Bolt out of the Blue I

Note: This story was originally posted 5/16/2002 as a response to a Challenge asking for a supernatural story. I find it hard to believe that it was 13 years ago! In any case, this story has received the most requests for a sequel. I really didn't think that the 'other side' was do-able, but I finally dug down and managed to get it written. This posting starts with the old story – revised and expanded. The new story starts with Part 3, but you should probably start with Part 1 because some changes have been made.

PART 1:

Agent Standish yawned into his hand and waited. Somewhere, in the little grove, the team's profiler was searching for his golf ball. Ezra could see his mauve golf-shirt through the trees.

Buck Wilmington yelled encouragement, which wasn't doing anything of the sort. Agent Dunne poked around the edges of the deep grass with his club, as if there was hope of finding the little ball anywhere near the fairway. From time to time, Agent Sanchez would utter another curse, but he doggedly continued his way through the rough.

Ezra closed his eyes. He'd spent the last two months undercover, wending his way into the good graces of a businessman who was rumored to be exporting weapons. He was suspected of poisoning those who'd wronged him. It had been bone-tiring to work.

The bust had finally gone down yesterday afternoon without incident. Mr. Hargrove was behind bars, awaiting his trail. The fingerprint evidence was airtight. Hargrove would spend the rest of his life in prison. No one could have been more relieved than one ATF undercover specialist named Ezra Standish.

There were times when Ezra contemplated his choice of profession. Why did he insist on constantly putting himself in situations that disgusted him? Why did he insinuate himself into places he'd rather avoid? Why did he spend so much time learning professions, pastimes, and pursuits that had nothing to do with his preferences? Why did he live among the worst examples of human beings on the planet? Why did he always have to play a part, become someone else?

'Because I am good at it,' Ezra reminded himself. Very good.

But he missed the simple times, like this one – where he could just relax with his friends.

"Found it!" Sanchez shouted joyfully and took a couple of hacks at the newly recovered ball. After more curses, it finally flew, landing not far from Ezra's feet.

Standish glanced at it, with eyebrows raised.

The profiler reached him and smiled congenially. He paused a moment before he stated, "Ezra, you look like you're about to fall over."

"Nonsense," Ezra said and yawned again. "I'm full of vim and vigor."

"Yeah, for an eighty-year-old man," Buck countered, twirling his club like a baton.

Ezra nodded contemplatively. "Yes, but a rather spry octogenarian."

JD shrugged. "Why don't we go in then? We aren't getting anywhere with this game."

"Yeah, we can pay a visit to the 19th Green," Buck added.

"Buck," JD put in, "I thought there were only 18 holes?"

"Mr. Wilmington is speaking of the bar and I couldn't agree more," Ezra drawled. "Gentlemen, let's adjourn and recommence our discussion at the clubhouse, augmented with suitable libations."

"Damn, Ezra," Buck chuckled. "Why do you always have to say a dozen words when two or three will do. Let's get hammered!"

"I got your clubs for ya, Ez," JD said, as he shouldered first his bag, and then Ezra's.

"Thank you, Mr. Dunne. Don't strain yourself," Ezra commented and started toward the clubhouse. He was grateful for the young agent's helpful nature. The idea of dragging that bag all the way back to the clubhouse sounded like a Herculean endeavor at that moment.

It was amazing that his undercover work took so much out of him. He should have been used to it by now. It was, perhaps, the isolation that dragged him so low.

Ezra gazed up at the sky as he moved, noting how clear and mild the day had become. Earlier, when the three had arrived to pick him up, there had been a little rain. But now, it looked as if it would be a lovely day.

He continued taking long strides, eager to reach the main building, ready to unwind with his friends. He certainly needed that. He realized that he was outpacing them when he heard Wilmington's voice from behind him say, "Well, he ain't so feeble if he's movin' so fast!"

Ezra turned to say something to them when it hit him - like a bolt out of the blue.

(M7) * (M7) * (M7)

It was dark. It was very dark. He fought his way out of it, back to consciousness.

He felt as if something had struck him, had laid him out. 'What the hell?'

"Ezra?" he heard the voice softly call, breaking through the blackness. "Hey, Ez?" Was that Nathan?

He tried to lift one arm, feeling stiff and sore. Little electric bursts seemed to course through him at the small movement.

"I think he's gonna be okay," Nathan spoke, his voice sounding muddy.

'Damn it,' Ezra thought, 'I feel like hell.' He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed pasted shut. He turned his head slowly, feeling muscles pulling. Where did Nathan come from? Wasn't he spending the day with Rain? He wasn't supposed to show up until they reached Larabee's place.

