Logan Angelique was tired and hunted; but a new problem was looming on the horizon. The gunman cast a gimlet eye westward, heart sinking. Ominous black thunderheads were piling into a gigantic, roiling hammerhead East of the Teton’s. He reined in, sensing the fatigue of his big stud. They both needed a rest and food.

Not one to despair, the fugitive turned attention to a possible refuge. Unfamiliar and unexpected, a deep arroyo had opened before him. Like many hollows at fringes of the prairie, the depression was lightly forested with an expanse of lush meadow. Down in the hollow, a rushing creek was almost hidden by willows, brush, big cottonwoods, stunted oaks and stands of young lodgepole pine. Neglected and overgrown, there was an old soddy tucked into a fold of the hillside, a stubby chimney of gray, mortared rock poking through tall grass.

Logan relaxed slightly. There was no smoke, and no recent sign of occupants. Apparently without a door, the log-fronted soddy might even be large enough to shelter his mustang. A lot of rain was heading his way and probably much worse. Exhausted and concerned for his mount, Logan knew they couldn’t endure a night in cold rain, let alone the fury and hail of a prairie thunderstorm.

Ever watchful, Logan edged his mount forward, pausing just a little below the rim. He looked back, scanning the eastern horizon. His trail remained empty. Absently touching the stock of his Winchester, he almost wished for a confrontation. There was neither dust nor riders. He hadn’t seen a trace of the impromptu, drunken posse for a night and day.

Allowing himself a moment of relief, Logan eased his mount down into the grassy bottom. All senses alert, he glanced about, sidling up to the wall of bleached, peeled pines. Dug well back into a fold in the slope, the derelict soddy faced south and a little east. The structure was old, but sturdy. Fortunately, a thick roof of cut turf hadn’t collapsed, surprisingly big timber rafters supporting an extended eaves. Absently, Logan wondered where the builder had managed to find such big trees here on fringes of the prairie. Edges of the overhang sported thick weeds, drooping grasses and innumerable spider webs.

Well back from a corner, Logan twitched reins. His mount stopped and the rider quietly eased down from the saddle, flipping a thong off the hammer of his Smith and Wesson Forty-four Russian. The pistol slipped easily from an oiled holster. Slow and silent, the gunman moved forward. Any door had long ago been ripped from leather hinges, the planks likely used as firewood or kindling. Logan stopped short of the dark portal. Nostrils flaring, Logan sniffed. There was no lingering stink from tobacco smoke, nor could he detect the rancid smell of unwashed humanity.

Logan paused, listening, sniffing, sensing. Back pressed tight to the logs, he listened.

All about the hollow, creatures were anticipating the storm. Birds and grasshoppers had fallen silent, the only sounds coming from rustling leaves and the steady chuckle of creek music. Not a whisper came from inside the soddy.

Uncertain and on edge, Logan thought he felt something, but he couldn’t identify the source. Eyes flicking, head rotating slowly, he scanned the area. There was nothing he could see that was out of place, yet hairs on his neck prickled.

He guessed that the structure had been abandoned for years. High water marks and driftwood showed that occasional flash floods never rose above the level bench where he stood. The soddy had been located with some forethought.

Logan checked patches of bare ground. There were only the tracks of small animals, a coyote, antelope and deer. Finally satisfied he was alone, Logan closed his eyes for a few seconds, then ducked beneath the lentil, sweeping a glance about the interior. To his left, a figure in grey was standing next to a stone fireplace. Instantly startled, he slid right, away from the doorway, his forty-four making a loud click as he thumbed back the hammer. The gunslinger blinked, eyes adjusting as he crouched. Heart racing, he forced calm, his weapon aimed.

“Who in hell?”

Half in shadow, the figure was tall and motionless. Logan blinked rapidly, hardly able to credit his eyesight. Every sense tingling, thumb on the hammer, his finger a breath from the hair trigger, Angelique gaped at the apparition, then saw it was a woman.

Her dusky, narrow features were almost completely hidden by a large, monkish cowl. Light from the doorway gave few details, but Logan quickly made out huge, wide eyes staring at him. They observed with unexpected calm, even a hint of curiosity.

“Be thou at peace..., sirrah,” she murmured with a curiously accented, sibilant voice that was soft and definitely sultry. “We are no threat to thee.”

“Ma’am?” he said uncertainly, carefully deflecting the pistol muzzle down and away from her, puzzling over her words. ‘Sirrah? Thee?’ He puzzled. Her accent was curious, as strange as her words. ‘Thee?’ he thought, drawing down a slow, quieting breath. ‘ Is this a Quaker woman? Damn! How? Is she what I sensed?’

