Even when he walked into the room, it took a moment before Nathan realized just what it was that was different to normal. He stopped just a couple of paces into the clinic, everything looking just as he had left it when he'd set out this morning on patrol. Except for one thing. He crossed slowly to the table, examining what lay there. Nathan was glad to be alone in the room, knew that if anyone had seen him they'd probably think he'd gone crazy, staring at a pile of books like they were a snake about to strike if he moved too quickly. Three books, in a tidy pile, right in the middle of the rough-hewn table that he used for most things. Right next to the lamp he used to read by when it got too dark to sit outside. Nathan just looked at them for a moment. There was no sign where they had come from, no note. It wasn't his birthday. He couldn't have forgotten that, even if he hadn't truly celebrated it for years now, and Christmas was a far-off thought. And even if it had been, who would bring him something like this? The kind of gifts he was used to, even with the unexpected generosity that was characteristic of the six men he now called friends, didn't run to expensive volumes of medical literature. Because that was clearly what these heavy tomes were. Nathan didn't need to look at the spines to verify his belief; he'd seen such books lugged around by the surgeons he'd worked alongside in the war. Medical books had a particular heavy look to them, as if they contained the wisdom of the ages. Perhaps the Judge... Nathan knew that wasn't the answer, even before he'd finished the thought. If the Judge had acquired such books, he would have either passed them on via Mary or brought them himself. He wouldn't have just left them here, for anyone to find. Not that there would be much of a market for medical books round here anyway. But they were here, even if Nathan had no idea how that miracle had happened. There wasn't a bookstore within a hundred miles that you could get these sorts of books from, so they had to have been brought in specially. Or got from someone passing through, even though Nathan was sure he would have heard of any medical folks travelling the area. But what other possibilities were there? The amount of money these kind of books cost was more than most people earned in a year round Four Corners. And other folks had better things to spend their money on than that. That only really left one possibility, one that stuck in his craw. Stolen. He didn't even like to think about it, but the more he considered the possibility, the more Nathan knew he was right. And if that was the case, there really could only be one person round here who could be responsible for bringing those volumes here. Who else would have the chance to get their hands on medical books? It had to be Ezra. And leaving them here, like this, made him a part of the crime as well. Nathan was torn, a part of him wanting to pick up the books and dive into the knowledge they promised, the rest wanting to go and tell Ezra Standish just what he thought of him. He moved towards the table, picked up the book that sat on the top of the pile. Nathan felt the weight of it in his hand, the promises of knowledge that seemed to whisper to him as his hand felt the worn leather of the spine. He opened it, flicking through the heavy parchment pages to the title. Therapeutics and Materia Medica. He glanced down to the author's name to confirm, knowing even before he read the words that these were the books he'd been thinking about, the volumes he'd wanted for so long. Nathan closed the book quickly, his breath coming suddenly in gasps. How had Ezra known? He'd told no one, shared his desire for learning with none of his fellow peacekeepers, yet Ezra had unwaveringly produced the very books he'd been thinking about, the ones he'd coveted for so long. He didn't know whether to be angry or amazed. Nathan placed the book carefully back onto the table and picked up the next volume, the second of the same work. It joined the first, though it was a struggle not to start reading, not to settle down on the chair and dive into the books till he thought he'd be crushed under the weight of all this new knowledge. This wasn't right. He couldn't keep them. Even if he wanted to, how could he profit from something Ezra had done, some swindle of his? Nathan piled the books up again and walked away. He knew just where Ezra would be, where he always was this time of day if not on patrol. He'd put an end to this foolishness right now. Before he changed his mind. He'd seen them in the bookseller's window and known the moment he saw them. He'd been looking for something just like them for a while now, but every time before that Ezra had come across a suitable book, he had been temporarily short of funds. That he had cash in his pocket and books that would fit the bill seemed a coincidence too great to miss. The bell above the door tinkled, announcing his entrance. He blinked a little at the number of books crammed inside the small shop, and wondered just how anyone could navigate it with any kind of certainty. "Can I help you, sir?" The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and Ezra looked round. A man, presumably the bookseller himself, had emerged from a previously unseen door and was eyeing him dubiously. "Those books in the window," he began. "The medical volumes?" the bookseller asked, crossing towards the display. "Are we a medical gentleman, sir?" he continued, his gaze still raking Ezra, as if making mental note of the color of his jacket, the cut of his boots. Ezra looked straight back at him, unblinking, till the other man looked away. "They're a gift," Ezra said, his voice as icy as he could make it, a weapon against the other man's disdain. "For a medical gentleman of my acquaintance." He wanted to continue, go into the fact that his medical friend was not only not a doctor, but was also a colored gentleman, to crush the insolent man into the ground with the force of his words. Somehow Ezra restrained himself. That was none of the bookseller's business, after all. "Then," the bookseller continued, seemingly unaware of the scorn he had attracted, "might I also interest you in this volume, a well- received edition of a classic midwifery text? Just the thing for the medical practitioner in the wilds of our fair country." Ezra accepted the book, glancing momentarily at its calfskin cover, before flicking open the pages to the title and inspecting the publishing date. It was recent, at least, and he knew that Nathan had no books on the subject. Even if the healer thought he didn't listen, didn't heed anyone but himself, Ezra had overheard a conversation with Josiah where Nathan had bemoaned his lack of reference materials. A lack Ezra himself intended to remedy, no matter what. "I'll take them all," Ezra said, and removed the roll of dollar bills from his pocket before he changed his mind at his unwarranted generosity. On his return to Four Corners, finding the chance to get the books into Nathan's clinic unseen was even easier than he had thought. All he had to do was wait till Nathan was on patrol, then leave the books in plain sight, where they couldn't be missed. He had no concerns that someone would steal them. They were heavy, dark books, solid enough for the mostly illiterate townspeople to think they were bibles or some such. Not much resale value, so hardly enough to tempt a thief. Then all that was left for Ezra was to wait. Not long now, he told himself, as he sat down at his usual table. He wasn't exactly sure what Nathan's response to the gift would be. The healer was a proud man. The things he'd experienced in his life had refined that sensibility and made him almost arrogant at times. But he was essentially fair, even if he did seem to have nothing but harsh words for a certain gambler. Words, Ezra admitted to himself, that he often earned. Words that he certainly expected, given their common heritage, which both tied them together and held them forever apart. They could have been born in the same town and still lived as if in different universes, even though Ezra's own experiences of life in the South had been anything but easy. Even so, the color of his skin was the difference, that and the things that Nathan had lived through making a barrier that would always be between them, or so it seemed. But this gift seemed right, partly a tribute to the number of times Nathan had patched him up or tended to him when he was sick, and partly something more, something Ezra hardly wanted to name to himself. Something he would never name to another man, given half the chance to stay silent. He