"Looks that way."

A few moments passed before Ezra noticed his sole companion staring.

"Afraid?" Chris asked.

"Of dying? Or death?" Ezra quipped in a tone meant to hide both his fear and anger.

"Either."

Raising a single eyebrow, Ezra met Chris's gaze. His silent answer seemed to echo down the long-deserted corridor, mocking him, taunting him. Chris stared back and it was evident from his expression that he heard the answer just as clearly as Ezra did. The question was, did Chris concur, or was he truly the stoic rock they all made him out to be?

Moments passed before Ezra finally dropped his eyes back to the dirt floor, and, once again, the stillness of the mineshaft blanketed them. It lent a closeness, while at the same time maintained the distance between them. Ezra sat, leaning against the far wall, his wrenched knee pillowed by his folded jacket. Chris was opposite, sitting as well, his hand slowly, methodically, massaging his battered left shoulder. A few feet away, an irregular patch of mottled light displayed what was left of the slowly fading daylight. The darkness would completely envelop them far too soon. Ezra shifted uncomfortably.

Chris stood and began to walk down the passageway.

"You're not—" Ezra began, but then swallowed his rising insecurity. "I, uh, I mean, where are you going?"

"Looking for a lantern, so we won't have to spend the entire night in the dark."

"Ah, yes. Excellent idea," Ezra nodded, then started to get up. "I'll come with you." He was not eager to repeat the time he'd spent alone down here, not even for a few minutes. The dark thoughts that had come to him still lurked menacingly in the back of his mind.

Chris's hand was on his shoulder in an instant, easily forcing him back to the ground. "Stay here. I won't be long."

"This shaft is unstable, as we have discovered. Do be careful, Mr. Larabee. I'm in no mood to have to dig you out should there be a collapse." Ezra smiled, trying to make light of their situation and feeling like a miserable failure with his feeble attempt.

Chris kneeled before him, his hand now gently resting on Ezra's injured knee. "Would you just drop the 'mister'?"

"I meant only the utmost respect by it," Ezra said, his voice becoming smoother, more reassuring — it was a well-honed skill he no longer had to consciously call into effect.

"Well, it's condescending is what it is, and damned annoying. The least you could do is call me Chris, seeing as how we're gonna be dying together." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, regret flooded his face. The tone was harsh, and the words themselves were even harsher. "They'll find us. Someone will find us," he amended, his voice softer, almost as if he were speaking reassuringly to a child.

"You said yourself it was blind luck that you found me," Ezra reminded the gunslinger, and Chris nodded slowly.

"If my horse hadn't thrown me, hadn't spooked at that rattler...."

Now it was Ezra's turn to nod. "Then you wouldn't be here, waiting with me to die."

"At least I'm here with you," Chris responded, his eyes meeting Ezra's and suddenly they were transfixed — two lone souls, questioning the wisdom of their self-imposed isolation.

It was Chris who tore his eyes away first. "I mean, at least there's the potential for some interesting conversations to, uh, to pass the time." Chris sat back on his heels, pulling his body as well as his hand as far away from Ezra as possible without actually standing up.

"I can just imagine the deafening silence were it Vin down here with you instead of me..." Ezra said. The image of the two men, together, in this exact situation, filled Ezra's mind and he wished he hadn't voiced those words, that name. As much as he didn't want to die, he didn't want to think of anyone else here in his place.

"Or Buck! That man would talk me to death before—" Chris stood suddenly, ending their conversation. "I'm gonna look for a lantern. Wait here."

"Very well, but please don't tarry. I, uh, have instructed Señorita Recillos to draw me a bath at precisely eight-thirty this evening and I would hate for the water to grow cold before I reach it."

Chris just nodded, and Ezra settled back against the dirt wall.

Chris had already explored the passageway, reporting a bend in the tunnel that ended in a pile of rubble and fallen beams. Ezra suspected there were perhaps the remains of a body or two that Chris had failed to mention — it was highly likely. However, they would be nothing more than bones by now, the mineshaft having been condemned and boarded over years ago. By sheer luck, Ezra had come to possess the map marking its location; there was no way he would have found it otherwise.

"Yes, sheer, unadulterated luck," Ezra scoffed to himself. He ought to know better than to trust luck for anything. Luck, like fate, Ezra had learned over the years, was nothing more than the illusion that you were beating the odds. He didn't like gambling, chance, probabilities; there were too many unknowns in life to successfully predict all the outcomes, no matter how you tried to stack the deck in your favor. But good fortune was such an alluring temptress it was easy to forget that she would always collect her cut, one way or another.

"Reminds me of my mother." Ezra smiled grimly, realizing he'd never see the woman again. Moreover, she ... well, what would she do if his body was never recovered — what tales would she tell herself? Would he be the finally successful son run off to Europe to court royalty? Or, would he be the utter failure too much of a coward to face her? It didn't matter, he suddenly realized. She would never have been proud of him if he'd died a hero, defending some poor, helpless stranger — at least this way she could believe what she wanted.

A moment later, Chris came back around the corner. Ezra noticed the small lantern dangling from his left hand and felt a modicum of relief that they wouldn't be spending the entire night in the dark. Chris held up two beer bottles in his other hand and smiled. "At least now we won't die of thirst."

"Excellent. I was so hoping for the much more lingering agony of starvation, if truth be told." Ezra took the two bottles anyway, removing the corks from them both.

Chris shook his head as he sat down next to the southerner. "Ever the pessimist, Ezra."

"I prefer realist, Mister— Uh, Chris." Ezra paused to take a sip of beer — it was flat, but, for once in his life, quality no longer seemed of the utmost importance. "I never imagined that my own avarice would be my downfall. Poetic justice I believe Mr. Sanchez would call it."

"Irony is more like it," Chris corrected. "The lives we lead — all seven of us — I'd have placed my money on a bullet doing each one of us in."

"Have you learned nothing from me during our time together, Chris? Never place money on a bet unless you are assured of the outcome. Death is a game entirely too unpredictable upon which to wager."

"Hope you're right. Means there's still a chance we'll get outta here alive."

Ezra turned to Chris and smiled; it was not a wide smile with a flash of his gold tooth and it wasn't charming, nor was it meant to be. It was a smile he so very rarely used; little, if anything, surprised him in such a pleasant fashion.

"You don't want to die," Ezra stated simply.

Chris stared at him, as if he were pondering the words, trying to refute them, and eventually failing. "I still have Sarah's killer to catch."