Logan drew another deep breath, relaxing slightly, letting it out slow. “Pardon, Ma’am, guess I’m a bit jumpy, he said apologetically, taking a quick glance around, picking out litter, along with the heaped nest of a packrat in one corner. After considering a moment, he holstered the pistol.

“Thars’ a bad storm comin’. Was lookin’ for shelter. Pardon me, but I didn’t expect anybody, let alone a woman. This old place looked abandoned.”.”

“Indeed it was ... cowboy, and thou art a welcome visitor,” she replied, something in her voice soothing, resonating strangely in Logan’s heart and mind.

‘Thou art?’ Logan shook his head, trying to collect thoughts, wondering absently that he hadn’t seen any tracks, let alone a horse. “Ma’am, you alone way out here? You lose your hoss?”

“We are not alone, not exactly,” she replied, her tone calm and without worry. “However, we did not come on horseback.”

“We?” Logan eased away from the logs and stepped closer, trying to see beyond the shadows of her cowl, also darting quick glances out past the door.

“You aren’t alone?” he stated.

Even white teeth flashed in the hint of a smile. “Alone ... physically, yes.”

He sucked down another breath, letting air trickle out through his nostrils. No shape was moving beyond the doorway. His swift look around had also taken in every detail within the single room. Solidly built, the fireplace of rough stones and mortar had been made to last. The hearth still held ash and cinders. Rusty, discarded cans and broken whiskey bottles told of careless use by buffalo hunters, drifters and probably outlaws on the run.

“Ma’am, I’m not doubtin’ your voracity,” Logan said quietly, “but ‘yer a far stretch from anywhere. Alone? Did you lose ‘yer hoss?”?”

“We have no horse,” she said, no reproof in her gentlly modulated voice. “You are very observant and rightly cautious ... Logan Angelique.”

He jerked, thumb on the pistol hammer as he started to draw. “Ma’am, you know who I am?”

“Not before today, nor before these moments,” she replied softly, quelling his nerves. “We are Faye, Logan Angelique. We sensed your coming, saw your heart and sifted your thoughts. We have ... gifts. What you would call ... magical powers.”

“‘Magical?’ Hardly able to believe, Logan arched brows, digesting her curious use of English and the statements. Still watchful, he took in every detail of the mysterious figure, inexplicably impressed by her calm, polite demeanour. What he could see was remarkable, and quite beautiful. ‘Faye?’ he thought, stepping even closer, hesitant to crowd her. The brim of his sombrero touched the edge of her cowl. He was six-foot two inches, yet her nose wasn’t much below his. ‘Maybe six feet tall?’ he guessed, scrutinizing her lovely features. “Quite a woman.” Close up, he still couldn’t make out much more than a pleasant smile and very large, green eyes; but, there was a serenity about her that calmed and soothed him.

After a moment, Logan shoved his pistol back into the holster, blowing out a breath, pushing up his sombrero with two fingers, letting it slide off his head and dangle on a thong at his back.

“I’m figurin’ ‘thet’s a royal we you keep usin’?” he said. “You shor’ are unusual ma’am. Really must be magic, guessin my name like thet’.”

She copied his action, pushing back the cowl. Before replying, she stepped around him, moving into light from the door, shaking loose a long mass of hair that was more silver than blonde. A shimmering cascade, it tumbled to her waist.

Logan blinked. A scent like roses and honeysuckle made his nostrils flare. He breathed deep, that delicate fragrance reminiscent of something lost. After a moment, impressions flashed back. He found himself recalling a time before the civil war, and long-lost home, his mother, and the comforting presence of a very old, wrinkled grandmother who wore that same floral scent.

A soft, tinkling laugh touched him, dragging thoughts from a timeless instant of nostalgia. “Sirah, we ... that is, I, am not entirely familiar with your speech. That was no guess, Logan Angelique. I use Elvin magic, but You are the one who seems most unusual. A unique, if somewhat cautious man, and despite the toughness, rather sensitive.”

He let slip a bark of laughter. “Wal’ ma’am, I’ve been called a lot of things, but never sensitive,” he said chuckling, as abruptly becoming serious, gesturing at the open doorway. “I would like to shelter my hoss in here before the storm hits. If ‘thet’s all right with you?”

“One has no objection,” she said pleasantly. “We ... that is, I should like to meet your horse.”

“‘whal, thet’ might be tricky, seein’ how he can be testy and right ornery ‘bout strangers.”

