The words I have to say
May well be simple but they're true
Until you give your love
There's nothing more that we can do

Love is the opening door
Love is what we came here for
No one could offer you more
Do you know what I mean?
Have your eyes really seen?

You say it's very hard
To leave behind the life we knew
But there's no other way
And now it's really up to you

Love is the key we must turn
Truth is the flame we must burn
Freedom the lesson we must learn
Do you know what I mean?
Have your eyes really seen?

(Lesley Duncan from Elton John's Tumbleweed Connection 1970)

I write as I remember. Or sometimes as I want to remember.

The days leading up to the incident were not strange. They were days like any other. I went to work and I did my thing and I came home to this small cold, empty apartment that try as I might to make it be so, does not feel like a home.

It started with a recent mission. Michael was sleeping with a woman on this mission, the wife of a greasy, fat foreign diplomat who consorts with brutal terrorists. His seduction of her was fast, laughably easy. I could see that look come over her face, the exact moment when her facial muscles softened and her eyes had melted like dark chocolate. I saw her fall in love with him. Had I looked like that, too? Had it been that easy?

I have been watching him with her, the way he operates. Cool, calculated, in complete control. He is what ever Section asks him to be. A hero. A killer. A love machine. It's the same old thing, very akin to that mission with Lisa Fanning.

When he is in this valentine mode I have a natural tendency to avoid him. Call it self preservation. Things have been strained with us again anyway. Not hateful or anything. Just cool. It always happens after we have been away for a while and lost ourselves in each other and foolish dreams. Coming back in is so hard for me. It seems that it is easier for him. It is so hard not to be angry with him. I know that this situation we are in is not his fault. I have this need to blame and at times he is the easiest target. It's just that he seems icy, stiff and so very formal with me. He keeps his distance, as if he has put up an invisible shield that I may not cross. Maybe it's just the mission he is in the middle of now that makes him appear that way to me. I shudder when I think of him touching another woman, saying things to her in that soft, sexy whisper. It breaks my heart.

I have been spending time with friends instead of moping around my apartment in tears. Walter has been over for dinner a few times. He commends my cooking and makes me feel like I'm looking after him while I know that it's the other way around. We talk a lot about me and my problems sometimes, which I know he doesn't mind doing. He has brought up the subject of Michael a few times this week. I have managed to change it quickly before I say too much or cry, yet I know I see a tinge of pity in his eyes. He brought me a gift the last time, some CDs that he wanted me to have. Old ones that we'd been talking about.

I like listening to the music that Bobbie listened to when I was young. She had good taste. I remember James Taylor and The Beatles and a hundred others. Sometimes Bobbie bought records instead of food. There was one song in particular that I couldn't find, couldn't place, didn't know even the name of, but the melody has haunted me for years, playing in the back of my mind. I only knew the first lines: Love is the opening door, love is what we came here for.

It had been one of my mother's favourites. She'd played it over and over when I was small, maybe even when I was in the womb. Who knows. I hadn't even known Elton John sang it until Walter told me and searched for the album. It was from a very early album called Tumbleweed Connection. Since Walter brought me the CD I've listened to it a hundred times. It is awesome.

I guess was in this weird western gunfighter mode. That's what the album was about. A theme thing about this "well-known gun," all carried through into the different songs. And I'd been reading romance novels again, one about this gunfighter who wants badly to go straight and settle down. I'd been seeing a lot Cowboy and he loves Louis L'Amour and western movies so we'd been talking about the olden days. He and Ben Kruger and I had gone to a Clint Eastwood revival at the Strand. We sat through three spaghetti westerns in a row.

I think I imagined all of what came later, but I'll never know. Maybe I just walked through some portal in time. Maybe I should call myself Dorothy. Dorothy in spurs.

I was watching him make love to the target's wife when I fell from the balcony. I was up there with Ben, ready to go in on Section's order. It was going to be a bogus kidnapping. I remember Michael taking off his starched white tuxedo shirt and tossing it on the end of the bed. My heart leapt at the sight of his long, smoothly muscled naked back. At least his back was partially to me. I wondered fleetingly if he had planned it that way. I tried not to let it all bother me, but it did. I was squirming with the torture of it. I was wanting to break in there early, tell her to get her skanky hands off my man. Ben looked at me with sympathy. He was probably wishing he was the one who was getting serviced by the voluptuous redhead.

I remember her running her tongue along his chest and then lower and she unbuckled his belt. I remember him tossing his head back in ecstasy. I remember the sensation of my heart just shattering inside my chest and then the rail I was leaning up against gave way and I fell two stories down.

And then I remember waking up, but not waking up. I was hovering somewhere above my body as I watched the events unfold. I was in the mission van and Ben was leaning over me. My chest had hurt badly, like it had been pounded with a hammer but as I floated upward the pain was gone, replaced by euphoria. I looked down at my face. Not too pretty right then, I thought. So very still. I have never liked my nose all that much and at that angle, forget it. I hoped someone would think to wipe the blood away. My face was pale as milk, with that same blue undertone. Ben was crying, touching me. Yet I felt nothing.

What was really strange was that I could suddenly see myself in another place, too. There was a blue sky over my head and tall red rocks. There was an acrid smell in the cold, dry air. I didn't know where I was, but as I looked down at myself, at my body lying there in the dirt, I saw that my hair had been chopped off all haphazardly and that I was wearing filthy men's clothes, a gun strapped to my hip. I looked to be dead. And Ben and Jack were leaning over me.

I could hear them, their voices very clear. I was thinking of another song from that album as I hovered there in that strange darkness, that was not really darkness at all, their voices slipping in and out of my head in between the lyrics "I took myself a blue, blue canoe. And I floated like a leaf ... dazzling, dancing, half enchanted ... in my Merlin sleep."

"Kita, my love. Kita?"

Michael. Sweet Michael. The soft voice of my lover who is not my love.

I am not your love...

Am I ? Now that I am dead. Is that how you'll remember me? As a lover?

"Kita. Wake up now."

Ah, that's more like it. A command.

Hello, Michael. How went the seduction? Did I interrupt? Splat. Such a shock.

Are they pissed? Tell me. I can take it.

"The doctors say we ought to talk to you. That maybe you can hear us." I felt him lean over and kiss my cheek very softly. The pull was strong. I almost went back to him then.

The pull was not quite strong enough.

I hear you, Michael. I can smell you. Taste you. Your toothpaste. Cigars? Michael, you don't smoke...

Your lips are warm, firm, Michael. Salty. My tears? Yours? Your hand is rough on my cheek. But I have to go now. I feel the pull of her hand. She's laughing. She wants to take me somewhere else. Sorry. I have to climb into the blue canoe.

"Blue canoe..." I tried to say the words but couldn't get them up to my mouth.

I could feel hands on me. Rough hands. They were strong, with slender fingers. I knew those hands intimately. Or did I? Maybe I had just wanted to know them for a long time. Imagined them on my flesh, holding me.

I couldn't draw breath. My chest. Something was constricting my chest. Get it off me, I was thinking. Get it off. My head hurt badly, too. I just wanted to go back and float on that still, blue water. I did again for a moment. Floated up again, joyfully.

Blue water. Blue sky. Blue, blue canoe.

Then I was back into my body again. Sucked in like butter through a turkey baster. The hands unwrapped the cloth from my chest, yards of it, a binding of some kind. I heard gasps. Mine? Theirs? I could feel my face mashed against a hard, strong leather covered chest. He smelled of pine, sweat and tobacco and maybe horse. Not unpleasant, actually, just unfamiliar. His heart was pounding madly. I could feel it against my ear. I heard him whisper something under his breath.

Don't die, dammit.

Don't you dare die, girl.

