08. An Explosive Entrance

"¡Hijo de la chingada!" The seething Spaniard raised a massive fist. "Say your last words, you pendejo!"

The man's fist came down.

"Any last takers?" I enquired, hopefully.

Unfortunately, the bet-hungry crowd didn't get a chance to answer before Mr Rikkard Ambrose's hand came up, slapping the man's punch away to the side and sending it crashing into the wooden bar.

"Aaarh! Ow!"

"If that was your attempt to make him say his last words, don't bother," I advised the big fellow kindly. "I've been trying to get him to say more for years. If he doesn't want to speak, he won't."

"¡Cállate, gilipollas!" He whirled around to glare at me. "Don't stick your nose in where it doesn't belong if you don't want me to break it!"

Uh-oh...

Behind him, I could see Mr Ambrose stiffen.

"That," I told the big man, "might not have been the smartest thing to say."

"What are you talking about, you bi—"

Wham!

I had often marvelled at how ravishingly rock-hard Mr Rikkard Ambrose's muscles were. Yet I had never considered one thing: if that was how his biceps felt, how hard exactly would his fists be?

Mr. Spanish Minion 01 seemed to have found the answer. Flying off his feet, he sailed backwards, over three chairs and a table, his teeth, liberated from his mouth, scattering in all directions. With a thunderous crash, the thug came down onto another table that broke beneath him, sending splinters everywhere.

A table that just so happened to have three men sitting around it. The desperado lookalikes did not look pleased.

"You...!" Bending down, a man as hairy as a grizzly bear grabbed the brute on the ground. Lifting him up in the air, he grabbed a nearby whiskey bottle. "Damn, stinking dago! I'm gonna go and shred ya!"

"Hola! Wait a moment! I—"

The bottle smashed over his head, sending shards of glass flying in all directions and the big Spaniard staggering back.

"Cabrón! What was that for? It was that pale-ass pendejo that threw me!"

"Oh, trust me, buddy!" The desperado growled. "I know!" Then he raised the broken bottle and rushed towards Mr Ambrose.

With admirable practicality, Mr Spanish Minion 01 decided to forget about the bloody wound on his head, and dashed after him, ganging up on Mr Ambrose.

My oh my. Two on one. How unfair.

Whistling, I sat down and started counting my money. This was going to be fun.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose stood in front of the bar, calmly waiting. Any other man in his situation would grab a bottle to defend himself. But then again, if he grabbed a bottle, he would have had to pay for it. So he did the next best thing, and grabbed a man.

"Hey!" Spanish Minion 02 protested. "What do you think you are doing, you—"

That was the point where he was launched into the air and slammed into his compatriot. Arm in arm, the two lovebirds stumbled back, almost touching lips in a way that looked suspiciously like a...

Ehem.

I smirked.

Oh, how cute!

Utterly ignoring the splendid romantic comedy going on just a few feet away, Mr Ambrose rushed past them. Ducking underneath the swing of the broken bottle, he rammed his fist into the grizzly bear's gut, then grabbed and twisted his wrist.

Crack!

"Aargh! Ya son of a—!"

But what exactly Mr Ambrose was a son of, we never found out. Shifting his grip on the man's broken wrist, he pulled, catapulting the thug over his shoulder and into the bar. The back of his head slammed into a beer barrel, and he went out like a light.

"Cheers," I told him, raised the mug of beer next to me, and took a deep gulp.

Mr Ambrose, meanwhile, turned towards his remaining two opponents, who had by now untangled themselves from their passionate embrace, and cocked his head. The meaning was clear. "You coming?"

Growling, the big Spaniard lunged forward, his smaller friend right on his heels. Before they even got within ten feet of my dear husband, Mr Ambrose grabbed a leg of the shattered table and slammed it into the thug's throat. Gurgling, he stumbled backwards, leaving the smaller one wide open and alone.

"Um...olla, wait a minute, I—"

Wham!

One single punch from Mr Ambrose sent the fellow crashing to the floor, his nose ending up in one of those lovely tin pots that were helpfully provided to spit your chewing tobacco into. The Wild West was such a lovely place, wasn't it?

I glanced down at the pile of cash in front of me.

Especially when you've got lots of money.

The other people in the crowd, who were watching the fight by now, also seemed to have realized which way the wind was blowing. Glancing between the two unconscious goons on the floor and the ginormous pile of coins in the paws of the smirking secretarial crossdresser, i.e. sweet little me, they lost more and more colour in their faces.

