FOURTEEN DAYS IN YOUR SHOES

Jason read the booking confirmation twice.

Then he looked at his wife.

"Fourteen days?"

"Fourteen nights," Claire replied, a little too brightly.

"Inside your body?"

"And I'll be inside yours."

He looked down at the brochure again. A smiling couple stood beside a turquoise swimming pool beneath the words:

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE. A CLOSER CONNECTION.

"Whatever happened to a weekend in Bournemouth?"

Claire laughed, but when she sat beside him, her expression softened.

"We keep saying we need time together. Proper time. No work, no washing machine to fix, no falling asleep halfway through a conversation."

"I'm quite capable of having a conversation while fixing the washing machine."

"You asked me whether my sister's divorce needed a new filter."

Jason considered defending himself, then changed his mind.

Claire took his hand.

"I should have talked to you before booking. We don't have to go through with the swap."

That helped more than her enthusiasm had.

He studied the photograph again.

"Do they have a normal bar?"

"A very normal bar."

"And we can stop if either of us hates it?"

"The therapy team will be there throughout."

Jason sighed.

"All right. But you're explaining your wardrobe."

The transformation itself took less than ten minutes.

Learning to recognise himself afterwards took considerably longer.

Jason stood before the mirror in their cabin, watching Claire's familiar face wear his astonished expression.

He raised a hand.

The woman in the mirror raised hers.

Behind him, his own body sat on the edge of the bed.

"Oh," Claire said in his deeper voice.

Jason turned.

"What?"

"Your knees make that noise every time you sit down?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't you mentioned it?"

"I thought everybody did."

She looked at him with sudden concern, then flexed one leg experimentally.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Jason pushed a strand of hair out of his mouth.

"How do you keep this out of everything?"

"Usually by tying it back."

"Where's the thing?"

"What thing?"

"The hair thing."

Claire smiled.

Their education had begun.

The first afternoon involved a swimsuit, three rejected cover-ups, and an argument with a bikini clasp.

Jason emerged from the bathroom, holding the top against his chest.

"I believe this has been designed by somebody who dislikes people."

Claire put down the cruise itinerary.

"Come here."

He stood patiently while she fastened it.

"You don't have to wear this one," she said. "There's a swimming costume in the case."

"I know. I want to understand how you manage."

"Well, usually without looking quite so offended."

He studied himself in the mirror. It was strange to see a body he knew so well from a position he'd never known.

"Is it meant to feel this… exposed?"

"Sometimes."

"You always look so comfortable."

"Looking comfortable and feeling comfortable aren't always the same thing."

He glanced at her reflection.

That was the first thing he learned, and it stayed with him.

Claire handed him a loose beach shirt, and they walked to the pool together.

He spent the first ten minutes tugging at straps and wondering where to put his hands.

Claire spent them discovering that his longer legs needed more room under a sun lounger.

When Jason finally lowered himself into the warm water, his expression changed.

"Oh, that's lovely."

Claire joined him.

For the next hour, they floated, talked, and laughed whenever one called across the pool and was startled to hear their own voice answer.

Later, sitting beneath an umbrella, Claire passed him a bottle of sun cream.

"Your shoulders."

He began rubbing it in, then hesitated.

"My shoulders?"

"Our shoulders, for the fortnight."

He smiled and turned his back towards her.

"Would you?"

Her hands moved gently over his skin.

It was a small kindness. Perhaps that was why it touched him so much.

Their morning sessions were less embarrassing than Jason had feared.

Their counsellor mostly asked questions.

What did each of them find tiring?

What made them feel appreciated?

What had they stopped asking for?

Jason discovered that Claire liked being offered help without having to organise it first.

Claire discovered that when Jason went quiet after a difficult day, he often wanted company but couldn't figure out how to ask.

"I thought you wanted leaving alone," she admitted.

"Sometimes I do."

"How am I supposed to tell?"

He looked at her.

"I could probably try telling you."

She smiled.

"That might be a promising start."

Outside the sessions, their lessons were often less dignified.

Claire used far too much shaving foam and regarded the razor as though it might attack.

Jason stood beside her, explaining the angle with unexpected patience.

"You do this every morning?"

"Most mornings."

She examined the result.

"I owe you an apology for suggesting it only takes two minutes."

That evening, he tried to walk to dinner in her heels.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped.

Claire looked back.

"Everything all right?"

"I've changed my mind about your walking speed."

She fetched his flats without saying a word.

He kissed her cheek when she returned.

There was one subject Jason avoided.

He could discuss bikini straps, unfamiliar balance, and the extraordinary number of bottles in Claire's washbag.

He could not quite discuss bedtime.

For two nights, they changed separately and lay beneath the sheets with an awkward politeness that hadn't existed between them in years.

On the second night Claire reached for his hand.

"Are you frightened of me?"

"No."

"Of this?"

After a long silence, he nodded.

She moved a little closer.

"So am I."

That surprised him.

"You are?"

"Jason, I keep looking at you and seeing myself. Then you say something ridiculous about the pillows, and you're completely you again."