"Damn, he scared the hell out of us," Buck uttered not far from him.

"I thought we lost him," Josiah's baritone seemed to vibrate though his aching bones.

He was hurt and in a bed. For a moment, his heart raced as he figured his only likely location, (considering his present unpleasant condition) would be stuck in a hospital. Lord, he hated hospitals.

But that didn't seem right. Where were the blips and beeps, the rattle of gurneys, the irritating PA system that never shut up? He listened carefully, but the room seemed remarkably quiet. Maybe they'd shut the door? Why hadn't they thought of that before?

"He gonna be wakin' up soon?" Ah, there was Mr. Larabee. They must have called in all the troops. Well, if Mr. Larabee and Nathan were here…

"He'll wake," that was Vin, sounding more Texan than usual. "He just ain't gonna do it b'fore he really wants to." Hmm, he really should speak to Mr. Tanner about his language skills.

How did they fit so many into one hospital room?

Ezra inhaled through his nose, expecting the unbearable tang of disinfectants that always went with hospitals, but instead, he registered only a woody, earthy, horsy smell. Were they at Larabee's Ranch already? There was a musky smell as well – the odor of unwashed men.

The blanket under his hand was too soft for hospital issue… a quilt? It must be the ranch. 'Why the hell did they take me here if I'm hurt?'

Perhaps, he'd suffered an injury at the ranch and had lost some of his recent memory. Troubling, but it made sense.

He definitely felt strange. It was a disconnected feeling, as if his body wasn't quite his own.

Standish opened his eyes, finding them capable of performing the task, and blinked to focus. The room was kindly dim - no florescent lights. There seemed to be no electric lights at all - only the daylight streaming in the window. 'Thank God!'

He squinted, not recognizing anything in the room – this wasn't the ranch. This was… unsophisticated - rough wood and cloth. Bottles gleamed on a shelf.

"Ezra?" Nathan called softly, drawing his attention from the furnishings.

"Mr. Jackson," Ezra responded thickly and gazed at the medic. He looked rustic - all in browns, from his trousers, to his shirt to his hat. Was he planning to do some yard-work? The clothes were rather ragged for the somewhat-fashion-conscious Nathan Jackson. He couldn't remember Nathan ever wearing a hat before.

"How ya feelin', Ezra?" the medic asked sincerely.

"Like I got run over by a semi carrying half a double-wide," Ezra murmured. "And then tagged by the one that followed."

"What?" JD called nearby. Ezra turned to face Dunne and was stunned to silence for a moment, looking at what the young agent was wearing. "Ez? You okay?"

"Mr. Dunne, what is that on your head?" Ezra asked, perplexed.

Wilmington guffawed, drawing Ezra's attention to him. Lord! Buck looked like someone's imitation of a broncobuster. 'And a mustache? When? How?' Buck was literally hooting with glee as JD snatched the hat off his head.

Dunne looked thoroughly annoyed. 'JD's hair… good God! Why hadn't I noticed that horrible need for a haircut when I got back from the Hargrove case? Does he ever wash it?'

'Wait, I would have noticed that! I must have been unconscious for… a long time. A coma?'

"Ezra?" His attention turned to Larabee. Ezra couldn't help himself when his eyes lit upon their leader; he laughed. Larabee looked like… some sort of a gunslinger from a spaghetti western, dressed in black from head to toe, a mean-looking cowboy hat perched on his head, an ill-made, unlit cigar crammed in his mouth.

He looked upset.

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra drawled, shoving his elbows under himself and leveraging himself up. "Are you trying to impersonate Mr. Eastwood by any chance?"

"Who's that, Ezra?" Josiah's voice boomed in the small room. Hell, Sanchez was wearing some sort of a serape! This whole room had a western air to it.

That's it. They must be participating a western show. How long have I been out of it? How the hell did I get here? What have they been doing with me while I was in a coma? Toting me about to all their little get-togethers and masquerades?

Maybe he'd been stuck in a fugue state from which he'd finally emerged. By the looks of Buck's mustache and JD's hair…it must have been a long time since that golf game. What had he been doing since then? Why did he just lose so much of his memory? What was Dunne doing with that hat?

He remembered a flash of light. Wasn't that a sign of brain trauma?

"Ezra?" Josiah asked, his voice concerned. "Did you hear me? Who's Mr. Eastwood?"