I took in great gulps of air. Wretched pain filling every space, each pore. The cold air reached my nipples, making them hard. I wanted to cover myself from his eyes. The eyes of the other men I had seen. I knew they were looking at me. Those strong, slim hands settled me back on the ground, then arranged the clothing back over my chest.

I could hear Walter. "French, we meant to tell you that Nick's a girl. It just didn't seem like there was a good time to tell you."

"No, Walter. Nick's no damned girl. Nick seems a full grown woman to me." The voice was as familiar to me as my own. A hint of a French accent perhaps, but there was a twang to it. Like a southern drawl almost. Something slightly different, but the voice was the same. Soft and slightly husky.

The man they called French spoke again. Anger burned in his words. "Why the hell didn't I know, Jack? So this is your little brother. Why were you keeping it from me?"

"This isn't the place for a girl and my Pa told me to look after her. She had no one else to look after her, French. What the hell were we supposed to do with the war on and all? I couldn't leave her with the raiders around. She'd have been raped. Killed. Or she'd have starved." That was Jack. I'd know Jack's voice anywhere. "Our parents were dead."

Ben spoke up. "You never noticed her bein' a woman. Not from the first. I only found out by accident. That's cause she don't act like no prissy girl. She's tall as a man and she's strong. She's as good a shot as you, French. All she had to do was not talk much and keep her hat pulled down low. She's never gotten in your way before this, French. Never made one mistake. She's been doin' her job for three months."

"She made a mistake setting that blast."

"Any one of us could have done that," Walter growled. "Maybe the fuse was faulty. Remind me to check the fuses later."

"I think she might be waking up. Did you hear her groan a little?"

I opened my eyes to slits and studied them from beneath my lashes. I have always wanted to do that. They always write that in the penny romance novels I buy. "She studied them surreptitiously from behind her thick lashes."

I have to interject something as I write this journal. Speaking of romance novels. I never quite understand those ones where the girl is pretending to be a boy. I mean, come on. I didn't think I looked much like a boy. You'd think he'd have noticed. But then ... parr for the course. Michael hardly noticed me in our other life. Why should this one have been any different?

It was my dream. I never have had so much input into my dreams. Let me tell you. Coma dreams are wild. Intense.

I opened my eyes. I knew all of them. They were all the same, just dressed differently than they would have been at Section. But from where I was at the time, I knew them only from the girl called Nick's life, though I had very vague recollections of my other life as Nikita. I hope that makes sense to you. I was thinking and seeing and feeling as Nick. Her memories were my memories.

Jack Dawson was as tall and blond as ever. He was wearing a tweed jacket, a shirt of some rough homespun material, a battered hat and a red bandanna. He had a short beard and his hair was way past his shoulders. Ben was even scruffier looking, his shirt plaid worn over a undershirt, his baggy pants held up by suspenders. His hair was exactly the same. Greasy and swept back from his small slightly pock marked face. He took a bottle from his chest pocket and drank from it. His hand was bleeding.

And Walter. Walter was just Walter. He looked the same. He was dressed like an Indian scout.

My eyes trailed up a pair of legs. Long, muscular legs. His boots were black, once high quality, but scuffed and dusty. He wore dark pants of a thick fabric, duck or denim. They fit his well-formed legs like they had been custom made, but they weren't skin tight. He wore his gun belt low on his narrow hips, tied snugly to one thigh. His shirt was clean and white, much cleaner than that of the other men. Over it he wore a black leather vest and a dark, green jacket that seemed more tailored than those the other men sported. It had been expensive, too, at one time, but was now frayed at the collar. Over that he wore an ankle length black duster coat. His hat was black and had a stiffer flatter brim than those the others wore. Like a river boat gambler might wear. It was tipped back to reveal chestnut curls covered in dust, thick lashed grayish green-blue eyes and the face of a fallen angel.

He reached into his duster pocket and drew out a slim cigar. He struck a match on his boot and lit the cheroot, drawing the smoke in and blowing it out slowly, thoughtfully. Smoke tendrils trailed from that lush, sinful mouth.

I felt that familiar pang. That all-consuming lust. Michael. Or French as they seemed to be calling him.

I swallowed hard.

I started to float again I smiled dreamily at him.

I was not sure who I was or where I was, but I knew that I loved him. Just as I have always loved him.

"Nikita. Ni-ki-ta..."

I love you, darling Michael. Love you. Come float with me here. It's so peaceful.

"What should I say to her?"

"I don't know, Michael. Tell her the story of your life. I've been playing this CD for her. She likes it a lot. Cool CD, man. Ever heard this one? I'd forgotten it until she reminded me. Weird how people change once they're famous, but this album was so cool for its day. So cool."

"Do you think she can really hear me?" Michael asked. His voice was strained, harsh. "I don't know if I believe that stuff. Maybe she isn't in there at all. She can't be cognisant. The doctor said that the longer she stays under that harder it would be for her to come back."

"She'll come back. Don't talk like that, man. Be positive. My Sugar's a fighter. You know that better than anyone."

Michael sighed. "Go on, now, Walter. You've been here for hours. I'll stay with her the rest of the night."

I could hear Walter's steps, the shutting of the door.

"Kita?" he whispered. I could feel him brushing the hair back from my face. His hands were cool, gentle. One finger smoothed the skin of my eyelid, gentle as a butterfly's wing. "Can you hear me, sweetheart?"

Yes, Michael. He sounded so sad. So tired. I wondered why they were sparing him the time to sit with me. Didn't Section have more women on the seduce and destroy list?

"I don't know what to say to you. It seems so weird talking to you when I can't see your blue eyes looking back at me. Have I ever told you what they do to me? I remember the first time you looked at me. Your eyes were like the center of a flame. The blue part, the hottest part. You wanted to kill me with those eyes. I love you the most when you look fierce, Kita. When you look like you want to tear me apart limb from limb. And that's most of the time. Kita, open those blue eyes for me. Let me know you're there."

Blue eyes. Blue yonder. Blue, blue sky. I took myself a blue canoe...

I opened my eyes. The sky was blue, the sun strong now, the early dawn chill gone. I wanted to close my eyes again because they burned. Maybe I had gotten something in them.

"She's awake, French. Hi, Nick. You feelin' better," asked Ben. He brushed a lock of hair from my forehead. He passed a cool cloth over my brow.

"Ben?"

"Yea, Nick! Yea. We didn't think you was ever gonna come to. How are you feeling?"

"Groggy." I reached up and touched my chest. At least I could breathe. "What happened?"

"We were setting the charge to blow up the train tracks. We were going to rob the train." Jack was bending over me now. "She looks pretty good. Know me, Nick?"

"Jack Dawson," I managed. My throat was dry, my tongue lax, hard to move. I smiled lopsidedly at him. My face hurt. "And don't call me a she. He'll find out."

"It's too late to worry about that, Sugar," laughed Walter. "You need a drink?"

"Don't coddle her." Michael threw his half smoked cheroot into the dirt, grinding it with his boot heel. His tone was acid "Ask her if she feels like anything is broken. We have to ride. We have to make the next town by nightfall."

Walter helped me to my feet. "I think I just had the wind knocked out of me." I looked around. I knew these men. I knew I was close to them all. I knew I loved the one they called French. The one I thought of as Michael. What was happening? Everything was muzzy, blurred. I was seeing my past through a strange haze, like sepia toned pictures in an album. It was all so confusing.

I kept seeing other things that didn't quite fit. The events of the last day or so were completely erased, except for one thing. I had been watching the man they called French make love to a red-headed woman much older than him and I had wanted to kill her. That was before everything went blank and I fell.

But that wasn't what happened. We'd been supposedly going to rob a train. So where did some red-headed woman come into this?

All I really knew for certain was that I was in love with the handsome man they called French. I was also aware that my feelings were not returned.

But maybe that was a good thing because I had been masquerading as a boy for months. I mean that would have made him a little odd, right? That made me smile.

