Chapter 1

"From thirty thousand feet above
The desert floor, I see it there below
A city with a legend -
The west Texas city of El Paso
Where long ago I heard a song
About a Texas cowboy and a girl
And a little place called Rosa's
Where he used to go and watch this beauty whirl."

El Paso City, Written and Performed by Marty Robbins

It was a weird feeling, listening to a song that described you and the situation you were in perfectly. It was sort of bizarre déjà vu. I was flying from Phoenix to El Paso, and through the headset plugged into the armrest of my cramped seat, so was the hero of Marty Robbins' ballad. Yep, and I felt like the guy in the song, too: an out of place cowboy trapped in the twentieth century. Well, a half-assed cowboy, anyway. In actuality, I was a washed up bull rider in his late thirties, working as a rodeo clown on the professional rodeo circuit.

Now before you laugh, a rodeo clown is closer to a bullfighter than he is to a circus clown. See, us clowns have the responsibility of distracting the bull away from a rider after he finishes his ride or is thrown off the bull. Yanking on the tail of a twelve hundred pound, pissed off bull to make him chase you is not a job for sissies.

During the off season for the rodeo circuit, I am ashamed to admit that I am an actor in one of those desert ghost town tourist traps that pretends to show how life was in the wild west. I played a character named Black Bart, a mean and nasty gunfighter and card shark. I also do fast draw and trick shooting exhibitions dressed up as if I were Roy Rogers. It isn't something I'm real proud of, but it puts bacon and beans on the table for six months of the year. I was heading back from my gig as a gunslinger on the day I heard the song on the airplane.

The recorded tape had just segued into the song "Feleena" when the 727 shuddered and rolled to one side. I snatched the earphones off in alarm, and looked back towards the flight attendant, when a gaping hole opened in the fuselage by the rear exit door and the stewardess was sucked out of the plane. The emergency oxygen masks fell down from the ceiling when the cabin depressurized, and people were screaming and clutching for them as the plane nosed over into a steep dive. I instinctively reached for a mask, then forced myself to sit back. I hoped that I had enough time to pass out from oxygen deprivation before the plane augured into the desert. It would be a fitting crappy ending to an equally crappy life.

That was my last thought before I woke up. When I woke up, I hurt all over; but that made sense, didn't it, after all, I had just been in a plane crash. As I swam toward consciousness, I took a little mental inventory. Yep, I was still Tyler McGuinn. The trouble was that I was the wrong Tyler McGuinn. When my eyes finally opened, I knew where I was, hell, I even knew what day it was. What I didn't know, was how I got to where I now found myself. How did I end up in the back of a chuck wagon in the middle of a cattle drive in 1877, when I'd left Phoenix in 1977? Not to mention, if I was in my great-great-uncle's body, where was he?

As I was musing, the flap to the chuck wagon flung open and Jose Orosco, the trail cook, poked his head inside. I tried to say something, but all that came out was a croaking noise. Jose jerked his head back in surprise, then peered cautiously at me. I pointed towards my mouth. He nodded in understanding, and ducked back out of the wagon. When he reappeared a few seconds later, he handed me a dipper full of lukewarm water. I grabbed the dipper with shaking hands and gulped it down. I have never had anything that tasted as good as that tepid water did right then. When I handed the dipper back to him with a 'gracious amigo', he gave me a strange look.

"So you did not die after all, Señor Ty," he said in heavily accented English. I coughed out a laugh. "Only the good die young, Pepe," I said in Spanish.

Jose didn't laugh at my joke. Instead, he gave me an appraising look.

"Then I think you will live a long time," he finally answered. Before I could zing in another pithy comment, Jose spoke again. "I did not know you spoke Spanish, Señor Ty."

Oops, I guess good old Uncle Ty didn't speak the language of my grandmother.

I managed a shrug and switched back to English, "I've been learning on my own to impress the señoritas in El Paso. What happened to me anyway, I don't remember anything?"

"A large rattlesnake spooked your horse. The horse threw you to the ground near the snake, your head hit a rock and the snake bit you on the arm. You are lucky to be alive, hombre."

I smile wanly. Old Jose didn't know the half of it. I fell back on the pallet someone had made for me to die on, and tried to wrap my head around what was happening. My ancestor was nowhere to be found, but surprisingly, his memories were available to me. Some of his memories popped up unbidden, that's how I knew where I was and who Jose was.

Other things I had to dig for. Maneuvering around in my new brain required effort, but as I searched the nooks and crannies, I learned the lay of the land and it became easier.

As I said earlier, my uncle's name was also Tyler McGuinn, but he called himself Ty Ringo. Ringo was his middle name and his mother's maiden name. Tyler's mother was the sister of Johnny Ringo, a member of the Clanton Gang of Arizona. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday eventually shot down Johnny Ringo at the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona.

Uncle Ty thought it made him seem a badder ass being a Ringo instead of a McGuinn. That was going to change. It was hard for me to believe that Tyler Ringo McGuinn had been such a slime bucket. Hell, he was only twenty.

There was no denying he was, though, because the evidence was right there in his recently abandoned memories. I took a good look around, even though I cringed at what I found. Among other things, I found out my uncle had been a rapist and a bully. He wasn't a coward, but that hadn't stopped him from shooting two men in the back over perceived insults or slights. He'd had a huge ego and absolutely no morals. So much for my romantic notions of my ancestors, I thought, as sleep snuck up on me.

Next time I woke up it was dark. It must have been early evening, however, because I could hear voices outside the wagon. More importantly, I could smell food and I was as hungry as a springtime bear. I was also as weak as a kitten, but I still managed to drag myself out of the chuck wagon. Leaning against the side of the wagon, I unhooked the dipper from the barrel and drank it empty twice. The water made me feel better, so I staggered over to the cook fire.

Four cowboys were sitting around the fire watching me, as Jose ladled out plates of some sort of delicious smelling stew. It was telling that none of those men offered me a hand. Once I'd managed to lower myself onto the ground, someone finally spoke to me.

"It's about damned time you got off your lazy ass, Ty, we are already shorthanded without you laying around faking sick."

The speaker was Josh Bemis, the owner of the cows we were driving. Bemis was a pretty good man, all things considered, but he was a skinflint of the first order. We were short handed because he was too cheap to hire any more drovers.

"Let me get a belly full of that stew and a good nights sleep, and I'll give it hell tomorrow, Boss."

Bemis gave me an odd look. I was getting a lot of that lately, first from Jose, now Bemis. The trailboss nodded his head.

"Good man," he said curtly.

The other cowboys were looking at me now, too. According to Uncle Ty's memories, that was the first time in two years that Bemis had applied that appellation to him. Well, they'd get more chances to gawk, because there was a new sheriff policing the Tyler Ringo McGuinn town.

Jose Orosco had picked a campsite in a stand of cottonwoods along side a small creek. From Uncle Ty's memories, I plucked the knowledge that we were about a hundred miles north of El Paso. I wracked my brains trying to figure if I'd ever been hunting out this way in my other life. I was familiar with the general area, but couldn't recall a creek anywhere near here. I shrugged and put that minor worry aside, when Jose handed me a big bowl of stew with a couple of corn fritters lying on the top.

I don't know if it was from not eating for a few days, but I swear, that stew was the best I'd ever thrown down my gullet. I tasted pinto beans, corn and plenty of spicy hot chilies in some sort of tomatoey sauce, but the meat was hard to identify. I didn't have the nerve to ask what it was, either! I sopped the last of it off the bottom of the bowl with the last bite of fritter. I looked hopefully at the pot as I watched the other boys chow down, hoping there'd be enough for seconds.

The following morning, I felt like a new man. Hell, come to think of it, I was a new man. But you get the idea, I felt great. I was a little weak, but a twenty-year-old, healthy man recovers much faster than the beat up body I had occupied in the future. I was first in line with my sand scrubbed bowl for grits, fatback and fried green chilies. It was a meal that would have made my old doctor apoplectic, but it tasted out of this world to me.

After breakfast, I stayed and helped Jose break camp, as the others rode off to tighten up the herd so we could move out. Staying and helping Jose was one of my duties, because my ugly personality had assured me the equally ugly job of riding drag everyday. Riding drag on a cattle drive was the equivalent of being the guy at the circus parade who follows the elephants with a shovel and a pushcart full of elephant doo-doo. My job was basically to choke on dust while I kept cows in the back from straggling. If I kept this cowboy gig, I was going to change that real quick.

To be such a complete jerk, my great-great-uncle sure had a nice horse. She was a sorrel mare, and big for a quarter horse. I figured she must have had some mustang blood in her. Uncle Ty had cheated her out of a drunken vaquero in a crooked card game about a year ago. He hadn't thought much of the mare, probably because she was slow to heed his commands. I figured that had to be mostly because of language. Uncle Ty was too proud and lazy to learn Spanish, and the mare was too stubborn to learn English. I saddled her up and swung up onto her. When I lit in the saddle, she turned her head and looked at me with her big soulful brown eyes.

I knew that she knew, that something very different and confusing was happening; because of the way I sat her. See, every person sits a horse differently, I'm one of those fellows they claim sits light in the saddle, evidently Uncle Ty wasn't. She became even more confused, when I clucked her into motion in Spanish, but she didn't hesitate but a second to do my bidding. Her name was Melosa, Spanish for sweet and gentle. She was all that, and smart as a whip besides.

By the time we'd reached our dusty position at the back of the herd, we were the best of friends. I soaked my bandana in water from my canteen and tied it around my face bandito style, then settled in for the day.

Being on a smart horse that did all the work if you left her to it, while staring at the northern ends of south bound cows, left a man plenty of time for his thoughts. And right about now I had me a bunch of them. Thoughts, I mean. One big thought I had was 'why wasn't I more freaked out about being dropped back into the nineteenth century?' Well, that was a no brainer! The alternative was being a greasy spot on the desert somewhere near here, a hundred years in the future.

