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  1. Javia


    "Yes, water. You are buying my land so you can control the water when the railroad shows up. I know you think I'm stupid...think what you will, I am not," he replied then. Crabbe held up his hands. “Hey, I never said you were stupid, friend!” he said quickly, like he thought Robert was going to thump him. “I never said friend Bob here was stupid, did I Charlie?” Charlie shook his head. “No, you just say he illiterate and ignorant, that all.” Said the Chinaman, unhelpfully. "So how much you offering me?" actually Robert thought the man a bit foolish to reveal this because it seemed he could now ask for a much higher price than he would have just a minute earlier. “I’m offering the man who owns this land…” because that was the rub, wasn’t it? Who legally owned this muddy patch of Montana. “… $300 down for a 25% share, Charlie there and our lawyer friend the same, so that’s $900 clear for you, with an option to join in any mining and/or water supply developments on consideration of payment of a directly correlating percentage of any development costs. Costs of reclaiming the claim in your name to be undertaken solely by the three new partners. Now… you must admit, that’s a pretty good deal considering, at the moment, you technically own jack shit of a non-paying claim.” Charle Fa shook his head: Crabbe was making this sound too complicated for the young Irishman, and the boy was starting to look irritated. “He mean, we get you land back, we give nine hundred dollar, we all invest in mining or water supply, make lot of money, all happy!” he explained to Robert. @Wayfarer
  2. F. Falmer Browne had spotted his new neighbor, alone, working outside on the steps of her own house in the hot sun a few minutes previously and had immediately bidden Mrs O’Houlighan rustle up a large jug of iced lemonade for Miss Adeline’s refreshment. The good lady loaded him up with the tempting refreshment and two glasses on his own doorstep on a large teak tray, and he had watched his feet carefully as he walked down his own steps and then turned to present himself to the dazzling beauty of the wagons. He looked up as he approached, only to see the horribly unwelcome presence of some other man! Ughh! He cursed his luck, but it was too late to turn back now. He must strive manfully on. Curses, the dreadful fellow was kissing her now in a most familiar manner! "So what can I help you with here?" Was he talking to him or her?! “Oh, how do you do! My name is F. Falmer Browne, Miss Chappel’s neighbor. I have just brought over some…” he noticed the water already in place next to Addy on the steps. “… lemonade!” He felt a bit crestfallen that she had been already supplied with a nice drink, but then added quickly “and it has ice and slices of fresh lemon in it!” The other man’s offering only had bits of (slightly worm eaten) apple in it, plus some disreputable looking particles of some weed or other, he felt that his offering was somewhat superior. @Bongo @Jack
  3. Javia

