He didn’t know how he had come to this place, but the fact didn’t really bother him. Sometimes he felt a vague irritation that others came and went as they wished, while the only view of life for himself and the girls was through a window, but it was a pleasant life. Good food, good sex, generally agreeable company. The girls could be annoyingly maternal at times, but they meant well, and if Miguel was particularly pleased with his performance, he was sometimes allowed to sleep with one of them. He liked Rosita best, but he was careful not to play favorites.

            Sometimes, though rarely, Miguel sent a woman to him, a customer, not one of the girls. Usually, though, it was a man. He did his best to please them all. Sex of any kind was good, and it gave him pleasure to see his bedmate satisfied. He hadn’t slept with a man before he came to Miguel. But it was exciting in its own way, and Miguel picked his clients carefully. No one offered him the least offense or ill treatment.

            The seasons passed, though in this climate it wasn’t always easy to tell them apart. Yet some extra spirit seemed to infuse the house at Christmas. Some of the clients brought gifts, or sent parcels of sweets and nuts and little cakes. There was no real attempt at holiday decoration, but the maids took extra care with dusting and polishing, and the silver tea service in Miguel’s luxurious rooms found its way out to grace the sideboard in the parlor.

            “This one is a little odd,” Miguel told him one night, with a frown. “He comes well recommended, and I don’t really think you’ll have any trouble with him, but I’ll be listening. You sing out if he tries anything you don’t like.”

            “Odd how?”

            “He didn’t want to see you or know your name. Said not to have the lamp lighted in your room, and you the most handsome boy I’ve ever had.” Miguel sighed, mingling irritation and lechery. “Some men are like that, you know. They feel guilty for desiring another man, so they do it in the dark. But I don’t think that’s the reason for this one. Just be careful, and don’t hesitate to call for help if you need it.”

            “I’ll be all right. Should I go up now?”

            Miguel nodded and patted his behind as he turned away. He twitched it a bit to acknowledge the favor, and mounted the back steps with unusual good spirits. A wealthy man, one of Miguel’s own friends, had lain with him the previous night, and had complimented him so lavishly that Miguel had promised him a whole night with whomever he chose of the girls. He’d been trying all day to decide who he wanted.

            The flame burned low in his bedside lamp. He undressed and arranged the necessaries carefully before blowing it out. The room wasn’t totally dark even so; a thin line of light showed under the door, and the barest haze of moonlight filtered through the heavy drapes. But the effect was unexpectedly erotic, and he moved his hand down to cup himself lightly, feeling his prick swell with more than ordinary urgency. The delight of frequent sex had worn off by now, even the piquancy of a new partner every time, but this was going to be different, he was sure.

            The door opened enough to let a man’s body slip through, his face turned aside. Perhaps he was someone very famous, who didn’t wish to be identified. It would be interesting to see what could be learned from his voice.

            He approached the bed, footsteps muted. Boots, though, not soft shoes. “Are you naked?” He spoke the local dialect of Spanish fluently.

            “Yes.”

            “Don’t speak out loud. Just whisper. I don’t care to hear your voice.”

            The man’s voice wasn’t going to be much help, then, though the very fact that he kept it low himself gave away a lot. He was determined not to be recognized, which meant he must be very well-known indeed. An American, too, by his accent. It was tempting to suggest they speak English, but the man would probably be annoyed to realize he’d given away even that much.

            “Whatever you want.”

            The man disrobed quickly, his garments settling with a soft whisper on the floor. He eased into the bed, but there was nothing tentative about his touching–no stranger to male sex, obviously.

            “Kiss me,” he said.

            They kissed, lips only brushing at first, then more firmly. The man kissed well, taking what he wanted but not ignoring his partner. They broke apart, and then, with a broken little sigh, the man took his mouth hard, tongue thrusting inside, fighting briefly for dominance, easing back to let itself be explored.

            “Yes… “ The word might have come from either of them as they parted for air.

            The man moved his hand, murmuring “Nice,” as he found what he was after, but after a moment of stroking, he came back for more kisses.

            “You are hot, aren’t you? I like that.”

            “Mm.” 

            “That’s right. Just whisper.”

            The man found nipples and pinched, laughing softly at the reaction. “Not ticklish, are you?” He tested the hypothesis by running a finger lightly from navel to prick. “Yes, arch up to me again, just like that. Oh, yes.”