Being a science-fiction fan and having plenty of time to read in my lonely hotel rooms on the road, I knew most of the theories about time travel. You know what I mean, the alternate universe, the diverging time line, and the paradox in time ... all that stuff. I knew that the big philosophical argument against traveling back to the past was the concept that your presence in the past changed the future. It could even lead to you not being born in the future. Well sorry for your luck Chuck, but the way I reckoned, as soon as my tired old cowboy butt plopped down in 1877, the changes, if there were going to be any, were already in motion. I couldn't be worried about something over which I had no control.

The theory that had my full attention, was the one that said time was unchangeable, and events would happen in the past to insure the future you left stayed unchanged. I was really, really hoping that wasn't the case, because old Uncle Ty was scheduled to be shot down over some dance hall señorita in the not so distant future. Now that I was the aforementioned Uncle Ty, you can see as to how I didn't think that was such a great idea!

All that thinking about timelines and paradoxes was giving me a headache, so I looked for a diversion. I decided that I'd start with an inventory of Uncle Ty's possessions. The first thing I did was pull the thumb loop off the hammer of his sidearm, and draw it out of the holster. I was as impressed with his pistol as I was with his horse, even though it could have used a good cleaning. Uncle Ty's pistol was a Colt .45 caliber, Army Single Action, commonly called the 'Peacemaker.' Ty Ringo had beaten up and stolen the pistol from a want-to-be cowboy hailing from Bostontown.

I checked his rifle in its scabbard and found he had a very serviceable model 1873 lever-action Winchester .44-40. It too, suffered from neglect, but it was nothing fatal. I resolved to clean them both that night, and pick through his ammunition to cull out any suspect rounds.

I checked unc's saddlebags while I was at it. I knew from his memory that he had what he thought was a hefty bankroll in there. Unfortunately, Tyler Ringo McGuinn was completely uneducated when it came to arithmetic, and clueless about exchange rates and relative values of monies. I could add and subtract with the best of them (well, the best from the sixth grade down anyway) but I didn't even recognize half the coins, bank notes and script that he had in his leather poke. My best guess was that he had at least three hundred dollars, including five Double Eagles (twenty dollar gold coins). Old Ty did indeed have a nice bankroll, considering the times. Of course, most of the money was ill gotten, but that wasn't a problem for me.

We stopped along side the same meandering creek about two hours before sundown. I helped bunch up the herd for the night then headed for the chuck wagon. Melosa was a good horse and all that, but ten hours in the saddle eating trail dust was about my limit. I was also bone tired because of my weakened condition, and seriously in need of a bath, a good meal and a night's sleep. I drew some incredulous stares when I asked Jose for some of his lye soap, and headed for the creek shedding my clothes, but I didn't much care at that point. Oh jeez, the water felt fantastic; it was cool and clear because the cows were down stream from where Jose had pitched camp. As I splashed around whooping, two more of the hands jumped into the water in their long johns.

I will have to say that of the seven hands on the cattle drive, Ty McGuinn was the best dressed. His butternut wool pants had fewer patches, his chaps and boots were newer and of better quality, and his black, low crowned, John B. Stetson hat was top of the line. My uncle may have been a no-account jackass, but he was a relatively well-dressed one.

After another of Jose's amazing suppers, I moved away from the smoking and gabbing around the fire, and found me a place to curl up for the night. Weapons' cleaning was going to have to wait one more day, as I fell asleep as soon as I flopped back onto my saddle and pulled my coarse wool Navajo blanket over my body.

And so began the first of a series of identical days as we drove Mr. Bemis's herd towards El Paso. As we moseyed along making about fifteen miles a day, I formulated a tentative plan to keep myself alive and still try to relive my uncle's life. I also made some plans to insure that if I did manage to keep alive, I wouldn't have to spend the rest of my days staring at the ass end of a herd of cows. Nope, if I were going to do that again, they would at least be my cows.

Chapter 2

We pushed Mr. Bemis's herd into the cow pens on the north side of El Paso, around noon on the seventh day of my trip back in time. Once we had the cattle all accounted for, Mr. Bemis spotted each of us drovers a five-dollar advance on our pay, and sent us off so he could negotiate with the buyers. I figured I was making some headway towards fixing my bad reputation, when a couple of the other cowboys invited me to hit the saloon with them. I put them off by telling them I'd be there in a while.

I walked Melosa to the livery stable and rented her a stall. I flipped the stable hand a quarter and told him to rub her down good and treat her to some oats. With my horse basking in the lap of luxury, I grabbed my saddlebags and rifle and headed towards the barbershop. I spent fifty cents on a bath, shave, haircut, and to have my clothes brushed with a whisk broom. The barber was happy enough with my business to throw in the lilac scented talcum powder for free.

While at the barbershop, I saw my new face in the mirror for the first time. My only impression of what I looked like, was my uncle's ego-distorted high opinion of himself. I had to admit that I could have done worse for myself in picking out a mug to slap on the front of my head. I had a square jaw, sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. I had definitely traded up in looks. I already knew my body here was better, but that was mostly the result of my new youth. In this century, I was six feet, one inch tall, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. Before, I was an inch taller and probably twenty (more like thirty) pounds heavier. I wasn't exactly skinny here and now, but I certainly wasn't fighting love handles any longer.

From the barbershop I strolled over to the mercantile. I made the shopkeeper's day by spending eighteen dollars on a new wardrobe and two more for a canvass and leather valise to put it in. I will say one thing about clothes shopping in El Paso in 1877: you can buy a lot of clothes for a gold double eagle. I walked out of the mercantile with two pair of black wool pants, four white cotton shirts, a herring bone vest, a string tie and a frock coat. While the shopkeeper's buxom wife altered the clothes for my long, lean frame, I had my boots shined and my Stetson pig bristle brushed.

My next stop was at the gunsmiths. The pistol I had inherited was, as I said before, a Single Action Army Colt in .45 caliber. A single action revolver has to be manually cocked by pulling the hammer back before you can fire it by pulling the trigger. My ancestor's revolver had a very heavy trigger pull that felt as if something internal was binding. The gunsmith knew his Colts, and had the problem fixed in a jiffy, he even filed the sear to lighten the trigger pull a tad.

While I was watching him work, I noticed that he had a few very nicely tooled leather gunbelt and holster rigs for sale. I left his shop wearing one of them, and feeling much more comfortable about my ability to draw my pistol. I also left with a brand new box of shells for both my rifle and pistol. I even had the opportunity to fire a dozen rounds through the Colt on the gunsmith's small shooting gallery behind his shop. The pistol shot true were I pointed it at fifteen yards.

My last stop was the Hotel Magnífico de El Paso, the El Paso Grand Hotel. I had the opportunity to use my excellent Spanish on the Mexican desk clerk, and took a room for the week. The room was a dollar and a quarter a night, but that included your choice of suppers off their specials menu. I thought it was still a lot to pay for a room compared to the cost of everything else, but I had made a point of picking out one of the best hotels in town. Once up in my room, I stashed my rifle under the bed, unpacked and put away my clothes, and tested out the mattress on the big double bed.

I woke up from my siesta at about six in the evening. My stomach let me know it was time for my free supper. As I walked down the stairs from my second floor hotel room, it dawned on me that I was dressed almost exactly like my character Black Bart from the old west show. You know: black boots, pants, vest and hat. The white shirt was all that was out of character, as even my new gunbelt and holster were black.

I eased my way into the hotel's dining room and picked me a table, making sure I sat facing the door. I wasn't expecting any sort of trouble, but if some found me, I didn't want my face buried in my plate, facing the wrong direction when it showed up. The night's menu was written on a slate standing on an easel as you walked in the double doors of the room.

I decided I'd opt for the steak and potatoes, with home made biscuits and a couple of cups of coffee. Believe it or not the coffee excited me more than the steak, after a week of swilling down the bitter chicory brew Jose made on the trail.

My butt had barely hit the seat of my chair, when a cute Mexican girl came scurrying over to my table. Her English, while accented, was very good. I ordered up my steak and asked her about the coffee. When she told me it was the real deal, I put in dibs on a cup. I flirted a little with the young woman and sent her back to the kitchen rosy cheeked. I guess a little flirting in the nineteenth century wasn't a bad thing, as she kept returning to my table with the coffee pot, and my steak was big and juicy. As this century's Ty McGuinn, I spoke to her only in English, even though I probably spoke her native language as well as she did. I don't exactly know why, but I decided from here on to keep my ability to speak Spanish to myself.

After my dinner, I strolled out onto the dusty main street, just as the sun was sinking in the west. I turned left as I exited the hotel, and ducked into the first saloon I came across. The saloon was named 'Cowboy Heaven.' The place was packed with obnoxious cowboys blowing off steam. There were a few desultory floozies cadging drinks, and not a card game in sight. As soon as I saw the inside, I turned around and pushed back through the doors, beating a hasty retreat.

Yeah, I was looking for a card game. I figured that would be the best way to increase Uncle Ty's bankroll, given that I had both his knowledge (which was mostly how to cheat) and my own at poker playing to draw from. I passed on two more saloons before I found what I was looking for.

The place was called the Gold Nugget, and it was slightly more upscale than the other three places. The women at the Nugget were prettier too, but the big attraction to me was the card games going on at three big tables in the back. I eliminated one of the tables immediately, as it was set up for playing Faro. Faro was a sucker bet, not because of the odds of the game, but because there was no such thing as an honest Faro banker (dealer). However, the two poker tables drew me like magnets.

The 1877 version of poker was the old standard: five-card draw. It was all about betting and bluffing. I stood and watched the players at both tables for almost an hour, evaluating the players and looking for cheats. Finally, a cowboy went bust and I took his seat. Fortunately, the seat that opened was at the table I wanted to play, and it conveniently faced the door. I wanted to play that table, because it had at least two professional gamblers at it, and I had spotted both of their 'tells' during the hour I watched them. A tell is something a gambler does unconsciously that tips you off as to a play he is making. I've been told that every gambler has at least one, but the good players' tells are so subtle, you never notice them.

