Three hours later, Vin was sitting in Chris's truck, the window open, enjoying the ride out to the ranch. The stitches from the laparoscopic surgery scarcely hurt at all anymore. He still felt as if he'd been delivered a good punch to the midsection, and when he stood up, the ground seemed ridiculously far away, but to be free of the hospital was the best medicine he could have been given.

He leaned his head back and glanced over at Chris. "Thanks, pard."

"For?"

"Breakin' me out of that jail. Feel a hundred percent better n' I did a few hours ago."

"Don't start thinking you're healed up just because I sprung ya," Chris warned, his mouth smiling, but his eyes troubled. "You've got to take it real easy, no cheating. You obey Nathan to the letter, you understand?"

"Yes, mom." Vin drew a deep breath, wincing as his diaphragm crowded his tender abdomen. "Still, feels real good bein' out." He settled in deeper against the cushions, folded his hands over his concave stomach and dozed while Chris drove.

Larabee woke him with a light touch against the side of his neck, just a faint pressure to rouse him gradually; he knew better than to grab or shake him from sleep. Vin opened his eyes, sighed. Stretched cautiously. "Almost there?"

"Just over the next rise."

When they crested that rise, Chris's ranch came into view; the ranch house and barn surrounded by aspen trees and green grass. Nestled at the foothills of the Rockies, it had a view of distant peaks, and was Vin's idea of Paradise. It had felt like home the first time he had seen it and he still couldn't tell if that was because it fulfilled his dreams of what a home ought to be, or if a hut in the desert would have served as well, as long as Chris was there.

He looked over at Chris. That frown of worry that had settled between his brows from the moment he heard the threatening voice was carved deep, and a hard knot of muscle in his jaw betrayed his inner tension. "Ya look tired, Chris."

Chris's mouth twitched. "I am tired." He lifted his shoulders and let them drop down again, in an attempt to release the tight muscles. "Bein' home will help." He turned down the driveway. Two vehicles were parked in front of the house; Nathan's SUV, and Ezra's latest rocket of a car. Seemed there was a variation of speed and power every six months.

Chris wheeled his car close to the front door and a moment later, Nathan was out the door, waiting to help Vin from the high front seat of the Ram. He caught Vin lightly about the waist, his strength giving the slender Texan the support he needed. "Damn, Vin. Ya only been in the hospital three days an' already you lost weight."

"Hell, you ever tasted that slop they pass off fer food?" he snorted. "Lean Cuisine ... that's what they call it ... and don't give ya enough to feed a bird."

Chris caught Nathan's expression. Worry, that the banter with Vin couldn't temper, made creases at his eyes and Chris suddenly questioned his decision to take Vin out of the hospital. What if Rain's worst case scenario happened? Then he thought of his own uncomfortable premonition. His instincts had always been good, and he'd regretted the times he had brushed them aside. Vin would be fine, and the hospital would be safe. He couldn't accept anything else.

It took Nathan a few minutes to get Vin settled in the den. He had tried to persuade his patient to go to bed, but Tanner had refused, stubborn in his insistence that he couldn't help with the investigation if he were isolated from the others. So he was tucked, pale but bright-eyed with the challenge of the hunt, into Chris's big armchair. He felt alive, freed from the mind-numbing boredom of hospital routine. He was warm, as comfortable as he could be, with people he trusted. About the only thing that kept this from perfect was Ezra's steady pacing across the room. "Yer wearin' a hole in the floor, Ez," he rasped finally.

Ezra halted abruptly, as if he were surprised to discover that he had been pacing. He started to make a reply, then decided it would be better to just stop pacing. He sat down on the sofa. Within a minute, his leg began bouncing. He caught Vin eyeing that nervous motion, and stilled instantly. "What?"

"Ezra, I ain't never seen you so twitchy," he commented. "Makin' me jumpy."

"I regret that I am disturbing the calm center of your existence, Mr. Tanner, but having my life threatened and my integrity challenged does make me just a trifle wary." His chin came up defiantly, but there was a hint of defensive hurt in his green eyes. He knew the men he worked with trusted him, and in his own flawed, cynical way he trusted them. He was far from perfect, he was not above temptation, but not in this case. And no matter how often he went over every line of his files, every word in his taped conversations and phone calls, he could find nothing that could have betrayed his identity, or Vin's, to D'Amico and his cohorts.

"I b'lieve ya," Vin said quietly. "Reckon we'll get this all figgered out."

"Buck 'n JD are here," Nathan announced from his post by the window. "Maybe they've got some answers."

They gathered in the den, Chris standing at Vin's side with Nathan close by, the stethoscope draped around his neck an odd contrast with the shoulder holster and pistol he wore. Buck waited for everyone to settle before he began speaking. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his sports coat and paced, not out of nervous energy like Ezra, but like a professor ordering his thoughts before addressing his students. JD set out his tape recorder and pushed the play button. The disembodied voice floated out. "*The price of betrayal is death.*"

Ezra looked at Vin. The sharpshooter was leaning slightly forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The tape was cleaner than it had been; JD had filtered out some of the distortion, but judging from the general lack of reaction on Vin's face, he did not recognize the voice. Unfortunately, neither did Ezra.

Realizing that while he had been watching Vin, everyone else was looking at him, Ezra shook his head. "I don't know."

Vin sank back into the chair. "Hell, so much fer easy." He rubbed his eyes. "Prob'ly was too much to hope fer, anyways."

Buck spoke into the dispirited silence. "We tried to trace the call. All we can figure is it came from a cell phone. Could have been made from anywhere in Denver."

"What about background noise. Have you been able to filter that out?" Chris asked JD.

"I tried, but there wasn't much to filter out. The only distinct sound other than static was what might have been a motor running, like the call was made from a car." The young man shrugged. "Sorry, Chris. I did my best."

"I know." He frowned. "We'll have to start from someplace else. Ezra, give Buck your files."

"I have gone over them with a fine-toothed comb, Mr. Larabee --" Ezra started objecting.

Chris held up his hand. "Easy, Ezra. I'm just saying that fresh eyes might spot something you've been too close to see. You up to going over the night of the opera with us?"

Ezra shrugged. "I don't know what I can tell you that you don't already know. I had no indication that anything was wrong -- that D'Amico suspected I wasn't what I had represented myself to be."

"Far as I could see, that's true," Vin said quietly. "First inkling I got was when he and Ezra disappeared before the second intermission."

"How *did* you know?" Ezra asked curiously.