Ezra nodded. "And then what?"

Chris opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. After a moment, he picked up his beer and poured some of the liquid down his throat.

"Do you intend to spend the rest of your days watching over our quaint little town?" Ezra asked.

Chris sighed, and it would have been inaudible had there been even the slightest breeze to disturb the air. He picked up the lantern and took the time to light the small wick before answering. "The town's growing. It'll be what Mary deems 'civilized' far too soon."

"You could settle there yourself. Build out that shack into a decent residence..." Ezra suggested, but Chris just shook his head.

"Vin's still got a price on his head. Promised I'd help him clear his name."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Tanner. How could I forget?"

Chris turned toward Ezra suddenly, a deep frown creasing his brow, but Ezra didn't intend to apologize for the sarcastic tone in his voice. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Ezra gave a lazy shrug in response. "I just don't understand why he stays. Of all of us, he is the most rootless, the most happy, when between towns. He needs our companionship far less than we need his skills."

"I think you're wrong," Chris said, the anger still present in his voice, though no longer at the forefront. "I think he needs us more than he lets on. Why else would he stay?"

"Because he's waiting," Ezra explained, a touch of melancholy tainting his words against his will.

"Waiting? For what?"

Ezra looked over at Chris, studying him up and down, but it was obvious the gunslinger had no idea what he meant. Finally, Ezra tore his eyes away and focused them on the far wall as he shrugged in answer. "I suppose we're all waiting ... for something."

Chris took another slow sip of his beer, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, what are you waiting for?"

Ezra turned to stare at Chris, his eyebrows lifted in surprise, and then he turned away again, this time with a small, dismissive shrug.

"Let me guess?" the gunslinger asked, after a few silent moments. "You're not waiting for anything."

Ezra let out a scoffing breath. If only Chris knew.

"You're not waiting for anything, because you've already found what you've been looking for."

Ezra shifted, adjusting the wadded jacket under his knee. "Really?" he finally asked, even more uncomfortable with the silence, hanging over them like a death shroud. "And what is it that you think I've found?"

"Home."

It was a small word, but it seemed to fill the mineshaft like a flash flood of water. Ezra gulped for air, his lungs suddenly tight inside his cold chest. Chris just stared at him, not even offering a hand to pull him to the surface. As usual, Ezra struggled alone.

Finally, he managed a deep breath, then another, until the words would come, clearly, though not nearly as loud as Chris's one word had been. "Homes are transitory. My life has taught me that" — Ezra dared to meet Chris's eyes again, dared to hold them — "as has yours, if I recall correctly."

Chris looked away. Ezra had struck a still-raw nerve, as he'd intended, though he suddenly felt badly about giving in to such pettiness. He placed a gentle hand on the other man's knee, but Chris flinched away. Standing — so easily that it was an affront to Ezra's injured condition — Chris moved to the far side of the mineshaft and leaned against the wall.

"I don't regret it," Chris finally said, his head bowed and his voice so low that Ezra wasn't certain he had even spoken. Chris pulled his hat from his head and allowed it to fall to the ground before running his hand through his lank hair. "They shouldn't have died. It's my fault they did. But...."

"You loved them," Ezra said simply, though he held little true understanding of the words.

"No. If I did ... I'd regret the life we had together, because it was the cause of their deaths. I was the cause."

"You can't blame yourself. You didn't set the fire—"

"I wasn't there!" Chris's voice was loud with frustration and anger. His breathing was heavy and his fists were clenched tight. "I wasn't there when they needed me," he finally finished, his voice calm again.

Ezra just nodded.

"If I'd returned straight away ... instead of lingering one more night...."

"It wasn't an accident, Chris. You couldn't have known. You couldn't have been with them every moment," Ezra reasoned, knowing he had no right to second-guess this man, interfering in his past. "It's not your fault."

"It ... it is." Then Chris fell quiet again. Still, leaning against the far wall, his clenched fist the only remaining indication of his outburst. "I have only one thing I need to do: find their killer. But I'll fail them again, stuck down here with you, waiting to die."

"We'll find a way out, Chris," Ezra assured him, not really believing it any more than when Chris had spoken those words to him. "Or someone will find us." When Chris just stared, not answering, Ezra lifted the man's beer bottle and held it out to him.

Chris took a deep breath, and then pushed himself away from the wall. He slumped down next to Ezra again and took the beer, placing the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply.

"I can't remember her face anymore," Chris finally said, slowly. "It's been fading for a while ... but now it's just...."

"Gone." Ezra nodded — he understood, he knew the feeling, though not to the degree that Chris did.

"I miss her so much. Still," Chris added, furrows deepening across his brow. "But, more than anything, what gets to me, especially late at night, is—"

"The loneliness," Ezra finished for him, as if the original thought had been his own.

Ezra watched Chris's features; the man seemed not to notice, his eyes fixed on the far wall.

"Who do you miss?" Chris asked after a long silence.

Ezra shrugged. He looked down the corridor, into the darkness that ended in a pile of rubble, blocking what might have been an exit from the mine. "I miss never allowing myself the luxury — the weakness, my mother would call it — of getting to know anyone well enough to miss him once he was gone. Personal attachments, you see, can be used against you; they can taint otherwise perfectly good business transactions."

"Ezra—" Chris began, laying a hand on Ezra's shoulder; Ezra flinched away from the unexpected contact.

"I am the product of a business transaction," he scoffed. "Despite having made the acquaintance of my mother, you probably weren't aware of that, were you, Mr. Larabee?" He hung his head, exhaling slowly. "At least you loved your wife and son."

"I did. I do."

"Then do not regret what time you had with them, even ending as it did."

After that, neither man spoke for a long time. Ezra's head nodded some and, after a while, he realized there was a pressure against his shoulder. He turned to find Chris leaning against him. He didn't move, instead choosing to simply stare at the man's calm features: the line of his nose, his light lashes as they lay across tanned skin like smudges of dust — not quite brown, not quite blond — with just a suggestion of the red Ezra knew sunlight would expose. And the long legs stretching out, away from his body.... After all this time, the man still wore black. Even Mary Travis, who'd lost her husband a mere year before had thrown off her widow's weeds after the appropriate period of mourning. But not Chris Larabee. He wore the dreary like a nun would wear the habit.

Oddly, Ezra longed to see the man in something else — red, perhaps. Even blue would be a welcome change. Anything but the never-ending blandness of his present wardrobe.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the man leaning against him, Ezra reached down toward his knee and worked the muscles with delicate fingertips, trying to ease the tightness that had settled in. He pulled his folded coat from beneath the joint, but then knew he couldn't bear the pain without the added support, so he cocked his good leg and tucked his booted foot under the injury.

