Leigh
- Wednesday March 31st 1999 06:44:46

"I prefer not to talk about it. Now," he reached behind her and started to slowly undo the zip on her dress. "What were you telling me about how much you hate me?"
Claudia
Do you think this "discussion" will last long enough ro rival one of MA&R's discussions?! ;^D - Wednesday March 31st 1999 05:52:22

She smiled to herself as she glanced at the clock. Oops. 10am. She'd need to leave within the hour if she was going to make that plane.

Kari
USA - Wednesday March 31st 1999 11:54:25

MA
- Wednesday March 31st 1999 06:22:35

"I thank you for the sound advice."
Dana
late for everything these days...., - Tuesday March 30th 1999 08:49:08

Leigh
R: yep, can't seem to keep the characters dry. But. . . what have you done with Colin??, - Tuesday March 30th 1999 07:19:11

Andrea, don't keep us hanging!--R
- Tuesday March 30th 1999 06:04:02

R
BTW Claire--The eagle has landed. - Tuesday March 30th 1999 04:44:11

Since Claire's already won (and, from the looks of things, can't handle any more prizes) I proclaim myself the winner. *grin*

Kari -- now what on earth would I like to win?
USA - Tuesday March 30th 1999 09:56:24

MA--and may Shax forgive me for altering the quotation! *grin*
Bet Claire's not the only one who fainted . . . - Tuesday March 30th 1999 05:27:03

MA--yes, Andrea, can't wait to see what Hamlet might do!
"Now might I do it pat, now he is sleeping . . ." - Monday March 29th 1999 08:49:57

Sending red tongues through the darkening clouds, the sun died in the sky. Faint breezes raced the gullies, feeling their way along the canvas between the ribs of the wagon.

Never before had the pace seemed so desperately slow. Sinclair found snapping the whip across the team had little effect, beyond further unsettling the horses, in urging forward the slow methodical steps.

Agitated by the sudden drop in air pressure the horses broke into a brief trot. Loosely roped to the wagon side they raced ahead, whites of eyes rolling, until the end of the tether reined them sharply.

Sniffing the air the oxen did nothing more than plod on relentlessly.

First signs of the inclement weather had ruffled Sinclair's clothes as he stood forth and announced their departure. A shiver of cold echoed the involuntary shudder at the medicine mans prediction. He understood that the success of the venture could not be jeopardised by further delay. The Wagon Master was a fair man, but his duty was to the Wagon Train not individuals.

As she had held his future at the journey's onset, he now held hers. Icy calm detachment, of the kind that allowed cool analysis of the cards in hand, allowed Sinclair to make the decision. Gone from his mind were the easy pickings of the San Francisco gaming tables, he saw nothing beyond the next hours.

Heavy drops began to fall on the lonely caravan travelling east along the Snake River. Within minutes it had disappeared from sight in the rain mist.


Claire
- Monday March 29th 1999 11:56:04

Scene: A close-up of suited arm. Dark colour. Excellent fabric.

"You'll have to go to work now?" Renie holds onto that arm, as she and Hans walk away out of the doctor's offices--which already look much better. Well, at least, much neater.

A glance at his Baume & Mercier. "No--but I should call in. They may have--some details I've been waiting for." Shouldn't upset her with half news. Wann ist es zu Ende?

The wood-panelled hallway is more populated now; apparently, late morning is a busier time at the clinic. Staff, wearing medical ID tags. Patients. Delivery carts, filled with cards, small bears, and mylar balloons.

Her thoughts rather full; not to say jumbled. Renie hears Dr. DaMozzici thank Hans for his redecorating. Very impressed indeed, with this woman. Any woman who can deal with Hans without shaking in her heels, well, deserves a diploma. And a nice desk to put under it.

The clerk at the message center signals to Antonia, and she touches Renie's hands before she moves off from the pair, politely excusing herself as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in her office this morning.

They are free to go.

"Hans--tell me--how did you know Antonia?"

"She dated my father."

Renie stops in her tracks, knowing how sacred the memory of his mother is to Hans. What would he want with a woman who had dated his father? But now is not the time . . .

As they approach the last turn before the front door to the clinic, Antonia scurries up to them.

"Hans--I think you're going to want to stay a bit longer. I've had a message from staff. It concerns both of you." With an invisible arm, she pulls them both down the hall and back into her office, where the janitor is still working, quietly, in the corner.

Antonia speaks, her voice matching her stride in the hallway. "We've had a security issue." Hans flicks his eyes towards the janitor, then eyes Antonia. "It's all right, Hans. Karl here reported it. I just only found out. We are keeping this matter in house, if possible. A lapse like this can seriously bruise the clinic's reputation. And the police are short on discretion. But there will be an investigation . . . "

Hans turns his head slightly. Polizei. And after the police, the press . . . This will not do.

"Someone got sloppy in the room where we keep the test results. Mishandling of the specimens. I'm thinking it has to do with you." She watches as Hans and Renie exchange looks. Yes. Intrigue in the world of the powerful. She had chosen medicine over . . . other possibilities, because of this very distaste. "Could someone have wanted to--look, I know this sounds . . . "

Renie sighs, and squeezes Hans' hand. It's all right, Hans. I'll tell her. Hans nods, as if he has heard he every word.

"Renie will tell you what you need to know. I believe I can arrange for an--investigator." As his wife and Antonia sit on the long couch, Hans pulls out his cell phone, and walks to the window, pulling aside the curtain. In a dogwood tree, a pair of birds is returning, having been scared off by the noisy garbage truck, just pulling away. The late morning haze of Los Angeles was finding its way down La Cienega.

"Yes sir," comes the voice of a trusted top man.

"Get me Colin."

Across town, the face of the old guard at Nakatomi Plaza registers more than surprise. Molyneux! Surely, the President of the Hansbank could not have heard about his conversation with Colin, this morning?

For everyone, an eventful morning, indeed.

I must say--although we've had a lot of action, the days are passing mighty slowly here lately!! Still in, what--November, MA?
A second dunking, Leigh?! - Monday March 29th 1999 11:21:10

Early Monday morning, Hart steered the dinghy through dark grey fog toward Avalon and picked up Barnacle Bill. As more clouds gathered and the western breezes grew stronger, the three of them prepared the Sea Dove for the return trip to Marina del Rey. Bill scanned the western horizon, tasting the wind.

"Looks bad to the west, Captain," he muttered laconically. "Some clouds, but the weather report says no rain," Hart responded, standing next to the shortwave radio as he homed in on the Coast Guard channel. After a short colloquy with the Avalon station, he told Barnacle that the Coast Guard was tracking a storm to the west, but that they would be back in L.A. well before the weather turned rough. Barnacle tapped the barometer and noted the decreasing atmospheric pressure. "We can go, or we can wait out the storm here, Captain. It's your boat," he said. "We go," said Hart decisively, anxious to get back to Los Angeles and start his plan in motion.

Without another word, Barnacle turned over the engine and pulled up the anchor. The Sea Dove slowly motored out of Emerald Bay. When they were clear of the other boats moored in the bay, Hart gave Bill the signal to unfurl the sails. The sails immediately bulged as Barnacle expertly set them into the wind. Hart cut the engine as the Sea Dove shot forward, moving faster as her sails harnessed the strong wind. Bill carefully watched the boat as she began to cut through waves of six feet and higher, rising and falling like an elevator. He listened to her, nodding approval at the creak of the sails and the ropes. He knew the Sea Dove to be an exceptionally stable boat in rough seas and was looking forward to the challenge of handling her in the rising wind.

After three hours of exhilirating sailing, Barnacle turned a worried face to the west. Dark clouds turned the sky behind them nearly black. It had begun to rain in fat plopping drops while the wind pushed the waves higher and higher. The Sea Dove maintained her course, but Bill had to fight the wheel harder and harder. Hart took the wheel as Barnacle moved forward to trim the sails. As the mainsail sagged, a rogue wave pushed the boat hard to port, nearly setting her on her side. Hart clung to the wheel and was drenched as he called out to Grace and Bill to clip on their life lines. Grace, who had never sailed in such rough weather before, quickly clipped on her line and fumbled to secure Hart's as kept both hands on the wheel. The wind drowned out their voices as Hart motioned her to starboard and pantomimed that she should lean against the rail to stabilize the boat as it lurched to port again. She shivered as she hung onto the slippery rail, cold, drenched and frightened. Barnacle waved off Hart's order and moved amidships to adjust the ropes securing the mast.

The sea rose sharply as the wind blew harder. The Sea Dove fell hard with each wave. As Grace nervously looked to port, she saw a swell break over the side of the boat. For a moment, Hart disappeared under foaming water. As the boat lurched upward on the next wave, Hart emerged, spitting salt water and with a firm grip on the bucking wheel, standing in water up to his ankles as the stern well began to fill.

Amidships, Bill clung to the mast with one hand and shook his other fist into the storm. "Do your worst, you bastard, you can't take the Sea Dove, or me!" he yelled, with a cowboy whoop. "Fasten your life line. Now!" Hart yelled at him. But the wind was too strong, and silenced the shout before it could reach Bill.