"Don't know. I's watchin' the show and somethin' jist clicked, right about the time that Scarpia feller figured he was gonna play the hero false. Seemed almost like D'Amico picked that opera on purpose."

Ezra paled. "Good Lord, I never thought of it in that particular light. That means ..." he faltered, looked away from Chris like he'd done something inexcusable.

"Means D'Amico knew 'bout ya fer a while," Vin interjected. "Means someone tipped him off."

"Who?" JD asked. "How? I mean, we sure didn't know -- all that surveillance, all the wiretapping and stakeouts -- I never picked anything up."

Buck laid a hand on JD's shoulder. "Ain't your fault, kid. Chris, this is goin' a lot deeper, and gettin' a lot dirtier than we ever thought."

Chris nodded. "Seems like it." He looked at Ezra, wilting in the corner of the couch, and Vin, whose earlier strength appeared to have reached its limits. "Seems like we've done all we can do right now. Buck, take Ezra's files. Go over them with Josiah and JD, see if you can pick anything out of them that's been missed." He rubbed at the lines between his brows and the headache that had taken up permanent residence there. "See ya in the morning." When he caught Ezra making a move to get up from the couch, he pointed a forefinger at him. "You're staying the night, Ezra. You're in no shape to be driving around Denver."

"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home."

"Are you perfectly capable of fighting off any of D'Amico's goons that might be watching your place?"

Ezra winced, his ribs giving a vicious twinge as he tried to sit up. He gasped and sat back down. He looked at Nathan, realized that he would get no support from him, and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Larabee. I appreciate it."

"Chris, you wanna help me get Vin off to bed?" Nathan asked. "He's been up long enough."

"I'm fine," Vin said in a voice that had the force of a will o'wisp.

"Yeah, and I'm Nettie Wells. C'mon, Tanner. No use fightin' me on this 'cause you ain't gonna win." He took one side, Chris the other, and they carefully maneuvered Vin out of the chair and down the hall to the spare bedroom.

Chris left while Nathan settled the injured sharpshooter into bed and tended to him. He went to the kitchen, heated up a pot of leftover spaghetti from the weekend, popped in a loaf of ready-made garlic bread, opened a bag of salad, and a bottle of wine.

"Why, Mr. Larabee, is there no end to your talents?" Ezra drawled from the doorway.

"Apparently not," Chris grinned. "You hungry?"

"I could eat." He slid into a chair at the table.

Chris poured a glass of wine. "Don't know that this is your usual vintage." He squinted at the label, "I understand this is a 'serviceable' Chianti, according to the wine expert at the grocery store."

"Wine expert?" Ezra raised a brow.

"Checkout girl."

"Serviceable?"

"She said it wouldn't peel the enamel off my teeth."

"Charmin'." He held the glass up. "Cheers, Mr. Larabee. At this point, I doubt I would care if it was battery acid." He took a sip, expecting the worst, and was surprised that it was at least drinkable. "It will serve the purpose," he said wryly.

"You shouldn't be drinkin' that, Ezra," Nathan said as he came into the kitchen. "But I won't stop ya if you pour me a glass."

"Stay for dinner?" Chris asked.

"Rain's working late."

"How's Vin?"

"Resting. Don't know if he's gonna sleep or not. His mind's goin' a mile a minute, you can see it in his eyes."

The three men sat at the table, nearly silent for a while, each processing the information they had heard that day. Ezra kept replaying the phone call in his mind, both the original, and the tape JD had cleaned up. There was nothing there that he could identify. Not the man, not the anonymous white noise in the background. He looked at Nathan, and could see the worry in his dark eyes; supposed it was mostly over Vin, and the guilt that had dogged him since that night surged again, making him set his fork down and rise from the table, unable to eat another bite. "If you will excuse me, I am feelin' somewhat weary."

Nathan frowned at him, concerned even though Ezra seemed to be mending. His real worry was focused on the sharpshooter. Vin was stubborn, but he was hurting. He was weak; the blood counts Rain had showed him from the hospital were low enough to make Nathan wonder what sort of leverage she had used to get Elizabeth Stone to spring Tanner. He suspected Chris knew. Hell, he suspected Chris was responsible. He just didn't know if Chris could justify the risk to Vin's life and health by pulling him out of the hospital.

Chris set his wineglass down with a sigh. "Nate, you're staring daggers at me, and I'd sure like to know why."

"I ain't angry, Chris. Just wonderin' if you know what you were doing to Vin. Takin' him out of the hospital, the shape he's in."

"Do you think he'd be better off with D'Amico's hired guns knowing where he is, knowing he's helpless? And if Vin was moved ten times a day, do you think they'd hesitate to take out a whole floor just to get to him? Even if they trace him, at least here he's got protection."

"Something goes wrong, D'Amico's goons might be the least of his worries."

Chris looked long and hard into Nathan's dark, concerned eyes. "You're asking me to chose a chance over a certainty. Ezra would give you those odds," he said. "Vin'll be all right. He's tough."

"Sometimes tough ain't enough," Nathan said. "I'm gonna see if he's sleepin' yet."

Chris stared into his nearly empty wineglass, then drained it with a flick of his wrist. The sun, which had illuminated the kitchen, sank behind the mountains, and the light grew blue and dim. Wearily, he stood and stretched, every muscle aching in protest. He turned the light on over the sink, stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, and when he had finished, went out to the barn, finding some ease in the daily chores of the ranch. Pony and Peso didn't make any demands he couldn't satisfy, they didn't ask questions he couldn't answer. He fed them, gave each a treat; a carrot for Pony, and a molasses cookie for Peso's sweet tooth. He stayed out there for a while, letting the peace seep into his heart and mind before he returned to the quiet house.

***********************

The kitchen was dark, silent but for the hum of the refrigerator. Vin knew his way around well enough not to need more light than shed by the lamp over the sink, and his movements were by nature nearly soundless. He opened the refrigerator door, took out butter and a package of American cheese. He put the butter in the microwave to soften it, got out two slices of bread, and tried not to let the pots and pans rattle too much when he pulled out a frying pan. He made a cheese sandwich, buttered it, and put it in the frying pan to grill.

He still felt as if he was about to topple over with every step, but he was hungry, and he couldn't sleep, not with that damn phone call playing over and over in his head. He reached for a spatula to flip his sandwich, and that movement sent a wave of pain through his midsection. He tucked his arm close to his side and tried to breathe through the hurt.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Chris asked from the doorway. When he saw Vin hunched over and protecting his middle, he crossed the floor, caught him around the waist, and guided him to a chair. "Well?"

