Heath looked around the well-appointed kitchen and sighed. One week and it felt like forever. The first five days were a blur. He'd scrubbed every inch of the hotel. The floors, walls, windows, shelves, rugs and furniture all glowed from his efforts. He helped to paint the porch and trim the shutters. She'd get him up before sun-up and shove a bowl of oatmeal at him. Then he was scrubbing until midday, and a meal. More hours of cleaning and polishing until it was dark, long after they'd eaten. He'd get a cold supper and hit the bed.

Heath suspected she'd caught wind of the visit. For the last two days, she'd let him sleep later and only give him light chores to do. He recalled the events as he stood on a stepstool, lining the kitchen shelves with thick paper. He eyed the apple pie cooling on the windowsill. Yup, something was definitely up. He watched her glancing nervously out the windows all morning.

"Well, Rachel," Her voice raised and she threw a hand at her throat, "What a surprise." She lied, extending her arm. "Please come in. Mr. Nolan, it's good to see you. Heath and I were just about ready for a break. He's a dear child and has been a comfort to Matt and myself."

"Martha," Rachel nodded, "Where is he?"

"Heath, come out here, please." Martha called.

"AUNT RACHEL!"

She heard the voice and sobbed. She dropped to her knees as the small, blond whirlwind landed in her arms. She felt his heart hammering against her chest and heard his small stifled sob against her neck. She ran her hands through the sun-kissed hair and murmured affectionately in his ear. His single, small sob broke her heart. She felt her tears running freely as she rubbed the back of his white shirt.

"My dear, you shouldn't upset yourself so," Martha oozed, making Tom's skin crawl, "You'll have a relapse."

The afternoon flew too fast for Rachel. After forced small talk and pie, Tom cornered Martha with paperwork and questions. He nodded to Rachel, who escaped with Heath out back. They walked to the edge of the property, out of the range of Martha Simmons.

"How are you, Honey, really?" She queried.

"I'm fine, Aunt Rachel," He smiled, "So far, it's been okay. I guess I was wrong about them. How are you? How's your cold?"

"I'm fine now, Boy. You're the best medicine in the world," She hugged him and kissed his cheek. "It won't be for much longer..." She mused outloud.

"You taking me home?" His eyes widened, "Can Patrick and Dante come too. I miss them somethin' fierce."

"I know you do, Honey. Tom says they're fine and they miss you too. He's going to try to bring them to see you."

"HEATH!" Martha called from the door, waving her arm, "Say goodbye to Tom and your Aunt Rachel. They have a long ride back."

"Yes Ma'am" He nodded, taking his Aunt's hand and heading back to the house.

"I'll see you next week, Heath," Rachel hugged him, "Remember I love you, Boy." She whispered in his ear, brushing the lone tear that snuck down his cheek, like a wayward thief.

He watched until the buggy was a speck on the horizon. Then the claw bit into his skin and the shrill voice returned.

"Get down to the cellar. All that junk has to be cleared out tonight. You get moving or no supper. Go on..."

He counted the days until her next visit. One night during the week, his peaceful dream of fishing with Dante and Patrick was interrupted by a coughing fit. He couldn't seem to shake it. He made his way downstairs to the pump. He splashed cold water onto his warm face and took a large drink. He snuck a piece of bread and some cheese, to take the hunger pangs away. He'd just about hit the pillow again, when his shoulder was shaken.

"Get up! You have a full day ahead. That cellar needs to be scrubbed from stem to stern and that fence in the backyard is broken."

Heath nodded and got dressed. He made his way to the corner of the room and eyed the predawn horizon. The early morning held a slight breeze and he closed his eyes as it kissed his face. In his mind's eye, Patrick's laughing face appeared, elbowing him as they stood in the washroom before breakfast; Dante's grinning face appeared next, as Heath tended a sick colt. Patrick's lilting tease...Dante's proud smile...a door slamming jarred him back into the real world.

"You best move them bones, you lazy, little bastard," His uncle's hand whacked him on the back of the head, "Let's go"

Rachel made her way up the main street on this 25th day of August. She eyed the end of the street, looking past the busting activity, for the livery. She was about to cross the street, when a voice behind her caused her flinch.

"Miss Caufield, isn't it?"

"Sheriff? Hello again. I'm sorry, you startled me," She smiled at the friendly peacekeeper

"You headed out to the Barkley Ranch?" He guessed.

"I was hoping to, my business with Tom Barkley is rather urgent. Have they returned?"

"Yes Ma'am, two days ago. I get a rig a take you right out there."

"Thank you, Sheriff," She relieved.

"Quit pesterin' me Audra," Nick Barkley complained, jumping over the corral fence. "Do ya have to whine all the time."

"I'm not whining," The six-year old whined, "Sara wants you to play with us. You can be her Papa," She proclaimed, thrusting the doll at the frustrated teen's face.

"Get this damn doll outta my face," He growled, "Go find somebody else to torture."

"Nick!" A sharp voice caused him to flinch.

"Sorry Sir," Nick complied, as his father lightly cuffed him, "Why couldn't she be a boy? I need a brother. She ain't good for nuthin'"

"She's your sister, Nick," He smiled openly at the boy's frustration, "She been here six years now. Best get used to her, Son, she's staying."

"Any chance we can take her to an Indian Trading Post and get some kinda exchange?" Nick teased, narrowing his eyes and giving Audra a major pout.

"Don't you worry, Sweetheart," He soothed, scooping up his flaxen-haired jewel, "I wouldn't trade you for all the gold in the world." He kissed the pout away and wrapped his free arm around Nick's shoulders. "Now, can I count on you two staying civil during lunch?"

"What's civil?" Audra demanded.

"It means I can't drown ya!" Nick grumbled, not seeing his father's smile.

Lunch was a little early. Tom had business in town and would be picking up Jarrod from the tailor's. His eldest was being fitted for some new suits to take to Berkley with him. He glanced at the empty space on his right. In his mind's eye, the cheeky grin of a cherubic raven-hair toddler, in a high chair, flashed before him. Where had the years gone? Silas interrupted his trip down memory lane.

"Excuse me, suh, Sheriff Madden is at the door."

"Fred's here?" Tom rose, alarmed, "I hope nothing's wrong."

"I don't think it's no trouble," Silas disarmed, "He brought a visitor from town. I left them in the study."

"Thank you, Silas, tell them I'll be right there."

"Tom?" Victoria started to stand.

"Finish your lunch, Victoria," He waved, "I'll see to this."

Tom's long strides took him quickly to the study. He saw the peace keeper just inside, twirling his hat. He extended a hand and shook the other man's hand.

"Fred, How are you?"

"Fine, Tom. How was the trip?"

"A once in a lifetime experience. The boy's had a great time. Nick was truly taken with Valley Forge. What brings you out here today?"

"Tom, this is..." Fred turned as the woman stood and turned.

"Rachel Caufield," Tom stammered, rocking back on his heels.

She would have known him anywhere. This lean, handsome man was nearly unchanged since they're last meeting. Looking at the fleck's of gray shooting through his hair. She was shaken by the strong resemblance to Heath. Thomas Barkley couldn't deny his son, he'd left his mark clearly. She eyed the gray-blue eyes coldly and didn't hide the chilly tone in her voice.

"Hello, Tom. It's been awhile."

The bustling marketplace in Sacramento was usually a great treat. The boy's loved to explore the courtyard of the Capitol, the vendor's carts in the marketplace, the boy races in the park and the general bustling that a city offers. Usually, the boy's were in high spirits, ready for adventure. But in the two weeks since Heath's departure, they'd been reserved and somber.

Dante eyed the wagons pulling up and unloading by the large town square. His eyes flicked to the capitol, where Tom Nolan's office was. Tom had ridden out to see Patrick and himself earlier in the week. He reassured them that Heath was well. But something in the man's eyes and the pause in his voice gave the tanned-teen hope. Dante had a strong feeling that Tom was working on some plan to spirit his blond brother out of that Scorpion's nest.

Dante ached to see Heath, not only to reassure himself, but so Heath would know he'd kept his vow. Brother John gave him the high sign. He pushed off the warm ledge where he was resting and dragged Patrick up by the arm. The younger boy was too sullen and Dante was worried. They hopped on the back of the wagon and rested against the large burlap sacks. The motion of the cart and setting summer sun were soothing. Both boys felt drowsy. Brother John looked back and saw them sleeping. He clicked his tongue and urged the team onward.

Patrick opened one eye and saw Dante's teeth clench and his eyes darting. He sat up alert, sensing something was wrong. Dante flicked a quick glance at the driver's back and slid off the cart.

"What are ye doin'?" Patrick mouthed silently, following suit.

Dante broke into a trot, jogging to the fork in the road. Patrick ran to catch up, pulling at the older boy's arm. When Dante turned, Patrick understood the mission. He nodded and the two resumed their trek. So intent on covering the details of the upcoming Harvest Festival, Brother John didn't realize his two charges were missing. Darkness fell as the priest continued toward Good Shepherd.

"Thank you Sheriff, I'm sure I'll manage the buggy just fine." She reassured her escort.

"We'll if you're sure, Ma'am," He grabbed his hat and turned, "I'll get back to town. Tom." He nodded and left the room.

"Thanks Fred," Tom watched him leave and waited until he heard the front door shut.

"This is one trip I thought I'd never have to make," Rachel stated, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "It's the first promise I've ever broken to Leah."

"Leah..." His voice caught, remembering the stunning young brunette with luminious sky blue eyes, , "How is she?"

"She's dead." Rachel said coldly, "Last winter, Hannah too. The fever took them."

"Oh God...She was so young..."

He slumped on a dark green wing chair in the corner. His face etched with dejection and sorrow. It only caused the raging fire to fuel more within her. She felt the familiar anger growing. He'd used her terribly. A handsome golden lion, lured her into his lair for three months. He'd stolen her heart and shattered her innocence. He'd ridden away and left her broken heart in a million pieces. How did he have the audacity to grieve?

"There's no easy way to say this, Tom. Let me make one thing very clear. This trip was one I never intended to make. I'm doing this under protest." She woodenly walked over to him and handed him a photo.

For a moment his face remained blank. Then she saw him swallow hard as the shadows of fear danced across his fine features. When he finally spoke, his voice was choked and small. His trembling hands nearly dropped the photo, which his eyes were riveted to.

"He's be just turned nine?"

"His name is Heath and a finer boy you'll never meet."

He would have known him anywhere, this golden child, his youngest son. His own features, from the sun-kissed hair to the determined, chisled chin, stared right back at him. The small warrior left his chest tightened, but it was the eyes that tore at his heart. Leah's eyes... brilliant, expressive mirrors that would be summer-sky blue, like hers were. Those magnificent orbs that said more than any words ever could. He traced the outline of the boy's face and felt a cold chill. Finally, his eyes rose and clashed with her icy gaze.

"All these years...I never knew. How did she...you...get by? Why didn't she tell me? Are you still in Strawberry? My God, is he here with you?" Tom jumped up with fear and longing raging a battle in his gut.

"No, he's not here," she retorted sharply, then read the shocked face, "You really didn't know, did you?"