The next wave hit the Sea Dove savagely over the bow. Water swept over the forward deck and Barnacle. Hart and Grace watched, horrified, as the bow disappeared, then reappeared. But there was no trace of Barnacle Bill. Before Hart could react, the boat lurched again. Grace lost her footing and tumbled over the rail into the sea.

Leigh
making up for lost time..., - Monday March 29th 1999 12:04:46

Much later, Grace would remember the two days she and Hart spent alone aboard the Sea Dove as brightly sunny, and would forget that it was overcast most of the time. Anchored at Emerald Bay, they felt liberated from their respective routines. The Investors, the sting, Grace's caseload -- the Sea Dove had outraced them all and taken Hart and Grace to a place where they could do something both of them had nearly forgotten how to do.

They played. Snorkeling when the sun was out, swimming races from the boat to the beach, dinghy trips ashore to hike through the wild parts of the island. Those were their days. But the nights. The nights were anything but playful.

Sunday night was their last night alone on the Sea Dove. Snug in the master cabin as the boat gently rocked on the tide, Hart was wide awake as he cradled Grace while she slept, his arms protectively circled around her. He had devoted the last two days to healing whatever breach Grace's misunderstanding had opened between them. He believed the repair was sound now. But as was typical for them, neither had mentioned the incident again. Hart now turned his mind to other important matters. For hours, his mind weighed plans, contingencies, risk. He considered and rejected a dozen different complex strategies. That dark night on the Sea Dove, Hart worked out what he wanted to do. It was a deceptively simple plan. This will work, he thought to himself. I've considered every angle, every possibility. There is no reason not to go ahead, he decided.

Looking down at Grace, he made the kinds of promises men are sometimes afraid to say out loud. "Nothing bad can happen to you when my arms are around you," he whispered to her, his fingers playing in her short, tousled hair. "Whatever, happens, I will do everything I can to protect you." Grace did not stir. He watched her closely, trying to tell if she was awake. She didn't hear me. It may be better that way.

Committed, he closed his eyes and slept.

Leigh
Andrea: on the edge of my seat to see what the prince will do. . . , - Sunday March 28th 1999 08:28:36

Delaford--In and Around the Study

"Christopher, we're right here!" Mary Anne called to her colonel as he thundered through the main floor of Delaford. "Whatever is the matter?"

Seeing his wife, safe, and accompanied by her companion and a quite large AR guard, Brandon slowed his hectic pace to a mere exagerated stride, and heading straight for Mary Anne he reached out and pulled her to him, heedless of the many bystanders who had gathered at the comotion.

"What has happened, Eamon?" Therese asked, as he reached forward to clasp both her hands in his own, and drew her toward him.

Eamon shrugged. "As odd as this will sound, I'm not altogether sure. But I know the colonel well enough that when he has a reaction of this magnitude, I no longer cared to be separated from you."

Colonel Brandon finally brought himself to release his wife, though he still held her tightly by one hand, and turning to Lt. Sifuentes he said briskly, "Commander Hudson and Herr Gruber will be following, have them sent to my study. This entire property is to be searched. Immediately. No room, private quarters included, is to be overlooked. I want my home turned inside out, and if there is so much as a frayed dust ruffle on the edge of a pillow, I want a full report."

Sifuentes hesitated for the briefest of moments. He was a distinguished member of the AR, was fairly high up the chain of command, had a reputation as a quick thinker, and a dependable man to have about in a crisis. . .but he was not under the command of the man before him. Still, he had wanted to search the premises since he'd arrived. . ."Yes sir, I'll see to it."

Taking Mary Anne gently by the arm, and motioning for Dev to follow, Colonel Brandon ushered everyone into the study, and posted yet another AR guard at the door. Once safely behind closed doors, Mary Anne turned toward her husband, and placed a hand upon her hip. "Rather impulsive, aren't they, Therese?"

Therese looked from Eamon to Colonel Brandon and back again, before responding. "Seems as if we should have accompanied them after all, voice of reason and all that. . ."

"Mary Anne, Therese, sit down," Brandon said, indicating the sofa. It was his 'colonel' voice, a tone of command which brooked no refusal, and immediately quelled the teasing the women had begun.

Therese and Mary Anne sat.

"I have found evidence which leads me to believe that HE has been in my home. . ."

Therese gasped as she turned to look at her new found friend, and watched helplessly as the colour drained from Mary Anne's face.

Therese
- Sunday March 28th 1999 06:58:17

Hi Anne, I understand your dilemma-I called my cable company and was able to sign up for cinemax for one month-it cost fifteen dollars plus $3.45 for the cable connector box. I can continue after one month, but if I dont want to, I just return the connector box and remote, and call and cancel that service. BTW, I bought a copy of Barchester Chronicles, and it is not the best copy in the world, as the master had deteriorated, according to the BBC. I bought another copy from Blackstar video, so I have a good copy-if anyone wants the first copy for free, except for postage costs, I will send it to them. It is watchable, and the Rickman scenes are fine. Anyone interested? It is formatted for US videos, BTW.
Donna
- Sunday March 28th 1999 03:56:14

Brandon's Study

"Noise?" Mary Anne rose gracefully to her feet and followed Therese to the window. Must have really been lollygagging if SHE heard something that I did not. . . "Oh, that! Why it sounds like--"

"Hoofbeats," Therese finished for her. "I'd know that sound anywhere. And those are not horses out for a casual hack, either. Those animals are moving," she paused, as a large black steed flew around the corner of the West Woods, heading for the drive leading up to the gates of Delaford, and milliseconds later they could see a smaller, lighter built horse gaining on the first animal from the rear. Brandon and Dev at breakneck speeds, hurtled toward the main steps. "What on Earth has gotten into those two?"

Mary Anne shook her head and indicated the riders with her hand. "I don't know, but it must be quite something to inspire that sort of reaction." She turned and headed for the door. "Lt. Sifuentes!" she called.

The door to the study burst open immediately, the dark haired lieutenant hurrying through. Mary Anne indicated the riders through the window, who, even though were growing quite near in proximity to the main building, had not slowed their pace.

"I think they're going to gallop right into the main foyer," Therese said, very matter of factly.

"It does appear so," Mary Anne agreed.

Lt. Sifuentes, meanwhile, had his radio out and had brought other AR personnel from their current positions to the front of the house. Members of the Alliance Rose did NOT hurry-- but their stride was certainly purposeful.

Therese and Mary Anne headed for the door.

"Where, may I ask, are you two headed?" The two women were brought up short by the rather imposing form of Lt. Scout Sifuentes, all six feet four two hundred and twenty five pounds of him--not a bit of it consisting of flab, it may be noted--filling the doorway to the study.

"Us?" Therese asked, flashing their considerable roadblock the sweetest, most angelic mask she possessed. "Out there. To see what has caused such a stir."

"I don't believe so," Scout said, not budging a millimeter. "I'm sure that whatever it is, we'll soon know--"

He was interrupted by the clatter of feet--booted ones, not shod hooves--, and a deep, imposing voice, fairly bellowing, "MARY ANNE!!"

Lt. Sifuentes stepped aside to allow both ladies to pass, and bearing down the hallway came a wild faced Colonel Brandon, a concerned, albeit somewhat more confused, Eamon de Valera close upon his heels.

Therese
I hab a code. Bedder sday hobe add write. . ., - Sunday March 28th 1999 11:34:49

I apologize for breaking in on your regularly scheduled adventures, but I need help from my fellow Rickmaniacs and the other Guestbook does not seem to be accepting messages.

I was so happy to hear HBO had bought 'Judas Kiss' I even wrote to them and got a reply on the showing date, April 23rd. Silly me. I thought if HBO bought it and knew when it would be shown that it would be on HBO. I happily went out and bought a blank tape so I could tape it as I watched.

Now i find it's on Cinemax! And I don't have Cinemax! AARRGGHH!!!

Can some kind fellow Rickmaniac write to me at my E-mail address, so I can send them the blank tape and have them tape it for me?

I would be so grateful

Anne, who is desperate.
Anne Harding , <AHard73977@aol.com>
Alexandria, VA., USA - Sunday March 28th 1999 11:26:17

Scene: A medical moment . . . or at least a moment of healing, and, we ought to mention, a dose of healthy desire . . .

A knock at the door. But, no matter . . . the Gruber kiss continues, unabated, and moments later the door bursts open, and the janitor runs headlong into the office--sliding, really, on the loose reports about the floor, scooting across it as if aquaplaning, until he lands, well, on a place which happily enough, is amply provided for such events.

His keyster.

Behind the janitor, Antonia DaMozzici. M.D./OB/GYN. Making a markedly more orderly entrance.

"Well--" A look around her: the overturned desk, the empty chairs, and her patient, locked in an embrace with her husband, on the couch. "--I see you've had a full discussion." The tumult of her office, not a rattling matter to a woman well armed with an unflappable acceptace that life is full of surprises. And sometimes--judging by the loving looks lingering on the Gruber's faces--the surprises can be happy ones. "I've been meaning to get a new desk." She actually delivers the line in such a manner that you believe she may well have had her eye on one or two in particular. Such can be the charm of Italian woman doctors. Her famly name--DaMozzici, means, roughly, "irresistibly compelling in an honest and beguiling way."--

Hans smooths his beard down a bit--though in truth there is not a hair out of place on his well-groomed face. (Renie's face--or, more to the point her hair--is an entirely different matter, best left only to your imagination.)

