brain finally registered the pain from my shoulder and back.

"Okay, that's good," I thought, remembering my first aid training with a crazy sort of lucency, considering the circumstances. It's when a burn doesn't hurt that it's really serious. By then the skin has been charred and the nerves destroyed.

A couple of the women ran over to us, grabbing the girl, who was now coughing uncontrollably, and helping her to sit on the ground. I more or less collapsed also. Caine ripped the still-smoldering fabric of my shirt down off my shoulder, took one quick look, then turned his attention to the girl. That had to mean he agreed with my assessment of the situation. I was basically okay.

Suddenly, there were a lot more people on the scene, and they had "Taylor's Junction Rescue Squad" emblazoned all over their coveralls. Help had apparently arrived while I had been otherwise occupied. They lifted the girl onto a gurney, oxygen mask already covering her face.

One of the EMT's, a rather large young man, seemed more than professionally concerned about her welfare, trying unsuccessfully to hold her hand while the girl pulled it away. This was such odd behavior that I couldn't help staring, even while another of the medics, this one a female, came over with a plastic cold pack and laid it carefully on my shoulder. By now, we were surrounded by a crowd of women, among them the one I recalled as holding the shotgun on us earlier.

As the girl's gurney was lifted into an ambulance, the large young man said, "I'll go with her."

The girl shook her head wildly, pulling an arm loose from the straps that held her down and attempting to push him away.

Caine put his hand firmly on the EMT's shoulder, preventing him from climbing in with her. "I think -- she would prefer you to remain here," he said softly.

The young man turned, glowering, but our erstwhile gun-woman intervened.

"Ginny," she said, waving one of the women forward, "why don't you go with Montana to the hospital and stay with her?"

"Sure, Cora."

The young EMT split his glower between Caine and Cora now. Then he noticed me and his scowl deepened.

"What are these guys doing here?" he demanded. "I thought you only let women stay at your precious ranch?"

"I don't think that's really any of your business, Waylon," the older woman replied coldly.

With a muttered curse, he shook off Caine's hand and stomped off into the darkness as the ambulance pulled away.

Now that the most serious case had been dealt with, the remaining EMT was obviously about to devote her full attention to me when a police car pulled up not far from us. A dapper little man holding a doctor's bag jumped out and strode in our direction.

"It's all right, Alan," Cora said, intercepting him. "No one's been badly hurt."

He took a moment to survey the damage, looking almost pleased at the sight of the blackened, smoking remains of the barn as it was being hosed down by the fire company.

"Well, Cora, maybe now you've learned your lesson," he said at last.

"What? Because the barn caught fire, you think that'll make us give up our plans? My dear cousin, do you actually imagine I didn't have insurance? We needed a new barn anyway. The real loss would have been our horses, since I haven't been able to get insurance on them yet. However, at a quick count, it seems that all of them survived."

The little man didn't appear to appreciate this good news at all.

"What would it take to convince you that you're wasting your time here? This town doesn't want a women's ranch. Why, the whole thing has done nothing but make you a laughingstock."

"So why should that bother you?" Cora retorted. "Unless, of course, you feel my behavior reflects on our family name, or some such macho nonsense like that."

Before answering, the doctor drew himself up to his full height -- which wasn't much. I doubt he could even match my own five feet, eight inches.

"As a matter of fact, it does. Ever since you inherited this broken-down farm last year and started spouting your feminist hogwash, I've had to put up with all sorts of snide remarks from my colleagues, and even from some of my patients. I've worked long and hard to build up a practice and make a name for myself in this town, Cora. Believe me, it wasn't easy. Now you come along and ruin everything with your radical ideas."

"Is there anything so very radical about a group of women
starting a business, Alan? It's going to be a guest ranch, that's all. There are plenty of them in Wyoming."

"Sure. And they all give the tourists a chance to play at being cowboys. None of them focuses on women's role in the Old West."

Cora smiled sweetly. "Precisely. That's why ours will."

"And none of them offers refuge to lesbians, whores, disobedient daughters, runaway wives, and damn near everything else, just as long as it's female!"

"You're exaggerating, as usual. There are no whores here. Judge Dail's daughter, Tiffany, is legally of age, and Ginny Largett left her husband because he's a coke addict, as you well know. Montana's ex-lover can't seem to take no for an answer, and Jodie Franks isn't even sure she's gay."

"And these are the kinds of people you want working for you?"

"Have you got any better suggestions?" she asked archly.

"Talking to you is impossible!"

"Then why don't you do what you do so well and try practicing medicine?" Cora retorted, glancing significantly in my direction.

Without another word, the little doctor stalked over to me. He was clearly still furious, but he controlled himself enough to do a reasonably courteous check on my burned shoulder and general well-being.

That done, he told me curtly, "The police will take you to the hospital."

Before I could answer, Caine said softly, "It -- is not serious."

Cora's cousin looked Caine over disdainfully before replying, "Oh, really? And I suppose you're a doctor?"

"I am -- a priest."

The doctor put his hands on his hips and smiled indulgently. "Sure. And a priest knows all about medicine, right?"

Caine shrugged.

Lifting the corner of the cold pack, I looked at my upper arm and back over my shoulder. It hurt like hell, but I could see that Caine was right. This was mostly a first degree burn, with perhaps a couple of small blisters. No blackened or charred skin. No extensive areas of the body damaged. I didn't need a doctor. And I sure didn't need a doctor bill.

"I'm okay," I said. "I don't want to go to the hospital."

"You're declining medical treatment, then?" The doctor puffed himself up even further at that.

"Yeah," I replied. "I'm declining treatment. You got a problem with that?"

Confronted with my evident determination, he backed off. "No."

"Good. Then why don't you go see if there's anyone else who needs your help?"

I knew I was being rude, but I couldn't help it. The guy had pissed me off with his know-it-all attitude.

"Fine. I'll just do that," he said, picking up his bag. He motioned for the EMT to come with him as he went over to talk to one of the police officers.

With the excitement over, things settled down fairly quickly. The firemen began putting away their equipment, while the police took statements from a couple of the women.

Caine helped me to my feet.

"Perhaps -- we should leave now," he suggested.

We had taken only a couple of steps before our way was blocked by the gray-haired shotgun-lady.

"I don't think we've ever been introduced, gentlemen," she said, holding out her hand. "My name's Cora Stefanchik."

Caine bowed slightly and took the proffered hand. "I am -- Caine."

"And I'm Jeremy Langsten," I interjected. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Especially without your shotgun."

She laughed. "Sorry about that. But it pays to be careful these days, especially if you're a bunch of women by yourselves. You know how it is."

Yeah, I sure did. It's not all that safe for gay men either.

"No hard feelings," I replied.

"Well, thanks for pulling Montana out of that bush, Jeremy. And thanks for helping us rescue our horses, Mr. Caine. We owe you both. I can offer you a proper bed to sleep in, for what's left of the night. And if you want to stick around for a few days until that shoulder of yours is better, I reckon we wouldn't mind too much."

I looked at Caine. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow a fraction and making a small gesture that I took to mean as indicating that it was my decision, since it was my shoulder that had been injured and my car we were traveling in.

"Even if we aren't female?" I asked, harking back to the exchange we had overheard earlier.

Cora laughed again. "Even so."

Much to my dismay, I realized I was feeling a bit light-headed. Must have been the adrenaline wearing off, now that the danger was past.

Caine took my arm. "Are you -- all right?"

I managed what was probably a sickly smile. "Yeah. But that offer of a bed is sounding better by the minute."

"Come on, then," Cora said. "I'll show you to one of our extra rooms."

We followed her into the main building and up a flight of stairs, with me leaning pretty heavily on Caine and hoping I'd be able to sit down pretty damn soon. Cora opened the door to one of a number of rooms off a long hallway.

"Here we go, gentlemen. I'm afraid it's a little dusty. We weren't expecting guests just yet. Fact is, we'll be lucky to have everything ready for business by next spring. There was quite a bit of fixing up to do, even before the barn burned."

"I could -- help with the work while we stay here, -- if you wish," Caine offered, seating me on the nearest bed.