With a small sigh, he idly brushed the dirt from his jacket. It was his favorite, in a lovely shade of plum. One of his more expensive purchases — bought with winnings when last he'd visited New Orleans — and it had proven a wise investment; the most durable, versatile coat currently in his possession.

The sudden thought of Chris wearing the coat almost made him laugh. Chris Larabee, in purple: it wouldn't suit his coloring at all. Then again, he told himself, at least it wasn't another shade of drab.

The gambler then did something unusual; he took a chance. He picked the jacket up by the shoulder seams and reached over to lay it across the sleeping man's chest.

Suddenly, a hand lashed out, clamping around his wrist.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" the gunslinger gritted out.

Ezra looked at him in surprise, noting how much more intimidating the man's features were in the sallow, low light of their single lamp. However, he quickly schooled his features, stating matter-of-factly, "You looked chilled." He released his grip on the jacket, allowing it to drop into Chris's lap. He then pulled his wrist out of Chris's numbing grip and settled himself back against the wall.

"Thank you," Chris finally said, calmly. He rearranged the jacket over himself, slowly smoothing out the folds and wrinkles.

After a few moments, Ezra stole a glance in Chris's direction. He could tell it wouldn't be a good color on the man, under normal circumstances, but here, in this confined space, with the single lantern, the purple mitigated the sallowing affects of the oil lamp, giving Chris the appearance of a healthier lifestyle.

Courtesy of Buck Wilmington, he knew Chris Larabee was not yet forty. He usually looked older, but, in this light, Ezra could easily imagine the more youthful, vital face his wife must have fallen in love with. And he could see why. There was a pleasantness to it at the moment, normally hidden from the world. A willingness to care—

"What?"

Startled, Ezra blinked. "I beg your pardon."

"You're staring."

"Was I? I-I didn't realize— I didn't mean to be rude."

"Weren't. Just made me wonder what you were staring at."

Ezra flushed, then suddenly hoped Chris hadn't seen it in the faint light. "The last face I'll undoubtedly ever see," he remarked, trying to diffuse the discomfort before his limbs began to tremble.

"Ezra..." Chris began, but his voice trailed off and, after a moment, Ezra wasn't certain if the man had spoken at all.

He hazarded a glance at his companion just to check. Chris was staring at him with intense eyes. Even in the flickering light, they were green, but dark, more like grass shaded by a spreading magnolia tree. He knew his own eyes held a different tint — too often the color of money or envy — shades Chris's eyes never possessed. And the man's hair ... light, like a field of wheat at sunset — not dark like Ezra's, not dark like Ezra's intentions.

He took a quick breath. Even in the face of death, he was a coward. What could he possibly have to lose now? There was little beer left and when that was gone, either thirst or starvation would claim them both. As a gambler, he could calculate the odds. The mineshaft was well hidden. He'd told no one about the place. It was to have been his discovery, his claim, his first step toward true, secure wealth. Only the first step had been bigger than he'd imagined. The rotted boards, hidden beneath a thick layer of dirt and weeds, had given way and he'd fallen straight down, as if into the pit of hell.

He had no idea how long he'd lain at the bottom of the mineshaft. When consciousness came, so did the pain and the realization that he could not move his leg enough to stand, let alone to try to find an exit route. Luckily, no bones appeared to have been broken. Rest, he knew, might give him enough strength to venture forth. However, hours later, and before he was able to struggle to his feet, Chris had found him — by sheer happenstance. The man hadn't been looking for him, and what did a gunslinger need with a rope?

With a little searching, Chris had found a discarded rope in a small supply shack left by the miners. It seemed luck was on their side, until the fibers of the rope proved to be as rotten as the wood that had originally covered the shaft. Chris had fallen as he was attempting to climb down.

His shoulder was now as battered and bruised as Ezra's knee — and just as useless. Neither of them could climb out now, even if they had a sturdy enough rope, which they didn't. The tunnel in which they now lay was unstable itself, having threatened to give way when Chris attempted to move some of the debris clogging the one end of the passage. The other end of the tunnel held a similar cave-in, Chris had reported. There were no other ways out.

And that was that. They wouldn't be found, because when they were finally missed, no one would have even the faintest clue where to begin searching for them.

They were going to die. So, what more was there to lose?

"I don't want to die alone," Ezra muttered.

"You won't." Chris reassured him by covering Ezra's hand with his own.

"I don't want to be alone."

Chris squeezed his hand. "You're not. And I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Ever?" It was a stupid question, Ezra knew, and he hated himself for having asked it. Ever. Ever being the next few hours, possibly stretching into the next few days. It would mean nothing if Chris were to assent, yet somehow it meant everything to Ezra when the gunman nodded.

"Ever."

Ezra's heart stopped when the man twined his fingers with his own and squeezed again. Chris couldn't be sincere, Ezra knew. It was just a word. A word that meant nothing between two men — two dying men.

He quickly pulled his hand from Chris's.

"Ezra—"

"Don't. Not unless you intend to use that revolver of yours to shoot me right here and now."

"Ezra," he continued, as if the warning had never been spoken. "I don't want to die alone either."

Ezra's breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, he longed for death — something quick and painless. Why couldn't the fall have simply snapped his neck?

Chris turned slightly toward him. "I'm tired of—"

"Feeling empty."

"—ignoring the stares. Your stares."

"I— I, uh, beg your pardon?" Ezra feigned ignorance.

"I've seen you. Watching me."

"Really, Mister Larabee, I don't know what—"

Chris's move was sudden and completely unexpected. Ezra was pushed back hard against the wall, the back of his head grinding against the dirt, as the gunslinger seemed to suck the very breath from his lungs. He could feel Chris's arm flush against his side as Chris braced himself, then his other hand brushed across Ezra's thighs. The man's touch was gentle, but the gambler had a feeling that had more to do with his injured shoulder than anything else.

The fingers slid up his trouser leg, and, knowing their ultimate destination, Ezra froze; even the trembling of his limbs ceased as he waited for the inevitable. He wanted it, he longed for it, and yet he was suddenly more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

A coward to the last, a small voice in the back of his mind chided.

Then Chris's hand stroked over the swelling in his pants and Ezra nearly lost control as a sharp spasm wracked his entire body.

Chris pulled away and stared at him. "Tell me you've done this before."

