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Alex wasn't known for being punctual, but this afternoon he made sure he was at the gym five minutes early. Today was the last day of tryouts, which meant he had to make damn sure he was on top of his game. For the millionth time, he cursed himself for procrastinating this long; now that time was running out, he was dangerously low on options... and the ones that were left didn't exactly play to his strengths. Sadly, aside from hiking and bike-riding, he wasn't too much of an athlete. He just hoped to god that he was enough of one to make the team.

The nineteen-year-old college freshman had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Due to his impressive grades and exemplary citizenship in high school, the institution was willing to waive 75% of his tuition... on two conditions. The first was that he maintain a Grade Point Average of 3.5 or higher - no problem. The second was that he participate in at least two official extracurricular clubs or activities per semester, one of which had to be a competitive, intramural event. This shouldn't have been a problem either, had he not listened to the drunken frat boys who assured him that there were always plenty of open slots and that he shouldn't hurry.

"Alex?" A female voice came from behind him. "Hi!"

Alex turned to see Jill striding up to the gym. Jill's was a very distinctive appearance. She was the tallest woman Alex had ever met, her 6'2" frame giving her four inches over himself, along with almost everyone else. Hell, she was probably one of the tallest people he had met. With her blue eyes and long, platinum blonde hair, Alex thought she looked like a Valkyrie out of some Norse opera. The first thing he had said to her, when they'd met in Classics last week, was, "Hello, I'm Alex. You're really tall." Jill had blushed and shaken her head at him, but she didn't seem to take it in a bad way. She had continued sitting next to him, and usually provided conversation on the way out of the building.

"Oh, hey there!" Alex replied as she came up to the door. "Here for paddling tryouts?"

She shook her head. "I'm already on the team. It's, like, my favorite sport."

She smiled broadly. Jill had this wide, full-cheeked grin and freckled girlish face that looked almost out of place on her stature. Alex smiled back.

"I used to be pretty good back in middle school," he said, recalling his sea-kayak trips around Puget Sound, "but... uh... it has kinda been awhile."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine." She sounded like she meant it, which honestly confused Alex a bit; his arms were not exactly bulging. "You want to work together?"

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Together? They don't have the new people together for tryouts?"

Grandmother's Bed
What a house it was! Nooks and chimneys, brick, wood and tile, rambling up and along, part Stuart, bits of the eighteenth century, bits of the nineteenth century, a house to love and cherish, and it was all hers. Yes it was all her house. Only twenty three years old and the proud owner of a house to die for. No money mind, no dosh, no spondulas, no ackers, shekels, shillings, groats and a credit limit of just a couple of grand. But who cares when they own a house like that.

Grandmother had left the house to her only grandchild. Her children didn't need the money, they were all smug, self-satisfied and successful, pompous, opinionated and overbearing. She certainly wasn't going to leave her house to that lot, but Sally was a lovely girl, head screwed firmly on and very loving. She had known that Sally had no money, but she trusted the girl would find a way to keep the house going for Sally loved the house as well as her grandmother.

One caveat though, one warning was carefully written down in her neat, beautifully precise script, written in violet ink with the fountain pen her father had given her so many years ago. It read, "Sally, I really cannot explain my reasons, but I place a stricture on your ownership of the house. Under no circumstances must you sleep on the bed in the Blue Room."

The Blue Room was in the oldest part of the house; it was large with a subtly sloping floor and polished oak floorboards far wider than anything modern would possess. The walls were the original and painted in the most gentle of egg-blue. The small latticed window was only a short distance above the ground because the room below was partly set into the rising ground. It was a beautiful room, a room that took the breath away, a room to linger in, inviting vases of flowers, open windows and the buzzing of bees on a summer day.

Against one wall and facing the window was a huge bed. It was an oak four-poster with an enclosed roof to it with blue grey curtains and a pelmet for the three sides. The backboard went right up to the roof of the bed, and was richly carved as were the front posts. The whole thing spoke of history: of deflowering and affairs; of deaths and births; whispered secrets and servants eavesdropping; conspiracies and kings. In short, it was a bed inextricably linked to the house for there was no way it could ever leave through the small window or even the door. It must have been made for, and in, this very room, or at least its final assembly stages.

Sally was utterly bewildered by this stricture, and at a loss as to why there should be a ban on sleeping in such a wonderful bed.

Chapter One
A snake spooked Mickey Chandler's horse, Bella, and she took off at breakneck speed leaving Mickey holding on for dear life. Just when she thought she was getting control, a tree branch grazed across her arm causing her to lose her grip on one of the reins. How am I ever going to get control? Really frightened now, she closed her eyes, pretending this was all a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn't, all she could do was hold on tight, hope to hell Bella would eventually tire and that she would still be in the saddle when she did.

Hank Caldwell was mending fences along the road when a horse and rider flew by him. He didn't pay much attention at first, but something caught his eye, and he realized it was the horse's rein trailing on the ground, leaving the rider in peril. Running to his truck and starting after them, he wished he was on horseback instead of in the truck because he wasn't sure how he was going to rescue the rider. He only hoped he could help before the rider fell or the horse's hooves got tangled in the trailing reins. As he neared them and then drove ahead, he jumped out of the truck and stood by the side yelling at her to jump into his arms. He could see and understood the fear on her face, but it was her only chance. She couldn't bring herself to do it and they streaked past him. Running back to the truck and getting ahead of them again, he stopped and stood on the side, and waited so he could try again. Mickey was so scared, afraid of falling and being trampled, afraid of dropping to the ground, but her fear of staying on the horse was greater. This time she jumped, and he caught her. She was trembling, and he was glad because maybe she wouldn't feel him trembling too. He'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to grab and hang on to her, and that she would fall and get hurt, but he had prevailed.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay."