"We just might take you up on that, Mr. Caine. But for now, you're our guests." She waved at the room. "Please make yourselves comfortable I've got to get back outside and keep an eye on things. Is there anything else you need before I go?"

"May I have some -- hot water to make tea?" Caine asked.

"Sure," she replied, as if it weren't a rather strange request, under the circumstances. "Kitchen's downstairs. Help yourself."

"Thank you. I shall be -- right back, Jeremy."

Okay, if he wanted to make tea in the middle of the night, that was his business. Me, I just wanted to rest a bit, then maybe get cleaned up. While the room obviously didn't have its own private toilet, there was a small, old-fashioned sink over in the corner.

Taking off my glasses and placing them carefully on a little table next to the bed, I proceeded to divest myself of the remains of my ruined sweatshirt. The MAID OF THE MIST logo caught my eye as I was about to drop the torn fabric on the floor. Lying back on my left side, I studied the little silhouette of the boat thoughtfully. I was supposed to have been wearing this shirt when they fished me out of the river beyond the Falls. Rather ironic, really. Not so very many days ago, I had tried to drown myself, and tonight I had come close to being burned to death. Water and fire.

No, make that water and fire and steel, I decided, seeing the old scars on my wrists where I had tried to slash them many years ago. I usually kept those scars covered with long-sleeved shirts, but I didn't have anything to wear just now. Well, no matter. The only person I was likely to see tonight was Caine, and he knew about them.

I let the sweatshirt slip out of my hand. It lay in a discarded heap on the floor, cast aside like my intention to commit suicide. It was only then that it occurred to me to wonder, if I wasn't going to die, what exactly was I going to do with the rest of my life? I'd screwed up so many things in so many ways in the past that I really had no reason to think I'd do better in the future. Maybe I was just too old a dog to learn any new tricks. I had chosen my path through life with no very great amount of care, and it always seemed to lead to nothing but dead ends. My money would run out, and I'd be alone and getting old.

I decided I was tired of thinking about it all, so I gave the equivalent of a mental shrug and pushed my dismal thoughts away for a time.

Since I seemed to have recovered from my previous light-headedness, I got experimentally to my feet. Yeah, that was okay. I tottered over to the sink and washed the dust and grime off my face and body as well as I could. My hair was a little singed on the right side, but I could live with that. My burned shoulder hurt big-time now, but I had expected nothing less. It really wasn't a whole lot worse than the severe sunburn I'd once gotten as a child, and that had covered a much larger portion of my body. Give it a couple of days and it would go away. Meanwhile, I should have thought to ask Cora for some aspirin or something.

Then I started shaking. Some part of my psyche had evidently just decided to react to the danger that had passed. I saw this image of myself screaming in agony, clothing and hair aflame. My stomach got that awful fluttery feeling and it was suddenly hard to draw a good breath of air into my lungs.

I leaned on the sink, clutching the sides with both hands and waiting for the wave of unexpected terror to pass.

I was almost back to normal when Caine returned to the room, carrying two steaming coffee mugs. He held one out to me, in obvious invitation.

"Uh -- no thanks," I said, hurriedly scooping water over my face and then hiding it in a towel. I wasn't sure it was possible to see fear in someone's eyes, but if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When I set aside the towel, he was still standing there with the mug.

"Drink. You need the liquid."

I know when I'm beaten. I accepted the proffered cup. If it was tea, it sure smelled strange.

"It is -- hot," he cautioned.

He was right about that. I added a little cold water from the tap. Perhaps if I drank his damn tea, I could get him to go scrounge up some aspirin. Still fighting off the shakes, I sat down on my bed and drained the cup. It didn't taste as bad as it smelled, fortunately.

"Lie down, Jeremy," Caine suggested.

"Why? I'm not tired." Scared shitless, maybe, but not sleepy.

"You -- will be."

That sounded ominous.

"Oh, great! What did you put in that tea anyway?"

"Ancient Chinese recipe," he said, smiling inscrutably.

Whatever it was, it worked fast. I already felt more relaxed and a little spacey. That was a big improvement over stark terror. I took his advice and stretched out on the bed, face down to spare my shoulder.

I was rather surprised when he sat down next to me, but all he did was spread some kind of ointment, very gently, over the burned patch of skin.

"This will -- help it heal," he explained.

I groaned. "Oh god, more ancient Chinese medicine!"

Caine chuckled. "It is -- mostly aloe vera salve. I found it on a shelf in the kitchen." Finishing with the salve, he went on to rub the back of my neck and my other shoulder, which effectively banished whatever shreds of anxiety were left after being doused with his tea.

Damn but that felt nice! In fact, it felt too nice. I couldn't afford to let myself enjoy someone touching me. There were too many possible complications. Part of me didn't want to make him stop, but another part was already flashing a warning signal, despite the bleariness that was fast invading my brain.

I knew of one virtually certain way to make a straight guy retreat, so I decided to use it.

"Does it occur to you that I might be enjoying this?" I asked him.

"Rubbing someone's neck is -- supposed to feel good."

"That's not exactly what I meant."

"Oh," he said, his hands holding still. I knew he'd caught my meaning. Caine wasn't always quite as innocent as he pretended to be. I had learned that by now.

Much to my surprise, he went back to massaging my neck. That wasn't exactly the reaction I'd expected. He was supposed to pull away in disgust. I blurted out the first thing I could think of. "My reaction doesn't bother you?"

"Should it?"

How could I answer that? It was getting really hard to think clearly, but I had to figure out where this dude was coming from.

"When we first met on Cape Cod, you said you had spent a couple of weeks in Provincetown. Any of the gay guys make a pass at you while you were there?"

He missed a beat before answering. Maybe my question had thrown him off. "Yes," he said at last.

I figured that. Despite the fact that he wasn't exactly a handsome young stud, there was nevertheless something very attractive about the man, although I don't think I could have told you precisely what it was.

"Okay. When they did it, what did you do?"

I could tell from the change in pressure of his fingers -- which were still persistently kneading my neck -- that he must have done that half-shrug of his as he replied, "I told them I was -- not interested."

"Too bad," I thought muzzily. If I said it out loud, I certainly didn't mean to. In fact, I didn't even mean to think such a thing. But thoughts go where they will. Actions, on the other hand, may be controlled. That's something a lot of us learned quickly, once the AIDS epidemic began.

"Should I have -- phrased it differently?" Caine responded, either to my carelessly-spoken thought or to my silence, I'm not sure which. He was either impossibly naive or he was putting me on. Either way, I felt compelled to explain what I had been driving at. I pulled away from him then, propping myself up on one elbow so I could see his face.

"Oh heavens no! It's just that the usual reaction of a straight man to that sort of an advance is fury."

"Can one not -- just say no?"

He wasn't 100 percent serious, since I could see he was trying not to smile.

I laughed. "Apparently not. I never have quite understood why women are expected to be able to turn aside unwanted advances from men with grace and courtesy, while your average man feels as if he has to turn you down by using his fists."

"Many men react with anger to that which threatens them."

"Ha! Do I look as if I'm a threat to anyone? I'm hardly the rapist type. And I don't molest children either."

"Molest -- children? Why would you -- do that?"

He was genuinely puzzled. Or, then again, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was still putting me on.

"Most people think -- oh, never mind! Let's drop it, shall we?" I collapsed back down on the bed, not sure if I was amused or frustrated.

"If you wish." He got quiet for a moment. I wondered whether I had said more than I should have. Then he put his hand on my good shoulder.

"Jeremy?"

"Yeah?"

"Go to sleep."

And that's the last thing I remembered until the next morning.


By the time I woke up, it was getting on towards 10 A.M. Sunlight streamed in the open window at just the right angle to hit me in the face. With a muffled groan, I pushed myself up off the bed, groping for my glasses.

"Caine?" I asked softly, squinting in the direction of the other bed. It wasn't until I had my bifocals firmly settled on my nose that I could see well enough to realize there was no one else in the room. In fact, the bed didn't even look as if it had been slept in.

