<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 2, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Night<br/><strong>Location:</strong>On the road to Vigilance Ranch<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nathan Hunter, Closed<br/><hr/>A few months!  It didn't quite add up. She'd last seen Bartholomew just over eight months ago, by her reckoning.  She'd spent almost two of those in the women's asylum which shared a doctor with the Republic of Deseret Prison.  A kind man, that doctor - a true disciple of Smith untainted by the bigotry of Young.  He'd kept her informed about the Breed, once even taking a note to him for her.  There had been no note in reply, just a verbal message the Doctor relayed - that she was best to forget him.  But the point was - he was still in prison six months ago.  And while she hadn't taken the most direct route to California once she escaped - was abducted really - from the Mormons, once she joined Sergeant Gruman she made good time west.  He could certainly have escaped prison and beat her to Gomorra if he took the train, but... beat her there by several months?  She didn't see how that was possible.<br/><br/><strong>"Why would he miss Boston?"</strong>She asked aloud once they were mounted and he got the horse moving.<strong>"He's never been east of..."</strong>Why, the only person she knew from Boston at all was, was...<strong>"Tell me what this man claiming to be my husband looks like!"</strong>She demanded.  She squinted in concentration, trying to remember just what Alfred had looked like.<strong>"White fellow, slender, about five-ten or so, polished, but soft?"</strong>It seemed so long ago, but really it was less than a year!<strong>"With an accent that couldn't be from anywhere but Boston?"</strong>Even back in Baltimore, the fellows gave him a bad time about that accent.  Good-naturedly for the most part, but several of the jokes involved cracks about nothing good coming from Boston, just bad tea and the Irish.<strong>"Alfred Eklain?"</strong>She demanded,<strong>"You think I married Alfred Eklain?"</strong>She was laughing, laughing so hard her eyes teared.  It wasn't funny, not in the least bit funny at all.  But the emotional roller-coaster of the nightmare images, her brief moment of joy, and then the jolting letdown left her at the thin edge of hysteria.<strong>"Wh-hy would you ever think such a thing?"</strong>She stuttered through laughter that was sobs.<br/><br/>She kept laughing as they rode, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the horse.<br/>