Chapter One

Lucky bent over an unconscious blond cowboy.  The guards had dumped the stranger flat on his back without a word of explanation. He couldn't believe this guy's getup:  western shirt, chaps, even a few strands of hay caught under his tooled leather boots, trapped in what looked - and smelled - like a king-sized cow patty.

Lucky's father, Luke Spencer, had given him the nickname "Cowboy" when they'd lived on a Texas ranch. The nickname had stuck even though it embarrassed him. He was seventeen, nearly a adult, as he reminded anyone who would listen.

This was the most excitement he'd had in months. He was always alone with no one to talk to in his oppressive prison cell. The moldy damp rose from the earthen floor, making him sick all the time. Good thing he didn't have a mirror. He didn't want to see how awful he must look. Bad food, no sun and no exercise were destroying his health. But the loneliness was the worst. It was eating him up inside, sending him to a black, hollow place beyond tears. He'd nearly given up hope.

Lucky jumped back when the brilliant blue eyes flew open.  Wow. They were the exact shade as his.  In fact, the man's hair color was similar, too. Could they be related?  He was accustomed to thinking about strange motives. So much had happened to his family back in Port Charles, New York. Things no one would ever believe.

The idea of a companion gave Lucky a little hard-earned comfort. The guards never talked to him, never bothered to explain why they'd snatched him from a deep sleep, kidnapping him from his friends and family. He'd been here in a tiny cell for a nearly a year, a fact he'd scratched onto the concrete walls, day by stinking day. Two hundred and ninety marks. It seemed like forever.

The well-built man sat up with a confused expression on his face.  He rubbed his head and gave him lopsided grin. "Boy Howdy! Where am I?"

Lucky smiled. "Welcome to hell."

"Huh, boy?" the blond man asked. "What are ya talking about?"

"Well, that would be the surprise that's waiting for you," Lucky said.  He slammed his hand against the wall in frustration and sat down on his bunk.

The blond stranger stood up, searching the tiny room. He paced back and forth, slapping the grey walls and testing the iron door. "I hate surprises." He frowned and scratched his head.  "The last thing I remember, I was ridin' Charger, repairin' a fence and searchin' for a stray cow that got outta the hole."

"You smell like a cow," Lucky snorted. He shook his head and pinched his nose.

"Where are we?!" the man demanded. He grabbed his arm and shook it.

"Don’t!" cried Lucky. He backed up, his heart pounding like crazy.

The man's demeanor softened. "Hey," he said. "I understand. Sorry to be so rough. You hangin' in there, boy?"

"Who are you?" Lucky asked.

Confusion radiated from the well-built stranger. "I don't know," he choked. "Everything's kinda cloudy in my brain."

Lucky shook his head. This man was even worse off than him. "Well, what's your name?" he asked again.

The man frowned. "Why should I confide in ya? I don't gotta tell ya nuthin.'"

Lucky's eyebrows rose. "Because I'm the only hope you have of breaking out of here."

The man's eyes twinkled. "You got 'rescue me' written all over ya, boy." He drew himself to his full height and flexed his biceps. "I'm Heath Barkley. Have some respect for yer elders."

"Whatever," Lucky said. "I've been locked up here for nearly a year. You'll learn."

"What?"

"How to be a prisoner!"

"I've already been one," Heath said, sighing. "I was in a prison camp 'cause of the war."

"Looks like you are again. I have NO idea why they threw you in here. This cell isn't large enough for both of us. You're getting on my nerves!"

"So, young whippersnapper, now what are we gonna do?" the cowboy demanded. "I surely ain't ready to die just to please you."

"You won't have a choice," Lucky replied.  Keys rattled, and the large, iron door creaked open. The two young men with their fair coloring and bright blue eyes were both strong, but they were no match for the long-haired Danish man who stood in front of them. It was Faison, Lucky’s captor. He had a huge gun aimed at them.

"You haf been brought here for a special reason," the evil-looking man taunted.

"Yeah, for your entertainment," Lucky shot back.

"Your sarcasm is hardly appreciated, young Spencer, although in this case it is da truth."

"See, what did I tell you?" Lucky said. 

The cowboy lunged forward, then reeled back as a bullet whizzed through the air.  He hit the floor and laid still.

Lucky Spencer shouted in horror. "Heath!!"

Lucky looked down in shock at the felled westerner, a man both handsome and rugged, a man he'd hoped would help him escape the madman. He frantically patted Heath's chest. He frowned when he couldn't find a red patch of blood. Faison's maniacal laughter rang in his ears, making him want to kill him with his bare hands. Would Faison ever grow a heart, or was he destined to be the Grinch of the Scandinavian world, becoming more black and evil by the minute?

"Master Spencer, you are sooo amusing," Faison hissed. "The man is faking. Look at der bullet hole in der wall."  Faison pointed to a black smudge on the concrete block. At the same time Heath opened one blue eye and fixed it on Lucky's surprised face.

