Irene smiled as she seemed to be managing things.  She pressed against him, his hand on her skin, toying with her breast.  And, then Sam ruined it all, letting her know he saw through her scheme.<br/><br/>Irene leaned back, listening, staring at him.  She heaved a sigh.  “Sit down, Sam.  Eat your supper before it’s completely cold.”  She held his gaze a moment longer, waiting for him to release her hands.  When she was free, she moved his plate next to hers so he could sit beside her while he ate; he’d already moved the stool.<br/><br/>“It’s just...  Sam, you’re really amazing---an incredible lover, handsome, smart, just tough enough to call me on my...bullshit?...”  She laughed.  “For a while, I wasn’t thinking about what brought you here, or me for that matter.  I was just thinking about you and that I was actually taking care of someone.”  And, enjoying it, she added to herself.  She smiled a little, her eyes a bit sad.  “I came west to be a wife.  I married a man I didn’t even know.  I respected him and he was good to me, but we didn’t love each other.”  She paused after that admission.  “We made an agreement and stuck by it.  I don’t know how it would have turned out, because he died.  The official ruling was that he shot himself, either by accident or with intent.  The truth is, Tim was a good man with a gun.  And, he was on his horse.”  She paused, remembering how wrong it all seemed and how everyone looked at her like she might have killed Tim, even though she was the one pointing out all the reasons why he couldn’t have shot himself.  They called her hysterical.  They called her a murderer and determined Tim was dead by an accident, the kind of accident that, when spoken about, people widened their eyes and put an odd emphasis on the word.  “I don’t believe the bullet that killed Tim was self-inflicted, Sam.”  Irene frowned, wondering why she was telling him this when she was upset over napkins.  “Anyhow, back in that other life, Irene O’Rourke was a wife.  She lived in a nice house, nothing grand.  Comfortable.  But, when she set a table, it had all the necessities.  Not like now.  Now, this Irene eats food made by other people and forgets napkins.”<br/><br/>The intensity of his stare nearly burned a hole in her skin.  Irene looked at Sam, picked up her knife and fork and sawed a piece of meat, shoving it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly.<br/><br/>“So, you see, it was really nothing, Sam.  Just me being silly.  Pretending I was that other Irene...” her voice trailed off because she couldn’t believe what she’d almost said.  She met Sam’s eyes again, then turned back to her plate.  She’d almost said: taking care of my man.  Carefully, she cut another little piece of meat and ate it, swallowing like it was covered in grit, having to take a sip of beer to get it down.  Why did she suddenly feel?  “I’m sorry,” she said, setting the glass down.<br/>