Ezra took a few moments in an attempt to still his ragged breathing — it didn't help. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"I want the truth," Chris replied. The phrase would have been a mockery coming from anyone else.

"I didn't think you trusted me to tell the truth," Ezra retorted anyway, unsettled by what had just happened.

"There're a lot of things I don't trust about you, Ezra — reasons you never gave in order for me to trust you," Chris said, and his low voice sounded harsh to Ezra's ears. The gambler hung his head, but Chris's hand shot to his chin and forced his head up until their eyes made contact. "But I don't believe you've ever lied to me."

Ezra didn't think he had either, at least not intentionally.

"Now would be a bad time to start," Chris warned him. "Saint Peter doesn't look too kindly upon liars."

"Saint Peter doesn't look too kindly upon a lot of things we've done ... or things we might do...." He left the statement hanging in the air between them, wondering what Chris might do with it.

"I've done murder, Ezra — a sin I can't repent. But I hear a man can only burn once, so what more can God do to me?"

"Give you a town of hicks and hayseeds to protect and pay you next to dirt to do it," Ezra replied, the sarcasm in his voice as thick as molasses, but Chris seemed to hear something more.

"That's why you're down here — silver. The Great Mother Lode. Is that what you were looking for?"

Ezra held Chris's eyes, though the temptation to hide his avarice from this man above all others was strong. "Maybe not THE mother lode, but certainly a large enough vein to bankroll me through the coming winter ... maybe even buy back the tavern...."

"I thought that was a con— a business deal," Chris corrected himself at the last moment.

"A legitimate business deal, thank you. Only my mother saw it as a challenge, a chance to teach me a lesson while making herself feel like the superior wheeler-and-dealer that she is. The thought never crossed her mind that I wasn't in it for the short-term profit potential."

"I was right."

"You usually are, Chris, but may I inquire as to what, in particular, you were right about this time?"

"You having found a home. You like our little backwater town. You like your job. You like protecting those 'hicks and hayseeds' more than you like winning their hard-earned cash."

Ezra hung his head now; this he was embarrassed about, as absurd as anyone but his mother might think that was.

"You want the truth?" Ezra asked, the question more rhetorical than anything. "Yes, I suppose I do. My mother taught me well, but I have learned more simply by watching her. She trusts no one, not even me. She has never owned a house longer than it has taken her to sell it at a profit. She's been married far too many times, after engagements far too short, and I can, with all confidence, state that she has never once been in love with any of them as much as she's been in love with their money, power, or possessions."

Ezra paused. He wasn't sure the man before him was grasping anything he was trying to say, but Chris's vivid green eyes were still intently studying his face, like a hungry man waiting to be fed with more words.

"She seems to be happy, though. You've met her; wouldn't you agree? She's known no other life and her accomplishments bring such a joy and light to her face.... If only I were to apply myself, she would say. In twenty years, that could be me: wealthy ... successful...."

"Alone."

To Ezra's ears, it sounded like Chris's voice, but he'd been so captured by the man's eyes that he hadn't noticed if his mouth had moved. It could easily have been his imagination. Nevertheless, he realized, wherever the word had come from, it was still the truth.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Ezra sighed. "In twenty days, I'll count myself truly lucky if someone has found our bodies and buried them properly so that our restless spirits aren't doomed to roam this earth for eternity."

"Well, yes, I suppose there is that."

Ezra laughed. There wasn't anything funny about their situation, about his body rotting at the bottom of a mineshaft, as his soul remained bound to this God-forsaken place. Indeed, that would be hell, he thought — far worse than burning. "I suddenly find myself in want of a good priest."

"I'm no holy man, Ezra. But, if it'll make you feel better, go ahead and confess."

Ezra stared at him quizzically. He hadn't thought of confessing. After all, what did he have to confess? He'd never killed anyone who hadn't shot at him first. He'd never cheated anyone who hadn't attempted to cheat him first. He'd never taken food from a hungry man, woman, or child. He'd never stolen anything, not even to save his own life. And during the past months he'd certainly atoned for any sins he couldn't at the moment recall, by protecting a bunch of helpless citizens, foolish enough to settle in a lawless territory, for a mere dollar a day and a pardon for some minor infractions he could hardly even recall committing.

"I have nothing to confess," he finally replied.

"Are you sure?" Chris asked, and Ezra knew that the unintended quaver in his voice had made the statement sound like a lie to the man. "Lust is a sin, too."

Lust. Well, then, Ezra supposed, he was going to hell after all, for having had the strength of will to resist the urge to act upon his thoughts. Somehow, that didn't seem right. There hadn't been many occasions, but certain opportunities had presented themselves before now. There was the night after they'd left that wagon train at the new homestead — they'd camped alongside the river. During his watch, he'd found Chris a ways from camp, bathing in the cool water, the moonlight glistening across the pale skin of his bare shoulders....

Oh, yes, he'd lusted, to the point of aching. However, he'd failed this man once before while on watch, and he had vowed never to do so again. He'd torn his eyes away from Chris, tugging himself back to his duty, to protect the others should trouble come looking. No trouble had, but Ezra had refrained from cursing himself for the missed opportunity. He wanted him, but Chris's respect was more important, even if the man never knew the pained efforts it had caused him.

"Are you determined for me to join you in hell, sir?" Ezra asked, as Chris's hand returned to gently stroke his upper thigh.

"You said you didn't want to be alone," Chris reminded him as his fingers found his bulging stiffness. "And, I just don't think you'll know anyone in heaven."

Ezra's heart thudded loudly in his chest as the breath from the man's words tickled his ear and his touch feathered across the heat filling his pants. He wanted to kiss Chris again, to feel his lips firmly against his own, but his will to move was a mere tremble through his limps.

Chris shifted further, bringing his forehead lightly against Ezra's. He met the gunslinger's eyes and realized for the first time all that they held: it was like staring over the rail of a ship in the Caribbean, down into the watery depths of the sea. That clear first layer of crystal green, blending into shades of blue, darker and darker as you peered into it, the bottom unfathomable, yet imploring as a siren's song to be explored.

Ezra tilted his head suddenly, bringing his lips against Chris's. He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to stave off the in-coming tide of emotions, but he immediately felt the man's hand leave his body. A moment later, a warm palm was against his cheek and Chris was pulling his lips away. The man shook him with a gentle insistence until Ezra opened his eyes again.

"Watch me," Chris whispered, and Ezra had never felt more sinful.

