Topic: In The Light Of (The Second) Day

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:07 EST

April, 2012

Okay, so I'm feeling like an idiot this morning. What on earth is wrong with me to get so easily frightened like that' Alright, so it was dark, and the noise was loud, and yes, the description of my mother's death is a constant terror, but really, Marin ....Crying and screaming just because some weirdo is banging on your door" Seriously"

At least I know I didn't hallucinate the whole episode. When I woke up, it was to find the dresser securely snug against the bedroom door and the inner shutters of the window locked up tight. No wonder I was so hot - the room was absolutely stifling! That wasn't the only evidence, although I doubt hugging a loaded shotgun is the safest way to sleep.

But what really had me worried this morning was the state of the front and back doors. There were dents all over the sturdy wooden panels, both front and back, just as though someone had been banging something heavy into them. Just like it sounded last night. Even the stable door shows some signs of attempted forced entry, but that industrial strength lock seems to have done the trick. I just have to hope that whoever it was doesn't come back with a friend who can pick locks some other night.

The horses, thankfully, were fine, quite happy to be rubbed down and let out to pasture for the day. No sign of the fear from last night on them, thank goodness. I honestly don't know what I'd have done if I'd come down to find them the way my mother described them to Mr Hayes. The thought of someone being able to get into my home, my stable, my barns, while I'm asleep ....it's horrifying.

But they didn't get in, and I have the whole day to spend on making the place a little more secure. Must remember to get my ear-plugs out of the big bag - maybe if I don't hear the noise, it won't freak me out so much.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:09 EST

Sunset

Five against one wasn't very good odds. It wasn't much of a fair fight either. At least, not in Evan's eyes. He'd been outrunning the posse for days, hiding out in the mountains, taking refuge from the hot sun in caves during the day and traveling by moonlight at night, hoping to reach the Mexican border before they could catch him. He wasn't a desperado by choice, but by necessity. A quirk of fate, bad luck, whatever you wanted to call it. Evan had shot the wrong man in an act of self defense or vengence. He wasn't sure which was which anymore. One was the same as the other.

Five against one. Two of those five lay dead, one wounded, the other two in hot pursuit. It didn't matter that he was wounded himself. No matter what happened, he wasn't going to let them take him alive. He knew what would happen if they did. He'd hang by the noose until he was dead. Or worse. There was always worse.

The horse was exhausted, almost as exhausted as he was, and they were catching up to him. He could almost hear them whooping behind him, as they closed the distance between them and him. The sky was just starting to turn - that time between day and night when magical things sometimes happened. Twilight, that time of day when some said the rift between worlds opened, if only for a moment.

Evan didn't notice anything strange at first. He was having too much trouble just trying to stay on his horse as the world around him started to spin. He thought it was just the loss of blood that was making his head spin, and he fought to stay upright, his grip on the horse's reins starting to slide through his gloved fingers. He blinked as he looked up into the sky, thinking he was seeing double.

Twin moons in a unfamiliar sky, clouds pink and red and orange with gloaming, not so different from home but for those moons and the unfamiliar stars that were starting to peek through the clouds.

The door between two worlds opened just long enough to allow him entry, as if welcoming him into its embrace, closing behind him, and closing him off from his enemies and from the world he'd always known. A world called Earth.

The horse reared as it seemed to recognize something was amiss, and Evan lost his grip on the reins and tumbled to the ground where he remained, an unmoving form on the cold, hard ground. His horse had other ideas, however. Spooked by the chase and the sudden change of scenery, the horse reared again, dangerously close to trampling its rider and took off in a random direction, thundering past the trees in the orchard toward the house that stood at the center of the farm.

A house which, had it approached only a day or two sooner, would have stood empty and unmoved by the horse's thundering arrival. But the new owner had taken up residence only the day before, and was very alert to any sound out of the ordinary while she was settling into her home once again. Marin lurched up from where she had been sat beside the fire in the kitchen at the sound of hooves, startled enough to scrabble for the shotgun her solicitor had insisted that she keep loaded and close by while she was alone out here. Moving to the window, she peered out into the night, a vibrantly colored feminine silhouette against the light of the fire behind her.

When nothing approached or attacked her but what appeared to be a runaway horse, Marin moved to the doorway, stepping out onto the wide porch with her heavy, unaccustomed weapon trembling in her hands. "Hello?" she called out in wary suspicion. "Is anyone out there" I ....I'm armed!"

The spooked horse came to a halt just outside the house, hooves kicking up clumps of dirt and grass, screeching a warning and stomping in a frenzy of panicked fright, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling in fear. There was no other sound but that of the panicked horse who took one look at the woman with the gun and stomped his hooves again, nodding his head, as if he was trying to tell her something.

She hesitated on that wide porch for a long moment, nervous of leaving the safety of her childhood home but intrigued by the apparent insistence of a horse that she come out of her hiding place. "Is there someone out there?" she asked the horse, stepping down onto the grass as she adjusted her grip on her shotgun. A hysterical suggestion toward insanity interjected itself into her consciousness for a moment. "Did Timmy fall down the well, Lassie?"

The horse's name wasn't Lassie, and Evan was certainly no Timmy, but the horse either seemed to understand the question, or, at the very least, understood that he had her attention. He didn't wait for her to question further, but turned and started back toward where his master lay unconscious on the ground.