    Damaged Goods

    He moved his arms up to pull the edges of her robe together and felt for the tie. He wasn't sure how she would react to him touching her. "Don't want you to get cold," he mumbled. It was July. There was no way she could be cold. All Bridget knew about Brendan’s touch was that it was different to both Lorenzo and Fa’s. Lorenzo always did things quickly, in perfunctory matter, as if he expected the Vigilance committee to burst in any second and accuse him of interfering with crippled young women, and he punctuated any dilly dallying on her part with grumbles of come on, we ain’t got all day! and well, this won’t get the baby bathed! In other words, he very consciously and deliberately treated her like a busy, overworked mother trying to get a kid ready for school. Fa was different, he did everything with great care and at his own special pace. There seemed to be meaning in every little thing he did, no matter how trivial seeming the task. This was especially true when he used acupuncture to alleviate the phantom limb pain she experienced on occasion. At those times, he seemed to be able to see beyond the physical, like he was carefully tracing the route of the pain in the non-existent leg before slowly and carefully nailing it with the acupuncture needle placed deftly elsewhere, like the back of her hand. As for the men before those two, she didn’t like to remember what their touch had felt like. But Brendan’s touch… this was new. She didn’t understand why he made her feel different, just that he did. It was a funny feeling: not really relaxing, no not that at all, but all sort of excited, like something very, very nice was just about to happen, and floaty: she thought if they could carry on sitting next to each other on the bed like this, then they could float up on the mattress and fly out of the window together: like her dollies did in one of Arabella’s stories. He did her up, but she was totally ‘undone’ by his presence. Knowing why, and what other people did in these situations, was completely beyond her ken: like somebody who was hungry but somehow didn’t know what food was or how to eat, or dreadfully thirsty, with a pitcher of ice cold water to hand but no idea how to drink it. She had experienced something similar when waltzing with him at the dance. So she did the obvious thing. Turning her clear, bright, perfect blue eyes up to his she asked “We can dance?” @Bailey
  4. Arabella let the final few notes of Mr Pike and Mrs Blakesley’s chosen melody echo around the building and turned to watch the ceremony from her seat at the Harmonium. Well, she thought that was the one that they had chosen: to be honest, they’d started to discuss it at some length when she’d asked them and she’d become so distracted by the antics of some ants that were attacking a bumble bee who was all tuckered out on the ground, that she forgot to get a definitive answer on the musical matter. Oh well, everybody seemed happy enough with the tune, even if Judge Peabody did look a little out of breath. Mrs B. looked lovely in her dress (but white, really?) and beautiful Clara in her finery next to her. That was funny, Clara was staring at her. Maybe for guidance. She gave her a little wave and mouthed ‘don’t be nervous!’ She wouldn’t have much to do now until the first hymn, so she sat on her hands and tried not to fidget. She had suggested that she play some soft chords in the background as the Reverend Thomas narrated the Wedding ceremony and that she shout out “I hear you Brother Thomas!” and “Testify Brother, Testify!” at apposite moments, like they did at their big camp meetings down South, but he had turned her down.
  5. Javia

    Damaged Goods

    "I always knew you were a decent sort, deep down, granted you gotta look hard and deep for it," she smiled, having calmed down considerably by then, knowing vengeance had been dealt out. “Huh! Well, thanks for the God Damn endorsement, Mundee!” sighed Crabbe getting up and walking over to the whiskey bottle to get them both a top up. “Wait! There was someone else in on it too?” this was a fascinating twist. He poured them both another good glug. They hadn’t got this slippery together since Helena. “Well, see, after I killed Goodrich, who ain’t the feller you’re thinkin’ of, by the way, this bundle of rags starts hoppin’ after me, like a stray dog. Couldn’t lose her. Eventually, I told her to take me to where she lived, thought she might have a family of one legged rag people to look after her.” He took another swig of whiskey but was drinking more slowly now. “Long story short, when we got there, it was the doctor that’d operated on her. Her family had skipped town years ago, after she’d had her accident, couldn’t pay the bill. He’d had her out to beg fer, ooh, what, ten years, here and there. That’s ten years’ worth of beatings on her back. He started the next round on her as soon as we got in there.” He gave an involuntary sneer at the thought of it, and then nodded to the lead topped walking stick leaning in the corner. “I beat him to death with that thing. Right in front of her. Shouldn’t have done that.” @Wayfarer
  6. "You are getting the farm? You sure of it?” Jacob was sure of it. Well, at least the legal fact of it. “Yes Sir, Seventeenth of September, that’s my birthday. I’ll be eighteen and the farm’ll be legally mine. O’ course, Granny’ll think she’s still running the place but…” he shook his head thoughtfully. Well then, why not be a farmer. It's what you know, how you've been brought up. Clara knows a lot about farm life too," to Aurelian that was a bit of good news even if the boy didn't seem to think so. “I might well keep it on” Jacob nodded “Either to supply the White Rose, or maybe turn the whole place into a cannery.” Well, he certainly thought big! “Traditional farming’s going nowhere and the big cattle ranges are on the wane too, as far as I can see.” he opined. “It’s not all fully formed as a plan, Sir, I’m still looking, and listening: it would mean a lot if I could get your advice in future: as I feel my way forward.” Jacob frowned. "I'm on your side, Jacob, I really am. You can always come to me," Aurelian assured him. “My Pa used to give me advice, and I didn’t like a lot of it. He used to say: das ist immer der beste Rat ... that’s‚ that’s the useful kind“. Aurelian nodded, "Well, one thing that I won't be doing, I won't be advising you in German. I don't know the language." Jacob laughed. “Well, me and Lee only keep it up as a kinda secret code language ‘cause Granny doesn’t understand a word of it, either.” He admitted. "Look I'm glad we talked, I think we set a foundation for doing this on a regular basis and that's a good thing. But discuss all this with Clara now. Try and come to decisions such as these as a partnership. In the long run, you won't regret it," he patted the boy on the back. “Thank you, Sir.” Said the lad, and he meant it. There was something else, though. “Oh, and about Lee, er, Leonora. Well, Sir, you know she’s awful busted up over all of this. I think she feels even worse than Clara and me about, well, you know.” He shrugged a little. He couldn’t really say me getting your daughter pregnant out loud. “It’d mean the world to me if, well, if you could speak to her, sorta put her mind at ease that you don’t blame her for everything. I know her way of thinking isn’t…, well, she’s a woman and she doesn’t always employ logic the way we men do.” he reasoned, indulging in a nice bit of 19th Century misogyny. “Your opinion of her seems to mean a lot to Lee, Mr. Redmond.” Then Granny Miggins was on them. “Come on you two, stop gossipin' like two old wimmin! Cake’s bein’ cut! An’ you’ve both got speeches to make – but don’t make ‘em too long, mind! It’s nearly time for my nap. And you…” she prodded Jacob “Remember, you’re meant to compliment the bridesmaids, even if one of ‘em is that dreadful Mudd girl.” @Wayfarer
  7. Javia