He followed Chris with his eyes as he moved down the length of his body, kissing and caressing over the soft linen of his shirt. Chris paused at mid-chest and Ezra could feel the heat of his breath even through the cloth. Then a finger brushed over a sensitive area of skin and Ezra fought the urge to close his eyes again, to simply fall into the sensations and away from the reality of this place. As he watched Chris's finger stroking back and forth — the swelling of the bud re-enforcing the swelling in his loins — Ezra felt another contact, this one hot and wet. He jerked his eyes away to Chris's face, as the man mouthed his other nipple through his shirt.

Ezra's toes curled inside his boots as Chris continued to lave and suckle.

He'd never imagined this. Any of this. He'd only ever paused to admire: the man's sleek form, his sinewy movements. Ezra had never allowed his wanton thoughts to stray beyond, too afraid of where the road might lead. This very road.

Ezra brought his hand up, deftly tangling his fingers in Chris's hair. He continued to watch as Chris lapped and pulled at the skin beneath his now-wet shirt. Then he watched as Chris pulled away, just an inch, but to Ezra it felt like a mile, until the man began to blow gently over the wet spot, chilling the fabric that rested over his taut nipple; impossibly, the bud hardened further as waves of sensation rolled over Ezra's body.

Chris blazed his way downward — too slowly, in Ezra's mind, yet he knew this would all be over far too soon. Why couldn't any of this have happened before? There had been the first time he'd seen Chris in the saloon, drinking ... just drinking ... alone ... before anything had happened in that town to give him cause to stay. They were just two strangers, drifters. It would have been easy to approach him, to broach the subject, to make the suggestion. More likely than not, he would have been run out of town — not that it would have been the first time that had ever happened to him — but, if the man had been receptive....

They could have been doing this on a comfortable feather bed instead of in the dirt at the bottom of a condemned mine.

Moments later, his body ready to explode, Ezra watched as Chris began to struggle with his belt. The weakness caused by the man's injured shoulder made the simple buckle an impossible chore. Ezra reached over and undid the silver clasp, then began to loosen the buttons down the placket, but Chris's hand came to rest on top of his, stopping him.

Chris looked up and met Ezra's eyes, then the most sinful grin he'd ever in his life seen spread wide across Chris's face. He caught his breath as the gunslinger bent his head down and began to undo the buttons with his bared teeth. Beneath, Ezra could feel Chris's hot breath seeping through the cloth and spreading across his groin even as the man's chin bumped against his hard length.

Raggedly, Ezra let out the breath he'd been holding. Though he kept his gaze firmly on Chris, he gave his other senses free rein, allowing himself to simply experience what was happening to him. It was foreign to him, to relinquish all control, but here, with Chris, at this moment in time, it didn't feel like a risk; it felt like a sure thing. Like his entire life had been leading up to this — an end he couldn't have predicted, yet he couldn't think of a better way to die.

A startled scream echoed through the shaft then, and Ezra quickly realized he was the source. Chris had freed his erection and suddenly sucked the entire, aching length into his mouth. Ezra's hand came up to rest on the gunslinger's good shoulder, his fingertips squeezing in encouragement. He chose to look at this as an extra gift, given not because he'd earned it or deserved it, but simply because Chris wanted to give it. There were no obligations here; there would be no more obligations for them. No expectations. No consequences. No future.

Ezra smiled as he bit back a groan. Chris's hand had slipped into his trousers and was now caressing the skin of his sac, stroking over the rough surface, tickling at the underside. And what this man was doing with his tongue turned Ezra's mind to jelly — swirling it over the head, skimming it along the rim, slipping it inside the small slit....

Then Ezra felt hot breath blowing down his length as Chris slowly leveraged himself up. He lapped once more at the slit before whispering, "Go ahead and scream, Ezra. No one can hear you but me. And I want to hear you."

"Chris..." he began, but no more words would come as he watched the gunfighter engulf his long rod again. When the tip hit the back of Chris's throat, the man quickly tightened his grip on Ezra's sac.

Ezra let loose a scream that filled the tunnel and shook dust from the rickety support beams above them. He felt Chris smile as he pulled back some, then thrust Ezra's length deep again. As he pulled back again, Chris ran his tongue over the length, lapping at the head again, then sprinkling the tip with delicate kisses before pushing the rod back inside for another slow, moist caress.

He dug his fingers into the dirt as Chris plied talents Ezra had been unaware the man possessed. He watched as his length disappeared into the man's warm mouth; he watched as Chris's hand slid out of his trousers and up, this time beneath his shirt, to toy with a still-hard nipple.

He wanted to do these same things to Chris. He wanted to throw the man on his back, climb on top of him and do things he'd never even allowed himself to dream about before this moment. But, mostly, he just wanted to kiss him and to be with him. Moreover, he wanted Chris to want these same things.

"Chris..." he muttered, the words he needed to say finally taking form. "I— I need to know...." His breath was heavy, and he had a difficult time staying focused as the gunslinger continued to suckle at his length. "Is it me, or is it our circumstances: this place and our fate?" Chris stopped his attentions, and Ezra immediately missed them, more than he could have anticipated.

"Does it matter?"

Ezra took a deep breath and then tried to let it out slowly. "Suddenly, I find that it does."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"N-no. Just ... tell me...." Ezra knew he shouldn't need to ask this man of all people, but the sudden insecurity fluttering in his gut would not be ignored: "Tell me the truth."

Chris hesitated only long enough to shift his weight slightly. "I want you, Ezra. Here, anywhere ... now, tomorrow.... Doesn't matter. As long as it's you."

Ezra brought his hand up and caressed Chris's cheek. The man smiled at him and Ezra realized the uneasy feeling in his gut was gone. The only thing bothering him now was the ache between his legs. Chris seemed to sense this and returned his attentions to the neglected organ.

With his fingertip, the gunslinger traced a path down the entire length of Ezra's shaft, and then followed it with his tongue. Ezra shivered beneath him, which only seemed to encourage Chris. The man's hand slipped inside Ezra's trousers as his tongue moved up the length, then circled the rim, around and around, making Ezra dizzy.

Fingers caressed his sac: kneading, tugging, pressing. Chris's thumb stroked over the softly knurled skin as a finger eased back, finding the smooth patch just behind and pressing at the precise moment that he took Ezra's penis full into his mouth. Ezra buck his hips forward, wrenching a strangled cry from his lungs — not from pleasure, but from a sudden, stabbing pain in his injured knee, though he was certain Chris could not discern the difference.