Ezra grimaced, wondering why his mind was wandering so. He murmured, "Clint Eastwood…of 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly' fame - 'A Fistful of Dollars,' 'A Few Dollars More'' 'Unforgiven'?"

Now why would Sanchez ask that? Hell, every other weekend he was forced to watch one of those films.

"And let's not forget the whole 'Dirty Harry' series and the rabid orangutan in 'Every Which Way but Loose' and its moronic sequel, but those really don't follow the western theme, do they? Although, a trucker in the '70's might be the equivalent of a cowboy." The look of incomprehension on Josiah's face stopped Ezra from saying any more.

His eyes finally fell upon Vin who was standing quietly in the corner. My God! What was he wearing? Buckskins? Filthy, stained buckskins… and that rifle so casually grasped in his hands? What's he expecting - a commando raid? His hair was down to his shoulders! Perhaps it was a wig.

Vin watched him contemplatively, probably waiting for the joke to take effect.

"Very funny," Ezra said with a chuckle. "Yes, this is all hilarious, gentlemen. Now, if you would remove that preposterous paraphernalia, perhaps we could leave this re-creation and return to our normal lives." He slung his feet out from under the blankets and sat up fully.

Vertigo caught him. He wavered as the room spun like a tilt-o-whirl. Suddenly, he felt the tight grip of Nathan at one side and Buck at the other, keeping him from collapsing.

"Now, Hoss," Buck said. "You better take it easy for a while. I think that lightning might 'ave knocked you down a rung or two."

"Lightning?" Ezra asked as the world righted itself, as the ride slowed and came to a stop - that flash of light!

"You got hit!" JD cried. "We were just walkin' on back toward town when it just … BANG!"

"There wasn't a cloud in the sky…" Ezra trailed off.

"I suppose it was the exact definition of a bolt out of the blue," Josiah said hollowly. "It struck and you went down."

"You were flat on your back when we got up to you!" JD added.

Josiah continued in his somber voice, "Couldn't wake you, so we carried you here to Nathan's."

"Nathan's?" Ezra repeated, looking around. "Nathan's what?" This certainly didn't look like Jackson's tasteful apartment.

"His clinic…" JD supplied helpfully.

Ezra scowled. This didn't look anything like any clinic he'd ever seen.

"Is he gonna snap out of this?" Larabee asked, looking as if he wanted to spit nails.

Nathan shrugged. "Damned if I know what happened. I ain't never heard of anyone livin' after bein' struck by lightnin'."

What the hell happened to Nathan's grammar? They were all talking like uneducated hayseeds.

"Figger he's plenty tough," Vin stated. Did Vin just say 'figger'?

This was all just too bewildering. Ezra closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. "Please," he said, "can we call an end to this charade? You've made whatever point you were tryin' to make and I am in no mood to continue."

"Ezra, what the hell are you talkin' about?" Wilmington interjected.

"All this!" Ezra gestured blindly with one hand, supporting his head with the other. "Whatever it is you're tryin' to do to me, whatever joke you're attempting to perpetrate, let's call it an unmitigated success and end it."

He heard a rustle and when he looked up, Larabee was crouched in front of him. The stubble on Chris' chin made it obvious that days had passed since he'd last seen their illustrious leader. That was no false beard growing in. "Ezra," Larabee said quietly, laying a hand on his knee. "Are you all right?"

The piercing gaze of Mr. Larabee told him that this was no joke. Ezra just couldn't figure it all out just yet. Time to regroup - to figure out what was going on - to play a part until he knew what to do.

"I'm a bit bewildered," Ezra responded. "But otherwise, unharmed." He looked around the room suspiciously. "Everything is just a little strange right now."

"Lie down. Rest," Larabee commanded. "Things will straighten out."

"Don't argue with 'im," Jackson put in.

"Ya had a pretty busy day, Ez," Wilmington added.

"Damn! Lightning!" JD shouted. "BAM! Knocked him right off his feet." He shook his head in disbelief. "I ain't never seen the like of it!"

"And hopefully, never will again," Josiah added.

"Go to sleep, Ezra," Larabee commanded and waited until Standish had his legs once again under the covers and his head on the pillow.

The men filed out of the room, leaving Jackson behind. Tanner was the last to go. The sniper stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing back at the undercover agent with a stark blue gaze, and then he closed the door behind him.

(M7) * (M7) * (M7)

"Do you know what's wrong with him, Doc?"

