She showed enough presence of mind, however, to take the antibiotics I nearly shoved down her throat and, just prior to my appropriating some rope from Ruby and earning a question and answer session on our bedroom habits, the illness began to lose its interest in my partner and the light at the end of the tunnel stopped being an oncoming train.

Spring began to show her colors during my week of enforced isolation, and by the time Ice was again ready to step outside and wash the jailhouse pallor from her face, the snow had melted completely, revealing a verdant carpet underneath.

One morning, I decided that a walk into town was in order and, probably because she'd grown somewhat used to my more dominant position during her illness and convalescence, Ice followed without much comment.

I knew that situation would change, and soon, but I was determined to enjoy it for as long as I could.

We walked slowly through a forest coming alive with spring's bright blessing. Birds, animals and insects were everywhere and flowers bloomed in a riot of color. The tree-fractured sun was warm on my shoulders and the smile on my face was as wide as they came.

The sky was May soft and stitched with clouds which cast friendly shadows over the ground as they strolled their slow lover's promenade across the vast expanse of warming blue.

The last row of trees gave way and the town opened up beyond the woods. The initial sight of it made me stop and stare, astounded by how much of a difference three weeks could make.

Gone was the gray of a desolate community dying by slow inches. In its place stood something fresh, vibrant, new. Even the church, always the first building you passed no matter which way you came into town, looked inviting instead of imposing with its new coat of whitewash and its open, beckoning doors.

The Silver Pine looked as if the tornado of Oz had spun it away and replaced it with Glenda's house. Big men on tall ladders washed windows and painted shutters Some were even hanging honest-to-god bunting from the eaves, as if the Queen were expected to pop by for a visit sometime in the very near future.

From the corner of my eye, I caught something very large and very yellow sail around the corner of the Inn, leaving a high falsetto voice and mumbled orders that caused the working men to redouble their efforts. I wondered about that for a moment, suspecting I had at last seen the much-maligned (by Ruby, at least) proprietress of the place, but before I had a chance to step forward and indulge my always rampant curiosity, Ice stiffened beside me and I looked up, catching the scowling expression on her face.

Following her gaze, I took in the scene presented me. A large, beefy and florid-faced man wearing a brown suit which screamed 'discount department store' was standing beside the driver's door of a battered silver Volvo with Indiana tags and screaming into the impassive face of a man who'd been ancient when I was a young girl; Mr. Willamette, the owner of the town's only gas station.

When the large man pulled back his fist and made as if to punch kindly Mr. Willamette, Ice stepped into action, getting there just in time to save the old man from eating dinner through a straw for the rest of his life.

I slid to a stop before the group just as Mr. Fist turned to stare disbelievingly at my partner, his rubbery lips parted to reveal crooked, nicotine-stained teeth and the flesh of his hand blanched white where Ice's fingers were gripping it.

She gave him that smile that makes you wonder if she's contemplating adding homo idiotus to her list of dietary delicacies.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked brightly, more to keep Ice from turning the man into a human stew then because I really wanted to know.

As I'd learned from long, and painful, years of experience, asking the obvious question is sometimes the way to go in situations like these. While the bully in question is straining his somewhat less than vast mental resources to come up with a witty comeback, you usually have more than enough time to get your lips out of the way of his fist.

"Car's broke," came the voice of Mr. Willamette from my right.

"Brilliant deduction, Mr. Fixit," the stranger replied, pulling his hand loose from Ice, who was willing to let it go. "My question is: what are you gonna do about it?"

"Can't do anything about it. Like I told you, my mechanic's laid up till fall, at least."

Temple vein throbbing, the man lunged forward again, only to be caught by his lapels by Ice, who shoved him back against the car and stared deep into his eyes, that little smirk still curving her lips.

"Who are you? The old goat's bodyguard?"

Ice's smile widened. "Nah. Just someone who likes to see how many limbs she can rip off before her victim starts screaming." She made a show of looking the man up and down. "I think one will do just fine here."

Wanting to stop this before the stranger stained his trousers, I stepped up to Ice and laid a hand against her lower back. "Maybe we could hear his side of the story?"

When she turned to look at me, her eyes were filled with mirth, and I relaxed slightly and looked around her broad back and into the face of the man who I was sure was going to be dashing off a very nasty note to the Volvo people at his first available opportunity. Assuming he managed to get through this with all parts intact, of course.

Which, at this point, looked to be a toss-up.

Releasing the man's lapels and brushing them flat against his natty suit jacket, Ice stepped back a pace and crossed her muscled arms over her chest, her raised-eyebrow expression leaving no doubt in the man's mind that if he were even to start thinking about acting stupid again, she'd take great pleasure in pulling his spine up through his throat and beating him to death with it.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Opened. Closed.

Then hung open like a trap door and stayed that way.

"Okay," I said, breaking the silence and drawing the word out when it became obvious the man didn't have the presence of mind to say anything at the moment. (And having your bowels turned to water by six feet of muscled beauty will do that to you every time, believe me.) I turned to Mr. Willamette. "What are his options?"