He laughed softly.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted.

"Neither do I."

"What if it's strange?"

"It probably will be."

"What if I don't like it?"

"Then we stop."

She kissed his forehead.

Her voice held no disappointment, no expectation that he had to satisfy.

He fell asleep holding her hand.

On the third evening, they took their time getting ready.

Jason chose a blue dress Claire had packed almost as an afterthought.

He struggled with the fastening until she came to help.

When he turned around, she went quiet.

"What?"

"I'd forgotten how much I liked that dress."

"You're allowed to compliment the person wearing it."

Claire grinned.

"You look beautiful."

He glanced away, unexpectedly pleased.

"You look rather handsome yourself."

She straightened his dinner jacket.

"Your wife has excellent taste."

They ate beside a window overlooking the darkening sea. For once, neither hurried. Claire told him about a pottery class she had wanted to try. Jason admitted he had been thinking of reducing his hours at work.

"Why didn't you say?"

"I wasn't sure what you'd think."

"I'd think I might get to see you before eight o'clock."

After dinner came cocktails, music, and a dance floor lit with warm golden lamps.

Their first attempt at dancing ended with both trying to guide the other.

"Someone needs to decide," Claire whispered.

Jason looked up at her familiar, unfamiliar face.

"You try."

She drew him closer.

He took a careful step, then another. Gradually, he stopped watching his feet.

"There," Claire murmured.

"What?"

"You've stopped looking as though we're assembling furniture."

He laughed against her shoulder.

They danced until the music slowed and the room seemed quieter around them.

On deck afterwards, the breeze lifted his hair. Claire draped her jacket around his shoulders.

"Cold?"

"A little."

She tucked the lapels closer beneath his chin.

He caught her hand before she could lower it.

"I think," he said carefully, "I'd like us to try being close tonight."

Claire searched his face.

"Are you sure?"

"Nervous. But sure."

They stayed outside a while longer, listening to the water. Back in the cabin, they drank a glass of water each and sat together on the bed.

For a few minutes they simply talked.

Then Jason leaned forward and kissed her.

There were awkward moments.

They bumped noses. Claire became tangled in a sleeve. Jason laughed so unexpectedly that she started laughing too.

"Very romantic," she said.

"I thought so."

They began again, more slowly.

Neither had to know everything. They asked, listened, paused, and discovered that familiar affection could make room for unfamiliar feelings.

When Jason grew shy, Claire waited. When she seemed uncertain, he drew her close and reassured her.

He found that he liked being held this way. He liked the tenderness of her attention, the chance to say what felt comfortable and what he wanted. The experience he had feared became something they could explore together.

Much later, resting against her, he traced a small circle across her hand.

"All right?" she whispered.

He nodded.

Then, because they were learning to say things properly, he added, "More than all right."

She kissed his hair.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other.

The rest of the cruise became easier.

Jason learned to put on his bikini without requiring technical assistance, although he still checked the clasp twice.

Claire learned how to shave without leaving a small island beneath her chin.

He discovered the pleasure of having his hair brushed while he sat on the balcony. She discovered how much she liked having someone take her hand and ask her to dance.

One afternoon, he rubbed sun cream onto her broad shoulders.

"You carry a lot of tension here," he said.

"So do you."

"I know. I can feel where it usually is."

She turned and looked at him.

He kissed her before she could answer.

They began asking little questions they had somehow neglected for years.

Was this touch pleasant?

Did she prefer the quiet restaurant?

Would he like company on his walk?

Sometimes the answers surprised them. Sometimes they changed from one day to the next.

They stopped treating that as a problem.

One afternoon, Claire returned from a walk around the ship and found Jason reading on the balcony.

"Good walk?" he asked.

She nodded but stayed by the doorway.

Jason put down his book.

"What is it?"

Claire looked at him for a moment.

"I've realised something rather embarrassing."

"Go on."

"When I'm upset, you often put your arms around me. But when you're upset, I usually ask you what you're going to do about it."

He thought about that.

"I suppose you do."

"I always thought you preferred being practical."

"Sometimes it helps."

"And sometimes?"

He shrugged.

"Sometimes I haven't got an answer yet."

Claire sat beside him.

At lunch, she admitted she felt anxious about going back to work. One of their new friends had immediately asked whether she had spoken to her manager. Another had suggested changing jobs. Both meant well, but she left wishing someone had simply listened.

"I wanted a cuddle," she said quietly. "And I felt silly asking."

Jason reached for her hand.

"You can always ask me."

"I know. So can you."

He looked down at their joined hands.

"I'm not very good at it."

"Neither was I, apparently."

She opened her arms with a small, uncertain smile.

"Would you like one now?"

Jason moved into her embrace. She held him without offering advice, one hand resting gently against his back.

After a while, she felt him relax.

"That?" she whispered.

"Yes," he said. "Exactly that."

Claire kissed the top of his head.

She would remember when they got home.

On their final evening, Jason stood on the balcony in the blue dress.

Claire joined him and slipped an arm around his waist.

"Regrets?"

He considered it.

"The heels."

"Anything else?"