"Of course I didn't," He growled angrily, "My God, how could you think that? I'd never abandon a child of mine."

"You had to know it was possible," She retaliated, "You shared her bed for three months."

"I wrote her several times in the months after I left," He lashed back, "Hell, I even visited the following summer when I sold my share of the mine. He'd have been an infant. I saw her, spoke with her, in the hotel. She never said a word...He was mine too, dammit! How could she keep silent?" He slammed his fist on the desk, toppling two glasses.

"No, she never saw it that way, Tom," Rachel said calmly, trying to appease the angry steel eyes, "Leah..." she sighed, thinking back, "lost her heart the day you rode out. You were her one true love, so much so she never spoke of it. She'd could never hurt you. When Heath was born, she saw him as her child, a miraculous gift from God. The choice she made was a courageous one. I didn't agree, but I supported her. I won't have you speak against her. No child was ever so loved...She made me swear, on her deathbed, to raise him alone. But I have no choice, I can keep silent no longer. I fear for his safety."

"Why?" Tom demanded, closing in, "What's happened to him?"

"Last May ..." She clenched her fists in rage, just thinking about it, "...two of the small-minded denizens of our fair community took it upon themselves to contact the Department of Welfare. They came and took Heath away from me. I came here, but you'd gone already. They placed him in a wonderful boy's home, called The Good Shepherd, near Rancho Cordova. He was so happy there. He was bursting with health, laughing again and he'd made some good friends. But two weeks ago, they took him away."

"Who took him away?"

"Matt and Martha Simmons, Leah's brother and his wife. He's a lazy drunk and she's a cold-hearted shrew. The court deemed them Heath's next of kin, legally. They hated Leah and Heath. They never raised a finger to help her, not in all these years. He'd get drunk and bad mouth Leah, in town. Heath, God bless him, despite his size, would defend her. Sometimes he got rough with the boy, although I could never prove it. Heath never opened his mouth, that's not his way."

"Where is he?" Tom growled, his eyes glowing.

"They've opened a small hotel not far from Sacramento. They're using the boy as their slave."

"Why the hell wasn't I contacted? How could you let them take him?" Tom hollered.

"DON'T YOU RAISE YOUR VOICE TO ME!" She shouted. "How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm that boy's father. That's who the hell I am!" He returned, "I had the right to know. Don't you condemn me."

"Fathering a child and being a father are two different things. Heath may not you as a father and I won't force him. Get off your high horse, Mr. Barkley." She seethed, clenching her fists.

For a moment there was silence in the room. Rachel took several deep breaths and got her anger under control. She walked to the far corner of the room and took one last calming breath.

"Leah didn't cite you on his birth certificate, nor did she claim paternal rights in her will. A young man named Tom Nolan works at the Welfare Dept. He's been fighting with me for months to protect Heath. He presented a statement I attested to, to the Judge. It stated all my concerns about Heath due to Matt Simmons drunkenness and abusive nature. But Matt had sworn testimony from his own witnesses, included the minister in the town. He's claimed to have 'seen the light' and 'reformed his ways'. The judge bought his lies, and awarded Heath to him. I visited him the first week and he seemed fine. But last week, he wasn't there when I came. Matt wouldn't let me in the house. He claimed Martha and Heath were out visiting neighbors. He was lying, and we both knew it. I tried to speak with the sheriff, but he turned a deaf ear. That's why I'm standing here today. I've got a bad feeling that Heath is in danger."

Tom rubbed a weary hand across his face and stood, staring into the empty fireplace. She walked up behind him, her voice now much more subdued, her energy spent.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to tell my wife, everything you've told me. Then I'm going to bring Heath home." His voice dropped into a dangerous tone, "God help Simmons if he's laid a hand on my son."

"Good Afternoon, Miss Caufield," the new voice caused them both to turn to the woman standing across the large room in the doorway. "I'm Victoria Barkley."

It was dark when they approached the hotel. It was just as Tom described it. Dante paused at the well in the yard and bought the bucket up. He grabbed the ladle and made Patrick take a long drink, then he took one himself. He motioned to the windows illuminating the front of the house and one in the back. Patrick nodded and made his way around the back.

Dante dropped to his knees on the porch and crawled across the wooden planks until he came to a window. He raised his head carefully and peered inside. The room was empty. He stood and walked to the other window and saw some newspapers scattered about. He was about to go around to the back of the house when he froze. He saw the empty liquor bottles just as Patrick's voice rang out.

"Ye get yer filthy hands offa him, or I'll kill ye."

Dante raced around the back of the house just as Patrick's body hit the frame of the door. He winced hearing the boy's cry and spotting the left arm bent under him. The Irish terrier sprung back latching himself to Matt Simmons leg, biting the flesh above the lout's knee. Simmon's picked up and flung him into the wall. Dante roared and threw himself on the man. He spotted Patrick shaking his head and the blood running from a gash by his eye. Dante traded blows with Simmons and saw Patrick pulling a flushed-faced Heath towards the door. Simmons was on all fours and Dante hesitated, staggering over to Heath.

"My God, he's burning up..." He cried, slapping the flushed face, "Heath wake up! Come on, Chico..."

"Dante..." the croak preceded two blue slits

"Get him outta here, Pat," He got Heath on his feet and draped the boy's arm around Patrick's shoulder, wary of the dark-haired boy's injured arm. "Get to town and get help..."

"I'll not leave ye... I'll"

"YOU'LL DO AS YOUR TOLD, NOW GO!" Dante roared, shoving them hard, "He's needs a doctor. Get on that horse in the corral...GO!"

Patrick managed to get his dazed friend on the horse and pulled himself up. He took a deep breath, warding off the wave of dizziness and urged the horse onward. They were a short distance away when the shot rang out. The older boy flinched and his heart seized.

"Oh God, what have I done?" Patrick's sought, eyes welling up.

Tom and Rachel reacted differently to Victoria Barkley's entrance. She looked the picture of summer elegance. Her pale blue dress was finer than Rachel's Sunday best. There was not a hair out of place, despite the sweltering heat. Rachel stood and faced Tom Barkley's wife, matching the steely gaze with her own determined one.

Victoria glided across the room and nodded politely to the visitor. She stood in front of her husband of these last nineteen years and looked in the blue-gray eyes. He drained his shot of whiskey and saw the response to his silent question in her eyes. She'd heard enough to know about the situation at hand. She turned and faced the woman again, seeing the same question her husband's eyes asked.

"My husband and I have no secrets, Miss Caufield," she stated simply, "I knew about Leah Thomson from the day Tom returned."

Tom recalled the hard fought battle to win back her trust and their bed. It was almost four months before she'd forgiven him in that light. But in the years since, they'd grown even closer. Victoria stood between the two, before turning back to Tom.

"Are you sure he's yours?"

"I'm positive. Leah wouldn't...didn't...wasn't like that." He said softly.

"She slept with you, Tom," Victoria replied, raising a eyebrow

"Her first and last." Rachel defended, standing and putting herself in Mrs. Thomas Barkley's face, "She's dead and cannot defend herself. Don't you dare drag her name through the mud. She was very young and very na‹ve, she believed every word he told her. Professing his love and devotion. She lost her heart the day she found him dying outside town, and part of her died the day he rode out. Mrs. Barkley, you don't know the meaning of the word courage. I saw her live it, every day for the last nine years. I trust there is nothing wrong with your eyesight?" She issued in a cold voice, handing Victoria the photograph.

"Heath is my son," Tom emphasized, coming up behind his wife, "He's been missing a father for nine years, it's high time that's corrected. He's an innocent victim in all of this. He's been paying a high price for my mistake. I intend to see to it, he has the name, home and heritage he deserves."

"What makes you think he'll want a father" She retorted, eyeing the photo. She was taken aback by the strong resemblance the boy had to Tom. She felt a pang of envy that this child, born out of wedlock, was physically more her husband's son, then her own two boys.

"He'll be angry, of course and who could blame him. I'd be furious. He's been called heinous names, raised in poverty and has grown up much too fast, I'm sure. But I've got two hands" he looked down at his open palms, "and one heart and then will be enough. Now Rachel tells me this animal has beaten the boy..." He open palms enclosed into fists of frustration. Turning to his wife, he took her hand, "He'll be handful, resentful and headstrong most likely. He'll need two parents, Victoria."

She stared deep into Tom's eyes and then studied the boy in the photo. He was right, of course, this child wasn't to blame for the circumstances of his birth. Losing a mother was a difficult burden to bear. What Tom didn't say outloud, was heard in soft echoes in her mind. The name calling, slurs and fights he'd endured. Learning much too young about the cold, reality of life.

"We won't tell the children until we return." She stated, handing the photo back to Tom, "He's your son and deserves a place here and a name. I'll pack a bag and meet you out front."

She left as gracefully as she'd entered. Tom stood in her wake and let out the breath, he'd been unaware he was holding. While his wife was upstairs physically packing, he prepared mentally. He'd had only a few hours to craft the words, and he had no idea where to start.

"We should wire Tom Nolan, before he leaves for the day. The Judge turned a deaf ear to our pleas for Heath's safety. He won't recognize you as Heath's father, however, one thing Matt and Martha Simmons understand above all else, is money. I'm sure for the right price, he'll sign over his custody. Tom mentioned for Heath to be legally yours, you and your wife would have to adopt him."

"Heath Barkley..." Tom finally spoke, "is my son. No judge is going to state otherwise. I'll see to it all those loose ends are tied up."

Rachel was waiting outside when Tom exited the house. He put two small bags in the back of the surrey. She watched Tom call out to a man named Buck and walk over to him. After speaking for a moment, he shook the man's hand and came back towards the buggy. Two children came outside, a handsome, dark-haired boy of thirteen or so and a blond, little girl of about six.

"You leaving, Father?" The boy asked.

"Yes, Son, your mother and I have some business out of town. This is Miss Caufield, a business associate. " Tom answered Nick's stare, "These are two of my children, Nick and Audra. My oldest son Jarrod is in town, readying his wardrobe for college."

"Ma'am," Nick nodded, shaking her hand. Audra make a face and pulled at Tom's leg.

"Can I come too, Papa?"

"No, Sweetheart," He lifted her, kissing her cheek, "You stay here with your brothers. Mrs. Walters will be over to keep eye on things." He said of the widow from town who frequently sat for the children.

Nick went back in the house, finding his mother speaking to Silas. He waited until she finished and they were alone in the foyer.

"What's going on? Who's that lady? Why are you angry with Father?"

Victoria looked at him, startled not as much by his words, but the maturity in the delivery. He was a young man now, the ferocious cub was showing his claws.

"That woman is an associate of your fathers from many years ago. We have some business outside of town. I don't think we'll be gone long. Everything will be explained when we return." She stated, meeting his narrowed hazel eyes. He wasn't convinced, but he nodded, backing down. She exited the house and though of another angry boy, one she wasn't sure she was equipped to handle.

"Now you two behave." She issued, climbing into the buggy.

"Yes Sir," They chorused, watching the surrey head to town.

