When she arrived at the Circle Q, she spotted Jack's pickup right away. She checked her watch, nearly six. He'd get off soon.

He straightened up from a tractor and smiled at her as she got out of her truck, wiping his hands on a rag and placing a wrench in his back pocket.

"Tractor acting up on you?" she asked, seeing what he'd been working on.

"Nah, nothing serious. Just changing out the spark plugs."

She sauntered up to him, pushed his hat back, and kissed him.

He flinched back a bit, which surprised her, and she saw he had a split lip.

"Oh, baby. What happened to you?" she asked, stroking the side of his face, noticing the long bruise running along his jawline.

He grimaced and took her hand. "Had a tussle last night. Things got out of hand over at the Triple Nickel."

She laughed then, backing up and looking at him from head to toe. "You and your sidekick get in a fight?"

He shrugged. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

There were several marks on him, she noticed. A bruise on his forearm, and maybe on the scruff of his neck. His hands had several small cuts and his left hand was swollen, knuckles bruised. She thought maybe she'd take him back to her place and see about playing a little nurse. The thought sent a shiver through her. Definitely a good idea.

He kissed her on the ear, and let his hand glide down her back in that way he had. Such big hands.

And his cell phone rang. The tinny strains of "Super Freak," the version with the banjo, echoed from his back pocket. He pulled out the phone, saw who called, and shrugged. "Boss calling," he said, and flipped open the phone. "I'll only be a few minutes."

She patted him on the ass as he turned and walked back to the tractor, talking about hay and mowing. He glanced back at her, winked, and limped around the side of the tractor.

Helluva fight, she thought. Hope they didn't hurt someone.

While he talked, she walked past his truck, trailing her hands along the side, and then hopped up on the tailgate to sit and wait for him. The call took a while, and she was just wondering how a man could have so much crap piled in his truck when she saw something that caught her breath. A bra poked out from beneath an old feed bag. She climbed into the truck and pulled the bags away. There was not only a bra-with a bigger cup than she had, she noticed, wounded-but there was also a pair of pants.

Son of a bitch, she thought, picking up the jeans. The design that was sewn down the left leg looked very familiar. She held her breath and felt for the pockets. In the back right pocket, she pulled out a wallet.

Now her heart was thumping in her chest. This was not happening. Not now, not this guy.

She opened the wallet and dropped it with a cry of anguish. There on the bed of his truck lay a picture of Sarah Jane Beauhall's smiling face. It was her driver's license.

Julie slowly put the wallet back into the pants and rolled them up, wrapping the bra inside the roll. Then she climbed out of the truck and stomped over to the tractor, and the lying sack of shit.

"How could you?" she said, hitting him with the rolled-up jeans. "Is that where you got those marks?" she asked, her voice rising to a shout.

Jack turned around, startled, and quickly hung up the phone, while holding an arm up to protect his head.

"Is that a hickey on your neck, you lying bastard?"

"Calm down, Julie. Let me explain."

That's all it took. If he could explain, then she was done.

"What, am I too old for you? Huh?" She was full-on crying now and hated herself for it. "You fuck her in your truck and can't even return her pants. Where is she?" The moment turned black and she took a step back from the rather tall man, seeing him as a threat for the first time. "What did you do to her?"

"Her," he said, his own voice rising. "The little whore about killed me and Steve!"

Julie turned. "If you've hurt her," she choked back a sob, "I'll kill you. Where is she?"

"We left her at the bar," he said, pulling his shoulder back. "She wasn't fighting it until the end, just so you know."

"Stop it," Julie said, her vision sparkling with tears.

"You want to get into it, then fine," he said, stomping past her. "She wanted it. Wanted it bad. But all of a sudden she went psycho-" He spun around, waving his hands in the air. "-began punching and kicking. We didn't sign up for that craziness so we left her. You happy?"

Julie shook her head, crushed the jeans to her chest with both hands, and ran for her truck.