Mornings aren't my best times, even under ordinary circumstances. I got muzzily to my feet and wandered over to the window, since I could hear voices and sounds of activity coming from outside.

The ruins of the demolished barn met my sun-dazzled eyes. A couple of women picked over the blackened debris, occasionally salvaging bits and pieces of various things. A horse grazed peacefully at the corner of a fenced-in enclosure that stretched around the house and out of my line of sight.

I frowned. No sign of Caine. I had rather expected to see him out helping the women. Maybe he was still in the house, having something to eat. No, on second glance, there he was, squatting down and almost hidden behind the still-standing skeleton of one of the sidewalls of the barn. As I watched, he rose slowly to his feet, head tilted oddly, as if he were listening to something, or looking at something that wasn't there.

I almost leaned out the window and called to him, but something held me back. He took a couple of slow steps along the side of the building, stopping once to trail his fingers along the charred wood.

I've never seen anyone sleepwalking and I don't think that's what he was doing, but I got this odd feeling that he wasn't quite "there", if that makes any sense. I mean, his body was there, of course, but it seemed as if his attention was focused someplace else.

It was doubtful that any of the women could see him, since they were on the other side of the wall and were, in any case, pretty intent on their salvage efforts. From my angle, Caine was walking away, towards what used to be the back of the barn. When he reached the end of the wall, he stopped and seemed almost to shake himself loose from whatever strange spell he'd been under.

Spell? What the hell was I talking about? I had to have been imagining things. The man had merely walked along the edge of a ruined wall. What was so odd about that? Maybe he'd been helping the women search for something.

I shook my head and turned away from the window, dismissing such foolish thoughts. Better to concentrate on getting dressed. I'd lay odds there was food to be had downstairs and my stomach had begun reminding me in no uncertain terms just how long it had been since I'd last had a decent meal.

I had already washed up and visited the bathroom down the hall before it occurred to me to wonder what I had to wear. Only then did I notice that my new jeans and Western shirt had been hung neatly on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, with my small suitcase sitting on the chair itself. Someone must have brought them in during the night, probably Caine. I found the jar of aloe gel on the side of the sink and gingerly spread a fresh coating on my shoulder before getting out my shaving kit and making myself presentable.

Do I have to keep mentioning how much my shoulder hurt all this time? If you've ever gotten burned -- and who hasn't? -- I think you can imagine that for yourself. It wasn't until the following day that the sting started to go out of it, but I tried to ignore it as much as I could and carry on. I may be a sissy, but I'm not a whiner.

Sure enough, there were plenty of breakfast leftovers on a table in the rustic dining room. I helped myself to a cup of lukewarm coffee and a honey-covered biscuit, glancing curiously around the room. Rough wood walls, open beam ceiling, huge fireplace at one end, but pretty rundown-looking. It would take a considerable amount of fixing, not to mention some well-placed antiques, before it could become anything even approaching picturesque.

After a couple of minutes, Caine came in and sat down next to me on the bench flanking the long table.

"You are -- feeling better?"

With my mouth full of biscuit, all I could do was nod.

His eyes flickered quickly toward the door, as if making sure we were alone before he went on.

"Jeremy, this fire was not -- an accident."

I almost choked on my biscuit, but managed to swallow it instead.

"What do you mean?"

"It was arson."

"How do you know?"

He shrugged. "I -- know."

"How?" I persisted, washing down the remains of the biscuit with a hefty swallow of coffee.

"I can sometimes -- sense -- things that have happened."

Yeah, right, I thought. And I'm the Dalai Lama. Tell me another one.

Fortunately, I didn't say that out loud, so I had time for some second thoughts. Kwai Chang Caine was one strange dude, but he had a way of being right about a lot of things. There was always the chance he was right about this too, for whatever reason. After all, it had been made abundantly clear last night that there were people who didn't particularly want this ranch to succeed. It wasn't beyond reason to think that one of those folks might have set fire to the barn in an effort to put Cora prematurely out of business.

"Jeremy?" Caine said into my silence.

"Yeah?"

"I would like -- to remain here for a few days. Cora has already said -- our help would be welcome."

He wanted to stay in order to watch out for these women, in case someone tried something else. I knew that, even though he never said it outright. That's just the way he was. Well, I had to admit I rather liked Cora and her friends myself. If someone truly was out to get them . . .

"Fine with me," I replied. "Although I'm not sure how much help I'll be, considering."

"Do not worry. There will surely be -- something that you can do."

That prediction wasn't long in coming true. I soon found myself sitting out on the wide porch that ran the entire length of the front of the house, cleaning and polishing various bits of leather and metal riding gear that had been salvaged. It was good to have some worthwhile work to do, even if it wasn't anything terribly exciting. A glass of lemonade sat sweating on the table next to me and birds called cheerfully from the branches of a huge pine tree.

Over the course of the next few hours, I had a chance to meet and speak to the women. In addition to Cora, there was Tiffany, hardly more than a teen-ager, but extremely serious and reserved, and Jodie, a little older but more ready with a smile. Montana was still in town at the hospital and Ginny had chosen to remain with her until she was released, which we hoped would be later today.

I managed to engage Jodie in conversation when she brought me a rather scorched saddle to clean and oil, thereby learning a little about the proposed guest ranch, which they called the Circle 5. As has already been mentioned, they wanted to focus on women in the old West, in place of the cowboy emphasis taken by most guest ranches. While being open to both sexes, there would be no herds of cattle to play with, no rodeos to attend, and no macho cowboy songs sung around a campfire. What there would be was a serious attempt to replicate the sort of life a woman might have led, with old-style cooking on the hearth, authentic costumes (available to guests also, if desired), and a chance to play-act at being a character from the past. (They were considering more extensive dramatics, if that last bit went over well. Perhaps a raid by bandits, or some such other excitement.)

And, of course, there would be the horses, with lessons for beginners and plenty of trails for experienced riders.

At one point, I asked Jodie if they were sure this narrowly specialized gimmick would bring in enough business. It seemed pretty doubtful to me.

She replied archly, "Well, there's one guest ranch not too far from here whose 'gimmick' is a herd of buffalo. They do real well. We figure women ought to be at least as interesting as buffalo, right?"

I had to laugh at that, but I wasn't at all sure the general public would agree with her. I could see this half-assed venture eating up all the money these women had and leaving them broke and homeless.

When I asked how all this had come about, I learned that Cora had inherited the rundown ranch from a maiden aunt just
over a year ago. When she'd come out West to take over her property, she'd gradually made friends with a number of townswomen. At various times and for various reasons, she had offered different people a place to stay. Of these, Tiffany, Jodie, Montana, and Ginny had chosen to remain on a permanent basis, investing money (if they had any), energy, and ideas in the project, which had just sort of crystallized and grown more ambitious as time went on.

After Jodie left, I looked around with a fresh eye, assessing the possibilities. From where I sat, the ruined barn was out of sight around the corner of the house. The front yard, interrupted only by a dirt road, stretched away into the distance, merging with a meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers. Off to the side of the meadow, I could see Caine working on a section of fence. From behind that fence, a dark brown horse watched him with patient curiosity. Further off in the distance, the land sloped down slightly, affording a nice view of softly rolling hills backed by a few modest mountains.

Yeah, the surroundings were lovely, but I couldn't see this place as a prosperous guest ranch. It would take more work than these women would be able to do on their own. They were dreaming.

But then, that was quite literally their business, not mine.

I heard the phone ring inside the house a couple of times, then Cora came out on the porch.

"Montana's getting out of the hospital in a little bit, so one of the girls will be taking the truck into town to get her and Ginny. Perhaps you and Mr. Caine would like to take a ride, and maybe look around Taylor's Junction for a little while? There's a museum you might find interesting, or are you not into playing tourist?"

I had to smile at that, considering the way I had dragged poor Caine to almost every tourist attraction there was while we were at Niagara Falls. Of course, I'd had an underlying motive at the time. Now that I wasn't trying to kill myself any more, it might be rather fun to see the local sights. If nothing else, it would take my mind off my painful shoulder.

(Oops, sorry! I said I wouldn't mention that.)