"But -" Marin rolled her eyes, sighing softly. "But what, you stupid woman' How is a horse going to care whether you're happy to go with it or not?" Biting her lip, she frowned after the creature, torn for a long moment. Then she let out a frustrated little growl, stamping her feet into the old boots by the porch steps and rolling up her cardigan sleeves. If all else failed, she could hit whoever it was with the gun, right'

"Alright, wait a second!" Calling after the horse, she hurried to follow, hoping like hell this wasn't some clever ploy to lure her into the darkness and then do something unpleasant to her.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:12 EST

The horse didn't wait to see if she was going to follow or wait for her to put on her boots. The sense of panic was fading, and his first instinct was to return to where his master had fallen. Once there, the horse poked his nose at the fallen man's back, pawing at the ground with a hoof, and snorting as if trying to wake him. For all the horse's efforts, he was only answered by a quiet groan.

One thing Marin could feel comfortable with was the knowledge that she knew this place. She'd played in these orchards as a child; if she had to, she could run pretty quick still, too. But any thought of running fled her mind when she realised that the horse had stopped, watching as she slowed her own walk to witness the creature nudging at a slumped shape on the ground.

"Is he dead?" she asked the equine beast as she came up beside it, using the barrel of her shotgun to nudge the apparently unconscious man's shoulder gently. "Hello?"

The horse could not reply except to snort again and shake his head as if in annoyance. Could she not see that something was wrong" The horse dipped his head again to nudge the man's back with his nose, but once again, there was no reply or acknowledgement from the man, the only sign of life a slight twitch of fingers against the grass that lay beneath him.

Again, Marin stood for a long moment, torn between going back to safety or taking a risk and making sure this stranger was alright. "Oh, for goodness sake," she muttered, irritated with herself for even giving credence to a horse's feelings.

She dropped the shot gun onto the ground, falling to her knees beside the man, and reached for him, sliding her fingers against his neck in search of a pulse. "Hello?" she repeated, leaning close to speak next to his ear. "Can you hear me" If you can, just groan or speak or move, or something. You're too heavy for me to carry."

Evan thought he heard a voice, muffled, like it was far away, though she was right beside him. A woman's voice by the sound of it, unfamiliar, one he didn't know. He wondered if maybe he'd died and gone to heaven and was now in the presence of an angel, but he was in too much pain to be dead. Whoever was calling to him was as much alive as he was. He groaned again as he pried his eyes open and tried to pick himself up off the ground, a gloved hand going to his side where his shirt was wet and sticky with blood.

She lurched back as the man moved, rocking onto her heels with her blue eyes wide and fixed on him warily, her fingers scrabbling once again for the shotgun at her side. Her gaze slid to the glistening wetness under his hand. "Oh, my goodness," she gasped in surprised shock. "You're bleeding! Come into the house, I can't leave you out here!" Hooking the strap of her gun over her shoulder, she reached out to try and help him up onto his feet.

He really had no choice but to allow her to help him, gritting his teeth against the pain, his legs nearly buckling, sheer force of will pulling him to his feet. "Damn horse threw me," he muttered, words slurring as if he was drunk, though he was nothing of the kind. That explanation did not account for the blood, only his wounded pride, along with some bumps and bruises.

"Damn horse came and got me," she informed him, tucking herself close against his uninjured side and pulling his arm over her shoulders. She fitted quite well under his arm, but she was quite a soft little thing in comparison to him and taking even a fraction of his weight was proving a struggle as she guided him toward the house. "Where did you come from?"

Well, now, that was a question, and not one he was too keen on answering just yet. He blinked at her in the growing darkness, wincing and favoring his left side, even as he let her help him along. "I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?" He answered a question with a question, more than a little untrusting and with good reason.

She eyed him sideways, stumbling awkwardly in the darkness, already out of breath and flush with exertion as they approached the house. "You're on my land, don't you think you should be answering my question first?" she asked rather pointedly, though the lack of force in her tone was only too obvious. Her nerves were returning, especially now she was realising how much bigger than her he was and how out of reach she'd put her only weapon.

"You an angel from heaven?" he asked, with another wince, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision and remain conscious. It was taking all his strength and determination to just put one foot in front of the other. "I s'pect..." He sucked in a breath for a moment. "You ain't gonna like the answer."

"I'm dragging a complete stranger to my own house in the middle of the night, how much more of this do you think could possibly upset me?" she demanded quietly, heaving his arm further over her shoulders as she came up level with the porch steps. "Come on, up we go."

He suspected his state of being might upset her, and if not that, then the fact that he was a wanted man might do the trick. He paused as they reached the porch steps and craned his neck to look around, as if just realizing the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. "Where am I?" he asked, the moonlight shining on a face a shade too pale beneath the grime, green eyes wide and fearful.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:13 EST

"Brambles Orchard," she told him. "I'll tell you more about it when you're not bleeding all over me, now come on." As much as she would have liked to have been able to pull him up and over the porch, Marin was just too small in comparison with him to do more than make him sway momentarily. And that in itself made her nervousness worse. "Please?" she tried a different tack. "Please come inside?"

Brambles Orchard. He rolled it over in his mind a few times, but it didn't sound familiar. Nothing suddenly seemed familiar. Nothing but his horse, who had followed them from the orchard and now snorted once as if to remind them he was there. He was content for now, but he wouldn't remain patient forever. "My horse..." Evan protested, as if just remembering that he wasn't alone, but lacking the strength to argue or fight her.