He didn't move, just stood and watched her as she drove away.

Forty-one.

I WAS SWEEPING THE FLOOR OF THE SMITHY WHEN I HEARD Julie coming across the lot from her place. I'd gotten in pretty early for me, hoping to make up some time for missing the day before.

I was in a whole world of hurt and probably needed to stretch to loosen up, but for now the pain was a steady reminder of my stupidity.

I'd had a hard time sleeping, as you might expect, and made sure I got the sword back in the safe this morning. Watching it disappear as I closed the door, hearing the locks synch home, gave me a bit of peace.

We had several orders to get out, and a day of shoeing ahead of us. Would be nice to do some work, feel useful again.

Julie opened the door, and stopped. I didn't turn immediately, as I was digging some dust out from under a worktable. When she didn't say anything, and didn't move, I turned. "Hey, Julie," I said. "Sorry about yesterday, I would've called, but . . ."

She threw a roll of cloth at me. "Here's your pants," she growled, her voice tight with anger.

I didn't even try to catch them. They bounced off my chest and landed at my feet. "Julie, where'd you find . . ." And I realized where.

"Left your pants in his truck," she said, seeing my face. "No idea how you got home without them, but by the look of you, it was a rough night."

"You have no idea," I said, sagging against the broom. "Look, I'm sorry."

She held her hands in front of her, palms out, and opened and closed them into fists. "You have a lot of problems, Sarah. I've tried to be there for you, but you've crossed a line."

I looked up at her, tears filling my eyes.

"What I can't figure is your angle. I know you were struggling with Katie and all," she said, walking into the shop. There were tears in her eyes, and more anger than I'd seen outside my own mirror in a while. "You lament your fate and all that horseshit, then you go out and try and bang the one guy I'd found to like? The one guy who didn't assume I was a dyke because I'm a blacksmith, or work with horses. You have to ruin that for me? For what, Sarah?" She'd crossed into yelling. I'd never seen her so angry before. "Is this a game to you? You move on from Katie to a couple of guys you pick up at a bar? What's that do for your reputation, huh?"

I couldn't breathe. She just kept yelling and pacing. She was a strong woman with many more years swinging a hammer than I. And she looked like she'd like nothing more than to punch me right in the face.

I didn't screw them, but did it matter? Was that line really important at this point? "I don't know," I said, honestly.

"Word of this gets around the horse community, I'll be out of business, you think of that?"

Of course, I hadn't been thinking at all. "I'm sorry."

She looked at me, disgust and pain battling across her features. "Damn it, Sarah. I liked you."

And the fat lady began singing. I felt that I might just slip out of my body again, like I'd done at the bar. The pain and anguish were so sharp, so visceral, that I felt I could float out of my body and leave the hurt for just a moment.

Instead I bowed my head and sobbed. "I'm so . . . so . . . sorry." And as I said it, I knew it didn't matter.

"Get out," she said, her voice frigid.

I couldn't look at her, I just laid the broom on the workbench, knelt to pick up my pants, and shuffled around the anvil, touching it with the side of my hand as I passed. "Sorry . . . sorry . . . sorry . . ." I kept repeating, thinking that this was not happening. This was the one safe place, the one true place.

As I reached the door, my hand on the knob, she called out to me.

"Sarah, wait . . ."

And I turned, hope blooming in my chest for a moment.

But when I saw her, the hope fell to embers.

She pointed at the safe. "Get your shit out of my shop."

I just wish she'd hit me. Hell, I deserved it. But that last was worse.

I opened the safe, took out two short swords and a dagger. I laid them on the table and turned to get the case for Gram, but she'd moved to stand in front of the workbench. She leaned forward, placing both hands on the surface with her head sagging down. She was crying. I could hear her sobs, feel each racking breath like a spear in my heart.

I couldn't get Gram's case without asking her to move, so I unrolled my pants on top of the safe, and rolled Gram, the swords, and the dagger all together, tucked them under my arm, and walked out.

