It was true that a good whore rarely wore out her shoes.  Irene looked down at her tired feet clad in worn leather boots, laced up to her striped stockings, and wriggled her toes within their confines.  Did her sore feet make her a bad whore or a good bartender? she wondered, looking up at the sound of the scrape of a bar stool.  She smiled at the man, grabbed a glass and a bottle and made her way down to him.  She poured his drink and watched him drink, smiling when he sighed and smiled.<br/><br/>He was deaf; a mining accident that had him a mite too close to the detonation site of some explosives.  But, he spoke and he was pretty good at reading lips.  Irene didn't mind that it took a little longer to converse with him; she was a patient woman.  Patience, in her case was learned, not a trait she'd been born with.  She still sought whomever had killed her husband, despite what the "law" said.  She didn't put a lot of faith in the law that thought she might have killed her husband.  Of course, that had been the old law and the new lawman was a mystery to her.  She preferred it that way; if they remained unknown to each other, then she wouldn't have to lie to the Marshal.  She knew him to pour him a drink and no more.<br/><br/>The man in front of her rapped his knuckles on the counter, drawing Irene's attention back to him.<br/><br/>She smiled and looked around the room quickly, hoping Guinevara hadn't noticed her mental departure.  She covered Luke's hand with both of hers.<br/><br/>He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the stairs.<br/><br/>Smiling, Irene nodded.  He was always fun.<br/><br/>(http://i1133.photobucket.com/albums/m592/MistressofPen/Rachel/mcadams8.jpg)