"Antonia, you'll have a temporary desk, by the end of the day. I promise. And when you find a replacement to your liking--"

Antonia, carefully concerned, and not a bit about her desk. "Are you all right, Renie?" Renie nods, with a look not far from bliss. Leaning into her husband, she makes Antonia to understand that the emotional upheaval has been bridged, and yes, they will be leaving her office very much together.

Antonia's relief and happiness show in a way which we often hope to see in the doctors of today. A genuine smile--broad and warm. She likes also, that Hans has not moved from his wife. She would never have guessed him to become such a man.

"I will send a man to help you--"And here, Hans motions to the mess, with his one freed hand. He cannot spare the other one, which is locked securely about his wife. "--with this."

Antonia shakes her head, her dark hair shifting easily about her shoulders. "No need, Hans. My good friend is very efficient, very discreet, and very loyal." At this, the janitor, who has managed to rise, and shuffle about without moving so much as an inch, smiles. A few awkward words of greeting, and he leaves to get his broom. "But your father has a desk I've always admired . . . "

Get it--an "orderly" entrance--(ducking)
R - Saturday March 27th 1999 09:30:30

And of course, for all you Austen-ites here's Another Austen Site

Dateless and bored tonight *sigh*,
Kari
USA - Saturday March 27th 1999 08:01:59

Gee! How 'bout me providing a link so you all don't think I'm a total nut?! :o)

Corner Garden

Kari
Seattle, USA - Saturday March 27th 1999 07:56:19

Well, Andrea .. while conducting a search for a "Delaford map" I found this. Might be fun to read on a *slow* weekend sometime! Sorry to say, no apparent map of Delaford actually exists. *sigh* Perhaps we could combine minds and make our own!

Kari
Seattle, USA - Saturday March 27th 1999 07:39:40

In another wooded area of the Delaford estate, Hamlet conducts his solitary search for The Sheriff. He is aware that other parties are out looking for Claudia, and he is prepared for the possibility of locating her and/or The Interrogator. However, what drives him onward, what he seeks so intensely that he can taste it, is Nottingham's blood.

Treading carefully on the floor of leaves, he cannot maneuver silently. But, the prince's movements blend seamlessly with the rustlings of the rabbits. As he becomes accustomed to the sounds of all the small creatures inhabiting these woods, Hamlet fine-tunes his hearing and filters out this inconsequential noise. He listens for the UNusual -- larger prey.

A strange gurgling rises in volume and then cuts off suddenly. Hamlet stops in his tracks. The sound repeats, and the prince identifies it as ... snoring. His hand on his sword, ready to draw if necessary, Hamlet steps toward the sound. Walking past the cover of some low bushes, he can now see the supine body from which the snore emanates. It is the object of his search. The Sheriff. Sleeping. Snoring.

Hamlet glances about for any companions to his prey. He sees no one else. The Sheriff appears to be alone and most vulnerable.

The prince's heart is pounding in his ears. To find The Sheriff sleeping blissfully, while Andrea continues to suffer from his actions, only serves to heighten Hamlet's rage. Seething, he draws his sword.

Andrea
I wish I had a map of Delaford, so I could figure out where all these search parties are., - Saturday March 27th 1999 04:51:04

Brandon's study, Delaford:

Mary Anne and Therese, still chatting companionably before the fire.

If there had been any sense of constraint between these two women, it has worn off. Most of it. A great deal of it had certainly fallen away in tatters when Therese had revealed her method of teaching Dev a lesson in helplessness . . . and Mary Anne could not but be intrigued, although . . .

She shifts restlessly on the ottoman.

I simply can't imagine putting Christopher through . . . well, yes I CAN imagine it, but I can't imagine him holding still for it! And as for that OTHER suggestion . . .

Mary Anne moves closer to the fire. If necessary, she can blame her red face on the heat of the flames.

As they converse before the fire, pausing occasionally for a stray nibble from the lunch trays, each woman is perfectly aware that the other is sizing her up. Forming impressions. Deciding how next to proceed.

Therese studies Mary Anne over the rim of her teacup, trying not to look as if she were looking and knowing that she is not carrying it off. Mrs. Brandon has been surprisingly approachable, considering. Considering, thinks Therese, that one of her wedding guests got knocked cold on my account, and . . . But what is the point of remembering the rest? It is all soooooo embarrassing. Therese shifts position; she is still not able to sit as comfortably as she would like, and Mary Anne knows it. And Therese knows she knows it. Urrrrrgh.

What is it with her? wonders Therese as she finally settles into a semi- tolerable position and thinks of how Mary Anne has come across to her during this time in the study. She can change so quickly. She looks innocent as a lamb one minute, and then . . . One smile, and Mary Anne's entire countenance had altered; that face had come to life with ironic intelligence and piercing humour. But then, she can be so serious, too. Like she was about Valmont--but run away from him if I'm in a room with him? Hah. I've just as much right to be there as he does, that . . . that . . . Again, Therese's stock of appropriate French threatens to run low. That . . . crepe! Not worthy of his "attention," yet. Hmmmph.

But Mary Anne had been very serious about HIM as well . . .

Mary Anne, meanwhile, is drawing her own conclusions about Therese. Dev talked about her courage, her intelligence, her energy. He had that right; she' ready to climb the walls. We promised to stay in the house, but perhaps I could show her more of it? She'll go crazy right here in this room otherwise . . . Therese. A woman new to the Realm. And Mary Anne finds herself wishing that she could truly open her soul to this woman . . . no AR classified information, no guards, no barriers . . . to be able to share, here and now, her experience of the marvels and terrors and delights of life in this strange land . . . And spare her, perhaps . . .

But Mary Anne pushes that chilling thought aside. Therese is well-protected. Dev will protect her whether she likes it or not!

And Mary Anne realizes, as well, that she misses Renie. That partially explains her impulse to simply pour out her heart with Therese; it is what she is used to being able to do with Renie, and she misses the freedom of it. Already. Well, she had expected to. Good heavens, Mary Anne, she's been gone less than a day! But Mary Anne cannot help thinking longingly of the telephone extension that Hans had set up--with a fine sense of irony, perhaps?--in an infrequently-used sitting room upstairs. Renie? she can hear herself saying. I've met someone who could become a good friend to me, and I to her--well, of COURSE that doesn't change what I feel for you; now stop teasing!

Renie, her dearest friend in the Realm.

Mary Anne smiles a little. Well, her dearest woman friend.

Renie, I don't know what to tell her. How much. Is it always going to be like this? Every time I meet someone I think could be a friend? Always the wondering: could they be my friend--could they love me--if they knew? About The Interrogator?

That I have been HIM . . . ? Mary Anne can practically feel the telephone receiver pressed against her cheek, like a cool hand soothing a feverish face.

And she wonders what Renie might say.

And where, exactly, Renie is. Hans had not told, of course: more protection against HIM, that way. To which of the many Hansbank strongholds of power has Hans taken Renie? For of course, Hans Gruber would have homes all around the world: Munchen, Firenze, Hong Kong. London and Paris, certainly. New York. Los Angeles.

And a cottage on Egdon Heath . . .

Feeling strangely comforted, as if she had somehow really spoken to Renie, Mary Anne becomes aware that Therese has risen and is speaking . . .

"What's that noise?"

MA
A quick post . . . or two . . . *grin* - Friday March 26th 1999 08:35:46

Scene: The Director's Office

The Director, hunched over his desk, is deep in thought as he makes notes for the next day's shoot. The Claudia and Mr. I thread is running relatively smoothly, although Mr. I was a little miffed at the rather conservative size of pliers the props department provided for the "pasta" scene. And Brandon and Mary Anne are enjoying a much needed rest, though word has it several scenes are in the process of being scripted.

His train of thought is interrupted by a knock on the office door.

"Come in," he says, and glances upward to see who . . .

Now all in all, things on the set had been running with surprising smoothness and the Director was feeling rather content so when the horrified yelp escaped from his lips, it came as much of a surprise to him as it did to the person who entered his office.

"My GOD, woman! What happened to you?!" he said, his amber eyes reflecting the horror of not only the woman's physical appearance but the God-awful polyester print dress she wore.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," said Lin. "But it's Kari and her kind words about my posting her stories on FOF while she was without a computer - it inflated my ego and my head got big."

Lin staggered about the office - much like someone attempting to balance a huge load of bananas on their head -- looking for a chair. Realizing her difficulty, the Director - ever the gentleman -- leapt across his desk, grabbed the woman's hand and led her to the leather couch since it offered more support in its well-constructed frame.

As she tried to swivel her head (and in doing so, knocking over a prized Golden Globe and Emmy) and face the Director, who was absently scratching his head, she went on, "Well, some of the thing she said are ARE true, yes. I mean, I AM sweet and everything, but look at me! Even I can't ignore the size of my head and my family just laughs at me."