"I's fixin' myself somethin' t'eat. What else does it look like?" Vin wheezed. "An' I was doin' jist fine 'til ya snuck up on me."

He looked so disgruntled that Chris had to chuckle. "You keep tellin' yourself that while I finish this up for you." He went to the stove, flipped the sandwich in time to keep it from burning, and then when it was toasted, put it on a plate and set it in front of Vin. "You want something to drink?"

"Coke?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, like you *need* caffeine." He got a can of ginger ale from the refrigerator. "Try this."

Vin gave Chris a hint of a grin. "Thanks, pard." He started on his sandwich, surprised that it tasted as good as it did. He had merely wanted to fill the hollow in his stomach, and found himself enjoying his food. When he had finished, he wiped the buttery crumbs from his mouth and leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"Better?" Chris asked.

"Thank God they didn't shoot me in my stomach. Still hurts like a sonofabitch, though."

Chris's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Tanner. His fine-boned features were haggard, his curve of his slender body betraying how badly he was hurting. Pain shadowed his eyes, drew his skin taut over his cheekbones, lent tension to the set of his shoulders. "You want me to wake Nathan?"

Vin shook his head. "Nah. Jist git me back t'bed and I'll keep. I'm feelin' better than I was, Larabee, so stop lookin' at me like I got one foot in the grave."

Chris went to his side, took the younger man's light weight against his hip, and together they made a slow progress back to the bedroom. He lowered Vin to the mattress and covered him with a blanket. "You warm enough?"

"Yeah." His head moved a bit restlessly on the pillow. "Wish I could keep that damn phone call from naggin' at me."

"You didn't recognize the voice?"

"Wasn't the voice. Seemed kinda funny -- never figured any of D'Amico's gang t'sound like Ezra. Figured they'd sound more like the Godfather."

Chris looked down at him, his mind working. "You think?"

"Ask Ezra. He'd know." Vin yawned. "Reckon I'll sleep now. Thanks, Chris."

"G'night, partner." Chris tossed a knit throw on the foot of the bed. "Keep warm."

Vin mumbled a sleepy reply and drifted off. Chris closed the door quietly. Maybe Vin had something there, with his assessment of the caller's manner of speech. But what it meant, Chris couldn't say. Maybe Josiah would have some ideas in the morning. Chris went to his bedroom, stripped, and rolled into bed. His body ached, his head hurt, his ulcer was making its presence known despite the medicine Rain had prescribed, and dawn wasn't more than a few hours away.

********************

Ezra appeared at breakfast the next morning, slacks pressed, shirt crisp, a tie perfectly coordinated to the colors of his wardrobe. Only the faint shadows beneath his eyes testified to his ordeal. Chris cast a slightly jaundiced eye over his ensemble. "Ezra, someday somebody is gonna kill you just for making them feel like an unmade bed."

"Surely not you, Mr. Larabee. While some might consider your wardrobe too subdued for their tastes, I find basic black to be always appropriate. And, it is an excellent camouflage for less than perfectly pressed apparel."

"Hell, Ezra. I don't know if I should be insulted or flattered." He poured two mugs of coffee and joined him at the table. "Vin said something mighty interesting last night. He'd been replaying that phone call, said that it just didn't sound right. He said the way the caller spoke seemed too refined for one of D'Amico's crew. Did you notice that?"

Ezra swallowed thoughtfully. "Mr. Tanner's powers of observation are truly astonishin' at times. I was listening so carefully to the words that I completely missed the significance of the phrasing."

"Then you agree?"

"Obviously."

"Let's get to the office. See if Josiah's come up with something." For the first time since the shooting, Chris felt a stirring of hope that they might actually get out of this mess without further damage.

He looked in on Vin. Still asleep, but easy and relaxed. Nathan was sitting in the chair by his bed. He gave Chris a tired nod. "How is he doing, Nate?" Chris whispered.

"Good. No fever, normal blood pressure. No signs of infection."

"You keep your eye on him," Chris said. "I'll be back this afternoon."

"Good luck, Chris."

"Thanks. I have a feeling we're gonna need it."

*******************

Buck, JD, Josiah, and Ezra gathered in Chris's office. Josiah dropped Ezra's files on the desktop, folded his arms, and shook his head. Chris's stomach roiled. "Well?" he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Nothing. Not a damned thing. I looked at every word, turned 'em inside out and upside down."

"Vin thought the caller might not be one of D'Amico's men. He said the way he spoke struck him as being too cultured."

"Or it might just be a stereotype," Josiah rumbled, but with a smile "Ain't much that escapes that boy." He hitched a hip on a corner of Chris's desk. "However, he might be right about this. I didn't find any evidence that D'Amico figured Ezra's cover on his own. And, Ezra was not at fault here, Chris. Hell, if I didn't know who he was, I wouldn't have thought him to be anything but what he claimed to be."

"So you think it was internal?" Buck asked.

"I think we have a big problem," Josiah confirmed.

Chris knew who his immediate suspicion would fall on, but to make accusations against another agent was tantamount to career suicide, and he'd worked too long and hard to get where he was without having ironclad proof to support his case. He didn't like Williams, but that was no reason to believe he was responsible for Ezra's betrayal to D'Amico.

He looked at his team, seeing in all of them the same grim determination that he felt in his heart. "JD, I want everything you can dig up on Williams and his team. You'll have to work after hours from home and use every back door you can think of without alerting anyone. Josiah, he's gonna need some analysis on what he finds. Buck, you know some of Williams's men, right?"

"I know 'em. Don't like 'em all." Buck did not seem to be pleased with Chris's line of thought. "Now, Chris --"

"Pretend you do," Chris cut him off with a direct order. "You're the only one of us who hasn't ruffled Williams's feathers, and I need you to keep the door open."

"Only long enough fer you to bust through, pard," Buck grimaced.

"That's all I need."

"And what, pray tell, is my place in this grand scheme of things?" Ezra drawled.

Chris gave him a hard look. "Your place is staying alive."

Ezra sank back in his chair. "In that matter, I would be only too glad to oblige you, Mr. Larabee."

Chris's beeper buzzed against his hip, and he looked at the display. "It's Orrin." He looked at his team, saw the speculation in their eyes and the concern behind it. "You know where to find me if anything comes up." He went into his office to return Travis's call, only to look up and see Buck standing in the doorway. He shook his head, pointed Buck back to the outer office. Instead, Wilmington came inside and shut the door.