"Not talking to you sooner."

She leaned against him.

"Me too."

They watched the ship's wake spread across the dark water. Tomorrow, they would return to their own bodies. Jason looked forward to it, though he knew he'd miss some things about these fourteen days.

Claire squeezed his hand.

"We can still dance at home, you know."

He smiled.

"I was just thinking that."

The next morning, restored to their own bodies, Jason reached automatically for the hair that no longer brushed his cheek.

Claire laughed.

He pulled her into his arms, then eased back enough to study her face.

"Hello, you."

"Hello."

The embrace felt familiar. It was comforting, too.

At the booking desk, Claire picked up a brochure for the following year.

Jason glanced over her shoulder.

"Same cabin?"

She turned.

"You mean that?"

"With the balcony."

"And the couples programme?"

He took the pen from her hand.

"Yes. But next time, I'm packing the sensible shoes."

Claire kissed his cheek while he signed.

Fourteen days earlier, he boarded, frightened of everything he didn't understand.

Now he knew how to fasten a bikini, why her feet hurt after a party, and how lovely it could feel to rest in her arms.

He also knew she liked her back stroked as she fell asleep.

That night, at home, he remembered.

When he grew quiet over breakfast the next morning, Claire set down her cup and opened her arms.

This time, he knew how to ask.

"Could you hold me a minute?"

"Of course," she said.

They stayed there until the tea went cold.

Pretty, but Dangerous Book 2

Whenever the curse loosened its grip, Sam worked as a bounty hunter.

It was hard work, poorly paid once the expenses were counted. Feed for his horse, cartridges, hotel beds, replacement boots, and the blacksmith's price soon swallowed a reward. Sometimes he spent three weeks following a wanted man across dry country, only to discover that the fellow had crossed into another territory or died of fever before Sam could lay hands on him.

He brought his prisoners back alive.

That rule had cost him blood, sleep and more than one easy payday. A dead outlaw could be slung across a saddle. A living one needed watching every minute. Prisoners lied, begged, feigned sickness and waited for the moment their captor nodded off beside the fire.

But Sam had once ridden with men who decided for themselves who deserved to die. He had helped burn a Native settlement and called it necessary.

He no longer trusted that word.

Now he delivered the accused to a sheriff and let a court determine their guilt. If the verdict ended with a rope and a short drop, that was the law's business. He would not shoot a fleeing man merely to save himself another difficult day.

Living as a woman on the frontier made every difficult day harder.

Some sheriffs laughed when he presented a wanted notice. Others demanded to speak to the man who had really made the capture. Hotel clerks assumed he wanted customers, not a room. Men blocked doorways, caught his wrist or mistook a refusal for an invitation to persuade him.

He learned to watch their hands.

He learned which saloons had a second exit, which boarding houses locked their doors properly, and which stablemen tended his horse without asking what else a pretty woman might offer in payment.

On the trail, no one helped.

He hauled water, gathered fuel, and wrestled a saddle onto his horse, his shoulders already aching from the previous day. Rain soaked his blankets. Alkali dust worked into his clothes and rubbed his skin raw. In winter, his fingers cracked until gripping the reins hurt; in summer, sweat dried white along the seams of his shirt.

His monthly bleeding could begin fifty miles from a decent bed. He carried folded cloths in an oilskin packet, washed them when he could find clean water, and endured the cramps because stopping meant losing a trail. Once, feverish and exhausted, he spent an afternoon crouched beside a muddy creek trying to clean himself while his shackled prisoner complained about the delay.

Sam had pointed towards the water.

"You're welcome to fetch some."

The man had fallen silent.

Yet the ordinary hardships were easier than waiting for the curse.

Even when no one demanded anything of him, he could never quite rest.

A headache might be thirst—or the beginning of a summons. A distant scream might belong to a nightmare—or to somebody whose suffering he was about to witness. He slept lightly, waking at the creak of a floorboard or a horse shifting outside. Whenever he bought supplies, he bought enough to leave at once.

He stopped promising himself a week off.

Tonight might be the night.

Sometimes he sat before a plate of food too tired to lift his fork, listening inwardly for something he dreaded hearing. Sometimes he woke from an innocent dream with his heart pounding, then lay furious in the dark because even his sleep had become another place where he waited.

He had begun to understand that the curse did not need to hurt him every hour.

Knowing it could was enough.

The next summons came in a narrow bunk above a livery stable.

Sam had returned that afternoon with a horse thief after nine days on the trail. His wrists were bruised, his thighs rubbed sore, and he had eaten little besides beans, hard bread and coffee boiled until it tasted of the pot.

He intended to sleep until noon.

Instead, sometime after midnight, he dreamed of wagons.

A canvas cover burned against a black sky. A mule screamed in its traces. Men rode between the stranded vehicles, firing at people who had already dropped their weapons.

The attackers had painted their faces and dressed themselves to resemble Native warriors.

But one wore polished cavalry boots beneath his leggings.

Another shouted to his companions in a whiskey-thick voice.