Rachel wired Tom Nolan about their arrival around eight p.m. The train ride to Sacramento began in an uncomfortable silence. The three passengers settled into their seats and watched the scenery drift by. Victoria did some needlepoint, but soon lost interest. She put the handkerchief back in her bag and caught Rachel's eye.

"What kind of child is he?" She inquired.

"Heath is an old soul trapped in a young body. He's wise beyond his years in a lot of ways. He reads people better than most adults I know. He's quiet, thoughtful, polite and extremely hard working. He's very proud, he helped support Leah from the time he was six. He's stubborn, and very determined. If he sinks his teeth in, they're staying. Mostly, he's a very spiritual boy. He feels thinks very deeply, and buries his hurts. This last year had brough so much sorrow and upheaval. I don't know how much more he can take. I'm thankful for these last few months at Good Shepherd. He has a wonderfully infectious laugh and a smile that would light up a room. That was missing for so long, until this summer. The friends he made gave him that light back."

Tom asked her some questions about Heath's schoolwork and hobbies. They continued to break the long stretches of silence with short spans of conversation. The train arrived at seven p.m. Tom spoke with the clerk at the ticket window. He returned to where the two women stood.

"I guess we'll get taxi to the hotel," Victoria commented, stepping outside the train station and waving to the carriage up the street.

"No, I'm renting a rig from the livery. Heath's mine and he's not staying with the animal another minute." Tom drilled. "You get a couple rooms at the Gate House," he noted of the hotel they frequented, "and leave the bags. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

"What do you mean you lost them?" Brother Francis's voice was irate, "How long ago?"

"I pulled the wagon around pack and shouted for them to get started unpacking. That was around six or so. When I returned, the wagon was unpacked. I didn't realize until Mrs. Sanchez mentioned not seeing them at dinner. We checked the grounds, I can't imagine where they could be." Brother John replied.

"I have a pretty good idea," the older priest replied, eyeing the hour of nine approaching. He knew Patrick and Dante went to the Simmon's place. If they jumped off the wagon at the turnoff , outside town, it would have taken them a while to walk the distance. But even so, it had been too long. "Get the wagon ready, I'll find our lost lambs.

"That's the turnoff up ahead," Rachel pointed, grateful for the silver light of the full moon. "From there it's a matter of a few miles or so."

They hadn't ridden that far when they saw a horse approaching. Tom reined the team in and squinted. The horse was barely moving and the rider was barely visible and appeared to be struggling.

"Whoa, there..." He slowed the team down, just in time.

"Oh My God," Rachel cried out, jumping off the back seat of the surrey, "Patrick!"

"What? Who?" Tom scrambled after her, "Heath's friend?"

"Patrick..." She ran up the road and then froze, "HEATH!"

Tom ran past her, just in time to catch the blond boy as he slipped from the other boy's grasp. Tom hugged the small boy close. His breath caught his throat and his chest tightened. He held his own breath as his son's warm breath danced across his cheek and neck. He fingered the damp blond hair and studied the flushed face. The gravity overwhelmed him. That this golden child, this miracle was real. He'd never seen anything quite so fine.

He saw the other boy about to topple off the steed. Rachel was kneeling in the road and he gently lowered Heath into her arms. He turned and grabbed the dark-haired boy, who cried out in pain at his touch. He knelt in front of the dazed boy and took in the battered body.

"Easy son," He soothed, eyeing the injured arm, "It's probably broken." He turned the dazed boy's face and winced at the bloody streaks. "What happened Patrick? Who did this to you." He wiped the boy's face and saw the dark eyes appraising him.

The full moon illuminated the group. Patrick stared hard at the man who tended him and then over at his friend. Rachel saw the wheels turning in his mind.

"Yer his Da, aren't ya?" He pulled away, stunned.

"I'm Thomas Barkley and yes, Heath is my son. Now I'd like an answer. What happened to you and Heath?"

"He's burning up, Tom," Rachel rocked the slumbering boy. "He's full of congestion."

"Let's get him in the wagon," Victoria suggested, running the back of her hand on the boy's forehead, "He's needs a doctor." Heath shifted and moaned, turning his head. Tom saw the bruise on the side of his face.

"I'll kill him." He growled, putting his foot in the stirrup. The resistance he found came from an unlikely source. He felt the small body push him away.

"I thank ye to be keepin' yer boots offa there. Tis a job I have to finish." He glared at the intruder and then at the dark sky, "Tis the right hour for the devil to be greetin' callers. He'll be shakin' hands with Matt Simmons before the night is done. Ye've got Pat McKenna's word on that."

Tom placed his hands on the small warrior's proud shoulders and met the defiant glare. He admired the boy's tenacity and felt the fire in his heart. The pride in his voice came easily.

"You got Heath out of harm's way, Patrick and I can see you'd protect him with your life. I need you to stay with Heath and make sure he sees a doctor. You've been hurt, too, Son."

"No," the Irish rebel protested, "Ye weren't there...ye don't know. It's my fault...God fergive me, Dante, I'm so sorry." His chin wavered and the darks eyes were moist.

"Dante?" Rachel eased Heath onto Vicotoria's lap and climbed out of the surrey. She knelt in front of Patrick, "Was Dante with you? Was he hurt?"

Patrick's chin trembled and they both heard the deep breath he exhaled. "We jumped offa the cart on the way home this afternoon. Dante had a bad feelin' all day that Heath was in trouble. It was dark when we got there and we split up. The kitchen door was open and I ran in. There he was," Patrick's fist curled up and his voice was laced with rage, "That drunken beast, takin' his hand to Heath. I tried to stop him..." He sought Rachel's eyes, whose nod and hand on his cheek reassured him, "Dante heard me...Ye should have seen him, Ma'am," His admiration colored his tone, "Twas a lion's growl and then he took the beast down. He got us out the door and towards the horse...He...Oh God..." Patrick finally broke, letting the tears of frustration fall. Rachel gathered him in carefully and rocked him.

"What happened to Dante, Son?" Tom prodded gently.

"We were down the road apiece and there was a shot..." He gasped, his eyes beseeching Tom's "It's me own fault, don't ye see, I left alone with that...It's all my fault..." He choked, turning too fast from Rachel's grasp he wrenched his left arm, sending a white hot pain straight through him. Tom heard the brief cry and caught him as he fell. He carried the boy over to the wagon and laid him carefully across the back seat. Rachel took the reins.

"Get to town and send the sheriff back to Simmons place," Tom ordered, "You might have a doctor ride out too." He eyed the brave boy wearing a bloody badge of honor over his eye, "I've got a date with a devil." He snarled.

"You've done it now!" Matt Simmons muttered, eyeing the boy's body.

"Shut up you fool!" his wife hissed, pacing the floor. "I have to think."

"Should have done that before you shot that boy," He commented, reaching for the bottle.

"My God will you never learn!" she screamed, smacking the bottle from his hands. "We have to get out of here tonight. We can get a stage at Sandy Point at first light. Get the wagon ready, I'll pack a couple bags." She commanded.

Matt moved slowly, waiting until the footsteps were on the floor above him. His bleary eyes searched the floor for the Red-eye. Spotting the bottle, he leaned over the youth's still form. He pulled the cork and took a long draw.

"Stupid kid..." He muttered, nudging him with his boot and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "That's what you get for not minding your own business." He turned and headed outside.

Rachel drove the team with Heath between her and Victoria up front. The blond boy's upper body was lying across Victoria's lap. She stroked the damp hair in a continuous motion with one hand and rubbed his small back with the other. The fever and congestion led her to believe it was the same bad summer cold Audra suffered through a couple weeks before. But this boy was without benefit of a doctor or medicine. She saw Rachel trying to keep her eye on the road and on the back seat.

"I'll check on him," She said, easing Heath upright.

She turned and glanced at Patrick, who was still and quiet in the back seat.

"He's alright," She reassured.

She felt Heath trembling against her and got her shawl, discarded and nearly forgotten at her feet. She eased him down onto her lap and wrapped the shawl around him. His raspy breathing became frantic, and she leaned down and spoke quietly to him, resuming her mother's touch. He calmed down and snuggled against her. She stiffened momentarily as the small croak floated upwards.

"...s'hot Mama...need a drink...Mama..."

"I know your hot, Heath," She recovered, leaning close to his ear, "You have a fever. I'll get you some water soon."

"s'okay, Mama...sorry..."

Victoria flinched as the small hand wormed it's way into hers. She swallowed hard and grasped it, surprised at the unexpected maternal tug inside of her. She continued to stroke his back and thought on how to fix the crack that had just split her family. Jarrod would be the easiest. He'd see Heath's need and set out to fix it, that was his way. He'd be angry at Tom and it would, no doubt, change their relationship. But Jarrod was too intelligent and altruistic not to forgive Tom. Audra was too young to understand and would welcome a playmate. Nick, she sighed and groaned inwardly. How do you tame a hurricane?

The edge of the city appeared and Rachel paused, eyeing the dark, unfamiliar terrain. Victoria had been to Sacramento many times and knew where to go.

"Keep straight and turn left down further," Victoria pointed, "just past that church steeple."

It was several minutes later when the surrey drew to a halt outside of a brick building. A white wooden sign hung out front proclaiming the 'Mill Street Clinic'. Rachel eased out of the driver's seat and made her way up the steps and knocked on the door. She saw a lamp go on inside, and heard footsteps. The door opened and a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair answered.

"I'm Doctor Peterson, Can I help you?"

"Yes, I think so," She pointed to the wagon, "We've got two boys who need help. I also need to speak with the sheriff. There was some trouble outside town. I'll need a doctor too."

"My associate, Dr. Gray is in the back office. I'll have him get the sheriff and meet you back here." He eyed the two small boys in front of him.

Victoria handed Heath over to the doctor, who carried him inside. She waited until Rachel gently woke Patrick up and had him standing. They led the groggy boy inside the modern, three-story facility. A nurse led them up to the second floor into a room with four empty beds.

The doctor laid Heath on one of them and opened Heath's shirt. The nurse pointed to the bed next to Heath's and Rachel sat Patrick down on the side. The nurse eased Heath upright, so Doctor Peterson could listen to his chest.

"Get him undressed and into a clean nightshirt. He's fever high, but not dangerous. Bathe him down with alcohol and water." He stood up, "I have something for the congestion and will bring back some broth as well. With fluids, rest and medication, he'll be fine."

"Thank you, Doctor," Victoria said, sitting on the bed.

"Now, let's see to the other patient." The physician said, turning to Patrick.

Rachel had taken his shoes and shirt off. The doctor turned his face gently and examined the cut above his eye. The eye was swollen shut, colored in rose and purple hues. He knew from the angle, the left arm was broken. He saw the boy's dark eyes regarding him warily.

"You'll need some stitches and I'll set that arm for you."

The nurse returned with the basin of water and bottle of rubbing alcohol. Victoria took it from her and nodded, indicating she'd tend to Heath.

"The sheriff's downstairs." The nurse updated the group. wasn't talking just about this night and this cold. She was taking Heath into her heart.