"Orrin?" He listened. "I'll be there. He's out of the hospital. Yeah, that was fast. Yes, I will." He hung up the phone and scowled at Buck. "Anybody ever tell you that you're supposed to obey your boss?" he asked.

"I'd have left if it was a classified conversation," Buck said mildly. "What's happenin'?"

"Meeting with Orrin in fifteen minutes. He didn't give me any hints."

"It's Williams, isn't it?"

"Hell, Buck! Just because I don't like the man doesn't make him guilty."

"Jist makes him a prime candidate for suspicion -- And don't tell me that he doesn't make you gag like the smell of rotten garbage." Buck's dark brows rose, and Chris couldn't deny that he was right.

He stood up. "I have to get up to Travis's."

"You watch your back up there, Chris. Ain't gonna have me 'r Josiah there to stand up with you."

Chris grinned. "I'll remember that when I'm reaching for Williams's throat." He threw his jacket over his shoulders and left Buck frowning at his retreating back.

********************

To Chris's surprise, Travis was alone in his office. He looked up from the papers on his desk when his secretary announced Chris's arrival. "Have a seat, Chris." He rubbed the bridge of his nose where his reading glasses had left deep marks. "Tell me about Vin."

Chris sat forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. "What do you want me to say? That he's all right? He's not. He's at my place when he should still be hospitalized, because if he moves too fast or does too much, he could rip open that repair in his liver and bleed to death. And do you know why he isn't in the hospital? Because somebody found out where he was and threatened him -- in the hospital! Jesus, Orrin -- what the hell is going on here?"

Travis's face darkened at that news. "What kind of threat?"

"Nothing specific. But ... Ezra received the same threatening call. Now you tell me how they found out where Vin was hospitalized when you *know* I don't let that sort of information out. Or how they got Ezra's very private, *unlisted* phone number."

"D'Amico?"

Chris snorted. "Yeah, that's what I thought at first, but D'Amico's people don't make threats -- they act."

"If not D'Amico, then who?" Travis asked, but not out of puzzlement. He was telling Chris to make a case. And he couldn't. Not yet.

Chris regarded Travis steadily. "I don't have proof, just suspicions."

"Williams?"

"Maybe. Maybe someone on his team. Maybe ..." Chris dragged his hand through his hair. "Christ, Orrin. I don't have anything concrete, just my instincts telling me something ain't right."

Travis rose from his desk and went to his window. He looked out over the city. The smog was heavy, obscuring the horizon. "I trust your instincts," he said quietly. "Do what you need to do."

"I take it this is all *sub rosa.*" Chris's voice was grim.

"It has to be," Orrin replied. "But you bring me absolute proof, and I will back you up all the way to the Attorney General if you need it."

Chris rose from the chair and went to stand next to Orrin. "Thank you." He held out his hand and Travis took it in a firm clasp.

"Good luck, Chris."

"We'll need it."

Travis watched him out the door. He didn't like what he was asking Chris to do, and the risks both personal and professional were daunting. He wouldn't have asked it -- couldn't have asked it -- of another man, or another team. These seven men of unique abilities and unquestioning loyalty were not expendable. But they were vulnerable. And someone had discovered where to strike them hard.

******************

Chris returned to the office and briefed the team on Travis's promise. Having the AD in their corner might not be free ride for the sort of work they were planning, but it was a boost to morale, and a relief that they were not undermining Travis's authority to pursue their own investigation. When he had finished, he retreated once again to his office, a headache building and his ulcer burning in his stomach. He lay full-length on his couch and waited for his pain to subside to a bearable level.

When the office door opened, he groaned. "Go away."

"A civil greetin' as always, Mr. Larabee." Ezra eased into the office and sat down.

Chris pushed himself upright. "Sorry, Ezra. Misery got the best of me."

"As it will of all of us at some time or another." He crossed his legs and swung one elegantly booted foot. "How much of a carte blanche do we have from AD Travis?"

"Ezra, right now I'm seeing stars and my stomach feels like I've drunk a quart of battery acid, so can we please get right to the point of this conversation before I pass out or throw up?"

Ezra went to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer where Chris kept a stash of painkillers and antacid. He shook out three Extra-strength Tylenol and a dose of Zantac, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Chris's desk and stood over the couch.

"Your medications?"

Chris looked up at him, took the pills, and drank the water. "Why are you doing this, Ezra?" He lay back down, grateful and hurting.

"Because if I am about to stroll back into the lion's den, I want to be certain that you know where I am and what I am doing."

Chris sat up fast. "Hold on, Ezra -- what did you say?"

"I received a phone call from D'Amico's right hand man. He wants to meet me."

"He wants to kill you, more like," Chris said.

"No, I don't think so."

"Ezra ..." Chris groaned and put a hand to his aching head. "I don't want you to make a move."

"Do you have a better idea?"

He didn't. He couldn't think, not now. "When does he want to meet?"

"Friday night."

"Where?"

"Caruso's."

Caruso's was Denver's most expensive Italian restaurant. It was not the sort of place to arrange a hit. Chris rubbed his eyes. "Tell him yes. I'll work some sort of protection out, Ezra."

Standish rose and looked down at him. "I didn't have to ask," he said quietly.

Chris's mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. "Thanks, Ezra."

"A meal at Caruso's is payment enough, Mr. Larabee." He gave Chris a jaunty salute and left the office.

After a while, the pain meds and antacid kicked in, and Chris pushed himself upright. He felt sluggish, tired, and he knew he had to get back to the ranch before the Tylenol wore off -- at the moment it was holding his migraine at bay, but he knew it would descend full force without the medicine he'd left at home. The outer office was quiet. Looked like everyone had gone to lunch. Chris picked up his jacket from where he had laid it across Buck's desk. He scrawled a note for Buck and left the office, his eyes shielded from the agonizing glare of the sun by dark glasses.

The drive to the ranch seemed endless; every bump and patch of rough road sent pain like shards of glass into his skull. Just when he thought he'd be forced to leave the road and call Nathan for a rescue, he realized he was nearly home. He wheeled into the driveway, braked too hard, and skidded to a halt. He opened the door in time to vomit. He was still bent over, still gasping, when he felt a strong arm catch him around the waist, and he knew Nathan was there, half-carrying him up the steps and into the house. He felt himself being lowered to the couch in the den, and felt someone -- Nathan -- cover his shivering body with an afghan. He heard footsteps, felt his sleeve being pushed up, a needle stick, then quickly, blessed relief from the pain in his head.