"I'll put him in the stable with the work horses," Marin heard herself say, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Why was she offering to walk around the farm buildings in the dark when it looked as though some intruder on the land was the reason for her mother's death? "Can you get inside from here without falling over or dying?" she asked him in a dry voice.

He glanced up at the house from the porch. He only had to climb a few stairs and then he'd be safely inside. But for how long" Wherever he was, had they followed him here? If they had, it was only a matter of time before they found him, unless he found them first. "Reckon so," he answered, though he wasn't too sure. His side was on fire, but he thought if he was going to die, he'd have died already. He wasn't too sure how serious the wound was, but he was about to find out.

"Good, get on with it, then." She carefully unhooked his arm from around herself, stepping back to unsling the shotgun from her shoulder. The way she held it did not inspire confidence - it was almost as though she were afraid it was about to go off in her hands. With a furtive, worried glance at the tree-speckled land around them, she hopped down from the porch, clicking her tongue to draw the horse to her, taking the reins to lead the creature around to the stables.

The horse made no protest, going along with her, now that his master seemed out of danger. They'd both had a difficult night and he was ready to put an end to the excitement. Evan watched as she led the horse away, his only companion, his most truthworthy friend, at least, for the time being. He frowned a little, knowing it wasn't a good idea to be here. Being here, wherever here was, put her in danger, and he was pretty sure from the look of her that she wasn't the type who'd associate by choice with someone like him. Nevertheless, he had no choice but to stay at least for the night, so he shuffled slowly up the stairs and inside, his right hand pressed against his left side.

The house was clearly too big for one person to live in alone, and yet just as clearly unlived in. Marin had only stayed one night so far, and for a full month Brambles House had stood empty and uncared for following her mother's death. The door opened onto a wide living space where chairs and sofas were gathered around a hearth that lay cold. On the far side of that large room were a set of open stairs leading upward, but the only light in the place came from his left. The flicker of the fire in the kitchen invited him to come inside and make the most of the warmth while Marin was settling his horse with knowing efficiency.

Drawn to the light, it was toward the firelight that he stumbled, only now realizing how cold he suddenly felt, chilled to the bone, though it seemed only moments ago, it hadn't been cold. He dropped into a chair in front of the fire, tugging his gloves off with his teeth and dropping them in his lap. He'd throw them into the fire if they weren't the only pair of gloves he had with him, the only pair he now owned. He pushed his coat back and unbuttoned his shirt, peeling the stained, sticky cloth away from his skin to take a closer look at the wound. Thankfully, it didn't seem like the bullet had lodged anywhere, nor had it damaged any major organs, but it was still serious enough that it would require stitches and he'd have to be careful it didn't get infected.

It was a few minutes longer before Marin reappeared, locking the door securely behind her before moving into the kitchen. In the light, she was a vibrant sight - all wild copper curls and piercing blue eyes, a neat, feminine dress clinging to a pale, voluptuous body as she threw her cardigan onto the kitchen table. Her gaze went straight to the man in front of the fire, her expression crumpling in concern. "That looks bad," she said quietly. "I have a kit somewhere around here, we can bandage you up."

He glanced up at her arrival, stunned into momentary silence by the look of her. Now that he could see her clearly in the flickering firelight, he realized she was even prettier than he had at first estimated. Prettier than anyone he'd seen in a long while. He also knew that beauty was only skin deep, and he pushed the distracting thoughts from his head, at least for now. "I don't mean to cause you any trouble, ma'am." He'd have tipped the brim of his hat at her, but he'd lost it somewhere during the chase.

As for himself, he was tall and broad-shouldered, solidly built, with a scraggly brown beard and hair that looked like it could use a trim. But it was the eyes that most likely stood out. Eyes that seemed to hide a world of hurt beneath the gray-green depths.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:16 EST

Perhaps it was the recognition of being somewhere relatively safe once again, or the sheer attractiveness of the bleeding man who was apologising to her, but Marin felt herself relax as he spoke, a faint smile touching her full lips as she opened a cupboard, pulling a large first-aid box down. "I rather think you'd cause me more trouble if you bled to death in my kitchen," she said in a quietly wry tone, setting the box on the table and opening it up before moving to crouch in front of him, easing his shirt open a little further to inspect the wound in his side.

"This is going to need a couple of stitches," she warned him regretfully. Her glance brought her gaze upward, and she stilled, suddenly caught by the sadness in the eyes that looked down at her. Caught by a desire to know what had caused it and a want to wipe it away. Which was ridiculous, of course.

An old brown wool coat covered his shoulders, beneath that a brown striped shirt that looked like it had seen better days. Canvas pants and leather boots rounded out the outfit, all of it grimy and worn. Beneath the hem of his shirt, he wore a belt and from that belt hung a holster which held a revolver. His accent was Texan by the sound of it, his voice deep but soft spoken, as if when he did choose to speak, he made sure to choose his words carefully.

"Ain't gonna bleed to death, ma'am. Not if I can help it." He met her gaze steadily, unflinching, as if he was testing her or maybe just wondering again how he'd ended up here and why. "This ain't Texas, is it?" he asked quietly as she eased his shirt open, making conversation partly to distract himself from whatever it was she was about to do to him. "Ain't Mexico neither."

Rising to her feet, Marin swept the cardigan and the diary she had been writing in earlier from the kitchen table, lifting the box down onto one of the chairs. "No, it isn't," she told him quietly. "It's nowhere on Earth. But you don't have to take my word for it. If you're capable, we can go into the city tomorrow and you can investigate it for yourself. But first ....you need to lie on the table so I can close that wound."