Rachel stood and caught the other woman's eye. Both knew this was the transition point. Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat. Heath Thomson, her golden boy, was gone. Resting on the bed, under the watchful eye and caring heart of his new mother, was Heath Barkley. Victoria saw the tears welling in the other woman's eye and knew how hard she'd been hit. She stood and embraced her briefly. Rachel wiped her eyes and sighed, squeezing Victoria's hand in gratitude. She turned and walked towards the stairs.

Doctor Peterson turned to the nurse to request his suture kit, and the eleven-year old patient next to him, misread his move.

"I'll not be wearin' a dress," He stated sharply, "I'll keep me britches on, thank ye. Would ye have a bit more of that broth about? Me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."

The doctor laughed and ruffled the boy's unruly curls. "I think we can manage to scare up some supper, Son. Let's get you fixed up first."

Patrick sat quietly as his injuries were tended to. His eyes kept darting past the doctor's arm and over to Heath. The boy's motions and impatient sighs finally found a voice.

"Tis enough fixin' already," He squirmed, "Ye best be takin' your tools over there." He nodded at Heath, "The lad needs ye." His voice dropped as the doctor looked over at Heath, "He'll be alright, won't he?"

"He'll be fine, and so will you." Doctor Peterson stood as the nurse appeared with a tray. Patrick scooted back into a sitting position and she set the tray in front of him.

"Think you can finish all that?" Victoria eyed the bowl of stew, biscuits, mug of juice and some cookies.

"Ye bet yer as..uh." He stammered, blushing at his near miss, "Yes Ma'am. Ye don't have to tell me twice. Tis no stranger I am around food."

Heath blinked at the motion that invaded his slumber. He shivered as the fresh cotton gown was slipped over him. He blinked as he head came through the neck. Someone was near, wiping his face and offering a glass of water. He tried to focus on the fuzzy face, with dark hair. Not Aunt Rachel, she has yellow hair.

"...Mama..." He croaked, draining the glass of water, "...Boy howdy, I's so thirsty"

"Not so fast," the voice eased, giving him more.

"Thanks, Mama...no need to go worrin' on me, I'm fine. Go back to bed. Ya need to rest. Iffen your late, Uncle Matt's gonna be mad..."

"Go to sleep Heath." Victoria wiped his face with a cold cloth and felt anger building. Where to place this anger? At Tom and Leah for their reckless actions? She studied the small face as a cough wracked the shivering body. She eased him upright and clapped his back. He clung to her, taking ragged breaths. "Easy, Son, cough it out, don't swallow." She ordered, producing a handkerchief. Finally his breathing regulated and she laid him back down. Brushing the damp blond locks off the flush faced, amazed somewhat at how easily the word 'Son' slipped off her tongue. Looking at the small Barkley features, she realized from this night on he was her son. Heath Barkley had taken his first step on the road home.

It was only a matter of a few miles, but it seemed much longer to the impatient rider. Tom finally saw the house Rachel described and slowed his horse. He tossed the reins around the porch rail and was about to enter the house, when he heard voices from the barn. His long strides carried him across the yard quickly. He saw the wagon in the yard and the bags in the back. He paused outside of the stable and peered cautiously around the door.

"Where is that man?" Martha hissed, eyeing the empty barn.

"You got a helluva a nerve referring to that cretin as a man." Tom snarled.

Martha wheeled around and was about to address the stranger, when her face blanched in recognition. She backed away, seeing the unbridled rage in the rancher's face.

"You..." She stammered, "You...You're trespassing. You have no right to..."

"Rights!" He roared, grabbing her arms in a vice-like grip, "You got one helluva nerve preaching to anyone about rights. Where's the boy?"

"He's gone." Martha spat, "Ran off with that Irish trash."

"I ,m not talking about my son," Tom said ferally, eyes glowing, "I already met Heath and Patrick and they told me what happened. Where's Dante?"

She stonewalled him, which only incensed him further. "Don't try my patience!" He warned, clenching his fist.

"You wouldn't dare hit a lady," She returned, in a slightly trembling tone.

"Near as I can see," Tom slammed her against the wall, "There's no ladies present. Now where is he and where's that worthless piece of trash you're married to?"

She winced, feeling the pain as he intensified the grip. "In the house..." She gasped.

He forced her to her knees and tied her hands with an old piece of rope hanging on a hook nearby. Just as he completed his task, he had company.

"Who the hell are you?" Matt Simmons asked.

"Your worst nightmare, you spineless son-of-a-bitch, 8 Tom seethed, grabbing the drunk's collar and fracturing his face with a fist.

The mysterious moon kept her company as she began to reorganize her life. Little things like clothes, shoes and other things a nine-year old needs sprung onto her mental list. But the larger task of the emotional transfer was something much more difficult to assay. She sighed, eyeing the blond boy sleeping soundly. She thought of her own three children at home and wondered about the difficult road ahead. A soft curse from the next bed caused her to rise.

Patrick shifted in his sleep and the cumbersome cast hit his sore eye. He blinked and let his eyes adjust to the dark room. He felt the bed move and felt a gentle hand on his leg.

"Are you alright, Patrick?"

"Yes, Ma'am. No call fer ye to be worrin' on the likes of me." He gasped, trying to quell the throb in his arm.

"Why don't you let Dr. Peterson give you something for that pain in your arm?"

"Me arm's fine," He defended, eyeing Heath in the next bed. "I need to be alert to keep an eye on the lad."

"You need to rest and heal." Victoria suggested with a smile, "How about you get some sleep and I'll keep an eye on the lad."

Patrick thought long and hard for several minutes and struggled to get up. He shuffled the few feet to the other bed and let his hand rest on Heath's head. He studied his friend's chest rising and falling. He put his right hand on Heath's shoulder and gave it a pat. Victoria raised an eyebrow and bit back a chuckle at the concern and protective nature of Heath's young friend.

"Ye'll rouse me if he calls?" He asked, satisfied at Heath's condition.

"I promise," She assured him, spotting the pain medication he'd left on his tray, "Here, now, take this."

Patrick complied, swallowing the bitter liquid, "Saints preserve us, that's a vile mix," His grimaced, spitting his tongue out. "Is there a drink about? I need to wash the taste away." Patrick swallowed a glass of water and slipped back into the bed. It wasn't long before he joined his best friend in slumberland. Victoria glanced at the moon above and wondered how her husband had fared.

Tom finally stopped, leering at the pile of refuse cowering at his feet. There wasn't much of Matt Simmons left unmarred by the furious father's attack. He shook his hands, sore and scarlet from the pounding effort. He'd never felt such a rage inside; a red curtain of fury rose before his eyes during the beating. Now, it dissolved into a pink mist of disgust. He spotted the extra length of rope behind Simmons and bent to retrieve it.

Martha Simmons didn't waste her time. While Tom Barkley cleaned up the barn with Matt, she worked her hands loose. The rope was old and frayed and didn't offer much resistance. The last bit snapped and she withdrew her hands. She eyed the nearby pitchfork and then an evil smile played on her lips. Tom Barkley's broad, unprotected back was sure a pretty target.

Tom knelt by Simmons and rolled him over, pulling the man's arms harshly behind him. Simmons was long past the point of resistance. He heard a rustle and turned as the spires of the pitchfork hovered near his neck. Before he had a chance to react, a shot rang out and Martha Simmons was thrown into the stall behind him. Stunned by the blast, Tom's eyes widened in shock when he turned. He rose and bolted across the room in one fluid motion.

Dante leaned against the barn door, his white shirt soaked red with blood. His wavy brown hair was slick with sweat. His pale face didn't show the agony which racked his side. It lanced through him, a hot searing pain that left him numb. He saw the stranger turn and his brows furrowed. Why did the man's face seem familiar? His brain was to muddled to think clearly. He let the gun drop and his knees buckled. He felt the strong arms catch him and relaxed.

"Easy Dante," Tom tried to keep his voice calm, eyeing the large amount of blood on the boy's shirt. "I'm Tom Barkley, Heath's father," He answered the dark eyes searching his face. He slipped the gun into his waistband. "I don't know where you came from, Son," Tom marveled at the life saving appearance, "But Thank You. It seems you have a talent for saving Barkley hides."

"....saw...saw...them...leave..." He gasped, eyes fighting to stay open, "...promised Heath...he hurt him...had to stop...promised...Heath..." He hissed, the pain lancing through him.

Tom grabbed the boy's hand and held tight. "Easy Son, deep breaths, slow and easy." Tom coached, waiting for the fuzzy eyes to open, "Heath's safe, thanks to you. He and Patrick are in town." He reassured, watching the head nod. "Dante, I have to check you wound."

Tom lifted the boy's shirt and saw the wound in his side. He rolled the boy gently over on his side, checking for an exit wound. There was none. He needed to slow down the bleeding. He eyed the bags in the back of the packed wagon. Taking off his coat and folded it, he raised the sweat-soaked head to give the boy a cushion. Dante's lips moved, and his bloodied hand grasped Tom's shirt weakly. Tom saw the fear in the boy's eyes.

"He needs...you..." Dante searched the blue-gray eyes floating above him. He had an innate sense for reading people and knew this man was good and trusted him. "...strong hands...heart..." he tapped Tom's chest, "He's waited so long..."

"I know that Dante," Tom said softly, taking the wayward hand into his own. "I only found out about Heath this afternoon. I can't begin to know what suffering he's been through, but he has a home and family now, and all the love I can give."

"Thank...you..." Dante sighed, relieved, "...can rest...now...Heath's safe..."

Tom stared at the pale face and then the shock registered. He stared at the young man who so willingly risked his life to save his son's. Courage worn so easily was hard to find and Tom wasn't about to let the valiant young hero die. Leaning down close to the boy's still face, he tapped the clammy, pale cheek. Two brown slits appeared.

"Don't you quit on me, boy. I have no intentions of letting you die. You have my word on that." Tom said sternly, "I don't go back on my word, ever. So you show me some of that fire that I know you have in here," He tapped the boy's heart. "and you fight like hell ."

Tom watched the face scrunch up and the fist he held weakly strike against his chest.

"...trying...s'hard...Sir..." Dante slurred, then went slack.

Tom's hand went shakily for the boy's throat and sighed in relief at the pulse. He left Dante long enough to tear the bags open. Finding several shirts, he ripped them as he made his way back to the striken youth's side. He pressed the cloth hard onto the wound, and Dante's reaction was painful and immediate. His back arched and he screamed, gripping the front on Tom's shirt.

"I'm sorry Dante," he spoke loudly, hoping the boy heard him, "I know that hurts, but I need to apply pressure." He watched the youth's head nod and the tears run down his cheek into the dirt on the floor.

"Praise God, he's still alive."

Tom turned at the voice behind him and saw a robed priest. The gray-haired man dropped to Dante's side and blessed himself. He then made the sign of the cross on the boy's forehead and said a prayer in Latin.

"I saw the blood in the kitchen and feared the worst..." The priest confessed, taking Dante's limp hand. "Dante, where are the boys?"

"Heath and Patrick are safe," Tom replied, replacing the sodden cloth with a clean one. He winced as Dante hissed, his eyes locked in pain, "...in town, thanks to this noble young hero."