When he opened his eyes, it was nearly dusk. He turned his head slightly. The lamp next to the big recliner was turned low, and Vin was sitting there, a book in his hands. He was slowly turning the pages, his brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips moved. But he looked up as if Chris had said his name. "Hey, cowboy."

"Don't call me that," Chris whispered, waiting for the pain to racket through his head. But it didn't, just a ghost of a throb. "What are you doing out of bed?" he asked, the sharpness of the question blunted by his weak voice.

Vin chuckled. "Looks like I'm in better shape 'n you, Larabee. 'N before ya get all huffy, Nate gave me the go-ahead. It ain't like I'm ridin' Peso and ropin' calves, ya know." He got out of the chair, still moving stiffly. He went to the wet bar, filled a glass with water and brought it over to the couch. "Nate said I's t'make sure you drank plenty of water when ya woke up."

"Where is he?"

"I told him t'go home fer a few hours. I promised I'd take it easy, an' that's what I've been doin'." He sat next to Chris and waited as he pushed himself to a semi-upright position. "Here's yer water."

It tasted cool, sweet, and Chris drank it down, savoring every swallow. He swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand up. Vin was right there with him, a shoulder to lean on until he was steady. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. He gave Vin a twisted smile. "Don't know who's holding who up."

Vin grinned at him. "Hell, if either one of us backed off, I reckon the other would fall over. So, where'd ya wanna go?"

"Bathroom." He went inside, Vin leaned against the wall and waited. Then they headed towards the kitchen. Chris sat at the table, while Vin made a pot of tea and put some canned chicken soup on to heat. He ladled out two bowls, set out mugs of tea and added sugar to them both, over Chris's protest.

"Drink it," Vin ordered, and seemed surprised when Chris did, though not as surprised as Chris was to not only drink it, but like it. After he had eaten the soup, he sat back in his chair, his hands clasped over his stomach.

Vin leaned forward. "Feelin' up to tellin' me what did this to ya, partner?"

"Stress. God, it's been a long time since I was knocked down like this, though."

"Migraine?"

"Big time." He drank some more tea, let the warmth settle into the core of him. Then he told Vin about the meeting with Travis, and Ezra's proposed rendezvous with D'Amico's man. Vin listened intently, not saying much, but clearly thinking hard.

"Friday?'

"Yeah, at Caruso's."

"Pretty high-rent for a meeting." His eyes were glittering in the dim light. "Ain't exactly my style."

Chris sat up. "Your style?"

"Hell, y'ain't lettin' Ezra go in there alone, are ya?"

"Hell, no! But you're not gonna be there, Vin. You can't." He saw the rebellion flare in those eyes.

"Who else?" Vin asked. "Get me in there, Chris. I'll jist sit at a table and watch."

Chris shook his head. "Are you trying to give me *another* migraine, Tanner?"

"I'm jist trying to make yer life easier, Larabee." He grinned, but his eyes were serious. "It ain't jist Ezra involved in this. I's the one bleedin' on the ground, remember?"

Chris glared. "*I* remember, but it seems you've forgotten -- you'll be at Caruso's the day that hell freezes over, pard."

"Then I reckon Satan'll be wearin' his overcoat, 'cause I ain't sittin' here while Ezra's eatin' his last meal." Vin stood up, restless, wincing slightly.

"Dammit, Tanner! Don't make me pull rank --"

Vin gave him a wry smile. "Chris, you 'n me both know that if I wanna be there, y'ain't gonna be able to stop me, so ya'd might as well *let* me be there. Who are ya gonna send? They already know I'm with Ezra. They *know* how good I am. I already put the fear of that in 'em, and I jist don't see 'em showin' up at Caruso's aimin' to take us down. They're lookin' to deal something -- you know that's gotta be in their minds. I swear on a stack a' bibles that I won't do anything but let them see me watchin' Ezra's back."

The trouble with Vin Tanner was that his mind was as lethal as his rifle. Chris was out-argued and disarmed before he'd had a chance to mount a defense. He thrust his fingers through his hair, rose, and paced a few steps. Vin lounged against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles. Chris eyed him, looking for signs of illness and pain. Tanner was still pale, but, aside from that slight stiffness when he moved quickly, seemed much better than he had been. And what he said made so much Goddamned sense that it was hard to argue his point.

Chris sighed. "All right -- but only if you get a medical clearance -- and I don't mean from Nathan."

Vin nodded. "That's fair. Thanks, Chris."

"If you make me regret this, Vin ..."

Chris's warning sent a cold chill up his spine, yet beneath that icy green study, there was concern and friendship, and that warmed Vin's soul. "Ya won't, I swear it." He held out his hand, and Chris's strong fingers clasped his forearm.

"I'll kill you myself, if you do," he promised.

*******************

On Thursday, Vin sauntered into the office and laid a sheet of paper on Chris's desk. Chris had been staring at his computer monitor, reading JD's report on Williams's past history with the Treasury department. He looked up, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

Tanner grinned at him. "Got my permission slip from the doctor. Go ahead, read it."

Chris unfolded the paper. He couldn't argue. Two doctors, Rain and Elizabeth Stone had signed off on Vin's Friday night excursion. He frowned at it suspiciously, reading the words. "You're cleared to have dinner at Caruso's. Damn it, Tanner! You didn't tell them you were going there in an official capacity."

Vin sat down on Chris's couch. "I told them I was going to dinner with Ezra. They didn't ask if I was gonna carry a gun, so I didn't tell 'em I was."

Chris started dialing his phone, only to have Vin reach out, quick and deadly, and grasp his arm, stopping him. "Don't, Chris."

The underlying threat in Tanner's soft voice set him back in his chair. His mouth curled. "Or what?"

Vin's eyes glinted. "Ain't no *or what*. I done what y'asked. Got two docs to say I'm fit. And I *am* gonna be at Caruso's Friday night, yer blessing or not."

"If you're asking for blessings, talk to Josiah." But as quickly as it had come, his anger drained away. He couldn't help that the grim curl to his mouth turned into a smile. "I should drag your sorry ass in front of Orrin Travis for insubordination."