And her head was huge. Big. Very, very big. Gigantic. In fact, massive - bigger than a bunch of bananas that's for sure. In fact, Lin's head had swollen to the size of a pair of oxen although, thankfully, it had retained a somewhat round shape. Actually, if truth be told, her head resembled a colossal egg.

"Sir, I need advice! What should I do?"

The Director scratched his chin. He'd faced his share of problems and crises on the set before but nothing quite like this. Here was one of his less prolific writers whining to him about the size of her head (and where did she get that polyester print dress?)!

Still, he did have a very restless Zelda on his hands waiting to model the shoes that the props department had provided for her next couple of scenes AND she was dropping less-than-subtle hints that she'd like to see her character develop and expand and have at least ONE love scene and and and . . . And Jamie was waiting in the wings, getting impatient, fending off other offers . . .

Finally, the Director looked straight into Lin's incredibly large blue eyes and said, "Why don't you just thank Kari for her kind words and be done with it?"

Of course! No sooner had Lin repeated the Director's words to herself than a strange sensation overtook her. A sound not unlike . . . um, well, that's another story better left unsaid. Anyway it's enough to say that Lin's head eventually shrunk back to normal.

After Lin had left his office, the Director sat down, shook his head and began to laugh. He'd have a word with the costume department and see if anyone might want to give her some wardrobe tips.
Lin
Polyester City, - Friday March 26th 1999 07:48:05

The summerhouse, Delaford:

After Brandon's whirlwind exit, the other members of the search party stand frozen for a moment . . . until Dev's eyes suddenly widen in some realization of what must have frightened the Colonel. Once again, people and beagles are forced to scatter before the charge of an alarmed lover as Dev, biting out a low-toned Irish oath, exits the summerhouse and springs onto Raksha's back. He is only dimly aware that the others have now followed him out of the structure: Hudson, to the left, and behind him the baritone rumble of Herr Gruber--all of this is mere background noise to Dev as he gathers and grips the reins, bringing the agitated Raksha under control and turning her toward the path Brandon had taken.

Here Raksha proves her worth; at such a time as this the Arabian bloodlines tell, and Dev--despite the hollow feeling at his heart--is stirred to wonder at their speed, as the ground skims by along the sides of the track . . . despite Brandon's head start, they will catch him . . . Dev bends forward, lower to Raksha's neck, leaning into her . . .

How he would enjoy this--another time.

Only one thing could cause Brandon to behave so abruptly and unreasonably: he must believe there is some danger to Mary Anne. From HIM. And if danger to Mary Anne, at the house, then danger to . . .

The landscape on either side of the path rushes past . . .

MA--sneaking in a quick post
Secret, beware what you ask for . . . brrrrrrr! - Friday March 26th 1999 07:43:13

A "Mr. I " joke-told during the International Brotherhood of Torturer's annual meeting Q: What do you call a cow that has had all of his legs cut off? A: GROUND beef!
secret admirer , <lead me to the rack!-Ive always wanted to be tall and thin!>
- Friday March 26th 1999 03:14:17

About an hour after they left Marina del Rey, Grace nodded off, lulled by the rhythm of the boat. As they approached Catalina, Barnacle Bill lined up the Sea Dove with other traffic heading toward Emerald Bay, a sheltered anchorage several miles north of the town of Avalon.

As Hart had reckoned, the Sea Dove angled toward her mooring at Emerald Bay before dark. Bill expertly dropped anchor and furled the sails before he made his final check of the boat. Hart unhooked the Sea Dove's dinghy, a small but sturdy grey inflatable craft, and prepared to take Barnacle into Avalon. Bill secured his small bag in the dinghy as Hart shook Grace awake to tell her he'd be back soon.

She had slept through most of the trip over to Catalina. When she opened her eyes, she saw the narrow sandy beach of Emerald Bay and the rugged hills beyond. Even with a dozen other boats anchored nearby, the bay was quiet. Tranquil and serene. Just what the doctor ordered, she told Hart. She spent the hour he was away watching the water. Just sitting here was worth ten sessions of therapy, she decided.

As Hart approached the Sea Dove on his way back from Avalon, he saw Grace sitting exactly where he had left her on the bow. She looked deep in thought, almost frowning at the water. When she saw the dinghy, she waved and moved toward the stern to catch the dinghy's bow line. She watched Hart closely as he manuevered the dinghy close to the sailboat. How different he looks at sea, she thought to herself. His hair was windblown from the trip, his cheeks ruddy from the cold spray. His smile was wide and genuine. Hart's typically austere mien usually made her think of a faultlessly groomed, superbly controlled Spartan warrior of the boardroom. The man on the dinghy, however, was rumpled, windblown, half drenched, altogher a soggy mess. . . and happier than she had ever seen him. The salt spray and the growing darkness had made his tinted glasses useless; they hung secured by a cord around his neck. His eyes were animated as he described his Toad's Wild Ride back from Avalon on the choppy water of the bay.

Hart gracefully stepped aboard the Sea Dove and helped Grace secure the dinghy. She loved watching him move on the boat and stood silently in the stern well as Hart double checked Bill's already-perfect mooring. Hart walked back from the bow toward her place in the stern, put a hand on the mast to steady himself, and looked down at Grace. She suddenly felt awkward. Now that they were alone, their mutual -- and unacknowledged -- awareness that she had presumed Hart wanted to be rid of her loomed like a rock in the Sea Dove's path. More like that iceberg and Titanic, she mused.

Between Scylla and Charybdis, Hart thought. This obstacle would have to be negotiated carefully. He sat down on the edge of the stern well and drew her toward him so that their eyes were almost level. How could you think I wanted you to go? It breaks my heart that you believe I'm capable of treating you that way. After all this time, you still don't understand, do you? That was what he wanted to say. But the words refused to come. He twined his hands in hers and looked down at them, then up at her. The long look that passed between them was the most unguarded conversation they had ever had.

"I didn't mean. . ." he started, in a hoarse whisper.

"I know," she interrupted.

The words had been superfluous.

Leigh
Lawyer jokes are ok by me. It's just the joke lawyers that annoy. R: Aaaah. And danke., - Friday March 26th 1999 12:41:12

Probing fingers pressed down, working their way across the pale abdominal skin, under Sinclair's eagle eye. Stroking the back of her hand, he followed their journey through the pressure of her grip. Feeling each muscle contraction as his own.

In a convulsive reflex, she screamed when the digits dug deep.

Simultaneously Sinclair pushed the medicine man, leaning forward to cradle Claire in his arms. "Enough -- I say that is ENOUGH."

"You want my opinion or not?" Wiping sweaty hands on the loose cover, the quasi doctor eased back on his heels.

"Yes I want your opinion." Carefully he drew the material together, refastening and secreting. "But you don't touch her again." Once more taking control, slowing the rapid breathing with tiny caresses. Calming. Amazed that without knowledge he had so much power.

"Suit yourself." Rising stiffly to his feet, the medicine man towered tall within the narrow confines of the wagon. "Not the sickness in my opinion.". He pronounced with authority. "In - ter -nal cramps." Drawing out the word as if each additional syllable confirmed his importance.

Sinclair folded Claire's arms into a peaceful repose, before rising to match the doctor on equal terms. "So what is to be done?"

"Are you a praying man?" Pausing to make sure Sinclair followed his meaning. "Nothing … Let nature take its course."

Absorbing the unspoken message, Sinclair's voice dropped to a shallow whisper articulating his worst fear. "I could lose them both?"

"Wont be the first on this wagon train, you know that Mister Bryant." With a flapping of canvas the medicine man was gone like a giant bird of prey.


Claire
Did I just sleep through something of significance on FOF?, - Friday March 26th 1999 08:08:49

Dear Secret: if you go to Mister I, you might get an "altitude adjustment" instead--HE could put you on the rack and make you taller! See Claudia's guestbook for details, as this may be a limited time offer . . . *grin*

Sorry to have posted so little story lately; I've had houseguests. Brandon must be thinking by now, "Hmmm, I not remembered the track to the house being this long." I'll be able to post more soon, I hope.

MA
R, dearest-- *SIGH* - Friday March 26th 1999 05:45:41

Scene: The remains of a medical office . . .

In a real attempt to say at least half of what he usually thinks, Hans tries to show his wife exactly what she means to him.

Not an easy task. But if words will help . . .

"Have you forgotten the FBI sting--when even some of your friends told you I had not changed--that I had thrown in with The Investors? Was controlling it all? Sacrificing Sinclair--and Billings . . . Was engineering the collapse--"

It takes effort to move out of her position of safety. Putting her finger on the middle of his lips, she feels their softness. It is this voice she uses. "You were trying to protect me."

"And you were trying to protect Mary Anne--although I cannot agree with your choice--"

Her tear-stained eyes close, and she rises up to him, feels his lips meet hers. As she kisses him, his words fill her, and for a moment of magic, they both feel as if they are in Diggory Venn's van, on the heath. They are speaking to each other. The words come, as surely as if they are spoken.

Never leave me. I have walked over the desert, and traversed the wide ocean. I cannot live without your touch. Du bist meine liebe.

Feed me the strength to live. Without you, I forget why there is a point to my life. Come. Live within me. And never leave.