"...sorry Padre... Heath needed me..."

"As long as you have those beads out," Tom said low, eyeing the rosaries the priest wore, "you might use your connections and pray that the doctor gets here soon."

"It's that bad?" The priest eyed the semi-conscious youth he'd grown so close to with a worried eye.

"It ain't good." Tom seethed, still angry.

Tom saw movement from the corner of his eye, drew the pistol and whirled. Matt Simmons was on all fours.

"Go ahead you coward, give me a reason." Tom snarled. "Padre, keep pressure on this wound, while I take care of the trash."

Simmons tried flee, but Tom grabbed him by the back of the collar. Throwing him against the side of the wagon, he held the gun against the drunk's temple.

"I can't think of one good reason you're not dead. How about you give me one?" He snapped.

"Look Mister," Simmons pleaded, "no reason we can't work out a deal. I'd be willing to part with the boy."

"MY SON IS NOT FOR SALE," Tom shouted. "You listen carefully, you excuse for a dog. When you get out of prison, you take your sorry hide clear across the country. If you so much as set a foot in California, I'll plant you in the nearest cemetery." Tom's blood was still boiling when he tied up Simmons and dragged him across the barn. He slammed him against the barn wall before tossing him next to his wife. Martha's unseeing eyes mocked him in death.

Brother Francis's head drew up when the stranger's identity was revealed. Tom stood several minutes, trying to control his infuriation. The wise priest then saw Heath so very clearly in the man's face and stance. Even the glare was the same. Tom took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Walking to the cart, he rummaged around the baggage and uncovered a bottle of whiskey.

"Good idea," the priest noted, "By the way, I'm Brother Francis of Good Shepherd. I had the privilege of hosting Heath these past few months. That son of yours is a fine young man."

"I'm Thomas Barkley, and thanks for taking care of Heath." The rancher said, nodding for the priest to lift the bandage. "Hold him down, Padre, this is gonna burn like the devil." Tom assessed, pouring the liquor over the open wound.

"Madre Maria..." Dante screamed, jerking his body.

"There it is, up ahead," Rachel called to the sheriff.

The sheriff rode on a horse, with the doctor and Rachel in a wagon. They pulled up in the yard of the Inn. The law man helped Rachel off the wagon and led the two up towards the house. An unholy scream pierced the air, causing them to freeze in their tracks.

"It came from the barn," The sheriff said, gun drawn. "You stay here, Miss." He warned, running ahead.

Rachel followed, heart hammering in her chest.

"I'm Sheriff Paul Lewis," He announced, eyeing the scene, "What's going on?"

"Dante!" Rachel cried, running past the peacekeeper and dropping by the boy's head. "He's not..."

"No, he's still alive," The priest answered her fear, "But he's lost a lot of blood." He got up, taking Rachel with him and allowed the doctor to examine the boy. He took out a bottle of Carbolic Acid and began to clean the wound. The bleeding had stopped and he left a square of cotton soaked in the wound cleanser, under the clean bandages.

"That pair," Tom said to the sheriff, motioning to the Simmons', "beat my son and his friend. This young man took a bullet, saving their lives. He managed to stagger over here just in time. Martha Simmons was ready to stab me in the back with that pitchfork. Dante shot her. I want that animal locked up and you toss the key away." Tom seethed.

"Doc...How's the boy?" The sheriff asked.

"Well..." The doctor sighed, "He's breathing a bit shallow and he's lost a lot of blood. That bullet needs to come out. I'd rather do the surgery in the clinic. His pulse is good. If we padded the wagon with mattresses and kept him comfortable, I think he can make it back to town."

"Isn't that a a bit risky? Wouldn't here be better?" The priest asked

The doctor exhaled deeply and rubbed a hand through his dark hair. "I don't know what damage that bullet has done inside. I don't have all the tools necessary to fix what I might encounter. Also, I'd like Dr. Peterson to assist. I wouldn't dare move him unless I felt he'd survive the trip back. I would never take a chance like that."

"What about is son?" Tom asked the pale, shivering youth.

Dante looked at each of the faces looming above him, before settling on his old friend and mentor. As he looked at Brother Francis's concerned gaze, his mind's eye saw an eleven-year old boy. New to Good Shepherd and grieving for his beloved parents, the priest found Dante in the stables, fighting back tears and depressed.

"Dante?" Tom said softly, tapping the dazed cheek. The boy turned briefly, nodding to Tom, but then his eyes locked on the priests. He managed a small smile, remembering the sagegiver's stellar words that day, over five years ago. Licking his dry lips, he took a good breath.

"F-F-Faith ...Will...m-my tools." He stammered.

"That's right, son," The priest nodded. "...and you're a master of the trade."

Dante squeezed Tom's hand and eyed the blue-eyed man. "...fightin' like hell, Sir..." He gritted.

"I never doubted it, Dante." Tom smiled, "Brave men always do."

The priest slipped in to take Dante's hand. Tom rose and stood with Rachel and the sheriff. The lawman had loaded Martha's body on the wagon and was escorting Matt next. He saw the lethal eyed gaze of Tom Barkley.

"He'll get what's coming, Mr. Barkley."

"He'd better," Tom warned, "Rachel and I will get the things from the house."

Fifteen minutes later, with mattresses under him and buffeting his sides, Dante's journey began. Rachel sat next to him, with Heath's small bag of belongings at her feet. Brother Francis and Tom sat on Dante's other side. Tom kept his hand gripped on the boy's, squeezing it occasionally.

"That kid's got some kind of guts."

"You don't the half of it," The priest added, "Heath, Patrick and Dante share an inspirational bond; something much deeper and more profound than blood. Let me tell you about this young man."

As the wagon rolled into Sacramento, Tom Barkley listened to the pastor's words. He learned about the quiet boy from Strawberry who's fears and loneliness were chased away by a couple of orphans who wore their valor proudly. Dante was taken into the surgical room, down the hall from where Heath and Patrick were. The doctor told Tom to wait with his son, and he'd update him as soon as the surgery was completed.

Victoria was asleep on the empty cot across from Heath. Tom lit the lamp low, and settled in beside his son. He watched the chest rise and fall and brushed a hand through the sun-kissed hair. He swallowed back the lump that formed in his throat and swiped the moisture that formed in his eyes. A cough wracked the small, shivering body. Tom eased him upright and caught the mouthful of phlegm with his handkerchief.

"Here," He offered, holding a glass of water, "Drink some water, Heath."

Heath felt the strong arms and glanced at the man next to him. His blue eyes grew wide as he swallowed the cold water. It didn't take him long to recognize the stranger. He knew, not just by the features that were so familiar, but by something inside; something he couldn't touch or explain. A series of tingles swept through him. The stared for a long moment, he saw the tears in his father's eyes.

"Why didn't you come?" He asked quietly, "Didn't you want me?"

Tom Barkley faced down murderers, rustlers, thieves, gangs and backstabbing businessmen without as much as flinching. But the voice of this young boy - his son - with a soul as old as time, pierced his heart like a ragged dagger. The blues eyes, Leah's eyes, looked as him with such pain it tore him apart. He tried unsuccessfully to control his emotions.

"God...this is hard," He choked, then laid a hand gently on his son's flushed cheek. "I didn't know Heath, not until yesterday. I would have ridden to hell and back through a wall of fire for you. I need you to understand that."

Heath stared hard into the blue-gray eyes. A gaze so powerful, that it unnerved Tom. He saw Heath turn away and stare at the brilliant starfield in the night sky.

Heath eye's were on those magnificent stars, but his mind and heart soared higher. He needed to hear his mother's voice. She promised him she'd always hear his call. What should I do now Mama? Just then a unexpected breeze blew in and he closed his eyes and felt it's cool embrace. He felt the peace it brought invade him and he smiled. Thanks Mama...

"Are you okay, Son?"

Heath turned and looked again at his father's face. The eyes were kind, full of compassion. The tears that lingered, threatening to spill were real. This man, his father, was really here, offering himself. Heath decided he liked what he saw and more importantly, the warmth he felt inside...the peace. Something he hadn't felt since his Mama died. He nodded sending this man the silent message. Tom smiled and ruffled the light hair before embracing the small boy. Heath tensed at first, but then relaxed. It felt so good...so safe to be wrapped in your father's arms. He shivered, not from the fever, but from his mother's hand. He was sure she was here, giving her blessing. He felt her very clearly.

"I miss her..." He whispered against the strong shoulder.

"I know you do, Son," Tom answered, embracing the wonderful feel of the word on his lips, "Your mother was a fine woman, a gentle lady who was so proud of you. She needed you, Heath to take care of her. Now, she's in heaven taking care of you."

He eased Heath back onto the pillows and watched the eyes sliding shut. He resumed his bedside seat and thought of scaring up a cup of coffee. The head on the pillow turned as he stood. He could almost read the brief flicker of fear. He leaned down and laid a hand on the blanketed chest.

"I'm not leaving you, Heath. I'm getting some coffee. I always be by your side."

Somehow, he couldn't explain it, Heath knew he would. He drifted back to sleep, basking in the blanket of warmth and security that engulfed him.

Tom stretched and stood, smoothing the tangled bedding and tucking Heath's wayward arm underneath. The boy was sleeping soundly and although warm, not nearly as hot as he'd been hours before. He left the infirmary, went downstairs and poured two cups of coffee. Retracing his steps, he turned the opposite way at the head of the stairs. He took a seat next to the exhausted priest, whose face was drawn with worry.

"Wish it was something stronger," Tom offered, with a slight smile.

"Thanks Tom," The priest sighed, "and I know what you mean. I drop of Irish Whiskey wouldn't hurt."

"Any word?"

"It shouldn't be too much longer. He's a strong boy..."

"You'll get no argument from me," Tom said in admiration, "I've been thinking about Dante and his future, of a way to somehow repay him for what he did. He's a fine young man and I could use his talent. I'd thought maybe I'd take a ride out to those vineyards you bragged about and see the boy's magic touch first hand. It's been a dream of mine to have a vineyard, and I've got more than enough land."

"It's a very generous offer, Tom. He's such a bright boy, he's read almost everything in the library. He's fluent in Latin, knows a great deal of Greek, his math and history knowledge are first rate and he's very inquisitive. I guess of a little guilty of the sin of pride, when it comes to him. He's such a special young man. I've worried what would happen when he turns eighteen and would leave us. This is an answer to my prayers."

"I guess I'm guilty too, Padre," Tom confessed, "It won't be an easy adjustment for Heath. Dante is his rock right now, and Heath will benefit greatly from his presense. Now about Patrick..."

"Patrick...In all the confusion, I forgot!" The priest blurted, "We finally traced his uncle. He moved to St. Louis; he's a very succesful architect. He worked for several years as an apprentice for a firm in Boston, who paid his tuition to school. He moved a year ago, after getting an offer to work for one of his former employers. He was thrilled to hear the boys were well. He'd written to the Irish Government, after learning of his brother's death, and had gotten nowhere. He and his wife live in a large house and have four children of their own. They're overjoyed the boys are here and can't wait to welcome them. Brian McKenna should be here by the end of the week. Patrick and Joey will get the loving family they deserve."