"Can you sit a horse?" he asked me. He came up close to me and tilted my face back, staring at me for the longest time with those jade coloured eyes. Where his thumb touched my chin, my skin burned. I knew I was weak from the fall or whatever it was that had happened to me, but being close to him made me want to faint. "I don't believe this," he spat out. "This is all I need."

I jerked my head back. "I'll pull my weight. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over it."

I think the barb hit it's target. I'm sure no man appreciates being called pretty. But this man was beautiful. So much so that he stole the breath from my lungs, made my knees feel weaker than they were. I had been watching him for months, dreaming about him, longing for him.

He rounded on me. "You'd better pull your weight, girl. Once we hit California you're out of here. You blew this for us, Nick, or whatever your name is. And I liked you better when you didn't talk. You only grunted a yes or no. Maybe you can go back to doing that. Mount up, boys. Or should I make that boys and girl?"

I noticed that Walter was grinning behind his hand.

Jack tried to help me onto the horse. I couldn't make it up. I just groaned and laid my cheek on the horse's speckled side.

"Come on, Nick. You can do it," Jack hissed. "Do it. You're always tellin' me how much better you are than the boys."

"Jack, bring her here. She can ride with me. Take her horse, Ben."

"No, I'll be fine," I muttered.

Between the two of them, they got me up onto Michael's horse and settled in front of him. He wrapped a lean, muscled arm around my waist. "You ready to ride, girl?" He growled the words in my ear. Why was he being so mean? I know he isn't like this.

"What?" I asked, turning my head towards the sound of his harsh voice, stunned at the feeling of his hard chest against my back, his rock like thighs pressing against my rear.

"Get ready." He jerked the reins of the big roan. The horse fought a little against the weight of two bodies but did as he was bid.

I nodded, my body fighting the incredibly sumptuous feel of his big, lean body behind me on the horse. I was snuggled there right in the notch of his thighs, his gloved hand splayed over my stomach. I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. The sway of the horse was hypnotic. I felt myself leaving him. Reluctantly.

"Nikita? Come on back, Nikita, please. Open those baby blues." Birkoff was saying. He was chewing on something. I could smell it. Junky. Sour cream and onion, I think.

"I'm running out of stuff to talk about. You must be getting tired of listening to all this bull shit. Wish they had a T.V. up here. I'm missing Pinky and the Brain."

I could see his face in my mind. His dear little face munching Cool Ranch Doritos. Swilling Dr. Pepper.

"Walter says that Madeline's worried. Ops is all for pulling the plug, though lucky for you there is no plug to pull. There's only an IV hook-up. He hasn't offered to sit and talk to you, but Maddie has been here. Michael's been here every time he gets the chance."

Two days? I didn't remember. Only snatches. Get up on the horse, girl. I liked you better when you grunted yes or no.

No, that was the other one. French. Mean, Michael.

Sexy as hell, Michael. Was that a dream? I want to find out what happens.

"All night. He talked all night to you. Ops blasted him for it. Said he has a job to do. That his performance in Section is what's important, not you. They had a fight in the hall. It was cool, man. The guy loves you, Nikita. Something intense. I don't know why you are the only one who can't see that yet. But maybe you can. I remember when you first came here... Man..." He started laughing. "Things were different then. I could eat junk food at my computer in those days. I liked the old place better. The good old days. Well, some things were pretty good. Things have been better since you came here. I mean that, Nikita. Don't die or anything. Okay. Hey, Nikita. Wake up. I gotta go soon. Me and Greg were gonna order some Chinese and rent some blue movies..."

Blue movies. Blue canoe...

Go away, Birkoff. I'm busy dreaming.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing a dark blue oil cloth poncho, slick with rain. Water was cascading off my hat. In the background was the sound of honkey tonk music played on a tinny piano. Some woman was caterwauling in a high voice. At least my head had stopped aching. And my thighs were sore from gripping the horse. I hadn't been riding with him for the last two days, but I could feel him staring at me. Watching me with those green eyes. If I turned and met his look he just narrowed his eyes, tightened his hard jaw and pulled up ahead of me.

And now he had me doing most of the cooking and the washing up. Girl chores. As if that were all I was good for.

"You take the horses to the livery stable, Nick," French was saying to me. "We're going into Maddie's saloon."

"But, I-"

I was starving. I needed to eat, too. And besides, I wanted to go in there. I had a good idea of what went on in a saloon, if only I could remember, but I wanted to see what he was doing. I wanted to see the kind of woman he attracted.

Oh, hell, there wouldn't be one women in there who wouldn't be slobbering all over herself to sit in his lap.

"No, buts." He tipped back the brim of my hat and stared down into my eyes. "No sense you coming in here. What the hell are you going to do, Nick? Get drunk and take one of Maddie's girls upstairs for a tumble?"

I glared at him. I could feel two coin sized spots burning in my cheeks.

"Maybe you could get lucky with her son, Seymour. The piano player."

"Why don't you lay off her, French?" Walter said. "She's doing fine, except for the little memory loss. And that's all gonna come back to her, ain't it, Sugar? She needs somewhere to sleep tonight."

French sighed. He tossed me a gold coin. "Pay to have the horses stabled and rubbed down and get a room at the hotel for yourself. Order up a bath and have something to eat. Me and the boys'll meet you at the livery in the morning. And Nick..." He tilted back his hat and grinned at me. "Don't let anyone know you're a woman alone. Wouldn't be safe."

I just glared at him. I hoped he got in a saloon fight and got his balls shot off. I really did. For about five minutes and then I started worrying that it could actually happen.

The bath was nice. It felt as if I hadn't had one in months. Maybe it had been that long. I wished that I could remember specifics. I couldn't. My face was vaguely familiar to me as were the faces of the men in French's gang. The situation was familiar. This aura of danger, this ever pervading sensation of peril. Guns. I have shot people. Killed even. I think it was the war. I am well versed with guns and death. I looked down at the gun on the dresser and shuddered. Well acquainted with the idea of killing and yet, I hate it. I loathe and fear it.

And this yearning. The yearning to have him, the man the called French. Why did I want to call him Michael? Why did that name stand out in my mind ? How long have I loved him? It seems longer than months. It seems an eternity. It was all beyond my grasp. A blur. Where had I been? What had I done? I had known him before. How had I found him again?

I think I have lived through many strange things.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tall. Very tall. Wide shoulders like a boy. Light blonde hair cut with a knife so that it hung in shaggy, uneven hanks around my face. Turned up nose. Blue eyes. Nothing remotely boylike about the face. I am actually pleasing to look at with my blue eyes and wide mouth. I must have been pretty desperate to think I could pull it off. Yet he'd not even noticed.

I stepped back and looked at my body in the mirror. Medium sized breasts, slender waist, boyish hips, long, shapely legs. With my breasts wrapped tight, I did look like a boy in a thick coat and trousers. I walked like a boy with a loping gait, my head down, feet shuffling. Big feet. I looked down at my hands. Large and strong. Raw boned and chapped. Not a delicate pair of hands. Not lace gloves and cup of jasmine scented tea hands. Bitten, dirty nails, knuckles raw and cracked.

I sighed and turned from the mirror slipping on a clean man's shirt I had taken from his saddle bag. He wasn't going to find out. He had several clean shirts. I held the shirt up to my face and sniffed. Sunshine and a faint hint of those things he smokes. I had to stop thinking about him, what he was doing in that saloon brothel. Who was he making love to--

I had this raw vision of him, shirtless, his hand grasping the bedpost. A red-headed woman kissing his flat stomach, her hands on his belt buckle. I could see the light from the candles play in his chestnut hair, play on the curves and the planes of his strong back. I could hear his sigh carry out to me to stab at my heart...

Michael. My love...