I took my chair and pulled out the twenty-five dollars I'd allotted myself for gambling. I introduced myself around the table. I told the other players my name and that I had just gotten to town pushing cows from Malvernia Ranch, two hundred miles to the north. The other five men at the table shared their names, two of them were drovers like me, the two professional gamblers claimed to be traveling drummers (salesmen), and the last man was a railroad man, who called himself Burt. He was in town scouting out land for a spur line out to the El Paso salt flats. Burt was one of those handsome flashy dandies, from his slicked back hair to his diamond stick pin.

It only took me a few hands to figure out the two gamblers were in cahoots, and the railroad man was their intended mark. The gamblers had some sort of signal between them so they never bumped heads for a pot. The man with the weaker hand would only stay in the hand to keep the railroad agent betting. I watched and played conservatively, trying to stay out of the crosshairs of the professionals. As a result, I walked away three hours later with sixteen more dollars than I had when I started.

Yeah, I know, it's not a fortune. But when you consider that I won as much in three hours, as I made in a month punching cows; that puts it in perspective. Oh, and I'd definitely be back, patiently looking for my chance to make some serious money, while I made a nice living. I'm one of those people who can walk away whether I'm winning or losing, so gambling would just be a job for me.

I had no sooner dropped my winnings and my stake into my poke, than one of the dance hall women sidled up to me. She put her hand on my arm and leaned close enough to me for the scent of her perfume to waft out of her considerable cleavage and straight to my little brain.

"Hey, handsome, I saw you winning over there. Why don't you spend some of that found money dancing with me?"

I looked her over before I answered. She was no raving beauty, but she was pleasantly pretty and had a voluptuous figure that was hard to ignore.

"I might just do that, you pretty little thing, but I warn you - once you dance with me, these other cowboys are going to lose their appeal."

She laughed gaily and managed to rub that impressively stayed bosom against my arm.

"Aren't you the Romeo? Go see Charlie and get a ticket, then you can impress me with your footwork."

I sauntered up to the bar and plunked down one of the silver dollars that I had just won. The barman, whom I assumed was Charlie, wrote the date on a ticket and handed it to me with a flourish.

"Best watch out for Miss Liz, tenderfoot. She eats young boys like you for breakfast."

I returned his grin and waggled my eyebrows as I said, "Yeah, Charlie, but what a way to go, eh?"

Now we need to stop right here and get a couple of things straight. I told you I didn't have a problem with gambling, and I don't drink much either. I don't smoke, dip or chew and I have never tried drugs. No, my personal demon is women. I have this weakness that makes me fall half-assed in love with every woman that catches my eye. Want proof? Ask any of my four ex-wives.

"And why," you might ask, "am I about to show the voluptuous Miss Liz how to two-step, when I know that Feleena Montoya, the girl of my dreams, is just across the street at Rosa's Cantina?"

Good question. I was at the Gold Nugget because there were no card games at Rosa's. Even had I found a game there, I'd have avoided Feleena for the time being. Uncle Ty had rushed right into a relationship with her, centered on the cantina she worked in, and look at what that got him. Hell, he died right outside the back door of the place. I was going to take a different approach. As soon as I figured one out, that is. Until I had that plan, I considered myself a free agent. I would sign a short-term contract with Miss Liz in a New York Minute.

By the time I had my ticket in hand, Liz was dancing with a Cavalry Sergeant from nearby Fort Bliss. Liz was trying to make conversation with the soldier while at the same time trying to keep her dainty little feet out from under his clodhoppers. That girl was a trouper. I could tell the sergeant was trying his damnedest to get her upstairs into one of the rooms for that purpose, but she was adamantly shaking her head 'no.' While she was dancing with the slew-footed sergeant, I went over to the two caballeros playing a fiddle and piano, slipped them a quarter, and asked them to play a waltz next.

I guess I need to explain how a saloon and dance hall operated in circa 1877 West Texas. Generally, two types of women worked in the saloons: dancers and prostitutes. Men bought tickets, usually for a dollar, for the privilege of dancing with the dance hall women. The dancers split half the money the barman collected, and made a damn good living. Consequently, not all the dancers slept with the patrons for money. The prostitutes took clients to rooms upstairs after the client paid the barman for the woman's services. Both the dancers and hookers also tried to get men to buy them watered down drinks that they received a kickback from. I guess I needed to explain that to show that Miss Liz wasn't going to sleep with me for money. I'd have to charm my way into her good graces.

I started the ball rolling as soon as the song to which she was dancing ended. When the two-man-band whipped into a Spanish waltz, I was beside Liz with my arm extended.

"Elizabeth, my name is Tyler McGuinn, may I have this dance?" I asked suavely.

Liz cocked her eyebrow at me, but smiled and extended her hand. I took her small soft hand in my big calloused one and bowed slightly over it. Then I took her in my arms and twirled her around the floor.

Now I'm not bragging (oh yes I am) but if I can't do anything else, I can dance. See, Carmen (wifey number two, wait, Carmen was number three, Grace was number two) ... anyway, Carmen was an instructor at Arthur Murray, and a competitive ballroom dancer. Since she didn't trust me out of her sight, she taught me to be her partner. Grace had a different take on the fidelity thing, when she thought I was stepping out on her (a vicious and mostly untrue rumor) she unloaded a .32 automatic into my truck about five seconds after I'd stepped out of it.

Well, Miss Liz was no slouch at tripping the light fantastic either. For a woman with her incredible ... er ... assets, she was nimble on her feet. After the dance, I pleasantly surprised her by leading her to the bar for an over priced drink. I did that so I could monopolize her time, as she wasn't supposed to dance with one fellow twice in a row. You can understand that rule better if you were one of the twenty guys with tickets and there were only eight women.

Liz told me her story as we leaned back against the bar with our drinks and watched the other dancers.

"I was a ballet student back in New York until I sprouted these (she nodded down towards her magnificent creamy cleavage). They, of course, ended my career as a dancer. I was inconsolable and ended up married to a business associate of my father. He was much older than me, but worse than that, he was cruel and violent. I ran away from him two years ago and headed west. This is where I ran out of money, so this is where I stopped."

I believed her story, and it explained her refined accent. Being around her put me on my best manners; my grandmother would have kissed her for that. I danced with her one more time. We were synchronized perfectly by then, and drew an ovation when we came to rest. Before I left, I bought her another drink and asked her to accompany me to dinner the next evening at the hotel.

"You wouldn't mind being seen in a place like that with someone like me?" she asked, incredulously.

"On the contrary, Elizabeth," I replied gallantly. "I'd be proud to have you on my arm."

I walked back to the hotel with a spring in my step. My first day as a gentleman gambler was a success. Even after counting the money I invested impressing Liz, I still netted twelve dollars and some change. Of course, I wasn't guaranteed to win every night, but I was confident I could make a careful living off the fringes of the serious gamblers for a while. Add in the fact that I scored a date with a very attractive woman for tomorrow, and things were looking up.

Back in my room at the hotel, I washed up and crawled into bed. I didn't know what time it was (a watch was definitely in my future) but it had to be after midnight. I smiled when I thought about being able to sleep in tomorrow as I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

I woke up on my second morning in El Paso to bright sunlight pouring through the south-facing window of my corner room. I yawned and stretched contentedly after a very good nights sleep. The horsehair mattress beat the heck out of sleeping on the ground, once you pummeled the lumps in it into submission. I stood up and stretched some more. I felt gloriously alive, as I pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed and took care of some pressing business.

After relieving my bladder, I moved over to the dry sink and tipped some water out of the ewer into the basin. I think the morning routine was the thing about the twentieth century that I missed most. Instead of a nice hot shower, I had to content myself with washing my face in the basin.

One thing I had been pleasantly surprised with during my trip to the general store yesterday, was finding a toothbrush and a form of toothpaste. The brush was made out of boar bristle attached to a carved whalebone handle, while the toothpaste (Dr. Sheffield's Creme Dentifrice) came in a small jar. The toothpaste tasted like chalk, but it cleaned my pearly whites pretty well.

After brushing my teeth, I looked at myself in the small mirror above the basin and debated shaving. Uncle Ty didn't have much to shave yet, but I was a creature of habit in my morning routine. I looked at the shaving mug, brush and straight razor for a minute and decided that I'd spend a dime at the barbershop and let a trained professional take care of my peach fuzz.

I was dressed and down in the lobby in fewer than ten minutes. As I hit the desk, I checked the big Railroad Regulator Clock that was mounted on the wall behind the clerk's station. I was happy to find out it was only eight fifteen and the restaurant was still serving breakfast. I detoured into the dining room and took the same seat I'd sat in yesterday. I had the entire place to myself. Unlike for the evening meal, there were no menu choices for breakfast. That was okay with me though, because I was so hungry, my big intestines were eating my little ones.

I had a different waitress this morning. She resembled the one from last night, but was a few years older. I greeted her pleasantly.

"Good morning, beautiful, I'd like breakfast and coffee, lots and lots of coffee."

She did not appear to be amused by my banter, as she rather abruptly nodded her head and retreated towards the kitchen. When she returned, another woman about the same age was with her. The surly girl poured me coffee while the other one started clearing off tables. After giving me a curt nod when I thanked her, the waitress went over and started talking to the other woman in Spanish.

"That is the hombre Maria was talking about last night. I should poison him so that he can't do to her what that bastard did to me!"

As you can imagine, her little spiel had my full and undivided attention. The other woman gave me a hard look as I pretended to be looking elsewhere.

"He is a handsome gringo, Juanita, and Maria is ripe for the plucking, but maybe she learned something from your shame."

"Maybe," Juanita allowed dubiously, "but she is a Lopez, and all the women in our family have passionate natures. If he is as smooth a talker as he is handsome, I'm afraid I won't be the only one with a baby and no husband."

The other woman laughed good naturedly, as they walked back towards the kitchen. "So we are calling it a passionate nature now eh, Juanita?" she teased.