"Well, like I told him, there's a phone in the station that he's welcome to use to call a tow that'll take him up the road to the next town over. They got a mechanic works full-time there. Have him fixed up quick." He shrugged. "Believe me, I could use the money, but I ain't no mechanic so it'd be useless to keep the car here. It'd only gather dust."

I turned back to the stranger. "Sounds pretty reasonable to me."

"It's not reasonable. I can't afford to wait around this two bit little town while some toothless old geezer decides to dust off his '23 pickup and jaunt down here to tow my car to another two bit town. I have a meeting that I'm already," he looked at his watch, "three hours late for." He looked back up. "I want my car fixed and I want it fixed now, damnit!"

"And I already told you that I can't fix it, Mister. Now or ever. I don't know what part of that ain't getting through, but the mechanic fairy ain't gonna crap on my head just because you're whinin' about it like some kid that lost his mommy, eh?"

Stepping forward before Ice could carry out her unvoiced threat, I pushed the man back against his car myself when it looked like he was going to damn the torpedoes and push foolishly ahead. "Look. We're all human beings here, right? Now, if you just relax and act like the gentleman I know is down there somewhere, I just might be able to help you out here, alright?"

The stranger looked at Ice over the top of my head, and whatever he saw there made him blanch several shades of white. Still, the maggot inside him wouldn't let go completely. "And what would you know about anything, blondie? You probably don't even know which part's the engine."

Resisting the urge to backhand him myself, I settled for a conciliatory smile. "Maybe not, but I might know someone who does. And if you play nice, I just might be persuaded to ask for help."

His eyes narrowed. "Yeah? From who?"

I jerked my head to the left. "From her."

His eyes widened back up. "Her? That ... ."

"Now, now, now. Do you want your car fixed or do you want to spend the rest of your life as a stain on the road here." Releasing him, I stepped away, standing next to Ice and crossing my arms. "Your choice."

He looked at the three of us individually before settling his gaze back on me once again. "I ...um ...I ... ." His eyes examined the ground at his feet. "I guess I could use the help."

In the silence, I was sure I could hear the sound of the male ego deflating.

It was glorious.

When no one answered, he looked back up at us, his eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I asked.

"What?!"

"Well, the polite thing to do would be to ask for help, don't you think?"

His jaw dropped again. "But ...you said... ." He sighed. "Alright." He looked to Ice. "Can you fix my car?" He hesitated a moment, then looked at his watch. "Please?"

Ice looked at him, assessing, then turned to Mr. Willamette. "You have tools?"

"Mechanic left 'em here when he got hurt. Welcome to use 'em. The garage too."

She nodded, then turned back to gaze impassively at the stranger. "Alright."

The resulting smile transformed his face into something almost resembling handsome. If you squinted real hard and threw in a healthy dose of cosmetic surgery for good measure. "Great! I'll just go use the telephone to let my clients know I haven't dropped off the face of the earth."

As he started forward, he was stopped yet again, this time by a strong hand gripping the arm of his jacket. The smile disappeared. "What now?!?"

Ice narrowed her eyes at his tone. "Unless Volvo has made some drastic changes in the last five years, I don't think that car of yours is just gonna drive itself into the garage, do you?"

"But my clients!"

"You either help me put this car in the garage where I can take a look at it, or you start walking. Maybe you'll get lucky and some trucker who hasn't seen his wife in six months will give you a lift." Her smile wasn't a pleasant one, but by the stranger's expression, it seemed to get the point across quite nicely.

Shoulders slumped in bitter-tasting defeat, the man walked back over to his car, opened the door and began to push it in the direction of the waiting garage.

A short time later, shorter than I expected, actually, the car was back out under the mid-spring sky, motor humming complacently. The stranger, one George Roger Grayson by name, was just putting his wallet back into his coat pocket after having considered, I could tell, pitching yet another fit over the cost Mr. Willamette had quoted him. In the end, though, he paid and we watched as he pulled away in a cloud of dust.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," the shop owner observed, pulling his ball-cap back onto his head. "This is yours, I believe." He handed the somewhat sizable stack of bills to Ice, who just looked at the offering, not accepting. "C'mon now. You did all the work. All I did was supply the place."

"And the tools."

Wetting his thumb, he peeled back a couple bills, stuffed them into his pocket, and again held out the money to Ice who, with reluctance, finally accepted it.

"There's work for you if you want it. Not now, maybe, but come summer, I'll be up to my eyeballs in broken down cars. Could use a pair of hands like yours around here. You're some skilled."

The corner of Ice's lip curled. "I'm not exactly the employee type."

"Never said you had to be. I get a car, I call you. If you're around, you can come help. If not," he shrugged, "only costs a dime to get a tow. Good money in it. Cash on the barrelhead." His eyes glinted with the light of a man who enjoyed getting one over on the government. "Deal?"