"I don't know, JD. I ain't never heard anything like this. There's nothin' in my books about lightning strikes. I sent a telegram off to Doc Meer. See if he knows anythin' about this sort of thing. Maybe he can catch tomorrow's stage and come 'round to see 'im. 'Course that means it'll be two days before he can get here." There was a deep sigh. "Don't know if it would be worth the effort though. He's not burned or anythin'. Maybe he just lost his memory… or part of it. Didn't seem to know where he was."

"Seemed to know us though. He was acting kinda crazy. Did you understand what he was talkin' about?"

"No," was the sober response. "That strike might have hurt his brain or something. We'll have to keep an eye on him…" Nathan's voice trailed off. Ezra was certain that the medic was looking at him. "Been sleepin' since you all left. Hopefully he'll be feelin' better when he wakes up."

"Yeah…" The computer expert's voice stopped for a moment, becoming softer. "Scared the crap out of me when it happened. We all thought it killed 'im. You should have seen Josiah…"

"He'll be okay. He just needs a little rest. You'd better go. Don't want to wake him none."

"Okay. Let us know if you need anyone to watch for a while." And Dunne left.

In the quiet of the room, he could hear pages being flipped and - from outside - the muffled sound of what seemed to be horse-drawn carriages. There was the rattle of wheels, the jangle of harnesses, and the whiney of horses. Otherwise, all was still. The calm was rather… pleasant.

Something strange had happened on that golf course. Everything around him seemed to have sprung right from the 1800's! He was in the Wild West!

It's a dream, he decided – a strange dream. He couldn't recall having one like this before - so vivid - so beguiling. It was as if his team had been transported back in time. No, that's not right. It was if his team had always lived in this time period and HE had been transported back. They all knew him… all expected him to act a certain way.

Well, he was the best undercover agent in the business. He could handle this mission and act the part of a 19th century man: a Wild West desperado, a cowboy, a ranch hand? What the hell was he? The others certainly looked like a motley group. Where did he fit in among them?

Perhaps we're a gang of outlaws? Maybe we're all part of a law enforcement organization. What is the Old West version of an ATF unit? Maybe we're a posse! He couldn't suppress a small chuckle at that thought.

"Ezra?" he heard Nathan's soft voice.

"Mr. Jackson," Ezra returned with a yawn as he rolled onto his side.

"Feelin' any better?"

"Very much so." He opened his eyes and gazed back at the medic.

Jackson looked concerned. "Do you find any of this…odd?" He waved vaguely at the room. "Do you know where you are?''

Ezra smiled. "Nathan, this is your clinic. I know full well where I am."

The medic smiled broadly. "That's good to hear!" He moved quickly across the room. "Think you can sit up okay?"

"I'm feeling 100% improved," Ezra responded as he sat up. The room didn't tilt at all. "I may even consider standing."

Nathan looked at him critically. "Well, let's see if you can handle that. Take it easy though. Don't go too fast."

"Thank you, Mr. Jackson. It's good to know that some things never change." Ezra pushed himself to his feet and found he could keep his balance relatively easily. He kept one hand on the headboard for a moment as he surveyed the room from a new angle. He was wearing, he discovered with some degree of embarrassment… a nightgown. No, he amended…it was a nightshirt. Yes, that made all the difference. He ran his hand over the material, rubbing it carefully. Not as soft as the cotton he was used to, but it was better than those gowns from the hospital.

Nathan still hovered nearby. "You doin' okay?"

"Yes, quite well."

"Why don't you take a walk around? Josiah brought some clean clothes up for you. You got the old ones all dusty. If you can keep on your feet, I'll letcha have 'em."

"Ah, very good." Ezra sauntered slowly around the room, taking a moment to gaze at the books on Nathan's shelves, reading such titles as "Dr. Chases Remedy's and Recipes." "Surgery" (Surgery? How could a book be simply called 'Surgery'?) and "Herbs and their Uses." The bottles on his shelf had such alarming labels as "Fever Few." "Gunpowder," "Leeches" and "Laudanum"… wasn't opium in that? He kept his face mild as he watched the leeches squirm in their watery home. Ah, he thought, it's only a dream.

The tools sitting on the counter further made him shudder. They seemed more likely for woodworking or car-repair than for use on human beings. Was that a pair of pliers? A kitchen knife? A SAW? He kept moving.

A mirror graced one wall and Ezra stopped to ensure that he was … indeed … himself. He wasn't disappointed. The image reflected back at him looked like the Ezra P. Standish he had always known and admired. Yes, that familiar face gazed back at him with the same green eyes. His hairstyle was different – longer than was his liking. His hair tended to get wavy when it reached this length, but it handsomely cut. Unlike the others of his team, he found himself with only a 5 o'clock shadow. His sideburns were a little too long. He rubbed at one, not sure if he disliked the look or not.