Chris pressed his good shoulder firm against Ezra's thigh, pinning him to the ground. Then the man began to suck as he plied his tongue up and down Ezra's solid length. He felt his balls suddenly contract and Ezra knew Chris must have felt it too, because the man squeezed him hard, then released and began to rub over the smooth patch of skin, working his way further back until he reached Ezra's pucker. The first stroke across the tight ring of muscle caused Ezra's lower lip to quiver as he gasped for breath.

He couldn't see the hand buried inside his pants, but he saw the sudden grin that appeared on Chris's face as soon as he'd reacted. Chris was taking pleasure in this, maybe even as much as Ezra was receiving. Normally a selfish man, this realization swelled his heart. Then he gasped again as Chris brushed over the ring of muscle once more.

He could feel the heat deep in his gut; he could feel the tensing of all the muscles; he could feel himself, impossibly, growing harder. He thought Chris must have been thinking that he felt suddenly like granite.

Ezra's breaths came faster, until they were nothing more than gasping pants. God, he was so close! A sudden spasm at the base of his penis. So close. Another spasm, this time yanking his balls tightly upward. All his muscles were tense, like rope pulled too taut. He fought to keep his eyes open, fought to keep his sights on the man inflicting this torturous pleasure upon him.

He drew in one last breath, concentrating to make it long and deep, and then he forced himself to relax.

Chris's finger, still insistently stroking over his ring of muscle, suddenly thrust up and inside, pushing Ezra over the edge. He pumped himself into Chris's hot mouth, as his gut clenched and his head jerked forward. He wasn't certain if he cried out, though is lungs and throat burned — all he could hear was the deafening thunder of his own heartbeat.

Chris remained suckling gently in Ezra's lap for a few moments before pushing himself up on his elbow and meeting Ezra's eyes again. The man's hair was tousled, even more so than usual, and though Ezra had always considered him a handsome man, he knew Chris had never looked more attractive than he did at that very moment.

Ezra reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief, which he gently applied to the corners of the man's mouth; only then did he realize that his fingers were trembling. Chris smiled as he reached up and grabbed his hand. He pulled Ezra's fingers open, and then kissed his palm before taking the cloth and applying it to Ezra's softening penis.

Once his organ was clean and dry, Chris asked, "Mind doing the honors? My shoulder's starting to ache some."

Ezra nodded, reaching for the placket on his own pants; Ezra tucked in his shirt, then did up the buttons and cinched his belt loosely in place.

He leaned against the wall for a few moments after that, trying to steady his breathing, his nerves. What they'd just done ... what Chris had just done ... what Ezra had just allowed to transpire.... It wasn't anything that he'd ever allowed himself to imagine, and that was the only reason Ezra believe it had actually occurred and wasn't some near-death, wish-fulfilling vision.

However, these thoughts did nothing to still the tremors in his hands, did nothing to placate his nerves. It was ridiculous. He was a better master of himself than this, normally, when he wasn't trapped in a mineshaft with a man who'd just made him feeling things he probably wasn't worthy of feeling.

Then Chris was kissing him again. Soft this time, with not the slightest trace of urgency. Like they really did have forever.

Ezra reached out a hand, but it was trembling so violently now that he was afraid to touch Chris with it, afraid to show the man how deeply this had affected him. Nevertheless, Chris saw his hand, hovering just above Chris's crotch, and he pressed it gently back into Ezra's own lap. He looked into Ezra's eyes then, holding them.

"It's okay, Ezra. We have time. I ... I'd like to rest some now."

Ezra just nodded. However, the uncertainty in his hands was now migrating deep into his body. Was Chris just being kind? Before today, he probably would have felt slighted, thinking Chris merely being polite, putting him off until there would be no time left. However, he wanted to believe Chris's words were the truth; he wanted to believe that they would have time to do this again before they died, before their strength deserted them. There was no need to rush things now, when rest could do them both so much good.

The trembling in Ezra's hands was now gone. He turned slightly and reached out again to Chris. "At least allow me to do what I can to ease the pain in your shoulder."

Chris shifted, leaning his back against Ezra's chest. Ezra worked his hand gently over the strained muscles, as Nathan had once done for him. He'd separated his shoulder in the first unselfish act of his adult life — protecting the Seminole village — and by letting Nathan finally tend to his injury, he'd allowed himself to trust for the first time as well. Ironic, he suddenly thought, that that modicum of trust should have led to this.

"Are you all right?" Chris asked, and Ezra realized his fingers had fallen lax.

A smile flitted over his lips as he exhaled. "Fine. I'm fine."

Chris reached up and squeezed his hand. "We are going to be fine, Ezra. No matter what happens."

Ezra nodded, as he resumed his gentle ministrations to Chris's sore shoulder.

"You two look mighty cozy," Vin said, amusement in his voice, though Ezra couldn't yet focus enough to make out the specifics of his features.

Ezra jostled Chris, but it was unnecessary — the man was already pushing himself to his feet. He stepped around Ezra, and then practically fell into Vin's arms, embracing the man fiercely for too long, before pulling away.

"Thank God you found us," Chris said, focusing solely on Vin. "But, how?"

Vin pointed at his own chest and said, "Tracker. Remember? Lived with Indians...."

This answer didn't amuse Ezra, nor did it seem to satisfy Chris.

Vin acquiesced and explained. "Your horse wandered back into town late yesterday. We've been out searching ever since. Found Ezra's horse this morning, grazing not far from here. From there, it was easy to follow the tracks to this hole. And when we found the snapped rope leading down here, well, it didn't take much to guess what had happened."

"Well, we appreciate the rescue. Beginning to think this was how it was all gonna end," Chris said as he clasped Vin on the shoulder. "Knew I was gonna end up in a hole in the ground eventually, just didn't think it'd be this deep, or that I'd be alive at the time."

"So, can you two climb outta here?" Vin asked, looking back and forth between them.

Chris shook his head. "Ezra's knee is pretty banged up, and so's my shoulder."

Vin nodded. "Nathan!" he called up, and the healer poked his head over the edge of the vertical shaft. "Kin ya climb down here — both these boys need tendin'."

"No! Nathan, you stay there."

"Chris—" Vin began to protest, but Chris cut him off.

"No one else is coming down here. This shaft isn't that stable and I won't risk anyone else getting hurt or trapped."

"I must agree, Mr. Tanner. I've put too many people at risk already with my foolish pursuits."