            They lay back for a moment, panting. “Touch me,” the man said. “Please touch me.”

            He moaned at the sensation, a raspy breath deep in his throat that sounded as though it had been dragged unwilling from his gut. “Yes, again. Yes, there. Oh God– “

            He rolled away, gasping. “Wait. Not so fast. I want to make this last.”

            Their feet brushed against each other, and even that was intensely erotic. The man came back for another kiss, smoothed his hand over flank and hip, cupped an ass cheek, pressing them together. “You feel so good,” he murmured. “Just what I needed.”

            “What do you want? Tell me what you like.”

            “Your mouth… no, your ass. Hell, I don’t know. Anything. Everything. It’s been so long… “

            ”My mouth? Like this?” He swung around and found the other man’s cock, suckling it lightly with his lips.

            The man’s breath came in a long hiss. “Yes, like that. Your tongue, oh God, yes.”

            He mouthed it more vigorously, and the man arched up to him, panting heavily. “Yes, more, do that again—“ He gasped and groaned, “Ah, Jim!” and went rigid, and his cock pulsed heavily for a long time.

            Jim released him gently when it was over, and turned around to snuggle against him. “I thought you said you didn’t know my name,” he murmured, in English, because it seemed more natural to him to use their native tongue.

            “What?” The man had been caressing his shoulder, but the stroking fingers froze. “What are you talking about?”

            “My name,” Jim said patiently, and a little louder. “Miguel said you didn’t want to know my name, but you called it just now.”

            “Your name… “ the man said stupidly, as though he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of Jim’s words.

            “Jim. My name is Jim. You said it when you—“

            He had spoken at a normal conversational level, forgetting that he was supposed to whisper. The man flung himself up. “What?” He fumbled wildly with the lamp. “Where’s a light? Get me a match!”

            Jim slid out of the opposite side of the bed and went to the window to draw the curtain back. The full moon shone brightly on his face and body. “Is this enough light? I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

            For a moment he thought the other man was going to faint. The man staggered back against the commode, knocking over the lamp with a crash of breaking glass. “No—no, it can’t be!” he croaked. In the pale moonlight, his face was ghastly white. “How—“

            Jim’s door flew inward with a deafening crash. Before Jim could move, Pablo, the huge Chilean whom Miguel employed to maintain decorum and security, had Jim’s customer on the floor, his arms twisted behind his back. Miguel was on Pablo’s heels, his face tight with worry.

            “Diego! Are you all right?”

            Jim flung himself on Pablo. “Don’t hurt him!” But Pablo was a mountain, unmoveable unless he wanted to move, or Miguel ordered him to. Jim turned an imploring face on Miguel. “He didn’t hurt me, Miguel. Make Pablo stop!”

            “Bastantes!” Miguel said sharply. “Pablo, es suficiente!”

            Pablo straightened slowly, still holding one of the man’s arms. Jim threw himself down on the floor next to the man. “Are you all right?” he demanded in English, and then to Pablo, “Lancelo!”

            “Permita qu’él se levante, Pablo,” Miguel said more moderately, and Pablo reluctantly stepped back, dropping the man’s other arm.

            “Usted i’puede,” Miguel told Pablo. Pablo gave the man, who was rising stiffly from the floor, a glare that said he’d rather dismember him than let him go, but he went out the door at Miguel’s command.

            “What happened?” Miguel demanded of Jim. “What is all this commotion about, if he has done nothing?”

            “Nothing! I told him my name, that’s all.”

            “I told you he didn’t wish to know your name,” Miguel said reprovingly.

            “But he called me by my name,” Jim protested. “I asked him how he knew it, and he jumped up and cried out for a light, and when he saw my face, he fell against the table and knocked over the lamp. That’s all that happened, Miguel, I swear it!”

            “What are you doing here?” the man cried, before Miguel could respond.

            “What do you mean?” Jim asked in confusion, but Miguel put a finger to his lips, and turned to the man.

            “Do you know him, Señor Gordon?”

            Gordon looked astounded. “Of course I know him!” He gripped Jim’s arm hard. “Jim, what in God’s name are you doing in this place?”