"I'd like that, but I don't know if Caine will want to go. He seems pretty wrapped up in what he's doing."

"I'll go ask him," Cora offered. "Goodness knows, he's done enough work for one day." She started down the steps, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, you might have to ride in the back of the pickup truck on the way home, unless you want to take your car too. Can you handle that?"

"No problem," I assured her cheerfully.


So it was that we found ourselves in the Taylor's Junction museum, while Tiffany went to buy a few things at the hardware store and then headed to the hospital. She planned to pick us up again on the way home, perhaps an hour later.

The museum was about what you would expect from a small
town that lived primarily on tourism, but it was nonetheless fairly interesting to me, whose sole exposure to the Wild West had been on TV or in the movies. There were displays of ranching equipment, plus implements from the long-exhausted coal mine that had been the original reason for the founding of the town, a mock-up of a room from a "typical" dwelling, crumbling photographs and stiff portraits of important people from the town's past, a room full of stuffed specimens of local wildlife, and suchlike other similar items. There was even a section devoted entirely to the local Native American tribes, in an attempt at being politically correct.

I wondered about these people who had come so far across the country -- and I knew from personal experience just how long a way that was, even in a modern automobile -- in the hope of starting a new life. What courage it must have taken, to leave behind family, friends, all those familiar things, and strike out on a new path!

I wandered casually from room to room, reading all the labels and descriptions of whatever exhibits caught my eye. At one point, I realized I had lost Caine somewhere, so I had to stop and search for him.

I found him, predictably enough, by a wall of exhibits dedicated to the once-numerous Chinese population of Taylor's Junction. Rather than disturb his evident concentration, I simply went over beside him and began studying the display. It seems the Chinese, who had originally arrived in town as railroad workers, had stayed to labor in the coal mine during the latter part of the last century. There were the usual photos, bits of antique clothing, and ceremonial objects. Even a large artificial dragon, which the placard informed me had played a major role in many a Chinese New Year's festival.

If I had admired the American settlers for their courage, how much more courage had it taken for these folks to come to a wholly different country and start all over again? I'd never have that kind of guts.

Meanwhile, Caine was inspecting the exhibits with evident fascination, almost as if they were long-lost friends. Once he sighed heavily, and I really wondered what he was thinking. But I didn't ask. I figured he'd tell me, if he wanted me to know.

Eventually, he reached the end of the display case. With a final smile for the elaborate silk dragon, he turned away abruptly and noticed me watching him. Making a small gesture with one hand toward the exhibit, he explained, "My -- grandfather -- spent much of his time in this part of the country, -- when he came here from China."

"Oh?" I prompted.

"Yes. He was an -- interesting -- person. I have thought much about his life."

As we walked out of the museum and stood waiting on the sidewalk for the truck to pick us up, he told me a little more about this "interesting" grandfather, whose name he bore. Caine made him sound like quite a paragon of heroism, virtue, and wisdom. He clearly admired the man immensely.

"I am -- unworthy -- of my esteemed ancestor," he admitted at the conclusion of his tale.

Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that, pal, I thought to myself. But I kept quiet, having already discovered that compliments usually just embarrassed him.


We didn't have to wait long before Tiffany came by in the truck. Montana leaned out the window as they pulled over.

"I never had a chance to thank you for what you did --" she began. Then her eyes went wide as she glanced up at something behind me.

"Say, aren't you the two jokers that were out at the girls' ranch last night?" came a harsh voice over my shoulder. "Yeah, I recognize you. The big geek and the little faggot."

I turned to see the over-large EMT towering above me as Caine answered, "We were -- there, yes."

"What, did the girls invite you out for a little action?" Waylon asked nastily.

This was too much for me.

"If they were looking for action, they'd hardly want a little faggot, now would they?"

Waylon looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a rock. "Could be you're one of those creeps who swings both ways and spreads AIDS to normal folks, huh?"

Putting his hands on his hips, he turned away from me and proceeded to look Caine up and down. He had a good four inches on the older man, and at least thirty pounds, which seemed to be all muscle. Guess he figured that gave him an advantage.

"And how about you? What's your interest in my girl here?" He jerked his thumb at the truck.

"I am merely -- a friend," was the soft response.

"Friend, huh? Well, she doesn't need any friends."

"Everyone -- needs friends."

"I don't think you're getting my drift, pal," the big man challenged. "I don't want you hanging around her anymore."

Caine shrugged, as Montana said coldly, "He's not bothering me. You're the one who's bothering me. I said I didn't want to see you, Waylon. Can't you just let it go at that?"

"No," he replied, pushing me aside and stepping up to the truck. "I've had about enough of this nonsense, Montana. You're coming home with me where you belong."

Montana started to roll up the window, but she wasn't quick enough to keep Waylon from getting a handful of her hair clutched in his fist.

"I said you're coming with me," he grated.

Caine took hold of the other man's wrist, twisting it around and pressing his thumb into the top of the meaty hand. With a curse, Waylon let go of Montana's hair and tried to pull free. At exactly the right moment, Caine released his grip, leaving Waylon to stumble awkwardly backwards, fury clear on his face.

"Jeremy, get in the truck," Caine said, never taking his eyes off the angry man.

Hey, I wasn't going to argue. I'd seen him take on a bunch of guys who had knives and baseball bats, so I wasn't too worried. I scrambled obediently over the tailgate as Waylon charged at Caine.

Caine sidestepped slightly at the last possible instant, giving Waylon a push that propelled him in the direction of the museum steps, where the young man tripped and fell full length. Caine swung around smoothly and vaulted into the back of the truck, to land next to me with surprisingly little noise.

Tiffany gunned the motor and we drove off down the street. Waylon tried to chase us, but we had too much of a lead by the time he had regained his feet.

Caine and I got comfortable sitting with our backs against the cab of the truck as beautiful downtown Taylor's Junction disappeared behind us. When we came to a stop at a traffic light several miles down the road, Montana hopped out of the cab and climbed in the back with us.

"That was great, Mr. Caine!" she said enthusiastically.

Caine gave her a quizzical look. "The -- bigger they are -- the harder they -- fall?" he suggested, as if not entirely certain he had gotten the expression correct.

Montana almost smiled.

"True," she replied. "But first they've got to fall."

Caine did sort of a lopsided smile and shrugged. The young woman's face turned suddenly serious and all her animation seemed to drain away. She coughed a few times, grimacing as if it hurt her to do so.

"He says he does it because he loves me so much he just can't let me go," she said miserably.

"Love -- does not seek to possess and hold something -- against its will."

I squirmed a little at his words. Although my rational mind agreed with Caine, I knew full well I'd done my share of trying to possess and hold people in the past. Perhaps Bobbie would still be with me today, if I hadn't been such a --

No, forget it. That was over and done with long ago. I turned my attention back to the present, as the truck began moving once more. Montana had made herself comfortable next to Caine, who held one of her hands in both of his and seemed to be massaging her fingers.

It bothered me to see him touching the girl, although I knew full well he meant nothing sexual by what he was doing. I smothered the feeling before I could even admit to myself that it might be jealousy.

We made the rest of the trip in silence, except when we hit a larger than average hole in the dirt road leading to the ranch, when I managed to get my sore shoulder slammed into the side of the truck and couldn't keep from muttering a few choice cursewords.


After dinner that night, I helped the women with the dishes, even though they proclaimed that it wasn't necessary. (Maybe I just wanted to be sure they knew I wasn't a lazy macho pig?) Caine apparently had no such scruples, since I saw him leave the room. But then again, he had already worked much harder that day than I had, so I guess he was entitled to take it easy now.

As soon as everything was done, I hurried outside to catch the last of a fading sunset. There was Caine, wandering slowly around in the front yard, totally absorbed in playing an eerie and rather unmelodious tune on a silver flute.

(Aha! So that's what was in that long leather tube I'd noticed with his stuff.)

Rather than disturb him, I sat down on the edge of the porch, letting my feet dangle below the rough wooden planking, and listened to the notes drifting on the warm evening air.

There was something distinctly melancholy about whatever it was he was playing. It reminded me of loneliness and opportunities forever lost.

