"The usual, Clayton. And keep it comin'."

"Thought you were taking it easy for a while?"

"Yeah, well, you and me both."

"Guess you've heard all about our special event last night?"

"Yep."

"Bet nobody's thinking about the time and effort it's going to take me to get that mess cleaned up."

Bill raised his watery eyes from the bar to judge if Clayton was pulling his leg or not. From the hard set of the tall man's glare, he guessed not.
"Vinegar and rock salt ought'a do it."

"Salt?"

"Yeah," Bill shifted his gaze back to the walnut surface. It proved easier than watching the emotions flick across Clayton's blue-grey eyes.
"Helps grind away the stain."

Clayton snorted and banged down a glass and a full bottle in front of Bill.
"You help yourself today, old man. I got too much to do."

"Yep. I'd reckon so. What you say about that, Hickey?" Bill Dawson swirled precariously on his barstool to face the empty one at the end of the bar.
"You gonna keep it down this morning?" Spluttering into his glass of whisky, Bill's grin faltered. "Outta respect, yeah?"

Staccato taps of high heels came towards him. That could only mean one thing.

Miss Molly Stockholme.

Sure enough, there she stood. Bold as brass and just as unmissable.

"Care to light up an old flame?"

Her husky voice set his loins on fire. How did she know what to say? Why did the words come so easy to her?

Old Bill took a deep breath and fumbled in his pocket until he managed to free the box of matches. He held them up like a prize winning cup for Molly to see.

She didn't even blink. She grabbed a hold of the box and proceeded to strike a flame big enough to stoke her cigarello.
"Wanna tell me what you know, Big Guy?"

Bill's pride swelled at the mention of their private nickname. He ran a hand over his balding plate and lifted up his chin.
"About what, ma'am?"

Molly drew in the flame and was rewarded with a red ember surrounded by a cloud of smoke. She flicked her fingers to shake the life out of the match. Her eyes reflected the dying sparks.
"About what your friend, the good Sheriff, has to say on the matter of Mr Ashbury's unfortunate accident."

Bill's left eyebrow raised involuntarily.
"Is that what you call it?"

Molly bustled her broad body up to the bar, taking up the space between his seat and Hickey's. Her lips displayed a grimace, when he knew she was actually attempting to smile. She spoke through clenched teeth.
"Why, what does Bailey label it as?"

He shrugged his shoulders and concentrated on pouring out his first glass of many. Molly lowered her shoulders, a move which provided Bill with an ample view of her assets. He shook his head.
"I ain't gettin' in on this, Miss Molly, ma'am. So quit hounding."

Molly pulled herself up straight and backed away in mock afront. Her tone of voice gave her away.
"Oh, whatever do you mean? I was enquiring as a troubled citizen."
She rested a heavy, red-nailed hand over his. The touch lit up a fire inside him. "Why don't you come on up the stairs and keep me company a while?"

She swayed in close enough for him to catch the scent of her lavander soap. Had it been the same bar as the one Ashbury had used the night his throat was slit? The thought brought a gag of bile up to his throat.
"I ain't good company." He drawled out while he avoided her stare.

Molly sniffed loudly, then turned her back to the bar. She stared out into the Saloon, her sea-blue eyes flickered with the reflections of the gaslights.
"It's not the kind of situation that you want to wake up alone to, Big Guy. It's more like, I can't think straight enough to see through another day."

The meaning underneath the riddle of her words scratched on Bill's brain. Clawing their way through. He huffed and slammed the first shot of whisky down his throat.
"You're damn close not to have noticed nothin'." He drawled, cradling the sticky glass.

She smiled. An upward lift of the corner of her lips. Nothing more. When she spoke, she distinctly avoided eye contact.
"It's not my position to notice things. I only keep them happy and send them back out. What is it exactly that you think I should have noticed?" Molly's words had steadily grown cold.

Bill Dawson's shoulders quivered and he released his grip on his glass to button up the front of his jacket.

Her countenance changed abruptly. She leaned back in towards him and pressed her hot hands over his. Her bosom heaved up and down from under her black, lacy corset.
"Now, there, Big Guy," she placated. "Those kind of words ain't befitting in such a handsome mouth as yours. You know how this all works here, you get the limits I have. Right?" Her long, dark tresses dangled freely over her cleavage as she emphatically shook her head. "My eyes, as well as my hands are tied here, Bill. You know that."

Bill tore his focus away from the pale vision of her soft mounds rising up and down with her emotions. He yanked away his right hand and concentrated on pouring himself a fresh one.

Both of Molly's hot hands gripped onto his vacant left one. He remembered what the pressure from those beautiful hands had felt like upon his....

"Are you listening to me, Bill Dawson?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am."

"So, you can tell me what the good Sheriff is deciding on doing next then?"