R
Words, words . . .words. - Friday March 26th 1999 12:35:15

Dear "Befert",

Thanks for stopping by! :-) I am positively *loaded* with riches--if you count priceless friends. Hope you will be too. Someday.
My Very Best,
Renie - Friday March 26th 1999 12:04:19

Sorry about stuffing up the page - all back to normal.
Claudia
- Thursday March 25th 1999 09:35:32

It wasn't me-please don't make me go away, too! I'm sorry about the lawyer joke-send me to "Mr. I" for an attitude adjustment---although I think that he is busy with Claudia right now.
secret admirer
- Thursday March 25th 1999 01:54:59

Will WHOEVER is making these rude posts please stop? This is a friendly place. I don't come here to read your crap and I resent you commenting about my friends. You can e- mail me if you want to discuss this further but PLEASE just go away.

Kari , <karidurr@hotmail.com>
USA - Thursday March 25th 1999 10:48:22

befert? umm. meant BEREFT obviously.
.
- Wednesday March 24th 1999 11:18:12

So glad, R, that someone has some extra funds around here. Do share with the rest of us befert humans when it arrives.
.
- Wednesday March 24th 1999 11:16:22

"You have a high opinion of yourself – after a night with you my life will be changed," she attempted to lighten the mood, but HE wasn't smiling. Her finger traced the bow of HIS lips. HIS fingers drew circles in the small of her back. She sighed. "When I walked through those doors, I made my choice. When I left Ed and came to you, I made my choice. I have no reason to think he will ever want to see me again."

"Mine is a lonely existence, by the very nature of the work. You must understand what you take on before you agree."

"And what, after everything you would let me go? I'd never leave these walls. This way I can come and go. This way you trust me."

"As far as I can let myself trust anyone. You don't need to sleep with me to work with me."

"Well, if you don't want me…" she turned and started to walk away.

HE grabbed her arm and pulled her back into his arms. "No more games. You choose me. Or you don't."

HE was making it her decision, so she couldn't blame HIM for anything if it came to a trial. This was probably all being recorded. How far was she prepared to go to reach her objective. How certain was she that she could bring HIM down from inside HIS own organisation? How long would it take? What would happen to her when it was over? And should she listen to the part of her that still wanted HIM?
Claudia
- Wednesday March 24th 1999 06:44:02

Her hands sought the buttons of his crisp white shirt, and she started to undo them. One. Two. HIS hands shot up suddenly, pulling hers away from HIM and holding them there, clasped as if in prayer.

"This is what you want?" HE asked, searching her eyes. "This is our night off. I'm not forcing you, I'm not drugging you. It's your choice. But remember, there is no turning back. Once this is done your life will be changed, and you cannot go back."

She opened her mouth to answer HIM, but HE brought a finger to her lips to silence her. It was not HIS betrayals she had tasted in HIS kiss but her own.

"You have already done things to affect the lives of your friends – Renie and Hans, Mary Anne, Ed. Others who do not know it yet. But think – if you do this thing, they will not forgive you, you can never return to Ed. You will not be accepted back into their lives. You will be mine – body and soul."

"They won't know unless YOU tell them. And I can be of more use to you if they do still accept me amongst them."

"True. But could you face them, knowing the things you have done? You must choose now."
Claudia - trying to get serious
- Wednesday March 24th 1999 03:46:17

Glad to be the comic relief as usual! Though I should try and serious-up. Afterall, HE is involved.
Claudia
- Wednesday March 24th 1999 02:05:41

Scene: A toppled desk. Scattered papers. Husband and wife.

"Yes, Hans. You are very much a man." A hint of playfulness slips in, but passes, as she must know . . . "But--are you angry with me? Do you believe me?"

Hans still holds her chin in his hand. "Your former husband obviously believes he can come between us--still. Through my jealousy. But, you know I am not who I used to be--as far as--many things." Hans' fingers sponge the moisture on her cheeks. "Love is--an alliance. And trust and faith in you--have made me strong. Against anyone." During his nearly imperceptible pause, Renie can almost hear him mentally tick off the names. Colin. Valmont. "Even HIM."

Renie feels her heart contract--in joy--which threatens to renew the tears so carefully carried off by the chariot of Hans' fingers . . . Her heart--which has been her keep in the battles of love, shrinking inside of her. In shame, at herself. Her failure to confide in Hans. She crumples herself against his chest. Safe, here, safe.

Those who have seen--and felt--the cold power of Hans Gruber would never know the warmth and depth of his heart, beating against her cheek.

"DON'T." The command, however soft. "Don't weep, meine liebe. I know why you didn't tell anyone about HIM. How can I rebuke you, when I've kept things from you--to protect you?"

I actually ordered a CD with "Wrapped Around Your Finger" today.
R - Wednesday March 24th 1999 12:02:33

More from behind the curtain:

Claudia--Love the butter, love the garlic, especially love the betrayal...but "Hold the pliers!" <----*giggling* And the Sting link, though it fades in the middle, is wonderful.

Dearest. ". . . that premonition has leapt into perception." Very tasty. Yet--I foresee a "meeting" with your husband explaining "that business with the armoire"--gulp!!--better sharpen my powers of exculpatory elocution . . .

And welcome back, Kari!
Trying to placate the director, and cleaning up the messy set,
R - Wednesday March 24th 1999 10:40:12

Kari - did you miss us or something? 4 posts in a row!

And no! I have not gone East Indian on you!
Kari (not Kasri)
Sneaking off to bed .., USA - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 10:25:24

And a LOL .. I have a friend who has a beagle named Bailey. Will FOF please stop imitating life?! *smile*
Kasri
USA - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 10:24:13

While never fond of Mr I, I must say I'm getting a little jealous of his attentions to Claudia! Obviously, no such attentions headed my way any time soon. *sigh*
Kari (not that I'm complaining, however)
- Tuesday March 23rd 1999 10:17:22

While I'm experiencing a rare lack-of-initiative regarding FOF, I want to take a moment to say something personal ..

.. which is a very big (BIG!) thank you to my buddy and dear, sweet pal Lin who took over my posting at FOF while I was without internet access. It was the nicest thing for someone to do. And it's something I won't soon forget!

I must say that I am truly grateful for all of you who frequent these pages as several of you have become very (VERY!) special friends. Being here is something I've come to enjoy immensely.

Anyway, getting back to my original intent .. Lin, m'dear, I love you! Achilles and David W. send you their biggest and best wet kisses (and, speaking from *ahem* personal experience, I know that is something you'll really enjoy). *grin*

Thank you!

Kari
Seattle, USA - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 10:04:43

The camera holds on Brandon in the summerhouse, as the voices of the rest of the search party fade out around him, as the noises of the dogs grow still, and even the soundtrack hushes to one thinly breathing flute voicing a thready minor-key premonition . . .

. . . and we see, in the sudden tension of Brandon's frame, the tightening of his fist around the costume gloves, that premonition has leapt into perception.

He knows.

The Colonel is an observant, intelligent man. He has not, perhaps, the gifts of Sherlock Holmes for observation and deduction; Holmes, if he were still present at Delaford, would insist upon facts.

It is the intuitive and not the deductive flame that burns in Brandon, and he in it; small incidents and observations that have lain still in his mind for the past two days rise disconcertingly and force themselves upon his notice.

That strange man, for example, at the wedding. Something odd about him: Brandon would deny that he is any expert in body language, but as he had once pointed out to Therese, he is capable of observing and drawing conclusions, and he had known, though his mind was busy with happier matters, that the man was not a servant. No common labourer. The movements were wrong--were those of a man accustomed to mastery.

His missing Highwayman costume.

Renie's erratic behaviour: her nervousness while he was in her guestroom, especially that piece of business with the armoire . . .

Brandon is rigidly still, and white to the very lips. He could never explain how he knows it, but the certainty is there:

The Interrogator. HE was in my home.

Was . . . ? They had insisted on Mary Anne and Therese remaining behind. For safety.

For one of the very few times in his adult life, Brandon fails to act the part of a gentleman as he dashes from the summerhouse, forcing Commander Hudson to leap back from him or be run down--and the Colonel offer no apology as he vaults onto the back of Menelaus, clapping his feet against the animal's sides and thundering toward the fork to the main house as if the devil were at his heels.

Or, perhaps, in his home.

MA
"Always the impulsive one. Always." - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 07:45:17

Delaford, the summerhouse:

Brandon. Holding the black leather gloves.

There is a long silence among the search party, until Commander Hudson steps forward to examine the clue, if clue it is. "Those look like the pair you wore . . ."

Overlapping with Dev's, "What are those doing here--"

The beagles are beginning to wander into the structure, sniffing curiously about. Brandon, his face ominously calm, peels off one of the riding gloves he is wearing and stoops to hold it out to the dogs.

Bailey, tail wagging, takes a curious sniff and apparently finds nothing unusual, briefly running her tongue out in a dog "smile" and then licking Brandon's hand before she resumes her explorations. Likewise the insatiably curious Brennan, and even Biscuit, who, after a perfunctory sniff at Brandon's glove, seeks out a cool spot and promptly collapses into a heap of fur.