Since my whole intent since I arrived here was to avoid dying, you can see that Juanita's plotting to off me for the sake of her sister's honor was disconcerting. There was also something else rattling around my brain too. That something had to do with Juanita's last name. My sainted grandmother was named Isobel Lopez McGuinn. Her mother's maiden name had been Lopez. My great-grandmother married my great-grandfather, Calvin McGuinn, in El Paso in 1893. Hell my middle name was even Lopez back (forward?) in 1977. Things here were too weird already to take a chance that I wasn't somehow related to Juanita and her family. When she came back with my ham, eggs and grits, I said my piece in a language she could not help but understand.

"Your sister's virtue is safe with me, Juanita, so save your murderous plots for the next Anglo you meet," I said angrily, in Spanish.

Juanita's eyes, already big and round, almost did that cartoonish popping out of the head thing. She turned a dusky pink color from the top of her head down to where her high-necked dress fastened at her throat.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled as she fled from the table.

To her credit, Juanita had the courage to come back out and refill my coffee cup. Since the restaurant was empty, I coaxed her into taking a seat at my table. Her first real question was how I'd learned to speak Spanish so well. I told her the truth.

"My grandmother was half Mexican, she raised me from the age of eight. When my mother died, she moved in with my father and me. She insisted I learn to speak Spanish and know our culture, just as she had with my father."

My story fascinated Juanita and before I departed the restaurant, I accepted her invitation to attend church with her family on Sunday. After church, I was going to have Sunday dinner with her family, too. I didn't realize it at the time, but Juanita's new plan was to seduce me before her sister could.

From the hotel, I meandered over to the barbershop for a shave. The trip to the barbershop became an almost daily ritual for me from then on. If you wanted to know about anyone in El Paso, all you had to do was drop in to the barbershop and let Clem fill you in.

After a leisurely shave and some gossip with Clem, I went over to the livery stable and checked Melosa. It made my day when it was apparent that she was happy to see me. I fed her an apple I'd cadged at the restaurant and petted her some before I ambled back to Pickett's Mercantile to see if he had a watch for sale.

Turns out he had a couple that he had taken in trade. Mr. Picket took me to his office and pulled the watches out of a strongbox he had chained to the leg of his desk. He tried to sell me this fancy 'American Watch Company' watch, but I opted to pay him six dollars for a nice silver chased pocket watch with a hunting scene carved on the front. The fob and chain for it cost me another dollar. The watch was made by the Elgin National Watch Company.

I was setting the watch against Mr. Pickett's, when I spotted a set of books sitting askew on a shelf by the window. I strolled over to them and found they were an eight-volume set of the 'Laws of the United States and the Great State of Texas.' With another eerie sense of déjà vu, I inquired about the set.

"Sad story, those books," Mr. Pickett said, shaking his head. "They belonged to a young chap not much older than you. He was a dandy, but he was likable enough. He opened an office here about six months ago. He was shot down outside his office not three months later. He called himself Chet Benton, and he hailed from New Orleans. Missus Dean sold me the books. She said she took them to pay his back rent at her boarding house."

Actually, his name was Chesterfield Bovis Benton. I knew that because I'd read it on the flyleaf of volume one, when I was ten years old, and those books were in my father's office. After my father, a Captain with the El Paso Sheriff's Office, was killed in the line of duty, they ended up in the law offices of Raymond J. McGuinn, Jr., Attorney at Law. RJ McGuinn was my older brother.

I had been in my third year of college, a pre-law major at UTEP (University of Texas-El Paso) when my father was run over by a drunk driver during a routine traffic stop. After his death, I went on a three-month bender that resulted in me getting kicked out of college and losing my student deferment. I was drafted and spent two years as a clerk for the Army Judge Advocate General of Okinawa.

I didn't go back to school after I was discharged. Instead, I fell in love with Stella Wright, wife number one. Stella was a barrel racer on the rodeo circuit. She was blonde, beautiful and thought sex with me was better than sliced bread. To be near her, I signed on with the rodeo and eventually became a bull rider for lack of any other skills. After three years, Estella left the rodeo and me for a wealthy oilman. It's funny, but the year after she left was my best on the tour.

So anyway ... I had a feeling these books were sitting here waiting for me, and I suddenly knew what I was going to try to do for a living, besides play poker. I knew from college that there were no formal law schools in Texas until the late 1880s. Lawyers learned from other lawyers and from books, or they attended school out of state. That's why attorneys out here were men who 'read the law.' To practice law before a court, you simply had to convince the presiding judge of your knowledge. Out here on the western frontier, how hard could that be?

He made a face about it, but Mr. Pickett accepted ten dollars in Union Pacific Railroad Script for the books. I grabbed up my purchases and headed back to the hotel.

After lunch at the hotel, I went walking around the town. I was looking for a place to live and one to hang my shingle, preferable at the same location. El Paso of 1877 wasn't really a town per se. It was an amazingly diverse collection of five adjoining towns located on the north side of the Rio Grande, and El Paso del Norte (Modern day Juarez) on the Mexico side. It was a little confusing that El Paso del Norte (north) was on the south side of the Rio Grande but the explanation was fairly simple. When Mexico ceded all lands north of the Rio Grande to the United States, El Paso de Norte was on both sides of the river. The Texans dropped the del Norte tag but the Mexicans didn't.

San Elizario was the largest of the northern border towns and was the county seat of El Paso County. Even though the individual towns had names, everyone called the conglomeration of them El Paso. The population of El Paso was a mixture of Mexican and Anglo, and unfortunately, the two cultures often clashed.

I had some luck finding a place in which I could both live and work. Ironically, it was the same place that the ill-fated Chet Benton had found. It was on a side street off the eastern end of the main drag that ran through the center of El Paso. The El Paso Grand hotel was at the other end of the strip, closer to the railroad station. The locals called the three block area Sin City. In Sin City, prostitution and gambling were both legal, and it seemed every other building was a saloon. The population of El Paso had exploded when the railroad arrived a couple of years earlier. Sin City was the politicians' way of controlling the wilder of the new arrivals.

I checked out the rooms of the boarding house, and looked over the office space. I could live with both. I talked for a few minutes with Molly Dean, the owner of the building, but I didn't fork over any money. I wasn't all that sure how this lawyer idea was going to work out, until I presented myself to the court. Before I stood before the bar, I needed to hit the books I'd just bought. I had a feeling that I would be moving to Miss Molly's rooming house regardless, though. It was a nice clean place, the price, which included dinner, would be half of what I was paying at the Grand. Plus, Molly Dean was a peach of a woman.

I spent the afternoon reading and napping in my room at the hotel. It took me a while to get the hang of reading the wordy, flowery language of the law books. I knew immediately that just reading the books wasn't going to accomplish that much, because there were so many more Latin words and phrases than the law used in the twentieth century. My second start was with the glossary section of the last volume, as I started memorizing Latin legal terms. If you ever need help falling asleep, I highly recommend that exercise.

Included with the law books was a large ledger bound with a green cover, a steel nibbed writing pen and a bottle of India ink. That very day, I sat down and started keeping a journal of my experiences here in 1877. It took a while to get the hang of writing with the pen and dipping it into the ink but soon I was scribbling away.

I have to admit that I was excited later that evening, when I dressed for my dinner date with Liz. It felt as if it had been a hundred years since I dressed up fancy to take out a woman. Hmmm, I guess if you counted travel time from 1977, it had been. She only kept me waiting ten minutes in the lobby, before she breezed in, a refreshing five minutes early.

Elizabeth was dressed to the nines, wearing what I assumed was haute couture in West Texas. She had on a long, shimmery, indigo gown with a square cut bodice, a slight bustle and short puffy sleeves. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head with little ringlets hanging down over her forehead, and she wore a dainty black hat perched on top. The dress was form fitting to the extreme, and showed off her magnificently impressive accouterments without being tawdry.

I held out my arm for her and told her how beautiful she was. She took my arm with a smile, as I escorted her into the dining room. The evening was better than I hoped it would be, as Liz and I exchanged details of our pasts. Talking to her was my first real chance to recount the history I'd invented for myself. I told her some truth and a bunch of lies to account for my life to date. One of the lies was that I was a graduate of Baylor Baptist University (college lasted two years back then, and Baylor was the only college I knew for sure was around in 1877). I told her I was struggling to start a law practice and gambled to make ends meet until then.

Liz was twenty-two, and as far as she knew, still married to the man she'd ditched in New York. She was well educated for a woman of the times, and very bright. A man could do a lot worse than Elizabeth Claremont. Since I knew that money or bravado didn't impress Liz even a little bit, I decided on a different tack. I asked her to help me bone up on my law books. She was intrigued but skeptical.

"How in the world could I help? I don't know anything about the law."

"You would be a tremendous help. For instance, right now, I am reviewing Latin words and phrases. The law uses a lot of Latin, because our laws are based on English common law, which was derived from old Roman law. Of course I think they kept the inkhorn Latin just to impress the laymen, also."

Liz laughed at my little joke and said she'd try it, but if she didn't think she was really helping, or that it was a ploy for something else on my part, she'd stop instantly. I agreed immediately. Oh yeah, it was partly a ploy, but the help would still be much appreciated.

I insisted on walking Liz back to the women's rooming house she shared with the other dancers from the Gold Nugget, since it was after dark. After a hug and a soft kiss on my cheek from Liz, I wandered around for an hour, checking the action at a few more saloons. I was leaning against the back wall of the El Toro Cantina, when I saw my first example of El Paso justice.

I had been watching the poker table at El Toro carefully, because it looked like a game I would enjoy. El Toro's owner was one of the card players at the table, and he was a sharpie. He was almost impossible to read. The only tell I'd figured out so far was a slightly different grip on his cards when he was bluffing. I was second in line for a seat at his table, when a cowboy who'd been losing his shirt, suddenly jumped up from the table. He spit out a few words about a cheating polecat and was tugging at the pistol tucked into his waistband. He had barely pulled the old cap and ball revolver when a man on the balcony with a shotgun blasted him in the chest with a barrel full of double-ought buckshot.

