<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 1, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Camp Gǒu<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nathan Hunter, Closed<br/><hr/>She felt his eyes on her even with her back turned.  What was he looking at?  In these clothes she didn't present much to see.  Still, audience or not she had chores to finish.  With a nimble twist of pelvis and back she turned sideways to push the yoke through the slit-like tent entrance, side-stepping into the temporary structure with the heavy load.  The move put her in profile to the watching trio and for a brief moment the curves of her womanly form shown through the loose garb.  Not that it was intentional - one simply couldn't strut while side-stepping with a fifty pound load.  Not unless you were very good.<br/><br/>She didn't remain in the tent very long.  Just long enough to stow the water and fetch a tiny pellet of ghost-rock and a brick of noodles.  One thing - here near the Maze there was always fuel.  The tiny sliver of ghostly rock was no bigger than the ragged nail of her pinky, but was enough to bring several gallons to a rolling boil.  Noodles again.  Maybe rice tomorrow.  But noodles today, flavored with shavings off a strip of jerky of unknown origin and a diced pepper with an aggressive bite.  She stepped outside and squatted with a smooth flowing grace, her body flowing naturally into an indifferent lotus next to the fire pit.  She seemed to ignore her audience as she hummed an old French ballroom tune and set about laying the fire, setting the pot, and preparing their dinner.<br/><br/>And while most of her attention was indeed focused on her task, she was far from unaware of the attention she drew from the tall stranger and her tent mates.  She never looked up at them directly and the brim of her coolie hat hid her face, but her quick eyes saw everything they did to just under shoulder height.  She could read body language, and she saw Big Rooster's trousers tent up as his ridiculous endowment stirred - they were talking about her then.  She almost smirked but instead kept her expression a passable imitation of and inscrutable Oriental stare.  She saw the money change hands and she...  A year ago, even a few months ago, the transaction would have horrified her.  Now, she felt more disappointment than disgust.  So it was like that.<br/><br/>She expected nothing less from the Big Rooster, but Tom - she'd been grooming Tom, working on him as she attempted to build a bond between them.  She wanted him to care for her enough to take her away from this place, and she thought she was succeeding.  She used subtle, oblique references to things like Big Rooster's size or Kwan's amazing comic skill to dig at his ego and build jealous tension between the guards that thought they owned her because they had her contract.  And she thought it was working.  Each time she serviced one of the others, she made a point to glance toward Tom briefly, her expressive eyes making a silent plea.  Always subtle, and always very discrete - she was sure none of the other's had noticed.  But Tom had, and she thought that he glowered with jealousy each time she served one of the others.  Only... how jealous could he be, if he could sell her to another?<br/><br/>It was like Sarge all over again.  Sarge had really cared for her, told her so many times and in many ways - with both word and action.  And, she had noticed, he couldn't watch when she walked away with another man.  But despite those feelings or any regrets he might have, he still kept  selling her body when the price was right.  But not one of those men ever hurt her.  Sarge made sure of that.  He was there immediately if she needed him, defending her life and limb if not her honor.  And now Tom was doing the same.  At least to a point.  She wondered if he'd defend her if needed?<br/><br/>It all made no matter - because this white man wore a star, and his carriage intrigued her.  He stood like a proud man, and a brave man, and nothing in his demeanor showed aught of fear.  Caution, yes - she could tell he was tense.  Tense and ready and aware of the danger of being a white man alone in this camp.  But that didn't keep him from coming here.  Why was he here?  Presumably, to do his job.  Slavery was illegal - had he heard the Chinese had a white woman captive?  Had he come to rescue her?  Well, the contract she signed would foil that plan.  She wasn't sure how the coolie labor laws worked, but she was sure that technically every man and woman in this camp was here voluntarily.  And that included her.  Why had she signed that contract? At the time it seemed prudent.  It gave her certain rights and a kind of status, if a very low status.  It was better than being held captive by uncertainty.<br/><br/>Her mind whirled - working Tom was a long-term project, one she was sure would succeed eventually - but it was several months away from fruition.  This man.. this law man... there had to be a way she could leverage his presence and his interest into a quicker escape from this dreary life of labor and abuse.  Though she was going to miss Big Rooster's rooster - he was a vicious, mean little man and he was so inordinately proud of that huge dick that he didn't think he needed anything else to please a woman.  And so until recently he hadn't had any technique to speak of and their sex had been a painful, awkward thing.  But he was learning, and she thought he could learn to be not only good, but great.  He certainly had the equipment for it.<br/><br/>She'd miss Tom too, and the others.  Each for a different reason.  And she knew nothing about this white man except he was brave, and from the stiffness in his posture when he looked at her, he was angry.  He went straighter and more tense when he looked at her - she could tell he was looking without seeing his face.  He was angry she was here - and while the Chinamen thought they knew his interest in her, she was not so sure his intentions were amorous.  There was nothing of desire in the way he moved, just well controlled rage.  Maybe she could use his rage to...  She was ashamed of herself even thinking that way, but a girl had to survive, and survival out here in the West meant you did what you had to.<br/><br/>She had dinner set by the time the men stopped talking and the white man approached.  Water and noodle and the scant admixtures sat in the pot and the ghost rock was ready to light.  Only she couldn't light it.  Back East, they kept a fire banked, ready to re-ignite with added fuel.  You couldn't do that when your whole fire was a chip of ghost-rock.  You had to re-light it every time.  Usually, there was a fire going somewhere, and the women borrowed a flame from each other.  Or one of the men would use a precious match or one of the expert girls would use flint and steel - it was amazingly difficult to light ghost-rock from only a spark.  But with the men watching her, she couldn't walk away to find the flame.<br/><br/>So she made the best of it.  He was walking up to her, and just before he stopped she glanced up, her porcelain pale features perfect in every way, the subtle rose of her pert lips lovely even in her emotionless impassive glance.   Her eyes, however - her eyes were greenish, a hazel more brown than anything, a light color that suited her pale features perfectly.  Hazel-brown, or green, or gray - it was hard to tell, and it was hard to look away.  The face that looked up at him was so starkly beautiful that even without a smile her gaze had nearly the impact of a bullet to the heart.  Her features were blank, but her eyes laughed at him as she spoke.<strong>"Howdy cowboy.  Got a light?"</strong>Her voice was every bit as lovely as her face.  Smooth and pleasant, the contralto was just deep enough to hint at husky, and her accent was of the East and of the not-so-deep South.<br/>