All in all, he looked good. He smiled, satisfied at his image. Something flashed in his mouth and he did his best not to seem surprised to find one of his premolars graced with gold. He smiled broader to get the full effect and liked what he saw.

Behind him, he could see Nathan's reflection watching him carefully.

"Ah," Ezra stated. "It would be hard to find another image like that, wouldn't it? Pure excellence."

Jackson shook his head and chuckled.

With a measured pace, Standish moved toward the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside, the little rustic room extended into a little rustic town. Horses lined the street, people walked about in period dress. He could read signs that touted: Saloon, Saloon, Jail, Cigar Shop, Telegraph Office, General Store, Restaurant and Saloon. How quaint.

Dixon's Cigar Shop had a "new owner" sign in the window, and another that said "closed." Otherwise, every business seemed bustling with business.

He stood for a long time, watching the little scene outside. This wasn't a re-creation. No, this was too dirty, too lived in to be a mere weekend pleasure. He gripped the window frame tightly as he watched life move on outside the window.

Determinedly, he raised his gaze and looked out at the sky above, searching for contrails, for smog, for jet planes. He looked to rooftops for satellite dishes. He searched for power lines, and found only one line leading from the town – attached to the telegraph office. Then, he searched the people for digital watches, cell phones, rubber-soled shoes - for anything that might tell him that this was all a façade. There was nothing to detract from the western scene. For all the world, this looked as if he'd been dropped into the Post-Civil-War West.

'It's a dream,' Ezra told himself. 'It's all a dream. It has to be.'

"Ezra," Nathan called. "You doin' okay?"

Ezra licked his lips before he could answer, "Splendidly."

"Turn around, I need to get a look at you b'fore I let you go."

'What, no MRI? No CAT Scan? What about the endless blood-work and the hospitalization overnight for observation?' He turned toward the medic. Jackson strode across the room and looked at him with a penetrating gaze.

"Figure you look okay," Nathan said after a few moments of observation. "You might as well get dressed and head out. I want you to stay close to home for a while though. Can't have you fallin' off your horse."

"Exactly," Ezra agreed. Nathan pointed toward a pile of clothing sitting on the edge of the desk. For a moment, Ezra was reluctant, afraid that the clothing would be of the same ilk as the garments he'd seen on the others. Good Lord, what if they were to dress him in buckskins like Tanner?

He smiled when he drew closer and his hand touched the fine material of a beautiful green jacket. Beneath it, a silk shirt, a lovely brocade vest and a well-made pair of pinstriped trousers with suspenders.

Eager at the idea of putting on such intriguing garments, Ezra carried them back to the bed. Nathan watched as Ezra lifted the silk shirt, examining it for one glorious moment. "Glad to see you actin' more like yourself," Jackson said before he returned to his desk and his book to offer Ezra some privacy.

Ah, it was a lovely shirt, tailored perfectly! The buttons were made of shell! The stitching was beautiful! Ezra paused before he buttoned the shirt up, frowning as he noticed a scar along his side. 'Now,' he thought. 'That was never there before.' But… the familiar scar on his abdomen was gone. Carefully, quickly, he did an assessment of himself, looking for known scars and finding them gone, replaced with new ones in different areas.

There was a bruise on his arm – round and dark. Almost as if a golf-ball-sized projectile had hit him that day. But that didn't happen, did it?

It was as if he had taken over the body of a man who was just like him - with his name - who talked just like him, who had friends just as he had in the 21st Century. But this man had lived a different life, faced different woes, fought different battles.

'Lord,' he thought as he picked up the exquisite vest. 'Speaking of woes…did this Ezra have a Maude, too?' He shook his head, reminding himself that this was only a dream. There wasn't another 'Ezra' - only this odd and disconcerting fantasy.

Once he was adequately dressed, Nathan pointed him to his hat, his boots, a pocket watch and his guns. A wry smile crossed Ezra's lips at the sight. The weapons were just as fine as the clothing. "This Ezra arms himself as well as I do.'

(M7) * (M7) * (M7)

Ezra absently ran his hand along the edge of his jacket's lapel as he sauntered along the wooden walkway, enjoying the feel of the exquisite green fabric. He must look like a peacock in this otherwise dull-colored town.