I took a deep breath. What was the saloon called? Maddie's. I wondered if Maddie was pretty.

I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, drifting. Waiting. Wishing he was beside me, wishing that I were the women kissing his chest, his hard, flat stomach...

"Hello, Nikita. I'm here to sit with you. Do you want your hair brushed again? It's becoming so tangled. Such pretty hair. I have always loved your hair, Nikita. I brought some hand lotion." She picked up my hands and began to rub some cream into them. Soothing. She has strong, gentle fingers.

"There, Nikita. Better? I'll trim your nails when I come next time. Hopefully you'll be awake."

I was fully back in my body. I breathed in the scent of perfume. Very subtle. Yet sexy. Red. A red, spicy note, definitely. But a hint of the exotic. Orchids. Far East Orchids. Madeline.

Hello, Maddie. And how is the saloon business going? What made you take up the job of madam in a small town? Did the war change your life? Did a man hurt you? What is it like to be a whore, Maddie?

I am more whore than she is. She made me that way.

This shooting back and forth between lives is mixing me up. I was back in med-lab, not with French's gang. I was listening to Madeline tell me about her orchids. About her love of gardens. Audrey Hepburn, she was saying, now there was a great lady.

"Did you see any of her movies, Nikita? I loved Breakfast at Tiffany's. The black dress and the pearls. She was lovely. When I was a little girl I wanted to grow up to be just like her. I had my hair cut short to look just like her but I was so chubby then."

Maddie, just like Audrey Hepburn. Maddie, a little girl. A girl who killed her sister in a jealous rage? A little girl who loved Audrey? The idea was laughable.

"You have to come back, Nikita. Staying there so long in that place you've gone to is not a good thing. You have to want to come back on your own. It's been almost three days now. Do you know what you're doing to him? I know I can't encourage your love. But I can't kill it either. Paul has told me to try, but" She sighed here. "What can we do? We can't change it. One day it will kill you both. He loves you. He can't lose you now after all that he has lost in the past year. Come back. The x-rays and the cat-scans say there is nothing physically wrong with you beyond the bruises. I know it's probably calmer over there, more peaceful."

Calmer. More peaceful? My butt aches from riding a horse. I have to go to the bathroom behind a rock. It took an hour to get a bath and then it was lukewarm.

And Michael's mean to me. He doesn't love me. I love him. It is all one sided. It always has been. He's my dream cowboy fantasy and he's as nasty as hell.

But he's talking. No silent treatment. He looks at me, not through me at least. Even with disgust it's more than Michael does here.

Madeline. I have to go now. You're very kind. Tell him that I love him. Tell him that he drives me crazy. Now and then. Tell him.

There was a banging on the door. It roused me from a deep sleep. I had been dreaming of a pretty thin dark haired girl. She had a ginger cat and a pink coat with a black fur collar. Her name was Holly and she wanted someone to love her...

I crept from the bed, sliding my gun from the dresser. I inched my way to the door. He banged again. "Who is it?"

"Open the door, Nick. It's me."

"Who's me?"

"French."

"What's your real name, French?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"Tell me or I won't let you in. I think I've forgotten. I need to jog my memory. Is it Michael, by any chance?"

"Yes, dammit. It's Michael. Michael French."

I opened the door. He shouldered his way in. I had forgotten that I was wearing his shirt. I had forgotten about my long bare legs. His shirt only reached about ten inches above my knees. I think the sight knocked the bluster out of him. He seemed so much taller than me wearing his boots with me in my bare feet.

"Why didn't you sleep at Maddie's?" I asked.

"Because I forgot that I hate to spend the whole night with a whore. I came back here to get a room. Looks like you got the last one so I thought I'd share it with you."

"Too bad. I'm not sharing this room with you." I crossed my arms over my chest. My nipples had hardened just at the way he looked at me, just at the way he said he wanted to share my room. He was making me nervous. He had just come from a whore house. He reeked of cigars and booze and stale perfume. I hated to think what he had been doing. It made me seethe with jealousy. I sat down on the bed, tugging his shirt over my knees.

"I see they never came to get your bath water. Mind if I use it?"

"Yes! It's cold now."

He was already removing his coat. "I don't care. I've had cold baths before. I'm going to sleep here tonight. Better get used to the idea."

"No. You are not."

He smiled, tossing his coat on the bed post. "I can bunk on the floor. I have no designs on your lily white tail, Princess."

He started to remove his leather vest and then kicked off his boots.

"You can't just bathe in here. In front of me."

"You're no stranger, Nick," he sneered. "There's the tub. I'm taking a bath."

"But, Michael"

"French." He stared at my mouth as if in wonder at hearing his name on my lips.

"You're more like a Michael to me. Is that your real name?"

"It's a close facsimile," he said huskily. " My real name is Michel La France. Most people figure that must be the name of a can-can dancer. That's why I don't use it."

I bit my lip. It was too funny to imagine. But his name was pretty. It suited him well.

"What's the matter, Nick?" He was unbuttoning his shirt, slipping down over his wide shoulders. I stared at his wide, beautiful naked chest. It was smooth as silk. Lord, he was a good looking man. "Never seen a naked man before? I thought you were just one of the boys." He put his hands to his belt buckle.

"I am not one of the boys by choice. I was forced into this. I had nowhere else to go. And I've seen lots of naked men before. I helped in an army field hospital during the war." That sort of just came to me. I had this vision of men lying in narrow cots, soaked with blood. I had to have been there.

He had a bemused expression on his handsome face. He had to be drunk because no polite man in his right mind would just strip down naked in front of a woman.

"You really don't care that you're offending me, do you?"

"If you're going to ride with me, I guess you have to learn not to be offended."

"You said you were going to dump me off the minute we hit California." I stood up, pacing nervously.

He shrugged. "You'd better turn around."

"You just can't march in here "

"I paid for the room."

"Then I'll leave. I'll go and sleep in the stables." And then I remembered that all I had to wear was his shirt. I had sent my clothes with the maid to be laundered. She had promised to lay them before the kitchen fire. They'd dry by morning.

"Like hell, you will, Nick."

He started to unbutton his pants. I turned around, putting my back to him. So fast my head reeled. I was still not one hundred percent over the bump on my head.

I heard a splash. And then a gasp. And then a swear word. I turned and looked over my shoulder. I couldn't help but inhale a deep breath at the sight of his back. Traversing the well-honed muscles were about twenty deep lash scars. Otherwise, he was perfect.

No, not otherwise. He was perfect despite the scars. I wanted to put my hands and lips on each one. Heal him with kisses. With love. The thought of how he must have suffered appalled me.

"How did you get those, Michael?"

"Could you get me a cheroot out of my coat pocket?"

"No. Those things stink. And they give you cancer."

He laughed. "Where did you get that? Wasting sickness from a cigar?"

"I don't know. It just came to me. I must have heard it somewhere. The scars. How did you get those?"

"I think the woman I was just with should cut her fingernails." He took a deep breath. When he spoke again his voice was low, thoughtful. "I was in a Yankee prison camp for four months."

"Why would they whip you like that?"

"I tried to escape. Are they ugly? Some women cringe. They get over it pretty fast."

"Nothing about you is ugly."

He smiled at that. Then he dunked himself down in the tub coming up with wet, sleek hair. The curls were plastered down the strong column of his neck. I liked his long hair, the sideburns that reached the edge of each earlobe. His ears were perfect, exactly right. He sluiced the cold water from his comely face with his hands. If it were possible he looked better wet, the drops of water highlighting his colouring, making his eyelashes impossibly dark and long. Something about his eyes compelled me. I have known those eyes forever...

I closed my eyes. The room was spinning. I sat down on the bed. It was like sinking through a cloud...

"Nick. What's wrong?"

"Faint. I feel funny. I'm still not over the..." The words just flitted out of my mind as blackness engulfed me.