wanted Nathan, wanted something more from him than the friendship that had seemed so hard to achieve. Something unlikely and unexpected, that it was likely rarer than a rooster's egg. "Where did you get them books from?" The saloon doors had barely stopped swinging behind him before Nathan was at the table, standing over Ezra, who was just where he'd expected to find him. "And a very good evening to you too, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said, leaning back in his chair as he looked up. "You appear to have already formulated an answer to your own question." "If they're stolen, I don't want nothing to do with them. I suggest you come get them." "You impugn me, sir. I have no need to steal." He knew there were other people at the table, three or four men whose faces he recognized, but he didn't care. This was between him and Ezra. "But you do admit the books were yours?" "I admit I acquired them and then passed them on to you. What use would I have for medical tomes?" "So you passed your stolen goods to me instead? I don't want charity, Ezra, and I surely don't want whatever you've robbed from some poor unsuspecting soul." Nathan felt the distance between them grow, even as he spoke the words. Whatever expression he had expected or hoped to see on Ezra's face - shame, perhaps - this bland non-expression was much more familiar. "The books are yours, Mr. Jackson. Make whatever use of them you will. Throw them on the fire if it takes your fancy. Anything that does not involve you further accusing me of being a thief." Ezra turned back to the table then, making a performance of picking up his cards and examining them, though Nathan knew for certain that he had an idea of not just his own cards, but all those in the other hands. "This ain't over, Ezra." "If you'll excuse me, I believe it is," Ezra said, his voice sharp. "After all, I have a living to make." He should have known it was a mistake. Nathan would never accept anything he knew to be from him, never. The healer regarded everything Ezra touched as tainted, whether as a result of where he was from or because of what he did, or a curious combination of the two. That was how it was, how it always would be. To think any different was to show himself to be even more of a fool than he realized, to expose himself to scorn and ridicule and earn them both. Ezra watched Nathan walk away out of the corner of his eye even as he pretended to study his cards, watched him stalk from the saloon while he himself attempted to regain some element of control over his emotions. Only long years of practice had made it possible to hide the blow, the bitter disappointment Ezra had felt. He'd thought himself beyond such foolishness but maybe the old adage was right. There's no fool like an old fool. It was a lucky escape. Maybe now, Ezra told himself, maybe now he could put this foolish notion behind him, turn his attentions once more to the serious business of making money. Forget about a certain healer and the desire to change his mind, alter his emotions. Ezra shook his head as he reached for the cards, gathered them together with sure and steady movements of his hands, belying the turmoil he still experienced. Pasting a smile on his face, he turned to his companions, what few were left after Nathan's little performance anyway, and invited them to play another hand. He should do what Ezra said, Nathan told himself, as he headed back to the clinic. With each step he took, he was more certain that was the right thing to do - throw those books in the stove and have done with it. Except. Except that they were something he'd wanted for so long, the kind of knowledge Nathan had always been barred from attaining, by virtue of his poverty and the color of his skin. And there it all was, wrapped in leather and calfskin, there for the taking without either barrier in the way. There for the taking all because of one Ezra Standish, a most unlikely benefactor. But if they were stolen? A small part of Nathan's conscience was still noisy, still agitating for him to burn the books and have done with it, to owe no debt of gratitude to Ezra because it would come back to bite him when he least expected it. He didn't like the idea of being indebted to Ezra one bit. But then that wasn't ever going to be something that would sit easy, was it? Nathan told himself, as he climbed the stairs, that he'd tried to be fair towards the gambler, that he'd tried not to judge Ezra by who he was but by what he did. But those good intentions had evaporated almost before he knew the other man's name, when the man in question had refused to ride with them to the Seminole village for no other reason than the color of Nathan's skin. Wasn't that alone enough reason to avoid entangling himself in whatever scheme Ezra was likely cooking up? There was more though, more than he wanted to admit to himself most of the time. He'd seen the darker side of humanity, both down on the plantations where he'd grown up and in the insanity of wartime. Nathan had learned a lot about what happened between individuals, consenting or otherwise. Ezra might think him prudish at times, but that wasn't who he was. He knew how his own desires went, he just chose to direct them a certain way rather than another, like building a dam out of rocks to turn a stream. Nathan hadn't been able to hide his attraction to Rain, no more than he could have prevented the sun from rising in the morning, but that didn't mean that was all there was. The same life that burned in Rain's eyes burned in Ezra's too, enticing him even as he told himself that could never be. Ezra might be a lot of things, but he had no proof that the gambler was that way. So, for both their sakes, he'd keep those particular thoughts to himself. He wondered what Nathan had done with the books he'd given him, wondered at his own motivations for saying the things he'd said. Long after the poker game had concluded, Ezra had sat at the same table, finding that he didn't want to go to bed, preferring instead to sit alone with his thoughts and a pack of cards. The cards had been his constant companion for longer than he could remember, something he could always rely on, something that was always there for him no matter what. He'd had associates along the way, acquaintances with whom he'd drawn together with the aim of mutual enrichment, but nothing like the friendship he'd found in this backwater town. The last place he would have looked, if he had been asked where friendship might be found. After Ezra had stopped laughing at the very idea of having friends, that is. After all, the life that he'd led up to that point hadn't given him all that much opportunity. Very few people, in his experience, wanted to associate that closely with someone who might have to leave town in a hurry to avoid being tarred and feathered, unless they were regularly running the same risk. But here in Four Corners, unexpectedly, Ezra had found some kind of sanctuary. Of course, once he'd begun to find his feet, after a somewhat shaky start, he wondered if he was trying to destroy the acceptance that he'd found, one way or another. The mail-order bride scheme he'd tried to get off the ground had been a prime example of that. At the time, it seemed an absolute godsend. He could make a tidy profit, and at the same time help secure the futures of those former prostitutes in a way they might otherwise not manage. While Ezra could see how that might be misinterpreted, he'd hoped that the newfound friendship he shared with his fellow peacekeepers would ensure that they did not think of his actions as mercenary. He should have expected Nathan's reaction, he supposed. If Ezra had thought about it, even as he'd turned the scheme in his mind, examined it from every possible angle, the attitude Nathan might have towards it all was the last thing he'd considered. And Nathan's words had struck him, as surely as if the man himself had walked up to Ezra and slapped him across the face. For a moment, he knew, he was defenseless, every emotion, every thought there for the universe to see. An experience of a lifetime, he hoped, and Ezra hated every moment of it. Not just because of its rarity, that kind of vulnerability being something Ezra had seldom felt, but because it was at that moment he realized that he was torn, a realization that would set the scene for every future endeavor. He wanted to make money, but he also wanted the good opinion of his friends. Those two motives battled inside him, each taking turns to rule his actions, until Ezra felt he hardly knew which way was up. And of all his friends, the one whose good opinion he wanted the most