All the while I was listening to the flute, I was also absently watching Caine stroll around barefoot in the over-long grass. Then suddenly I realized -- and you probably won't believe this, but I'll tell you anyway -- that I wasn't looking at him anymore, but rather at someone else who looked one hell of a lot like him, but younger, scrawnier, and less well dressed (if that were possible!). And this person played a flute made of bamboo, not shiny metal.

I blinked my eyes and it was just Caine again, much to my relief.

I was still considering this evident lapse of sanity on my part when I noticed I was no longer alone on the porch. The women were all clustered at the door, also listening to the flute. Perhaps tipped off by all those eyes on him, he glanced our way and abruptly stopped playing, with an apologetic smile in our direction.

"May we join you, Mr. Caine?" Ginny asked, lifting up the guitar she held in one hand.

Tiffany clutched a white plastic recorder, looking rather hesitant but determined.

Caine's smile broadened as he strode over to the porch, settling himself cross-legged next to me while the others pulled up chairs.

Jodie came through the door carrying some kind of an instrument I'd never seen before. It was made of wood, and had an odd, boxy, pointy shape, rather like a broad triangle with the top third cut off. (What had we called that in geometry class? Oh yeah: a trapezoid.) It had what looked to be at least a million strings strung across it in a complicated pattern.

Setting this device on a low table in front of her, Jodie took out two wooden stick-like things and plunked them down on the strings, hitting a few experimental notes.

"What's that?" I whispered to Caine, hoping to conceal my ignorance from everyone else.

"Hammer dulcimer," was the soft reply. "It has a very -- delicate -- sound, does it not?"

Despite its somewhat ungainly appearance, the instrument did indeed have a crisp and cheerful tone, not too unlike a harpsichord.

"Mr. Caine, do you know 'Simple Gifts'?" Jodie asked.

Somewhat to my surprise, he nodded.

Thereupon our impromptu orchestra launched into a ragged rendition of the old Shaker melody. By the second time around, it was starting to sound better. On the third repetition, Cora began to sing, quickly joined by the rest of us. (Yes, I can sing. I'm a halfway decent tenor, if I do say so myself.)

The words joined with the evening chorus of birds, insects, and frogs, creating a strange cacophony in the gathering dusk.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down, where we ought to be.

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed.

To turn, to turn will be our delight, 'til by turning, turning we come round right.


We sat out there for over three hours, playing everything anyone could think of that most of us might know, but it was that first song that really stuck in my mind.

After the sing-along had broken up, I remained where I was. Caine had disassembled his flute and was busy drying and polishing it, sitting in a patch of light from one of the windows a little ways down along the porch, while I looked up at the stars and wondered if I'd ever be granted that "gift to be free".

It seemed to me that I'd been enslaved all my life to various things; things like money, status, sexual attractiveness -- and, yes, even love. I dragged my meager successes and overabundant failures in all these ventures behind me like a ball and chain shackled to my ankles. And, like that shackled prisoner, I often felt I would drown in the deep waters of the future, hopelessly weighted down by that heavy, leaden past.

Soft footsteps interrupted my dreary reverie, then Jodie settled down beside me, minus her dulcimer.

"Jeremy, may I ask you something?" she inquired, very softly.

Uh-oh, I thought. But all I said was, "Sure."

"You're gay, aren't you?"

Damn! Why do people always know? It's not like I'm a total swish, and I certainly don't run around wearing a pink triangle or anything. (Well, an earring, yeah. But straight guys wear them too.)

I sighed. "Yeah. Why?"

"I was just -- curious -- as to how you knew, that's all."

I recalled then that Jodie was the one Cora had described as being not even sure if she was gay. Poor kid. Kid? No, she's in her twenties, at least. In fact, she was about the same age as my daughter would be by now. But I hadn't seen Cindy Jane since she was an infant. I had no idea what direction her life had taken, and would probably never know.

I sighed again.

"Dunno if I can help you much on that score, Jodie. Although there were a lot of years when I tried to deny it, I can't remember a time when I didn't know what I was."

"Oh."

She sounded so disappointed that I was struck by the sudden impulse to reassure her.

"Dear child," I said, patting her knee like some elderly aunt, "you have all your life to find out who and what you are. Don't rush it. And, above all, don't worry so much about it. You'll have your answer, in time."

"Do you really think so? I just feel so confused these days."

"Confusion is the beginning of wisdom." Now, where did I get that from? I wondered, even as I spoke the words. Sounded like something Caine would say, but he was still busy with his flute. I wasn't even sure he was close enough to hear our conversation.

"At least," I went on, "you won't have to deal with the same sort of attitudes that I did when I was young."

"There are lots of people who still hate gays."

Tell me about it! I thought. My ribs were still sore from the beating I'd taken from those gay-bashers, back when I'd first met Caine on the East Coast.

"Yeah. But there's another voice in society now. We've got people who support us, even if it's not everyone. That makes a difference."

"I suppose," she said glumly.

"Oh, honey, you don't know!" I protested, perhaps too vehemently. "There was no one on our side back then. Psychology said we were crazy deviants, the law that we were criminals, religion that we were damned sinners, and just about everybody else didn't want to know we even existed. Do you know what that does to your head?"

"But in lots of ways, that's still the way it is, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but now we're not listening anymore," I asserted bravely.

(Aren't you, Jeremy? Are you so very sure of that? Can you so easily dismiss half a lifetime of being told you're no good?) Well, maybe not. But at least the next generation won't have to deal with the same sort of monolithic homophobia that we did. The monolith is crumbling now, despite the often-violent backlash. (And the monolith in your mind, Jeremy? How about that?)

I looked over at Jodie, her face pale and downcast in the moonlight. She didn't need to know about the damage done to an old fairy a long time ago. She, and the others like her, would grow up in a new and different world. And who knew but that they might shape a happier future, for all of us?

I squeezed her knee gently. "However it turns out, kiddo, don't listen to the ones who try to put you down. What matters is what you are inside, not who shares a bed with you. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently."

I got a smile from her at last. In fact, she even leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Thanks, Jeremy," before she got up.

I turned to watch her go into the house, then caught Caine's eye. He smiled slightly and raised one eyebrow. This time, I was the one who shrugged, instead of him.


We had a bit of a problem the next morning. It was shortly before dawn when I awakened to the sound of anxious voices talking about horses. I figured it had nothing to do with me, so I rolled over to face the wall, hoping to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, this brought me down onto my bad shoulder, which had now reached the stage of extreme tenderness, even though it no longer actively hurt. I turned back over again pretty quickly.

Caine must have risen earlier, as I saw him unfold himself up from where he sat on the floor. As silently as the proverbial cat, he left the room.

My curiosity won out over my desire for sleep. Hurriedly pulling on my clothes, I went after him.

The focus of all the activity turned out to be the corral, where two of the horses lay on the ground, in attitudes that didn't suggest health and well-being, even to my untrained eyes. The rest of the animals were still standing, but their heads drooped and one stumbled a bit as Ginny led it along.

Caine went over to Cora, who squatted beside one of the prostrate animals, stroking its head and murmuring soft words of encouragement. I thought it might have been the same brown horse that had been watching him work on the fence yesterday, but I wasn't sure.

"May I?" he asked, kneeling beside Cora.

"You know something about horses?" she asked skeptically.

"A -- little."

"Go ahead then. We've already phoned the vet. He'll be here soon.

Caine leaned forward over the stricken beast, passing his hands rapidly over its body in some kind of a flowing circular pattern. The rest of us stood around watching this strange performance, as the first rays of the sun peeked over the hills.

It wasn't long before he sat back on his heels, looking none too happy.

"This animal -- has been poisoned."

"Poisoned? Come on now," Cora scoffed. "More likely some kind of sickness, or the aftereffects of being caught in the fire the other night."

Caine rose to his feet, shaking his head. "No. It is poison."

Ignoring Cora's snort of disdain, he went over to the pile of hay stacked at one side of the enclosure, while I followed curiously. He first ran his fingers through the rough stalks, then picked up a handful to smell. He even chewed on a piece, very cautiously.