"Um..." Someone cleared his throat. "What you said earlier about betting money, buddy...you were just joking, right?"

"As a very intimate friend of mind is fond of saying," I answered, smirking up at the man, "I. do. Not. Joke."

"Um, but..."

"Especially not about money."

"And what about changing one's mind?" A little man with a wispy moustache, who had been so kind as to donate a full hundred dollars, leaned forward, sweat running down his forehead. "Ya wouldn't begrudge a man changin' his mind, would ya? That was actually grocery money my wife gave me for shopping, so..."

My grin widened. "So I guess you'll get an interesting welcome when you come home?"

"Ya...ya can't...!"

"Oh, and you'll be sleeping in the doghouse tonight," I added helpfully. Sharing of marital experience turned out to be so much fun.

"Only if that bastard Brit wins!" the man protested. "Ya can't say for sure that—"

That was the moment when the last Spaniard sailed through the air, his face nothing but a mess of bloody blotches and broken bones. Except for the fist-shaped indent in his cheek, that is.

Crash!

The room shook as he hit the ground. For a moment, silence pervaded the entire saloon, and nothing moved but the cloud of dust rising from the floor. Then, the figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode past our little group, picked up a glass of water from a nearby table, and downed it in one go.

"You were saying?" I asked my betting partner, while silently busy admiring my awesome husband. Except for Rikkard Ambrose, who would dare down water in a saloon, and look cool doing it?

Literally cool. Like, minus fifty degrees Celsius.

"Thank you all very much for your generosity, gentlemen," I told my new bet-happy friends, smiling at the crowd. I'm sure they were all smiling back, deep inside. The way their faces were contorted into grimaces was probably pure coincidence, right?

Gathering up my winnings, I tipped my bowler hat at them and strode over to Mr Rikkard Ambrose, cocking my head.

"May I assume that our 'chat with the locals' is concluded?"

"Indeed. You may."

"Then what do we do now?"

Mr Ambrose's mouth opened to speak, and—

Wham!

The door to the saloon slammed open, revealing the bristling form of another Spanish thug, with ten, twenty...oops, no, three dozen more behind him.

"Who?" The Spaniard bellowed, pointing to his two unconscious countrymen on the ground. "Who did this?"

"Now," Mr Rikkard Ambrose told me, setting down the empty glass of water, "we leave."

And, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, he dashed off. Together, we vaulted over the bar, and—

"Ooof!"

"Oops. Sorry." I sent an apologetic smile at the barkeep whose gut had kindly cushioned my landing. "You don't mind if we use your back door, do you?"

"Grgl..."

"Thanks! You're a dear!"

And, patting the baldy's head, I dashed after Mr Ambrose out the back. To judge by the screaming mob behind us, the Spaniards weren't kind enough to give us a head start.

Slamming open the door, we rushed out into the dusty street, people stopping their day-to-day chores to stare at us. That ended the moment the first gunshot rang out.

"Everyone, get down!" I shouted.

A second gunshot sounded, and the townspeople hurled themselves to the ground, doing the best they could to hide behind carts and barrels. Mr Ambrose threw me a look. "Why did you ruin our human shields?" he growled.

"You...!" Huffing and puffing, I glared up at him sideways. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Duck!"

Two rock-hard arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me down behind a wagon, just before—

Bam!

I felt the sting of wind as a bullet whizzed past my cheek.

"Stay down!" Mr Ambrose hissed.

"No more human shields today, Sir?"

Pressing me to the ground, he sent me a glare so cold it made me feel all...warm and fuzzy inside?

"Stay down and don't move," he ordered. "Don't you dare let yourself be shot!"

Yep. Definitely warm and fuzzy.

Drawing his revolver, Mr Ambrose sighted over the edge of the wagon for just an instant, and—

Bam!

The bullet slammed into a barrel one of the goons was hiding behind.

"Ha!" The thug laughed. "Missed, you bastardo!"

"Incorrect," Mr Ambrose answered, his eyes focused on the three letters on the barrel visible solely from our point of view.

TNT

I swallowed. "Oh dear."

KA-BOOM!!

The explosion rocked the entire town. Flames licked up towards the sky, tasting the clouds. Blinding light forced me to avert my eyes, and by the time I could see again, the street was in chaos. Wooden façades blackened, the barrel blown to splinters, the men hiding behind it lying scattered across the street. Screams rose and pandemonium spread through the town—except for a tiny isle of calm behind a certain wagon.