    Mature Content: Yes - Suicidal thoughts. Also: Self-indulgent post warning! Author: Arabella Wentworth (Aged 38). With: All Alone. Location: Apartment of the Theatre Critic Charles A. Hanson, New York. When: Night of 31st December 1899 – 1st January 1900 Time of Day: 13 Minutes after Midnight. It was cold out on the balcony, but when Charles put one of her cylinders on for the amusement of the gay set, it was high time to get some fresh air. He always did that: he’d get her to play some moving Chopin piece at the piano or sing a little bit of operetta in her pure bel canto voice; then juxtapose it by playing one of her more tawdry cylinder records, this best of friends and worst of critics (for he always gave her terrible notices). It was his little joke. Inside, she heard the horn of the cylinder player hiss into life, a tinny voiced announcer sounding, as he always did: “Nuthin’ But a Coon, Cakewalk, sung by Arabella Wentworth, Edison Records!” then an umpah-ing band and a tinny version of her own voice, murdering some tin-pan alley ditty in an exaggerated version of her usual southern accent. She looked over the edge. It was a long way down to the snowy sidewalk and her stomach lurched. She remembered something, oh, a long, long time ago: way before she was the much sought-after ingénue of the New York stage of the 1880s (Lord, those rôles were tedious!); even longer before she’d become older and plumper and been relegated to second or third billing as the gossipy maid, or the annoying aunt of the heroine (those rôles had been much more fun!). She was thinking of the couple of years, way back in the 70s, when she’d ended up in the middle of Montana in some God forsaken place called Kalispell and… hadn’t she tried to kill herself by jumping off a roof then!? She looked down now at the wind swirling on the paving stones many, many feet below. She was fat and nearly forty. Her stage career, she felt, was coming to an end; recording for Edison only paid some of the bills, and she was alone. Yes, once upon a time she had decided to jump off a roof and become absorbed into the crystal clear blue of the pure Montana sky; now she considered a leap into the cold black ice of a New York night. Why hadn’t she jumped, that last time? She couldn’t remember exactly, the fellow’s name, all these years later: but she vaguely recalled a sort of beautiful, almost sexless angel sweeping down from heaven and saving her. Hmph. Her fifteen year old imagination had probably invented that. And yet, as she steeled herself for the inevitable, Jesus reached out His hand to her again. “It is a very long way down and your skull will actually crack open like an egg when it hits the street. How very awful you will look.” Said the voice behind her. Arabella knew. This was the one. She didn’t need to look at the woman. She already knew her, even though they had never met. She somehow knew that she would have the same orderly mind and intellectual capacity of Clara Lutz, no that had been her married name – to Arabella she would always be Redmond, Clara Anne Redmond; and she would look a little like Miriam had looked, the first time that they had seen each other together in the mirror in the dress shop, long, long, long ago; and she would have the same sexual allure of La Mundee, she who had taught her so much, without really trying, about performance and about life. There had been others along the way, but those three, those first three great loves of her life, they had set the bar and set it high: and how gracious was the Lord who could contrive to surpass it now, when she had thought her life quite over and all used up.
  8. Javia