"That's wonderful news. He's quite a tiger, that boy." Tom grinned, "He's absolutely fearless...he reminds me of my son Nick quite a bit. Heath will miss him, but they can write and visit."

Just then the sound of footsteps caused both men to stand. They guarded look on their faces was relieved somewhat by the tired surgeons smile.

"He's very weak and it will be quite some time before he's fully recovered, but it went well."

"Thank God!" the priest exclaimed.

"It pays to have friends in high places," The healer gave a small grin, "Two ribs were broken and the lung was nicked. He's going be in bed for several weeks and need a lot of care. Although in most cases like this, I'd say it's touch and go, for the next few days, I have a good feeling that's he's going to pull through. He's running a fever and I want to keep him under close supervision. You look exhausted, Brother Francis, there's an empty bed next to Dante's in the next room. I'll be sitting with him, you get some rest."

"Thank you, Doctor" he shook the physician's hand and felt Tom's clap on the back.

"I'm going on the early train back to Stockton in the morning to talk to my lawyer about drawing up the papers for Heath. I'll be back by dinner, but I'll stop in to see Dante before I leave. I think we should wait until he's a bit stronger before telling him."

"Thanks Tom, for everything."

Stockton, dawn on Saturday.

"My, you're up early today."

"Good Morning, Silas," Jarrod yawned, sitting down at the empty table in the kitchen. "I thought I'd get my business in town down early, and go fishing with Nick this afternoon."

"Business?" the servent frowned.

"Well...sort of." the seventeen-year old blushed, reaching for a glass of juice.

"Business with Mr. Turner's daughter."

"Nothing gets by you, does it?"

"No, suh..." Silas grinned, handing the hungry boy a plate of ham and eggs.

"She's going East to finishing school in Connecticut. I won't see her again until Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Turner invited me to breakfast and then Cat and I are going for a ride."

"Breakfast?" Silas frowned, eyeing the food disappearing rapidly.

"Don't worry, I'm saving room..."

Sacramento, 8 a.m.

Heath and Patrick were still sleeping, when Tom readied himself for the train. He brushed his son's forehead with his lips and felt that tug in his gut. Sighing, he turned as his wife's hand slipped into his.

"I'll talk to him, he'll be fine. He won't even miss you." Victoria chided.

"Thanks," Tom smirked, "After I meet with Dave, I'll get the late afternoon train back. I should be back her by six or so."

"You're not going home?"

"No...Nick's getting too wise. He'll know something's up. I'd rather do this as a family. I think it best to wait until we return later in the week."

"I agree," She nodded, leading him away. "Jarrod will be hurt, but he'll bond with Heath rather easily, I think. Audra will be happy for a brother that doesn't shout at her." She paused.

"Then there's Nick," Tom filled in, running a hand through his golden hair, "He's gonna explode."

"Yes, he'll be resentful and bitter," Victoria added, "and knowing how resilient Heath is, I think he'll weather the storm." She embraced her husband, "Somehow, I think in the long run, it will make their bond the strongest of all."

"I hope we survive the battle," Tom worried, kissing his wife, "Victoria, I don't how to tell you how much this means to me. I love you so much."

"I think of a way you can repay me, Mr. Barkley," She murmured, returning the kiss, "Go on, you'll miss your train."

Tom paused at the end of the hall and stepped into the darkened room. A small trickle of daylight spilled under the curtain, illuminating the slumbering priest. Tom stepped quietly closer to Dante's bed. The boy's face was damp with fever, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Tom picked up the cloth, floating in a basin of water, and wiped the sweaty face and neck. He was going to turn and leave, when a small moan rose. Two dark slits looked fuzzily up at him. An unintelligible few words croaked through the dry mouth. Tom saw the silver container of ice chips on the bedstand, and gathered up a spoonful.

"Easy, Son," He soothed, "This should help."

He eased the boy's head up and placed the cold slivers on the grateful tongue. Dante moan of relief gave the rancher a small grin. He felt movement brush against his leg and saw the hand weakly seeking his. He grasped it and leaned down, chuckling at the unfocused eyes.

"It's Tom Barkley, Dante. The bullet's out and you're going to be fine. You need to rest and listen to the Padre and the doctor." He issued, watching the blinking eyes fight. "You get back to sleep. I'll see you a little later."

"...f-f-fight...hard...so...so...tired..."

"You done good, Kid." Tom praised, brushing the damp hair off the boy's forehead, "Now you get some shuteye, that's an order."

"Yes..S-S-Sir." Dante mumbled, eyes sliding shut.

Noon in Stockton.

Jarrod tethered his horse to the rail down the street from Dave Mitchell's office. He wanted to say goodbye to Dave and thank him for all the advise he'd given the lawyer-to-be. His father told him earlier this week that Dave would be in the office Saturday afternoon. He thought on his glorious morning with the beautiful Cat Turner and their ride by the river.

"Okay, Tom, that takes care of Dante," Dave said, "You let this Tom Nolan know I'll be up to see him on Tuesday. The boy is only sixteen and since you've agreed to be his guardian until he turns eighteen, I don't think the State will object. Now about Heath."

"Leah never cited me on the boy's birth certificate or in any other legal document. Brother Francis said something about having to adopt him."

"Yes, that's how we'll proceed. Despite the fact he is your son by blood, this will make him legally yours, an heir entitled to an equal share of your holdings and estate. Victoria will have to adopt him as well. Once the papers are finalized, I'll update your will."

"I want this done as soon as possible, Dave." Tom stipulated, "I want all this mess behind us. I want my son's new life to start on solid ground."

"It will most likely go before Judge Settlemeyer," The laywer noted, "He's does most of the family court hearings. He's a very fair man. I doubt they'll be any trouble, especially since this uncle of Heath's will be in jail."

"He's damn lucky he's not drawn and quartered," Tom seethed, "...nobody lays a hand on my son. "

"Jarrod!" Dave exclaimed, causing Tom to turn.

"The door was open..." Jarrod stammered to Dave, not wanting them to think he was eavesdropping. His brilliant blues eyes never seemed larger, and were trained on his father.

Tom sighed heavily and rose, "Come in Jarrod."

Jarrod shirked away from the hand on his shoulder and turned a cold gaze. One look told both men Jarrod heard every word.

"Dave, Can you excuse us a moment?"

"Sure Tom, I'll be in the other office."

"I'm sorry, Son. I didn't intend for you to hear it this way. It was a shock to me too, yesterday, when I found out."

"How I found out wouldn't change a thing," Jarrod spat, "How could you do something like that? You had a wife. You're not supposed to have a child by another woman. What's wrong with you?"

"Jarrod, no marriage is perfect. It takes a lot of hard work, along with a lot of love and respect."

"Respect?" Jarrod said with disdain, "Now that's funny..."

"Don't you use that tone of voice," Tom's voice rose in anger, "I'm still your father and you're going to listen to this."

Jarrod slumped into a chair by the window and studied the passersby outside. Tom took a deep breath and continued.

"The winter that you turned eight was the worst time in our lives. We were still living in the other house and on a small acreage. The spring rains were devestating."

"I remember that..." Jarrod furrowed his brow, "It rained a lot, we had a flood. I remember taking Nick onto the roof. Mother crying a lot...even saying we might have to move, then you left. You were gone all summer."

"We were down to our last bit of savings in the bank. I used it to buy into a partnership in a mine in a small town called Strawberry. I was only supposed to be gone a couple weeks. But after the deal closed, on the way back to the hotel one night, I was beaten and robbed. I was in bad shape. A woman named Leah Thomson, who was working at the hotel, found me in an alley. She managed with the help of her friend Rachel, to get me to her cottage. She nursed me back to health."

"Is that what they call adultry now?" Jarrod shot.

"You don't have the right to judge me," Tom stood over him, "Only your mother did, and we fought our way through this nine years ago. There isn't anyone I love or respect more than Victoria Barkley. You keep a civil tongue." Tom threatened, then continued "I stayed all summer. The strain on our marriage over that last six months took a toll and I was flattered that this young, beautiful girl was in love with me. I didn't know until yesterday that I left her with a child."

"How could you not wonder?" Jarrod asked.

"I did. I wrote to her and even visited a year later. She never said a word."

"How do you know he's yours?" Jarrod asked quietly.

Tom crossed the room without answering. Jarrod was always more mature than his peers. Seventeen in years, but much older in reality. He turned back and sat next to his son.

"How about you coming back with me this afternoon? I think that question will answered. He's suffered through so much already, Jarrod. His mother's health was failing for years, and he worked to support them. He lost her last winter and misses her terribly. We're his family now, Jarrod and he needs all of us."

"Did the uncle hurt him?" Jarrod asked, suprising Tom.

He didn't answer right away, but Jarrod saw the fury in his father's eyes.

"He's been hurting him a long time," Tom managed, "But he'll never raise a hand to him again. I'll kill him first."

Jarrod flinched, staring at the carpet. He and Nick had occasionally got a sound verbal lashing and once in a blue moon, got whacked by Mother's wooden spoon. He couldn't imagine being that young and beaten, with no one to turn to. He was still angry at his father. But he needed to see this boy, who was to be his brother.

"I'll go home and pack a bag. I'll tell Mrs. Walters I'm going to meet you and Mother in Sacramento. I'll meet you back here. What time is the train?"

"Three p.m." Tom said rising, "I'm sorry about this Jarrod. I know you're hurt. Seeing a loss of respect in your child's eyes when they look at you is one of the worst thing a parent can feel."

"I'll see you later," Jarrod replied coldly and walked out.

1 p.m. Sacramento Victoria rubbed the last bit of the poultice on Heath's chest. His coughing fits left him hoarse and teary-eyed. The strong medicine was giving him the rest he needed. He stayed awake long enough after the coughing fits, to take some water and broth. She eased a damp cloth onto his face and wiped the flushed skin.

A reluctant and testy Patrick had left Dante's side under orders from the doctor. The eleven-year old had maintained a vigil in the chair by the unconscious boy's side since early morning. Brother Francis had taken Patrick back to Good Shepherd to talk to him and his brother about their uncle's arrival. After a bath, hot meal and change of clothes, both priest and boy would return. That was the only way Patrick agreed to leave.

Victoria eyed the small, tattered bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. Rachel said it contained Heath's possessions. It amazed her that his nine years on this earth could so neatly be contained one small sachel. Nick's socks would alone would require a bigger bag.

"Victoria?"

"Rachel," she stood and turned, watching the other woman enter and put a tray of food on the table, "I didn't realize how hungry I was."

"I thought we might have some lunch." The other woman set out sandwiches, tomato salad, lemonade and spiced pears. "Doctor Peterson is changing Dante's bandages and I thought I'd take a break. He's so weak..." She sighed.

"Yes, he is," Victoria took the worried woman's hand, "but that's to be expected after major surgery. It's going to be quite some time before he's completely healed. He'll need that strength once he starts working on the ranch."

"I think that's wonderful," Rachel smiled, "I was thrilled when Brother Francis told me the news. Once you get to know Dante, you'll understand just how special his is and how much Heath will benefit."

