They've been here for ten days. Ten surprisingly long days. Dixie's not going to complain about having Brisco all to herself, but he's starting to wear on her nerves with all of that pacing.

When the door thumps open, she shuts the dime novel she'd been skimming and glances over her shoulder. "I hope you didn't waste that trip, Kansas."

It's the voice she recognizes. Not the tall, imposing blonde-haired woman bent over her stove in a calico dress. Not the unmusical sound of her clomping and stamping around the kitchen, or the severe frown on her face ( Read more... )

It used to be far easier to get a nice little meal and a cozy tete a tete. At least that's what Dixie says to herself for the millionth time today as she strides up the back staircase of a club of ill-repute in a badly-fitting black wig. Her incredibly brief time with the senator has managed to land her in extremely hot water and now a bunch of ( Read more... )

For once, this isn't a trail somewhere in Laredo, or a hay loft in East Juarez. It's the dining room of the Horseshoe Club, and Dixie's just ordered a bottle of wine and a filet mignon. She keeps an eye on the grandfather clock just barely visible in the cloakroom as the minutes tick by. Brisco said he wanted to talk before he left town on ( Read more... )

Dixie knows she's starting to wear her welcome out among Emilio's followers; after all, it's one thing to be a golden beacon of the revolution and quite another a stalled saloon singer with no gigs. She doesn't need a ladies' maid to pack her valise and hire the next stage up to San Francisco; she should be able to get a room at the Saint Victoria ( Read more... )