After thinking on it a moment, Ice finally nodded. "Deal."

They shook to seal it.

"Name's Willamette, by the way. But most folks call me Pop."

"Morgan. This is... ."

"The Moore girl. Tyler, right? I remember you when you were some smaller comin' up here with your folks in summer. Place burned down a few years back. You thinkin' to rebuild?"

I smiled. "We're hoping to, yes."

He nodded sagely. "Be good to have the place back up again." He turned to look at Ice again. "I heard what you done for the Halloran boy. The whole town's been buzzin' about it for weeks. Like a bunch of hornets, they are. Bet no one's thought to thank you yet, so let me be the first. Most strangers wouldn't have thought to do what you did, puttin themselves in danger and all. So thanks."

Ice looked a little taken aback by what passed for effusive praise from the normally reticent man and brushed off his praise with a shrug. "Did what I had to do."

"More 'n most people would have. It'll be good havin you here. You too, Tyler." He tipped his cap in a courtly gesture. "Best be getting back to work now, such as it is. Be seein you."

As he walked back to his shop, I shook my head and laughed. Ice turned to look at me. "What?"

"Only you, Ice."

A raised eyebrow asked me to continue.

"Only you could break up a fight and wind up with a job."

If she were the blushing type, I probably would have gotten one out of her for that, but since she wasn't, all I received was a scowl and a half muttered comment that was probably better unheard. I laughed again. "Can I treat you to a cup of coffee, Ms. Mechanic? Maybe we'll get better service this time out."

Without bothering to reply, Ice started off toward the cafe, leaving me to trail behind, a growing smile covering my face.

PART 3.

THE NEXT SEVERAL weeks saw our lives settle into a comfortable routine, which was very welcome, given the adventures we'd had since we met. Ice had been called into the shop several times by Pop and, true to his word, been paid quite handsomely for her work. Her reputation as an excellent mechanic was beginning to spread, and I could imagine, given the look she sometimes wore, that she wondered why this gift hadn't befallen her several years back, when she had tried to make a go of the very same career, only to be rebuffed at every turn. Which, of course, led her straight into the arms of the Mob and the events which led to our meeting in the Bog.

Jealously, I was glad that events turned out the way they had, if only because if she hadn't come into prison when she did, we would never have met. That's a horrible way to feel, to actually be glad of someone's murdering past, but I've never been anything but honest with myself, and those feelings were there, even if I'd rather have had my toenails pulled out than to mention them to her, even in passing.

Over Ruby's staunch objections, Ice began to use some of her earnings to buy food and sundries for our hostess, brushing each complaint off as if she hadn't heard the woman practically screaming in her ear. She showed remarkable patience with Ruby who could, I'll freely admit, be a bit trying at times. I don't know what happened to cause them to come to a sort of mutual understanding, but whatever it was, I was grateful for it.

We'd spend many evenings in front of the fire, where yet another of Ice's multitude of talents was revealed: drawing. She would tell me to close my eyes and describe the house I'd known and, with a pencil and sketchpad that she'd bought at the general store, she put brought to life the visions that were inside my head. The detail was so exact that I couldn't help but be astounded, as well as a little non-plused. Perhaps the woman could read minds, after all.

The only real drawback to this idyllic time was the fact that we still slept in separate rooms. Not by Ruby's doing, either. No, she had even gone so far as to offer us the use of her own room, the only one large enough to fit more than a single bed into. Rather, it was my stubbornness-pure cussedness my mother called it when I was getting on her last nerve-that kept us apart. We hadn't made love since that time in the hunter's shack, and my hormones were complaining daily, to the point where I seriously considered booking a weekend at The Silver Pine just to have her in my arms again. But still, I refused.

That my actions were paralleling Ice's in refusing an offered gift crossed my mind not at all. At least not then.

And so when the evening was over and we went to our single beds, closing the doors behind us, I was, in a sense, returning to my prison cell all over again. Only this time, it was a prison of my own making.

And then the nightmares started.

During the light of day, Ice's fugitive status, and therefore my own, stayed deep down inside of me, aided, no doubt, by my continuing bliss in my freedom. But in the silence of the night, when the past comes out of its gloomy shadows, my dreams made me see what I refused to awake.

I'd often wake in a cold sweat, clutching a damp sheet to my chest and breathing as if I'd run a marathon. Every creak in the old house became an ominous sign. I'd lay awake, my heart rabbiting in my chest, waiting for the sound of sirens, or the pounding on the door announcing the arrival of the police. I tried to force the thoughts away, but they wouldn't go. They'd stay and taunt me with their vividness, their plausibility, their ultimate truth.

But many times, on nights that were the worst, when the scream I so badly needed to utter stayed locked behind my lips in a prison of its own, I'd hear my door softly open and then she'd be there, coming to me and taking me into her arms, stroking my hair and soothing my demons. It was only on those nights when I could slip away into a dreamless sleep, comforted by the solid, living reality of her in my arms.