Vin gave a mocking shiver. "Sounds downright wicked." He leaned forward on Chris's desk, earnestly, his voice even quieter than it had been. "I ain't stupid, Chris. There's chances, and there's chances. This ... this ain't a big deal. If I thought it was, and I didn't feel up to it, I wouldn't put Ezra's life on the line jist t'save my pride."

Chris studied him for a moment, then reached for his phone once again. He punched in an extension number, waited. "Ezra. In here, please." And glowered at Vin's half-smile.

Ezra knocked and came in, his jacket slung over his shoulders. "You rang?"

"Sit down." A chestnut brow lifted quizzically, but Standish didn't say a word. Chris steepled his fingers. "About Friday night. Did you set it up?"

"I said I would meet Ronnie Fazio at eight o'clock."

"Ronnie Fazio? The little shit who's been up on weapons charges more times than I c'n count?" Vin snorted. "Eatin' at Caruso's?"

Ezra chuckled. "A frightenin' thought, I admit. One would scarcely believe him capable of so delicate a skill as eatin' with a fork."

"That don't say much for D'Amico's organization, if Fazio's takin' charge."

"Could be he's a front for the real power," Chris suggested and Ezra shrugged.

"I expect you are right in that assumption, Mr. Larabee. But we won't find out until Friday."

"Vin is going to be there."

Ezra's brow flew up again. "In plain sight?"

"That's the idea, Ez."

"Not to disillusion you, but Caruso's on a Friday night is a hard ticket."

Chris grinned. "Not when you know the right people." He punched in another series of numbers on his phone. When Orrin Travis answered, Chris related what was planned for Friday evening and asked if he could arrange for Vin to have a table with a clear line of sight to Ronnie Fazio's. A few terse phrases later, he hung up. "You're set."

Ezra was impressed into silence. Vin just sat back with a satisfied look on his face. "Don't make me regret this," Chris warned, and there was not a trace of levity in his voice.

********************

Caruso's was located in a century old brick building a block up from the Buell theater where the Opera had been performed. On a Friday night, the parking lot was filled with luxury sedans, SUV's, and sports cars with sticker prices that would have fed the residents of Purgatorio for a month. Vin had parked his Jeep two blocks away and walked. He was definitely outclassed here.

The restaurant foyer harkened back to Denver's golden past -- gilt-framed mirrors, carved woodwork picked out in gold leaf, pale gold carpeting. It was like being in a luxurious vault. Vin checked his appearance in one of the mirrors. He guessed he looked all right. His best gray slacks, a pale gray and white striped shirt, a silk tie patterned in white and gold on a gray background, and one of Ezra's splendidly tailored sports coats in a supple dark gray fabric that felt like butter beneath his fingers. Cashmere ... that's what the label said, and Vin figured he might as well enjoy it, because he sure as hell wasn't ever gonna have a coat like that in his lifetime.

A party of three elegantly dressed couples came into the reflection, and Vin was startled to realize that he didn't look that much different than they did -- his hair was longer, and there was a hard set to his shoulders, and a wary look in his eyes that he blinked away. No reason for it to show. He rotated his shoulders slightly to ease the tension, and caught one of the women looking at him. He blushed, and she smiled.

A man in a tuxedo approached Vin. He held out his hand in a gesture, indicating that Vin should follow him. "Signore Tanner?"

"Yes."

"Your table is ready." Only the faintest hesitation before he followed the maitre d' betrayed Vin's unfamiliarity with the situation. The dining room had two levels, the upper one accessed by a short flight of six steps. He was shown to a table next to the wrought iron and gilt railing guarding the drop off to the lower level. The man pulled out a chair, waited for Vin to seat himself, and then with the most perfect of touches slid the chair in just the right amount. He reached over Vin's shoulder, plucked the starched peak of the napkin from in front of him, snapped it open, and laid it on Vin's lap.

There was a red leather menu set on the table. Vin eyed it as if it were a snake about to strike. He opened it, stared at it. Hell, it wasn't just the words, the damn thing was printed in Italian. That was one obstacle he hadn't considered. Damn Ezra anyway. He might have given him a warning. He could face a sniper on a cold, moonless night with less trepidation than he felt at the sight of that menu.

"Signore?" Vin looked up. A tuxedoed waiter was standing next to the table. "My name is Gianni, and I will be your server this evening."

"Um, I ain't --" Vin took a breath. "I haven't looked at the menu."

"Ah, Signore Travis called ahead and suggested some of his favorite selections for you, if you care to try them?"

Some of Vin's tension left him. "I reckon I can trust him," he smiled. "Thank you." And a silent thanks to Orrin for thinking of his dyslexia, not to mention the language gap. He settled back and surveyed the floor below him. His eyes narrowed. The table below him and just slightly to his left was set for three, and there was a folded tag on it with D'Amico's name on it. *D'Amico's.* Seemed like Ronnie Fazio was just a front man. Chris would find that mighty interesting.

Gianni returned and set a wineglass down. Vin looked at it, thought of Rain and Dr. Stone glaring at him, and shook his head. "Sorry, cain't drink that." Gianni looked disappointed, but whisked the glass away and replaced it with ice water with a slice of lemon floating in it. Ten minutes later, he set a small plate before Vin.

"Singore. *Pisci d'ovu*, and *Cappele di Fungi Ripiene*." Vin lifted a brow. "Egg fritters and stuffed mushroom caps," Gianni translated with a smile. And discreetly vanished. Vin took a bite of the small golden puffs, and thought he'd gone to heaven. A faint hint of garlic, buttery parmesan cheese, and *fried*. Lord, Travis knew his weaknesses. The mushroom caps were filled with a mixture of chopped mushrooms, herbs, and prosciutto, and topped with buttered bread crumbs. Vin, not a fan of mushrooms when they weren't on pizza had no trouble with those.

He looked at his watch. Nearly eight. Time for Ezra to make his appearance. His attention was so focused on the door that he didn't notice when the antipasti plate was removed and the soup course set in front of him. He looked down, smiled slightly. "Wedding Soup, right?"

"Si, signore. Very good."

And it was.

Then he saw *them.* He recognized Ronnie Fazio immediately. He was short, broad shouldered, tending towards fat in his midsection though he wasn't yet forty. His black hair was slicked back and his expensive suit didn't quite fit him. He was followed by a tall, slender man, olive complected, dark haired, and, unlike Fazio, elegant in a flamboyant way that set Vin's nerves on edge. Troy D'Amico -- the heir apparent. And Ezra, his green eyes sweeping the room in cool appraisal, his auburn hair gleaming, wearing one of his ridiculously expensive suits and looking more at home than either of his companions. Those eyes met Vin's and one auburn brow lifted in greeting. Somehow, when they reached the table, Ezra worked the seating so that D'Amico and Fazio had a clear view of Vin, while his own profile was visible to the sharpshooter.