Brandon clicks his tongue softly to regain the dogs' attention . . . and offers the other gloves.

Brandon--the beagle--backs away, hackles up, making soft, ominous noises deep in his throat. Bailey let out a distressed yip! as though someone had stepped on her foot, and Bugle issues forth an earsplitting bay, mournful and chilling; Banshee retreats to a corner. With the assorted yelps and whimpers, it is some moments before order is restored and the party can hear themselves think. One thing is certain: the scent on those gloves is most . . . unsettling.

The quelling baritone of Anton Gruber. "But what does it mean? What matter, this pair of gloves?"

Some other time, the Colonel might smile. Zis parrrrr uf gloffs.

Some other time.

Brandon turns the gloves over and over in his hands, studying them--so different from the utilitarian riding gloves he had put on for this day's expedition. Plain black leather, those everyday gloves, ending at the wrist, the only concessions to luxury being the melting softness of the leather and a fit so excellent that a man wearing these gloves might pick up a thin coin from a polished marble floor.

But the other gloves--for The Highwayman. Black leather again, yes, but cut in the dashing gauntlet style that reaches much further up the arm, almost to the elbow.

And while turns the gloves as though he is trying to count every stitch in them, Brandon is thinking . . .

MA--it must have been the betrayal . . .
I don't think the dogs were that upset over garlic and butter. - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 07:18:56

Clods--I can't just tuck these compliments away at the end of a post; they must be seen on their own. First: "Is that a pair of pliers in your pocket . . ." ROFL! With that and the one about "working on your abs," you are really (pardon the pun) racking up the terrific lines! 8-)

Also: "HE tasted of butter and garlic, and betrayal." I am green with envy.

MA
Or maybe that's blue-green . . . - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 06:19:44

ŇNonsense, you are very interesting companyÉ I just wish youŐd shut up.Ó
LOLOLOLOLLLL!!!!
- Tuesday March 23rd 1999 06:19:00

"But I haven't finished my pasta yet," she protests. "Never come between a woman and her pasta."

The music on the radio continued, flowing straight into Every Breath You Take. Sting must have been the featured artist of the evening.

The Interrogator was already by her side, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. "I believe this dance is mine." HE led her to the centre of the room and pulled her in close to HIM. She gasped with surprise… and something else. They moved as one, bodies connecting with electricity.

"You did well helping me right a wrong where Renie was concerned. You deserve an acknowledgement for passing that task."

"It won't work you know – they'll just do another test, and you can't keep putting me on a plane each time they do."

"They could do a further test," HE agreed. "but I don't think they will be talking long enough to think of that."

"And what's with all this, the hair, the dress? Trying to turn me into someone else?"

"A mistake, I admit. You did so well before, I thought you could help me right another wrong, act out an evening I spent with Mary Anne, and have it turn out the way it should have done." HE was taking a risk, being honest with her, but honesty could be a powerful weapon if used at the right moment.

"Play acting? No – there is no way I can be Mary Anne. We are too different. If you don't want to be with me this evening, then perhaps I'd better go now."

HE pulled her even closer to HIM. "Nonsense, you are very interesting company… I just wish you'd shut up."

She giggled, and as they danced his right hand reached into her hair and started to pull out the pins. Clink. Clink. One by one they fell to the marble floor, and Claudia's hair fell about her shoulders.

The wicked glint in her eyes warned him, as she started to speak… "Is that a pair of pliers in your pocket, or are you…"

HE stopped her mouth with a kiss so powerful she was glad HIS arms were around her to stop her collapsing in a heap on the floor. HE tasted of butter and garlic, and betrayal.
Claudia
Um - now what? - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 05:39:49

Re: the moon. I say that's where we put you secret admirer!
Simon Jacks, Barrister
UK - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 05:26:12

The new writing project is up and ready for your input at the link on my name below!
Claudia
- Tuesday March 23rd 1999 03:57:03

Q: how many lawyers does it take to make a straight line to the moon and back? A:I don't know, but thats a good place for them!
secret admirer
- Tuesday March 23rd 1999 03:49:24

Abruptly, Claudia abandons her impression of Mary Anne's innocent look.

"Wrapped Around Your Finger" - - From the recording "Synchronicity"

Hey! Watch those lawyer jibes!
David Weinberg
Dark Harbor, USA - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 09:49:45

Strong early afternoon sunshine illuminated the wagon interior. Sinclair followed inside; wrinkling his nose at the stale smell of the unwashed, scrutinising the medicine man's every move. "Is it the sickness?"

Slapping a hand on her forehead the man confirmed the raised temperature. "Yes, Yes. I know that, but what is the cause?" Suffering a glower for his interruption.

Pressing roughly close to her abdomen, the investigation moved deeper. Almost breathing down the man's neck, Sinclair stood protector, friend … lover.

Claire sweated through the fever. Conscious, Sinclair felt she silently appealed to him to stop the imminent invasion of her person, as the podgy fingers poked and then started to undo the bodice buttons.

"Is that really necessary?" Sinclair squeezed past box and keg and knelt, clasping her hand in comfort.

"Peel an onion if you wanna know what's inside." Came the perfunctory reply.

Somehow Sinclair could not fathom the parallel.


Claire
Searing post Dana!, - Tuesday March 23rd 1999 01:39:59

"Have you a wife, Smithy?" PL looked around the patient faces of the oxen he was attending to the blacksmith fitting shoes to their hooves.

"Aye, best cook in 'tween here and San Francisco"

"Hmmmmm" came the appreciative hum in response. Directing his gaze at Brooks, O'Hara continued. "What would a man like you do if another man were to pester his wife with unwanted advances. Do you take my meaning?"

A length of glowing red steel emerged from the forge's flames. "He'd never be able to bother another..."
Dana
Twisp, WA, USA - Monday March 22nd 1999 09:47:30

DOC--No italics for "The pasta disappears into her mouth. HE watches her. Eating."

Being led away, cuffed again. :-)
Chains--my baby's got me locked up in chains...
R (short for recidivist) - Monday March 22nd 1999 04:38:31

Hey--watch those lawyer jibes!
ESQ.
- Monday March 22nd 1999 03:16:29

Andrea, thanks, but I can't take credit for Barnacle Bill. He's a real person (and a helluva sailor) -- couldn't make up that one in a million years!
Leigh
- Monday March 22nd 1999 02:46:17

Marian is not about to tell Andrea that she should not fear The Sheriff. However, knowing something of her patient's history as a warrior causes the doctor to be surprised by Andrea's response to her fear. Paralyzed?

Andrea can see the question in Marian's eyes and attempts an explanation. "To kill nameless soldiers in battle with a bow and arrow is a very different situation from the personal struggle in which The Sheriff and I have involved ourselves."

"The struggle against him is not yours alone. The law is on your side. He will be punished for what he did to you."

"After a trial, where I will be questioned as a criminal myself. The Defense will pick apart my testimony searching for some scrap that might implicate me and free The Sheriff."

"But, you've done nothing wrong."

Andrea tries to laugh at the ignorance of that statement. "It is fortunate that you are a competent doctor. You would make a lousy lawyer." Anyone better than a "lousy lawyer" could find plenty that I have "done wrong."

Andrea
Leigh: Barnacle Bill! LOL!, - Monday March 22nd 1999 01:07:23

Hart took Grace's keys from her and opened the trunk, correctly guessing she had picked up her own luggage. With a jolt, he realized she had leaped to the wrong conclusion. How could she think I would treat her that way? Does she still think I'm sort of animal? I wouldn't treat a dog that way, he thought to himself. He looked over at Grace, wondering if there was anything he could do or say to repair the damage. Or would he make it worse by fumbling an apology? Grace gave no outward sign of her confusion. But Hart knew she could be stubborn as an ox -- make that two oxen -- when it came to guarding her private thoughts. He was reluctant to ignore the awkward moment, then decided it was better to go on as if he hadn't noticed. He filled the silence between them by describing where he wanted to sail as he deftly transferred her luggage from her trunk to his black Lexus. ". . . over to Catalina and then anchor at Emerald Bay. It's quieter than the town of Avalon, and there's fine beach. *If* you care to go ashore," he said, suggestively arching an eyebrow.

Grace had recovered enough of her poise to smile puckishly back at him. "Then I hope there's at least one bathing suit in there," she said, pointing to her luggage.

"Absolutely not," countered Hart, in a serious tone.

They arrived at the Sea Dove's slip just as the morning fog burned off over Marina del Rey. As good a sailor as he was, Hart could not handle the Sea Dove alone, nor did he want to burden Grace with her first serious sailing lesson just yet. Beta was an able hand, but Hart still thought it prudent to keep Beta away from her in case she recognized him as her attacker in the parking garage all those months ago. Instead, Hart had hired a professional sailor, an agreeable but nearly silent old salt nicknamed Barnacle Bill, to help him handle the boat for their short jaunt over to the island of Catalina. Hart made it clear to Bill that the sailor would make himself scarce for the two days the Sea Dove would be anchored at Emerald Bay, a suggestion Barnacle had often heard from yachties like Hart. Still, Bill knew Hart as a fine sailor, and simply answered, "Aye, Captain," rather than flash the ribald smile he reserved for his landlubber clients.