Sam saw a woman trying to pull someone beneath a wagon. He saw a rifle rise. Then the dream changed: soldiers moving through a different settlement, families driven from their homes, possessions left beside cold cooking fires.

Land taken.

Blame placed where the killers had intended.

Sam woke with a cry caught in his throat.

For a moment, the stable loft seemed full of smoke.

He pressed his palms against his eyes. The pain behind them pulsed with each heartbeat, and beneath it came the familiar certainty: a direction, a place, harm left unfinished.

"No," he whispered. "Give me one night."

The pressure sharpened.

Below him, his horse stamped in its stall.

Sam sat on the edge of the bunk until he could stand without swaying. Then he pulled on his boots.

By dawn, he was riding again.

The journey took four days.

Cold rain followed him across the open country, turning the trail into a sucking mire. He dismounted on the steep stretches to spare his horse and walked with mud dragging at his boots. At a swollen creek, he waited half a day for the water to fall, shivering beneath a blanket that never properly dried.

Each time he shut his eyes, he saw the burning wagon.

Each time he woke, the pain was there.

By the time he reached town, he had developed a cough and could scarcely remember the last time he'd slept uninterrupted.

The place looked prosperous from a distance. New lumber fronts stood beside older adobe buildings. Freight wagons crowded the street. Survey stakes marked the ground beyond the stock pens, and men in clean coats discussed the railway over cigars.

Closer in, prosperity smelled of horse manure, coal smoke and stagnant water in the gutters.

Sam booked a small room in a hotel whose clerk required payment in advance.

He climbed the stairs, bolted the door and stood motionless beside the washstand.

There was a bed.

For several seconds, he could think of nothing else.

Then the pain tightened behind his eyes.

"All right," he muttered.

He washed with water gone cold in the pitcher and unpacked the only respectable dress he owned. It was dark blue, carefully mended, with a neckline suitable for an evening in a saloon. He brushed the dust from it, pinned up his hair and studied his tired face in the spotted mirror.

The woman looking back at him appeared older than she had a month before.

He strapped a small revolver beneath his skirt, checked that he could reach it while seated, and went downstairs.

The saloon was crowded with cattlemen, freight drivers, and men hoping to grow rich without working much.

Lamplight shone through tobacco smoke. A piano struggled against the noise of conversation. Behind the bar, glasses stood beside a jar of pickled eggs, and someone had spat tobacco juice close enough to the stove to make it hiss.

Sam took a seat where he could see the door.

He bought one drink and made it last.

Men were often willing to explain a town to a pretty stranger. With a little encouragement, they explained far more than they meant to.

He listened to complaints about grazing rights, boasts about land purchases and jokes about the recent removal of the Native families.

Whenever a hand wandered towards him, he moved it away.

One man tried twice.

Sam caught his wrist and held his gaze.

"You've mistaken my patience."

Something in his voice persuaded the man to leave.

By closing time, Sam had a name.

Silas Vane.

Vane owned three ranches, two brothels and the largest hotel in town. He had also bought an extraordinary amount of land shortly after the wagon raid—land whose frightened owners had sold cheaply, and land vacated after the cavalry drove its Native occupants away.

The railway would pass through it.

Vane expected to sell access, water and ground at whatever price the company could bear.

The killings had been an investment.

Sam spent the next week gathering proof.

He spoke to a wheelwright who had repaired a raider's wagon. He found a stable boy who remembered horses arriving with paint still smeared on their saddles. A wounded survivor described a familiar voice among the attackers, though the sheriff had refused to write it down.

Sam recorded every name.

At night, he broke into offices.

One window opened above a privy roof. Another required an hour of patient work with a thin knife while dogs barked in the neighbouring yard. He searched desks by the light of a shuttered lantern, fingers stiff with cold, stopping whenever footsteps passed outside.

The first safe defeated him.

The second yielded only account books.

On the third night, he found a key hidden beneath a drawer and opened a strongbox containing deeds, payments and correspondence.

There were dates.

Amounts.

Names of men who had received money before the raid and more afterwards.

A government land agent had arranged the transfers. The sheriff had been paid to discourage questions. Several councillors had purchased small interests through relatives.

Sam copied what he could and took the most important papers.

By then, exhaustion had made him clumsy.

He dropped his pencil twice. He forgot whether he had checked a door. One afternoon, he fell asleep sitting on his hotel bed with a boot in his hand and woke convinced that someone had entered the room.

Nobody had.

He checked the lock anyway.

Then he checked it again.

Vane's men caught up with him at the livery.

Sam had just tightened his saddle girth when he noticed that the stable boy had disappeared.

Two men stood at the entrance. A third emerged beside the feed room.

"Mr Vane would like a word," the nearest said.

Sam kept one hand on the saddle.

"He can write."

The man smiled and reached beneath his coat.

Sam moved first.

The shot struck the doorpost beside the man's head, showering him with splinters. Sam hauled his horse between himself and the other gunmen, scrambled into the saddle and drove out through the rear gate.

He took a bullet through the loose cloth of his sleeve.

For the next six miles, he rode bent low, expecting every crack behind him to be the shot that finally found its mark.