Gianni produced the next courses with a flourish. *"Tonarelli col Rosmarino. And *Filleto alla Diavolo,"* he announced as if he were serving the President of the United States instead of Vin Tanner, resident of Purgatorio. That was worth a smile.

Vin looked down at the dish that had taken the place of the soup. Squares of pasta in a sauce redolent with garlic, butter, and rosemary. The pasta was thin enough to nearly melt in his mouth. The filet was cooked rare and served with a sauce that was smooth, rich, and carried a bite of heat that lingered on the tongue. If not for the edge of nerves tingling in the back of his mind, Vin would have melted into a little puddle of contentment right there in Caruso's.

Ezra was deeply engaged in a conversation with the sommelier and D'Amico, and Fazio hadn't noticed Vin yet. Ezra pointed to a choice on the wine list, and the Sommelier nodded, approving; and made some sort of sign to a waiter who came to the table a few minutes later to pour wine as rich and red as blood. Vin watched, amused, as Ezra went through the elaborate ritual before granting his final approval. Smooth. Vin was glad that Dr. Stone had forbidden alcohol until his liver was healed -- he'd never been much for that particular dog and pony show.

The three men seemed to be more interested in the menu than in business. Vin finished his steak and Gianni took the plate away. "Coffee, Signore Tanner?"

"'N'less ya got something stronger," he said, and Gianni grinned.

"Espresso?"

"Double?" Vin suggested, and Gianni went off, a happy man. Vin figured he could nurse the espresso for a long time, and it sure looked like it would be a while before Ezra and his companions would be ready to leave. Hell, they looked like they were having a high old time. But every now and then, Ezra's green eyes would slide over to where Vin was sitting, and ghost away.

They were half-way through their appetizer course when Fazio happened to look up and see Vin. His dark face got darker, he said something that managed to look obscene, even though Vin couldn't hear him, to Troy D'Amico. D'Amico turned quickly, saw Vin, and shot an ugly look at Ezra. Vin tossed aside his promise to remain in the background out the window. He crooked a finger at Gianni. "Bring me another espresso, and serve it at that table. I see some friends a'mine down there."

"Si, signore." Gianni had a faint look of disapproval on his face. Vin, always aware of nuances of expression, cocked an eyebrow at the waiter. "You know those fellers?"

"They are regular customers. They are not favorite customers. But what can you do -- turn down good money?"

"What do they do? Rip the place up?" Vin smiled.

"They are rude, ill-mannered. And their guests ..." he shrugged, "they are ..." No words, just an eloquent gesture that Vin understood perfectly. He knew the undercurrent of violence that men such as Fazio and D'Amico brought into a room, and it wasn't the same tension that Larabee carried with him, this was as dark and dangerous as filthy water running fast.

He put aside his promise to Chris to stay away from Fazio and went down the steps to the main floor. He made his way to the table, Ezra watching him and looking worried. He stood at the table, cool and easy. "Ezra." He appraised Fazio, nodded to D'Amico, and slid into the fourth chair at the table. "Ain't this cozy?" he said, blue eyes slitted and dangerous. Before he could say another word, Ezra trod sharply on his instep, warning caution.

"This is my colleague, Vin Tanner. You've met. Indirectly."

Silence as D'Amico's eyes turned to ice, and Fazio did a slow burn. Vin met both looks without blinking. He wanted them to know how dangerous he was and could be. They knew. D'Amico broke first, an ugly smile on his face. "I wasn't particularly fond of my uncle," he said, "but his death has left a certain amount of ...disarray."

Vin lifted a brow. "Really?"

Fazio seemed ready to leap from his chair and strangle Vin, which he thought was odd, considering that it wasn't Fazio's uncle he'd killed. He wondered if Ezra was seeing the same thing, but had no way of conveying his thoughts.

D'Amico shrugged. "A hazard of any business."

Ezra shifted in his chair, leaning forward. "What is your business, tonight?"

"A deal." D'Amico said. "You didn't have to bring Mr. Tanner here for protection. That reeks of distrust."

Ezra laughed softly. "Distrust? I can't imagine why you would think I'd distrust you, Mr. D'Amico. But I digress ... What sort of deal?"

"Information. Surely you know you were betrayed."

"I suspected as much," Ezra drawled. Vin made a soft snort of derision. Again that nudge of a foot against Vin's. "But so were you."

D'Amico's eyes narrowed and Vin, watching Fazio out of the corner of his eye, saw rage rippling through Fazio's tense shoulders. Curious.

Ezra continued in that damned drawl, easy as honey. "Someone was feeding us information as well. Think about it." He flipped a card on the table. "Call me -- and this time, don't bother with the threats. They really are ineffective." He rose, neat and elegant, nodded at Vin.

Vin stood, letting the lapels of his jacket fall just slightly aside, giving D'Amico and Fazio a glimpse of a leather shoulder holster in a subtle warning. Fazio looked like he was about to choke. Vin could have sworn that D'Amico looked alarmed.

**********************

Vin made sure his gun was cleared in the shoulder holster as he and Ezra left Caruso's, but the front of the restaurant was quiet; no dark, menacing vehicles waiting. As soon as he and Ezra were out the door, he grabbed his arm. "You mind tellin' me why we walked outta there empty-handed?"

Ezra gave him a pitying look. "Is that what you think?"

"Hell, yes. I thought they wanted to talk a deal."

"Trust me, they weren't. They were looking for information from us, but D'Amico isn't the man to talk to. Surely you noticed the look on his face when I suggested that there was an informant in his camp."

A smile touched the corner of Vin's mouth. "Looked like he was gonna toss his pasta."

"And Fazio?"

"Like you'd stuck a hot poker up his butt."

Ezra laughed. "A crude but apt observation." His eyes narrowed. "They'll be in touch, one way or another."

"'S'that *other* that's got me worried there, Ez." Standish shrugged as if he didn't care, but Vin was willing to bet that those bruises on his body had to ache at the thought. "Where'd you park?" he asked Standish.

"Valet parking." He handed his ticket to the waiting valet. "You?"

"'Bout a block thataway."

"May I offer you a ride to your vehicle?"

