Shifting slightly, bunching the pillow under her head and moving her hair so it wouldn’t be directly in Sam’s face, Irene realized she was going to SLEEP with a man.  The first time in five years.  When she woke up, she fully believed that he’d still be there.  Even with her husband, his presence when she woke was iffy at best.  There’d been nights, nights he’d come home from town and been angry, deep inside angry, and he’d fuck her and they’d fall asleep.  Those nights, she knew he’d be gone in the morning.  Those nights, she’d leave the bed once he was asleep and she’d sit on the porch and cry until she thought her heart might truly break.  Sometimes, she’d wish he’d never come home.  And, then there were times when he was surprisingly kind to her and she didn’t understand why there were such vastly different sides to Tim.<br/><br/>When he hadn’t come home, she’d thought he’d finally quit on her.  Until the marshal had ridden up and told her what had happened, to the best of his ability to read the scene.  And, until she saw him, laid out on the undertaker’s table, she hadn’t quite believed it.  She’d never wished him dead.  She’d truly grieved his death.  A lot of her tears were tied up in guilt for the times she’d wished him away.  When the tears were spent and she could reason, she’d realized the wound had come from a shotgun and not from point-blank range.  The shot pattern was too wide, a few inches between the red marks on his pale, pale body.  Then, she’d stopped crying.  Then, they looked at her strangely.  She’d made a ruckus and they’d tried to shut her up by accusing her.  Irene had held her tongue.  But that didn’t mean that she didn’t keep looking into things.<br/><br/>Why was she thinking this, now? Irene wondered.  Tired...so tired her mind was staggering through memories, testing the soundness of some, comparing then and now.<br/><br/>Can you know a person in a minute? She wondered.  She’d been with Tm for years and never felt like she knew him.  But, she felt like she had a pretty good idea of what Sam Markham was made of.  She liked Sam.  That was something new.  Irene smiled, her eyes fluttering shut.<br/><br/>Irene was just falling into an exhausted slumber, her mind finally shutting off,  when Sam whispered in her ear.  Her eyes opened minimally as she read his tone.  He’d said the words before, but they’d sounded different.  Was that because he hadn’t meant them before, or had she been unwilling to believe they were true?<br/><br/>She kissed his hand.  “Sam, I feel the same about you,” she said, and meant it.  She pulled his arm tighter and joined him in sleep.<br/>