"Looks like it was a good idea to rent that lot to store mining supplies," Mr Ambrose nodded to himself, calmly taking aim once more.

Bam!

KA-BOOM!

"Have you gone bloody mad?" I hissed from where I crouched behind the wagon. "Are you planning to blow up the entire town? What do you think will happen? There is a sheriff in this place!"

"Indeed."

"Indeed? What do you mean, indeed?"

I stared up at him where he stood, towering above me, watching the situation as if...as if it were going exactly as he planned? Something was up. I could practically feel the webs of intrigue extending in every direction. And yet...and yet...

What the hell was that plan supposed to be? Blowing the state to kingdom come?

Footsteps thundered down the street. More Spanish minions were approaching down the streets, swinging clubs, pickaxes and rifles.

"Crap! Crap, crap, crap, crap!"

Grabbing my revolver, I slammed it atop the wagon's wheel and took aim.

Bam! Bam, bam, bam!

Four shots, three men down. But more were coming. Lots more.

"There's too many of them!" I shouted above the yells and gunshots whizzing over our heads. "This won't be enough!"

"No," Mr Ambrose agreed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something long and cylinder-shaped. "But this will."

Flames sizzled and, a moment later, the lit stick of dynamite sailed over the wagon.

What the ever-loving f—

KA-BOOM!!

"All right," I breathed, my ears ringing. "I'm never ever going to complain again that you're too quiet."

"Come on, before the dust clears and they can see again!" His hand grabbing mine, Mr Ambrose pulled me to my feet and into a narrow side street. We ran, the sound of the chaos behind us slowly fading into the distance. Halfway down the alley, Mr Ambrose pulled something out his pocket again and—

"Oh no! No you don—"

KA-BOOM!

Crap, crap, crapola, crapunzel! Oh, please let my ears survive this! And the rest of me!

Mr Ambrosive Explosive sent the dynamite flying over the house beside us, blowing up the street behind us and sending another cloud of dust in all directions, blocking the sight of our pursuers.

"This way!"

We dashed around another corner, vaulted over a low brick wall and ducked through some bristly old bushes. Behind us, the thundering footsteps got louder.

"Down there!" Mr Ambrose hissed, pointing down a narrow staircase to the cellar door of the abandoned house we had ended up next to. Leaping down three steps at a time, I pressed myself against the wall and held my breath. Mr Ambrose was right next to me, somehow managing to be ten times as quiet while still breathing regularly, darn him!

Above us, thundering footsteps approached.

"Where se hell are sose bastardos?" a voice with Spanish accent bellowed. "And did any of you see seir faces?"

"One had his face covered, Señor. But I sink I recognized se other one. Should we go after sem?"

"¡No! We'll just go to se sheriff's office. He's in our pocket, remember?"

"¡Oh si! Let's go! With se reinforcements we'll get, we'll turn sem into mincemeat!"

And off they ran, leaving me behind to stare holes into Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

"So..." I enquired sweetly, raising one eyebrow, "is this how your brilliant plan was supposed to go?"

"Naturally."

"And nothing has gone the teensiest-weensiest bit wrong?"

"Certainly not. Come. It's time for stage two."

***

Back in the saloon, a diminutive figure with a case under one arm rose to his feet and cautiously lifted one hand.

"So, um...would anyone be interested in purchasing some Fizzlewiz Fabulous Wound Salve? Today, specially on sale for only $4.99."

Silence reigned.

***

"So..." I enquired, eyeing the poster on the wall in front of us "This, I presume, is supposed to be stage two of your plan?"

"Indeed."

"Are you sure?" I asked in a low voice, sending a look my dear husband's way that made certain he knew who would be sleeping in the dog house tonight. Now, if only we actually had a dog house.

"Utterly."

I looked back towards the poster.

"Is that so...?"

WANTED

— Dead or Alive —

Mr Boom Boom Thriller Killer

Suspected Real Name: Victor Linton

Reward: $25,000

Wanted for attempted murder, multiple counts of property damage, grievous bodily harm, and illegal gambling

If seen, immediately contact nearest US Marshal's office

"Illegal gambling?" My eyebrow twitched. "Really?"

"Look at it this way," Mr Ambrose pointed out, "you will not have to pay taxes on your winnings."

I jabbed a finger at the number with far-too-many zeroes on my wanted poster. "That, Sir, does not make me feel particularly better!"

"Indeed?"

"Yes, bloody indeed! And another thing! Why the heck am I the one on the poster! You were the one who blew up three streets!"