He was, if his clothing was any indication, a professional gambler. It made Ezra smile just to think of it. He'd always considered himself to be a bit of a gamester and here he was living that life. He did fairly well, if the fold of cash found in his boot was any indication.

He'd tipped his low-crown black Stetson to the ladies as he passed and not one of them cringed or scowled at him. Women's lib definitely hadn't hit yet. He held doors open for them, and they blushed so charmingly. It was a thoroughly enchanting little hallucination.

When he reached a 'General Store" he stopped and peered within. It was cramped and dim with long counters running around the interior – shelves were mounted along the walls and a long table ran down the center of the store, topped with various goods. Bags were stacked along one side of the room, butting against barrels.

"Mr. Standish!" a familiar voice called, and he was shocked to find Mrs. Potter moving within. "I received a shipment today," she said amiably. "There's something you might like."

"Oh?" he said moving within.

Smiling, she pointed to one of the glass jars on the counter, filled with candy peppermint sticks. "I know you usually like the round candies, but I thought these might make a certain someone happy. The children certainly are enjoying them."

He wasn't sure what to make of that. He wasn't a sweet-tooth. No, that was Mr. Tanner. Perhaps that's who she meant. Of course, this little fantasy world might be topsy-turvy in some cases.

"Delightful," he stated.

"I can set aside a few for you, if you'd like," she said helpfully.

"That would be appreciated," Standish responded. He frowned when she reached into the jar with her bare hands to pull out a few of the treats. She smiled as she carried them to another counter to wrap them up in brown paper.

'Make a note,' Ezra thought. 'Eat nothing.'

He moved through the store slowly, taking in everything. Most of the products were behind the counter. He'd have to ask Mrs. Potter to retrieve what was wanted. It didn't seem like a very effective way of shopping, but considering the fact that all the food items were out in the open – and bare hands were touching the products – it was probably for the best.

It wasn't as if there was much browsing required since the available choices were few. There was no variety. If you wanted beans, there was one style of canned beans. Soap came in harsh looking bars – probably lye. There was a pickle barrel and another with peanuts in the shell. Behind the counter were bins marked 'flour', 'sugar' and 'coffee' and 'beans'. Ah ha! There was more than one way to buy beans!

It didn't look as if he'd be able to get his favorite Starbucks blend here.

On the floor was a box of apples – all rather mean looking and insect-pocked. It appeared to be the only available fruit, but several other bins held fresh vegetables.

There were bolts of fabric leaned against one wall – gingham and blues and grays, and a little rack of shirts and trousers. It would appear that one shopped for size more than style – or you made what you wanted yourself.

This Ezra must shop elsewhere for clothing.

Another section of the store sold guns and ammo – all out in the open, next to stacks of plates and bowls.

He frowned when he noticed the rack filled with unrefrigerated eggs, bacon and ham. It was a wonder that everyone wasn't walking around with food poisoning. Another reason to abstain from putting anything in his mouth while he was here.

Was the water even safe? Doubtful. Best stick to alcohol.

"Is there anything else you'd like?" Mrs. Potter asked, as he perused her store.

Ezra smiled. "Not today, I'm afraid."

"Do you want these now, or I can save them for later," she said, holding up the carefully wrapped package.

"Later would be fine," he said with a smile, appreciating the customer service but he had no idea what he'd want with peppermint sticks. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness." He had made a circuit of the room and returned to the front. That didn't take long. Shopping adventures would be short excursions in this world.

"Good day," he said and tipped his hat as he left. Mrs. Potter smiled warmly at him.

Out on the boardwalk, he pulled the pocket watch from his vest pocket. It felt like such a natural movement, to rub one thumb over the "EPS" printed on the cover and to flip it open to check the time. He wondered why exactly anyone needed to know the time here.

This seemed to be a place free of timetables. The perfect place to relax.

He smiled as he looked up to see the jailhouse next to a general store, the telegraph office, the restaurant. And then he frowned, tipping his head slightly as he looked at the buildings. They all looked strangely familiar to him, and he couldn't quite remember why.

He glanced across the street and looked about, not feeing the same familiarity. It was odd.

"I see Nathan let you loose," Vin said as he approached.

"Yes, he decided that I could be let at my leisure, since I am apparently fit." Ezra couldn't help grinning at the buffalo-hunter version of Tanner. Agent Tanner was always a bit on the 'wild and woolly' side, but this was taking things to an extreme.

The undercover agent slipped the watch back into the small pocket in his vest and said, "I've been admonished to stay in town for the next few days."