Under the expert hands of Hart and Barnacle Bill, the Sea Dove gracefully moved from her slip and steered toward the breakwater through Saturday morning marina traffic as thick as any L.A. freeway. The sailboat leaned into the waves as though she was impatient to get out to the ocean passage to Catalina. Hart buckled Grace into a life preserver and seated her on the bow. He showed her how to clip on the lifeline, a cord that snapped from her life preserver to the railing of the boat in case the weather got rough. Not that it will, Hart reassured her, he had checked the forecast for five days out. The sky was still cloudy in patches and a breeze from the west kicked up choppy waves outside the breakwater. Even with the headwind, Hart calculated they could make Catalina by nightfall. He instructed Grace to stay put while he and Bill guided the Sea Dove clear of the shipping lane beyond the breakwater. She closed her eyes, relishing the freshening wind and the splash of salt water on her face.

The Sea Dove completed a cautious series of turns to avoid other traffic and crossed the roiling wake of a northbound supertanker. Then she was free. She settled into an easy rhythm over the growing chop as Bill cranked her sails. Grace watched the billowing sails snap and pop as Barnacle trimmed them with an expert eye. Hart nodded approval and turned the wheel over to Barnacle Bill as they turned into the wind on a direct course for Catalina.

Leigh
Trying to keep up with the growing menagerie. . . , - Monday March 22nd 1999 10:17:54

Rummy eyed, the resident medicine man parted the growing crowd of onlookers. Whispers dried with his passing. Spitting slowly on each hand, he cleaned the deposit down the face of his grey shirt. Sinclair was appalled.

As the coterie disembarked from the wagon, clucking and shaking their heads, he stood sentinel at the entrance.

"Do you need some clean water?" he enquired.

Hardly a flicker acknowledged Sinclair's words. There was no doubt, who was doing whom the favour of his presence.

Thick meaty hands grabbed at the canvas, dramatically thrusting all before aside. Confused, Sinclair stepped back. Could he let this man touch Claire?

Cattle fidgeted in their traces. In the background, whistles and shouts called attention to the imminent restarting of the journey. Striding the length of his convoy the Wagon Master approached the gathering.


Claire
Sorry MA only the white shirt will do!, - Monday March 22nd 1999 08:26:29

The Delaford hunt:

Prompted by Banshee's soul-chilling howl, the rest of the pack catch the scent but, in a most un-beaglish fashion, are reluctant to follow it and mill nervously around and under the feet of the horses, bristling and whimpering as if there were something physically painful in what they have scented.

Dev steadies Raksha and brings her alongside Menelaus, then leans quietly toward Brandon to ask, "Where does this track lead?"

"Back to the house, if you follow it straight. But there is a side track along the way."

"And that leads--?"

"To the summerhouse."

With a slight nudge of his heel, Brandon urges Menelaus forward--and Menelaus, who fears nothing with Brandon on his back, sets out, followed by Raksha, who betrays her disquiet only by an occasional snort and a flicker of her laid-back ears.

Mister de Valera really has a way with her, thinks Brandon, looking on in approval as he turns briefly to eye the procession along the path: Hudson on the placid Hector, who scarcely knows the meaning of fear; Herr Gruber on Ares . . .

Enough. Let us be about it.

As the horses move, the dogs overcome their reluctance and pursue the scent but clearly do not like it, especially when they come to the fork in the path--at which point, confusion. Some seem inclined to follow one path and some the other. Brandon and Hudson exchange puzzled glances.

Hudson reins in Hector. "Wait a moment . . ."

The offer of Claudia's red outfit to the dogs, so that they can have another sniff, results in a series of yelps and bays, as the beagles turn in the track . . .

Brandon nods. "The summerhouse, then."

The summerhouse, peaceful and inviting in the afternoon sunlight, appears deserted as the search party moves toward it, but Brandon is taking no chances; his pistol is out as he dismounts from Menelaus and moves toward the structure, followed by Hudson, her weapons also at the ready . . .

Deserted.

Dev appears in the door of the summerhouse and takes a quick look. "There doesn't seem to be anyone--"

And then he stops, for Brandon has turned toward the party, his face gray and grim as he holds out what he has found lying on the floor of the summerhouse.

A pair of black leather gloves.

MA
Yeah, Clods, they were still there . . . - Monday March 22nd 1999 06:56:48

There is little chance of finding Claudia, yet the Delaford hunt goes on, in spite of various distractions and setbacks--there had been much to attend to that afternoon.

For one thing, there are various degrees of equestrian competence represented in this party. Or, in plain English: some ride much better than others. Brandon himself is one of those heart and soul horsemen who, in some mysterious way, do not so much ride a horse as become one with it; his every action, on horseback, is a continuous and subconscious adjustment to the movements of the animal, his control all the more firm and reliable because it is unthinking. The merest twitch of the reins, the least pressure of his legs, a light touch from the crop, and the horse understands and obeys, especially such a one as the superbly-trained Menelaus.

Brandon had no qualms in opening his stables for this search party, but as he glances about him he instantly and shrewdly judges the ease and comfort of his companions on horseback, needing only a few seconds' observation in each case.

There is Dev, for instance, who had started out on the dapple-grey, Hector. A steady, reliable beast, no matter who the rider, but Brandon reads in Dev the quiet confidence of a man who has dealt with horses, understands them, and can manage them well.

However, Dev had changed horses with Commander Hudson, for she had been mounted on Raksha, one of the Colonel's few impulse purchases ever and one he has felt uneasy about on many occasions. It had not been reassuring, when he bought the horse, to discover that "Raksha," in one of the many dialects of India, means "Demon." A strikingly beautiful animal, showing traces of Arabian bloodlines: the curve of her neck, the dish-faced concavity of the skull near the eyes, the sleek legs and light frame that promise speed like the wind--and most unusual colouring, shining black, but with a mane and tail so light as to glisten silver in the sun.

However, she is an animal of uncertain temperament, seeming to take her cue from whatever mood her rider is in. Nervous rider, nervous horse. And it had become clear, as Hudson had attempted to manage the skittish and capricious Raksha, that the Commander is not a rider by choice. Hudson is competent in the saddle; she had learned to ride because she considered it a useful skill, but has not Brandon's heartfelt affinity nor Dev's quiet confidence. Things had gone much more smoothly after the change of horses: Hudson relaxes with the placid Hector and Dev brings the nervously prancing Raksha into order with a light but firm hand on the reins--no nonsense will be tolerated.

Other incidents: Giles having to drop out of the party and escort Emilie back to the house. Brandon had drawn him aside.

"Mr. Winterbourne . . . do try, when you return to Delaford, to bring in Miss Emilie as discreetly as possible."

"I'm sure as I don't know what you mean, Colonel."

Lift of Brandon's eyebrow. "We left my wife and Miss Gellert there, for we felt it was too dangerous for them to be out on this search with us. But since Miss Emilie joined you on the hunt . . ."

There is not a shred of rebuke in Brandon's tone, but Giles feels embarrassed by it all the same, and hastily borrows a horse from one of the AR agents who is none too comfortable on horseback. He sets Emilie on the horse and make his way back toward the house.

Thinking of it, Brandon smiles a little, wondering how Mary Anne and Therese are enduring their restriction and whether they have managed to keep each other company . . . and what they might say if they knew Emilie had come out.

The smile widens as Brandon remembers another incident: some half an hour after they had set out, there had been the sound of hooves behind them and they had turned . . .

. . . to see riding toward them Herr Anton Gruber, mounted on Ares the bay hunter and looking magnificent in black trousers and a white turtleneck sweater, his silvered hair glittering in the sun, but that glitter is as nothing next to the spark in his amber eyes, his outrage at being left out of the party . . . and that spark is only slightly damped by the repeated assurances that no insult is intended; they simply could not locate him when they were rounding up the searchers.

Brandon takes a second look at Herr Gruber and recognizes another dyed in the blood equestrian, but there is an uneasy edge to Brandon's approval as he contemplate this pairing of man and horse; Ares is a well- trained animal but it is not for compliment's sake that he is named after a god of war, and with Anton Gruber seated on his back, there is an intensity about the pairing that makes Brandon catch his breath: as if they were one creature--but not, like he and Menelaus, a creature of harmony. There is a flicker of flame in this pairing, awe- inspiring and a trifle frightening. And, judging from Hudson's covert glances, as well as those of some of the other female agents, more than a little attractive. Silver the hair, but brilliant the eye of Herr Anton Gruber, whose back is as straight and his posture as secure as those of his own son.

Power. It runs in the family.

Brandon's wandering thoughts are abruptly recalled when Banshee lifts her nose from the ground, points it toward to the sky, and lets go with a bloodcurdling noise that is more screech than howl . . .