    Damaged Goods

    Well, Crabbe and Charlie were gone now, so he would do it himself. He reached over and draped the peignoir over Bridget's body. "Hey, sit up so's I can get this back on you." He tapped her shoulder so she would sit up. Bridget sat up and laughed her light gossamer-soft little laugh. Brendan was so silly. She could do that herself. She was good at getting dressed. It was just that tight girdle thing she had trouble with – and once she was in that she couldn’t reach down and put her own boot on. And she couldn’t do her laces and get her dress on by herself, but nighties and things she was fine with. Silly old Brendan. But she let him help her, it was nice, him helping her. He was so pretty and smiley. Usually. Now he looked a little sad. She wondered why. “Why sad?” she asked him, hoping he would say the answer slow and with easy words, or act things out for her like Arabella did. Even Lorenzo and Charlie acted things out sometimes, it was funny when they did that: especially Lorenzo, because he’d get so mad when she didn’t understand what he was going on about. Yesterday he’d tried to explain something to her which seemed enormously complicated about someone called President Grant and whiskey and after half an hour of useless mummery had left the house in a huff. Charlie was better, he only ever told her things it was actually important to know. But nothing was more important right now than knowing what was making Brendan sad. She reached over and threw her arms around him, hoping to cuddle him better. Modesty was an unknown concept to her: but happiness and sadness – those she lived and breathed. @Bailey
  9. Javia