Chris shot a glare at him, but Ezra didn't understand why. Neither did he know what the man's sharp, narrowed eyes meant, but they made him uneasy all the same. Chris turned back to Vin. "Can you rig something with your rope and then haul us up?"

Vin nodded. "Reckon so." He turned to Ezra. "Iffn I make a loop, would yer knee bear sittin' in it as we pulled you up?"

"I assure you, Mr. Tanner, I will endure. I've surely suffered worse." He looked at Chris as he said this last, but then he looked quickly away, suddenly embarrassed by the memories of what they'd foolishly shared the night before.

"Fine. Vin, you climb up, and then throw the rope back down. Ezra — you'll be first, then I'll follow."

"No, that is unacceptable. You shall go first. I will not see you trapped down here because of me for one moment longer than necessary—"

"Look, you two work it out." Vin then headed for the rope that hung against the far wall. "Nathan, Josiah — I'm coming up!" he hollered, and then he tugged on the rope to check that it was secure before he began to climb.

Minutes later Vin and the rope were gone; Chris and Ezra were alone once more inside the deserted mineshaft. Neither man made eye contact. Chris paced beneath the opening, waiting for the rope to be dropped back down. Ezra slumped against the wall.

They weren't going to die. And all the reasons he'd had for not baring his heart to Chris suddenly seemed valid again. They'd given up on rescue, on life, and they'd spent their last moments on carnal pleasures, out of fear and need. It had meant nothing. And 'forever' had meant only those few precious hours that they'd thought they had left.

However, with the light of a new morning, with Vin and the others working to liberate them, regret seemed the only thing Ezra could share with Chris. He'd seen how happy the man was, not just at the prospect of being rescued, but also at simply seeing another person besides Ezra. At seeing Vin.

"You boys ready?" Vin called down, and then dropped the rope. Chris caught it, and then inspected both the loop and the securing knot. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to Ezra.

"You first."

Ezra shook his head.

"Fine," Chris conceded, "then get over here and help me."

Ezra struggled to stand, but his knee had swollen during the night and it was all he could do to lean against the wall in an effort to remain upright. Chris came over and slipped in beside him, grabbing him around the waist as he pulled Ezra's arm around his shoulder.

"This is why you're going first. Ain't no way you can get yourself in that sling Vin made all by yourself. No arguments."

Ezra was suddenly too tired to disagree. He nodded and allowed Chris to help him to the rope. Minutes later, he was sitting in the sling, his hands gripping tightly just above the knot as the men began to pull him out of the mine. The sun became brighter and brighter as he neared the top. His knee banged painfully against the wall of the shaft as the rope naturally twisted. He tried to steady himself with a hand, but he was too afraid of losing his grip and falling back down into the mine. It appeared, he realized, that his cowardice had returned now that the prospect of life was no longer fleeting.

When he caught his first glimpse of grass and trees, hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way out of the shaft. They laid him down a few feet away, then left him as they all went back to haul Chris up from the mine — all except Nathan.

"Where're you hurt?" the healer asked and Ezra indicated his knee. Nathan pressed fingers painfully into the flesh around his knee and Ezra fought the urge to cry out. "Don't seem broken. Wait here. And don't move," the man instructed. He handed Ezra a canteen, and then left him to assist the others.

Ezra took a long pull of water before leaning his head back against the grass. He knew it was wrong, but he suddenly wished these men had never found him ... him and Chris. It had all been so different last night, knowing they were going to die, alone, together. Now things would go back to the way they'd been before. Whatever trust Chris had shown him last night would ebb as the others continued their reluctance toward him. Whatever affection Chris had demonstrated would be hidden away until it faded from existence as well. He had been, after all, the only game in town last night, as the saying went. With this rescue and their lives returning to normal, that would no longer be the case.

Ezra heard the cheerful salutations and knew Chris had made it safely to the surface. He didn't want to look, but something drew his head up and his eyes wide open. He saw hands shaking Chris's, slapping him on the back ... but, out of all them, Vin was the only one to hug him, as he'd done down in the mineshaft.

A sharp pain gripped Ezra's heart as his head dropped back onto the grass. Forever had lasted all of fourteen hours. Ezra scoffed. That must be a new record, in the annuls of love. And, it would remain one, he vowed. As much as he longed to feel the way he had last night, in Chris's possession, he didn't ever again want to feel the way he did right now.

Seven men, and he was the odd man out once more. Alone, as usual.

Finally, Nathan returned to his side. He cut through the outside seam of his pant leg, but Ezra didn't even care. Nathan inspected the exposed knee before wrapping it securely with some strips of cloth. "You oughta be okay to ride, if you got the strength. Ezra?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Jackson." Ezra just lay in the grass as Nathan patted him on the chest and then walked away, presumably to tend to Chris's injured shoulder. Ezra stared up at the scattered white clouds, wisping gently across the blue sky. He didn't need to look to identify the voices he then heard.

"Told you we'd find 'em," JD said.

"You did at that," Buck indulged.

"Knew that scream we heard last night meant they were still alive," the young man continued.

Buck just laughed.

If Ezra had known anyone had been out in this wilderness to hear it.... Ezra closed his eyes tightly, wanting to forget that scream and the reason for it. Nevertheless, JD was beside him, shaking his shoulder.

"That musta been when you hurt your knee, huh, Ezra?" he asked.

"What?" feigning innocence — back to his old habits already.

"That scream. That was you, wasn't it? Or was it Chris, when he hurt his shoulder?"

"I, uh, I don't recall."

Buck was beside the young man now, a firm hand on his shoulder. "Let Ezra rest. We've got a long ride back into town."

"But, Buck. Don't you wanna know?"

"I'm sure it was Chris; Ezra was down there first, weren't ya, Ez? And you saw that rope, JD — Chris said it broke when he was climbing down." Buck pulled JD back to his feet. "Now, leave the man alone, would you?"

"Let go," JD protested, but there was no anger in his young voice. Ezra didn't think he'd ever heard JD actually express anger with Buck over anything — frustration maybe, over women, over being treated like a kid, but never anger. He envied the boy that relationship and whatever good deeds he'd done to deserve it.

"Ezra?"

He opened his eyes again and saw Chris standing above him. In the bright morning sun, the man's eyes were dark and unreadable. "Can you ride?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Larabee. You need not concern yourself."

Chris stared at him for a moment, then simply turned his back, and walked away.