was the most unlikely. The one who would never give it, whose favor Ezra knew he would find it impossible to earn, the bar always set too high for him to reach. "Nice books." The voice that rumbled from the darkness inside the room startled Nathan, even as he recognized it. "Make yourself at home, Josiah," Nathan said, crossing to the lamp and turning it up so it lit the clinic. Josiah blinked a little, as if wakened from sleep, and Nathan wondered if he had been dozing, waiting in the gloom for him to return. "You're hurt?" "No, brother," Josiah replied, stretching a little in the uncomfortable chair. "Just tired, that's all. These old bones carry tiredness like a burden." Josiah's hands were resting on the books themselves now, pulling the first of them to him. He opened it, as Nathan crossed to busy himself with the stove, knowing that whatever Josiah had to say he probably wouldn't like all that much. He'd known the man long enough to judge when he had hard words to speak. "Expensive present," Josiah continued, as he turned the pages. He didn't need to look round at Nathan to know the other man was listening to him. Nathan couldn't have ignored the sound of Josiah's voice any more than he could have stopped his own heart from beating. "I don't want them," he said, as he added wood to the stove. "They're likely stolen anyhow." "Looks like you got yourself a gift horse," Josiah said. Nathan closed the door to the stove and stood up, turning back to where Josiah sat. "Things're not always what they seem, Nathan. You of all people should remember that." Nathan felt himself begin to bristle. It was instinctive sometimes, a reaction he just couldn't help, couldn't control, even if he wanted to. And he wasn't always sure he wanted to. "I don't need charity, Josiah," he said, as he crossed to the table and picked up one of the books that lay there. "And I don't want nothing from that man!" He stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the book that lay in his hands. "Maybe Ezra was right, maybe I should just burn them and have done with it." "And that would fix it all? Change everything for the good?" Josiah shook his head, reaching up for the book that Nathan held and taking it from him as he did so. He placed it back carefully, almost reverently, on the table. "You know it won't." "I can't keep them." "Why not? Doesn't Ezra rely on your skill as a healer as often as the rest of us? Don't we all deserve the best care you can give?" "You know it isn't that simple, Josiah. I can't be obliged to him. Not like this." Not ever, he wanted to say. Not in any shape or form, no way, no how. Josiah looked at him for a long moment. "Who is it that you hear, brother?" he asked. "What?" "When Ezra speaks, whose voice is it you hear, Nathan?" Nathan was frozen by the question, trapped by it like he was caught in a bear trap, watching the advancing hunters as he roared his defiance at them. "Who is it you hear?" "Ezra's a gambler, a con man and likely a thief too," Nathan said, hastily. "Isn't that enough?" "Is it?" "Can't be obliged to him." Nathan spat out the words. The things Josiah said worried him, making him uncertain of where he stood. "Has Ezra asked anything of you?" Josiah pressed. "Even admitted that the books were from him?" "Finally," Nathan said. "At first he wouldn't even do that. As if they could have come from anyone else." "And when have you ever known Brother Ezra to do anything without thought of reward?" Josiah asked, as he pushed back the chair and stood. "Think on that." Nathan didn't mention the books the next morning, not that Ezra was paying a great deal of attention to anything much. Ezra had been dragged out of bed far earlier than was right for any civilized man, all because the Judge was due in town today, and he liked to see all seven of the men he was paying hard at work. In his heart, Ezra thought it ridiculous, but Travis was paying him, like he paid the rest of them, so what choice did he have? So, he drank a large amount of coffee, which seemed to have no discernable influence over him, before adjourning to the jailhouse in hopes of catching a siesta there before the Judge arrived. A plan which probably would have worked if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't alone there, and that he couldn't stop thinking about Nathan. His mind was whirling, the scornful words Nathan had spoken lived with him, and it took an effort for Ezra to put them from his thoughts. He kept telling himself that the healer's opinion of him didn't matter, that he'd expected such a reception anyway. And after a while, he almost believed it. Every time he settled down to snooze, every time Ezra tipped his hat over his eyes and rested his booted feet on the battered desk, the petty thief they'd arrested the day before would start to talk. Even though years of practice at sleeping just about anywhere had trained Ezra to be able to tune out almost any noise, the nasal tones of their current prisoner seemed to cut right through him, making sleep impossible. "Will you be quiet?" Ezra found himself snapping, when the thief began to talk for the third time, some rambling tale of misfortune and lost opportunities. His feet slammed down from the desk and hit the wooden floor with a bang, making their prisoner jump, temporarily startling him into blessed silence. "Ezra?" JD's puzzled voice made him turn, quicker than he'd planned to, and Ezra saw the boy's eyes widen at his speed and the way his hand dropped to his revolver. "Sorry, JD." "No, it's fine," JD replied. "You never know who might be sneaking up on you, I guess..." "Instinct and old habits," Ezra admitted. "Ones that have kept me alive far longer than many of my former acquaintances, and have thus stood me in good stead." JD nodded, despite the fact that Ezra wasn't sure he'd understood more than one word in four of what he had just said. It wasn't that JD was stupid, far from it, he just seemed to live in a world of his own a lot of the time, something that Ezra had often found himself envying. "What can I do for you, Mr. Dunne?" "I came to relieve you, Ez," JD said, taking the seat that Ezra had only recently vacated. "Chris wants you over at the saloon." Ezra sighed, then cast a malignant look at their prisoner. "Mr. Jenkins," he snapped, "be so kind as to keep your tall tales to yourself, lest I be forced to shut you up personally." He tried the Larabee glare, or at least his own version of it, on for size and was pleased to see Jenkins pale a little. Ezra smiled to himself. "I wish you," he said, glancing across at Jenkins pointedly as he spoke, "a peaceful time of it, Mr. Dunne." JD nodded, pulling a battered dime store novel out of the desk drawer. Before Ezra had left the jail, he knew that JD would be somewhere else completely, drawn into a world of larger-than-life characters, who only slightly resembled the kind of men he lived alongside day after day. Josiah's words were ones he couldn't run away from, or so it seemed to Nathan. They pursued him, waited for him round every corner, hid behind every tree. Damn him. Josiah had this way of seeing straight to a person's heart, hiding that ability behind long-winded stories till it took you unawares every time. Now he'd been given the chance to think about it, Nathan knew Josiah was right. This wasn't just about Ezra, had never been just about him. That voice, those smooth Southern tones, was so like the one that echoed in his sleep. It had taken a while before he'd been able to hear Ezra talk without wanting to turn and leave. It didn't matter what the subject was, just the sound of that accent had made the hairs rise on Nathan's neck, a reaction he wasn't particularly proud of. It was a reaction that confused him, left him with nowhere to turn. He was attracted to Ezra, Nathan didn't deny that to himself, but what was it that attracted him? And how was that tied in with the horrors of his upbringing? The man whose name he carried had taught him much more than how to wield a sword, things that he didn't want to think on. And he'd tried to be so much better than Ezra, to take the moral high ground over the gambler at the least opportunity. Opportunities to do so seemed to present themselves on a regular basis and he took them as they came, discovering after a while, to his dismay, that he came to relish the chance. What did that mean? Nathan told himself he had good reason to distrust Ezra, to question the motives that drove him, but was he right? He knew Ezra had changed, even in the time they had known one another he owed him his life, which had to count for something, surely? He hardly knew which way to turn. On one hand, Ezra