He found himself gazing into her blue-green eyes, lost at sea.
"I guess as much, ma'am. "

"Good. Then let's make like the squirrels and snuggle ourselves away for a day." She squeezed his arm hard while staring deeply into his eyes.

He sensed a desperation he'd never expected in the likes of Miss Molly Stockholme. It left him chewing on his bottom lip.
"Sorry Molly, I ain't in the mood."

She released her grip on his hand and passed her smooth, warm palms down his sideburns and across the stubble of his cheeks.
"What's eating you? Don't you like me anymore?"

Bill heaved out a sigh then slammed back the whiskey.

"Do you think I have something to do with this?" She demanded.

He kept his eyes on the glass as Molly gripped onto his thigh, her face inches away from his.

"Why would I want to harm one of our best clients now? Does that make any sense to you? Because if that's the case then you can go all the way to hell with it."

Bill waited. Her breath tickled the hair under his nose. Her hold on his leg tightened.
"You know me better than you know yourself, Big Guy." She whispered, then snatched her hands off him and turned to go.

Old Bill swallowed, looked up and caught both of their reflections in the bar room mirror. Her head tilted to the side, with her chin pointing up and away from him. Her hands clamped to her hips. An old familiar sinking sensation hit his stomach.

Damn her.

Why should he be sorry about upsetting her? He found it hard to believe that she really did have such emotions. She could put on a heck of a show. Yet, hell, he still couldn't stand to see her unhappy.

Bill picked up the bottle and slid from his stool. He snatched his hat off the bar and shook away the drips of whatever it had been laying in. Without a word, he placed an unsteady hand on the back of Molly's warm dress and walked with her to the staircase. After a few steps, she walked a little taller.

Molly led the way up. His hand never moved position as they climbed the stairs in silence.

At the top, Molly reached back and found the bottom of the whiskey bottle in his clutches. She wrestled it free, then swung it up to take a large gulp.

The tinny tune from the piano downstairs rattled around the narrow strip of hallway they were in.

Turning to face him, the dark-haired temptress dared to shoot him a 'come hither' gaze.

Bill's understanding of the moment collapsed. A second ago, at the bar, he'd known what was best to do. However, right then and there, hovering on the sticky floorboards of the saloon landing, he lost his direction. What the hell had he come up here for? Redemption? Comfort?

Bill shook his head, hoping the few, pickled brain cells he had left could make sense of the important matters at hand. He had to get Molly talking. She was the first person to see the deceased. That being nasty old Ashbury as well as Hickey. Coincidence? Bill snorted as he watched Molly's swaying hips push through the doorway of the first bedroom on the right.

"Hey, Molly?" He called after her disappearing frame. "How'd you find him again?"

From inside the bedchamber, the lady's singsong voice bounced off the sparse furniture and back out through the doorway. The lightness of her tone caused him to doubt her integrity.
"You mean that man from the bank, right?"

Old Bill grasped a hold of the doorframe while his head began to spin.
"Yeah," he drawled, cursing his spinning senses. "That's the puppy. Any similarities with ol'Hickey's end?"

When Molly finally answered, she spoke softly with a clipped edge.
"Can't say as there were." Her heels clacked upon the floorboards, signalling her return to the doorway.

Bill let go of the woodwork and rubbed his eyes. Without even looking, he knew she stood a breath apart from him right then. Her perfume invaded his woolly head. Blinking and pulling himself up straight, he decided to take the more direct approach.
"For real? Nothing?"

Her face appeared around the doorframe. "Why, no. Nothing to mark them the same." Her eyes twinkled in the hallway gaslights, her voice barely above a whisper.

Goosebumps raised over Bill's forearms and continued up until his shoulders shuddered with the sensation.
"You sure they ain't connected somehow?" He let the words slip out before he had the chance to assess the damage they might do.

Molly stared. "I'm getting awful tired of this conversation. Why don't we change the subject. Come on in here and take a load off."

She waved the bottle at the unmade bed. The assortment of blankets left pushed to the end by the last customer. The sight of it set Bill's belly churning. Her stare dropped when she followed his gaze, along with her head.

Bill pushed himself away from the woodwork and stepped over the threshold. She held out the bottle to him and swept away the clothes she'd thrown on the high-backed armchair, next to the fireplace.

Taking his cue, he sank down into the soft chair and craddled the bottle close to his bulging gut.

"Sing for me, Molly."

She sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing her boots. Her warm, sweet voice struck up the haunting melody of 'Myfanway'.

"Why is it anger, O Myfanway.

That fills your eyes so dark and clear?"

Her strong vibrato rolled along the words. Bill closed his eyes and drifted away on the song. His mind passing back to the faces of the friends he'd lost that day back in Wales. Their coal-stained mouths wide in beautiful strong voices. White glaring eyes misted with the emotion of the lyrics. He'd never forget them. He'd never let them down again.