"Probably a good idea," Vin commented. Ezra had to agree. With the strangeness of the dream, he needed some time to get his bearings. Vin nodded toward the door of a saloon that seemed to be named simply 'Saloon'. "Thirsty?"

"Considerably."

"Thought so." Tanner led the way into the dim place and toward a table where Larabee and Dunne were already seated.

JD sprung to his feet. "You feelin' better now, Ezra?"

"Yes, Mr. Dunne. Much improved. Thank you for asking." Standish pulled the nearest chair from the table and sat down with a sigh. Vin looked at him curiously and took his seat.

"I've taken you off patrol for the next few days," Chris stated bluntly. "You'll make it up next week."

"Ah, yes. Patrol. Of course." Ezra's attention was on the interior of the tavern. A long bar took up one wall, and simple wood tables dotted the floor. Smokey-looking kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling. Some of the chairs looked as if they'd been broken more than once and crudely pieced back together. The shelves behind the bar were filled with brown bottles - simple brown bottles without labels. He'd expected earthen jugs with "XXX" stenciled on them.

And the whole place smelled. He hadn't quite gotten used to that. It had an unwashed odor to it, a smell of men and animals, wood and whiskey. It smelled a bit like Larabee's ranch after Chris and Buck and the others had been working at it all day - and drinking all night.

As much as he hated to admit it, his teammates in this fantasy all needed to take showers – long showers with plenty of that lye soap.

Cowpokes and a few floozies filled the room. Standish was a little startled when he glimpsed Inez Recilios behind the bar - but at the same time, it didn't surprise him after he'd seen Mrs. Potter. Who knows? Maybe Judge Travis was here too, along with Mary and Billy.

Everywhere he looked, he saw something new (or rather something old) and intriguing. He certainly could dream vividly. Inez brought them each a beer and Ezra examined it a moment. He doubted that the glass had been properly cleaned. He was thirsty though, and decided that the alcohol would hopefully kill anything unpleasant.

He was pleasantly surprised at the rich taste of the brew. This definitely wasn't Coors Light nor Budweiser. The temperature was warmer than his preference.

Chris and JD were going on about recent activities around town, including their frustration at being unable to find out who'd murdered two local men – Cates and Partridge. They had been poisoned. Nathan was able to figure out that arsenic had been used, but so far they hadn't tracked down the culprit.

Ezra commented with them, catching the thread of the conversation and following along well enough to keep up. Vin stayed mostly silent, interjecting a word or two at times. It didn't take Ezra long to comprehend that they were all peacekeepers in this town.

It didn't surprise him one bit.

Chris pulled a stubby cigar from his pocket and sniffed at it experimentally. One end was mashed up, obviously having been gnawed on before. He jammed it in his mouth and glared at Ezra – refusing to light it.

Ezra rather doubted that there were any smoking rules in place here. There was a smokiness to the place, but nobody seemed to have lit up.

Josiah, Nathan and Buck arrived and the conversation continued.

"You gonna light that one any time soon?" Buck asked Larabee, pointing at the bent cigar.

Ezra was served with another dark look. "I don't have time to go to Ridge City," Larabee groused, "and since Ezra saw fit to close down Dixon's cigar shop, I'm going to have to save this one as long as I can."

The others laughed at that, and JD reminded Larabee that Dixon had been selling tainted products, and Ezra had been the one to figure it out. "He saved you all from smoking sawdust."

Chris looked as if it wasn't a fair trade.

The seven of them sat around the table as night fell, as if this was a normal activity. They drank beers and whiskeys - and talked. It was a totally enjoyable evening, Ezra thought. He could pick up enough of the conversation to play his part and nobody seemed to suspect anything.

Inez came by with a tray of tamales and Ezra's stomach rumbled, reminding him that it had been some time since he had eaten. The others reached in to grab one.

Ezra held back, wondering about the cleanliness of the kitchen. Certainly, nothing here was up to standards. Good God, he'd die of food poisoning if he took a bite of anything!

Everyone else was digging in with gusto and it smelled amazingly good. They must have built up a tolerance for such things, he decided. He'd be sick as a dog. But this was all a dream, wasn't it? And even if it was real, he wasn't even in his own body. This was another Ezra, and this Ezra obviously ate this food. He'd survived it. It made sense that he would be fine.

Ezra was able to snag one of the remaining tamales before Buck got to it, and found the taste amazing. Hot as hell, but the whiskey helped with that. Who could have imagined such tasty food in this rustic place? The spices seemed different from what he knew, but he'd give the meal a 5-star rating on YELP if given chance.