"Ni-ki-ta."

A salty tear fell on my nose, trickled down my lip. I opened my mouth and caught it on my tongue. French...

No, Michael. Oh, Michael. I could feel his hand touching my face. He was crying.

Over me?

Don't cry, Michael. We're together. I was watching you take a bath and then I went soaring again. Right up into the blue sky. And then landed with a splat right here.

"Kita, you have to come back. Walter said that you squeezed his hand today. The doctors say it might have been a reflex but, I don't know. I can't believe in anything. Hope is a tough one for me. I have no faith anymore. Walter thinks it was a good sign. Come back to me. I love you, Kita. I may have never really told you that before. I do love you. I go to say the words and then something stops me. It's like a curse from my lips. I have told women that so many times to get them to cooperate. So many lies."

I love you, too, Michael. I have to go back now. I have to see what happens...

"Hey, Nick. Are you okay? Still getting the headaches?"

I opened my eyes. He was dripping wet, his lean hips wrapped in a towel that had been hanging over the fire grate. He was staring down at me, his eyes dark, full of concern. He passed the backs of his fingers down over my jaw. My legs were bare, one of my hips exposed where the shirt tail dipped. I didn't care. For that minute I was crazy with wanting him. I desired him in a way I never imagined desiring anyone.

I swallowed hard, licked my lips because they had gotten unaccountably dry. I think maybe he was going to kiss me. He was lowering his head, staring at my mouth with those sparkling green eyes. His fine nostrils were twitching a little, his lips slightly parted. He sure looked like a man set on kissing the living daylights out of someone.

And then I remembered. He's just been with a woman. How could I want him if he's just been with someone else?

I took the flat of my hand and pushed against his wet, bare chest. "Get away from me."

"Hey, now... I just thought"

"I don't give a rat's pecker what you thought." I took one of the bed pillows and whacked him with it across a bare, wide shoulder. "How dare you? Coming straight from a whore and expecting a free poke on the side. How could you even think"

French shook his head, looking at my flushed face. He was a little flushed himself. "I wasn't with anyone else tonight." His voice was low, slightly unsteady. "I had someone else on my mind."

"Ha," I said, somewhat stunned by that admission. We stood there half naked, staring each other down, waiting to see who would flinch first. "You're lying, you snake in the grass."

He grinned. "No, Princess. I'm not lying."

"Well, if you were or you weren't, why the heck should I care?"

"I suppose you're right. It's better you don't care. I think I'll leave after all."

He bent to retrieve his clothes. His manhood was making his towel stand out like a tent pole. I couldn't help but look. For me? I thought. I did that to him?

I couldn't believe it. I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling out in sheer joy and begging him to stay.

I seemed to have skipped forward a bit in time. I was no longer in the room and my clothes were clean. I didn't stink any more. My hair felt a little better, too, not hanging lank and greasy in my eyes. It felt better not to have to scrub my face with dirt to make it look like a had a beard shadow.

We'd been riding all day and now we were walking through a wooded area trying to find a place to camp, leading our exhausted mounts behind us. I breathed the scent of pine deep into my lungs. The world smelled good. I just hoped it wasn't hard tack and beans again for dinner. Walter had to know how to cook something else. I was craving cookies. Little flat round, dark chocolate cookies. I had no idea what they were called but I knew I had tasted them with milk.

My bones ached. My lower back was on fire. God, I thought to myself, don't let my monthlies come. They had ceased for a time. I had never been regular and I had blessed that fact the last three months. I didn't even want to think about it.

I watched Michael. I like the way he walks. I could watch him for days, the way he inclines his head, the set of his shoulders, the way his hips move. He is fluid and graceful like some wild, animal on the prowl. I thought about how he looked in his bath and shivered with longing.

We found a spot, made camp and ate. Walter and Michael were discussing something , their heads together. Another plot I expected. Why didn't he just go straight? Why had he fallen into this life? Being a good hard working young man couldn't be any harder than being an outlaw, could it? I wonder if Michael had any dreams?

Dreams of settling down. Of a house with a picket fence. Maybe a farm or a ranch. A wife and children.

Me as the wife. Was that too much to dream of?

I remembered myself in a long blue dress. I'd had a blue dress once, the same colour as my eyes. There were flounces of lace on the shoulders and round the cuffs. Real handmade lace from France. Set my daddy back a pretty penny. I had worn the dress to a dance. I remember some of the boys giving me the eye. I had been pretty once and popular.

I imagined myself on a porch, a wide veranda, with turned posts and a smooth painted floor that felt cool under my bare feet. I was sipping something cool and minty, the tang of oranges and lemons mixing with the scent of night jasmine and nicotine plants. I could hear a cricket chirping in the distance, the rustle of wind on magnolia leaves and the wisteria that wrapped itself over the porch rails.

I imagined him coming up the steps and grinning at me. My heart began to pound. He was carrying a bouquet. Blue bachelor buttons and daisies. He had come to pay me a call, to court me. He doffed his hat, revealing a spill of chestnut curls. He was wearing a striped suit and a beautiful patterned vest. His white shirt collar and cuffs gleamed new and stiff. His eyes were hazy green in the moonlight and they seemed to swallow me whole.

I felt my insides pull up tightly and quiver in response to my daydream as I walked along watching him, wishing..

Last night when we were all camped out together, I had a dream about him. We were in that hotel room, finishing what had never really started. He was naked, except for that towel tied low on his hips and I was wearing his shirt only all the buttons were undone.

He was kissing me, kissing my breasts, my bare stomach. Bathing my skin with languid strokes of his tongue. My hands were curled up in his hair and I was moaning, sighing with the joy, the pleasure of his mouth and hands on me in places no lady would ever think about a man's mouth being. I think I cried out his name just before the world shattered.

When I awoke from the dream last night with a gasp, I knew I had awakened him. He was watching me from his bedroll, his arm crooked to take his weight, his cheek in his palm. His eyes were narrowed on me, his beautiful, sculpted mouth was slightly open.

I said nothing, just stared back at him. I wanted to tell him then. Tell him how I felt. Tell him that I'd been dreaming of him then. Before I could, he got to his feet, and went into his pouch for a smoke. And then he went striding off into the woods like a cougar was after him. I just stayed there and stared at the stars in the black sky, watching them get swallowed by the phantom clouds.

We made camp, doing all the mundane things one has to do every time. I managed to burn the bacon, which got me frowns. Here it was another night and I was still thinking about him, preparing myself for more dreams where he kissed my bare stomach, my thighs. Lordy. I was going to burn in hell.

"Get ready to turn in, Nick. What are you mooning about now?" Michael said.

My head snapped up. "I wasn't mooning about anything."

"You're the daydreamingest girl I've ever seen. Don't go getting all modest and go off too far in the bush."

"Who's David Fanning?" The other men were already settling. Yawning. Snoring. Jack could fall asleep anywhere in one second flat.

"Don't be snoopy, Nick. I'll tell you when the plans are set." He sighed, probably knowing I'd hound him until he told me something. "David Fanning is a crooked, rich bastard Yankee. Made a lot of money off the war. Ammunition. Shipping. He and his young wife are living the high life while good men try to get along with one leg."

"What are you planning?"

"I told you to go and do your business, Nick. Then get to sleep."

"You can't just order me off into the woods to piss like I'm a dog , or something. I used to be a lady, you know." The words caught in my throat.

"Yea, used to be. We all used to be something. If I had a nickel for every time I thought about what I used to be, I'd be a rich man. Go on, Nick. Don't go too far out there. I'm just going to get in my bedroll and wait until you come back.

He was settled when I came back, staring up at the stars, his arms folded under his head..

I got under my blankets, wishing for a soft mattress and clean sheets that smelled like sunshine and lavender. My hip bones ached from the hard ground.