She was still in his arms, and he put her down and hugged her to him. He ran his hand down her spine, and continued that slow comforting glide. She focused on his hands and the strength in his arms. He kept rubbing her back whilst in a soft voice he crooned into her ear that she was safe and the ordeal was over, and finally felt her stop shaking.

"Better?"

"I think so. I was so scared."

"I bet you were, I was scared for you."

"Where did you come from? I didn't see anybody."

"I'm not surprised - you were going so fast. I was back down there aways, mending fences when you whipped by. At first I didn't pay attention, but then I saw the left rein dragging on the ground. It's a wonder it didn't get tangled in the horse's leg. What the hell happened?"

Elizabeth Lane glanced at her watch and realised that it was time to go. She shoved some papers into her brief case to read later at home, tidied up her desk a little, made sure that her desk was properly locked, collected her coat from the stand by the door and left the office. Her Secretary had left the best part of an hour before, but as a senior Civil Servant in the Foreign Office, Elizabeth was well used to working long hours. She said 'good night' to the security guard on the door of the building as she left, but instead of heading for her flat in Mayfair, she took a slightly different route and soon found herself 'buzzing' the entry-phone of a block of apartments not that far from her office. Within a minute or so, her friend Angela Playfair was greeting her at the door of the top floor apartment.

Angela, who was bisexual, and her husband, Matthew, had been introduced to Elizabeth by Sir John Shrewsbury and she had become good friends with Angela especially. Elizabeth's relationship with Sir John had been unusual to say the least and his death almost two months before had left a hole in her life that she found puzzling and somewhat frustrating. She had discussed briefly what she might do about that with Angela, and now they had arranged to meet again to take the matter further.

Ten minutes after she arrived, the two were sitting gazing out over the London skyline with a glass of white wine in their hands. Angela was the first to broach the subject,

"Have you thought any more about what we discussed?"

"Oh lots! Every night I think about it, Angela! But I'm still no closer to making up my mind. Somehow, without Sir John, it doesn't seem the same."

"Well, darling, I've been making some very discreet enquiries ... very, very discreet in fact. And I think there is a demand ... a very small demand I must emphasise, for what you had with John - but really with women only, and very well-connected and wealthy women at that. We agreed that without John, dealing with men could become far riskier."

Over a number of years Elizabeth had provided 'disciplinary' services to Sir John Shrewsbury and people that he knew, often through the diplomatic service. It had been a strange arrangement and one which she had grown to enjoy despite herself. In return, he had given her rent free use of the flat that she still occupied. His death had brought to an end the access that he had to individuals seeking such services, which was why she and Angela had started thinking about alternatives.

"A small demand shouldn't be a problem. After all I don't have all that time and couldn't cope with a large demand. With Sir John it was always occasional rather than regular evenings."

"From what I can gather, Elizabeth, there are ladies in high places who are interested in this sort of thing - ladies in politics, the aristocracy ... who would be interested. I think it could work."

Clayton Weston dismounted and slowly walked down the rows of headstones until he came to the three he hated to see: his sister Valerie would have been twenty-one, his mother Lillian would have been fifty-three, and his Uncle Jake was fifty-seven when he died. It was nearly ten years since Clay was last here. It took him four of them to find the monsters who put his sister and mother here. Still, it was good to be back in Kansas.

His thoughts went back to when he left home at sixteen and began practicing with an old Smith and Wesson revolver. At eighteen he was a force to reckon with. By the time he was twenty, his draw and accuracy were next to none. During that time he carried the three handbills of the wanted men. As he stared at the gravestones, vivid thoughts came back to a saloon in a town called Flat Rock, and the three faces on the handbills.

He recalled giving the bills to the grey-haired sheriff who entered the saloon, and as luck would have it, the three men wanted for rape and murder were also in the saloon, hanging around at the bar. Catching sight of the exchange between Clay and the sheriff, one of the men stood up, swiftly followed by the other two. The lawman slowly drew his sidearm to make the arrest, but the three men had very different ideas. It was over in a heartbeat. The three monsters that haunted Clay's nightmares lay dead on the floor. From that day forward, Clay Weston became a name people whispered in every town he rode in to.

Shooting the three men in self defense didn't make him wanted by the law, but months later he found himself wanted by their kin or those who would make a name for themselves. Every town seemed to have a saddle tramp who wanted to prove they could do something better than him. The body count went up to sixteen. The American dime novels became the answer to the British Penny Dreadful, and portrayed him as a sociopathic killer. Around his thin waist was a gun belt with a holster set low on his thigh. A pearl-handled revolver rested squarely in it.

No one knew the real reason, and no one really cared. Clay Weston wasn't a vicious gunfighter. As a kid, he had walked into his home to find his mother and sister brutally raped and murdered, subsequently becoming a young man with a heavy heart, a young man who chose to dress in black as he rode from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of the grim reaper. But his reputation preceded him, and over time his notoriety grew.

"Clay?"

Clay turned and drew. His father, Will Weston, threw up his hands. "Whoa, boy! Now, I consider those dime store novels and a Penny Dreadful a bunch of cow pies, but they weren't talking nonsense when it came to being damn quick. I should have known better than to come up from behind you like that. I'm just damn glad to see you again, son. Your Uncle Jake asked for you in his final moments. I heard you were in Dodge City and sent a wire."