Unlike in the cowboy movies, they didn't just drag the poor bastard out the door. Instead, someone was sent to the sheriff's office and returned with a deputy. The deputy interviewed a couple of witnesses, then called for the undertaker. The undertaker was just as I imagined him - tall, gaunt and wearing a pork pie hat. The deputy handed the undertaker a note and what looked like five dollars.

"Ezra Jacobs, cowhand, shot in self defense," the deputy told the undertaker.

The whole matter from gunshot to dragging off by the undertaker took fewer than fifteen minutes. Hell, the music didn't even stop. The man at the card table who appeared to own the place, stood up, shook the deputy's hand, and sent him to the bar for a free drink. The man was surprisingly short, maybe five three or five four, but he carried himself with a grace that made him seem bigger. Sort of like the cowboy star Alan Ladd from my old life. As soon as the deputy hotfooted it to the bar for his free shot, the man turned towards me and gestured at the card table. When I looked around, the two other men waiting for a seat had hotfooted it out of the saloon.

"There seems to be a sudden opening at our table, my good man, care to join us?" he asked in an aristocratic English accent.

I accepted his offer and dragged a chair over from another table to replace the late Ezra's blood splattered one. And that's how I met H. Pennington Smythe, the third and youngest son of the Duke of Cornwall.

Chapter 4

I had a very good night playing poker and getting to know Pen Smythe. He was one of those colorful characters that made the American west such an amazing place.

Pen had immigrated to the United States when he was about my age. He was drawn by the idea of wide-open spaces and a chance to strike it rich without sucking up to English Royalty. He had packed a lot of living into the twelve years he'd been here.

Pen was delighted when I told him I was an attorney, and he immediately became my first client. He had some paperwork he needed drawing up for the purchase of some land on the northern side of Fort Bliss. I did the ritual collecting of one dollar for a retainer, so we'd have the attorney-client privilege. He liked the hell out of that idea. Pen was not so delighted, however, when I cashed in on his bluff on a big hand that he'd been setting up. The money wasn't anything to him. It was the losing that he didn't like. I let him bluff me out of half of it an hour later and headed over to the Gold Nugget at midnight, still thirty-five dollars richer.

I didn't gamble at the Nugget. Instead, I danced with Liz. When we took a break from dancing for a drink, I asked her if she wanted to go on a picnic the following day. She liked the idea, so we ended up making arrangements to meet at the stable. Liz had a horse there, she said, so we could ride for a while then stop for our lunch. We danced a few more times before I headed back to the hotel.

Back in my room, I sorted out my money and carefully entered my winnings and expenditures for the day on some paper I'd bought at Pritchett's store. I back entered the same information from the day before. It was nice to know that I was ahead of where I started, cash wise, even after renting the room, buying clothes, the books and a watch. I had sorted the money into gold and silver, US currency and railroad script. I was planning on unloading the twenty dollars worth of script I had left. I would then put the gold and silver away and operate on the currency.

US currency was starting to be grudgingly accepted in the late 1870s, because with the establishment of the Bureau of Printing and Engraving, only one type of paper money was being issued. The government had been buying back all the various notes printed by the national banks since 1874. I would be a lot happier walking around with folding money instead of a poke full of heavy coins.

As I sat there on the bed with my three sad little stacks of money, I briefly thought about ways I might get rich by taking advantage of my knowledge of future events. I thought about it and forgot about it in the span of about thirty seconds. I was enjoying life just the way I was living it, and being rich was never a priority of mine anyway. As I said before, except for a hot shower in the morning, I had yet to miss anything about the twentieth century.

That lack of ambition to be wealthy was a big factor in three of my wives leaving me. It never got to that point with Cora Leigh, (Mrs. Tyler McGuinn the fourth). It was never an issue with Cora Leigh, because she was a psycho. Here's a little free advice from your old buddy Ty: never, ever, ever, marry a woman you meet in a bar in Las Vegas on the same night that you met her. I don't care if the Elvis Chapel is running a discount; it is still a bad idea!

On the fourth day after we were married, Cora Leigh tried to run me over in the parking lot of a Waffle House, because she said I was flirting with the waitress. Which might have been valid except the waitress was about eighty years old. The police became involved, because Cora Leigh hit two other cars while chasing me with my own pickup truck. It took six deputies to subdue her, but the kicker was that she turned out to be an escaped mental patient from a hospital in Birmingham, Alabama. I would have been the second husband she had offed, if I hadn't been trained to avoid large objects hurtling toward me. I was crushed (almost!). She was beautiful and had the sex drive of a chinchilla on steroids. It just didn't seem fair somehow that her only character flaw was being a homicidal maniac.

The sun didn't awaken me the next morning, thanks to the blanket I hung over that southeastern window. As a result, I slept in until nine. After doing my morning thing, I visited Clem at the barbershop for my shave, and to put out the word about opening a law office. I also asked Clem about Pen Smythe. As usual, Clem had all the pertinent information.

"You mean 'English Penny?' He's quite a fella, comes in here about once a week for a trim. I hear tell he was a gunfighter and riverboat gambler before he bought that saloon of his. He fancies the ladies and they seem to think right well of him, too. He's about the only man in town that will stand up against Judge Howard, that right there takes some cojones."

Judge Charles Howard was a besmirched character in El Paso's history that we suffered through learning about in the eighth grade. As I remembered it, Howard was a lawyer from Missouri or some place back east, who came to El Paso and schmoozed his way into becoming district judge. Before anyone knew it, he was the richest and most powerful man in town. It was Howard, some railroad people, and a crooked Catholic Priest who were responsible for the El Paso Salt War.

Howard and the other two tried to buy up access to the natural salt flats near El Paso, so they could profit from the salt. The Mexicans - on both sides of the river, who had been gathering salt there for centuries - objected. The Salt War was going to happen about four months from now, in October of 1877.

As wars go, the one over the salt flats wasn't much. Fewer than ten people lost their lives, but it set back relations between the Anglos and Mexicans for decades. In addition, the Salt War resulted in the only case ever, where a Texas Ranger Detachment surrendered.

Here's another bit of trivia for you: the man Uncle Ty supposedly shot that day in Rosa's Cantina, was Charles Howard's son, George T. Howard. The fact that it was Howard's son was why Ty Ringo McGuinn was hunted down and killed, even though George drew first that day.

I made my decision right there in the barbershop to make sure George Howard lived, and the Salt War either never happened, or ended differently.

After I left the barbershop, I hustled over to Pen Smythe's saloon. Pen was a sophisticated guy for 1870s El Paso, so I was hoping he'd have a bottle of wine to impress Liz with. Pen didn't mind a bit overcharging me for a bottle of red wine, the label written in French. He even loaned me a corkscrew.

The hotel kitchen staff fixed me up with a picnic lunch to include a wicker basket and a checkered tablecloth. Juanita Lopez actually prepared it while I stood talking to her.

"My sister was unhappy that you were here last night with the saloon puta with the big chi-chis," Juanita said as she held her cupped hands in front of her chest to simulate Liz's bounty. "Now you are taking her on a romantic picnic."

Juanita almost sounded jealous. I laughed and eyed the front of Juanita's straining dress.

"Hers can't be much bigger than yours, Nita," I teased. "Yes, I had dinner with someone last night, but she is not a whore. I brought her here as a way to discourage your sister. Sunday I think I will chase after you to make sure Maria gets the message."

Instead of laughing, Juanita just nodded.

"In that case, Gringo, I probably won't be hard to catch."

Liz was already astride her horse when I walked into the stables with the picnic paraphernalia. Her horse was a big bay Tennessee Walker gelding. She was perched on one of those little English saddles that easterners prefer. Her outfit was all brown, long split skirt, high leather boots, long-sleeve fitted top, and flat crowned hat. She looked the way cowgirls should look.

Melosa was out in the corral, munching on some hay with her back turned toward me, when I whistled a few notes of "Amazing Grace". Her head came up as soon as I started whistling, she spotted me and came trotting over. She followed me down to the gate of the corral. I let her out and saddled her up. The whistling thing was something I started doing on the trail during the endless hours riding drag. To relieve my boredom, I whistled and sang every song I could remember. Melosa seemed to enjoy it too, as she appeared to almost strut when I was whistling or singing. For some reason, I fancied Amazing Grace was her favorite.

Melosa and I looked like Liz and her horse, Gentleman Jim's, poor country relations. Melosa was a pretty little thing but nowhere near as impressive as Jim, and my old saddle and tack looked shabby beside Liz's glittering rig. Jim was at least seventeen hands high, so Liz even sat taller in the saddle than me. I have to give it to Melosa though, because she wasn't intimidated a bit. When Jim swung into that smooth walker gait, she pranced along side him with her head held high.

Liz knew a place down by the river that she thought wouldn't be flooded yet by the spring runoff, so that's where we headed. It was a nice peaceful little spot in the shade of a large willow tree. We let the horses get to know each other, grazing on the lush river grass as we set up our picnic. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I've ever spent in the company of a woman. Equally, if not more important, Liz seemed to enjoy it too.

For me it was one of those rare days when everything I had planned turned out right. The cold fried chicken, bread and cheese were delicious, and the bottle of wine I produced with a flourish impressed the heck out of Liz. It also impressed her when I whipped the last law book volume out of my saddlebag and showed her the Latin glossary.

"You weren't jesting, were you? You really do want me to help you study," she said, her green eyes sparkling. I gave her my best self-deprecating smile.

"Yes, I was telling you the truth, Elizabeth. I really could use your help. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't have designs on your fabulous body afterwards."

We sat side by side on my Navaho blanket as Liz quizzed me on the terms. After a half hour, I called a halt. Throughout the study session, we had both tippled a few glasses of wine.

I took the book out of her hands and tossed it aside, then slowly moved my face towards hers to kiss her. She looked skittish, but didn't resist as I touched my lips gently to hers. I held the kiss and deepened it as I put my arms around her and drew her close. She sighed when I leaned away from her.

"I've never been kissed so sweetly and softly before," she said.