"I think Dante's actions already speak of what kind of young man his is," Victoria assessed, "Rachel, with Heath gone, what's left for you in Strawberry?"

"Well, I was a dressmaker, and for awhile that was enough," The fair-haired woman said, swallowing a bit of the salad, "But with talk of the mine closing, folks have started to leave town. Business dropped off and well...honestly this winter would have been very difficult."

"Would you consider relocating?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, my reasoning for asking is twofold," Victoria sipped her beverage, "Lily Graham has a dress shop in town and often has more work than she can handle. Her husband suffered a minor stroke a few months ago and taking care of him and the shop has taken a toll. Her orders are falling behind and she's working much too hard. I know she'd welcome you, and..." Victoria sighed, eyeing Heath, "I don't want his relationship with you to weaken. I am very much a believer in the importance of family. Heath is a Barkley, and you are his aunt, so that makes you family." She squeezed the other woman's hand. "So how about it?"

"Victoria, I don't know what to say..." Rachel sat back stunned, "I admit I didn't know where I was going to get the strength to get on the stage for Strawberry. I held him when he was only a few minutes old, watched him take his first steps, heard his first words and have watched him grow into such a fine boy."

"Let me twist your arm, then," Victoria leaned forward, "Say yes..."

"If your sure Mrs. Graham won't mind."

"Mind?" Victoria asserted, "She'll be thrilled. Stockton is growing so fast, she can't meet the demand."

"Well, I'd like to talk to her first," Rachel said, "I'll come to visit in a couple weeks and perhaps you can introduce me."

"You won't regret it, Rachel."

It was just after six p.m. when Tom and Jarrod arrived at the clinic. Tom dropped Jarrod's bag at the room Victoria booked at the hotel. After taking her and Jarrod to supper, he'd make sure the two of them stayed at the hotel and got a good nights sleep. Jarrod lingered behind, letting his father go ahead. He watched his father duck into a room to the right of the stairs. He paused in the hall, eyeing a pale boy, about his age, lying on a bed. He recalled his father's story on the train, about the boy named Dante.

"How is he?" Tom asked the nurse, who was sitting by the bed.

"Holding his own. His fever's been spiking all day and he's been restless. But he's keeping fluids down and that's encouraging. He's been asking for Heath."

Tom laid a hand on the boy's head and frowned at the heat. He brushed his hand through the wavy dark hair. Dante mumbled and turned, his rambling words and frantic tone told the rancher he was reliving the ordeal the day before. Just as quickly as it started, he stopped. Tom patted his shoulder and thanked the nurse.

He made his way into the back room, where Victora greeted him.

"Rachel's downstairs eating. Heath's doing fine," She answered his concerned look, "His fever has come down in the last few hours and he's resting more easily."

Tom attempted to cross the room to see his son, when a small, furious body intercepted him.

"Patrick!" He smiled, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "You look much better. I'm Tom Barkley and..."

"I know who ye are," Patrick spat, pulling free of the grip, "and I'll thank ye to take yer stinkin' hand offa me. Don't ye touch him. Ye've got some kind of nerve, comin' around here now making yer claim. Where the hell were ye fer the last nine years?"

"Patrick, that's enough!" Brother Francis said from the doorway.

"I won't hold me tongue!" Patrick returned defiantely, "not about Heath and not to the likes of him," He curled up his lips in disgust at Tom, "Where the were ye when the lad was working in that damn mine; when his mother, sick as she was, was workin' herself into an early grave; or when that beast was takin' a hand to him. Ye come with yer rich suits and yer fancy aires from some big house with servants..." He paused panting, face red with rage, "I know about ye rich landlords who don't care about who ye hurt." Patrick put a hand to Tom's chest with his good hand and pushed him back, "Go back to yer fancy estate, he don't need the likes ye now. We're doin' just fine."

Tom eyed the small dark-haired rebel with a mixture or pride and envy. He thought carefully, before choosing his words. Patrick spoke with the voice of experience. The poor country he came from was overrun with greedy, bloodthirsty landowners. The fire in his heart the radiated from his eyes was created from that desire to conquer. Words and thoughts in America that were taken for granted, such as freedom, democracy, equality and honesty. Ideals that ate away at the Irish immigrant.

"I stand here in envy of Heath, Patrick," He spoke seriously and looked deep into the troubled boy's dark eyes, "To have two friends who would willingly sacrifice their lives for him, that's a rare and wonderful thing. The richest man is not the one with gold, a big house or fancy suits, it's the man who has the open hand of a friend. I didn't know about Heath until yesterday morning, and I came for him as soon as I heard. Every child is a gift from God and I cherish all my children, especially Heath." Tom held out both his hands to the boy, "I'll have two hands and one heart to offer him, Patrick. I'm proud to be his father. I can't make up for the nine years lost, but he'll have a bright future, I'll see to that."

Patrick's expression didn't change, he stared hard at Tom Barkley's blue-gray eyes with a face set in stone. He glanced at the open hands and was glad to see calluses there. He studied the firm gaze and thought on the kind voice and believed the words. He squinted slightly and moved forward a bit.

"I want yer word," He said steely, "I'll not be havin' his heart broken again."

"You've got it, Patrick," Tom said, shaking the offered hand.

"Ye'll do well to remember that," Patrick glared, "or ye'll answer to me."

"McKenna you finally done runnin' that mouth of yours?" Heath croaked, hitching himself up on his elbow, "You're makin' my head hurt."

The others watched the mask of fury dissolve and glee dance in the dark eyes. Patrick turned and made his way over to Heath's side. He sat on the bed and eyed his friend carefully.

"Sure wasn't I wonderin' what color yer eyes were. Seein' as how I've been conversin' to the back of yer lids all day."

Heath smile faded as soon as Patrick approached the bed. He saw the cast and the swollen eye, laced with stitches.

"You're hurt..."

"This?" Patrick astounded, "Tis' nothin'. Don't ye know," he winked, "Mrs. Sanchez made all me favorites for lunch. She's talkin' about a turkey fer supper tomorrow."

"You ought to be ashamed," Heath coughed, causing the other boy to back off the bed and drop his head. Tom moved in and gave his son a drink. The blond boy eyed his friend with a worried eye. He was about to inquire, when his head darted around the room. Grasping his father's shirt, his voice turned fearful. "Where's Dante?"

"He's down the hall." Tom reassured the boy, "He's resting. You can see him tomorrow."

"Restin'?" Heath shook his head, "Dante? Not this early...not unless..." His brain drew up an image of a fight...his uncle and Dante on the floor. "What did Uncle Matt do to him?"

Tom sighed and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "He was wounded, Heath. He did a very brave thing, saving you and Patrick. The doctor's think with rest and time, he'll be fine."

Heath heard his father's words, but his eyes were glued on Patrick's downcast head. He got up and crossed the few feet to where Patrick sat.

"It ain't your fault," Heath offered, "So quit draggin' your chin around."

Patrick stood and shook his head, his full eyes threatening to spill. "Ye don't understand, Boy-o. How could ye? Tis just like before...I should have stayed. I ran out on Dante and he's gonna die too, like she did..." Patrick choked, running from the room.

Tom and Brother Francis both turned, but Victoria waved them off. "I'll talk to him," She turned to leave surprised to see Jarrod. He embraced her and kissed her cheek and she went by.

"He's really something," Jarrod noted of the boy who ran the emotional gamut.

"You don't know the half of it," The priest replied, "He's lived through more in his eleven years than most do in a lifetime."

"Brother Francis, this is my oldest son, Jarrod," Tom introduced, watching Heath's head fly up and meet his oldest brother's wide blue-eyed gaze. "Jarrod, this is your brother, Heath."

Jarrod knew from the moment he entered the room. While Patrick dressed down his father, he studied every feature and expression on the small blond boy. This was Tom Barkley's son, without question. He thought on Patrick's words about Heath's impoverished past. He saw the sullen face studying him and almost chuckled. The brooding look he wore was identical to his father's. Making his way over to the bed, he offered his hand.

"Hello, Little Brother," He said simply, with a small grin.

Heath stared at the hand and shivered as the words settled inside. The full impact of his new identity made him flush. Jarrod sat down, seeing the tremble and the scarlett flush. "You okay?" He asked, laying a tenative hand on the smaller boy's shoulder.

Heath's head rose slowly and his eyes were wide and full of wonder.

"Yeah," He nodded, "Reckon them words just shook me up some."

"Me too, Heath," Jarrod chuckled, ruffling the blond hair.

Victoria followed the boy into Dante's room. She nodded at the nurse, who read the situation and left. Patrick stood at Dante's side, holding one of the limp hands. His eyes were full , but he kept the tears in check. She saw his head turn slightly, hearing her enter.

"I need to see his eyes...I need..." Patrick paused, "Do ye not understand? Tis happenin' again and I won't stand fer it..."

"What's happening again?" She asked, resting a hand on his shoulder and glad when he didn't pull away.

"Me runnin' out when me place was to stay...Dante's gonna die just like she did. It's all me fault." He choked.

"Patrick, you don't mean your mother do you?" Victoria guessed, and saw the dark head bob, "Oh , Sweetheart, that wasn't your fault." She turned the boy around and stared into the moist dark eyes. "Have you been holding that inside all this time?"

"She was sick, ye see, I was nine and Joey was only a lad of five. I was keepin' and eye on him and gettin' dinner started. She screamed," Patrick shuddered, "It sent a chill up me spine, like the devil himself was sittin' by the hearth. She was clutchin' her belly and she kept screamin' to get me Da." He swallowed hard and swiped his eyes, "He was the far fields and had the horse with him, ye see, so I had to run. I ran has fast as I could, but..." He took a deep breath and gazed at Victoria's face, "...it was too late. When we got home, it was like she was sittin' in a river of blood. Me sister was layin' between her legs...all purple and still. I had to clean her..." He stopped and took several breaths. "I should have stayed, Ma'am, I left her all alone and she died..."

Then the floodgates opened, two years coming and all the harder for the wait. She gathered him in and ran her hands through the thick curls as his body wracked with grief. She felt her own tears running freely, thinking of a boy who had no childhood. A brave soul who buried both parents and crossed an ocean, and then a vast America, without fear. Finally, his heaving shoulders stopped quaking and he gasped for breath. She handed him her hankerchief and waited for him to compose himself. Cupping his chin, she leveled a gaze and spoke sternly.

"You listen to me, Young Man, that's nonsense. Nothing you could differently would change the outcome. Your mother raised a fine boy and don't you discredit her by standing her wallowing in false pity. It's not our place to question God's actions. She loved you and your brother and she's shining with pride right now. That her boy took his brother across the ocean and to a new life. Her body might be gone, but her spirit is in that fierce heart of yours." Patrick took a few ragged breaths and swiped his eyes before nodding. He cocked his head and grinned at the fine lady.

"Ye won't be telling the lads I was bawlin'" He asked, "They'll think I've gone soft."

"It'll be our secret," She agreed, patting the proud shoulder. "Did you eat your supper?"

"No Ma'am, it wouldn't stay put anyway." He said, still facing her and taking Dante's hand.