            “He does not know you,” Miguel said quietly. “Do not upset him. I will explain.” He gestured at Gordon’s clothing, scattered now about the room. “Please dress yourself. Diego, put on some clothing. Street clothing, not a robe.”

            Gordon hesitated, as though ready to demand an immediate answer. Jim looked at Miguel in great surprise–was he to be sent away? But he was accustomed to obeying Miguel, so he walked across to his cupboard to take out the single pair of trousers that he owned, and the shirt he had worn when he came here. Watching him with compressed lips, Gordon picked up his clothing and put it back on. One of his boots was across the room and the other one had to be retrieved from under Jim’s bed, but he finally stood fully dressed and glaring at Miguel. “You had better have a good explanation for this.”

            Miguel rose from where he’d been sitting on Jim’s bed. “Come to my rooms.”

            When they were seated in his suite, he poured brandy for himself and Gordon. “No,” he said to Jim. “You know that liquor makes you ill. Call Anita and ask for water and lime if you’re thirsty.”

            “Answers,” Gordon said grimly.

            “Patience, señor. I will tell you all.” Miguel looked across at Jim. “What do you remember, before you came here?”

            Jim hesitated, thinking back to that hazy, pain-filled time. “Not much,” he said finally. “I know my head was hurt. The fathers took care of me. They said they found me in the mountains, but I don’t remember anything before waking up in their compound.”

            Miguel nodded. “The Franciscans had a mission in Lagunitas. They found you unconscious near there, they told me. They didn’t think you would live, but they nursed you the best they could, and you did live.”

            “Lagunitas… “ Gordon said slowly. “That’s not a great way from Yuma, if I remember correctly. You were chasing Montevista’s men. You must have followed them across the border and up into the mountains.”

            He turned a hard look on Miguel. “That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.”

            Miguel shrugged without apology. “He had no memory, no people, no skills. When I brought him here, he could not speak clearly. He would fall down unconscious without warning. The fathers couldn’t keep him any longer, and he had nowhere else to go.” He paused, and when Gordon said nothing more, he added somewhat defensively, “Well, just look at him!”

            “You made a whore of him, and I’m supposed to think you were acting out of charity?”

            “And what was he before?” Miguel demanded. “With a face and a body like his?”

            Something shifted in Gordon’s face and made it hard. “He was an agent of the United States government. My partner. He has a brain to go with the pretty face.”

            “I’m not a whore,” Jim managed to get in. He felt as though the conversation was a mile beyond him, the two men talking angrily over his head. “I’m not a whore.”

            Silence dropped into the room, and they both turned to look at him, Miguel sulkily defensive, Gordon stiff-lipped.

            “You are the favorite of the greatest men of Baja California,” Miguel said finally. “That is not just a whore.”

            Gordon stood with a violent gesture of his hand. “Get his things together,” he ordered. “Whatever you’ve allowed him to own.”

            There was another silence, into which Jim made a sound of protest, as he realized he was about to be taken from the only home he knew. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to be here, as opposed to anywhere else, but it was comfortable and… known. He had no memories from before, but here he had a past as well as a future. Anywhere else, even with someone who had known him before, he would be starting all over again from nothing.

            “You must allow him to make that decision,” Miguel said softly, and Gordon swivelled on his heel and stomped across to the window.

            Whatever went through his mind during the moments his back was turned left no imprint on his face when he turned around. “Very well. “ He came back to the little circle of armchairs before the fire and sat next to Jim.

            “Let me tell you something of who you were–“ He stopped. “No, who you are. You are an educated man, a university graduate. You were a trusted and respected agent of former President Grant. You were my partner.” He stopped again, and some of the control went out of his face. “You are my friend.” He looked around them at the plush upholstery, the heavy velvet drapes, the gilded moldings, and said with obvious pain, “I can’t leave you here. This isn’t what you would have chosen for yourself.”

            “What am I supposed to choose for myself now?” Jim asked him, watching his face. They had plainly not been lovers before, whatever other kind of partners or friends they might have been. Gordon’s horrified shock on seeing his face was evidence enough of that. But the man had wanted him. He had learned enough of men’s desires in his time with Miguel to know that this man had wanted him. What did he want now? Gratitude enough to guarantee him a bed partner without having to pay a considerable sum for it? If that was the case, Jim would stay here.