    Damaged Goods

    Crabbe didn’t say a word until he got downstairs, and even then only after he’d poured them both another drink. He downed his quickly. "Now, what happened to that poor child? And who and where is the person responsible for it?" she demanded. “Sorry Mundee, you’re a year too late.” He answered dryly, flopping into a chair, and taking his thick spectacles off so he could rub his face and clear his mind. He knew Caroline. She’d be on the warpath: want to shoot, maim and kill someone or something after that little show. He understood that, only too well. “Do you remember, Helena? When I left real quick? Didn’t explain where I was going?” he asked, harking back to the time they’d worked together in the same high-class dive in the territorial capital. “I’d received word from Charlie about a feller I’d been tracking down for, ooh, two years, I'd say. Charlie had seen the critter in Deadwood. William R. Goodrich. A nicer killer and despoiler of women never walked the Earth.“ he said sardonically. He went to take another swig of his drink but, finding the glass empty, placed it down on the table. “I tracked him down one evening, in a filthy side street in that God forsaken town. He had company, his trousers were round his ankles an' he was forcing himself on some poor beggar girl, just a bundle of rags as far as I could see. I wasn’t looking at her right then, though. Just him. They say you shouldn’t shoot an unarmed man: but I broke that rule six times in a row, and for an encore spat on the bastard’s body.” He looked up at Caroline. “Did me a power o' good to see him lying there twitchin’, Mundee. But that twern’t the best bit of killin’ I did that night, not by a long chalk.” @Wayfarer
  10. Pettigrew’s next series of questions were more to the point, but all of a nature that could be answered simply, yes and no in most cases. Dr. Danforth had explained the perceived problems in language the girl might not understand, the questions had to be a lot more prosaic, with no room for misinterpretation. “Arabella, do you like Doctor Danforth?” She looked at him, focused enough, but po-faced. “Yes.” “Would you like to kiss Doctor Danforth?” “No” Pettigrew was careful not to react in the slightest to this, no approval or disapproval toward the answers, nothing to sway the girl or even rouse her from her waking slumber, just uttering the questions in the same solid, boring, murmur. “Look at Nurse Leane, do you like her?” “No” “Would you like to kiss her?” “Yes” He ran through a few more people she knew; invariably the men fell into the “Yes/No” category; interestingly, her friends Jemima Wigfall and Bridget Monahan were “Yes/No” too. Caroline Mundee and Miriam Kaufman were “Yes/Yes”. At last the hypnotist felt satisfied and moved on to the final stage of this impromptu treatment. Parlour trick mesmerists usually stuck to making people parade around the room pretending to be chickens or some other mildly humiliating antics. To try and permanently change a core facet of somebody’s personality: well, that was something else. But Pettigrew seemed willing to try. “Arabella. The next time you want to kiss a lady, or a girl, you will suddenly think that it is a very silly thing to want to do. Kissing another girl is silly. Repeat what I say. Kissing another girl is silly.” Arabella duly repeated. “You will want to laugh when you think of kissing a girl. It is a silly thing, You will laugh. Silly. Laugh. Silly. Laugh. Repeat!” A smile formed and faded around the girl’s mouth. Then the smile returned. “It’s silly!” she laughed: but there was something horrible and hollow about her laugh. It wasn’t her usual low gurgling chuckle. It was a hard, false laugh that somehow made your skin crawl. “When you want to kiss a girl you will think it is a very silly thing to do; you will laugh; instead, you will want to help the girl; offer her some help. You will laugh, it is silly, you offer her some help. Repeat!” The mild-mannered dressmaker was now speaking in an insistent, almost frightening, commanding voice. “Repeat!” He made her repeat the mantra several times until she started to seem a little confused and look about the room, a frightened look in her eyes. Pettigrew held up a hand, lest the Doctor try to interfere. “Now, now, Arabella. In a few seconds I will snap my fingers and you will wake up. You won’t remember what happened when you were asleep, but inside, you will remember my commands. You will remember my commands.” “I will remember.” She repeated. Pettigrew snapped his fingers and flopped back in his chair: the strain of the thing had quite taken it out of him! @boshmi @Bongo
  11. At first glance the saloon gal liked what she saw. "Look at that," she sighed happily. “Oh, and that’s just the base form, we can fancy it up no end with buttons and bows!” crooned Pettigrew seductively. “I rather favor black embellishments on top of the deep purple, might seem a little funereal to some, but with black gauze gloves and black stockings: can you just imagine the dazzling effect with your complexion and hair! Good Heavens, Miss Mundee, one look at you in this get-up and those salon patrons won't be able to walk right for a week!” “Now, ladies, I always offer my more illustrious customers a little something to get us in a creative mood: a little madeira perhaps?” the man asked. "Sure, sounds good to me," Caroline would not turn down a drink......ever. He poured both of them a drink of the sweet fortified wine but Arabella, being tea-total, didn’t touch hers. “But then straight to business. Miss Kaufmann please undress and put the new garment on.” he ordered, matter-of-factly, waving his hand toward the form. Miriam blinked, "What? Excuse me?" She froze in place and looked wide-eyed at her employer. “Yes, yes, behind the screen, please! Chop chop!” Prettigrew waved for her to get on with it as if it was the most natural thing in the world and surely she must realise that was what was required of her. His voice indicated that he would brook no argument on the matter: especially as the customer herself seemed to assume that getting in and out of ones togs was, of course, a natural part of the dressmaking process. “Miss Mundee, you might as well disrobe now, so I can get accurate measurements. Stays too, if you please!” he added, flexing his tape measure. "Alrighty," Caroline was not a bit shy and instantly agreed, in fact she rather expected it. This reminded her and she suddenly produced a slip of hers from a small bag, "Have yer girl put this on too as I plan on wearing this under that there dress." It was a skimpy little thing of very thin material. Miriam stared at the item like it was something almost alien of origin. Oh goodness! She swallowed and stood there like a statue for the moment. “Ooooh!” Worchester cooed, holding the gossamer material up to the light of the window “This is fine, mighty fine workmanship indeed. “Why, ‘Translucent’ is too opaque a word for it!” He looked at Miriam. “This kind of garment won’t stand bulky undergarments” he instructed her in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice he always used when explaining something mundane, like a fine point of needlework or cutting technique to her. “I should lose the drawers, stays and chemise too, put this on raw.” He added, passing her the light slip. In other words, he was instructing her to strip completely naked behind the screen, only a flimsy panel of silk between her and her employer and the customers. Well, not completely naked: “Oh, I’d keep your stockings and boots on, Miss Kaufmann, it is a little chilly in here today.” he added, helpfully. Daresay she could keep the ribbon in her hair, as well. “Ooooh! Shall I take my clothes off, too?!” Arabella asked excitedly. “No, that will not be necessary, Miss Mudd.” Answered Mr. Pettigrew, dryly. Caroline seemed a bit bemused by that little exchange but thought she knew what would please Ara. "Say, why don't you help the young miss, she'd probably appreciate it? I can take care of myself." “Oh, sure!” yelped Arabella, jumping up and looking like all her birthdays had come at once. This was exciting. “Come on, let’s get you all gussied up!” she said to Miriam, more or less pushing her toward the screens. So, now the poor shy girl was also to be seen in all her red-faced glory by the peculiar girl in the black dress. Well, at least one party in the deal was happy about that. While Caroline got her outer garments off, Pettigrew himself went over to the form and started to remove the dress from its dummy. With the way he had cleverly designed the fastenings, using small strong magnets on the chest area where Caroline wanted easy access, this didn’t take long. The dress felt a little heavier than it looked. That was due to the ‘secret weapon’ he had installed, and which Miriam would unwittingly demonstrate in a few minutes. @Wayfarer
  12. Javia