"Am I dead?" he asked, quietly again. It was the only explanation that made sense really, even though he couldn't understand why if he was dead, he was still wounded. Maybe this was Hell, but if that was the case, what was she doing here" She seemed more angel than demon to him. He made no move to get up, but only sat there watching her, face pale in the firelight, feeling weary and light-headed.

She looked back at him with a smile that was gentler somehow, more understanding. "Not yet," she promised him. "And safe from whoever gave you that wound, at least for tonight. My name's Marin." She offered him her hand, already stained with his blood. "The sooner we do this, the sooner you can settle to sleep. You look exhausted."

"Marin," he repeated, reaching for her hand with his own, which was calloused from years of hard labor. "Are you an angel?" he asked, looking up into her face with an expression that was both worried and hopeful.

The compliment - because that was how she was taking it - brought a soft shade of pink to her creamy skin, highlighted by her touched smile. "Not unless they've lowered their standards significantly," she assured him with gentle amusement. Her fingers tightened on his as she came to his side, sliding her arm around his back to guide him to his feet. "I'm a musician, actually." Which explained the softness of her own hand in his.

"A musician," he echoed again, gritting his teeth again as she helped him to his feet, his face strained with the effort, though he made no sound. "I can play a harmonica a li'l," he admitted, trying to make idle conversation once again in order to distract himself or maybe just to still the case of nervous jitters he was feeling, which were only partly caused by the thought of her poking around at his wounded side. He still hadn't told her his name and thought maybe it was better if she didn't know it.

"I'd like to hear you play sometime." She gently eased him around until he was leaning back against the table, sliding from his side as her hand touched against his shoulder in an unspoken suggestion for him to lie back. Perhaps it was strange, for her to have gone from nervous to confident ....but this stranger was quiet and respectful, and he seemed to know how to use the gun on his belt. He was probably a good friend for her to have, at least so long as he was here. "Aren't you going to tell me your name, mystery man?"

"Don't reckon I'll be around long enough for you to hear me play, Miss Marin. I ain't that good anyway." He slid out from beneath her arm and slowly swung himself around and onto the table. He was tall, over six feet in height, though he moved with a certain amount of almost quiet grace.

Beside him, she was tiny, all of five feet and four inches, with no strength to match his at all. She was useless when it came to helping him get up onto the table, turning instead to pull out alcohol wipes, gauze, bandages, dissolving thread and a stitching needle. "You're already planning on leaving, are you?" she asked quietly. "With an exhausted horse and a deep wound in your side, you think you'd last more than a day or so?"

"Ain't got no choice. Stayin' here will only bring you trouble." He laid himself down on the table, knowing this was not going to be pleasant, but he'd had worse.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:20 EST

"Oh, believe me, I have trouble enough of my own," she assured him in a voice that hid no more than it told. She obviously had something weighing on her mind. "I doubt your trouble could make things worse."

"You live here alone?" he asked, looking up at her, as if for the very first time. He hadn't seen anyone else there since he'd arrived, though that didn't mean anything really.

She began to clean the ugly wound, wiping carefully around the surprisingly neat edges with an alcohol wipe to sterilise the flesh. "Yes, I do," she said in answer to his question. "Like my mother did before me. No money to pay hands, you see, so I need to think of some way to make money without spending it."

He hissed in a breath as she tended the wound, blowing it out slowly, tensing a little, but no other sign that he was feeling any pain. He focused on her face while she dabbed the wound with alcohol, avoiding watching what she was doing. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and a little shaky. "You don't got the kinda trouble that gets you shot. You fix me up best you can, Miss Marin, and I'll be outta your hair in the mornin'."

"I think it might be that sort of trouble." She didn't elaborate, focusing her attention on the task beneath her hands, spraying an anesthetic over the edges of the wound. Threading the needle as the flesh began to deaden, she looked down at him with a faint frown. "You won't be going anywhere until you're properly on the way to being better," she told him quietly. "And certainly you won't be making that poor horse carry you until he's recovered from whatever you've been doing for the past few days. He's underfed, exhausted, and dehydrated, so I dread to think what?s wrong with you."

He was more than likely in the same shape as his horse, if not worse, but he wasn't about to admit it. Normally a man of few words, there was something about her that made his speak without thinking. "You're a stubborn one, ain't you? Like that horse out there. Should be dead by now, but he ain't. Just keeps going." Like himself, he thought. Didn't have much choice. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly weary, tired of the chase. It would be nice to stay in one place for a while, if only for a little while.

"If I wasn't stubborn, I wouldn't be here," she smiled ruefully, reaching up to turn on the electric light that hung over the kitchen table. "Alright. I'll try to be as quick as I can, it shouldn't hurt too much." With one hand, she pinched the edges of the wound together, ignoring the ooze of blood over her fingers to slip the curved needle through the flesh carefully.

The electric light startled him nearly as much as the needle but, nearly spent from pain, exhaustion, dehydration, and shock, he fainted dead away as soon as he felt the first prick of the needle stick his flesh, which was probably for the better. She'd be able to stitch him up without too much protest or wiggling.

