This time, she wouldn't be such a coward. And she'd hold him while he cried over her mother's brutal murder, robbing him of a child he'd never met.
Whoops, getting too maudlin, Margo. You have a job to do and you can't do it snuffling goddamned tears, of all things.
So she said to her somewhat abashed students, "Oh, by the way, all of you should stop by Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff, not just for period-appropriate clothing-she's got the best and you can rent it for much less than buying it but also be sure to buy a good Old West dictionary, so you won't sound quite so green.
Old Western speech is nearly unintelligible to anybody else from anywhere else. To Old Westerners, anybody who can't speak it is a greenhorn. Learn the language you'll need to know"
She'd picked up a little at school, but she'd have to study it like mad before she and Malcolm went to Denver.
"But," Adair MacKinnon asked, swallowing hard and sweating, "isn't it just a dialect of English?"
"No," Malcolm said quietly. "Unless you can tell me the exact Old West meanings and pronunciations, without having to think about them-of churn-twister, cienaga, a Jerusalem undertaker, the word `jewelry' or the phrase `jewelry chest,' then you'd better hit the library and find yourself a good Old West-English/ English-Old West dictionary and start memorizing it. You're going to need it for three months in rough country, away from the more `civilized' vicinity around Denver."
Adair stuck to his guns. "I can understand the need to speak like a native, but why so adamant about it? So-called dudes from the East wouldn't have spoken it, after all. And just exactly what do `Jerusalem undertaker' or a perfectly normal word like `jewely really mean?"
"Yes," Malcolm replied, "dudes don't speak Old West when they arrive. They're lost in an alien culture, trying to survive and blend in gradually with what they find. In short, they're intrusive greenhorns, and greenhorns are considered fair game."
"Very fair game," Kit added solemnly. "The range wars weren't quite as bad as depicted in the movies, although they were bad enough, and Dodge City had a lower per capita murder rate than, say, New York or Washington, D.C. during, oh, the mid 1990s. But attacks on dudes by a single, experienced man, or a gang of them, were very common. Even swindlers could make a killing, saying one thing that meant another altogether, which the dude would find out too late, once his money or land or horse or whatever he'd risked was long out of his possession. And having made a legal contract, there was absolutely nothing the poor sop could do about it. Except maybe hire himself a gun-hand-if he had enough money left to hunt down the rat and kill him."
Margo took Kit's hand again, more carefully this time, realizing she was squeezing it so tightly, his fingernails were turning purple. "Grandpa pushed the Wild West Gate," she put in, eyes aglow as she gazed up at Kit.
He harrumphed and muttered, "Lots of time scouts pushed lots of gates. Nothing heroic in walking through the Wild West Gate, of that I may assure you. There were other gates that were much harder to step through."
A subtle reminder of Margo's disastrous mission into Southern Africa. She flushed, but held tight to his hand.
Dr. Rubenstein nodded. `The Roman Gate, I expect, was an extremely difficult one."
Kit laughed. "Oh, it was easy to get in. Getting out again proved a rather interesting test of wit and skill."
And that was how he dismissed one of the most dangerous, nearly lethal adventures he'd ever encountered. His involuntary fight in the Circus Maximus was legend the world over.
"well," Margo muttered, "I, uh, guess I'd better get on with my own practice and let you take over the class, Ann."
The diminutive firearms instructor nodded gracious thanks for helping break the class the way a horsebreaker might soften up and civilize a particularly unruly horse.
Kit said very softly, "We'll wait on the benches until you're finished."
She nodded, holding in another sigh. Another bleeding test ...
But this time she put up no arguments, no protests, no childish tantrums. She simply put on her safety.
Ann, called out, "Line's going hot!" so everyone else donned safety gear-including Kit and Malcolm-and got busy finishing the other two boxes of .44-40's, scoring well in toward the center of the black despite her nervousness; then she switched to the heavier Centennial and did herself proud with three boxes of almost perfect nines and tens. She did throw a couple of rounds here and there from sweating palms and aching arms and eyes that burned and wouldn't focus properly, but even though she was out of practice, her scores were good and she knew it.
"Well?" she asked as she handed over the targets.
The two most important people in her life put their heads together, poring over the targets, marking each shot outside the nine ring. Finally they looked up again.
"Well, frankly," Kit began, "you could use some more practice and work on your upper arm strength, but pretty damned good for a first try after several dry months."
Margo let go her tense fear and abruptly felt like she was floating on fizzy bubbles that tickled her all the way to the ceiling.
"Hey," Malcolm called, "come down out of the clouds, will you?"
She sighed inwardly and allowed the wonderful fizzing bubbles to waft her gently toward the floor. She blinked and found herself staring into Malcolm's eyes. "Yeah?" she asked softly.
He didn't say a word. He just kissed her until those dratted, wonderful fizzing bubbles came back. When she came up for breath, she was actually dizzy.
"Wow! Where'd you learn to do that?"
Malcolm touched her cheek. "From a certain redheaded imp I know. She's very, um, motivational."
Margo blushed to her toes. Malcolm only smiled.
"Shall I, um, put everything away so we can get the heck out of here?"
"Y-e-s," Kit drawled, devilment in his eyes, "I think that would be appropriate. We'll stuff down some dinner, then if it's possible, I think I'd like to pry you away from Malcolm for a while, so it's just you and me, okay?"
"Yeah," was all she could manage.
They helped her clean the rifles, just to speed up the process, then she put away all her gear and locked up the gear room, returning the keys carefully where they belonged. That done, Margo Smith hooked arms through both Malcolms and Kit's. They left the range aware of the still-awestruck gazes that followed them.
Once outside, beyond the soundproof glass, they all started laughing like complete idiots. But it was a healing laughter, as well, washing away awkwardness and lonely pain and leaving only the new closeness and the utterly reaffirmed love Margo felt for both of these men. It was a love she felt she didn't deserve, but was by God going to try to deserve.
"Last one to the elevator's a goose's egg!" Margo called, sprinting off like a gazelle.
Not at all surprisingly, Kit arrived just behind her, his hand covering hers just as she punched the elevator button. Malcolm wheezed up a moment later.
"Out of shape," Kit chided.
"Hah! Blame that on your insatiable granddaughter."
Kit just laughed and winked at Margo, who flushed red as a beet. But she was still laughing. The elevator carried them and their hilarity upward in efficient silence, until the doors opened again and their laughter spilled out onto the Commons. They headed for the Epicurean Delight and a dinner that would certainly be a momentous occasion.
At least, it would if Kenneth "Kit" Carson had anything to say about it!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marcus was on duty in the Down Time Bar & Grill when he strolled in, casual and cool as a general surveying newly levied troops on the Campus Martius. A glass slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor behind the bar. He glanced Marcus' way, noted him briefly with a flick of disinterested gaze, then took a seat near the back as though Marcus didn't exist.