When I said, "Then the men before me must have all been stupid." Her expression turned serious.

"There haven't been any other men, only my husband. He was rough and demanding, and it hurt every time we joined. I guess I have some physical problem or something, because to me, sex is painful and scary. You are the first man I've accepted an invitation from, since I left New York."

I looked at her incredulously.

"Liz honey, your husband wasn't making love to you. He was asserting his power over you. That is the same thing as rape!"

I could tell by the hopeful look in her eyes that she wanted to believe me, so I pressed on.

"Look, I'll make a deal with you to prove I'm right. Go along with me for half an hour. If, at the end of that time, the thought of intercourse still scares you, we will stop and study law some more."

Liz hesitated a second, but the hope, and maybe something else was still in those green eyes.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Trust me, relax and enjoy what I'm doing."

She gave it another few seconds' thought, then gave me a slight affirmative nod. She told me later that what tipped the scales in my balance was the way I had treated Melosa back at the stables. When I'd whistled for her, she had come up to the corral fence and stuck her head right against my chest so I could scratch her ears. That my horse trusted and liked me impressed Liz more than all my blathering.

I took her in my arms and kissed her again, this time getting my tongue involved, Liz kissed me right back. Liz really liked the kissing and seemed disappointed when I stopped and leaned back. I gave her a reassuring smile, moved the law book off the blanket and gently laid her back. She had that skittish look about her for a second, but it passed when I started kissing her again. Liz picked up the art of French kissing very quickly. Since she was learning from me, she kissed me just the way I liked: Soft but firm closed mouth pressure, with our tongues playing tag in her mouth, then in mine.

When her breathing quickened signaling her increasing arousal, I gently cupped her breast through her shirt. She stiffened slightly then moaned and pushed her breast into my hand. I couldn't feel much more than the pendulous weight of her through all those clothes, so I moved my hand to the top button of her heavy blouse. It was then I discovered something about women's clothing in the 1870s: they wore a lot of them, and they were fastened really, really well. I almost panicked when I thought it might take my allotted thirty minutes just to bare some of her skin.

I finally figured out the way the fasteners on her blouse worked and conquered the laces on her corset. Soon enough, I was nibbling the velvety smooth and creamy white skin at the top of her breasts, as I worked in Braille on the rest of her tops.

When I had her unlaced to the waist, I was surprised at how small her nipples were in relation to the size of her breasts. I was also gratified that those small little nubs were extremely sensitive. She cooed and sighed as I laved them with my tongue and lips, her fingers in my hair holding my head close. I figured if she liked that, she was going to love the heck out of what was next.

I moved one of my hands down and started sliding it under the wide leg opening of her split skirt. Her hand came down and grasped mine tightly. I pulled back from her breast and looked into her eyes. They were heavy lidded with passion, but frightened at this new development.

"You promised," I reminded her.

She looked into my eyes for a few seconds, then her hand fluttered away from mine and fell to her side. When I resumed my journey up under her skirt, she spread her legs slightly to give me room. When my fingers slipped into her silk bloomers, I found her wet and ready. I traced up and down her slick lips a few times, then slowly penetrated her with my finger. She made a small whining noise and lifted her hips a little. I was kissing her other lips as I probed her hot, tight slickness with my finger. She had both arms around my neck, pulling me tighter against her.

When she orgasmed, I had two fingers curled in her, massaging her g-spot and my thumb stoking her clit. My mouth was glued to her nipple, and her fingers were clenched tightly in my hair. She came hard, her hips pumping as she squealed out her pleasure. When she was finished, I moved up her body and held her in my arms as she shuddered through a few after shocks. Her breathing eventually returned to normal and she rolled against me, kissing my face and laughing.

"That was incredible, Ty. I have never felt anything like that in my life," she gushed.

"You mean you never do that for yourself?" I asked in wonder.

She gave me a scandalized look.

"Onanism is a sin I do not commit, Tyler McGuinn," she said frostily.

"You better reread Genesis, Elizabeth Collins. Onan didn't masturbate. He pulled out of his brother's widow while they were having intercourse to keep from getting her pregnant. His crime was refusing to impregnate her so his brother would have heirs. The sin part is fiction made up by prudes."

I think Liz wanted to believe me, but she said she'd look it up when she returned home. She did concede my point about sex being nice, though, so we packed up and headed for my hotel room for round two.

It was pretty much of a toss up as to who was the most anxious to continue our experimentation as we galloped back to town. As soon as we had the horses into the hands of the stable boy, Liz practically dragged me the two blocks to the hotel!

Chapter 5

By the time I locked the door of my room behind me, Liz was suddenly feeling shy again. Oh, she still wanted to do more of what we were doing, she just would have been happier if we were doing it in the dark. I persisted though, and finally managed to get her out of her clothes. Let me make it clear right now, it was well worth the effort. I don't care what century's standards you measured her body against - it was extraordinary. Except for her breasts, all of the views I'd had of it till now were covered with layers and layers of clothes. Now I was getting to see it up close and personal, as she stood blushing in front of me, trying to cover her naughty bits.

"Move your hands, Elizabeth, you are incredibly beautiful and I want to see you," I said softly. She blushed redder and she fidgeted, but she dropped her hands to her sides.

"I'm not beautiful," she argued, "I'm too big on top and too small on the bottom. I wouldn't even be able to work if it weren't for my padded girdle."

Liz did have slim hips and a small, high, firm butt. She looked bigger when she was dressed, I guess the padded girdle added a few inches to her hips, and the bustles on the dresses took care of the rest. But still, I've been married four times, and I've dated plenty of women in between wives, yet I've never once had one tell me that her 'ass was too small and her boobs too big'. In the world I came from, that just didn't happen. It was as unusual as a guy complaining about his Johnson being too big. Well, I could complain about that, but modesty prevents me.

"Your body is perfect, honey. Fashion be danged. And I'm about to show you how much I appreciate it."

"You are the only man who has ever seen it, Ty; and when you get undressed, you'll be the first man I've ever seen nude," she said shyly.

Lucky me! I shed my clothes as if they were on fire. When I was down to my birthday suit, my not particularly big Johnson was leading the way by about seven inches. Liz was looking me up and down, as it was my turn to stand with my hands at my sides. While she checked me out, I had a question for her.

"How could you have been married for six months without seeing each other naked?"

She never raised her eyes from little Ty as she answered, "We had separate dressing rooms and wore our night clothes to bed. I was curious, of course, but Charles was older and very conservative. We wore nightclothes to bed and he took me in the dark. Everything you've done so far is a first for me."

I liked that, and it was motivational too. If I was going to be first, I wanted everything I did to be the standard any other men were compared against. With that in mind, I laid her in the center of the bed and had at it. I paid homage to every inch of her pale smooth body, before I centered my attention on her little chestnut colored bush. She tried to push my head away in alarm, until I flicked my tongue across her clit. That little maneuver ended any thought of resistance, as she fell back on the bed with a gasp.

Liz couldn't believe it wasn't a fluke when I brought her to a crashing orgasm with my tongue, so after a little rest, I gladly gave her a repeat performance. I left her to catch her breath after her second long and loud climax, as I retrieved the small parcel from my dresser drawer and pulled out one of Mr. Goodyear's Latex Rubber Protective Sheaths.

Charles Goodyear had been making the sheaths for ten years, but because of the Comstock Act of 1873, it was illegal to sell condoms in the United States. Luckily, good old Clem at the barbershop had a supply he kept replenished from across the river.

Image this: the condoms were made in Ohio and then sent to Europe. From Europe they traveled to Mexico and then to Texas. I was protected by a piece of rubber that already had over ten thousand miles on it, hoping it would last another hundred feet, seven inches at a time.

The rubber wasn't neatly rolled like they were in my other time, so it took some effort to get it on correctly. Liz watched me big-eyed as I slipped it on. I figured she couldn't help knowing what it was, what with working in the saloon with the professional girls.

I went slow and gentle getting into her tight little cleft, but it wasn't that difficult, as she was drenched down there. It was almost anticlimactic as I slipped in the last little bit and our hips ground together. All through the exercise, Liz looked at where we joined in awe, I think because it was happening with pleasure instead of the pain she remembered. I told Liz that I was too needy to last long this first time. She replied that it was feeling pretty good to her already.

I lasted longer than I thought I would, thanks to the sensation deadening rubber, so Liz was close when I unloaded. I kept stroking after I came, and stayed hard enough to bring her to another climax. We were two very happy campers snuggled up on my bed after I disposed of the rubber. Liz laid her head on my chest and threw her leg over mine, all of her earlier modesty forgotten in post-coital bliss.

"That was so wonderful, Ty, I don't know how I could ever thank you enough."

Here was a woman who knew how to make a man feel good.

"The pleasure was at least half mine, Elizabeth, and the afternoon isn't over yet."

I swear Liz's big green eyes lit up when I said the afternoon wasn't over. She pulled herself tighter against me and kissed my chest.

"Goody!" she said emphatically.

Goody was right on the money. When I recovered (when you are twenty years old it doesn't take long), I gave Liz a run through of different positions. She liked being on top a lot. She perched herself on me and posted up and down on my rod in the same way she rode her horse. I played with her breasts and occasionally rubbed her clit. I especially liked doing her doggie style, because her cute little ass fit my hands perfectly.

When we were both sated, we cleaned up as best we could with my ewer of water and basin. As we were washing up, I decided I would invent at least one thing in this life and that was a shower.

I invited Liz to have supper with me again, but she said she wasn't dressed for it. So I ended up walking her back to her rooming house. As we walked, Liz held tightly to my arm and chatted away. She told me how good I had made her feel, and how she couldn't wait for us to be together again. I seconded that emotion.

I still felt very good that night when I walked into the El Toro Cantina. I imagine everyone in the place knew what was causing me to smile. I felt even better when Mr. Bemis strolled into the saloon while I was sitting at a table watching the gambling action. I had not tried to get into the game yet, because I was unable to focus. All I could think about was Liz and me rolling around on my bed. Bemis was a welcomed distraction. He was even welcomer when he handed me twenty-five dollars, my remaining pay from the cattle drive. He looked me up and down, but didn't comment on my wardrobe.