            “You’ll get some memories back,” Gordon told him. “Probably not all, but enough to go back to some kind of real life. A new life. You obviously remembered your name.”

            Jim shook his head. “The fathers said there was a paper in my pocket. A note addressed to someone named James. They assumed that was me. There was no last name, and I’ve never been able to remember it.”

            The other man’s face twisted. “James. Yes. I often called you James. Most other people called you Jim, if they knew you well enough to be on a first-name basis.”

            “The note was from you, then?”

            “Yes. I said I would meet you that evening, at the place we had stopped the night before.”

            Jim found that he was holding his breath. “Yes, that’s what it said.” He stood and paced away from the others, needing some physical space in which to think. He wasn’t just a cipher then, some poor unknown bastard who’d gotten banged on the head and nearly died of it. Hearing that he was a college graduate hadn’t affected him. He knew he wasn’t a peasant, or the American equivalent. His Spanish had been competent before he came to Miguel, and not just the rough Mexican most cowboys picked up, but the Spanish of the aristocracy. His English, he’d been told, was that of an educated man. Those things hardly mattered if no one knew his name, or his family, or where he belonged. But now—now he had a real past, not just that of the last fifteen months. Perhaps he couldn’t go back to the life he’d had—and an awful thought came into his mind.

            “Was I married?” he demanded of Gordon. Was there a family somewhere who would expect him to know them? To step back into a life he couldn’t recall, to be a father to children he didn’t recognize? To lie in a marriage bed with a stranger?

            But Gordon was shaking his head. “No. And your parents are dead. I think you had an aunt and uncle somewhere, but that’s all.”

            “So you were my family,” Jim said simply. Gordon gave him a startled look, and then a lopsided smile.

            “Yes.” He paused and added, “And you were mine. My parents are dead as well.”

            “I think I ought to go with you, then.” Jim turned to Miguel. “Will you be very angry with me if I do that?”

            Miguel shook his head and shrugged dramatically. “I have known this day might come. And in truth, how can I complain when you have made me such a rich and famous man?”

            But genuine sadness lay under the light words, and Jim leaned over to him and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. “You gave me much more than wealth or fame. You took me in when the fathers set me down alone and helpless in the marketplace. I will never forget that.”

            “Why were the Franciscans going to abandon you?” Gordon asked.

            “The government could not protect the mission at Lagunitas,” Miguel said. “There had been attacks from Indians and from Montevista’s army of criminals. The priests and brothers were called back to Spain, and they did not want to take an American with them, for fear that they would be accused of kidnaping.”

            “No one ever made an attempt to find out who he was? Surely that wouldn’t have been too difficult.” Gordon’s voice reeked with sarcastic indignation.

            Miguel made another of his expansive shrugs. “I am a simple man, señor. I do not travel beyond this place, and my contacts are of a nature that precludes asking for favors. I did my part by keeping him alive and in good health.” He gave Gordon a hard look. “Now you shall do your part by taking him home. Perhaps you shall even find a doctor to restore his memory.”

            “I’ll certainly try,” Gordon said grimly. “You can do one more thing for him. Tell me what you’ve been drugging him with.”

            Miguel’s face went blank, and then he said, “Drugging him, señor?” at the same moment that Jim burst out, “I’m not drugged with anything.”

            Gordon turned to Jim. “Head injury or not, this isn’t your personality,” he said, reverting to English. “Not this kind of docile passivity. You’re being given something in your food or water. You’d have been long gone from here by now without it, I’ll guarantee you.”

            He turned back to Miguel. “When he leaves here, the drug will wear off, of course. But there might be medical repercussions if he just stops taking it. I need to know what you’ve been giving him, and how much.”

            When Miguel still hesitated, Gordon’s arm shot out to twist the ruffles at Miguel’s neck. “Now, Señor Molino. Or should I say, Señor Escovito?”

            Miguel went pale. “I am no longer that man, Señor Gordon. I do not know what and who you are, to have such knowledge, but it is useless to you. That man no longer exists. And I would have given you what you wanted in any case.”