Only when his horse began to stumble did he slow.

He dismounted in a dry wash and led the trembling animal into cover.

"I know," he whispered, resting his forehead against its neck. "I'm sorry."

He wanted to lie down.

Instead, he checked the papers beneath his coat.

They were still there.

Getting the evidence before the governor took longer than stealing it.

Sam endured suspicious clerks, unanswered messages and a deputy who suggested that a woman travelling alone with accusations against respectable men might wish to reconsider her position.

He put Vane's letters on the desk.

"Read those before you advise me."

Eventually, someone did.

A territorial investigator accompanied him back to town. Witnesses gave statements outside the sheriff's hearing. They arrested the surviving raiders separately, and one began talking when he realised Vane had no intention of protecting him.

The documents supported the witnesses.

The witnesses supported one another.

Vane's purchases were challenged. The land agent was detained. The sheriff surrendered his badge, and an interim sheriff arrived with deputies who owed Vane nothing.

The town would need another council too.

Sam watched Vane being led towards the jail.

He felt no sudden triumph.

He was thinking of the wagon.

Of the voices in his dream.

Of another settlement, years before, where he had carried a torch.

Clearing the Native community's name did not restore everything.

The soldiers withdrew without offering the apology Sam thought they owed. Families returned to damaged homes, with livestock still missing. Some came back to graves. Others found neighbours who still looked at them with suspicion, unwilling to surrender a lie they had repeated so confidently.

The surviving settlers returned too.

The railway company now faced people whose claims could no longer be quietly erased. They would have to negotiate agreements for the track, the water, and the land.

Sam stayed until an independent lawyer arrived to represent the displaced families. He left copies of the evidence with several people.

He had learned how easily a single document could disappear.

On his last morning, a woman whose brother had died during the forced removal thanked him.

Sam looked down at the reins in his hands.

"I should have come sooner."

"You came," she said.

He could not tell her why.

The pressure in his head lifted as he rode beyond the final fence.

For the first time in weeks, he heard only the creak of saddle leather, the faint jingle of his horse's bit and the wind moving through dry grass.

He stopped beneath a cottonwood beside a creek.

His hands shook when he tried to loosen the girth.

He had remained upright through the danger, the journey and the testimony. Now that the summons had released him, his body seemed unable to carry another hour.

He fed his horse before feeding himself.

Then he spread his blanket beneath the tree and lay down in his boots.

Sleep came heavily, without dreams.

When he woke, the sun was low.

For a little while, he stayed put. His shoulder ached. His feet throbbed. He needed clean clothes, a proper meal and several days in a bed.

Somewhere ahead, another wanted notice would be posted. Another prisoner to bring back alive. Enough money, perhaps, to replace his worn saddle blanket.

And sometime after that, the curse would call.

Sam listened to the quiet until he caught himself doing it.

Waiting again.

He rose slowly, packed his blanket and mounted.

The western sky burned red above the plains. He watched it for a moment, then turned his horse towards the next town.