Soon, it was Josiah at his side, helping him up. Why did the man's presence, his touch, make the weight of what had happened last night seem even greater? He was helped into the saddle — a painful endeavor he vowed not to repeat for as long as possible — and then they were all heading back toward town. Buck and JD were riding point. Chris and Vin just behind, riding close enough that their conversation did not carry on the gentle afternoon breeze. Ezra followed, further behind than he would have under any other circumstances. Josiah and Nathan quietly brought up the rear.

The ride wasn't too hard on his knee, but it didn't matter; Ezra allowed himself to be consumed just the same. He felt every sway and step his horse made. He sunk deep into the pain, focusing on it, blocking out everything else. It was easier that way, to revel in the physical hurt than to dwell on the pain his own thoughts brought.

"—zra! You okay?" It was Nathan at his side, a hand stretched out to shake his shoulder.

Ezra nodded, giving a wane smile. He just wanted to be left alone.

Back in town, things were no easier. He'd convinced Nathan to treat him at the saloon. If the man was going to force him to eat, he didn't plan on climbing up and down the stairs of the clinic, and then hobbling the length of half the town in order to do so. The saloon it would be, and then he was only a short flight of stairs from his own room, from the solitude he wished he didn't crave so much right now.

He picked at his food. Trying not to watch Chris across the room, doing the same. Vin sat beside the gunslinger. They were talking again, Ezra could tell, though he couldn't make out a single word. In all his time with this group, he hadn't seen either man talk to anyone as much as they were talking to each other right now. It was eating him alive to know what they were saying. He had no true idea what Vin meant to Chris — both men were normally so quiet and reserved — but now, he didn't know what to suspect. If only they were more open, like Buck and JD, or even Josiah and Nathan. Those men, anyone could tell, shared a bond only the blood of brotherhood could make stronger. But, Chris and Vin ... Vin and Chris ... he just didn't know. Moreover, it bothered him.

His mind flashed unbidden to the previous night, to the touches they'd shared, the words ... profound and yet he didn't really know Chris Larabee any better than he had the day before. Had it been just convenience — desperate convenience — between two men who thought their lives over?

Ezra shook his head, and then downed another mouthful of whiskey.

"Hey, take it easy there, Ezra," Nathan admonished, as he came over. The healer just stood, though, not pulling out a chair as Ezra thought he might. "Not too much of that stuff. Slows down the healin'."

"But eases the pain," Ezra added, hoping the man might give him something stronger, more effective.

"Still, not too much." Nathan looked down at Ezra for a long time.

Ezra didn't look up. He kept his eyes on his food, pushing it around the plate, trying to look hungry. He knew he ought to be hungry, after missing three meals since falling in the mineshaft, but he wasn't. Not in the slightest. Not for food, anyway.

"So, are you ready to head on up to bed?" Nathan asked and Ezra just nodded. The quiet solitude of his room seemed appealing, even after his ordeal ... maybe because of it, he wasn't sure. He just didn't want to sit staring at Chris and Vin any longer.

"Yes, I believe I am, Mr. Jackson. And, if you would be so kind as to assist me—"

"I'll do it, Nathan," Vin Tanner said, as he stepped over to the table. The man's sudden presence surprised Ezra, who thought perhaps he had taken a tad too much libation after all.

"That's quite all right," Ezra began to protest — Vin was the last man he wished to rely upon right now — but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him.

"Thank you, Vin. I'd appreciate that." Nathan patted Vin on the shoulder, and then headed out of the saloon. Ezra was left, staring at the tracker. He could understand Chris's attraction to him. The light hair, the easy smile, the twinkle in the eye — Vin had experienced life, but none of those experiences had ever broken his spirit. The man didn't have to pretend not to be needy — he simply wasn't. Nor did he have to strive to prove his trust and reliability to any of them — he'd been demonstrating it since the beginning.

Vin had moved around the table and was now helping him to his feet. Ezra didn't suppose he had any choice in the matter. As he stood, he glanced up and found the table Chris and Vin had been occupying completely empty now. When had Chris left the saloon? How had Ezra not noticed?

"Easy now, pard," Vin said, as they started up the stairs, and Ezra found his voice quite soothing. Yes, he could see Chris preferring this man.... He leaned a little more heavily than necessary on the tracker, but Vin didn't seem to mind, if he even noticed.

As they neared Ezra's room, Vin spoke again, though there was nothing soothing about it to Ezra's ears this time. "So, next time you feel hell-bent on getting yerself killed, ya mind tellin' one of us 'bout it first?"

"I wasn't attempting to get myself killed, Mr. Tanner. I can assure you."

"Maybe not, but the end result speaks for itself."

"The end result is Mr. Larabee and myself are safely back in town," he said, a little harsher than perhaps was necessary. "Thanks to you and everyone else," he added in a softer tone.

"Don't thank me. Just don't do it again. If you and Chris had died—"

"Yes, Mr. Larabee's death would have been a great loss. Ah, right here on the bed," he finished, changing the subject. The finer points of Chris Larabee was not a subject he truly felt like discussing at the moment, and especially not with Vin Tanner.

Once Vin had eased him down, Ezra dismissed him.

"Want I should help ya with yer boots?"

"No. Really, I'm fine. Thank you for all your assistance."

Vin looked at him skeptically for a moment, and then shrugged it off. "Well, if yer sure.... Someone'll be back to help ya in the morning. Probably Nathan or Josiah."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Tanner. Good night."

The door shut behind Vin and Ezra was alone again. At least this time he had a nice, soft featherbed upon which to lie. He stripped out of his jacket and shirt first. Then he reached down and pulled off his right boot; his left one, however, proved more difficult. Impossible, actually, since he couldn't bend his knee — not even slightly, what with the splints Nathan had applied to either side of it.

At the time he was being bandaged, Ezra had thought the treatment a bit excessive, that the man was being overly cautious. But, now ... well, now he was beginning to think Nathan had done it on purpose, just to make him feel helpless — a punishment for the foolish acts that had nearly gotten their leader killed.

At least Nathan had had the foresight to rip through the seam of his trousers before applying the bandages. Not that Ezra was fond of having any article of clothing he possessed so destroyed, but it now meant that he was able to slip out of the pants, even without being able to remove his boot.

And so, Ezra resigned himself to bed, sleeping with one boot on was better than sleeping fully clothed, on a dirt floor, at the bottom of a mineshaft, with a man who found him ... convenient.

September 2002

Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.

Much thanks to my beta reader for taking the time and giving me such helpful suggestions! Credit for any errors goes to the author.

Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The story itself belongs to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.