            He jerked away from Gordon and went around to a credenza on the opposite wall, taking something from one of the cupboards. “This is not a drug,” he said, his back to them. Gordon shifted away from Jim and his hand slid into his coat. Watching him, Jim realized suddenly that Gordon was armed, and that he was suspicious of what Miguel might be holding. He couldn’t say how he knew that. Certainly there had been no evidence of a weapon when Gordon disrobed, not even when he put his clothes back on in the light from the lamp. Whatever he was carrying, it was well hidden. But Jim knew, logic or not, that Gordon was armed with something. Torn between loyalty to Miguel, and his concern now for Gordon, he couldn’t get out more than a choked, “No!” He wasn’t even certain to which of them he was speaking, but they both turned around fast at his voice.

            Miguel held a small wooden box in his hand. He set it down and came across to Jim. “What is it, my dear?”

            “He thought I was threatening you,” Gordon put in, before Jim could answer. “I didn’t know what you had there, and I wasn’t taking any chances.” He folded back his coat lapels, and Jim saw the shoulder holster fastened somehow into the coat’s lining. The butt of a wicked looking revolver protruded from the leather.

            Miguel laughed softly. “My good man, your life would be very short indeed if you hurt me, and he knows that. So he might as well have been protecting you as I.”

            Frightened by the sudden hostility in the room, Jim begged them, “Please don’t argue. If I’m to go with Señor Gordon, Miguel, let me just go.”

            Miguel embraced him, holding him close for a moment. “I release you to him, my dear Diego. But you must take this medicine with you. Father Bertrand gave it to me for you. It isn’t a drug, though I suppose it may calm the spirit. It is for the headaches.”

            Gordon had picked up the box and was sniffing the contents. “It’s some kind of herb. I’m not certain what. Probably something the local Indians knew of, and taught the fathers to use.”

            Miguel nodded. “I have seen it in the market here. Women use it in childbirth as well, so you can see, Señor Gordon, that it is not harmful.”

            Gordon’s expression was skeptical, but he wrapped the box in his handkerchief and thrust it into his coat pocket. “Do you have anything else of your own?” he asked Jim.

            Jim shook his head. “I had no need of anything.”

            “What about your earnings?”

            Jim gave him a blank look. “Earnings, señor?”

            Miguel opened his mouth and shut it again, as though speechless that anyone should be so naive. Gordon say very softly, “His earnings, Señor Molino.”

            Miguel considered the hard expression on Gordon’s face. “A horse, perhaps?” he suggested. “You will need another horse, and the dealers in the town will cheat you if they can. I have several that would meet your needs.”

            Gordon nodded. “That will be satisfactory.” He paused. “He must be allowed to pick the mount he wants. I don’t think he’ll have lost what he knows of horses.”

            Miguel gave another of his dramatic shrugs, though his face was mournful. “Very well.” “I do not wish to accused of cheating anyone.” Gordon snorted at that, but didn’t reply, and Miguel added, “He must have a small spoonful of the mastara every eight hours, Señor Gordon. We powdered it very fine and put it in his meals.”

            Gordon said shortly, “I’ll be the judge of that.” He swung around to Jim. “Come to the stables and choose a horse, and we can be on our way.”

            “It is too late to leave now,” Miguel pointed out reasonably. “Stay until morning, and leave in the daylight. There are robbers on the roads at night.”

            Gordon breathed in slowly. “All right. I don’t suppose there’s any other lodging better than this. But come and choose a horse now.”

            Jim saw from Miguel’s pursed lips that he would have preferred that to wait until morning as well—the better to cull his stable of the prime horses, no doubt. But Gordon was already at the door, and Miguel followed with a little sigh. Jim touched his arm, and Miguel reached out to clasp his hand as they walked. Miguel had not lain with him often after the first few weeks here, perhaps only two or three times. But they had been good, the only real affection he had felt from anyone, and he would miss this man, who could be loving, prickly, or loudly and passionately furious when the mood took him.

            In the stable, Miguel indicated with a sweep of his hand and a grim expression that four of his horses were most emphatically, definitely, not available. Jim walked slowly past the remainder of the stalls until he heard Miguel call, “No, Diego, those are the clients’—“

            Miguel stopped, and Jim turned around to see Gordon with finger against his lips. “Go ahead,” Gordon said to him. “Look at all of them. If the one you like belongs to someone else, Señor Molino will tell you, and you can choose another.”