"I did real good, selling the cattle, Ty, so I gave everyone a little bonus. We'll be leaving for the ranch, day after tomorrow, so come back to the camp, tomorrow night."

I told Bemis I was retiring from the cowboy business, and wouldn't be joining him on the ride back to his ranch. To his credit, he tried to talk me out of doing something he knew was wrong for the old Ty Ringo. When I stuck to my position, he sighed and stood up.

"We'll be back with another herd in four months. If you are still alive, you can see me about a job."

I stood up also, shook his hand and replied, "I know what you're thinking, Boss, but almost dying changed me. Next time you're in town, look me up and I'll buy you a drink."

Bemis didn't look convinced, but he didn't say anything as he turned around and walked out of the saloon.

I finally did sit in on Pen's card game. As I knew they would, distracting thoughts of Liz kept me from being as sharp as I needed to be. I lost eight dollars by the time I called it quits.

I was on my way out of the El Toro, when I heard some scuffling and a loud noise that sounded like a hard slap. I turned into the dancehall portion of Pen's saloon, just in time to see a man pull a knife out of a belt scabbard. I looked for the bartender whose job it was to keep the peace; he was nowhere in sight. Sighing, I pulled my pistol and cocked the hammer.

"Drop the knife," I ordered in as firm a voice as I could muster.

The man with the knife turned toward me and sneered. Jesus, he was ugly, with his long greasy hair, matted gray beard and snaggle-toothed mouth.

"Stay out of this, fancy-pants, unless you want to be next. This half-breed bitch slapped me, so I'm going to mark her up."

Being a rodeo clown meant that I counted on my peripheral vision to keep track of the downed cowboy and the bull both at the same time. That's how I saw Mountain Man's partner bringing one of those old LaMat pistol/shotgun combinations to bear on me. I spun in his direction by reflex and shot him in the shoulder. Before the man hit the ground, I was facing snaggle-tooth again. In the small amount of time I took to dispatch his partner, he had reversed his grip on the hunting knife and was drawing it back to throw it at me. I cocked my pistol and tried to shoot the knife out of his hand. Well, it was a real good try, but I hit more hand than I did knife.

All of that took fewer than five seconds of real time, but to my adrenalin charged body, it had happened in super-slow motion. I was numb-struck as I lowered my pistol. The entire saloon was churchyard quiet as people stood gawking at me. When I holstered my pistol and turned around, Pen Smythe was standing behind me, holding a small .32 caliber Colt five shot revolver.

"Have a seat, Mr. McGuinn, and a drink on me while I sort this out," he ordered.

Sitting down sounded like a good idea to me. I'd never shot, or even shot at another person in my life. I grabbed a seat at the closest table and Snaggle-tooth's intended victim scurried over with a shot of tequila.

She handed me the glass with a "Thank you, Senor."

I threw back the fiery liquid and held the glass out for a refill.

"De nada," I croaked.

I was on my second tequila, sipping this one instead of throwing it back, when Pen sat down beside me.

"That was commendable marksmanship, Old Sod, and excellent judgment," he said.

I polished off the glass of tequila and held it up for a refill.

"Reflexes and luck," I replied.

It was Pen's turn to nod.

"Whatever it was, Sir, I'm indebted to you. The barman was replacing the beer keg, so you probably saved young Conchita from grave injury."

I nodded absently as I watched someone tending to the two injured men. I was extremely happy to see both of them were alive. Pen pulled a chair out for Conchita when she brought my drink back.

"I have dispatched someone for the Sheriff. I suspect after investigating, you will be exonerated and those two miscreants apprehended."

It happened exactly as Pen foresaw, as the same deputy from the night before asked a few questions of Conchita and me, before hauling the two wounded men off to jail.

"I'll have Doc Willis patch these fellers up. A few days in jail will clear their heads, then I'll send them packing," he told Pen, as he herded the men out of the saloon.

Pen dismissed Conchita and had a drink with me. As we drank, he ran a proposition by me that was very intriguing.

"Tyler old chap, I have an idea that I believe will be mutually beneficial. We both know that it will take some time for you to become fully employed as a Barrister. I think I can help you with that in two ways. Number one, I know a lot of people who'll hire you on my word alone. And number two, I have an office I'm not using right off the main bar and under the stairway. For that help, you would agree to help me run this place. I'd pay you a modest salary, but you keep what you win gambling."

His offer gave me much to think about as I finally headed over to the Gold Nugget. It sure would solve a host of problems for me, and I doubted if there'd be many dull moments. Of course, unless he had a nice quiet room in the back for me, I'd still need a place to live. Then again, the Bull was only two blocks from Mrs. Dean's boarding house.

When I walked into the Nugget, Liz ran over to me and hugged me tight.

"Thank God you're okay, Tyler. I heard about what happened at El Toro and it scared me to death."

I couldn't believe that the news of my misadventure at El Toro beat me here, but it seems some busy body was quick to spread the news. Of course, the story Liz received was that I was involved in a vicious gun battle with two outlaws. I calmed Liz down as we danced, and told her of Pen's offer.

"Mr. Smythe has a reputation among the dancers as a fair and honest employer. He isn't demanding of his girls, but he is supposed to be quite the seducer."

By demanding, Liz meant that the dancers didn't have to sleep with him to keep their jobs. Liz didn't have that problem, because a woman named Vidalia Ecks owned the Nugget. In addition, what Liz said about Pen mostly agreed with Clem the Barber's assessment.

I think the full impact of my adventure at Pen's saloon hit me when I returned to my room that night. Too keyed up to fall asleep, I cleaned the pistol as I sat on the bed. As I ran the cotton bore patch down the pistol's barrel, I reflected on how things in my past life seemed to have prepared me for this trip back to my uncles body and time. I'll give you a 'for instance.'

I became a bull rider and rodeo clown because of Stella, my first wife, and Gracie, wife number two was responsible for my shooting skills. I met Gracie at the rodeo's stop in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I made it a point to come back to Santa Fe to see her on our next tour break. During that visit, Gracie and I fell in hot monkey love. You know what I mean, that insane love when you can't stand being apart for a second. When you are so hot for each other, nothing else matters.

I still sigh when I remember those early days with Gracie; I thought we had a love for the ages. Well, any way, Gracie worked as an actress in the Sagebrush Old West Show. She played Annie Oakley in the show, doing trick shooting with a rifle and a pistol. She was damned good with a long gun, but she was fantastic with a revolver. I was a decent shot with a pistol when I met her, I was a cop's son after all, but she started me from scratch and made me much, much better. She trained me so I could latch onto one of those Sagebrush jobs, too.

Now here I was in 1877, when that gunfighter skill set was not a novelty. It was a survival tool!

The next day, my fourth in El Paso, was a Saturday. Saturday was just another day here in 1877, as folks worked six days a week and rested on the Sabbath. I slept in way too late for breakfast, so I went hungry to Clem's for my every other day bath, morning shave and bull-hockey session. As soon as Clem pulled the drape around my neck, he started talking.

"So I hear you were a hero last night, me Bucko."

I explained to him what really happened as he stropped his straight razor. He laughed and said that stories always grew in the telling.

Clean and freshly shaven, I paid Mrs. Dean another visit in regards to a room. Molly Dean was not what you would normally expect a widowed owner of a rooming house to be like. Molly was a small, energetic and attractive redhead, I guessed to be in her early to mid thirties. She was friendly and had a ready smile, but you could sense she had a backbone of steel. Molly's husband had died not long after they had moved to El Paso from St Louis five years ago.

Her husband had been much older than Molly and well off. In anticipation of the railroad coming through, he had brought them to El Paso so he could trade in Mexican jewelry and leather goods. Mrs. Dean's Rooming House was the large home he'd built for them. It was all Molly had been left with, after her husband's grown children had picked his estate clean.

I ended up renting the nicest two rooms she had. They were at the back of the house on the second floor, and had their own entrance. I had a small sitting room and a spacious bedroom with a large bed. Outside in the back yard, about twenty feet from my stairs, was a bathroom with running water and a metal flush toilet. Next door to the toilet facility was a room with a large bathtub. Water for the bathtub came from a water tank on ten-foot stilts, which had been painted black. A windmill drew water up to the tank and gravity fed it to the tub and toilet. The hot El Paso sun warmed the water.

The bathroom wasn't the only thing that attracted me to the rooming house. The biggest reason was Molly herself. As soon as I introduced myself to her, I could feel the mutual spark between us. So could she, as she held my proffered hand a few seconds longer than politeness dictated. I had a feeling Molly and I were going to become very good friends.

Molly was surprised when I paid for my first month in advance. Her rates weren't that cheap if you had meals included. The rent set me back twenty dollars, but at least I had a job of sorts now, and a place to call my own.

Chapter 6

I told Molly (yes, we were on a first name basis already) that I'd move in Monday, and headed to the stables to check on my horse. A decided benefit of my new digs was its proximity to the stables and Liz's place; both my girls would be less than a block from my door. Clem's barbershop was a block further away now, but I could live with that.

Saturday afternoon, Liz joined me in my hotel room for another study session. Yes, it was an actual study session, because Liz was too sore 'down there' for much hanky-panky. I wasn't disappointed about that very much, anyway. I enjoyed her company and she was an excellent study partner. We did kiss and make out some, and I let her explore my body at her leisure. She asked a lot of questions about sex and my attitude about relationships. Through it all, she stayed completely and modestly dressed.

I almost laughed at how scandalized Liz was at my suggestion that she return the oral favors I had bestowed on her yesterday. I kept coaxing though, and finally she relented enough to suck me a little and finish me with her hand. She was very pleased with herself when she made me come in great streaming gushes. She even tentatively tasted my ejaculate and pronounced it 'not as horrible as she had imagined.'

Liz departed at four in the afternoon, headed for the mercantile, and I curled up in the bed for a well-deserved nap.

