It was early the very next morning. The town was still in a hubbub from yesterday, people whispering about what had happened, rumours spreading like wildfire. Still...nobody dared to go out on the street. For one, the sheriff's people were patrolling everywhere. For another, people were slightly hesitant about meeting the mad dynamite thrower. So, except for the sheriff's guards, nearly no one was out and about.

Which made it all the more surprising when two people were suddenly there, out in the open. The taller one tugging the smaller one behind him.

"You," I announced in a low voice, that still managed to clearly convey my death threat, "are going to pay for this."

"Au contraire, Mr Linton," Mr Ambrose told me without turning around. "I won't pay. I will be paid."

"You...you..."

...are probably right, but I'm sure as hell not going to tell you that!

So, instead, I pointed out another rather pertinent fact.

"You'll get paid. And I'll end up in bloody prison!"

"Indeed. Don't worry. It's all part of my brilliant plan."

I felt the sudden urge to give him a brilliant kick in the butt.

"Come along, will you? And remember to stay in character now that we're in the open," he told me, and tugged at the rope which just so happened to be wound around my wrists and waist. "Be obedient and don't resist, heinous criminal scum, or I shall be compelled to use force."

I leaned forward. "You know," I whispered into his ear from behind, "For the first time engaging in rope play with my husband, this was not what I had imagined."

The rope twitched, betraying the way his hand jerked. I grinned.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"You are an apprehended criminal. Do not smile. Scowl. Now!"

"How much of the bounty will I get if I do, Sir?"

"Move! And play your role, or we—"

Just then, a deputy sheriff approached, and his voice cut off. Blast! And I was just about to think up some juicy comebacks and insults to throw at my dear husband.

But...hey!

A grin spread across my face. I was supposed to be a desperado! I could curse and insult as much as I wanted!

"Let me go! Let me gooooo, you bloody stinking nutsack full of horse shit! I'll rip you limb from limb and stuff your bollocks down your throat until you choke! Then I'm gonna kick you until you puke them up again! Go get stuffed, you stinking, stone-faced copper!"

From everywhere around, people were staring. A muscle in my dear bounty hunter's face twitched, and he tugged at the rope.

"Cease complaining, criminal! You brought this upon yourself. Now move!"

"This is outrageous! I am innocent!"

"That's what they all say."

"I demand to see a lawyer, you bloody asshat! And a revolver, and a knife!"

"Silence! Get moving!"

With another tug, the black-hearted bounty hunter forced me forward. Oh, how my freedom-loving desperado's heart raged! To be brought low by a mere pawn of the justice system!

"Here you go."

Coming to a stop in front of the sheriff's office, Mr Ambrose, the bloody bounty hunter, grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me towards the deputy at the entrance. The man stepped forward, blocking our way.

"Stop right there! Where do ya think ya're going?"

"I've got this fellow tied up like a Christmas present. Where do you think I'm going?" Mr Ambrose demanded from behind the high collar of his trench coat. That, along with the smirk on his face, made him almost impossible to recognize. Lazily, he jabbed a finger at the scum of the earth tied up behind him. "Do you recognize that piece of filth, or are you blind?"

He jerked at my rope, and I did my part, sending the goon a villainous smirk.

The sheriff's man looked at me—then jerked back, clutching his rifle. "Th-that's...!"

"Exactly. Now move your ass out of my way, before I move it for you!"

Quickly, the deputy moved aside, clearing the way to the door. Spitting on the ground like a good little bounty hunter, Mr Ambrose strode past him and kicked open the door.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're—oh!"

The pot-bellied man behind the desk leapt up, his triple chin trembling as he stared at my magnificent self. Smirking, I sent him the most dangerous desperado glare I could manage, making him take a step back. Well now...this boded well for my future criminal career.

"What are you staring at, you bloody pi'ārā chōṭā kadū?" I snarled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the sheriff growled.

"I think you can guess," I sneered. No need to tell him that it was actually Punjabi for "adorable little pumpkin". Insulting people in foreign languages was so much fun!