Leaning towards me, he gazed down at me. Before I could move, he had captured my face in his hands, forcing me to look away from the poster and into his deep, dark, sea-coloured eyes. "Ah, but you are much more beautiful, Mrs Ambrose."

I blushed. "Don't you think you can sweet-talk your way out of this!" Then I blushed even deeper. Dammit!

Cocking his head, he moved closer until I could feel the heat of his breath on my lips. His thumb began stroking my cheek, making heat rise up inside me.

"Why can't I, Mrs Ambrose?"

I swallowed. "Is...is this why you had that blasted scarf covering your face?"

He leaned towards me, his eyes intent. "Mere coincidence, I assure you."

He was so close. So close and yet still too far away to touch. If only I could just lean forward and...and...

No! Bad Lilly, Bad! You can't just cave in because he asks you to, and he has the most beautiful face in the history of mankind, and is about to kiss—

I shook my head, trying to break out of his spell.

Which, unfortunately, just happened to lead to my lips colliding with his.

Oh, to hell with it! I'd just gotten the first bounty put on my head! I deserved a little honeymoon time—and I was gonna get it! Grabbing Mr Rikkard Ambrose by the short hairs, I pressed him against the wall, just next to the deviously smirking face of Mr Boom Boom Thriller Killer.

"You want to play games, Mr Ambrose, Sir?" I whispered, the corners of my mouth lifting in challenge. "As recently proven, I'm good at winning those. Are you sure you can take me on?"

His eyes seemed to darken as he bent down towards me, crossing the last bit of distance.

"Anytime. Anywhere."

And he kissed me. Kissed me not like some fellow would kiss a wench, not like a boy would kiss his girl, but like a man kissed his wife. Deep. Deadly. And determined never to let go. His arms slammed into the brick wall on either side of me, his rock-hard chest pressing into me, making the wall at my back feel like a fluffy cloud in comparison. Heck, everything suddenly felt like a fluffy cloud. Cloud nine, to be exact.

"You know," Mr Rikkard Ambrose growled into my ear, his hands sliding underneath my tailcoat, leaving burning hot trails on my skin. "You make an adorable desperado, my little ifrit."

"Y-you..."

"But," he cut me off, "today, I shall be doing the plundering!"

And promptly, he proceeded to do so, claiming my mouth for his own. His hands followed suit, exploring my body like some forbidden, undiscovered country. And he was the conqueror, claiming it for his own. No...claiming what already belonged to him! His hands moved farther upwards, finding sensitive spots, making me moan and writhe, unable to escape the pleasure. Unwilling to escape him! If this was my ball and chain, tying me down, then I wanted to be chained for the rest of my life.

"M-Mr Ambrose..."

"Not now," he commanded, his sea-coloured eyes boring into mine. "Not while we are like this. Man and wife."

"R-Rikkard."

"Lillian." Tightening his grip, he drew me closer. Nearly close enough. "My Lillian."

A long, long time later, during which the wanted poster on the wall probably saw more illicit and borderline illegal acts than were listed underneath the picture, we leaned against the brick wall of the building, trying to catch our breath, our eyes still connected by bonds that couldn't be broken.

A moment of silence passed.

Then...

"So, tell me, Mr Ambrose Sir...you have this brilliant plan, don't you?" Reaching out, I tapped the poster. "Don't think that your shenanigans have distracted me. Pray tell, how does this fit into your plan? What are we going to do now?"

Mr Rikkard Ambrose stroked his chin, gazing into the distance. "Hm...as a matter of fact, I do have a brilliant plan. But before I know whether or not it is worth proceeding, I must ask you a question."

"Shoot."

Cocking his head, he pointed at the poster behind him, and gazed deep into my eyes. "How big is the bounty on your head again?"

It took a moment for the penny to drop. Most likely because Mr Ambrose was unwilling to let go of it.

"No! You can't possibly mean to...you...!"

-----------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Regarding my use of the word "cool" in the above chapter - I am fully aware that "cool" was not exactly common in the nineteenth century in its more modern meaning. But in this case, I simply could not resist a little temperature joke ;-)

And about the Spaniard's use of the word "mincemeat" - funnily enough, Spaniards, particularly during this time period, were not actually familiar with mincemeat, which is something predominantly consumed in English-speaking countries. However, since "turn into mincemeat" is just an expression, I thought it would be all right for Spanish characters to use it as long as they know the English language.

Yours Truly, your linguistics-learning writer,

Sir Rob