Saturday night was a biggie for me. It started with Pen explaining the job he was offering me. The salary was pretty damned good and the job didn't sound that difficult. I was going to spend a week or so learning his routine, and then I'd fill in for him, looking after the saloon when he needed me. I would also represent the house three nights a week at the poker tables. That means that I sold the chips and collected the saloon's ten percent cut. Since the saloons share came when the chips were purchased, it was a piece of cake. I could sit at the table and play, or just watch. If I played, I had to buy into the game the same as everyone else.

Pen showed me the small office he had mentioned. It wasn't a suite at the Ritz, but it was not too shabby. I still needed a desk, bookcase and chairs, but it would do just fine. After seeing the office, I stuck out my hand.

"I'll take it, Boss. When do I start?"

Well, I started right then, because Pen wanted a break from the nightly card game to visit a senorita he was partial to over at Cortez's Cantina. H. Pennington Smythe was a dog. He'd chase a woman a thousand miles to bed her, then run two thousand to get away from her.

Without Pen at the table, I was the man that night. I won forty dollars by the time the game broke up at midnight. I started playing conservatively as I observed the other players at the table. When I thought I had their games figured out, I stopped folding as much and pushed the game. I made sure I won enough hands to stay ahead, while losing enough to keep the other players in the game. While I was running the game, I instituted a policy of the house, buying a round every hour. I also insured that any of the unoccupied bar girls dropped by the table often to flirt with the players. It seemed to work, as soldiers, cowboys and shopkeepers lined up to join the game. I soon had three tables going and the house had pulled in seventy dollars in chip sales.

Because I had to stay at the Bull until midnight, I only had a few minutes to spend with Liz at the Nugget. I didn't even buy a dance ticket. I just flipped Charlie a silver dollar and told him to set me up with a beer, and Liz a glass of real wine. I was a regular now, and I tipped Charlie well, so I received dispensations.

Liz understood when I told her I couldn't see her until tomorrow evening. She was even a little impressed that I was attending Mass. She was a staunch Baptist, so there wasn't a chance of her wanting to go with me.

Sunday morning I had to shave myself, because Clem's was closed. I took my time and managed not to cut my own throat in the process. I put on a clean shirt, and topped off my outfit with my frock coat. I was pretty damned dapper. I went to the stable and rescued Melosa an hour before mass was scheduled, so we could take a little ride. My little sweetie appreciated that, and she liked it even better when I started singing songs that hadn't been written yet. Melosa thought my singing voice was just fine, a much different opinion than any of my ex-wives held. Gracie told me the first time I sang in the shower, she thought I'd zipped my weenie up in my fly.

I missed Gracie the most of all the former Mrs. Tyler McGuinns. Gracie had a great sense of humor to go along with her hair-trigger temper. Molly Dean reminded me of Gracie. What is really sad about my split from Grace was that there was no real reason for it. Little things and a lack of effort on my part caused our marriage to die the 'death of a thousand cuts'.

In honor of Grace, I sang Melosa some sad sack country tearjerkers. I don't think she liked them nearly as much as she did the Motown numbers I'd been hooting in her ear.

We arrived at the grand old mission church in San Elizario about fifteen minutes before Mass. I was standing under a tree, holding Melosa's reins as she daintily nibbled some grass, when I spotted Juanita and Maria. They were riding in a wagon filled with formally dress Lopezes. I tied Melosa's long reins loosely to a tree limb and walked to the door of the church. I had to smile at myself as I instinctively squared my shoulders and stood up straight, my grandmother's training in full display.

Juanita was leading the procession of Lopezes, carrying a beautiful little girl, so I greeted her first. She introduced me to her father, Hector Calis. In turn, her father introduced his wife and her widowed mother. I was on my best and most formal behavior. I was especially attentive to the grandmother, remembering my own sainted Abuela.

I could tell by Señor Calis's look, that he was trying to find a reason to dislike me for something other than general principles. My good manners and respectful tone were making that hard for him. Those same manners were, however, having a positive affect on Señora Lopez and her mother; especially when I held my arm out for the grandmother, to escort her into the church.

As we trooped into the church, I could not help notice what a handsome family the Lopezes were. Heck, even grandma, who had to be at least fifty, was pretty and shapely.

Juanita's baby was named Anna, the same as her grandmother. Baby Anna was just at the starting to walk stage and was fidgety sitting in her mother's lap. Finally, Grandmother Anna took her namesake outside so as not to disrupt the service. She surprised me by asking me to escort her. I stood up and led the way, opening the heavy door for the pair of them.

Abuela Anna had an ulterior motive for asking me to help her outside with the baby. I walked the pair over to Melosa, figuring that a horse to pet would entertain the baby. Melosa was gently nudging the giggling little girl while grandma quizzed me. She didn't beat around the bush.

"What is your purpose, Señor Tyler? Has not Juanita suffered enough?"

I gave Anna the truth about being there, about how I was trying to divert Maria from stalking me by pretending to woo Juanita and getting to know the family.

"You are all beautiful women, Anna, and I am strongly drawn to you all; but I will stay on my best behavior and not try to seduce any of you," I said gallantly.

Anna looked startled for a second that I included her with her granddaughters. Then she leaned towards me, her eyes latching onto mine. Her eyes were deep, mysterious, obsidian pools that were impossible for me to look away from. She smiled when she saw how helpless I was. When she spoke, the timbre of her voice seemed to have changed downward an octave or two.

"The choice may not yours, my handsome young friend. The way I see you now, makes me sure of that. It is that way with us and some men. Too bad Juanita's first man wasn't one of them. Rest assured, sweetheart ... we will take care of everything," she said cryptically.

Her voice was so sexy it made me shiver. I didn't doubt for a moment what she had said.

After the Mass, we stood on the steps of the church, waiting for the Padre to come out and greet everyone. While we were waiting, a very beautiful, light skinned woman exited the church with three other women, one older than the rest. The women were all well dressed, and seemed disdainful of the other parishioners. Grandmother Lopez caught me looking.

"The beautiful one's name is Feleena, stay far away from her. She uses men and discards them as if they were rubbish."

I frowned at the description, but nodded absently. I certainly could see what drew Uncle Ty to her; she was breathtaking. I could also see what Anna was talking about. She looked cruel, predatory, and entirely aware of her appeal.

I watched Feleena descend the steps with her companions. Her long raven hair cascaded over her shoulders. She had large, dark eyes in which a man could lose himself. Nineteenth century women's formal wear didn't leave much in the way of bare flesh, what with floor-length multi-layered skirts, petticoats, and corsets concealing everything.

Nevertheless, Feleena's attire couldn't hide her womanly charms, two of which strained to burst through her bodice. When I returned my gaze to her pretty face, I suddenly realized I'd been caught staring, for she was looking directly at me, a knowing, flirtatious smile on her lips. Just as quickly, she turned her attention to yet another male admirer and flirted with him as well.

I followed the Lopez's wagon back to their house on the outskirts of San Elizario after the Mass was completed. The house was modest, but immaculately clean. The outside was glistening white stucco, the inside warm and inviting wood. The Lopez's were a fairly upscale middle class Mexican family. They actually had the concession to run the restaurant at the El Paso Grand Hotel, and everyone in the family worked there except Grandmother Anna. She stayed home and minded the younger children. Mr. Lopez manned the restaurant's kitchen during the evening hours, while his wife took care of breakfast and lunch.

Dinner was everything I could have ever asked for, as it seemed that all of my favorite Mexican dishes were served up cooked just the way I liked them. I raved about the food as I scarfed down two helpings of everything.

After we ate, Juanita and I took a stroll down to the river with both Annas and Melosa along to chaperon. Baby Anna had insisted we take Melosa, so I slung her up in the saddle and held her in place as we walked. Maria hadn't been a happy camper when her mother kept her home to help clean up after the meal.

Once we were down by the river, Anna grabbed her namesake and walked away, leaving Juanita and I alone. We sat down under a cottonwood tree and watched the brown Rio Grande roil past. Spring snowmelt had swollen the river to twice its normal size, despite the upstream dams and irrigation canals.

I chattered on inanely about what was happening in my life, trying desperately to distract myself from the strong urge I had to take Juanita into my arms. Finally, Juanita put her finger on my lips to shush me. I shut up, but I still avoided looking at her. She laughed and turned my face towards hers.

"Stop fighting it, Papito," she said, gazing into my eyes. That look, that voice was identical to her grandmother's.

I swear, I think those Lopez women were witches. No wonder my great-grandfather didn't have a chance. Yes, I finally figured out the connection between the Lopezes and me. I believed that Juanita's baby was my great-grandmother Anna Lopez. But she wasn't any relation to me in this lifetime at all, and, according to my Ty Ringo memories, my great-grandfather Calvin was a redheaded, blue eyed two-year-old Irish buckaroo up in Clovis, New Mexico. It was all confusing enough to give me a headache.

My brain was trying to sort this all out, as Juanita's deliciously full red lips were closing the distance towards mine.

When her lips touched mine, my brain shut down from the sheer electricity the kiss generated. The only other person whose kiss was even a distant second to Juanita's was crazy Cora Leigh. When the fog lifted from my brain, I was flat on my back and Juanita was half on top of me, looming above me on her extended hands.

"Abuela was right about you," she murmured as her lips descended on mine once more.

Melosa snorted a couple of times when she heard the Annas returning, and Juanita rolled off me and sat up.

She looked perfectly respectable when her grandmother and daughter walked up. Me? I can only imagine how I looked. Probably, 'deer in the headlights' was close. I was much relieved when Juanita shut off that smoldering sensuality as we walked home. When her grandmother carried her tired little granddaughter into the house, Juanita took my arm and kept me on the porch.

"When do you move into your new home, Tyler?"

I told her I was moving tomorrow. She nodded and smiled. "If you wait until after lunch, I will help you," she said.

I started to say that I didn't have that much to move, until it dawned on me what Juanita was really saying. I changed my tune immediately.

That was a preview of El Paso. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «El Paso» to Cart