The one thing I can say about Johnny Behan is that he is persistent. He persistently shows up at my doorstep, trying to be every bit the dandy and impress me with flowers and bits of ribbon or niceties that any man could buy for any ten women who’ve caught their eye. Johnny Behan also quite persistently succeeds in raising my ire, just as surely as one would make a cat sore at rubbing her fur backward. Still, with the offer of dinner and the possibility of meeting some of the town officials that could possibly help me with my cattle problem at the Hacienda Las Glorias, I found myself relenting to his relentless, if not overzealous, entreatments.
I took my time getting ready, but not so that he would notice. Surely, though it was dinner out, I made certain to dress modestly. I made it absolutely certain that I would be staying at hotel – alone and would pay for it myself. There would be no talk, I was not about to have that. It would not do to have the Tombstone gossips getting the idea that I was doing anything other than taking the evening with Johnny Behan and going straight back out to the Hacienda, even if I had to arrange passage myself. To say I did not have an idea who to trust at this point is quite the understatement.
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Life Belongs to Sekhmet 