was still the same double-dealing con man he had always been. On the other, these books had arrived in his clinic, unexpected and unasked for. One side of the coin had Ezra as the object of his desires, the other side portrayed him as the same as all those with whose accent he spoke. And his first response had been to accuse Ezra of theft, if not worse. The thought of apologizing made Nathan's skin crawl. But he couldn't go on like this. If he couldn't bring himself to apologize, then at least he could attempt to mend his ways, try and treat Ezra as his behavior deserved, not because his voice sounded like the one that haunted Nathan's nightmares, wreathed in fire and blood. Being summoned to meet with Judge Travis rarely boded well for what would happen next, Ezra reflected, as he crossed the dusty street to the saloon. As he'd expected, by the time he arrived, the others were there and waiting for him. Ezra ignored the glare from Chris as he crossed the room to the only available chair at the table, the one next to Nathan. He saw Nathan glance across at him and ignored the look he thought he'd seen. Over the time that he'd been associating with this motley band of peacekeepers, Ezra had learned to ignore a lot of things, building on the defenses he'd established over his years working cons. It was a difficult balancing act at times, taking the friendship and trust that the others offered but without relying on it too much. Ezra couldn't afford to become reliant, to tie himself too closely to their fates. And Nathan in particular had proved the most difficult, somewhat due to his own behavior towards the man when they had first encountered one another. Ezra had to acknowledge that. It was something he wasn't proud of, but something whose effects he had to deal with now, day in and day out. He wanted it to be different, had seen those books, he realized now, as something of a peace offering. At least that was the spirit in which he had given them, though Nathan had only seen them as the unloading of stolen goods or an attempt to unduly influence him somehow. Thinking about the two possibilities, Ezra wasn't sure which he liked least. The Judge was speaking and Ezra forced himself to pay attention, though that was never an easy task. Travis was a man who loved the sound of his own voice, someone Ezra secretly thought would have made a fine preacher if he wasn't a politician. Either way, the Judge's own innate skills and personality combined perfectly. The room itself was warm, the air hanging heavy, and Ezra found himself starting to doze. He jerked awake at one stage, after Nathan's elbow struck him sharply in the ribs. Chris was glaring at him, and Ezra knew that he'd been caught. The Judge didn't seem to have noticed, but that didn't mean that he would escape, since Chris himself was merciless enough. Ezra smiled at Chris but the only effect that had was to make the glare intensify. "Did you want something, Mr. Jackson?" Ezra asked, leaning back in his chair and fixing Nathan with a direct look. The others were leaving, Chris was standing over by the bar with the Judge talking about something or other, Buck nearby chatting with Inez as usual. "Huh?" Of all the things he'd expected, the idea of Ezra confronting him had been way down on the list. "I noticed you watching me," Ezra continued. "Was there something you wished to say?" Nathan found himself just staring at Ezra, wondering just how the other man knew he was on edge. "I am a student of the human condition," Ezra continued, in that honeyed drawl, as if in answer to his unspoken question. "How could your scrutiny of my person go unobserved?" "I guess." He hesitated, the words almost there. "Ezra, I… the books..." "Yes?" Damn him, he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? Nathan hurried on, shoving out the words he wanted to say before he could think too much about them. "I wanted to thank you…" Ezra waved his hand as if he were royalty dismissing an offering. "No need, Mr. Jackson," he said, interrupting Nathan's stammering words. "Your continued skill as a medical practitioner is the only thanks I require." Nathan felt himself stiffen, the almost ungrateful sounding words striking deep. "You won't let me finish?" he asked, grinding out the words. Ezra looked at him, as if he could divine his very thoughts, and it was all Nathan could do to stop the sharp words that jostled for their very life upon his tongue. "I apologize," he said. "Pray continue and forgive my abruptness." Ezra was looking at him now, really looking at him. Those green eyes, knowing and also full of enquiry, as if asking just how far Nathan would have gone if Ezra hadn't allowed him to speak. Nathan didn't want to think about that, though he could feel the anger unabated inside himself, a coiled spring. "I wanted to thank you for those books," he said, again. "They'll do a lot of people a world of good." Ezra nodded, the simple gesture an acceptance of Nathan's words, and Nathan himself felt the heat inside lessen, dwindle. "And you are very welcome, Mr. Jackson." Only years of practice, the hard-earned fruit of his dedication to the trade he plied, had allowed Ezra to subdue the feeling of elation he felt at Nathan's apology. At first, he'd wanted to spare him the embarrassment, knowing how difficult it would be for the other man to bend like that, seeing the hatred of the position he found himself in writ large in Nathan's eyes. But when he'd tried to help him out, the only response had been anger, a cold, dark fury that hinted at rage well buried. A side of Nathan he'd never seen before, though Ezra would have said he knew him as well as anyone else among their group, with the possible exception of Josiah. In many ways they were alike, despite the extremities of their relative upbringings, their characters formed by harsh lessons learned young, both trying to make something better of themselves. Ezra wondered what Nathan's reaction would be if he made that comment out loud - laughter or more anger? The only problem was, he decided, the more he knew of Nathan, the more he wanted to know. Was it like that irresistible urge to probe with your tongue at a wobbling tooth? The certain knowledge that such investigation might only lead to further pain had never stopped Ezra Standish before. Dark desires, dark thoughts he could never express, they swirled just below the surface and Ezra felt their movement. They rose, unbidden, when he least expected them and he was helpless to resist. Only his long years of living behind a façade had allowed him to dissemble thus far. Heaven help him, he wanted to be on the receiving end of that dark fury he had seen in Nathan's eyes. The thought of being helpless before it both frightened and excited him, even as he composed himself for what remained of the day ahead and took his leave of the others. He was heading back to the clinic when the message came, one of the older Bennett children carrying news that their ma had finally gone into labor a couple of hours since. Nathan sent the boy in the direction of the saloon, telling him to get some food, while he himself crossed to the jailhouse to let Chris know he'd be leaving town. Chris was there, sitting back on the chair that surveyed the street outside, hat tipped forward over his eyes as if asleep. The way he moved when Nathan neared told him that the gunslinger was aware of his presence, even as he relaxed slightly when he recognized his visitor. "Just had a message Mrs. Bennett's time's here," Nathan said. "You leaving now?" "Soon as I've packed my stuff. Figure I've got time to get some food too, maybe." Chris nodded. "Don't want you going alone, Nathan," he said. "Judge said there's trouble looming. Take Ezra with you." "You cross he almost dozed off on the Judge?" "Not as cross as the Judge is," Chris said, smiling a little. "Figure I'd better get Ezra out of town while Travis is here, save us having troubles of our own." Nathan nodded, even as the thought of going anywhere with Ezra both appalled and excited him. "Go get ready," Chris said, as he got up from the chair. "I'll go find Ezra and tell him he volunteered for a little trip." He set off towards the saloon. Nathan watched him, shaking his head for a moment before setting off back to the clinic to pack the things he might need for attending a childbirth. He'd had a lot of practice in packing for emergencies, his hands falling almost automatically on what he'd need without needing to give it conscious thought. It was only as he was leaving the clinic again, planning on making a quick diversion down to the restaurant to grab some food while he waited for Ezra to