And so she did, ignoring the fact that he had passed out in favor of getting him stitched and cleaned up without too much fuss. Then she turned her attention to other issues, to getting him more comfortable. By the time he woke up, she had stripped him of his clothing and washed it, draping it on a clothes horse in front of the fire to dry; she'd also manoeuvred him into a shirt and pair of jeans that had belonged to her brother, however rough she'd had to be to do it; and there was the enticing smell of cooking eggs, bacon, and mushrooms filling the kitchen.

When he awoke, he didn't feel much better than before he'd passed out, though the fire in his side had abated somehow. He no longer felt like his flesh had been torn open and oozing blood. His eyelids felt heavy, like leaden weights, but he somehow managed to force them open, blinking at his surroundings, trying to remember where he was and how he'd come to be there.

He muttered a groan as he rolled to one side, his legs feeling even heavier than his eyelids. God, what he wouldn't give for a bottle of whiskey right then, anything to deaden the ache. His head swam for a moment before his vision cleared, the smell of breakfast reaching his nostrils and making his stomach grumble, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in a few days. He shoved a hand through his hair as he sat up, glancing down at himself, noticing he was now wearing someone else's clothing.

Marin looked up from the stove - which had taken three hours of elbow grease to clean out but now, thankfully, worked perfectly - and smiled to see him at least with his eyes open. "Sorry about the clothes, but I can't stand to see anyone so filthy when there's no need to be," she apologised. "If it helps, I didn't look at anything I shouldn't. Hungry?"

The man wasn't normally much of a blusher, but he felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his cheeks at her remark, realizing it must have been her who'd stripped him and changed him into clean clothes. That, in itself, he knew must have been a chore. He wasn't quite sure what to say, other than to thank her. She'd been more than kind to him already, and he owed her plenty. "Much obliged, I guess."

Privately, he wondered how much she'd seen in the dim light. Had she noticed the faint trace of scars that criss-crossed his back or the remnants of old battle wounds that were scattered here and there" His stomach answered her last question for him, grumbling loudly, and he tried to remember the last time he'd eaten.

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:23 EST

"Well, if you get down off the table, I can serve this up," she suggested with a mild quirk of her lips, nudging two warm plates from the overhead grill to fill with eggs, bacon, and mushrooms. "I made a bed up for you, as well. Any time you'd like, you can crash there." Leaving the stove to cool, she stepped back, taking up the plates to bring them over to the table and set down, returning to the counter to fetch glasses, cutlery, a jug of water, a loaf of bread, and the butter.

He looked over at her, unable to pull his eyes away from her. She was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a very long time. Far too pretty for the likes of him. "Crash?" he asked, arching a single eyebrow. "You mean sleep?" He slid off the table, long legs easily finding the floor, not having far to go, eyes tracking her as she moved about the kitchen. He swayed in place a little, reaching to grab hold of the table to hold himself upright, refusing to sit until she did, as good manners demanded.

"Oh, yes!" She giggled quietly, pouring water into each glass before lowering to sit herself down. "I'm sorry, I always tend to slip into slang at the worst times. Please, tuck in, you must be famished." She gestured to the food on the table, lifting her own knife and fork. It was very difficult not to be charmed by the olde worlde manners he displayed in the face of his injuries, and the gentle feelings that brought to the surface only served to remind her of the strong, capable body she had stripped and dressed a few hours before.

"Slang," he echoed, as was his wont when trying to sort something out in his head. He was certainly no longer in Texas and had no idea where he was or how he'd come to be there. He knew he wasn't in Mexico either, or anyplace even remotely familiar. The territory reminded him somewhat of back East, and she reminded him a little of a proper Southern belle, but somehow he knew that wasn't quite right either. She sounded like she was from the North, and that thought brought a small frown to his face, but it still didn't explain where he was or how he'd gotten there. "May I be frank with you, ma'am?"

She paused mid-chew, startled out of her contemplation of those pain-filled gray-green eyes by the realisation that he'd asked her a question. Her brows rose in surprise as she blinked, her cheeks coloring a little at being caught staring as she finished her mouthful, swallowing with a sip of water. "Of course, please do," she said finally, clearing her throat lightly behind her hand.

He had not yet picked up his fork or knife, waiting patiently for her to start her breakfast first, a man who, despite the rough wildness of his life, prided himself on politeness and good manners. He picked up his fork, meeting her gaze across the table and wondering what it was that had caused her to take him in and help him. Kindness, charity, goodness of heart. Wherever he was, he'd been lucky to find himself in her care, at least, for the time being. "You said this place is called Brambles, but....I don't reckon I ever heard of such a place."

"Um, well ..." She set her cutlery down, folding her hands under her chin as she looked across the table at him. This was a conversation Marin had never had to have before, but she was aware that it was a regular conversational hiccup for people who lived in Rhy'Din. "You're not in America anymore," she said carefully. "When I said that Brambles is nowhere on Earth, I meant it. You're not on Earth anymore. You're in a place called Rhy'Din."

He seemed to take that in quietly, his only immediate reaction a slow blink of eyelids. "Rhy'Din," he echoed again. Not on Earth' What in tarnation was she talking about' "I ain't sure what you mean by that." He skewered a bit of bacon onto his fork, but did not yet pick it up, a confused expression on his face, quietly going over the events of the last twenty-four hours or so in his weary brain.

"Last thing I remember I was in Texas." Riding hard for the Mexican border, he thought, leaving that part unsaid. He didn't want her to know the truth about that, just yet, if ever. If she knew he was an outlaw, she might be inclined to turn him over to whatever passed for lawmen in these parts.