Vin laughed. "Hell, Ezra. It's a ragtop Jeep -- not the Queen of England's coach -- and that's all right, I'm good."

"You have a fine disregard for your own safety, Mr. Tanner." Ezra frowned. "You do realize that either of those gentlemen we just dined with are only too willing to put a period to your existence?"

"You more worried about me or your jacket?" Vin asked.

Standish gave him a wry smile. "It does seem that whenever I loan you an item from my wardrobe, it is never returned in the same pristine condition it was when it left my closet. But despite that, I assure you, I do value your life slightly more than cashmere."

Vin laughed at that. "Thanks. You'll get it back t'morrow. I promise."

"Without bullet holes?"

"I'll do my best, pard." He wanted to talk to Ezra about the meeting, but just then the valet drove Ezra's BMW up to the curb. "Guess we'll talk about it in the morning."

"I fail to see how dissecting it this evening will do anything but give me a headache. I'll see you tomorrow morning. I'm sure our fearless leader will be expecting a full report." Ezra slid into the driver's seat, gave the valet a tip, and drove off.

Vin watched him for a while, an unsettled feeling in his gut. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked quickly down the block to the parking lot where he had left the Jeep. He checked his paces in the shadow of a building. A dark shape was lurking alongside the Jeep; seemed somebody was waiting for him. His heart rate picked up a bit, and he had started to reach for his gun, when the flare of a striking match illuminated a shock of blond hair and the sharp features of Chris Larabee.

He drew a deep breath and strolled towards the Jeep. Chris leaned against the hood, a lit cheroot in his fingers. The tang of the smoke teased Vin's nostrils as he approached. "Yer a bit high-priced t'be playin' security guard for a beat up old Jeep, Larabee."

"Ain't the Jeep, it's the driver." Chris studied Vin's face. The Texan looked pale and washed out in the sodium vapor street lights, though it was hard to tell if his pallor was more than the sallow reflection off his skin.

"Hell, th'driver's as beat up as his ride," Vin laughed softly. He tilted his head. "I'm alright, Chris, ya don't hafta ride herd on me."

Chris chuckled. "Is that what you think I'm doing? I thought I was getting a head start on tomorrow morning. You tired?"

"Shit, Chris. I drank two double espressos in there. I'm good till three AM. Why don't ya come up t'my place and I'll give you a rundown?"

Chris grimaced slightly. Purgatorio wasn't his favorite place, but the dark circles beneath Vin's eyes told him that the sharpshooter wasn't up to driving out to the ranch no matter how much caffeine he had in him. "I'll follow you there. Just don't lose me."

"Afraid I'll outrun ya, old man?"

"Afraid you'll pass out at the wheel," Chris said. He slapped the hood of Vin's Jeep. "See ya in a few."

As Vin drove through the city, leaving the more upscale areas for the shabby, dangerous streets of Purgatorio, he sensed the presence of Chris at his back, stronger and brighter than the headlights of the Ram reflecting in his rearview mirror. It was a good feeling.

He wheeled into his parking place -- his, because his landlord appreciated having a tenant who paid his rent on time every month, and, because Vin had been known to do a bit of after hours law enforcement to keep the building safer for the other tenants. He waited in the vestibule for Chris. Larabee hated to park his truck on the streets, and made sure that anybody hanging out knew exactly how dangerous it would be to their continued existence if they laid as much as a fingertip on the Ram, before he walked away. So far, it had worked better than the fancy security system he'd installed.

"Thought you'd never get here," Vin drawled when Chris backed warily into the tiny vestibule.

"When the hell are you going to move outta this place?"

"Maybe I figure Purgatory's as close to heaven as I'm ever gonna git," Vin replied. He walked right past the elevator which worked less than half the time and started up the four flights of stairs to his top floor apartment, listening to Chris mutter all the way up.

He unlocked the array of bolts on his door, pushed it open and flicked on the hall light. "Make yerself at home, Chris. I'm gettin' out of Ezra's duds before I spill somethin' on 'em, 'r snag 'em on a nail. Cain't afford t'replace'em fer damn sure." He went into the bedroom and changed from cashmere and Sea Island cotton to denim and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt.

When he returned to the living room, Chris was sitting on the couch, a beer and a ginger ale on the coffee table in front of him. He flopped down next to Larabee with a sigh of relief. "Who's drinkin' what?" he asked.

Chris nudged the ginger ale towards Vin. "I'm not the one with a hole in my liver." He took a swig of his beer and slouched deeper into the cushions. "So, what happened tonight at Caruso's?"

"Wish I knew for sure." He sipped, coughed when the fizz from the carbonation hit the back of his throat. Blinked away the tears stinging his eyes before he spoke. "It was weird, Chris. Real strange. Maybe when we get together with Ezra, things'll make more sense."

"Tell me."

"First of all, it wasn't jist Ronnie Fazio there. You were right about Fazio being the go-between. Troy D'Amico was with him."

Chris thought about that. "The nephew?"

"Seems t'think he's in charge, but ..." He took another thoughtful swig of soda. "Seemed real sure of himself until Ezra threw the fact that somebody in their camp was an informer on the table. Made Fazio heat up faster'n a poker and D'Amico look ... I'd swear he looked scared, Chris. And he ain't the kind a' man to scare easy."

"What about the phone calls?"

Vin shook his head. "Ezra made it pretty clear he thought they were coming from D'Amico's goons, but I saw D'Amico's face, and I'd say our hunch was right."

"Williams?" Chris sighed and rubbed forehead. "We don't have anything on him yet, Vin. JD's been scouring every database out there and so far Williams is clean."

"Well, ya didn't think it would be right out there in plain sight," Vin sighed. Settled. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes. Chris started to stand, and Vin pushed his backbone off the cushions with an effort. "I'm beat, Chris. I'm goin' to bed. The couch is yers if ya want it."

Chris admitted that he wasn't up to driving an hour out to the ranch, and Vin's couch was more comfortable than the spine-bender in his office. "Thanks. As long as you don't mind."

"Hell, ya don't snore like Bucklin, or talk in yer sleep like JD," he said over his shoulder as he went to get blankets and a spare pillow for Chris. He came back, arms full and dumped the bedding on the couch. "G'night, Chris."

"You, too. You take your meds?"

A roll of eyes and a quick grin. "Yes, mom." Then he was out of sight in the bedroom. Chris spread things out, stripped down and was asleep just about as quickly as his head hit the pillow.