join him for the journey, that Nathan remembered the books. They were still there, where he and Josiah had left them, piled haphazardly on the rough-hewn table. If he was going to keep them, Nathan told himself as he picked up the top volume, he probably ought to look at fixing up another shelf. The one he already had wasn't anything like sturdy enough to hold these. He opened the book in question, discovering it was the midwifery book, the odd one out. He shouldn't take it with him, shouldn't subject a fine text like this to the rough conditions they were likely to face, but it might come in useful. He'd have to remember to tell Ezra if it did. It was ironic in the extreme, Nathan thought, as he stood smiling down at Mrs. Bennett and the newest addition to her already sizeable family. If he wasn't the closest thing they had to a doctor in these parts, chances were someone like Jacob Bennett would shoot him as soon as allow someone like Nathan to even speak to his wife. Even now, though Nathan admitted to himself that the birth had been relatively uncomplicated, considering all the possible problems that childbirth could involve, Mr. Bennett was struggling to be more than barely civil. He turned to the basin of water beside the bed, glad to wash the blood from his hands, and fumbled for the small sliver of soap that lay on a threadbare towel beside it. These weren't wealthy folks, not by any stretch of the imagination, so what was the birth of another child if not just a further mouth to feed? Nathan watched Mrs. Bennett - Ruth, she had demanded Nathan call her, gripping his hand fiercely as another contraction hit. The look on her face as she gazed down at the baby in her arms gave the lie to that thought. They might be many things, the Bennetts, poor and over- stretched among them, but Nathan could see that this child was wanted, would be loved, and he found himself smiling. "You got a name for her?" he asked, as he dried his hands. Ruth smiled up at him, her face still damp with sweat and her hair sticking to her forehead. Her eyes were a little over-bright, the exhaustion of a lengthy labor pushing her steadily towards sleep. "If she'd been a boy, I would have named her after you, Mr. Jackson," Ruth said. She glanced across at her husband, as if daring him to say anything. "So I suppose I should name her after your mother instead." Nathan was struck by the words, silent at the implication of them, more acceptance than he had ever expected, ever looked for. The unexpectedness of it robbed him of words, even as Ruth Bennett waited for his answer. "His mother's name was Martha, Mrs. Bennett," a voice said from behind him. Ezra, who had clearly heard everything. "And I truly hope that your Martha lives to be as fine a mother to any children with whom she might be blessed as her namesake was to hers." Nathan had mumbled his way through his farewells. Ezra had taken over from him, bidding a fond goodbye to Mrs. Bennett and baby Martha, a more stoic one to Mr. Bennett, who had decided discretion was the better part of valor and disappeared off to the chicken coop to find payment for the healer's services. He was silent most of the way back to Four Corners, and Ezra took it upon himself to fill in the silence, lest it become uncomfortable for both of them. Mrs. Bennett's decision to name her child had been something of a surprise to both of them, but Ezra had rolled with the punch that seemed to have felled Nathan completely. He'd talked for a while of his experiences in New Orleans, working the riverboats that traveled from there, wondering if Nathan heard a word he was saying. Now and then, to test his theory, Ezra embellished his stories shamelessly, but without response. After a while, he wondered if he should be quiet instead, but couldn't think of what the silence might be like, now that the two of them had somewhat made their peace. At least if he talked about inanities, that provided some protection from the possibility of speaking a more intimate truth. One that Nathan would be much less willing to hear. "Why'd she do that?" Nathan asked, suddenly. His question interrupted the recital of a story that wasn't even something Ezra himself had experienced, merely something he'd once heard from a passing acquaintance and was now bending to make his own. "Because she thought it would please you, Mr. Jackson? Because she felt grateful to you for easing her burden and providing her with another healthy child into the bargain?" Glib words, possibly, but he meant them. Sometimes Ezra wondered if Nathan realized the debts he was owed, not just by those he considered his friends, but by the community at large. Apparently not. "And you said…" "Nothing but the truth, Mr. Jackson. That much is surely self- evident." Nathan had reined his horse so it was pacing alongside Ezra's now, his eyes intent on Ezra's face. If truth be told, that kind of scrutiny made Ezra more than a little nervous but he bore it as best he could. "I got no quarrel with you, Ezra," he said, then looked away. Everything he had thought he knew about Ezra was slowly being proved wrong, or so it seemed. Josiah had asked him when he'd ever seen Ezra do anything without thought of reward and he'd been hard pressed to come up with an example. But he was seeing a different side to the gambler now, one that he found himself quite liking. It was a shame it had taken so long for them to reach some kind of understanding. "I should hope not, Mr. Jackson." Ezra's voice was full of amusement. "I'd surely hate to be both injured and then patched up by you. The opportunities that would afford you for revenge against my person are far too numerous." He glanced round at Ezra as he spoke, seeing the familiar smile light up the gambler's face and felt himself smile back. He'd been surprised by Ruth Bennett, and it looked like today was set to be full of surprises. Seeing Ezra like this reminded him why he wanted more than friendship, even if he didn't dare set a foot on that path. Ezra seemed to relax at his reaction, as if he'd been unsure whether his joke would be well received, and Nathan found himself wondering if he'd always been that much on edge around him. Like Nathan was an unexploded shell, waiting to go off if disturbed, everyone walking on eggshells round where it lay. He wasn't sure he liked that idea. "I get enough work just patching you up, Ezra," he said. "'Sides, I guess I rile you as much as you do me, one way or 'nother." He watched Ezra's face for a reaction, and it wasn't slow in coming. Ezra looked embarrassed, if anything, glancing at the pommel of his saddle, before looking up and meeting his eyes again. "You've had cause, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said. "I, on the other hand, have merely often received my just desserts." Saying that, Ezra kicked his horse, pulling ahead a little as if to signify that conversation on this subject was over between them. Nathan found himself studying Ezra's back, the easy way he sat his horse, the line of his spine through that colorful jacket he was so proud of, and wondered just what had happened. He'd been a moment from betraying himself in the most unlikely way, so close that he could almost taste it, his imagination running on towards scenarios that scared him more than he had ever been afraid during the War. Ezra had never considered himself a coward, had always done his duty when he had been a soldier, no matter what anyone thought of him afterwards. But this time he'd come close to turning tail, and that possibility alone was enough to upset his equilibrium. He'd set his foot on a treacherous path, one that could only lead to destruction. Ezra fancied he could almost smell the tar heating now, see the amazed and scornful looks on the faces of those who would probably consider themselves his friends if not for this. It was unconscionable, a blatant step towards foisting his unnatural affections on a man who was only trying to be his friend, against the stiffest of odds. If only he could feel ashamed of himself. "What's going on?" Nathan asked, drawing alongside Ezra once more. His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he normally only showed when someone was injured. Ezra opened his mouth to deny everything when the sound of gunshots split the air, one of the rounds taking a chunk of wood out of the trunk of a nearby tree. He kicked his horse into a gallop, leaning low in the saddle to avoid the branches that whipped overhead as they raced through a small group of trees towards what looked like shelter. Ezra could hear Nathan's horse close behind, so he didn't look round, all his attention focussed on looking