"Oh, goodness, I don't know how to explain this," she confessed with an awkward sigh, sitting back in her chair. Her hands pressed together, palms flat, as she drew her thoughts together. "Do you believe in magic" Or a force beyond what you can see and touch that can achieve the impossible?"

That question got a look from him, one of surprise, maybe even shock, doubt, a million thoughts suddenly running through his mind, his usually quiet and somber expression suddenly betraying his disquiet. Either she had lost her mind or he had; he wasn't sure which. Maybe he was lying in the desert somewhere, dehydrated and dying, and she was just a figment of his imagination. An hallucination, the product of an addled brain.

"Magic," he repeated. He wasn't big on faith and even less inclined to believe in anything that couldn't be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt. Nevertheless, he wasn't stupid, possessed of a keen insight. It was what had kept him alive all these years, after all, and he seemed to grasp her meaning. "You saying magic brought me here?" Wherever here was. Rhy'Din, wherever the hell that was. Not on Earth. The hell did that mean" "You sure I ain't dead?"

"I'm positive you aren't dead," she assured him. "If you were, I wouldn't have had to sew up that hole in your side, for a start. Look, I know it's a lot to get your head around, and you really don't have to take my word for it. Just ....for tonight, trust me when I say that you're safe from whatever urged you to need an escape. Whatever you were running from, it won't come here."

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:26 EST

The worried lines that creased his forehead smoothed out, a sense of relief flooding him at her reassurance. He wasn't sure why he believed her, but he did. Understanding it was quite another matter, however. Safe. Was there such a thing, even for a little while" He made no argument about the fact that he was on the run. He'd only be lying, and his plight seemed obvious enough that he couldn't deny it.

"I trust you."

He really had no reason not to trust her. She had chosen to help him, a complete stranger, and for that, he owed her a debt of gratitude, if nothing else. He took a bite of his bacon finally, glancing at his plate as though he'd forgotten how good food tasted. "Alright..." he started, around a mouthful of eggs. "Let's say there's such a thing as magic. Why me?"

Relief spread through her as he accepted her explanation for now, her hands dropping to take up her knife and fork once again to resume her meal. As he spoke, she swallowed down another mouthful, licking her lips clean before she replied. "Because you needed it?" she suggested. "The Nexus isn't known for her choices making sense, but if you were being pursued, if you needed some help, then she could quite easily have directed you through a portal to Rhy'Din. The fact that you ended up on my land is coincidence."

"Nexus." There she went, using unfamiliar words again, words that made absolutely no sense to him. He wasn't highly educated, but he prided himself on his ability to read and write and he knew a portal was a door. She had referred to the Nexus in a female sense, and he wondered if she was some sort of sorceress. "This....Nexus....what?s she want with me" I ain't no one special. Just a farmhand from Texas. That's all." Though that was not quite true. He was that and much more. An orphan, a farmhand, a former solider, a widower, a father, and by necessity, a gunslinger.

"The Nexus ....the Nexus is hard to explain," Marin confessed with a wry smile, shaking her head. "It doesn't really have a gender, I just refer to it as 'she' because it makes more sense to me. She's sort of a random force of nature that plucks people out of their own worlds and puts them in Rhy'Din. Usually at random but sometimes it happens at just the right moment." Her head tilted, hope touching her eyes for a moment. "A farmhand" I don't suppose you know anything about farm management, do you?"

He arched a brow at both her explanation and her question, reaching for a hunk of bread and breaking a piece off. "I know a little. Had a farm back home for a while, 'til..." He broke off, leaving the rest unsaid. He hadn't spoken about his past in a long time, and he wasn't about to speak about it now. "Cotton mostly. Ain't never grown no trees before."

"Hmm." She gazed into the middle distance for a moment before abruptly shaking her head, returning to her meal. "Never mind, it doesn't matter." Setting her cutlery down, she lifted her glass to her lips, taking a slow sip of water. Blue eyes settled on his with soft curiosity. "Why don't you want to tell me your name?"

"Thought you were a musician, not a farmer," he mused, about the same time she asked about his name. He broke her gaze, dunking a bit of bread into the yellow of his egg yoke with a slow shrug of broad shoulders. "Evan," he answered. "Name's Evan." He offered no last name, not feeling quite that trusting just yet.

"Evan. Thank you." She smiled gently, using a broken piece of bread herself to mop up the juices left behind on her plate, and even that indelicate action made her seem rather more fragile than someone living out here alone should be. "I am - well, I was a musician. But this is my family's farm. I can't let it just disappear."

He bit off the hunk of bread, watching her quietly while she explained, the irony of her situation not lost on him. She reminded him again of his own past, and he couldn't help but wonder what force had brought him to this very place at this very time. "Pardon me for asking, ma'am, but where's your family?" He already knew the answer to that question or could guess at it. Who belonged to the clothes was he wearing" A husband" Father, brother, lover"

The question shocked her, though she should have expected it, showing itself in the subtle widening of her eyes, the faint tremble in her hands as she set her glass down once again. "Um ....my, my father and my brother, they died in an accident a few years ago," she ventured in an unsteady voice. "And my mother ....she died about a month ago. So it's just me." She cleared her throat awkwardly once again. "The clothes, they were my brother's. You're a little taller and broader than he was, but they fit well enough."

