WE CREMATED RIO today. On a large open pyre, as she requested, so that her spirit would be freed and, together with the smoke from the blazing fire, soar to meet her ancestors in a place beyond death.

Ice lit the fire, as we'd all known she would, and with lit torch in hand, she sang. As mournful and melancholy a dirge as I have ever heard, and hope never to hear again in this lifetime.

I think that she was the only one there who didn't cry.

Not that anyone noticed, since they were too busy shedding tears of their own.

As for me, all I can really feel is a pervading sense of numbness. Like being swaddled in cotton from head to toe. They used to call in ennui, I think, once upon a time. Or maybe it was a different word that I'm searching for. At this point, though, I really can't seem to care.

Pony's the only one who didn't make it to the service. One of the Amazons, appropriately named (what else?) Doc, removed the bullet from her shoulder and declared her bedridden for the foreseeable future. But at least she's alive.

I don't know when, or if, I'll ever be able to face her, though.

What do you say to someone who saved your life just as you were doing your level best to end theirs?

"I'm sorry," just doesn't seem adequate enough, somehow. And I don't think "thank you" would be all that well received, at this point. Though Corinne has gone to great pains to assure me otherwise.

It disturbs me greatly that I would willingly put the lives of my friends in danger just so that I could get back to my lover. A lover who most definitely, and for all the right reasons, didn't want me there to begin with.

I look at the woman I am today and realize how very much I've changed. And not all of those changes have been for the better.

I've become quicker to find fault and quicker to anger. Quick to do violence and quick to lash out.

But by far the worst thing of all is that I find myself becoming someone I swore I never even had it within myself to be.

A woman who puts the needs of herself above the needs of others.

It shames deeply me to recognize how very selfish I've become in that regard.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

Every once in awhile, I see Ice looking at me in that way of hers. As if she's not quite sure what's going on with me, but doesn't quite know if I'd be receptive to her attempts at comfort.

She's pretty withdrawn herself, however, and I'm not sure either one of us is ready to talk it out just yet. Rio's death hit her very hard. There's an angry energy swarming around her. An energy that makes everyone keep their distance from her. This is the Ice of legend. The only Ice most of these women have ever known, or heard tales about. They watch her in awe as she passes, and whisper behind their hands when they think she's out of hearing range.

Most of the time, their judgement is off, and whatever it is she hears only serves to increase her anger.

We made love last night. A hard-hitting, brutal kind of love. The kind two souls and bodies share when they're in pain and just need to feel something beyond that. If even for just a moment.

Ice was relentless in her passion, taking me again and again and again. And I wanted it, craved it, begged for it over and over until she'd exhausted us both and we tumbled down into sleep still wrapped around one another.

Our pain was, for the moment, forgotten.

But it came back this morning, as I knew it would, and made itself at home in my soul. I wish I could cry, or scream, or beat my fists bloody on the walls, but it seems all I can do is just sit here with my thoughts and pray for this nightmare of listlessness to be over soon.

Please, God, if you can hear me, just let it be over.

I awoke the next morning to the sounds of screaming.

Masculine screaming.

Tossing back the covers, I hit the ground running, oblivious to my half-naked and sleep-rumpled state.

The hall was crowded with whispering women and I charged through them all, like some sort of half-sized halfback making an endzone run. I turned to the left and headed immediately for the kitchen, where an even larger and more dense crowd awaited me.

The woman who had owned the ranch prior to Montana was a bit of a survivalist, you see. She'd grown up during the Las Vegas nuclear bomb testings, and she'd decided to build her very own bomb shelter and tack it on to the back of the house by way of the kitchen.

Normally, the shelter held canned goods and various and sundry other items needed to feed, shelter and clothe a large community of women.

Now, it held only one thing.

Cavallo.

His continued screaming led me on, and I pressed through the crowd with renewed vigor. Some of the women were hesitant to step aside, but when they saw who it was who was doing the pushing, they gave ground willingly.

When I finally got free of the crowd, I saw Cowgirl and Cheeto in front of the open door, looking inward. Their bodies were pressed tightly together as they barred the door against the press of women behind them.

A hand snaked out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me off to the side. I looked into Montana's grim face, then into the equally grim face of Corinne.

"What's going on?" I asked, though most of me already knew the answer to that question.

As if in answer, the screaming stopped.

It didn't wind down, as screams of pain often do. No, it was cut off completely, leaving a ringing, pregnant silence behind.

A silence shattered by the heavy double-thud of a body hitting first a wall, then the floor.

Then by the sound of a heavy tread moving toward us.

Cowgirl and Cheeto took a step back, and Ice came through the door. The energy around her was black and menacing. Several women gasped upon seeing her, and they quickly looked away, their faces drawn and pale.

Like those of a hunting cougar, my lover's eyes scanned the crowd of women. Any spark of humanity in them seemed absent. They were flashing silver and promised pain.

It was as if she was culling the herd.

As if instinctually recognizing this, the crowd of women parted, giving her a long, wide path down which to walk.

Her eyes met mine for a moment before sliding away. If there was a hint of recognition in them, it was deeply buried.

