I love it when you rescue me...

Ella Fitzgerald's Rooming House For Single Ladies is, by all accounts, the most moral, safe and aesthetically pleasing of the many ladies only boardinghouses that had sprung up near forty-fifth street. It was built in 1879 to accommodate only the most forthwith (and the most willing to pay) ladies working in the theater industry, but instead had been pressed into service to accommodate the overflow of immigrants and impoverished women who had followed the recent manufacturing boom across the ocean and Eastward. Dixie's room is a small saltbox overlooking the street; not the best she's had, but not the worst. It allows her sleep and warmth and serves three square meals a day. After experiencing such a long and dusty trip Dixie treasures it.

Two weeks into her three-night stand, she picks up the atmosphere of resentment straining the place. Her first clue bleeds through her wall, the sound of a feminine voice learning its own strength for the first time.

"Strike!" pipes a young voice.

"Are you out of your mind?!" whispered a softer voice - Amelia, whom Dixie recognizes as her dresser back at the Dead Rose Theater. "We don't have that kind of bargaining power. If we leave they'll just replace us with someone else!"

"We're starving," says the younger voice once more. "I don't have enough money for coal, and my son needs medicine for his croup. I don't care if he does fire us, but I'm not gonna

That stirs up another, positive murmur. At least ten voices, echoing together strike, strike, strike! in unison fills the air.

The sound of suffering galvanizes Dixie. After the evening show, she's careful to make sure she was alone with Amelia. She cut right to the chase. "I heard you're going to strike tomorrow. Let me help."

"No, Miss Cousins," she said immediately, trying to zip Dixie into her teddy. "It's too risky - if everything goes wrong they could blackball you from working in New York..."

"Honey," Dixie laughed, "it wouldn't be the first time. Now tell me what you're cooking up."

"We're going to form a picket line before the midnight show next Tuesday. I wish you wouldn't, Miss Cousins, please..."

"No," Dixie says, her hands tucked onto her hips. "I've been the face of one cause. What harm would one more do me?" She gives the girl a thin smile. "I know what it's like to be unappreciated for hard work. You gals deserve shelter and food as much as I do."

To her relief, Amelia believes her. The girl grins and squeezes her hands before handing Dix off to her hairdresser.

After the show, it takes her a minute more to properly gussy up before heading down to the box office to meet with the women. If kind words won't work, she'll wire back to San Francisco for her pistols.

The town clock chimes midnight. She steps through the door...

Dixie is utterly calm as the chilled steel of the gun is jammed into her shoulderblade. If she panics now, Brisco will end up shredded in two. Well, if she wanted a boyfriend who came in pieces she’d have fallen in love with a mannequin.

He makes it out alive. She never doubted he would. Whatever magic the man bears – enough to set her still in mid-stride – stops him from being marched off to the gallows and she an uncertain fate in San Francisco.

“Are you all right?” she asks, dusting his shoulder.

“Fine, fine. Get Comet!”

She whistles, but the horse doesn’t come. “I believe I’ve trod into your domain,” she says wryly.

When he whistles, Comet gallops up, holding her mare’s reins between his teeth. “Look,” she says, prying the thongs of leather from between his teeth, “they took care of each other.”

“Well, wouldya look at that,” Brisco says, mounting up.

“He learned well from his master,” Dixie noted wryly, saddling up beside him.

“You’ve never needed me to save you, Dix – just to give you a kick in the britches when you ride off the trail.”

“I think I’m good at keeping on course.” She flicks the reins lightly. “Where are we going, Brisco?”

“As far from here as we can get. YAH!” he shouts, kicking Comet into a heavy canter. “Come on, Dix!”

She clicks her tongue, urging her mare onward. They’ll have to make tracks as quickly as they can if they want to beat Bowler and Smiles.

***

The coin's still warm in her hand as she sits down beside the campfire hours later. Bowler knows his way around a sack of dried beans, and her two admirers are playing the low parts of Carmen for him to sing to. She'll find out later that he used to sing in a choir with his mamma and understand why his bass is so resonant.

She feels Brisco instead of seeing him, her eyes focused on the campfire they've made. "Heroine of the revolution?"

"You were there - though I suppose I could have been more heroic."

"I told you you're as good as gold." He holds out his palm. "Let me touch it?"

"I suppose so. Haven't said no to you touching me lately, have I?"

He flushes, and before she knows it they start talking - actually talking for once - about what they want out of this relationship. The conclusion is the same now as it was then - she wants to settle down. He's afraid he's his own father. The patterns will repeat; they're too stubborn to change them now.

Somehow, they end up making out on the seat of a buckboard like a couple of teenagers courting. Now she doesn't need to think of anything but the smell of his skin and the way his arms hold her tight. She seizes the moment and runs.

***

The Los Scados hasn't changed since the last time she saw it - when she was a foolish eighteen year old running into Doc's arms. The sisters all know her name, even in disguise; and once more, they don't castigate her as she strips off the vestments they so treasure.

"Myra," the mother superior says intently as her fellow sisters bind Smiles' hands, "be careful with the crowd you've chosen..."