    “Listen son, do you know how steam engines work; or them new fangled chain pull commodes?” the bespectacled man asked. "Like on trains and steamers, of course," Robert nodded though he never truly considered the specific details. “Uh-huh. Well listen, Bob, those contraptions and a whole lot of other things in civilised life, they all rely on something we all take for granted…” Crabbe said and held out a hand, palm upwards. A large drop of rain dripped down from Robert’s leaky roof and splashed onto it. “Water.” He wiped the wetness off onto his trousers. “Now when the railroad comes … and it’s coming … water's going to be in bigger and bigger demand, see? And who owns the land through which the main tributary stream runs? Who’s the feller who could cut off that water supply with a hastily built dam or even poison it with mine workings if he wanted? Well, who do you think that is?” he asked, leadingly. Fa put his hand up excitedly, like the know-all kid in a school room, but Crabbe waved him down. “No, Charlie, Bob’s gonna answer this one all on his own!” @Wayfarer
  13. The tiny bell above the front door tinkled musically then and, sure enough, there was the saloon woman and.....yes, Arabella. Her possible new friend. Miriam smiled. Odd choice of colors though given it was a hot summer day but she had already decided the girl was on the odd side. She could overlook such foibles though as long as the girl was friendly. “Oh! Ladies, ladies!! How wonderful to see you both!” Prettigrew gushed, all a flutter, as Caroline and Arabella entered the store. “Now come, Ladies, come! Through the Magic Curtain and up the wooden hill to Wonderland!” he chivvied them through into the back and up the stairs. “Bear right! Bear right!” he shouted up behind them “Come, Miss Kaufman!” Arabella was amazed that the store had a ‘behind the scenes’ even though she toiled most of the day in a similar establishment. She was even more amazed at the big fitting room upstairs and that she was offered A SEAT! Here was a dark purple dress, unfinished but already shining with beauty, fitted around a headless dressmaker’s form, and little else besides a mirror and screens. Oh, a small table and some glasses. “Now, ladies, I always offer my more illustrious customers a little something to get us in a creative mood: a little madeira perhaps?” he asked “But then straight to business. Miss Kaufmann please undress and put the new garment on.” he ordered, matter-of-factly, waving his hand toward the form. “Miss Mundee, you might as well disrobe now, so I can get accurate measurements. Stays too, if you please!” he added, flexing his tape measure. Arabella jumped up off her chair. “Ooooh! Shall I take my clothes off, too?!” she asked excitedly. “No, that will not be necessary, Miss Mudd.” Answered Mr. Pettigrew, dryly. Arabella sighed sadly at this reply. @Wayfarer
  14. Javia