His glance said it all. Play along with me, boy, while I bide some time. Pretend with me; lure the madman into the cell so we can both jump him. His eye closed, and Lucky rose with more determination in his heart than he'd had in months.

"He's had a heart attack," Lucky sneered. "You scared him to death. There's no heartbeat. He's toast."

Faison sputtered and his face darkened. "Get away from der door," he motioned with an irritated wave of his hand. "No tricks. I am warning you, Master Spencer."

Lucky shrugged and moved from the door yet drew closer to the stranger. He positioned himself so Heath could suddenly jump up and strangle the goon. Lucky would then steal his gun. It would work. It had to! This might be their only chance for freedom.

Faison shooed Lucky away and held his ugly, troll-like face close to the downed stranger. "Too bad you are dead," he gloated. "It's a shame you're a wimp. Heart attack!" He shook his head and made a disgusted sound with his yellowing teeth.

"Dadgum VARMINT!" Heath yelled as he leaped to his feet and laid a swift chop on Faison's neck, causing the goon to grunt loudly and slam to the floor. "No good, yellow-bellied toadscum!" he spat.

"You tell him," Lucky grinned as he hopped up and down. "Where did you learn to cuss like that? It's cool.  Better than any rapper!"

The handsome cowboy looked puzzled as he proceeded to seat his muscular bulk on Faison's back, pinning the small man to the dirt floor of the cell. "Rapper?"

"You know." Lucky motioned, giving him a cool guy high sign with his hands waving in front of him and doing the hip-hop back and forth shuffle.

"You have fits?" the cowboy questioned.

Lucky's face fell. "No," he grumbled, smoothing out his hair.

"Quit yer groomin' Mr. Fancypants. Get his gun."

Lucky bent down to inspect Faison, but neither of them realized Faison still had a death grip on his pistol. The cowboy was merely sitting on him, not restraining his arms.

"Take this, Master Spencer," Faison snarled as his arm extended toward the boy. He pulled hard on the trigger, and the loud retort made Heath jump up.

Lucky flew across the room, smashed into the wall, then sagged down in a bloody heap. He cried out harshly, gripping his bleeding thigh and twisting in agony. Faison fired again, and Lucky screamed as another bullet pierced his side.

The cowboy lunged for the madman, but Faison was too fast. He pumped iron into the man's stomach at close range; three bullets strafed across his washboard abs. The cowboy's eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell backwards against the flimsy cot, banging his torso against it and groaning as he slid down its length, landing flat on his face.

Lucky panted and gulped. This wasn't going as planned. Were they so naïve to assume Faison didn't have dastardly plans for them, plans so diabolical no man could survive them? Lucky moaned, and he grimaced in pain as Faison dusted himself off and called for his henchman, Wilem.

"Help me with them!" Faison shouted.

Lucky's mind turned fuzzy, refusing to work properly. He was dragged helplessly from the cell, leaving behind a trail of blood soiling the earthen floor. He weakly turned his head to see the cowboy lifted and positioned onto Wilem's back, carried after him like a heavy sack of potatoes.

"Nooo..." Lucky gasped. His eyes kept trying to close, but he wouldn't succumb to the dark...not until he knew their fate. Faison had a plan. He always had a plan.

"To da time ma-chine," Faison gritted out in broken English.

"Time?" Lucky questioned. His head nodded, and he squinted as his vision faded.

Faison propped him against a huge, metallic cylinder, an object that appeared alien, not entirely belonging to the earth or the twentieth century.

"Do not question, fair boy," Faison said. He worked his fingers rapidly over the keypad located on the side of the machine, which suddenly whirred to attention and glowed. "Did you study HIS-tory in your miserable American schools?"

Lucky groaned and sank against Faison.

Faison slapped him to attention. "Have a nice trip, COWBOY!" he mocked as he shoved Lucky through the portal. The machine made a sound like a thunderbolt and flashed ominously, enveloping Lucky in its strange light and dimming to show that Lucky was now absent from the premises.

Faison clapped his hands together. "Have fun, Master Spencer. Medicine is so much more primitive in the old American West. Hope you survive." He sneered malevolently. "Or not."

The injured cowboy was deposited in front of the machine, groaning and cupping a huge red circle soaking his midriff.

"Stupid cowpoke,” Faison said. “You are a lucky man, Heath Barkley. Port Charles has a modern hospital. As Lucky jettisons to the past, you will be propelled forward to a time many years into the future. The universe must be parallel. One leaves the present whilst another leaps into the future. Good luck finding a horse, simple man!"

Heath was pushed face first into the machine, which gladly sucked him in and spat him out -- right into Luke's bar.

"What the HELL?" Luke Spencer shouted as a blond man crashed down on top of a table and remained spread-eagled and unconscious.