So, that explained that. He frowned again, recognizing the pain in her eyes, not unlike his own, though his was not so fresh as hers. It had been a few years since his wife's death, and many years since his mother's, yet the pain of his loss was still with him, buried deep inside, tempered by a strong will to survive. He wasn't dead yet, and he had good reasons to keep living. Still, he understood enough to sense her grief and sympathize with it, though it explained little. "I'm sorry for your loss," he told her awkwardly, but sincerely, shifting his eyes back to his plate, as if not wanting to meet her gaze.

"Thank you," was her murmured response, quietly grateful for the unassuming condolences. She, too, looked down at her plate, her appetite gone suddenly, and set her cutlery aside for the last time, folding her hands in her lap. After a moment, she looked up with a sharp intake of breath. "What about you?" she asked. "Will anyone be waiting for you to come home?"

He suddenly wanted to tell her that he understood in more ways than she could possibly know, but he lacked the words. He'd already taken a chance and said too much, and here she was asking still more questions. He flinched visibly at the question, his mouth twitching nervously. How should he answer that, he wondered. "Ain't got a home, ma'am. Not anymore." His answer didn't really answer her question and yet, in a way, it did.

"I'm sorry, that was a very personal question," she apologised, wincing at the answer she was given. She couldn't imagine not having somewhere to call home, even if it was just a broken down old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. "Would you like to settle to sleep now" I'm sure your clothes will be dry by morning, I'll leave them outside your door for you."

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:28 EST

"I..." He stammered, brows furrowing, unsure what he was going to do now that he was here, in a place that was completely foreign and unfamiliar to him. Her question was an innocent one, but hidden within, he wondered if she was asking when he would be leaving. "Reckon I should get some sleep." He lifted his gaze back toward hers again, wishing he had the right words to properly express himself. "I'm much obliged for your help."

"You're very welcome," she assured him, rising to her feet to take their plates, dropping them into the sink. She would clean them in the morning. "To be quite honest, I'll feel better to have someone else in the house with me. I, um, I'm not used to being back here yet."

He rose to his feet, as well, mostly out of respect and politeness more than a need or desire to be finished with the conversation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meaningful conversation with anyone, much less with one of the fairer sex. Unlike most men of his day and age, he avoided whorehouses and other places of ill repute as much as he could. The truth was he hadn't enjoyed the company of a female in as long as he could remember.

"I'm afraid I ain't much in the way of company, ma'am." He frowned at little at the truth of that. He knew he wasn't much of a conversationalist. Small talk had never been his strong suit, and yet, those who cared for him had never made any complaints, perhaps even preferring his quiet ways over that of the alternative. "If you'll show me to my room, I'll leave you be."

Realising belatedly that she was coming across as rude, Marin stepped forward, closer than she should really have been, her head tipping back to look into his eyes as she reached out to gently touch his chest with her fingertips. "I don't mean to be rude, truly," she promised him in an earnest tone. "But you're injured, and you're exhausted. I don't want to make you ill by keeping you up and telling you all about my worries. I'm sure they're nothing in comparison with yours."

He followed her with his eyes as she moved closer, almost too close for comfort, but he remained where he was, holding his ground. There was little reason to retreat when she'd already seen him at his worst. He felt her fingers brush against his chest, confusing him a little. He tilted his head downward to meet her gaze, towering over her slight form. He had no argument for that. She was right. He was beyond exhausted and feeling just slightly feverish. A good night's sleep would do him a world of good.

He reached for her hand to pull it away from his chest, fingers curling around hers. "Your worries are just as important to you as mine are to me," he pointed out, trying in his own way to reassure her that he understood. He paused a moment before letting go of her hand and stepping back, creating a more polite space between them. "I'll see you in the morning, ma'am." He would have tipped his hat to her, but again, he wore none.

She should have felt intimidated by the way he loomed over her, but he gave off a feeling of calm that seemed to soothe away any concern she might have had. Her fingers warmed in his before he released her hand, a slow nod offering him a little understanding that she was at least close to knowing what he meant by his reassurance. "This way," she said, stepping back from him herself. She gathered an armful of blankets that had been warming by the fire, turning out all the lights but the two candles. Taking those in one hand, she led the way out into the dark space of the living room and to the open stairs, glancing back to make sure he was following her.

He trailed behind her at a polite distance, trying hard not to notice the way her hips swayed when she walked or the way her hair curled at the back of her neck, trying unsuccessfully to forget she was an attractive female and think of her as a sister or friend. He glanced at the lights as she switched them off, unfamiliar with the wonder of electricity.

The upper floor of the house was split clearly into rooms for family, and rooms for hands, all empty. But perhaps surprisingly, Marin led Evan into the family area, to one of the more comfortable rooms. Juggling the candles and blankets, she pushed open the door, revealing a large space dominated by an old but comfortable bed, laid with fresh linens and a thick quilt to stave off the chill of the night.

"There are more clothes in the dresser," she assured him, nodding toward said piece of furniture. "This was my brother's room, so everything should fit." She laid the blankets on the end of the bed, leaving one of the lit candles on the dresser to illuminate the room for him. "I'm ....I'm just two doors down on the left, if you need me."

He would have offered to help her, but to do so, would have meant getting close to her again, and he was slightly distracted with his surroundings. He looked the room over as she stepped inside. It was more than adequate for his needs. It was, in fact, far more comfortable than what he'd been accustomed to, of late. He followed her inside, stepping aside so that she could easily move past him to the hallway and to her own room. He opened his mouth to object to the use of her brother's room, but thought better of it. It would be impolite and insulting to decline her help, when they both knew he needed it. "Thank you, Miss Marin. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

She smiled, warmed by his insistent thanks and gratitude. "If you don't die in the middle of the night, you can consider us even," she told him, her voice flickering with teasing amusement as she stepped to the door. "Sleep well, Evan."

