This was fun to write because it was about the return of an old writing partner from the very earliest of my western fiction days: Roxanne Montesquieu. This was first posted in the Tombstone collaborative fiction role-play novel at Pan Historia on August 10, 2006. Roxanne had a history that was literally years earlier, but in Tombstone time probably less than a year had gone by. By being a bit creative we worked out the details so it didn’t read as if time had been stretched beyond its normal limits, but Tombstone at Pan is a bit like the Korean War in M*A*S*H. It has gone on a lot longer than the real events could have.

Wyatt Earp

“Well, well, well.”

I spoke out loud to myself as I carefully folded the letter on its thick and expensive vellum and tucked it back in its envelope. It had been brief and yet opened up floodgates of memory.

“Roxanne.”

I knew that my feelings for her had changed over time to that of brotherly affection, but I wasn’t sure how Doc felt. We’d not mentioned her once in the time since she’d decided that she’d had enough of gambling men and got herself hitched to James Vandenberg. I had read in the newspapers of his passing and had chosen not to bring it up to Doc. Now it was going to be inevitable – she was on her way.

It would be hard to be calling her Mrs. Vandenberg but I reckoned I could get used to it. It was interesting to contemplate how widowhood might have changed her. I hoped the vivacious French woman was not too much changed. It would be good to see her again.

In fact the memories she stirred up caused me to direct my feet towards the new cathouse. I decided I should use that chip Madame Silks had provided me with for that new blonde filly. Apparently I was in the mood for a bit of a rougher ride. I had seen no tenderness in that girl, even though she was about one of the prettiest women I had ever seen. It seemed a shame that light was hiding in a house of ill-repute when such a face should have been gracing the stage or some rich fat politician’s arm. Of course she might lack any and all talent. I had seen other pretty girls that had tried for the stage find themselves working on their back instead – not that actresses didn’t often work on their backs too.

The girl, her name turned out to be a strange sounding name Janako, didn’t seem surprised that I was back to see her. Her cool grey eyes, lighter even than mine, raked me up and down. Her lips never turned up in a smile, not even a pretense at a smile, as she took me up to her room. Like most rooms in such parlor houses it was small but richly appointed with feminine things, but a little more spare than others I had seen. There were perfume bottles but not a profusion. There were silks but no overflowing trunk. I wondered if she was one of those that actually saved her money, and then I stopped wondering and got down to business.

While I removed my collar she seated herself on the bed with a negligent air. She knew she was surpassing lovely and wasn’t putting much effort into winning me over. She relied on her looks to do the work. She moved with a pleasing feline grace that did even more for her appeal than her pretty face and voluptuous form. I couldn’t help wondering about her even as I took my role as ‘john’ or ‘trick’. I knew she didn’t want me in her head, and she sure as hell didn’t want me in her heart, and right now that was fine with me. She rolled down her stockings and lifted her skirts.

That I wouldn’t have. She didn’t have to like me but she was going to do this my way.

“All of it, lovely lady.”