            Miguel shrugged, and Jim continued on to the last stall on that side. Nearly all the horses had been acceptable, some certainly excellent, and he wasn’t certain what he was looking for. He had no memory of any particular knowledge of horses, not as though he might have raised horses himself, or sold them. But he knew that the barrel-chested bay, though it seemed large enough to support a heavy man, probably couldn’t trot a mile without stopping to blow. The roan gelding in the next stall was a fine-looking animal in every respect, but it wasn’t a happy one. He could no more have said how he knew that than he could recall his own name, but he knew it as certainly as if the horse had spoken aloud.

            The horse across from him whickered softly, and he turned to look at it, a big black with wide set intelligent eyes. Something about it drew him, though there was nothing particularly spectacular about its appearance. It was a stallion, he saw, a bit unusual. Most men preferred their mount to pay attention to its rider, not to every mare that happened along. He would like a stallion, though, he thought. But it must be one of the clients’ horses, and he turned away with a small sigh.

            The horse grumbled at him, blowing through its lips with a sound unaccountably familiar, and he turned back. “What do you want, fella?” he murmured, running a hand through the thick mane. “You like that, huh?”

            The horse turned and rested its head on his shoulder, as though greeting an old friend, and in the foggy recesses of his mind, Jim felt something stir. He traced a finger along the horse’s neck, not sure what he was looking for, but recognizing it when he found it—a long faint four-fingered scar. Panther, his mind supplied. This horse had fought a big cat, and survived. He knew it without understanding how he could know it. As though watching a stage play in his mind, he felt the horse rear violently under him, catching him completely by surprise, felt himself sliding from the saddle, heard the squall of the cat as it leaped from its hiding place, saw the swipe of a huge paw down the side of Dusty’s neck…

            Dusty…

            He murmured, “Dusty,” and the horse nuzzled him and settled more firmly against him. He ran his hand along its back, inhaled the suddenly familiar scent, and rested his head against the horse’s back with enormous regret. Somehow, somewhere in his past, he had known this horse, he was certain of it. But it belonged to someone else now.

            Gordon’s voice made him jump. “I suppose I should be insulted that you recognize your horse, but you don’t know me.”

            He turned to look at the man. Gordon had come up behind him without a sound, and was watching him intently, an ironic smile on his face. He wore a dark frock coat with a white shirt and a narrow tie, and it didn’t suit him. Closing his eyes, Jim saw a brown casual jacket with wide gold lapels, a figured weskit and a rich chocolate brown cravat, and over that, a handsome broad face with a wide smile—a happy smile that was nothing like the strained expression on Gordon’s face now.

            He reached out to touch Gordon’s arm, and just as with the horse, touch seemed to open up a door in his mind. Gordon offering him a glass of brandy, the two of them sitting close together on an ornate sofa as the train rumbled beneath them. Train? Yes, Dusty had been on the train as well, odd as that might seem. Another memory floated up—letting down a long ramp and leading his horse and Ar— His breath caught, and the name floated away. He could have wept, but he closed his eyes again and let the scene unfold in his mind. Dusty and—and Juniper. Artie’s horse was called Juniper. Artie. He let the name roll off his tongue, and it felt right, and good.

            “Artie.” He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until he felt Gordon’s jerk of surprise, and opened his eyes to see Gordon swallow hard.

            “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say my name again,” Gordon whispered, with such a mixture of desolation and joy in his voice that Jim reached out to touch his cheek with a finger, wanting to console him. Gordon’s eyes were suspiciously wet and his lips compressed. “You don’t really recognize me, though, do you?”

            Jim shook his head. “I remember the name, that’s all. But it’s a good sign, isn’t it? This is the first time I’ve remembered anything.” He hesitated, because he wasn’t certain he should ask this, but then he went on, “Did you—did you love me?”

            “With all my heart I loved you,” Artie told him, as though it was a vow. But his face changed and he said lightly, “But that wasn’t your way. We were good friends, that’s all.”

            Jim listened to the unadulterated misery under the casual words, and thought that Gordon might have suffered nearly as much as he had himself. “I must have loved you too,” he said, certain of it. “I just didn’t know it.” Honesty compelled him to add, “But I don’t see how I could be your partner again, whatever it was we did. I’ve lost too much.”

            Artie shook his head. “I left that job. I couldn’t do it alone, and I wasn’t willing to work with anyone else.” He hesitated. “I want you to know that if you come back with me, I won’t presume on—on what happened tonight.”