"Try not to dream tonight. And if you do, don't be so vocal."

I blushed in the dark. " You dream, Michael. You dream something fierce. Nightmares. Screaming about blood and dying. I hear you a lot."

"I'm sorry."

"Who's Chuck? You say his name a lot." I flopped over onto my stomach, looking at him, drinking my fill.

"He was my best friend. We bought a commission together into the same regiment. He's dead. He was twenty-four."

"You were wealthy then?"

"We had money. My father was fond of the military way. His father was Frenchman who came over during the war of 1812. My mother was from Paris. My father met her when he went over to buy horses. They settled in Louisiana on a plantation called Belle Fleur. She was beautiful, with hair like mine and green eyes. I loved her. She spoke nothing but French to me. Until I was eight, when she died giving birth to my sister, that's all I spoke. After she died I went to military school."

"But now you steal for a living."

"Yes. I steal for a living. I don't steal from poor folks."

"Tell yourself that's a noble trait, Michael."

He laughed in the dark.

"Who were Eleanor and Adam? You call out their names sometimes."

"My wife and son."

My heart sank.

"She's dead. Died of yellow fever during the war. She was English. My parents arranged the marriage before the trouble between the states began. Her father was a slave trader. It seemed like a good idea at the time for us to marry."

"Did your boy die, Michael?"

"No. He's in England somewhere with my wife's people. I haven't seen him since he was born. I don't ever expect to see him."

"Oh, Michael..."

"Don't feel pity for me. Don't do that." He rolled over, his back to me. "Go to sleep, Nick. That's an order."

"I can feel anything I want, Michael." I whispered. "You can't order me not to feel."

"Sugar? You there, Sugar?" Lips touched my cheek. I could feel the bristle of his beard. His skin was dry, wrinkled like crumpled paper. I love his voice. The silvery timber. The love that fills each word in defiance of this place that allows no love between its inhabitants.

Walter.

Hello, Walter. I like the cologne you're wearing. I have to say you smell a lot better now than you did then. But then you get used to anything, I guess.

"I heard her say something this morning, Michael. I swear I did."

Michael was there. I knew I could feel him.

"What did she say?"

"She said your name. Twice."

"Maybe they're right then. Maybe she is coming out of it." His voice was soft, tentative. Hoarse.

"Sure, she is." Walter was smiling. I could hear it in his voice." She has to come out of it. I think her colour's returning. Glad Madeline brought her this nightgown. She just didn't seem right being in those hospital gowns. She's beautiful lying there asleep, isn't she? So peaceful and still. Like a princess out of a fairy tale"

"Waiting for the frog to turn into a prince?"

Ah, Michael. Don't be so hard on yourself. You're not that slimy.

"Did you see that?" Walter cried.

"What?"

"She smiled. I saw her smile. Well, her lips lifted at the corners anyway. Do it again, Sugar."

Only if Michael smiles first. And that might be a million years off. This is making me tired again. I feel the pulling. She's pulling me back, Walter. You should see the skies there, Walter. Blue, blue...

They seem to reach to forever.

"Can I talk to you, Sugar?"

It had been a week since my knock on the head and I was still going blank on things once in a while. I smiled at him. He'd given me the job of slicing potatoes and putting them into a frying pan with some lard over the fire. I had to watch them carefully lest they burn. I could hardly recall the last time I'd tasted potatoes. We'd have thick ham steaks, too. We'd been to the town yesterday for supplies, without Michael. He'd gone in separately from us to buy a new suit of clothes and to play some cards at the saloon. Jack and Ben had gone in with him. They were gathering information about Fanning and his wife, Elisabeth. Or Lisa as she was called.

I knew what they had up their sleeves. I'd wrested it out of Ben yesterday. Michael was going to use his considerable charms to seduce the wife while Fanning was out of town on business. While he had her occupied the rest of us would clean out his safe. Seems she was none too happy with her lot in life. Ben and Jack said that she was about the prettiest woman they'd ever seen. Tall, slender, light ginger hair and blue eyes. Pretty face, too. She had a hat with doves on it. And a big parasol that she used to keep her skin white as cream.

Doves, my fanny. Who'd wear a dead bird on her head?

I rubbed at my sunburned cheek with the back of my hand. I hated Lisa Fanning and I hadn't even seen her yet. How long would it take to make her fall for him? An hour? A day? One look. She would look at him one time and her world would cease to be as she knew it. He would hold her heart in his breast pocket.

Like he did mine.

Tomorrow I was going to have to go into town with him playacting the part of his sister. We were going to make a show of running into Mrs. Fanning at the milliner's. I'd start a conversation and introduce her to my dear brother. He was bringing me home a dress to wear into town.

I wasn't wearing his old damned dress. I didn't like this one bit.

I wasn't playing his sister either. Why not let Jack do the seducing while he and Ben robbed the safe? I knew what he'd say to me. You wanted to be part of this gang. You do what I tell you, girl.

Maybe Ben could wear the dress and pretend to be the sister.

If I stood up to him, would he hit me? I wonder. He doesn't seem the kind of a man to haul off and hit a woman, though a lot of men do. I guess about the worst he could do to me would be to drop me off in the next town. I get a job in the laundry or in one of the hotels. I might wind up in the saloon. There could be worse things, I guess. Maybe one day I could be like that Maddie, owning my own place.

"Sugar?"

"Sorry, Walter. I was watching the potatoes."

"No, you were thinking of him, weren't you? Thinking of French."

I blushed.

"Don't be getting ideas about him. He isn't the type to settle down."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're talking like a crazy old man."

"I'm no crazy old man. I see the way you look at that boy. I see the way he looks at you."

"He looks at me, Walter? I've never noticed that. I think he hates me, except for the fact that I'm finally going to be of some use to him. Getting all dressed up and being his baby sister. Ever heard anything so stupid. Think I'd pass for that man's sister?"

"Just as long as that's all it is. Hell, girl. You'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to notice that boy looking at you. Steer clear of him. You sleep with him, you'll get nothing back. He's not the kind to make promises. He'd be the first to tell you that. He's honest as all get out that way, even if he's made himself into a thief out of necessity. He doesn't have anything left inside of him to give a nice woman like you. A woman who wants certain things out of her life. That boy doesn't have a soul left. Can't love anyone any more. He can't be there for you. Not that I'm blaming him for it. He was a good lad once upon a time. War and death and pain kill the soul."

I shrugged. "I know about those things."

"Don't go mistaking lust for love, Sugar. You wait for some other man to come along. Maybe young Ben."

"Don't make me laugh, Walter."

"I'm not trying to make you laugh, girl. I sure as hell wish you weren't so stubborn. You're just like him that regard. A matched set, the toe of you. You're headed for some bad hurting."

"I'm a big girl, Walter. I can take it." I stirred the potatoes and tried to paste a smug smile on my face. It came out flat.

And she dreams of crystal streams...

It was strange how I could float between Nick's world and my own. As I write about it now I wonder which was the real world and which was the dream. Maybe I just dreamed all of it, even being able to hear Michael talk to me as I lay in Medical with tubes coming out of me. Maybe Michael never said those lovely things to me. I may never know.

I'd gone to bed in a surly mood the night he'd brought me the dress. It wasn't a bad dress but it was pink. That frosted me. You'd think if he'd noticed anything about me it was that I'd look better in a blue dress. He'd just looked at me and said the pink dress was the only thing big enough. And then he tossed this ugly chip straw bonnet with insipid yellow flowers all over the brim down on top of the dress. He told me it would cover my hair. Oh, that made me mad. I can't help that I had to chop off my hair. I had the prettiest hair ever. Blond and straight and shiny as glass and it reached my waist. If only he could have seen me like I was. I had vague recollections of how I looked in that other life before I ended up here dressed like a boy and with a memory as foggy as a steamed mirror. And I'm not big either. I'm just tall. As it was holding the pink dress up to me it was a trifle short in the sleeves and barely covered my ankles.