    Damaged Goods

    Crabbe stood, like a man braced against a storm, and took on the full explosion of shock, horror, outrage, pity… a panoply of mixed emotions, all united by being overpoweringly strong and, wanting any other outlet, aimed at him: he who had shown them what, after all, was just the plain truth of Bridget’s everyday existence. It wasn’t even the whole story, just the visible physical manifestations of her sad tale. The other stuff could wait, until they were back downstairs, at least. "Cover her up please, Fa," she commanded then forced one of the most difficult smiles she had ever had to summon up for the girl, "Yes, nice freckle, hon. You just lay back and relax." “She can put it on herself” Crabbe said, perhaps a little coldly all of a sudden, pulling himself together for the next act of this little tragedy. "What'd you have to go and do that for?" he demanded gruffly. Then she turned to Crabbe, "Who did this? What animal did this?" Crabbe just shook his head and pointed to the floor of Bridget’s over-fancily decorated bedroom, more like a doll’s house than a room in the real world. “Downstairs” was all he would say. It wouldn't do to replay it all in front of Bridget: that usually led to the nightmares returning. Brendan wanted to comfort the poor girl himself first, though. "Hey, Bridg," he said softly, using Crabbe's nickname for her. "Remember me? Remember how we danced together? 'Course you do." He was just talking to have something to say. She obviously wasn't in pain, but he still felt the need to say something comforting to her. Lorenzo wasn’t annoyed about the way the honest hearted cowboy pushed his comforting hand away from Bridget’s red hair. He was glad of it. It gave him hope: hope of a sort he had almost given up on until he had read that letter. The trust in her eyes as she smiled up at him. “Yes! Bren’an. Dance!”. Crabbe moved to the door while Connolly bent over the bed. “Come on Mundee, let’s go down and get another drink while they… talk.” He suggested. “Charlie, you come, too.” The Chinese man hurried out of the room. "You two come down when you're ready." he said to the two illiterate correspondents "no hurry." @Wayfarer @Bailey
  15. “We have... well, such things are still in flux. It is really our affair, Miss Wigfall." “Oh, you don’t know, then?” Jemima surmised. A faint dopy smile played on her usually inert features. She knew it was stupid and pointless, the pleasure she felt at seeing the beautiful Clara even the slightest bit discomfited. But there it was. That was her heart, her slow beating, plodding heart. Her head told her that if she cared anything about Lutz, she should do everything in her power to help the two of them. Three of them. “Well, if you don’t get your affair out of this flux place you can always stay at our’s. We got a room empty.” She offered straightforwardly enough, with a sniff. The crossed arms showed that her heart was still at war with her brain on this, though. "Well, Bridget, we will be cutting the wedding cake soon. You will not want to miss getting a slice, Mrs. Pike baked it and did a magnificent job decorating it too," she turned her attention back to the much more likeable ginger girl. “Cake!” beamed Bridget “Cake, ‘Mima!” she smiled at the morose Wigfall girl. “Make you fat.” replied Jemima. @Wayfarer

About Sagas

Sagas of the WIld West is a roleplaying game set in a fictionalized version of the town of Kalispell in Montana territory. Our stories begin in 1875 and are set against the backdrop of actual historical events.Sagas was inspired by the classic television and movie westerns. Our focus is on writing, storytelling and character development.

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