            He was going to be virtuous, Jim saw, with an internal sigh. It was a relief to know that he wouldn’t be expected to service the man, but excessive selflessness might be just as irritating. The nights would be long and lonely indeed if he was condemned to spend them alone.

            “Suppose,” he said, trying not to be coy about it, “Suppose… I want to presume.”

            “This isn’t your way,” Artie said again, though he sounded less certain than before.

            “It is my way now,” Jim said simply. “Miguel taught me what to do. Don’t get me wrong—I still like girls. But I won’t be put out of your bed just because we didn’t sleep together before.”

            Artie said, sounding desperate, “I’d be taking advantage of you. When you get your memory back, you’ll hate me.”

            Jim had to laugh at that. “Believe me, I’ll hate you more right now if you leave me itching and unfulfilled.” He stepped closer, pressing Artie against the side of the stall. “You said we could start a new life. Can’t that be part of it? And don’t tell me that you just don’t want me, because I won’t believe you.”

            Artie’s eyes closed briefly, and a ghost of the smile Jim remembered flitted across his face. “No, I won’t lie to you.” Some of the sadness came back. “But if you decide you don’t want to stay with me, once you’ve gotten your bearings again—“

            Jim shook his head. “Don’t borrow trouble. We can worry about that when and if it happens.”

            “That’s my boy, all right,” Artie said, and his smile was less strained now. “Some things don’t change.” He gestured around him. “Choose a horse, before Miguel changes his mind. You’ll be choosing it for me, though. I doubt Dusty will let me on his back now that he has you again.”

            “Why did you keep him?” Jim asked curiously, as they walked back down the line of stalls. “Did you really still think you might find me?”

            Artie shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure. Guess I just couldn’t believe you could be dead. Riding your horse brought you closer to me somehow. Sounds maudlin, I know.”

            Jim reached out to take his hand, and squeezed it for a moment. “No. Sounds pretty good to me. I‘ve wondered sometimes if anyone was out there looking for me.”

            He slowed and turned back to a grey mare with a sweet face. She wouldn’t be winning any races with Dusty, but she looked sound, and let him approach her without any sign of nervousness. He felt down each leg, and then led her out into the open to check her conformation, front and back, side to side. She was a little heavy for her height, but that was probably only a matter of insufficient exercise.

            “You are a good judge of horses,” Miguel said, walking up to them. “This is Marga. She is not young, but she is good-mannered and descends from a famous line of Spanish horses. I will hate to lose her.”

            “She likes you,” Jim said to Artie, as Marga nuzzled his pocket.

            “She is looking for a treat,” Miguel said, a more likely observation. But Marga let Artie rub her nose, and closed her eyes in obvious contentment when he stroked down her neck.

            “I’ll need tack,” Artie said to Miguel. “You don’t want the townsmen to cheat me on that either, do you?”

            “You are a hard man, Señor Gordon.” Miguel’s voice was a little less friendly than it had been, but he gestured toward the rack of saddles at the end of the barn. “You may take the one on the very bottom. It is old, but in good condition. Her bridle and blanket are in here.” A trunk sat just outside the stall, and Artie lifted the lid to reveal a woolen saddle blanket, and a bridle decorated with silver conches.

            “I don’t mind taking a plain bridle,” Artie said, holding it up. “You don’t have to give me the fancy one.”

            “No, it is hers, the one she has always worn. She would know the difference.”

            Miguel’s voice was resigned, and Jim felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. “May I come back some time to see Miguel and the girls?” he asked Artie, and Artie gave him a surprised look.

            “You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to ask my permission for anything.” He shook his head. “Never mind. When the drug wears off, you’ll know that without my needing to tell you.”

            They walked back to the house in the warm darkness. The moon was down over the hills behind the compound, and the only light came from the lamps in Miguel’s rooms, glowing softly through the windows. The sound of a woman’s voice, raised in anger or protest, came from the house, and Miguel excused himself and hurried away from them.

            “Will I really change the way you say?” Jim asked softly, not sure he liked the idea. It would be good to be his own man, beholden to no one, but there was safety here. If Artie was to take Miguel’s place, Artie ought to accept Miguel’s responsibility too.