And then, like a shadow touched by sunlight, she was gone, disappearing into the throng of humanity as if she were never there at all.

I made as if to go after her, but Montana held me fast.

"Let her calm down a bit, Angel."

Calm? She was already calm. Deathly calm, in fact.

I heeded Montana's request, however. Because I needed to help Ice, and I couldn't do that until I knew what had gone on.

Cowgirl disappeared into the shelter, only to reappear a brief moment later, her face set in grim lines. "Get Doc," she ordered her lover.

As Cheeto turned away, I shrugged off Montana's grip and stepped forward. "Is he... ?"

"He got the crap beaten out of him, literally I think, but he's alive."

I rounded on Montana. "Tell me what happened."

For a long moment, she looked as if she were going to refuse, but then she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "He's been cursing up a blue streak pretty much since he finally woke up last night from Ice's little nap. I wanted to feed him some breakfast this morning, and Ice came in with me." She ran a steady hand through her thick, dark hair. "He started ranting and raving, as usual. Called us some pretty uninventive names and demanded we let him out." She shrugged again.

I shook my head, not understanding. Even grief stricken as she was, Ice wouldn't have done that much damage just because a few ugly names were tossed her way.

Doc walked by, medical kit in hand, followed closely by Cheeto, and disappeared into the bunker.

I turned my attention back to Montana. "What else?"

"He started in on Rio," Corinne said, voice soft and grim. "Evidently, he'd heard some of the women talking in the kitchen earlier, and decided to use up most of his idiot points in one fell swoop."

I nodded, beginning now to understand my lover's rage.

"And then," Corinne continued, "he began to talk about you. Though perhaps 'talk' isn't the best description one could use in this instance." She shook her head in mock wonder. "How he became such an important piece of property, I'll never know. That man doesn't have enough genuine wit to fill up a thimble."

"And then he took a swing at her," Montana added. "And it was pretty much over from there."

Hearing all that I needed to, I thanked them both and left, heading out of the house and toward the one place I knew she'd be.

The stables were cool and dim, and smelled strongly of hay and horses. Because the day itself was overcast, my eyes adjusted quickly to the poor lighting within.

She was sitting on a hay bale which had been pushed against the furthest wall, legs splayed carelessly. Her hands, dark with blood, fiddled with a piece of straw, and her face was hidden by the long fall of hair which hung across it.

I didn't bother treading softly as I approached. I knew she knew I was there. If she wanted to stop me, she would. But I didn't think she wanted to.

Reaching down, I snared an old bucket partially filled with water, and the handful of clean rags piled next to it. Circling her so that she had a clear path to the door, I dropped to one knee, placed the water bucket at my side, and dipped one of the rags into it.

Wordlessly, I grasped her left hand and began to dab at the bleeding cuts her rage had wrought. Most of the blood was Cavallo's, I knew, and I quickly cleaned any traces of him from her skin. Her face was hidden from me, her body tense and coiled, but I expected that, and concentrated on lending her as much support and love through my touch and presence as I possibly could.

"Rough day, huh?" I finally asked, when I could bear the silence no longer.

"Yeah," was her only comment as I traded left hand for right and began my task anew.

I let that go, knowing when to push and when not to.

Her hands now fully clean, I patted each one dry with another soft rag, then laid everything else aside and took her warm flesh into my own hands, raising each one to my lips before lowering them to her thighs and just holding gently on.

It might have been minutes, or hours, or days, but when she finally lifted her head to look at me, her eyes held the woman I knew shining brightly within their clear, bottomless depths. "Thank you," she whispered.

I gave her my first real smile in days. "Anytime." I squeezed her large hands, gratified to feel her return the pressure. "I love you, you know."

Her hair swung free as she nodded. "I know."

Seeing the question in her eyes, I tried to answer it with what little information I had. "Don't think he'll go dancing with Ginger Rogers anytime soon, but I think he'll pull through ok."

She nodded her thanks, her gaze again going far away.

"Do you think he's got some kind of death wish?"

Her eyes focused once more as a perfectly arched brow rose to hide behind the fringe of her bangs.

"I'm serious! I mean, you've already single-handedly taken out a bunch of his guards up in Canada, you take out a bunch more in his own home, and then you beat the snot out of him and bring him here. He's got to know he doesn't stand a chance against you."

She shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Maybe he doesn't want to go back to prison."

"Or maybe he's just an idiot."

She chuckled, a little. "I thought that was a given."

I couldn't help but grin back. "Well, yeah, you're right on that one."

We fell into a more or less comfortable silence, and I felt her thumbs trail slowly back and forth over my knuckles. I could tell she was deep in thought.

"So," I asked after several moments passed, "where do we go from here?"

Taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly, then released my hands and straightened. "That depends on how bad off Cavallo is. There hasn't been any news from south of the border, but those bodies aren't gonna remain hidden for long."

"Have you heard from Donita?"

"I called her last night to let her know we have him. She's arranging a drop-off location somewhere out of town. Says things have gotten pretty sticky up there lately."