Next he went to the watering trough, subjecting it to the same sort of scrutiny. When he dipped his hand into the water, I saw him get this glazed, faraway look in his eyes and he stood real still. Then he shook it off, raising a wet finger to his lips.

Satisfied, he returned to Cora, one hand searching through the leather pouch he always carried slung over his shoulder.

"The water has been poisoned," he announced. "I will need
-- a number of things -- in order to make up an antidote."

"You sure sound as if you know what you're doing, Mr. Caine," Cora said, clearly still dubious.

"I -- do."

"All right," she acceded at last. "What do you need?"

"Some common herbs, utensils for mixing --"

Ginny stepped up to him and took his arm before he'd even finished speaking. "I know where we keep all that kind of stuff. Come on with me."

By the time the veterinarian got there three hours later, the horses were showing signs of improvement. He confirmed Caine's diagnosis of poison, but he prescribed his own version of an antidote, which Cora dutifully purchased and administered, along with Caine's potion. (It turned out to cost a heck of a lot more than the stuff Caine had mixed up, too!)


The rest of the morning was spent ministering to the horses and constructing a makeshift shelter for them at one end of the corral. I'm ashamed to say that every last one of those women could hammer a nail straighter and more surely than I could.

Then a couple of insurance adjusters descended upon us, poking around and photographing the remains of the barn. When they started quizzing Cora about possible causes for the fire, I was afraid Caine would tell them of his conviction that it had been arson, but he kept quiet. (I guess he's run into his fair share of skepticism from the minions of the official bureaucracy before.) Instead, he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk.

I decided that would be infinitely preferable to sitting around listening to them talk about financial loss and haggling over the actual value of what had been destroyed, so we headed off across the open meadow towards a distant patch of trees. It had been overcast on and off all day long, but now the clouds seemed to be gathering in earnest, draping themselves like ragged shawls over the stooped shoulders of the distant mountains and grumbling now and then in low echoes of dissatisfaction.

"Looks like we've got a storm coming," I remarked to Caine, breaking the silence that hung between us.

He looked up at the shrouded mountains, as if he were somehow surprised to find them there, so far off had his thoughts evidently strayed. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled in what wasn't quite a sigh but seemed more like an expression of frustration.

Noticing something on the ground, he stopped short, squatted down, and picked a couple of sprigs of some sort of prickly-looking plant that was growing among the scattering of grass and weeds. He stood up again, examining the stuff he'd picked in minute detail.

"Jeremy," he began, almost as much to the vegetation in his hand as to me, "I -- know -- who poisoned the horses."

I just looked at him and raised my eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

"It was that very large and unpleasant man -- who says he loves Montana."

"Waylon Harrell?" I asked, searching my memory for the last name.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Evidently satisfied, he stowed his handful of whatever-it-was in his shoulderbag and continued walking.

I didn't bother to ask him how he could be so positive -- I wasn't sure I even wanted to know! -- but he had this habit of being right about things, as I believe I've already mentioned. Besides, it fit. Waylon certainly had no love for the Circle 5 Ranch.

"Okay, suppose he did," I replied. "I guess you don't have any kind of proof, do you? Something we could take to the police?"

He shook his head. Somehow that didn't surprise me. "So what do we do about it?" I asked. "I -- do not know."

"I don't suppose you'd consider confronting him and beating the truth out of him, would you?"

"Jeremy --" Caine began admonishingly, stopping abruptly and turning to face me. It was funny how he could pronounce my name as if each syllable were separate and distinct, instead of running them together the way most folks do. "You are the one who -- accused -- me of preaching non-violence and then beating people up, -- are you not?"

Yeah. That was some of the shit I had thrown in his face as we stood by the Niagara River. But I'd been trying to hurt him then, trying to make him feel the same kind of self-loathing and despair that lurked in the darkness of my soul. Lucky for me, it hadn't worked.

I raised one hand and smiled, conceding defeat. "Relax. I didn't mean what I said about Waylon. There must be some other way."

"There is -- always -- another way."

"Yeah, well, when you think of it, let me know, huh?"

"I wonder what -- my grandfather would have done?"

"Does it matter? You're here. He's not," I pointed out reasonably.

"For me, he is -- always -- here."

Um. Talk about being haunted!

"Well, if he comes up with any good suggestions, be sure to let me in on them."

"I -- will," he answered in all seriousness, as if he hadn't noticed that I was kidding him.

We continued our uneven progress across the meadow and through the woods, with Caine stopping every so often to store odd bits of plant material in his bag.

Shortly after we got back to the house, the clouds made good on their mumbled promise of rain. The insurance adjusters left in a deluge of water, with thunder crackling and lightning hissing overhead. (When it storms in Wyoming, it really storms!)

The electricity went out not long afterwards. Undaunted, the women lit a fire in the fireplace and proceeded to cook a perfectly delicious dinner on the hearth. As darkness fell, we lit candles and a few kerosene lanterns. Then everyone dug out their musical instruments and we did our best to drown out the falling rain and diminishing peals of thunder.

In the flickering light thrown by the candles and the dying fire on the hearth, with the storm raging outside and the wind howling in the chimney while a cast iron teapot hung over the glowing coals, it occurred to me that this room could have looked very much the same 100 years ago. It was a small oasis of cheer, amid the vast plain of darkness surrounding us. Had those early settlers also felt the weight of that huge emptiness, dreading the dangers that might lurk in the night? Had the children whimpered in their makeshift beds, while the adults wondered just what the hell they had been thinking to leave the familiar safety of their old lives to come out here to this barren and desolate place?

I glanced at Caine, who was playing one of his eerie melodies on the flute while the women listened and stared into the fire. Had some of those fearful folks looked at the world out of oriental eyes, feeling themselves twice strangers in a strange land?

A shiver went up my spine. I moved closer to the hearth and poured myself another cup of tea, trying to vanquish the cold feeling in my soul.


The following day dawned bright and clear, but I managed to sleep late anyway. By the time I had gotten dressed and grabbed a bite to eat, everyone else had been out and about their various labors for several hours. I finally found Caine in the corral checking up on the horses. I had barely made my way over to him when Jodie arrived also, staggering under the weight of a heavy saddle.

"Hey, guys! Want to help me exercise these lazy creatures?" she called cheerfully. Then she noticed what Caine was doing and added quickly, "That is, if you think they're healthy enough for a little ride, Mr. Caine?"

"These two -- are not yet wholly well," he said, indicating the one closest to him and a dark brown one nearby, "but the others are fine."

"Great!" She turned to me. "What do you say? Want to come?"

"Sorry, kiddo, but I don't know how to ride," I confessed.

She dumped the saddle at my feet. "That's no problem. I'll teach you, then we can go."

"Wait a minute now --"

"Oh, come on," she insisted with the overbearing enthusiasm of youth. "You'll love it."

I wasn't too sure about that. "Well --"

Taking that for an answer, she turned to Caine.

"Want to join us?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No. But I will help you -- get the rest of the riding gear."

"Okay," she agreed and led him away, leaving me to wonder why she accepted his refusal at face value when she wouldn't accept mine. Am I such an obvious wimp? Or could she tell somehow that I actually thought it might be kind of fun, but I was afraid of making a complete fool of myself?

So it was that I ended up astride a cream-colored mare. Jodie had assured me this was the gentlest and most docile one of the entire bunch, but the beast seemed rather daunting to me, on the basis of sheer size alone.

We were out beyond the corral in the meadow, with Jodie on another horse leading me around in a big circle, while Caine sat perched on the top rail of the fence, watching us. Although I felt a certain sense of accomplishment for being daring enough to attempt something that my usually more venturesome companion had refused to do, my pride, along with another certain part of my anatomy, had taken a considerable beating as I jounced along, trying to learn how to keep my seat while trotting.


"I think you've just about got the hang of it, Jeremy," Jodie said at last. "Ready to take on one of the easier trails?"

"Maybe. But I've got to stretch my legs for a minute first." I eyed the distance from my saddle to the ground uncertainly. "Uh -- how do you get off of one of these things?"