I went to bed in a surly huff. They's been talking about her again, the beautiful Lisa. He didn't say much, but then he never says much unless it's to chew me out for something. I know he's carefully planning his seduction of her. Doesn't he know that he isn't going to have to try? She will only have to take one look at his angel's face and his green-blue eyes, and if he gifts her with one of those rare smiles that shows his straight white teeth, Lisa Fanning will just find her piece of heaven right then and there.

Why did I have these weird recollections of having been with him myself? Of being kissed and made love to? I knew exactly what those eyes looked like when he was heated with desire. Were they dreams? Or just wishes. I wished to hell that the visions would stop and just give me some peace.

Listening to them talk, I came to the conclusion that Fanning was a bastard. It seemed he had his fingers in a hundred crooked schemes since the conclusion of the war. He didn't afford that girl any freedom. She was always accompanied everywhere she went by hired men. I told Michael that it wasn't going to be easy for me to get too friendly with her either with those goons around her, but he's stuck on the idea of my being his procurer. His words were more discreet. I say procurer cause that's what it's going to feel like to me. As soon as he sleeps with her I will feel like the nastiest damned procurer there ever was.

I woke after a few hours of restless sleep. It was a hot night, muggy and close and the mosquitoes were hovering and buzzing infernally around my face. I'm sure one was in my ear boring its way into my brain. I was going to look real cute in that pink dress with red blotches on my face. I looked over at his bedroll. He wasn't in it. I hadn't heard him call out with nightmares. I lay there for a long time waiting to hear him come back, trying to find sleep again, but it didn't come. I was so damned sticky in my long johns I wanted to strip them off and lay there naked under the moon. Let those mosquitoes chow down on my exposed flesh until there were a few bones laying there on my gray blanket for them to find when the sun rose up in the morning.

I hadn't known until yesterday that there was a stream fed hidden pool in the woods. I'd been scrubbing the cook pans out with sand when he came back looking as fresh as a daisy, his hair all shiny like spun silk springing into those loose curls over his collar. Why the hell did he always have to look so handsome. I'd hate him if he didn't make my heart and my stomach clench like twin fists.

"Where were you?" I had asked, looking at his boot and then up his well turned calf to his knee where the denim hugged him like a lover. There were damp patches on the fabric where he had not dried off well. I swallowed hard like I always do when he is close to me.

"Swimming hole. It's nice. Pretty warm, too, considering."

"No one told me about it."

"They're not the bathing types, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed."

He shrugged and leaned towards me. " I think there's snakes down there crawling on the bottom. I think one slithered over my foot today. Better be careful if you venture in."

I shuddered a little, unable to help myself. I had seen a snake-bit man once. It was awful. He choked to death on his own vomit. His head had swelled as big as a circus balloon.

He laughed at my discomfiture. His green eyes twinkled. I could see the dampness on his bare chest where he hadn't fastened all the buttons. I imagined touching those droplets with my tongue.

"I'd lay money the only snake down there was you, Michel LaFrance." I made a show of pronouncing his name to make it sound all girly. Funny thing, it doesn't sound girly at all. Just sexy. Sexy enough to make me shiver.

I watched him stride away, frowning, thinking of that conversation I'd had with Walter. The man lusted after me? I had to be careful? Did Walter know any more jokes?

I sighed as I lay there thinking about him. I couldn't get the picture of his mouth coming towards me out of my head. The way he had looked with the damp white towel low on his hips. His body was beautiful. The most beautiful think I'd ever seen. I was getting hotter and hotter just imagining.

The pool sounded so good. God, it was hot. So close. I was going to that swimming hole, snakes or not, dark or not. I'd plunge into that cold, clean water and I'd feel better about my life for a few minutes anyway.

I rose off the bedroll pulling my sweat soaked woolen long johns away from my butt. I wondered what Mrs. Lisa Fanning slept in. Probably satin sheets and a fancy sheer peignoir straight from Paris, France. I thought of her pretty naturally waving hair and sighed.

Hair could grow.

Bet Lisa Fanning didn't even have a pea sized brain under all that ginger fluff. Michael was going to wind himself round that woman like a big diamond back and then go on in for the kill.

I gave one last thought to the snakes and made my decision.

"Ni-ki-ta.?" He was leaning very close to me. I could smell him. "What did you say love?"

"Snake."

"There are no snakes. You're only dreaming."

I heard someone else come in then. Heard him clear his throat. Operations.

"Hello, Michael. How is she?"

I felt him leave me. He'd been leaning against me, but when Operations came in his body went stiff like he was steeling himself

"She's doing fine. She just said something to me. She may be coming out of it. I think it will be soon."

"You think she'll open her eyes and smile and then ask what's for breakfast?"

"I know it won't be like that. She'll need some time to recover like one would from any illness. She will regain her strength. The physiotherapists have been working on her, electrically stimulating her muscles. Her reflexes are good, not perfect yet, but good."

"You know what the consequences will be if she has any impaired brain function. It will be some time before we can retrain her to her old abilities. If she can get back to her old abilities."

"What are you saying?" Michael gritted.

"We can't use her if she's not one hundred percent, Michael."

"You'd just have her cancelled?"

"Michael, if her brain or fine motor reflexes are impaired what use is she going to be to anyone here at Section?"

"You can't predict how she'll be"

"I have seen situations like this before. They don't often end happily. I would suggest that you just take some time off. You have spent enough time here trying to will her to wake up. You can be proud of what you have done to guide her and--"

"You're a bastard, Paul."

I was smiling inside my head. You rock, Michael. And thank you.

"Is that off the record?" said Operations. I think he was speaking through gritted teeth.

"I'm not leaving her alone here. As long as I'm here with her, she is safe. Do you understand that?"

"Do you understand that I don't tolerate insubordination? Even from you, Michael. Nikita could have just as easily died in that fall. Then you would have had to pick yourself up and go on from there. Just like you have done in the past. Just like you will always do. For all we know she is a shell lying there. She may be gone."

"So you hope. Get out of here, Paul. She doesn't need a fear of being cancelled on top of everything else. Just get out before I do something I'll regret."

And don't let the door hit you on the way out, Paul.

I felt him pick up my hand and press his lips to my palm. " I can't protect you forever, love. Come back to me. I don't care how. Just come back."

I will be back soon, Michael. I have to take care of a few things.

I was at the edge of the pool. I don't remember how I got there. I guess it didn't matter.

I dipped my toe in the water. It was cool, delightful. I peered around. It was fairly brightly lit in the moonlight. I didn't see him. Perhaps he had gone somewhere else. I told myself that it was a good thing.

What would I have done if I'd have found him here naked, floating around?

Said something stupid, like: "Make love to me, Michael. I've known you before somewhere in time. I want to know if you're still as good as I dreamed."

I undid the buttons on my long johns, pulling the sleeves off of my arms, peeling them down over my hips and legs, stepping out of them. The cool air felt wonderful on my bare skin. I should have done this during the day when it was so hot, but I'd gotten busy with other chores and I'd been afraid of being discovered. I took a deep breath and moved carefully into the water, not splashing to much lest I dredge something up from the bottom.

Oh, golly, it felt good. The wool of those sweaty long johns had just about rubbed me raw. I wished I'd had a bar of fine milled soap to clean myself with, to wash my hair. I floated on my back, my breasts thrusting up out of the water like those postcards of loose women my brother carried in his satchel pocket.

I wonder how it felt to be a loose woman like the ones who posed for those pictures. Did they wonder what the young men did with their pictures when they were alone in their rooms?