Pretty, but Dangerous

For the first year, Sam believed the worst thing that had happened to him was becoming a woman.
He rarely thought about the people whose homes he had burned.
When their faces came to him at night, he called them nightmares. When he remembered the screaming, he poured another drink.
He had been twenty-three when he rode into a Cheyenne camp with Caleb Rusk and seven other men. Caleb claimed the people there had stolen horses. Sam never asked for proof.
There were horses to take, possessions to steal, and men who praised him for being bold.
That had been enough.
Three nights later, a survivor found him.
The man introduced himself as Thomas. He was a healer from the community Sam had helped destroy. His left hand was bandaged, and his coat smelled of smoke.
Sam reached for his revolver.
Thomas spoke, and Sam’s fingers would no longer close around the grip.
“My sister died there,” Thomas said. “Her husband too. Their daughter is still asking when they will come back.”
Sam stared at the bandaged hand.
“I didn’t kill them.”
“You set fire to their home.”
“Caleb gave the order.”
“You carried the fire.”
Sam had no answer to that.
By morning, the face in his shaving mirror was a young woman's.
He broke the mirror.
Thomas waited outside until Sam emerged, wrapped in an oversized coat.
“Change me back.”
“No.”
“You’ve made me weak.”
Thomas looked at the broken glass clinging to Sam’s sleeve.
“My sister was a woman. She went back into the fire for someone else’s child. You rode away.”
Sam lowered his eyes.
For the first time, he could not bear to look at the man.
Before leaving, Thomas explained the rest.
The curse would lead Sam to people who had knowingly attacked, robbed or driven Cheyenne families from their homes. It would give him fragments: a face, a place, sometimes a name. It would never give him the whole truth.
He would have to find that himself.
He could delay the summons. He could even ride the other way. But the farther he fled, the worse his sleeplessness and trembling became.
His hands would remain his own. The curse could not pull a trigger for him.
“What makes it stop?” Sam asked.
“Stop the harm. Return what can be returned. Put the guilty where they cannot simply begin again.”
“And if I shoot them?”
“A dead thief can leave stolen horses in someone else’s stable. A dead captor can leave prisoners locked in a cellar.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“If you kill to avoid the harder work, you will still have that work to do.”
“And when I’ve done enough?”
Thomas’s expression changed.
For a moment, he looked exhausted.
“I cannot promise you that.”
Sam spent the following months washing dishes, scrubbing floors and trying to stretch wages that always seemed smaller on payday.
Men who once would have offered him a drink now offered suggestions about how a pretty woman might earn her living.
He refused them.
He hated the assumptions, the unwanted attention and the way employers expected gratitude for half a fair wage.
Yet he still had his speed with a revolver.
That discovery saved him from hunger.
His first bounty was a horse thief who laughed when Sam told him to put his hands on the table.
The laughter stopped when Sam’s bullet struck the wall beside his ear.
After that, Sam earned enough to buy a good horse and rent rooms with working locks. He became known for bringing prisoners back alive, although few mistook that for gentleness.
For weeks at a time, he could almost forget the curse.
Then, one evening, he smelled burning canvas in a room where nothing was alight.
He closed his eyes.
A whitewashed stable appeared in his thoughts. A scarred hand rested on its door.
Sam knew that hand.
Caleb Rusk.
He sat very still.
“No.”
The smell grew stronger.
By dawn, Sam was riding east.
Caleb had become prosperous.
His trading yard stood outside a small town, enclosed by a high fence. Wagons waited beside the stable, and a freshly painted sign advertised horses, provisions and honest dealing.
Sam watched from the hillside.
He had expected an outlaw’s hideout. Instead, he saw customers shaking Caleb’s hand.
For two days, he followed wagons and asked careful questions. A stable worker told him Caleb bought horses cheaply from men who never stayed long.
A shopkeeper said two Cheyenne women had recently accused Caleb of taking their animals.
“What happened?”
“Sheriff moved them along.”
“Did he look in the stable?”
The shopkeeper shrugged.
On the third morning, Sam met one of the women beside the river.
Her name was Ellen. She spoke English, watched his gun belt, then looked at his face.
Sam explained what he had learned.
Ellen listened without interrupting.
Then she told him about the raid.
Caleb’s men had taken horses and winter supplies. Her cousin had followed them to recover the animals.
“He has not come back.”
“How long?”
“Eleven days.”
Sam looked towards the town.
“Were people killed?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without drama.
Somehow that made it harder to hear.
Sam began to say that he was sorry.
Ellen stopped him.
“Can you find my cousin?”
“I’ll try.”
“And the horses?”
“I’ll look.”
She studied him.
“Then do that.”
Sam entered Caleb’s yard shortly before closing.
Caleb stood outside his office counting money.
“Well,” he said, looking Sam up and down. “What can I do for you, miss?”
“You can open your stable.”
His smile faded.
“What business is that of yours?”
Sam stepped nearer.
“You still favour that hand when the weather turns cold?”
Caleb glanced down at his old scar.
“I remember when you got it,” Sam continued. “Knife slipped while you were cutting a saddle off a dead horse.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
“Who told you that?”
“You did. Every time you got drunk.”
Sam watched recognition struggle against the face before him.
“Sam?”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Caleb laughed.
“What in God’s name happened to you?”
“The camp happened.”
Caleb’s laughter stopped.
Sam drew his revolver.
“Open the stable.”
Two hired men emerged from the office.
“Hands where I can see them,” Sam said.
One obeyed.
The other reached inside his coat.
Sam fired into the dirt beside his boot.
The man froze.
“Next one won’t miss.”
Caleb unlocked the stable.
Inside were seventeen horses, several bearing marks Ellen had described. Behind a partition, Sam found a barred storeroom.
A young man lay on straw inside.
His ankle was swollen. A bucket of water stood just beyond his reach.
Sam stared at the bucket.
Caleb shifted beside him.
“Caught him stealing.”
“His own horses?”
“He could have left.”
Sam looked at the injured ankle.
“No. He couldn’t.”
He made Caleb open the door.
The prisoner gave his name as Joseph. Sam helped him into a chair and placed the bucket in his hands.
All the while, pressure built behind Sam’s eyes.
Finding him had not been enough.
In Caleb’s office, Sam discovered a ledger recording payments to the raiders. Names, dates, horses sold.
Caleb watched him read.
“You’re going to ruin us over this?”
Sam turned a page.
The date of the camp they had burned together.
Beside it, in Caleb’s handwriting, was Sam’s payment.
Thirty dollars.
He remembered spending some of it on boots.
For years, he had remembered smoke, shouting and Caleb’s orders. He had somehow allowed himself to forget the money.
“You took your share,” Caleb said quietly.
Sam looked up.
“Yes.”
“So don’t stand there pretending you’re better than me.”
“I’m not.”
The admission frightened Caleb more than the gun had.
Sam closed the ledger.
“But Joseph is leaving. Ellen gets the horses back. And this goes to the marshal.”
Caleb glanced towards the doorway.
“The sheriff won’t touch me.”
“I noticed.”
It would mean a long ride to the district marshal. Witnesses might be threatened. Caleb might buy his way free.
Sam could end the man’s life in a second.
He wanted to.
Then Joseph spoke from the next room.
“Can you help me stand?”
Sam backed towards the doorway, keeping Caleb covered.
“Yes.”
Ellen returned with relatives the following morning.
They identified the horses and loaded the recovered supplies. Sam handed over the money from Caleb’s strongbox and kept a written account of every dollar.
No one thanked him for being brave.
They were busy getting Joseph home.
When Ellen was ready to leave, Sam told her about the earlier attack.
The words came awkwardly, without the excuses he had rehearsed for years.
“I was there. I helped burn it.”
She stared at him.
Sam forced himself to continue.
“I took money afterwards.”
Ellen’s expression hardened.
“You should tell the marshal that too.”
Sam looked down at Caleb, bound beside the office.
He had planned to deliver one guilty man.
Now there would be two.
“Yes,” he said. “I should.”
The marshal took Caleb, the ledger and the statements.
He also took Sam’s confession.
Sam remained in town, ordered to appear at the hearing. No one promised a pardon, and the curse offered no protection from the consequences of his own crimes.
Only after Joseph was safely home, the stolen property was returned, and Caleb was held for trial did the pressure finally lift.
Sam slept that night.
He dreamed of the burning camp, but this time he did not wake blaming Thomas.
Months later, he met the healer again.
Thomas was repairing a harness outside a modest house. His niece sat nearby, helping sort the leather straps.
Sam told him what had happened.
Thomas listened, then asked about Joseph’s ankle.
“He’s walking again.”
“And Ellen’s family?”
“They have their horses.”
Thomas nodded and returned to the harness.
Sam stood there, waiting for something more.
“Will this ever make up for what I did?”
Thomas pulled a stitch tight.
“No.”
Sam swallowed.
“Then why keep doing it?”
Thomas glanced towards his niece.
“Because someone is still alive to be helped.”
Sam continued taking bounties between court appearances and the curse’s summons.
He still disliked much of his new life. Some mornings, the mirror caught him unprepared. Some nights, he missed how easily he had once moved through the world.
But he no longer believed that his own discomfort was the greatest suffering he had caused.
Whenever the summons came, he packed food, ammunition and an extra blanket.
Someone might need bringing home.
Then he mounted his horse and rode.