Jodie laughed. "Wait one and I'll come help you." Swinging one leg over the top of her horse's rump, she slid gracefully down to the ground and strode over to take my mare's bridle.

Before I could imitate what she had done, Tiffany came pelting out of the house in our direction, shouting, "Mr. Caine! Jeremy! Waylon just kidnapped Montana!"

"Where did he go?" Caine asked, jumping down from the fence.

She pointed along the road, where a rising cloud of dust betrayed the passage of a fast-moving vehicle.

To my complete surprise, Caine leaped onto Jodie's horse and took off expertly at a gallop across the open field, obviously intending to intercept the truck before it could reach the main highway. So much for my theory that he couldn't ride.

"He's got a gun!" Tiffany shouted after him. "Cora's calling the police right now!"

I kicked my mare's flanks, wondering if I'd simply succeed in falling off if I tried to follow Caine. It turned out to be easier, although more frightening, to keep my seat once the horse began to gallop. Nevertheless, I hung onto the saddlehorn for dear life with one hand, clutching the reins with the other as we careened across the meadow.

I caught sight of the truck as it swung around a curve and cleared a stand of trees. Caine was closing on it fast, but I wasn't making that kind of speed. I aimed my horse at a point further along the road, almost where it joined the highway. In the few quick glances I could spare from watching where I was going, I saw Caine come up alongside the lurching vehicle and leap from his horse into the bed of the truck. I wasn't real sure what he planned to do from there.

Come to think of it, I wasn't at all sure just what I planned to do, even if I caught up with them. I was pretty certain a horse couldn't keep up with a truck for any length of time, especially once Waylon reached the paved highway.

But it never came to a race. Half in the bed of the truck and half clinging to the side of the cab, Caine reached in the window, struggling with Waylon for control of the vehicle. Or maybe he was just trying to take away Waylon's gun. I was too far away to tell for sure. At any rate, the truck slowed down considerably, then began weaving back and forth across the road, finally running off entirely and ending up at the bottom of the shallow ditch that ran alongside. Caine jumped clear as the truck skidded to a stop, front tires sunk into the mucky water of the ditch.

I managed to convince my mare to stop near where the truck had gone off the road. I had already slid awkwardly out of the saddle and down onto solid ground by the time Waylon climbed out of the cab, dragging Montana behind him. At the same moment, Cora pulled up in her truck. Slamming on the brakes, she got out, a determined look in her eyes and a shotgun in her hands.

Catching sight of Cora and her gun, Waylon clamped one arm around Montana's neck and pointed his revolver at her head.

"Keep away from me, or I'll shoot her!" he threatened.

This didn't look like a particularly good situation to me. If this guy was a big enough asshole to actually kill the woman he claimed to love, there wasn't much hope for him. (Right, Jeremy, I thought unhappily. Now do you think you can convince him of that? Not likely!)

Cora came to a stop just a little to one side of me. "Come on, Waylon," she coaxed, taking another step in his direction. "You don't want to do this. Let her go."

Waylon was having none of it. He was clear of the truck, but still down in the ditch.

"Damn it, bitch!" he shouted up at us. "Don't you come any closer! I'll shoot! I swear I will!"

He continued up the slope, pulling Montana along with him. I saw Caine appear from behind a clump of bushes, moving cautiously through the tall grass and bulrushes in a direction that would bring him up behind Waylon, if the other man didn't notice him first. I knew Caine could move quietly, but that would be difficult in this terrain. Perhaps a little distraction was in order.

"What do you hope to accomplish by this?" I asked agreeably. "Why don't you just give up before you do something you'll be sorry for?"

"Like what?" he snarled. "Shoot you, perhaps? One less faggot in the world would be no great loss."

Nice guy, wasn't he?

"I'm not talking about me, asshole. I meant Montana."

All I was doing was stalling for time, hoping to allow Caine to get close enough to take him out. I was pretty sure he could do it, if he could get within reach. Waylon was out of the ditch by now. He stopped by the side of the road, his eyes flickering warily between me and Cora.

"She's mine!" he said defiantly. "I have a right to her love."

"No one has that right," Cora stated decisively. She had to have noticed Caine too, but her eyes never strayed in his direction. "This is pride and foolishness, not love."

"What would you know about it, you dried up old maid?" Waylon sneered.

"I've been in love. And I have cared greatly for many people," was her quiet response. My respect for Cora went up another notch.

Caine was awfully close by now. In fact, he was standing right behind them, surely within reach of the younger man. But he made no move to interfere. Maybe it would be too risky. After all, the gun was up against Montana's temple. It would take an incredibly fast movement to get it away before Waylon could squeeze the trigger. Maybe Caine was afraid to take that chance, or maybe he just wanted to get closer still.

I fixed Waylon with my best look of disdain, shaking my head in disgust. "Okay, sure. Shoot her," I said. "That's real smart. Then turn the gun on yourself, or go to prison for murder. That'll be lots of fun. I guarantee it."

I saw the anger redden his face and twist his mouth into a snarl. I changed my tone, making it into a challenge.

"Or maybe you could try acting like a man, instead of like a little boy throwing a temper tantrum, and make a real effort to win the affection of the woman you say you love in the only way possible: by showing her your own love."

I didn't honestly expect him to buy that. I was talking for the sake of talking, hoping Caine would act to settle this mess before it got worse.

"I am showing her my love!" Waylon retorted. "Why in the hell do you think I'm doing all this?"

That last remark ran through me like a sword. I had it then. I understood where he was coming from. Like so many men, Waylon knew no other way to show his love except through jealousy and possessiveness. It wasn't necessarily that he didn't want to: he simply didn't know how. Maybe I could get through to this guy after all.

"Turn it around, man!" I said desperately. "If the gun were pointed at your head, what would you feel? Fear? Anger? You can just bet it wouldn't be love or affection. You can get a lot of things at gunpoint, but love isn't one of them."

I seemed to have his attention now. I could see the conflict on his face. His eyes darted from me to Montana, then back to me. Suddenly I knew what Caine was waiting for: he was waiting for me to talk this guy into changing his mind -- and changing his entire way of thinking.

"That's not the way it is," Waylon objected uncertainly.

"Oh, isn't it?" I answered, not at all sure I had what it took to make him see another viewpoint. But I had to try.

"Any coward can pull a trigger. It takes guts to earn someone's respect and love." Yeah. The guts I never had with Bobbie. But at least I had never tried to blow his head off. That had to be worth something.

"What are you talking about?" Waylon asked.

"Damn it, do we have to spell it out for you?" Cora interjected. "You show love by treating her the way you want her to treat you, and by respecting her integrity and freedom. Words don't work. Flowers and gifts don't work. Threats for sure don't work. Is that so hard to understand?"

The big man was really snafued now. His grip on Montana's neck had loosened, but she stood very still, not even trying to break free. The barrel of the gun wavered beside her head. Caine could have taken Waylon now, but still he didn't move.

"What would I have to do to show how much I love her?" Waylon demanded of us.

Cora shrugged and nodded toward the woman in his arms. "Why don't you ask her?" she suggested.

"Montana?" Waylon said, as if that suggestion were entirely new to him. "Honey, are these folks right?"

A swift rush of relief washed over the girl's face. "If you're too stupid to know truth when you hear it, Waylon Harrell, what do you expect me to say? Or do you think I'm enjoying all this nonsense?"

I had to give her credit. She sounded awfully brave for someone who still had a gun aimed at her head.

"What could I do to make you believe me?"

"Well, for starters, you could give me that damn revolver and stop acting like a fool."

For a second there, I thought it was really going to be that easy. But the big man shook his head.

"Uh-uh. I don't think so."

Time for a slightly different approach.

"Maybe you could start with something a little easier," I suggested reasonably. "Like admitting you're the one responsible for burning the barn and poisoning the horses?"

"How did you --?" he began. "I mean, what makes you think I did that?"

"Oh, call it a hunch. Or maybe someone saw you, someone who was afraid to come forward at first. Or maybe we found tiremarks that just happen to match your truck," I bluffed. "Does it really matter?"