After a quick look around, Logan moved, kicking broken glass and rusted cans into a corner, clearing the packed dirt floor. His boot hit the packrat nest. A plump little rodent squealed his protest before darting outside. After a couple of minutes, the dirt floor was cleared of junk.

Ever cautious, Logan took a look outside, then vanished. After a few more minutes, he returned, tossing his saddle and gear into a corner opposite the fireplace. With a little coaxing, he led in the big mustang, careful to steer him away from the woman.

“Welcome, Diamond,” she said, voice whispery and lilting. After Logan removed the bridle, she approached the stud, stretching out her right hand. Before Logan could intercede, she had blown softly on the mustang’s nose, then began petting his nose. Light from the doorway showed pale bronze skin, long, slender fingers and a gold ring set with a flashing emerald that matched the green of her eyes. Instead of shying, showing teeth or snapping, the big mustang sniffed her, nickered and dipped his head, rubbing a cheek against her palm. For a moment, Logan was stunned. She stroked the stud and he rubbed a cheek against her knuckles.

“Damn! I’ll be,” Logan said, tossing the bridle next to his saddle. “Pardon my foul mouth, ma’am, but, Diamond don’t usually take to strangers. Did you magic him and his name too?”

“I cheated,” she said, a hint of mirth in her voice. “Plucked his name from your thoughts. Please, be welcome, and take shelter with me. You have a good horse. Aptly named.””

“Like a diamond, he’s right tough. A good one,” Logan agreed, opening a saddlebag, fishing out a stick of jerky, biting off a chew before thinking to offer the woman a bit of his meagre provisions.

“No, thank you, Logan,” she said, petting Diamond’s neck and shoulder, circling the horse, stroking sweated fetlocks before coming to stand near the saddle. “We discern that is the last of your food. We ... I am tired, but not hungry.”

“Thet’ we again?” he wondered aloud, leaning against the log wall, chewing tough, smoky meat and sipping brackish water from his canteen. He was more than a little aware of her graceful movements, bewildered that Diamond shivered and seemed to melt as she began combing out his mane with her fingernails.

After a second mouthful, he moved to the door and spat out the warm, stale water. He strode outside, emptying the canteen, working his way over to the creek. Finding the running water chill and tasty, he refilled the canteen, then checked the sky. There was no mistake. A nasty thunderstorm was building rapidly, racing in their direction.

Logan returned, hesitating, studying the unusual woman with sidelong glances. After a moment, he gathered his wits.

“Ma’am, you know my name, but we ain’t been proper introduced.”

“We are called Addrailaine,” she replied, inclining her head to him. “A short time past, we ... that is, I was ruler of Alaria in another realm ... in another world.”

“Wal’, that’s ‘shor a pretty name,” Logan said, puzzling over the curious woman and her use of the term ‘ruler’. “Addrailaine. Ma’am, what you doin’ out here? Out in the middle of nowhere? A woman all alone ain’t safe in this har’ country. There’s renegade injuns, evil folks and bad men.”

“Bad men like you?” she said teasingly. “As one said, we are not precisely alone.” Her fingers made a gesture. “Our dragon has been keeping watch over these surroundings, even though I took the precaution of setting wards.”

“Wal’, I shor’ didn’t see no dragon,” he said. “Pardon, but what are wards?”.

She gave another tinkling laugh. “You cannot see Baweleth, for my dragon is invisible. He is spirit. Wards are Magic protections to turn aside the unwanted, to shield this vale, and to warn me of intruders,” she answered with a sigh. “One has enemies. We have crossed into your world from the Faye realm, seeking a place of refuge. We had hoped to reach the mountains. There are portals there. Ways into other worlds. Places where we ... I may hide and places with friendly folk. Even now, two princes of the dark elves follow and seek me. They would harm us. They want me dead.”

Logan tensed, checking the open door. “Dark elves? Bad folks who would kill a woman?” Logan’s brows furrowed, his expression growing nasty. He absorbed her words and considered them. “Ma’am? Ma’ and Gran’ told me stories ‘bout the Faye realm. It’s true? You are really ... fairy folk?”

“Exactly,” she answered, a very warm smile in her response. “We ... I am Faye. Not of your world. Circumstances arose. There were those who opposed me. There are dark Elves who used evil and took my throne. They managed to steal the symbols of my power. Now, they are hunting me. They wish to destroy me and claim my realm.”

“Well, dammed if I’ll let them,” Logan expostulated, taking in her shimmering hair, big, emerald eyes and the golden bronze of flawless skin. Her face was narrow and slightly angular, the features striking. “Pardon my cussin’, but even if you ain’t a real fairy princess, you sure are pretty.”