The men kept talking, and then the name Hargrove came up.

Ezra paused and asked, "What do you know about him?"

"Not much more than you, I'd guess," JD said with a shrug. "He's got that big ranch to the north. Comes into town every couple of weeks with his guys."

'If there's a Hargrove in this era,' Ezra thought, 'he more than likely has the same disposition as the one from mine.' "Don't turn your back on him," Ezra commented. "He's a dangerous man." When the other men looked at him curiously, he continued, "The murders of two locals – Cates and Partridge – you said they were poisoned. Mr. Hargrove could have had something to do with them."

"Why would you say that?" Buck asked sharply.

"You got a feelin' about him?" JD inquired.

"Yes, a feeling. And not a good one." Ezra responded.

"One should always listen to their feelings," Josiah put in.

"Well," Buck said with a grin, "There's some feelin's that are more difficult to ignore than others." His eyes fastened on one of the saloon's floozies. "If you'll excuse me." And the ladies' man was on his feet and gone. The others could only shake their heads and chuckle.

Ezra gazed at the men at the table and felt totally at ease, completely happy. Yes, he felt as if he could live this life – a gambler and sometimes-lawman in a dusty western town. It set well with him. He glanced at his colorful jacket and realized that it was perfect for him.

They always referred to him as 'the gambler' after all. Here, he would have a chance to live up to that name.

He could have sat at the table with these men all night, but, finally, after a long evening and many beers, he began feeling one of the effects of drinking so much. "Now if you excuse me, I need to visit the restroom."

JD glanced toward the stairs. "Gonna go rest in your room?"

Ezra cursed himself, realizing his error. He smiled, glad that JD's gaze had at least directed him in the proper direction of his room. He'd need to know that later.

"Yes," he said, hoping that JD's assumption covered his flub. "After I make a short stop at the…." He trailed off, not know the proper terminology for toilet in this century. A 'bathroom' would probably send him to the bathhouse (not a bad idea - Lord, there'd be no shower, would there?). Should it be 'pit toilet', 'john', 'outhouse', 'latrine', 'lavatory', 'crapper'? Was it even proper to speak of such things? He had a lot to learn.

Nathan shook his head. "You can't even say the word, can you? Yeah, the privy out back is gettin' pretty bad." He looked toward the back door of the saloon. "Someone's gonna have to dig a new one soon."

Out back? Ezra nodded and exited the rear door of the saloon, finding a tiny building some distance away from the others. The sky was just growing dark with evening. Soon, it would be too dark to see.

With a slow and apprehensive tread, he went to find out, first hand, one of the less agreeable aspects of living in the Old West.

"It's all a dream," he muttered as he steeled himself. "Courage, Ezra. Courage."

(M7) * (M7) * (M7)

It hadn't taken long to find his room. JD had unconsciously directed him when he'd glanced this way. There'd been a key in his pocket and he quietly tried it in the rooms above the saloon. Once he'd been able to unlock the third and last door, he was met with darkness.

He let the lamp mounted in the hallway light the room, and he quickly found a little kerosene lamp inside the room. He lit it from the hall lamp and went within.

He missed electricity. It was so much easier to deal with. Also, he missed indoor plumbing. The 'privy' had not been kind.

Checking out the room, he decided that this was obviously the right place. The room was small and neat. He explored it with the lamp, finding a rocking chair, a bed, a small dresser with a variety of grooming utensils and other items on top, a shaving stand and wardrobe. The cabinet was filled with jackets of equally fine manufacture as the one he was wearing - and just as colorful.

'Yes, I definitely shop elsewhere for my clothing.'

He decided it would be easier to see everything with the help of daylight, so he settled the lamp on a bedside table and tried the bed.

Pressing a hand onto the mattress, he found that it softer than was his liking, but he was enormously tired. It was time to find some rest. In the dresser, he found a nightshirt similar to the one he'd been wearing earlier. He hung the jacket in the wardrobe, along with his trousers, before he donned the nightshirt and slipped under the quilt and sheets of the bed.

He sunk into the mattress. Was it actually stuffed with feathers? Thank God, he didn't have any allergies.

He lay there for a moment or two, listening to the sounds coming up from the saloon, and then he lifted the chimney of the lamp, and blew out the flame.

The room was plunged into blackness. No little lights from a cellphone or smoke detector or cable control box. Not a sound came from outdoors. Outside the window, it was pitch black.

In the morning, he decided, this will all be over.

He fell asleep almost immediately, and slept deeper than he had in years.