Red Light Auctions

 

When Helen called the number, she wanted to frighten her husband.

She wanted Michael to understand what it felt like to hear a key turn in the front door and wonder what mood the person coming home would be in.

The woman who answered sounded reassuring.

“Red Light Solutions. How can we help?”

Helen stood in her kitchen, holding a tea towel against her split lip.

“I saw your advertisement.”

“Of course. Are you somewhere safe to speak?”

That question nearly made her cry.

The operator listened for twenty minutes. She did not interrupt or ask why Helen had stayed. Afterwards, she explained that the company offered a discreet intervention programme.

“Your husband will be removed from the household and placed in supervised employment. You won’t have to confront him.”

“What do you mean by removed?”

“We arrange everything.”

Helen looked towards the hallway. Michael would be home soon.

“Will he be able to find me?”

“No.”

She agreed before she could change her mind.

---

Nine days later, an envelope arrived at the flat where Helen was staying with her sister.

Inside were a train ticket, a hotel booking confirmation for Amsterdam, and a card.

RED LIGHT AUCTIONS
Your complimentary admission: Thursday, 8 p.m.

Beneath it, in smaller print:

Attend and see your problem resolved.

Helen read the card twice.

Then she telephoned the number again.

This time, nobody answered.

---

The auction took place on the upper floor of a canal-side building with black windows and a brass doorbell.

A receptionist took Helen’s coat.

“Champagne?”

“No, thank you. I need to speak to someone about Michael.”

“Lot Three.” The receptionist consulted a tablet. “You’re the referring spouse.”

“I’m his wife.”

“Yes. That’s what I have here.”

She handed Helen a catalogue.

Beyond the reception desk, rows of upholstered chairs faced a small stage. People chatted over drinks. One couple were discussing the difficulty of finding reliable household staff.

Helen opened the catalogue.

All placements include identity documents, compulsory domestic-service contracts, and residential supervision.

She turned the page.

There were photographs of four women.

She recognised none of them.

Under the third photograph was her husband’s name.

---

Backstage, Michael sat with his hands clasped between his knees.

They had given him a plain grey dress. A plastic number hung from his wrist. He had asked for trousers that morning and been told the wardrobe allocation was final.

Across from him, Marcus sat staring at the floor.

Richard had spent most of the afternoon demanding a solicitor. Now he watched the door without speaking.

William still seemed convinced that somebody would arrive to collect him.

“My father knows people,” he said.

A staff member entered with four glasses of water.

Michael stood.

“Please. My wife—does she know where I am?”

The woman checked his wrist number.

“Your referring party has been invited.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“Sit down, please.”

He remained standing.

Her hand moved towards the radio clipped to her jacket.

Michael sat.

