What in hell's gotten into me? I've no idea why, but there's just something 'bout Ezra makes me riled like a just-woke snake when he don't live up to what I think he should, even though I know there's no chance he could. Perfection ain't that easy to manage, after all. I'm betting Josiah could explain it, words flowing from his mouth like milk and honey, but I sure can't. Don't know what that no-account gambler did to get under my skin this way, but I sure wish it never happened. The roots go back to the Seminole village, that's 'bout all I'm sure of. I'd been passing by, another armload of firewood on its way to the pile for heating water, hoping I'd still be alive to see to the wounded after what I knew was coming, when I heard Ezra's voice. You'd think the last thing I'd want would be to listen to that voice, all the memories it drags up for me, most of them bad, like stirring up a pond and watching the dirt twist and turn as the water settles. But it calls to me, each honey-smooth word running over my ears, bringing me closer to where Ezra is till I can listen unseen. Drawing me like one of those snake charmers I heard Josiah speak of, no chance to resist. So, there are two kinds of men, are there Ezra? Ones who're brave and ones who'll do whatever they need to protect those they love. And which of those kinds does that make you? Because you're not brave, no braver than I am, despite the face you put on for the rest of us. And you surely don't love anyone or anything but the wholeness of your skin, 'cept maybe the roll of dollar bills in your boot. So I guess that makes you a third kind. A horse of a different color. A whole new animal. I wish I could just puzzle him out, because then maybe he wouldn't be able to drive me so crazy. Just when I think I've got him figured, sure I know who he is, he goes ahead and does something I just don't see coming. I'd think he was doing it just to drive me crazy, if I thought Ezra gave a damn about what anyone thinks. Except, you do, don't you Ez? He likes to pretend he don't, that nothing we could say could get through to him - like he was an alligator or something, all scaly and tough. Except, like the 'gator, Ezra's got a soft underbelly, somewhere he can be hurt just as easy. I should know, I've done it myself often enough, my words heading straight for where I know he's not so strong. I've hated myself for it after, but still turned around and walked away without another word. Like those women he was fixing to sell off as mail order brides, teaching them how to be 'ladies'. I felt my blood boil when I heard what he was planning and suddenly I was an avenging angel, all my better emotions driven away by the anger that swept through me like a flash flood. Because I couldn't feel this way 'bout someone who could treat any human being like cattle. Could I? I had to prove to myself that I didn't feel that way towards anyone like that and Ezra least of all. And the only way I could do that was with words, all laced with all the venom of the things I lived through myself, sharp words slicing straight through Ezra's belly like I knew they would. Like I was using a scalpel on him, cutting through skin and muscle straight to what's inside. Aiming to kill or cure, I guess. For a gambler, his poker face sure ain't that good. Leastwise not to those who know him. Not any more. I saw the flash of hurt in Ezra's eyes, right before he slapped that 'I don't care' face of his back on. But even that didn't stop me, didn't stop the words that spewed from my mouth like bile. And that makes me more than a little ashamed, makes me wonder just whether I truly am a healer or not. That look stayed with me, made me question. What kind of man did that make me, to kick a man somewhere I knew it would hurt most, just because I could? That wasn't the kind of man I'd ever wanted to be. But that's the kind of man Ezra makes me be, it seems. The kind of man I let myself be because I don't want to consider the alternative - that it's me that has the weakness, not him, because of what Ezra could do to me if I let him. And I surely want to let him, want to in a way that burns me up inside. Looks like I'm sure not one of those two kinds of folks he spoke of either. Not brave. Spent a lifetime trying, lifetime failing. Looks like I'm a lot of things, but that ain't one of them. And while some might say I do what has to be done, stitching skin and cutting through muscle is one thing and speaking my mind is another. Ez might think I do that already, when the words I spit out slice him straight to the bone, but he don't know the half of it. He don't know how I watch those hands of his. Don't know the things I've dreamed about, those hands of his sliding over my skin as Ezra gives me the same attention he gives those cards. Those hands doing things to me that make me shudder. So I guess that makes me a whole new animal too. ~fin~

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