He arched a brow, wondering if she was serious. Was there any chance he might die? And then he realized from both the tone of her voice and the smile on her face that she was teasing him. He returned her smile a bit awkwardly, the first he'd offered. "Likewise, ma'am." He followed her to the door, intending on closing it behind her, a little perplexed by his situation but too tired to reflect on it much at the moment.

She couldn't help a soft giggle at the concern on his face for that split second, unashamed to have teased him and enjoyed the briefly serious reaction. "Marin, Evan," she reminded him, stepping out into the hallway. "My name is Marin." But she didn't wait to hear him say it, understanding that perhaps he was a little uncomfortable with the familiarity of her manners in comparison with his own.

Turning, she moved along the hallway to disappear in through her own door, glancing back just once with another gentle smile. With Evan just down the corridor, it never even occurred to her to remember that her shotgun was still downstairs. She felt a lot safer now she was no longer alone.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied at her correction, not feeling comfortable enough yet to call her by her first name, even if those were her wishes. He watched her for a moment, until she disappeared into her own room, and then he closed the door, shaking the confusion from his muddled mind for a moment with a thoughtful frown before his thoughts turned to sleep. Blissful, peaceful sleep. He didn't waste any time, dropping onto the mattress and falling almost immediately into unconsciousness.

((Mucho thankos to Evan Lassiter for this scene!))

Marin · Date: 2012-04-04 11:52 EST

Midnight

Bang.

The sound shocked Marin out of sleep for the second night running. She felt her stomach clench with the memory of the night before, the laugh that had followed her challenge in the darkness. Her hand groped for the shotgun ....and failed to find it. For a moment, she panicked, before remembering that she had left the weapon on the kitchen counter, next to the stove.

"Damn it!" she whimpered in frustration, feeling the fear from the night before begin to rise tenfold at the realisation that she had no weapon, nothing to defend herself with should her nocturnal visitor get into the house.

Not only that, but she wasn't the only person in some kind of danger. Belatedly, her mind flashed to the man who had been dropped by the Nexus practically into her lap earlier that evening. Evan, apparently a gunslinger from the Wild West on Earth - injured, exhausted, and dependent on her at this moment in time for his safety. What would he do if he woke up to this racket?

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Steeling herself with reluctant courage, the redhead slid from her bed, snatching up her robe to wrap warmly about herself. As the hammering continued on the back door, she crept into the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she scurried along to her brother's old room and let herself in, telling herself she was just checking on her guest, making sure he hadn't been disturbed. This had nothing to do with the fact that she felt better just not being on her own in the loud darkness. Nothing at all.

Evan was sleeping, obviously too exhausted even for the sharp hammering against the rattling door to penetrate his consciousness. And this, strangely enough, was a reassuring thing to see. Marin felt her panic recede in the face of her visiting gunslinger's lack of reaction, feeling sure that if there had been any real threat presented by her intruder, even an exhausted Evan would have been up and ready to deal with it. She had no idea where that certainty came from, but was prepared to cling to it for the time being.

Bang.

She jumped, more irritated with herself for the silly reaction to a loud noise than frightened further by the louder thump. If this was going to follow last night's pattern, then there would be a pause while whoever it was went around to the front to begin hammering on that door. While she waited, Marin found herself sitting on the end of Evan's bed, absent-mindedly removing his boots to pass the time.

He seemed so much more peaceful in sleep. She couldn't imagine what had driven him to need an escape so desperately that the Nexus would pick him up and drop him here, but at the same time, she couldn't help feeling rather grateful for those circumstances. Without him to distract her, she would probably be curled up in bed crying again.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbangbang!

She shivered, remembering all too clearly the laugh that had come before the ferocious banging the night before. Without thinking, without even considering what might happen if he woke up, she stretched out on the bed beside Evan, pressing her face into his chest. Despite the smell of sweat and blood and horse that clung to him, there was something marvellously comforting in the unique musk that underpinned all those scents, something she breathed in with another faint shudder as her arm draped over his body, careful not to touch too close to the bandaged wound in his side.

It was wrong to do this, she knew. Wrong to take comfort in the presence of an unconscious man who'd probably run a mile if he woke up at this precise moment. But for the moment, Marin didn't care. She was selfish enough to recognise that Evan offered what she needed - someone capable of looking after her and keeping the all too real nightmares at bay. And even though she was probably just going to help him and his horse recover and send them on their way, just here and now she needed to pretend he was staying. Because if he wasn't, that meant she would be all alone again, and someday that intruder would get in.

Just like her first night at the Brambles, the banging stopped at around two o'clock, and she lay awake a further half-hour to be certain it was not going to begin again. Reluctance urged at her to remain where she was, to deal with an explanation in the morning for the fact that she was pressed up against Evan's uninjured side without an invitation, but common sense finally prevailed. He did not deserve to wake up to her holding on so possessively; he was uncomfortable enough with eye contact.

So, despite her reluctance to leave, Marin slipped from the bed and returned to her own bedroom, curling up beneath the chilly quilt. And unlike last night, she drifted into pleasanter dreams, filled with the warmth of a strong, capable body, and the muted pain of gray-green eyes fixed upon her face.