I have always wondered what makes men tick? What do they feel? Did men have dreams that made them cry out like the one I'd had about him last night? Did they wake up panting and wanting things that they couldn't have? Maybe they ought to have naked man pictures for girls to look at. Like picture of Michel La France bathing in front of the fire. The women would line up round the block.

"You are a loose woman to even think about naked men, girl," I said aloud. "Especially Michael."

I felt myself collide with something very solid and hard just then. I gulped and gasped, knowing that it was too smooth to be a tree stump. And tree stumps didn't have arms and hands that smoothed round one's naked waist.

"Last thing I'd ever say about you would be that you're a loose woman, Princess, but thank you for thinking about me."

Oh, lordy.

Alright, Nick, I thought to myself. This is what you want. Are you too chicken to grab it?

I can be somewhat restrained and ladylike. One does not grab it. She caresses.

It's not as if I wasn't experienced. A lot of my memories were still with me. I had been with a boy once when I was younger. He was leaving for the war and he gave me that famous line: What if I die out there and never know what it feels like to be with a woman ?

How do you say no to that? Even if the boy has a skinny chest like a bird and pimples on his face you have to figure he deserves to know. I felt like it was my patriotic duty. He was a nice enough boy. My parents liked him well enough. They might have even wanted him for a son-in law. And I was young. I wanted to know what it was like so I let him do it.

It was a lot of fumbling in the dark. Lips missing the mark and teeth scraping teeth and fumbling hands and a root digging into my back because we went at it out behind the toolshed. And it was fast. I blinked and it was all over. But he was happy, panting like a puppy dog who'd just chewed a nice shoe. I was ashamed when was over and I prayed like the dickens that I wasn't pregnant because I sure as hell didn't want to marry him. I think his thing was kind of small, too. Not that I knew very much about those sorts of things back then. I figured you ought to be able to feel something at least. Molly Burgess said that when she had relations with Orville Felton he was so huge he darned near ripped her asunder.

I have to say that scared the beejeezuz out of me and kind of thrilled me at the same time. And I was most disappointed when it wasn't true. I just got left feeling sore and dissatisfied and sticky. But he looked happy.

So I looked Michael in the eye and I must admit that for a few seconds I thought about playing hard to get. About stringing him along and being coy. I even thought about making a big scene about being offended by his nudity.

But why should I lie? I felt like I'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. I never wanted anything so much in my life even if I knew that the likeliness of his wanting to marry me had about the same odds as a lightning strike. He wanted me and that's all that really mattered at the time. Besides I wasn't capable of being coy and virginal and holding out. I was too impatient with my own desire, my own need to touch and explore and see if his mouth tasted as good as it looked. I'd been wanting him to kiss me forever. I had loved him forever.

So what if he didn't exactly love me. Lust was okay.

Funny, I knew exactly what he's taste like, what he's feel like in and around me. I have always known.

I could see the need in his eyes and I felt it brush up against my hip when I banged into him. I was convinced his manhood had even Orville Felton's all beat to hell.

"What are you doing in here, Nick?" he asked. His voice was deep, resonant. It sent shivers through me. He swam in lazy circles around me like a shark circling its prey. I could still feel his hand lightly touching my waist beneath the water, skimming round my bare skin, barely touching me, but enough to let me know he was there. I felt my inner places draw up tight as a bow string. I could hardly draw breath.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I wasn't spying on you, if that's what you're wondering. I was hot. I didn't see you here. You should have warned me, Michael."

"I was watching you. I couldn't speak. All my words were gone." He gave me a slow smile. His teeth were so straight and white. He didn't smile often and never for me. It made my heart hammer and my knees turn to jelly.

He was a devil. But a charming one. I lifted my chin. "You aren't a nice man, you know. My mother would have warned me about men such as you."

"I know. She was right. You're beautiful, you know, Nick. Damned beautiful."

I bit my lip. He had to stop swimming round me. He was making me dizzy. "What's your real name, Nick?"

"Dominique."

"Ah," he said softly. He came up closer to me, standing. The water encircled his lean waist. He smoothed the hair back from my face. Caressed my ears and face and the sides of my neck with his strong hands then trailed his fingers down over my bare breasts. They were taut and aching and I moaned as he touched me.

We were just about the same height. Our eyes met in the moonlight. I barely had to tilt my head back." So pretty, your name. I think you are a lost princess. Michel and Dominique. That has a nice sound to it."

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

He laughed. "Too late for that. I've already been seduced, Nick. What about you?"

I swallowed back a moan.

"I've just been waiting for you to come to me. I'm leaving this all up to you."

I nodded. I guess I could have asked him about marriage and what we'd do if I got with child and if he'd kindly mend his thieving ways, but I didn't think too much about that. I pushed it all to the back of my mind, because he was there behind me, kissing my shoulder and the side of my neck and cupping my bare breasts in his hands like they were ripe fruit he was weighing. And I could feel him insistently pressing up against my left buttock. Oh, God, I thought to myself. I may never feel like this again. I may never get this chance again. I felt like that silly soldier boy behind the toolshed. I knew exactly what he meant.

I pulled myself away from him as gracefully as I could, turned to face him. I wanted to see his face, what he was thinking. I wanted to see his surrender.

He stood there naked in the moonlight, staring back at me. Was he nervous? The great French, legendary seducer of other men's wives, feeling slightly trepidatious? I don't think that's a real word, but it fits. I had to divest him of that notion. He lifted the corners of his perfect lips in a twitchy grin as I ran my hand down his flat stomach all the way to his hard thigh. My heart tumbled in my chest as I touched him there, there where he was hard and smooth and velvety at the same time and aching with desire. Desire for me. His head dropped back, his mouth going slack as I touched him and then he caught my hand with a groan and raised it to his lips.

"You don't like that?"

"I like that too much," he managed. His moon-silvered eyes were on my breasts. I felt them pebble up, tighten in response to his avid gaze.

I put my palm flat against the solid, smooth wall of his chest. He was holding himself back, I could tell. That pleased me, strangely. It meant he felt more than he was letting on, that perhaps this meant more than a chance encounter. I knew he had lost too much in his life to give himself freely, but under my hand, his heart was pounding a wild staccato against his ribs. He let me touch his chest, his neck, his handsome face.

He must have just shaved, I thought. His cheek was smooth with just a hint of missed stubble along the length of his jaw. I like his chin. It is a little too long for perfection, a little too pugnacious at times, belying that angelic look. It was smart of God to do that, otherwise he'd have been too pretty with that beautiful mouth and those long eyelashes of his. I think God knew what he was doing when he made Michael. He made Michael to be loved. Bodily worshipped.

I traced his lips with my thumb. He pulled it into his mouth and gave it a hard suck. I pulled it out with a pop, swallowing hard. I was shivering then. I don't know if it was the cold or need. "You are the one who is beautiful, Michael. So beautiful."

He seemed to snap then, pulling me hard into his arms, kissing me, with tender, drugging kisses. And then wild, hard duelling kisses. Kisses that made me crave more, made me want to climb inside of his body. He lifted me up so that I was hovering over him. It was like he was giving himself to me and offering me up like a prize. I don't know if that's true, but that was how it felt.

We fell backwards into the water, sinking in the soft sand, the water lapping at my back and shoulders. I contented myself with touching him, slipping my hands down his shoulders, skimming my fingers over hard muscles covered with smooth, sleek, wet skin. He must have approved because he moaned, opening his mouth wide as he kissed me, sweeping his tongue against mine. I ran my fingers down his back. He winced as I touched the scars, made this sad sound low in his throat, but he let me touch him. I told him that I was going to kiss every one of those wounds. He just closed his eyes and sighed.

"Do you know how much I want you?" The words seemed torn from his throat.

I smiled. "I can feel it."

"Oh, Nick. How did I never notice that you were so lovely? All day, you're all I can think of. I feel like I've lost my mind."