"Aw, shit!"

Montana rounded on him angrily. "Waylon, how could you?"

"Aw, honey, I was just mad at you and all those women and figured I'd put a crimp in your plans. You gonna be mad at me again?"

Montana was fixing to light into him something fierce despite the gun, when Cora said carefully, "I'll bet she'd be a whole lot less angry if you'd give us a written statement admitting what you've done."

Montana looked thoroughly confused now. "What good would that do? We all heard him say he did it. That should be enough for the police."

"I had a little something else in mind besides bringing the law into this. Hear me out." She fixed her gaze on Waylon. "You didn't come up with all this alone, did you?"

"Uh -- no," he replied.

"In fact, I'll just bet my cousin was in on it."

Red-faced, Waylon nodded.

"Dr. Stefanchik?" I asked, almost as surprised at Cora's statement as Waylon was. "How on earth could you know that?"

"Easy. Remember the night of the fire, when I told my cousin the barn was no big loss, but the horses weren't insured? Waylon had already walked away before I said that, so it would have been rather a coincidence that he would just happen to go after our horses next. Also, the poison was something a little more sophisticated than you can get in the stores around here. A doctor, on the other hand, has access to lots of dangerous stuff."

"But what good will a signed statement do?" Montana persisted. Truth to tell, I was wondering much the same thing myself.

"Oh, just letting my cousin know I have it and could make it public at any time should be enough to keep him from trying any more little tricks. He's not a very nice person, but he's not totally stupid. I think he'll have the sense to let well enough alone, in future."

Off in the distance, we heard the escalating scream of a police siren. Reinforcements were about to arrive.

Cora gave Waylon a significant look. "What do you say? Do we have a deal? You haven't got much time."

The big man gave in gracefully. "Deal," he said, lowering the revolver and dropping his other arm so that it tentatively encircled Montana's waist instead of her neck. She let it stay there. I began to believe this was going to work out after all.

Caine reached around and took the gun from Waylon's hand, then tossed it into the water at the bottom of the ditch.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Waylon demanded, nonplussed.

"I have been -- here -- all the time," was the soft reply.

Seeing that Waylon was no longer armed, Cora quickly returned her own weapon to its rack behind the seat of her truck.

"Okay, now let's act like civilized folks, shall we?" she suggested, as the police car came to a screeching halt and two uniformed officers jumped out, guns drawn.

When they discovered there was no one to arrest, they seemed vaguely disappointed.

Cora explained it all away as a mistake. "Just tempers flaring and people getting a little too excited over nothing," as she said to the slightly bewildered policemen.

"You don't need us for anything then?" one of them asked.

"Well, you could help us get this truck back on the road. Had a little accident here."

They could deal with a truck in a ditch. In fact, they dealt with it very effectively indeed. Once Waylon's vehicle was again serviceable, Cora invited everyone up to the ranch house for homemade pie and coffee.

Caine had rounded up the two horses we had ridden at the beginning of the fracas and stood holding their bridles. "I will -- bring the horses," he offered quietly to Cora, as everyone headed up the road.

"Thanks, Mr. Caine," she said. "For everything."

He shrugged. "I did -- nothing."

"I know. But you knew when to do nothing. And I think you were ready to intervene, if we hadn't been successful in talking Waylon out of it."

"I did not have to."

"Fortunately." She glanced toward the ranch house, where Montana had gone with Waylon in his truck. "Do you think they'll work it out?"

"One can not know. But he is -- willing to try."

Cora nodded and climbed into her truck. "Want a ride, Jeremy?" she invited.

"Thanks, but I'll help with the horses," I said. "I need a little time to think."

Cora waved and drove away, leaving Caine and I standing in the middle of a rather muddy road. I took my mare's reins and we started towards the house.

"What is it that you wish to -- think about?" Caine asked me.

"You mean you don't know? I thought you could read minds," I said, joking.

"I -- cannot, anymore than you can. Yet you knew why Waylon acted as he did."

"Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I?"

We went on a short way in silence, before I decided to talk again.

"I was thinking about choices, and the many different ways a path may lead."

He nodded slowly. "Jeremy, why do these horses -- follow behind us?"

Huh? What did that have to do with anything?

"Because we're leading them by the reins," I said. That was pretty obvious.

He held up the thin leather straps in his hand. "These will hold such a -- large beast, if it wished to get loose?"

"Well, maybe not. But the horse doesn't know that."

"You -- are perhaps smarter than a horse," he suggested, with the hint of a smile on his lips.

I looked at the reins in my hand, and heard the steady clip-crop of the obedient animal behind me.

"So if I don't like the path my life is on, it's possible for me to change it?"

"You are the -- only -- one who can."

"But that could be risky, dangerous."

"Yes. But have you not already seen -- the end of the other path -- at Niagara Falls?"

This real vivid picture flashed through my mind: icy water rushing around me as I plunged into the river not a half mile above the Horseshoe Falls. The welcome knowledge that I was about to die, even as my lungs fought for air. Then Caine's hand on my sweatshirt, pulling me up and holding me against the current, giving me just enough time to rethink my choice of death, even at the risk of his own life.

In an instant it was gone, and I was walking down a muddy road again, solid ground beneath my feet.

"You saved me from that."

He shook his head. "No. You chose to save yourself."

"And now it's up to me to choose a new path, isn't it?"

Caine just smiled, leaving me to think about what had been said as we walked the rest of the way to the house.

Something in my head shifted as we trudged along together. My mind automatically changed Caine's example of the horses into something more up to date, and, in doing so, made me realize it was true. My life isn't hard-wired; it's mostly software. I can play around with it. Yes, there's a certain amount of programming in place, but I can change it, if I learn how it works. There may be limits, but perhaps they aren't quite as set as I had thought them to be.

I felt something new in my heart, something I thought had died a long time ago. For lack of a better word, I'll call it hope.

I was free to choose now. There was nothing holding me back, nothing I had to do, no commitments to fulfill. I could walk into the future, and see where my path might lead, without that paralyzing fear of the darkness that had haunted my soul.

Why not? Other people had done it, hadn't they? What about those settlers, and those Chinese immigrants, whose mementos I had seen in the town museum? Then there was Cora and the rest of the Circle 5 women, who were willing to strike out in a new direction, take a chance on a new life. And let's not forget Waylon, while I'm at it. If even a bullying asshole like that had the guts to try to walk a new path, why not me?

I didn't have to pay attention to all the crap that dragged along behind me and tried to hold me back. I didn't have to give up, just because I might have failed before.

Sure, I had virtually nothing to my name beyond the remains of my paltry savings, but that might just be enough to let me start off in a new direction, once I decided what direction that was going to be.

"Okay, maybe I can do that," I said to Caine as we neared the house. Then another thought struck me. "But how about you? Are you just going to keep on going the way you have been?"

I haven't often seen Kwai Chang Caine taken by surprise, but I think he was then.

"I -- do not know," he admitted slowly. "But I believe I shall find my way, -- even as I walk it."

Hmm. Interesting thought. Maybe I could do that too. Right now I felt as if I could do anything, but I knew that wouldn't last. It never does. But at least I had been jerked out of the rut I'd been in. That had to be an improvement.


We left the next day, loading our few belongings into my car and exchanging hugs with everyone at the ranch.

Well, not everyone. Waylon insisted on a simple handshake. He was laying out the framework for a new barn, since he'd made an agreement with Cora to repair the damage he had caused. This also would allow him to spend time with Montana and try to establish their relationship again on a better footing. Sounded like a good deal to me.

I was already in the car and fastening my seatbelt when Jodie came over to me, looking as if she were trying hard not to grin. With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, she pulled a purple and gold tie-dyed bandanna from her hip pocket and held it out. "I made this for you, Jeremy. Remember me when you wear it, okay?"

I had to swallow the lump in my throat as I tied the gaudy bit of fabric around my neck. "Always, kiddo," I promised. "Always."

She stepped back from the car, her grin now in full bloom. "Come back someday and I'll teach you how to ride a horse properly."

"I just may do that," I replied cheerfully, waving as we started off down the road.


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