            “You’ll be the man you were before,” Artie assured him. “You won’t need anyone to take care of you or tell you what to do.” He added dryly, “You won’t let anyone tell you what to do, believe me.”

            “You weren’t my—my boss, then.”

            Artie chuckled softly. “There were times when I’d liked to have turned you over my knee and smacked you good, but no, I wasn’t your boss. We were partners, as I said.”

            Jim let a teasing note creep into his voice. “I might let you turn me over your knee, if you ask nicely.”

            “Oh, god,” Artie groaned. “I’m already half wild with wanting you again.” He reached for Jim, but Jim twitched away from him and led him through the door into the back hall and the narrow stairs that led to the rooms above.

            “Wait!” Artie whispered to him, as Jim started up the steps. He grasped Jim’s hips and turned him around. “Stay there, that’s perfect.”

            He fumbled for the tie at the waist of Jim’s loose trousers, and pulled out the knot, letting the pants slide down to pool at Jim’s ankles. Jim wore nothing underneath. He owned no drawers, since his usual garment was a knee-length robe. Men liked to divest him of his robe, but he hadn’t had a man before who pulled his trousers down. It was unexpectedly exciting, especially when his swelling organ brushed against the hem of his shirt. The slight risk that someone might come suddenly down the stairs or into the hall added another frisson of illicit thrill—not that the sight of a copulating couple would be any surprise in a house of carnal pleasure, but Jim preferred his own pleasures to be private ones.

            Artie half-knelt against the steps, his mouth at just the perfect height to reach Jim’s cock. His tongue flicked out to lap at the shaft, and Jim inched back just out of reach. A new thought was taking shape in his mind: he no longer worked for Miguel, and this man was not a customer. Jim didn’t have to follow orders. That was not something he had minded doing. After all, following orders had gotten him some of the best sex in his life–or at least the part of his life that he could remember—and it had won him praise and cosseting and everyone’s good will. But he could please himself now if he wished.

            Artie made a sound like a whimper and leaned closer, reaching out with his hands to prevent Jim from moving.

            “Don’t grab me!” Jim told him softly, but with enough snap in his voice that Artie hesitated, and then obeyed. “Just your mouth.”

            Artie glanced up at him with an odd half-smile, and then leaned in close enough to rub his face against Jim’s prick, a sensation intense enough to make Jim gasp. Before Jim could move away again, Artie’s mouth took him in a long hard slurp, and the only thought he could manage was that he never wanted to move again. “Madre de Dios!” he gasped, reverting in this extremity to the Spanish he had spoken for months.

            Artie’s tongue moved against him, rough as a cat, again and again, and he wasn’t sure his legs were going to hold him up. Then he was coming, so fast he had no warning before it happened. He staggered, and felt Artie’s arms come around his hips, supporting him with more strength than he’d suspected the man had. He slumped down into those arms as Artie’s mouth left him, weak as a baby and as safely held. He knew instinctively, like another of those doors opening in his mind, that he had trusted Artie with his life in the past, and now perhaps he would trust him with his love as well.

            Artie was chuckling softly. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured. “It’s Christmas, you know.”

            “Is it??” Jim leaned against him, hazy with repletion. “I don’t have a gift for you.”

            Artie hugged him hard. “No gift? My God, having you back is the most wonderful gift I could have received.”

            Jim sat up and turned to look at him. “Even if I don’t get all my memories back? Even if I’m never the same man I was before?”

            Artie said softly, “Neither of us is the same man he was before. I’ve changed too, changed in ways I wouldn’t have if we’d been together. Whatever we make of our lives, all I want is to spend mine with you. And you’ll be more the man you were when that damned herb is out of your system. Miguel may have meant well in the beginning, but I’ll warrant you he saw how useful it was to keep you docile.”

            Artie’s voice had gone hard, and Jim snuggled against him. “Don’t be angry. It kept me here for you to find me.”

            The realization that he had been drugged for months rankled, but when he measured that against the life he might have had—someone’s house servant if he had been lucky, manual labor in the fields if he had not—or the even greater likelihood of not having survived at all, he couldn’t blame Miguel.

            He could feel Artie relax, and he lifted his mouth for a kiss. “Merry Christmas to you,” he whispered, and Artie’s lips met his in promise, commitment and joy all in one.