MA--Claire, does a white turtleneck count as a "shirt post?" 8-)
Therese, some horse talk just for you! Hope I'm getting it right . . . - Sunday March 21st 1999 05:20:15

*Motzart* yes. As always, I exaggerate! Fond memories, that.
Kari .. having a good laugh! , <Yes, I'm here again Clods .. try and keep me away *grin*>
- Sunday March 21st 1999 05:06:17

Had a distinct feeling of deja vu when I read the *Motzart*!
Claire
Sorry guys -- private joke at the expense of my spelling!, - Sunday March 21st 1999 11:32:15

Hmm .. *Mottzart*, eh? You'd better watch your back Claire. HE may be after you next! *grin*
Kari
USA - Sunday March 21st 1999 10:38:18

MA--tying myself to the post
- Sunday March 21st 1999 07:55:44

MA
Rolling about giggling! - Saturday March 20th 1999 08:55:33

On her it just didn't work. "I'm going to eat my dinner," he said gruffly, and started piling his plate high with angel-hair pasta.
Claudia
"You cannot put a fire out;A thing that can ignite,Can go, itself, without a fan,Upon the slowest night." Emily Dikinson - Saturday March 20th 1999 08:45:20

MA--you people are hilarious!
Surely The Director is the most patient man on earth . . . - Saturday March 20th 1999 06:48:34

"In every carefully designed scenario, I react in the same manner. No matter who stands with me for my comfort and protection, no matter the form of restraint on him, no matter the distance or barrier between us ... to imagine seeing The Sheriff again paralyzes me with fear."

Andrea
FOOD FIGHT!!!!!!, - Saturday March 20th 1999 04:56:27

LOL--He was *laughing*, MA...(but the thought of the too-tightly buttoned jeans is good!)
On second thought, maybe we should make them those Prada slacks he tried on during the Dogma shoot.
Thelmus and Louisa: ever notice oxen always travel in pairs? - Saturday March 20th 1999 09:50:15

MA (range contralto to mezzo-soprano on a good day)
- Saturday March 20th 1999 08:44:45

Yeah Latin terms: Thelmus and Louisa Roman cows.
Linguistics
- Saturday March 20th 1999 12:49:25

so, one or two latin terms?
secret
- Friday March 19th 1999 09:00:22

Therese
R-Thelma and Lousie!? ROTFLMAO!! Good show., - Friday March 19th 1999 07:23:23

R
- Friday March 19th 1999 06:36:02

PL walked away, fists clenched.

A powerful individual, the wagon master was not a man to cross lightly. O’Hara’s first instinct was to challenge Brooks, beat out his anger as a warning. But that offered no future protection against his advances to Dana.

Perhaps they should pull out of this Wagon Train, although likelihood of another visiting Fort Hall at this time of year was slim. Such thoughts in mind, O’Hara passed his quarry supervising the blacksmith with the last round of oxen shoeing.

For most families, the welfare of the animals came above their own. Gone were the makeshift rags and bindings, ringing out over the camp, the smith’s anvil shaped shoes that would finish the journey.

Steam hissed as the tongs dipped the shoe in the water trough. O’Hara stopped, patted the beast he recognised, failing to meet Jake Brooks’ watchful eye as he held the head rope.


Claire
Now what are you going to do about Brooks' wandering hands Dana???, - Friday March 19th 1999 12:39:22

Dana sighed deeply and watched him stride away....
Dana
Twisp, WA, USA - Thursday March 18th 1999 09:45:06

Leigh
Great stuff being posted lately - kudos all around , - Thursday March 18th 1999 08:02:04

MA
Bravissima, dearest. Wonderful, just wonderful. - Thursday March 18th 1999 05:46:50

"Are you hungry?"
Claudia
Dinner for two - looking familiar MA? - Thursday March 18th 1999 04:31:18

Renie - shame I can't get a sound file of HIM saying that line to play when the page opens! Glad to keep you amused. BUT I'm feeling really bad about my little trip to LA now.
Claudia
- Thursday March 18th 1999 03:04:01

"If this be error, and upon me prov'd
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
Suzanne, you better set aside a month to catch up with us!--R - Thursday March 18th 1999 02:47:19

"Love alters not with [time's] brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom" - Thursday March 18th 1999 02:41:34

"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds/Or bends with the remover to remove/O no, it is an ever-fixed mark/that looks on tempests, and is never shaken/ It is the star to every wandering bark . . . "(Sonnet CXVI)
R - Thursday March 18th 1999 02:39:18

R
- Thursday March 18th 1999 02:31:33

Leigh
Rough week for the women of FOF. . . , - Thursday March 18th 1999 01:45:09

Oh, Renie!
a lurker whose heart is beating fast
- Thursday March 18th 1999 10:03:29

“Can she hear you?” Sinclair refused to be brushed aside this time.

“Do you know what is the matter?” Pacing up and down beside the team. This was the midmorning halt, a few minutes more and time would be called to roll the wagons again.

Despite remonstrating for not calling for assistance sooner, the hushed voices gathered inside the wagon told him nothing. Assuming it something to do with the child, he had let them in, now he had second thoughts. Was it Cholera? … Please God .. Not the sickness. O’Hara’s dire words rang in his ears.

Fever burned, but the yelp of pain as he lifted Claire free of the cot had sent Sinclair scurrying for help. Now he was beginning to regret it.

“Can she hear you?” he reiterated louder, worrying that she was loosing consciousness again. “Is it the child?” Pulling roughly at the nearest shawl, demanding to be answered. ”Or is it .. the sickness?”

“Mister Bryant unhand me at once. Your wife is with child?” The large woman threatened by her bulk to topple Sinclair off the step. But he stood firm.

“Yes ..Yes.” Why did they keep calling Claire his wife? "Does that make a difference?"


Claire
- Thursday March 18th 1999 09:05:41

Properties Master
- Thursday March 18th 1999 05:09:37

Stretching, yawning the trainee crawls out from the table next to the kitchen fire. Another day.

Rubbing his eyes he can't believe it Someone has italiced the book again. He looks once more, from all angles, ensuring the problem does not result from the St Patrick's Day ale.

Right, he pulls on the boots. Another stint in the Dept. of Corrections, the Chief would be pleased by his early morning attention to duty.

As the door slams there is heard tinkle of cutlery and a voice moves into the distance seemingly practising a few lines. I'm going to remove your liver with a fork .... no .. no ... I'm going to slice your gizzard with a ... doesn't sound right .... I'm going to cut your heart out with a.....


Chink...chink .. chin
- Wednesday March 17th 1999 11:52:08

R
Yes, Therese, what Mary Anne has told you is true . . . , - Wednesday March 17th 1999 11:49:35

"Mephistopheles is not your name
But I know what you're up to just the same" - Wednesday March 17th 1999 10:15:16

MA
Clods, your hair looks wonderful, if I do say so myself. *grin* - Wednesday March 17th 1999 07:48:12

Sinclair patted her arm. “I’m sorry I forget. Let me get you some water.” Judging the leap down to perfection, he kept pace with the steady motion of the oxen, sliding open the barrel lid. Utensils hanging from the wagon chinked a tinker’s medley with each rotation of the wheel.

Loose reins and an empty seat. Sinclair, ducking briefly to establish Claire had not keeled off the wagon entirely, delicately balanced the mug and remounted. Responding to a shrill whistle a rider moved along side the team leader acknowledging Sinclair’s request for five minutes.

Drawing aside the canvas opening, checking he had surmised correctly, Sinclair was rather surprised to see Claire curled into foetal position within the cot. Fascinated by the surgeon’s tales of fantastic gold digging machines and scrapes with death on the frontier he had forgotten her unease with graphical medical descriptions, not withstanding her condition. He cursed himself as a fool.

“Here, take this. It will make you feel better.” Proffering the water he was surprised it was refused. Sniffing, hurt that his reparations were deemed insufficient, Sinclair backed to the entrance “I’m sorry, what more can I say?” Cracking the doorway closed he slid back to the drivers position, hauled on the traces and waved the rider away.

Inside soft mewing of pain escaped, only to be absorbed by the canvas cloak.

He must make allowances. PL had explained all. Although how the Irishman had become conversant in such matters he never knew. Where was O’Hara now when needed? On his way to Oregon, not California.


Claire
- Wednesday March 17th 1999 11:57:03

With a nod to Shax, as ever...
R - Wednesday March 17th 1999 08:26:47

Whoops, missing html...delete previous, please DOC
I know, I know, it's not a holiday camp! :-)
- Wednesday March 17th 1999 08:25:57

Music to accompany the next post: The instrumental reprise of "Ophelia" on track 11 of Natalie Merchant's Ophelia CD; it starts at 4:30, after "When They Ring the Golden Bells."
R
- Tuesday March 16th 1999 06:56:11

"Mary Anne's," nodded the Interrogator, and held out his arm for her to take.
Claudia
- Tuesday March 16th 1999 06:22:22

“So am I,” she answered with a smile, unaware that the twinkle she had seen across the table was really a glint. A glint last seen in the eyes of the Big Bad Wolf as he spied Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the trees on the way to Grandma’s house.

Kari
USA - Tuesday March 16th 1999 05:01:39

MA--"For only in destroying find I ease
To my relentless thoughts . . . " - Tuesday March 16th 1999 06:13:24

MA--Andrea, your last description concerning George: *shiver*
Uh-oh, trouble in Hart-and-Grace land . . . - Tuesday March 16th 1999 05:33:28