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with the broom grinning up at her.
    What's the matter, never seen a crazy woman before? What if she had to remain Brandy McCabe Strock?
    A trolley car approached on the metal tracks as Corbin appeared carrying a wooden box. Two men came behind him with a larger one that resembled a coffin. The wagon creaked and jerked as they loaded it and then her "husband" was beside her, urging the horses around the corner.
    J ACOB F AUS, G ENERAL B LACKSMITHING-- where there should have been a bank.
    Panic, curiosity, fear, despair, excitement . . . Shay ran the gamut. Brandy's body tightened in response.
    A series of railroad tracks instead of a boulevard. They turned toward the mountains. W ATER S T.-- a sign nailed to a telephone pole.
    Where the public library had spanned Boulder Creek stood a square brick house surrounded by a picket fence.
    Corbin pulled the wagon to a stop. Shay swallowed a lump. A small sign in the window, M EN T AKEN IN AND D ONE FOR.
    "Is this where you live?"
    Corbin's face grayed. "I don't find your jokes funny, Brandy." He reached into the smaller of the two boxes, removed a package tied with thick twine and jumped to the ground.
    A woman rose from a wicker chair in the shade of the porch and moved gracefully toward the gate to meet him. Here was someone who looked comfortable, her sleeves mere ruffles at the shoulder, her dress of thin flowered material. If she's wearing a corset, I'll eat it.
    "Well, Corbin?" Her hair frizzed around her face, her voice low.
    "Marie." He handed her the package and they talked so quietly Shay couldn't hear. But Marie's eyes laughed at her over Corbin's shoulder.
    The flash of another bare arm in the shadows of the porch ... a woman's face in an open upstairs window.
    A row of lopsided shanties along the creek to either side of the house. A more imposing building across the street--the sign here reading B OARDINGHOUSE FOR F ANCY L ADIES. Shay sat up, taking a new interest in similar houses and shanties lining the creek. This is the red-light district and that's a whorehouse and Marie is a . . .
    Shay laughed aloud and drew a look of surprise from Marie and one of consternation from Corbin. He rejoined her, touched his hat to Marie and slapped down the reins.
    Shay turned to wave good-bye to the woman standing at the gate. Marie hesitated, then waved back.
    Corbin hissed and forced the horses into a trot. "I don't know if you are really silly or just acting, Mrs. Strock, but whichever, it looks as Thora K. has her work cut out for her."
    "Who's Thora K.?" Something familiar about that name.
    "Your mother-in-law, as I told you last Sunday. And I'm warning you now, don't try none of your foolishness on Thora K." "You drive a bride of one hour up to a whorehouse to deliver a present to a prostitute and then have the nerve to look at me as if I were dirt."
    "And you wave at her friendly-like."
    "Well, you obviously slept with her last night. You didn't even introduce us . . . as if I didn't exist. You're blushing." She'd never seen a full-grown man do that. He's human, Shay, be careful. He's not just a dummy in a museum.
    "Ladies don't talk of these things," he said with a finality worthy of John McCabe.
    They'd angled northwest and were back on Pearl Street heading toward the mouth of Boulder Canyon. Pulling to the side of the road, Corbin took a coil of rope from under the seat and began tying the boxes and her grandmother's trunk to the wagon, his movements brisk and sure, powerful hands jerking knots so tightly the rope made snapping sounds. Shay winced. Somehow she had to get this man on her side until she could escape this body. And she'd better do something before tonight.
    A whistle, the sounds of hoof and harness, and four horses came up from behind, pulling an open wagon. T ALMAGE & L ILLY S TAGE written along its side, six men on three rows of seats within--holding onto their hats and the side bars that held up a canvas top. They disappeared into the canyon, leaving Shay