for cover, somewhere they could make a stand. Nathan would follow him, he knew that. Now all he had to do was find somewhere they could hole up, somewhere defensible, and hope they could stay alive long enough for him to be worried about what he'd almost done. No matter what he might think of Ezra, and that particular subject was still up for debate, Nathan knew that he had a good strategic sense. If anyone could find them somewhere to make a stand, he'd trust the gambler every time. Maybe it was all those times he'd probably had to leave town in a hurry, but he always seemed to have a plan in mind. Within minutes he was tying his horse alongside Ezra's, clambering up a slope and behind some rocks to survey the road they had just traveled. Ezra was half-standing, half-lying against the rock, checking his Remington. Nathan took his lead from Ezra, examining his revolver briefly before peering carefully over the rock they were currently sheltering behind. "No sign of our would-be assassins?" "Nope." "Lucky shot?" "I doubt it." Nathan listened intently, but there was no sound of pursuit. Had it been just a fluke shot? He wasn't convinced, and a glance across at Ezra told him he wasn't alone. "So, shall we wait here awhile and discover if we truly have been pursued or head for home?" Ezra asked. Nathan considered the options. They were still a good couple of hours ride from Four Corners, but there were few likely places to stage an ambush on the way, should their pursuers have decided to try and circle round them. On the other hand, staying put meant possibly staying out for the night, as well as the opportunity to try and figure out just what was going on with Ezra. "We could risk it..." he said, knowing his uncertainty sounded in his voice. "I still have plans, Mr. Jackson, to become the owner of that fine saloon. Somehow I think 'risking it' and my singular pecuniary ambitions do not mesh." Nathan smiled to himself, glad he was facing away from Ezra, supposedly looking out for their attackers. "So, what you're saying is we wait?" he asked. "So, Mr. Jackson," Ezra said, "what do you think are the chances that our would-be assassins and those miscreants that Judge Travis described are one and the same?" He'd taken over keeping watch, resting most of his weight on the sizeable boulder they were sheltering behind, while Nathan sat near Ezra's feet. "You're the gambler, not me." "Very true. And I would say that the odds are in our favor at present, but wonder how long they shall remain so." Nathan's very proximity was making him more than a little nervous, though their current predicament at least gave Ezra something to keep his mind on. If it hadn't been for that, he wondered just what he might have let slip. "Ezra?" "Yes, Mr. Jackson?" There was silence for a moment. "You could call me Nathan. Jackson was just the guy who owned me and mine when I was small, that's how come we got the name." Ezra considered that for a moment. Despite all the things he'd experienced, all the people he'd met along the way, that Nathan might not have been able to choose the name he bore had been something he'd never given any thought. Of course, he'd never chosen to be a Standish, but at least that name didn't have the same connotations, even if it was hardly a respectable one. "I shall endeavor to do so, Nathan," he said, as the silence between them stretched almost uneasily. "And I apologize if I have ever caused you discomfort by the use of your given name." He heard Nathan laugh at that, abrupt and sudden. "Don't worry, Ezra. Been called worse." Nathan was quiet again for a moment, and Ezra wondered if he was satisfied with his response. "I wanted to ask you something, though." Ezra said nothing. He wasn't sure he liked the way this conversation was going, and he had a bad feeling about what way it might turn next. "Do you consider me a friend, Ezra?" Nathan asked, the words rattling out of his mouth like they were escaping confinement. "I believe I have that honor," Ezra replied, suddenly wishing for bandits. "Why do you ask?" "It's just sometimes… foolishness, I guess." Ezra glanced down to where Nathan sat, in time to see him shake his head. "Foolishness?" he echoed. "Like there's something else between us. Can't describe it." He didn't need to. Ezra felt a chill run up and down his spine. So, it had happened, the beginning of the end. He might as well pack his bags now and plan to leave. "What else could there be?" Did his voice sound normal? He could hardly tell any more. Nathan didn't look up, anyway. Ezra checked out of the corner of his eye for a reaction and there was none. "You tell me." A flat statement. And this time Nathan was watching him. Ezra might make his living with that poker face of his, but sometimes it wasn't worth a damn. Like now. He'd flamed up, a red tide rising across his face, and Nathan knew that Ezra knew exactly what he was talking about. Oddly enough, he didn't feel any kind of triumph over it, just a contentment and some degree of pity for the emotions he knew Ezra had to be experiencing now. "It ain't wrong," he said, brusquely, "whatever it is, whatever fancy name you have for it." "No?" The question was choked out, Ezra studiously avoiding him and using keeping watch to do so, while he tried to regain some control. Nathan kept quiet for a moment, letting him get back in the saddle once more, letting Ezra get a grip of his feelings again. "Some folks might consider it unnatural, but then we got to look at what some folks consider right..." "The wholesale enslavement of a race of people based on the color of their skin has been considered right and natural within our own lifetimes," Ezra said, still watching the road they'd traveled. "And look what evils have been wrought in the name of that particular aspect of the 'natural scheme of things.'" "'Sides, we got to take what comfort we can," Nathan continued, wondering if he was just digging himself into a deeper hole. Did Ezra really understand what he was offering here? "Learned that in the War." They heard hoofbeats then, hammering down the path towards them. "Much as I'm enjoying this little discussion," Ezra said, offering Nathan a hand to get up, "I believe we should conclude it at a later date." "You got it," Nathan said, cocking his revolver as he took his place alongside the man he felt he'd come to understand a little more. Ezra was almost grateful for the attack, for the way in which it rescued him from the obligation to talk, the likelihood that he would find himself baring his soul somewhat more than he had ever planned to do. Nathan's words were unexpected and he wanted more time to consider them, to plan his next move, before he committed himself irrevocably. They were united in purpose now, his Remington and Nathan's revolver taking care of the first two raiders that appeared, the riderless horses continuing on down the trail without their burdens. The next took cover, and Ezra wondered just how they would get out of this mess. All in all, he'd never felt so alive, the blood coursing through his veins. He felt as though he could do anything, take on these miscreants single-handed and emerge victorious. Fortunately, Ezra had enough experience of battle to know that elation was likely to be short-lived, as he would be should he do something so foolhardy. "How many left?" Nathan asked, as he crouched by Ezra's side, reloading his weapon. "Three, maybe four." Ezra winced as a bullet slammed into the rock nearby, sending a razor-sharp shard to score a line across his face. "How're we gonna get out of here?" "I have absolutely no idea," Ezra admitted and found himself laughing. Nathan was looking at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was. At least if he got himself killed here and now some people back in town might be upset, might come to his funeral and say nice things about him. Ezra tried to imagine his mother attending, cutting a dramatic figure in unremitting black, but couldn't visualize it. Maude would never come anyway, not unless she could see some way to make a profit from her son's demise. "Ezra?" "I'm quite partial to lilies," Ezra said, as he reloaded his Remington. "I would appreciate it if you would remember that, should the need arise." Nathan was scowling at him now, a full-fledged frown of disapproval clear on his face. "Ain't neither of us going to die today," he said. "Leastwise, not if I can do something 'bout it." "Alas, my dear Nathan," Ezra said, as he stood up and aimed another volley of shots toward their attackers, "you may not be able to stop this. Perhaps it is meant to be, that my fate is sealed?" "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard," Nathan