---

The auctioneer greeted the audience with the easy confidence of a man opening a charity raffle.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have four placements available tonight.”

Helen sat near the back with the catalogue folded tightly in her lap.

Marcus came first.

The auctioneer described his qualifications, his previous salary and his affair. A screen behind him displayed a list of household tasks he had been assessed as capable of performing.

Marcus tried to speak.

The auctioneer lowered his microphone.

Whatever he said made Marcus close his mouth.

Bidding began.

Helen looked around. A woman in the front row raised her paddle without looking up from her catalogue.

Beside Helen, an older man calculated something on his telephone.

Onstage, Marcus wiped his palms against his skirt.

By the time Richard appeared, Helen had stopped trying to tell herself she had misunderstood.

She rose and went into the reception area.

“I want to withdraw my referral.”

The receptionist’s smile faded.

“Once processing has begun, referrals cannot be withdrawn.”

“You said supervised employment.”

“That is what we provide.”

“You’re selling them.”

“We transfer the service contract.”

“Let me see mine.”

The receptionist hesitated, then turned her tablet towards Helen.

Helen’s signature was copied from the form she had completed on her telephone. Beneath it were pages she had never seen.

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You accepted the terms.”

A burst of applause came from inside the room.

“Please take your seat,” the receptionist said.

---

Michael recognised Helen immediately.

He stepped toward her before the attendant caught his arm.

“Helen?”

Several bidders turned to look.

She had returned to the back of the room and was standing beside her chair.

The auctioneer glanced between them.

“Our referring spouse is with us this evening. We hope tonight provides some closure.”

Michael’s face crumpled.

“You called them?”

Helen gripped the chair back.

“Yes.”

“Tell them to let me go.”

She remembered saying the same words in their bedroom, with him standing in the doorway.

He seemed to remember too. His eyes dropped.

The auctioneer began describing his suitability for residential work.

“Stop,” Helen said.

He continued.

“I said stop.”

“Madam, you’ll have an opportunity to speak with our client liaison afterwards.”

A man near the front lifted his paddle.

Helen walked into the aisle.

“I called because he hit me. Your operator told me you would get him out of the house.”

The room quietened.

Michael stood motionless beside the attendant.

“He did hit me,” Helen continued. “I’m not taking that back. But nobody told me you would do this.”

The auctioneer set down his catalogue.

“Perhaps we should take a short interval.”

A staff member approached Helen.

She stepped away from his hand.

“How long is the contract?”

“We can discuss that privately.”

“How long?”

No answer.

Helen looked towards the bidders.

“Did any of you ask?”

---

A young woman opened a side door.

“This way, madam. We can deal with your complaint downstairs.”

Her badge read ELISE — GUEST SERVICES.

Helen followed her into a narrow corridor.

The door shut behind them.

Elise spoke quietly.

“Keep walking.”

“I’m not leaving until—”

“I know. Keep walking.”

At the end of the corridor, Elise opened a cleaning cupboard and reached behind a stack of folded cloths.

She brought out a telephone.

“They took yours at reception?”

Helen nodded.

“Use this.”

“Who are you?”

Elise glanced back at the door.

“I was Lot Two last November.”

Helen stared at her.

“My buyer returned me. Said I was difficult. They put me to work here until they could recover the cost.”

She unlocked the telephone.

Its screen showed photographs of contracts, identity papers, and people sitting beneath numbered signs.

“I’ve been collecting what I could. But I can’t get out of this building with it.”

Helen took the phone.

“Who do I call?”

“The police. Tell them four people are being held backstage. Tell them the exits are watched.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Elise picked up a bundle of towels.

“And tell them there are more of us working here.”

---

The auction did not resume.

For several minutes, the guests remained seated while staff offered refreshments and apologised for the delay.

Then someone tried the main door and found police outside.

Helen waited near reception until an officer asked her to identify Michael.

They brought him downstairs, wrapped in a borrowed coat. Under the bright hallway light, she could see how exhausted he looked.

“Helen.”

She stayed beside the officer.

“Am I coming with you?” he asked.

“No.”

He looked at the overnight bag by her feet.

“I’m staying with my sister. I’ve spoken to a solicitor. You’re not coming back to the house.”

He began to cry.

Once, the sight would have made her comfort him, apologise, promise to try harder.

This time, she let him cry.

“I’ve told the police what you did,” she said. “I’ve told them what happened here too.”

An officer guided him towards a waiting car.

Helen watched until he was safely inside.

---

Shortly before dawn, Elise emerged from the building carrying her belongings in a clear plastic bag.

Helen stood beneath the awning across the street.

“Have you got somewhere to go?” she asked.

Elise shook her head.

“There’s someone here arranging accommodation for everyone. I’ll wait with you.”

They sat on a low wall beside the canal.

Across the road, officers were carrying boxes out of the auction house. One contained the catalogues.

Helen could see the corner of hers sticking out, its cover still advertising a quick and easy solution.

Elise followed her gaze.

“Did you buy anyone?”

“No.”

“Good.”

After a moment, Helen took off her coat and spread it across both their knees.

They waited together for the car.