"Well, I don't quite think I chose them," she says, folding the wimple away with respect.

Something flashes in the woman's eyes as she takes the clothing from Dixie's outstretched hand. They're watching Brisco and Bowler accept a small pack of jerky and beans from the kitchen. "You like the short one, don't you?" the mother superior whispers softly.

Dixie smiles. "We suit each other, I suppose."

"Good," she grins right back. "After what happened with that McCoy fellow..."

"Don't worry about him," Dixie replies. "He's long gone."

This lady - who drew her so gently into womanhood and had accepted her in spite of her inability to become one with the order - kissed her forehead. "God be with you, Myra."

"And with you too, sister," she replies softly. One more hug, one more touch upon her cheek.

And they're off again.

They've been here for ten days. Ten surprisingly long days. Dixie's not going to complain about having Brisco all to herself, but he's starting to wear on her nerves with all of that pacing.

When the door thumps open, she shuts the dime novel she'd been skimming and glances over her shoulder. "I hope you didn't waste that trip, Kansas.

It used to be far easier to get a nice little meal and a cozy tete a tete. At least that's what Dixie says to herself for the millionth time today as she strides up the back staircase of a club of ill-repute in a badly-fitting black wig. Her incredibly brief time with the senator has managed to land her in extremely hot water and now a bunch of very nasty men want her pretty little neck on a blade, just because of an ill-placed recording device.

Oh, it's always about the wrong place, the wrong time...but she's standing right next to the right man. She doesn't have the cylinder on her, but she knows where it is - and until then she'll enjoy whatever time she can eke out with Brisco at her side. She's almost preening as the door opens....

Dixie knows she's starting to wear her welcome out among Emilio's followers; after all, it's one thing to be a golden beacon of the revolution and quite another a stalled saloon singer with no gigs. She doesn't need a ladies' maid to pack her valise and hire the next stage up to San Francisco; she should be able to get a room at the Saint Victoria while she charts the route to her next gig.

A knock sounds at the door of her room at the hacienda, and she rushes quickly to answer it. The sight of Emilio's smiling face makes her grin in return.

"I told you," she chastises him gently, "there's no need to knock."

"Miss Cousins," he says gravely, taking her hand, "can I talk to you in private?"

She gives him a wry look. "I guess you don't want to talk about the revolution."

He stepped in, and in the moment it took her to turn around and shut the door, he dropped to his knees. "Miss Cousins...Dixie, mi corozon," he said, quite elaborately, "If you would do me the honor of being my wife..."

Dixie felt her heart twist, and she gently pried her hand from Emillio's grip. "Honey, I think we both know your heart's not with me." She patted his cheek gently. "It belongs with the people, helping them, saving their lives."

He considered her words, eyes rebelliously stormy. "It is the cowboy, mister County?"

She felt a shiver run up her spine when he mentioned Brisco's name. "I wish it were," she admitted. "But what it's really about is you, this revolution, and the fact that I'm needed back in San Francisco. Let's face it, I'm no lady of light - and there aren't many footlights out here in Jalisco.

He shook his head, then picked her gloved hand up and kisses it. "You will be misses among my people, Miss Cousins."

Dixie smiled. "I'll miss you, Emilio. Even if we never would have worked in the long run."

"Please," he said, reaching into his back pocket, "take these as a token of my gratitude."

He held in his palm two exquisitely created silver and pearl earrings. "How sweet," she declared, tucking them into the pocket of her skirt. "I'll wear them in memory of you."

"No - wear them in celebration of what we've been through."

She gave him a hug, once he'd risen off the floor of her room. "Then that's what I'll do."


***

The trail was long, dusty, and filled with aggravation. Dixie had swung into a small but rich town, Silver City, twelve miles outside of San Francisco, just to take a break. A fancy teahouse and a cup of coffee entertained her as she shook the dirt from her traveling clothes, watching the world walk by the f

"Where," cried a haughty voice from behind her, "did you get those earrings?"

She touched them; the bobs Emilio had given her. "A gentleman suitor gave them to me. Why, do you think they're too gauche for a cup of morning oolang?"

"Those were stolen from my daughter in a stagecoach robbery a month ago!" she bellowed.

God, Dixie thought, but her resolve remained firm. "This has to be some sort of mix-up. I'm Miss Cousins, I entertain at the Horsehoe Club..."


"Thief!" the matron shouted, pointing a finger in her face. "Call the sheriff!"


Dixie was off like a shot.

**

Running in heeled boots is quite a feat - accomplishable, but still a feat. Dixie's thighs ached as she raced toward the backdoor of a theater (mercifully left completely unlocked). She wrenched it open and leaned, panting, against the closed surface.

The first thing she spied was a rack of costumes left abandoned. "Sisters forgive me," she muttered under her breath, ripping a nun's costume from the rack, ducking under the coarse material and tucking it down. "But sometimes a leopard's just got to change its spots!"

She fastened the wimple in record time, bowed her head, and rushed across the stage, hoping to head out the back door and onto the nearest stage, baggage be damned.

Unfortunately, the door out back didn't lead to the alleyway...