I dumped the lot in the back of my car and opened the driver's door. I hesitated, looking back at the shop, wishing that she'd come out. But she didn't, so I got in and drove away. I'd done a lot of leaving lately. Caused a lot of pain. The universe, or karma, or whatever the hell you think keeps the balance, well, as far as I'm concerned, they could all take a flying leap.

I was sick of crying.

Forty-two.

I DROVE AROUND A WHILE, NOT REALLY CARING WHERE I ENDED up. Drove over to Seattle and wandered around Gas Works Park for a few hours, then drove out toward Black Briar before I realized Katie could be out there. And I couldn't really face that lot yet, not with everything that had happened.

So, I drove out to Tiger Mountain, parked the car, and hiked up onto the plateau. Getting lost in the green felt right.

At first, there were a ton of people, but the farther I walked, the less crowded it got.

Eventually I was alone with the trees. I found a nice secluded spot with a trickle of water, far off-trail, and sat against a tree. I cried a while, but felt I was running out of tears. I dug my hands down into the humus, stirring up the dry smell of decay, and the rich moist smell of growth. Death and life intermingled to provide fertile ground for the next generation of trees and plants.

I drew strength from that earth, from the roots of the trees and the living energy that surrounded me. I sat there for hours, just letting my mind empty of everything except the cool wind and the deep richness of the soil under my fingers.

The temperature dropped by a good ten degrees when the sun set, and I felt the transition of the day into the mystery of twilight. The woods felt different suddenly, quieter, like a moment before the world wakens.

I was only slightly surprised when my cell phone rang. This was the Pacific Northwest. Somewhere on one of those ridges nearby, one of the trees was really a cell tower in disguise.

I looked at the number, and almost didn't answer since I didn't recognize it. But something compelled me. I answered on the third ring.

"Blessings and victory," Rolph's voice said into the phone. "Where are you?"

"Out," I said, annoyed. "Why are you calling me?"

"You must come to the smithy," he said. I caught a hint of panic in his voice.

"I seem to not work there any longer," I said, but the bitterness I half expected did not arise. Somehow I'd let it drain from me, let it fade into the earth, and be replaced by a more peaceful energy. "And since I don't work on the movie any longer, Rolph, I'd say we don't have anything in common."

"Don't be a fool," he hissed. "Someone has broken into the smithy. The safe is empty. They have the sword."

His anguish flowed through the phone, in the inflection of his voice, the quality of his tone.

"It was not in the safe," I said. "And why would you be looking for the sword in any case?"

He stammered a moment, making excuses of concern. I tuned it out, frankly. The exhaustion of the last few days had not been purged by my time in the green. Just pushed back around the borders.

"And besides," I said, cutting into his ranting, "the sword is in my car."

"Father of crows," he breathed. "Where anyone can see it? Are you mad?"

"As a hatter," I assured him. "I'm done in, Rolph. I have nothing else to lose. I've lost my love and my livelihood. All I have is this stupid sword, which, frankly, I'm beginning to think is cursed."

"Cursed? Why would you think such?"

"Yeah," I said, sitting up from the tree. "Didn't you say if the sword was forged incorrectly, the smith would be cursed?"

"Yes, true," he said, hesitant. "But I witnessed its remaking. It was done with grace and skill."

I must have finally hit rock bottom in the last few hours, because that small compliment buoyed me. Gave me a modicum of hope. "Thank you, Rolph. That means a lot to me."

"You are quite welcome."

I stood up and brushed the pine needles and dirt from my jeans. "Is there anything else?" I asked. "I'm going to hike out now, and I don't know how good this signal will be."

"If you are sure the sword is safe," he said, the worry thick in his voice. "I am afraid."

"What's got you spooked, Rolph?"

"The dragon has begun to move into the open. He will not be long dissuaded from his prize, unless you act."