Tearing a poster from the wooden wall of the office, the sheriff stared down at it, then up at me, then down at the poster once again.

"It's you! It's really you!"

"The one and only."

"Shut up, thug!" The ruthless bounty hunter growled and pushed me towards the desk. Grabbing the torn poster from the sheriff's hand, he slammed it down on the desktop, his finger on the dollar sign. "I got the guy. You got the cash?"

"Sure!" The law man nodded hurriedly. "Please wait a moment, Mr...?"

"None of your business." Sending the man a deadly stare, Mr Rikkard Ambrose extended a hand. "Cash. Now."

The sheriff hurried into the back room and, from somewhere out of my sight, I heard the click of a safe opening.

"Unbelievable!" I whispered, the desperado sneer dropping from my face to be replaced with utter shock and disbelief. "Un-freaking-believable! It's actually working!"

"Of course it is."

"Don't you sound so bloody pleased with yourself about selling your wife!"

"Why not?" he enquired, sounding genuinely curious. "It's for $25,000."

I loved this man. I truly did. But sometimes...

Calm, Lilly. Calm. Criminals don't bitch-slap bounty hunters. Not while they're tied up, anyway.

"Here you go, Sir," the sheriff abruptly interrupted my thoughts. Stepping back into the front office, he dumped a pile of banknotes onto the table. Instantly, Mr Ambrose let go of me and grabbed the stack, starting to count.

Calm, Lilly, Calm!

For my dear husband's sake, I hoped he was going to invest those twenty-five thousand into a hospital. He sure as hell was going to need it.

Just then, my dear hospital-patient-to-be had finished counting his bounty. Sliding it into his pocket, he held out his hand to the sheriff. What, did he want more money?

To judge by the aggrieved expression on the fat sheriff's face, the man was having similar thoughts. "Um...sorry, Sir?"

"The receipt. I delivered, I received my money. Do you think I'm going to leave without a receipt, only for you to renege on the deal?"

The sheriff's triple chin twitched, his chubby fists clenching. Throwing a glance at Mr Rikkard Ambrose's revolver, however, he seemed to decide against doing anything unwise.

"Ehem...well, please wait a minute. I'll be back directly."

And, turning, he vanished into the back room once more.

"So," I enquired sweetly, keeping my voice low enough for only the two of us to hear. "Now that I'm about to be thrown into jail, what is the next step in your brilliant plan?"

"This," he said, and stuck a hand down the front of my trousers.

"Eeep! What the hell do you think you're doing, you—?!"

"Silence!" he hissed, covering my mouth with one hand, while his other...shoved something down the front of my pants, between my uncle Bufford's old socks? "Here, take this! Instructions included."

Then both hands vanished, just before the sheriff re-entered the room. Wait a minute. Mr Ambrose's strange, risky actions earlier, the thing that he had shoved at me...

Did this mean he actually had a brilliant plan?

"Come on!" Roughly, the sheriff grabbed me by the arm and dragged my discombobulated self after him. "Let's get you locked up with the other riff-raff! You'll fit in well with that scum!"

I wasn't able to think of a suitably criminal reply before I was dragged off. Soon, we reached a steel lattice door behind which I could see a number of people I would not have expected in a prison cell. In fact, I would not have expected them anywhere outside a branch of the Bank of England. They were small, diminutive men dressed in nondescript tailcoats and bowler hats, and looked suspiciously familiar. Like...unfortunate-souls-worked-to-death-in-Mr-Ambrose's-office familiar! Behind them was another group, men who were much more roughly dressed and would have looked right at home in a mine shaft, singing songs about gold and hacking at the walls with pickaxes.

The local law enforcement was bought off, Mr Rikkard Ambrose's voice echoed in my mind. The mine workers, management staff and some stubborn locals thrown in prison.

"You there!" Grunting, the sheriff gestured to a young deputy who looked like he was still wet behind the ears. "Search him! We don't want any weapons in there."

"Y-yes, Sir! Straight away, Sir!" Rushing forward, the kid started patting me down, until he reached my stuffed socks region, and...