said, grabbing a handful of Ezra's jacket and pulling him down till they were eye to eye. "And if you so much as think 'bout doing something foolish, so help me, I'll kill you myself." Ezra found himself smiling at Nathan's fierceness, the protective streak that he usually exhibited towards the others far more often than Ezra had seen it directed towards himself. It warmed something inside him, something deep-hidden that had been cold and still for far too long. "I shall endeavor to stay alive," Ezra said. He glanced down quickly at where Nathan's hand still gripped a fistful of material, that strong grasp wrapped round part of his jacket. "I would suggest that you do likewise." The feeling overwhelmed him, surging through him with unexpected power. He could almost see Josiah's crows circling overhead predicting Ezra's death and Nathan had no intention of letting that happen. "Damn fool," he muttered to himself as he let go of his hold on Ezra's jacket. Who was he talking about, he wondered, Ezra or himself? Both, maybe? There was silence, unexpected, as the rattle of gunfire fell away. Was this a retreat on the part of those who'd been trying to kill them, or just the calm before the storm? "Hmm... I wonder where our would-be attackers have ventured to?" "Want to make a break for it?" Nathan asked, almost dreading the answer before he had finished asking the question. He saw Ezra consider that idea for a moment and imagined he could almost hear the gambler's thoughts as he looked at it from each angle. Finally, Ezra looked at him. "I believe we could venture outside our stronghold," he said. "It might be a fortuitous time to make our escape." Nathan nodded. Either he was getting more used to the way Ezra spoke, or Ezra was deliberately making himself clearer. Either would do. "Let's go, then," he said, edging away from shelter towards where the horses were tethered. By the time he reached the trees, Nathan was almost sure they were alone. It was only as he stretched out his hand to untie the reins that he heard the movement beside him, saw the man emerge from behind the tree out of the corner of his eye. Nathan tried to turn but knew even as he did so that he was too late. He heard the shot that ripped through the silence, even as he was bringing his revolver round to bear. The newcomer stiffened, his hand clutching his chest, trickles of blood emerging from between his fingers. Ezra was there suddenly, disarming the clearly dying bandit even as the man slumped to the ground. "Nice shot, Ezra," Nathan said, after he had found his voice again. He was shaking and had to concentrate in order to untie the reins. Ezra had quickly moved round to his own horse and was following suit. It was only as the two of them made their escape that he heard Ezra speak. "You're welcome." The ride back to Four Corners was something of a blur, and if he'd been asked to describe it, Ezra wasn't sure he could have done so. His mind was still full of what had just happened, still concentrating on whether the two of them were being pursued to think about anything else. He'd come so close to losing Nathan, just when he was about to see whether there was anything between them. The moments in question ran through his brain. His reaction to shoot the man who was about to gun Nathan down had been an instinctive one. When they drew up outside the saloon, Ezra hesitated for a moment before dismounting. What would happen next? Chris emerged from the doorway, the characteristic frown deepening as Nathan began to recount what had happened on their way back from the Bennett farm. Ezra busied himself with checking the girth on his horse, hearing Nathan describe their standoff and his own brush with death, neither of which he really wanted to give much thought to anymore. "You both okay?" Chris asked. Ezra felt the weight of his gaze, even if he didn't look round. "I'm fine," Nathan said, "but I need to get Ezra over to the clinic, just to be sure." Ezra looked round at this, wondering just what was going on, only to catch Nathan's eye as he did so. The healer looked straight at him, dark eyes full of life and expectation, and Ezra felt himself swallow a little nervously. "Ezra?" That was Chris, but it took something of an effort to form the words to answer him. "Mr. Larabee?" "You okay?" "Now you come to mention it," Ezra said, his voice returning, "I do feel as if I could benefit from some medical attention. Nothing serious though, I hasten to add." Chris nodded, his eyes still intent on the two of them and Ezra felt the weight of his scrutiny. "Shall we, Mr. Jackson?" he asked, turning to Nathan just in time to see him wince a little at the seeming coldness between them, personified in the use of such formal address. "Nathan?" Ezra corrected himself. Nathan nodded, then turned and led the way towards his clinic. "I ain't obliged to you, Ezra," Nathan said, slamming him back against the rough-hewn wood of the clinic walls. He'd barely waited for the door to close behind the two of them before taking hold of Ezra's jacket once more and swinging him quickly round. "So don't you go thinking I am. Not for the books, not for saving my life back there." Ezra was trapped there, momentarily, his eyes wide and bright with the knowledge of what lay ahead. He didn't move, didn't try and push Nathan away. "Obligation was the furthest thing from my mind, Nathan, I assure you." As he spoke, Ezra's talented fingers made short work of the buttons on Nathan's shirt, before he pushed the roughly woven material back off Nathan's shoulders to fall to the floor, forgotten. His warm, long-fingered hands came to rest on Nathan's shoulders now, as if that was the only place they could remain still. "And I won't be taken advantage of," Nathan said, as he watched his own hands, not nearly as dexterous, working on the fiddly buttons of Ezra's waistcoat. He had to concentrate, push back the impulse to just rip the offending item of clothing from Ezra's body and start on the next layer of material. "Perish the thought." Nathan looked up sharply at the seemingly glib phrase, wondering if Ezra was making fun of him. Ezra's face reddened a little under the scrutiny; he looked uncomfortable, to say the least. "In fact," Ezra continued, drawing a breath as if gathering his courage together, "I was rather inclined towards the idea of you taking advantage of me." Nathan nodded at this, secretly more than a little pleased with the idea, and went back to concentrating on undressing Ezra. His own heartbeat was thundering in his ears, making it hard to focus on what Nathan was doing, the warmth of the skin beneath his palms his only link to reality. "Nathan," he groaned, as Nathan's talented hands slipped beneath his shirt at last, long fingers caressing his skin, tracing the contour of each rib. "I'm fine, really." Nathan had a look of concentration on his face, almost a look of rapture. Ezra hated to interrupt him but they couldn't stay this way. "We should adjourn to my hotel room," Ezra continued. Nathan nodded, removing his hands from inside Ezra's shirt with clear reluctance in every action. "At least that door has a lock." "You go on," Nathan said. "I'll be there in five minutes." He turned, bent to pick up his shirt and stepped away, fingers busy with the buttons. Ezra felt strangely bereft, as if he'd been shaken up and then left to stand, unfamiliar emotions rising to the surface. Ezra was out of the clinic door before he realized, buttoning up his shirt and then his waistcoat as he descended the steps, heedless of anything bar getting to his hotel room as soon as he could. Would Nathan really follow him? He could only wait, and hope. By the time he'd been delayed by Inez, told her that he couldn't talk right now and headed upstairs, Ezra's nerves were jangling, every creak of floorboard taking him to a more and more agitated state. When the expected knock on the door came, Ezra didn't know whether to be relieved or not. He felt like he'd been waiting forever, didn't know quite what to do with himself, and frowned as he heard the way his voice cracked a little when he called for his visitor to enter. Nathan opened the door, his expression a little uncertain. It wasn't as if he was a frequent visitor to Ezra's rooms, not unless the gambler had been unwell or injured, and that lack of familiarity showed. He was looking round as if he'd never seen it before and it took a moment before Ezra realized that Nathan was just as nervous as he was, maybe even more so. "We don't have to do this," Ezra said. "Nothing has to happen here that you don't want." Nathan nodded. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name and realized suddenly that he trusted Ezra far more than he ever would have thought possible. That didn't stop him from being nervous but the expression on Ezra's face, the uncertainty he could see in his eyes, told him he wasn't alone in feeling that way. "I'm not sure," he began hesitantly, searching for the words. "I mean, I seen stuff... I won't do nothing that hurts you, Ezra." Ezra was smiling a little now. He passed where Nathan still stood and locked the door so there would be no interruptions. "I can imagine what you might well have witnessed in the past, Nathan, and that has as little to do with any kind of affection that might be expressed between us as a man forcing himself on a woman does." "Still I..." "Trust me," Ezra said, and moved round to rest his hands on Nathan's chest, his palms warm through the shirt material. "Please." "I do," he said. "It's just..." "Nathan." One of Ezra's hands was at work on the buttons of Nathan's shirt by now, the other had insinuated itself round the back of Nathan's neck, long, talented fingers pulling the two of them closer. "Enough talk." Ezra's mouth was warm on his, both like and immensely unlike his experiences of kissing Rain. He could smell the sweat from their travels together to the Bennett farmstead, feel the hardness of Ezra's erection as it pressed against his thigh, the slight roughness of stubble against his own jaw. There was no way he could mistake this experience for that of kissing a woman. He heard himself groan, felt Ezra's hand slide inside his shirt, moving across his side to caress his spine, then shifting to pull the two of them even closer as they continued to kiss. A couple of steps, uncoordinated and clumsy ones as they walked together, saw the two of them stumble onto the bed, Nathan bracing himself with his hands on the mattress as he trapped Ezra's smaller body beneath his own. He could feel Ezra's hardness against his hip, his body moved with each breath that Ezra took, the green eyes that had always fascinated him now dark with pleasure and anticipation. "Now what?" he asked. "Now," Ezra said, moving against him, "we enjoy ourselves." He'd guessed that Nathan had seen things that would make anyone nervous of being approached, had even considered the possibility he'd been involved in them. The worry that Nathan felt was clear, and Ezra had every intention of driving that worry away. Nathan's body was heavy and warm as it lay over him, a living blanket. Ezra felt safe, he felt aroused, the two emotions twisting together. And the arousal wasn't one-sided, if the searing heat against his hip was anything to go by. He concentrated on moving slowly, one hand sliding up Nathan's side and across his back again as carefully as he could manage, his sensitive fingers feeling every scar and welt. Each mark a reminder of the gulf that stood between them, the gulf that Ezra was determined to bridge. "Trust me," he said, uncertain whether that was meant to be a question or a statement. Should he need to ask for Nathan's trust at this point in time, or was he merely stating a fact he knew to be true? Ezra hoped the healer trusted him, believed he did, but he was about to put that belief to the test. Nathan nodded, that element of concern still bright in his eyes. He wasn't used to seeing Nathan this close up, close enough that there was no way to hide what he felt, and that very element of vulnerability was enough to convince him that the trust Ezra hoped for was truly there. He pushed with his hands, urging Nathan over onto his back, one thumb stroking away the frown that appeared on Nathan's brow, even as his other hand made short work of the fastenings of Nathan's trousers. If anything, the action made Ezra feel like he was gentling some wild animal, slow and easy movements so that Nathan wouldn't bolt. Nathan hissed a little, eyes closing and back arching, as Ezra's fingers wrapped themselves around his erection and this made Ezra keep his hand there for a moment, as if he was accustoming the both of them to the sensation. Then, as slowly as he could manage, he began to move his hand. The whimpering gasp took him by surprise as it slipped out of Nathan's mouth and Ezra wasn't completely sure whether Nathan even realized he'd made a sound. Nathan's eyes were still closed, screwed tight, and Ezra turned his attention to Nathan's face, all the while continuing the steady movement with his other hand. He found himself nuzzling at Nathan's ear a little, occasionally glancing at Nathan's expression and smiling to himself as he saw his face relax slightly. Ezra stopped the movement of his other hand then, feeling the urgency of Nathan's body as he moved restively beneath him. "You should be enjoying yourself by now, Nathan," he whispered. Nathan's eyes opened at his words, though it took him a moment to focus, and he turned his head a little so that he could look right at Ezra. "Ezra," he said, "anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" "That has indeed been a common occurrence," Ezra replied. "No kidding." "I am not in the habit of joking with anyone whose genitalia I am holding," Ezra said, trying to pout a little. Nathan smiled at that, his hand coming up from where it had been clutching the blanket to settle on Ezra's hip. It felt hot and heavy, even through the thickness of material. "And how 'bout you, Ezra?" Nathan asked. "You enjoying yourself?" His hand moved upwards as he spoke, insinuating itself under the material of Ezra's shirt, equally warm on Ezra's skin, making him shiver. "Or should I do something 'bout that?" "Please," Ezra said, surprising himself at how the word was choked out, the mental images of Nathan's hand on him, Nathan's body moving over his own almost too much to bear. Nathan's fingers were more agile on the trouser buttons than they'd been on the waistcoat and it seemed only moments before they were inside, the calluses on Nathan's hand making Ezra writhe a little under the attention as it encircled him. "Never done this 'fore." "You're doing just fine," Ezra said, though it was a struggle to keep his voice steady as Nathan's hand began to move. He waited for a moment, caught the rhythm of Nathan's hand and echoed it, pushing both of them that much closer to the edge. "Better than fine." Ezra found himself fascinated by the expression on Nathan's face, the way his eyes showed every emotion he was experiencing, their darkness reflecting the passion Ezra's hand was stoking into flames. "Ezra, I'm real close," Nathan said, trying to pull away a little. Before Ezra could react, before Nathan could move any further, it was all over, both of them headfirst over the edge, shuddering their release together. They lay together on the bed, both trying to catch their breath, neither trying to move away from one another. There was something comforting about this kind of closeness, Ezra decided, as he watched Nathan's face for a reaction. Would he push Ezra away? Decide he had gone too far, or too fast, towards something he never really wanted in the first place? Ezra felt the first shards of cold begin to infiltrate his heart once more. "That was nice," Nathan muttered, as the hand he had used to bring Ezra to his release came up to rest on Ezra's hip once more, then moved to pull the two of them a little closer together where they lay. "Get some rest, Ezra," he continued, his tone warm and relaxed. Maybe he'd imagined the coldness this time, Ezra told himself, anticipated something bad because it was what he was used to. Nathan hadn't pushed him away, after all, which had to be a positive sign - Nathan's eyes were closed now but there was no longer that look of strain round his eyes and Ezra found himself relaxing too. Nathan liked this, it didn't distress or worry him anymore. There would be lots of time for him to learn more. For them both to experience more, together. They could do this, could make something work between them and it had all started with Ezra buying those books. Suddenly that seemed like a very good investment after all. ~fin~ Author's note: The books Ezra buys for Nathan are based on real medical volumes of the period. The one named in the story is Therapeutics & Materia Medica: a Systematic Treatise on the Action And Uses of Medicinal Agents, Inc. Description & History by Alfred Stillé.

Disclaimer : The Magnificent Seven is owned by a bunch of folks including MGM. In other words, not me! The stories contained on this site are for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story-lines are the property of the author. These stories are not to be archived elsewhere without permission of the author.