He blinked—then, eyes widening, gaped up at me.

I shrugged, lifting one eyebrow. "I'm big. Get over it."

"Ehem. Well...err...please turn around, Sir, so I can reach the back of your legs."

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

I let the poor boy, who was obviously having a crisis of self-confidence, suffer through the rest of the search. Then the sheriff once again took over and, pulling open the door, shoved me into the cell. With a metal clang, the door slammed shut behind me.

Inside, my mind was still moving a mile a minute. Keeping up my expressionless façade as a hardened desperado was rather difficult as I gazed at the crowd of office staff and mine workers. They were all his. All of them. I just knew it! Holy Moly...! Had all of this been on purpose? Sending me in here, giving me that thing...

My hand flew to Uncle Bufford's socks.

A moment later, I found myself being stared at by a few dozen men with one hand down my crotch.

"Um..." I cleared my throat. "I think I've got to go to the little desperado's room."

They exchanged looks. Then one of the men pointed at the window.

My eyes widened. What the heck? Did they honestly mean for me to...

Duh.

This was a prison cell exclusively filled with men. Of course they did. Oh, the joys of having an inbuilt hose!

Muttering and grumbling under my breath, I hurried over to the window. Luckily, a patrol had just passed by, and not a soul could be seen outside. Whistling, I pressed myself as close to the wall as I could, shielding myself from the view of the men at my back, and slipped a hand beneath the waistband of my trousers. When I pulled it out again, I was holding a box of matches and a stick of—

Holy Mother of Molies!

Not quite able to believe my eyes, I stared down at the thing in my hand.

Are you just happy to see me, a voice whispered at the back of my mind that sounded suspiciously like Amy, my BFFABE (best friend from a brothel ever), or is that a stick of dynamite in your trousers?

"That blasted son of a—!"

I swallowed the rest of my words, mentally cursing Mr Rikkard Ambrose to all seven hells and back!

Dynamite!

Actual, freaking dynamite! In my trousers!

Well, you did once tell him you loved having an explosive relationship...

Shut up, stupid inner voice! Shut up, shut up, shut up!

"Is everything all right?" a hesitant voice enquired from behind. "Don't be embarrassed. I sometimes have, um...problems, too."

I felt my face redden. "N-no! I don't have problems! No problem at all!"

Damn and blast that busybody! Damn and blast Mr Rikkard Bloody Ambrose! I had to hurry! Shoving my hand down my trousers once again, I pulled out the last thing my sorry excuse for a husband had deposited there. Breathing in deeply, I stared down at the crumpled note in my hand.

Mr Linton,

I have provided the tools. I have provided opportunity. Strike tonight. I shall expect you back by midnight at the latest.

Rikkard Ambrose

P.S.: Pay shall be deducted for the time you and the other staff were absent from work.

I blinked.

Absent? What the hell do you mean, absent? I'm in bloody prison! Which you put me in!

Unfortunately, I didn't have an opportunity to shout these words into Mr Rikkard Ambrose's ear. In order to do that, I would have to get out of here, and get to him. Which, incidentally, was exactly what he wanted.

Drat!

Slowly, I counted to ten, making sure my roiling emotions had subsided. When I finally no longer felt the desire to rip Mr Rikkard Ambrose's head off with my bare hands, I put away the paper and looked down at the matchbox and dynamite remaining in my hands.

One corner of my mouth quirked up.

Say what you will about Mr Rikkard Ambrose...but he makes the most interesting plans.

Pretending to finish my business, I adjusted my trousers, walked over to a corner of the room and settled down on the floor. Time to wait for midnight.

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

I hope you like Mr Rikkard Ambrose as a bounty hunter?

By the way, the term "bitch-slap" which I used in this chapter is a rather modern one, and probably was not in the old West. However, no matter how diligently I researched, I was not able to find a historical term that conveyed the same amount of female vengeance ;) Do you have any suggested alternatives? I'm always eager to extend my vocabulary.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Pi'ārā chōṭā kadū—Punjabi for "adorable little pumpkin".