"Don't...ma..ma...make me...get..up...I-I-Irish..." Dante warned weakly, "...eat...not ...going ...any...anywhere."

"Well there ye are, finally, just when I was gettin' used to talkin' to meself." Patrick greeted, bending to see Dante's blinking eyes. "Ye have the look of Me Uncle Dan when he's had a few." Patrick grinned, "Can ye not see?"

"Don't...need...see...feel...felt...you...near." Dante blinked and squinted, "Thanks...Irish...made all the difference..." He asserted weakly, gripping Patrick's hand.

Victoria eased by the smaller boy and lifted Dante's head up and allowed him to take a good long drink. "How about some broth? The doctor has some warming."

"I'll tell him," Patrick offered, flying out into the hall.

The doctor returned, bearing a large mug of broth. Victoria eased Dante into his grasp and skirted by to exit. Patrick caught her arm as she went by.

"I wanted to say...Yer a fine lady, Mrs. Barkley. Ye would have been welcome at our hearth for a cup of tea."

"Even with my fancy aires?" She teased, watching him blush, "How about a hug and we'll call it even?"

Patrick's smile lit up his face, "He's a lucky lad, that one, gettin' a fine mother and all."

Victoria released him after the hug and cupped the handsome young face, "I'd say we're all pretty lucky, knowing the likes of you, Mr. McKenna."

The hotel wasn't very far away from the clinic. Tom elected to stay and sit with Dante overnight, giving the worn out priest a break. It was early when Victoria tapped on Jarrod's door.

"Would you like some breakfast, Jarrod?"

"I'll be right down, Mother." Jarrod replied, "You go ahead."

The small cafe in the hotel had no other customers. Victoria was stirring some cream in her coffee, when her firstborn arrived. She watched him crossing the lobby and felt so proud. Jarrod was always such a good child, never gave her a minute's worry. Nick, on the other hand, made up for that in spades. She wondered how Heath would fit in.

"Good Morning, Son." She accepted his kiss to her cheek.

"Morning, Mother," He answered, pouring some coffee.

A waiter came and took their order and brought some cold orange juice. They'd hadn't had a chance to talk in private. Victoria could see the nagging questions written in Jarrod's inquisitive blue eyes.

"I've always believe it's much healthier to start the day with a clear mind." She offered, taking a croissant out of the wicker basket on the table.

"It's just that you're so calm about it," Jarrod questioned, "Why aren't you angry with him?"

"Please don't refer to your father that way," She corrected, "I was angry, Jarrod, nine years ago and that matter is not up for discussion. I know this comes as a shock to you and I can see that you're hurt." She placed the spoon back in the marmalade jar and caught Jarrod's eye. "One thing that I hoped I instilled in you boys was the principle that this family stands together, through thick and thin. The next few months will be very difficult. Your brother will have to adjust to a whole new life and struggle with the same prejudices he faced in Strawberry. He's going to need all of us."

Jarrod sat back amazed and perplexed at the iron-will of his mother. Sometimes he felt she was the most tangible Barkley of all of them. This small boy who wore his father's face was now as much a Barkley as he was. Heath may have lost his birth mother, but he's was inheriting the very best. If she could accept this with such grace, he'd follow her example.

Tom and Victoria went with Dave Mitchell to the State Welfare Office to process the paperwork for Heath's adoption. Tom already interviewed Heath and the judge would now interview the Barkleys. Jarrod watched them leave and turned to go upstairs. Heath sitting up in bed reading a book. Jarrod turned his head sideways to read the title, embossed in gold on the spine.

"That's one of my favorites," he said of The Three Musketeers.

Heath looked up and nodded, as Jarrod took the seat by the bed. He noticed the piece of paper with a list of words written on it. Heath saw him staring and explained.

"I write down the ones I don't know, so's I can look 'em up in the dictionary."

"That's smart thinking," Jarrod praised him, impressed, and remembering another young boy who did the same thing. He laughed thinking of how Nick hated to read anything. "I can see you like to read, I do too."

"I didn't never get the chance before I came to Good Shepherd. There weren't no books in Strawberry, 'ceptin' in school. I wasn't allowed to..." Heath cut off his thought, "Anyhow, they sure have a lot of books there. Dante's read almost all of them. He's real smart. He even reads the ones that ain't English. Brother Francis gave me this when I left."

"It's a fine gift," Jarrod agreed, eyeing the leather-bound work. Heath was still running a low fever and Jarrod knew how lousy a head cold made you feel. "Would you like me to read to you?"

"I ain't no baby or nuthin'" Heath challenged, clutching the book tighter.

"I know that, Heath," Jarrod eased, "But I know when I'm sick sometimes it hurts my eyes to read."

"Well, my head is a mite sore," Heath rubbed his face, "I reckon it'd be okay."

"Thank you, Heath," Jarrod said taking the book the boy reluctantly parted with, "I'll be very careful with it."

When Tom and Victoria returned from their morning meeting for a lunch break, they heard the boy's voices. They paused in the hall, reveling in Jarrod's animated delivery, while Heath sat captivated, fighting to stay awake. Heath asked questions and Jarrod patiently answered every one. Heath's observations about the story were very mature and they saw how impressed Jarrod was Finally the blue eyes slid shut and Jarrod closed the book. He took the paper and carefully left it on top. He drew the covers over and went to leave, startled by his parent's presense.

"Looks like you might not be the only lawyer in the family," Victoria assessed, lifting the carefully printed words.

"It wasn't so long ago when you did the same thing," Tom's recalled.

"He's a smart kid," Jarrod agreed, "Some of his observations were astounding, considering his age."

"You being a ripe old age yourself," Victoria teased of the seventeen-year old.

Jarrod still felt a little uneasy around his father. "I think I'll get some air." He turned past them, "Oh, how'd it go?"

"Very encouraging," Victoria responded, "The judge seemed to be very agreeable. We know'll sometime tomorrow. I have to buy some things for Heath in town. He needs just about everything"

"I'm going to ride out to Good Shepherd and have a look at their vineyard." Tom offered, "Would you like to come?"

"No, thank you. I'll see you later," Jarrod nodded, "I'm going for a walk."

Tom's hands were on his hips as he watched Jarrod from the window. His deep sigh brought Victoria to his side. She took his arm and watched her handsome son cross the square and turn the corner.

"It's going to take some time, Tom," She charged, "You hurt him. He'll come around."

It was mid-afternoon when Jarrod returned. He checked on Heath, who was still sleeping. He heard a stifled cry and went down the hall. Dante was nearly out of the bed, grasping air. Jarrod crossed the room and caught him, pulling him upright. He immediately checked the bandages, but they were dry. Dante's breaths came in gasps and Jarrod eyed the nearby pitcher. Pouring a glass of water, he helped the shaky hand steady the path of the drink.

"I can do it," the annoyed rasp came, followed by a scowl. But half the water ended up on the sheet. Jarrod poured another glass and this time Dante didn't argue. "Thanks...sorry. I just hate this..." He smacked the bed weakly. "...so...much..work...lost...damn..."

"I can sympathize," Jarrod replaced the cup, "It's not easy being the local hero."

"Fools cap...no laurel wreath..." Dante argued, slumping against the pillows.

"I guess that depends on whose hand is bestowing the mantle," Jarrod replied, recognizing his peer. "I'm Jarrod Barkley, Dante." He pointed to the bandaged chest, "and from here that looks like a badge of honor."

Dante shifted uncomfortably and took the offered hand. "So your Heath's big brother."

"One of them," Jarrod answered. "My brother Nick is thirteen and there's also a sister, Audra who is six."

"I'm happy for him, nobody deserves it more. He's a great kid. You'll find out soon enough."

"Want some company?"

"You don't mind?" Dante blinked, taking the cool cloth from the other youth and wiping his face.

"Nah," Jarrod said eyeing the empty pitcher, "You hungry?"

"I could eat a little, I guess," Dante paused, out of breath, "Don't go to any trouble..."

"Raiding the kitchen is never a chore...I'll be right back," Jarrod paused and the door and exchanged a grin with the other boy. Each was left with a warm feeling, sensing the start of something special.

The rest of the week seemed to fly by. Heath was on his feet by mid-week and spent nearly all his time with Patrick and Dante. He went back to Good Shepherd for a last visit on Thursday. Jarrod spent the day with Dante, whose fever had gone, but left him weak. Jarrod enjoyed the easy rapport and quick exchange of commentary. Dante was well versed on so many subjects and they shared the same sense of humor. It was as Tom and Heath returned from Good Shepherd on Thursday, that they heard the boys laughing.

"Hey, Chico!" Dante's tone and eyes shined with affection, "How was your day?"

"Lady Anne has a new foal, he sure is pretty, all red. Brother John made all kinds of raisin bread for the marketplace, but I brought some for ya..." He pulled out a small loaf, wrapped in cloth, "Patrick sure has Mrs. Sanchez fooled but good. He's livin' like a king..."

"Thanks," Dante took the bread "Looks like you'll be heading out early tomorrow." Dante paused, swallowing hard, and ruffling Heath's hair, "I sure am gonna miss..." He stopped, clenching his jaw.

Heath dropped his head and Jarrod rose, thinking the two wanted to say goodbye in private.

"Why all the long faces?" Tom questioned, squeezing Heath's shoulder. "You'll be seeing Dante very soon."

"He can come for a visit?" Heath's large eyes beckoned.

Tom stared at the emotional pools and realized he would have a hard time saying no to those eyes. He smiled and sat on the bed. Eyeing the pale, weak wounded youth, he sprung his surprise.

"Oh, if it's okay with Dante, he'll be coming for a permanent visit, as soon as he's healed and strong. I like him to make a home at the ranch."

"For real?" Heath's voice rose in incredulation, his eyes wide.

"For real, Son." Tom squeezed his shoulders and suddenly found Heath's body buried in his chest.

"Thanks Pa," He said quietly, against Tom's shirt.

Tom returned the unexpected hug and couldn't find his voice. The sweet sound of the word 'Pa' had rendered him speechless.

Dante sat back stunned, hoping he heard correctly. He covered his face with his hand, and felt the room spinning. Tom saw the little color he regained, leaving rapidly and heard the shallow breaths. He pulled the hand away.

"Are you okay, Son?"

"I think I'm delirious again," Dante whispered.

"No, you heard right." Tom offered, "How about it, Dante? I've got all the paperwork in order. I'd be your guardian until you turn eighteen. I saw that vineyard you helped design and was more than impressed. I also saw some of the horses you worked with. I think we can help each other. It's up to you, Son."

Dante didn't trust his voice and didn't try to hide the tears that pooled in his dark eyes. He nodded and gripped Tom Barkley's hand. He took several deep breaths, before he trusted his voice.

"I'd be honored, Sir. I can't thank you enough. I can't believe it..."

"I think 'Sir' is a bit too formal after all we've been through. As far as gratitude, I could never repay you for the sacrifice you made to save my son. I'll always be in your debt. Now," He said squeezing the invalid's knee, "you listen to everything that doctor says. He assures me in six to eight weeks, you'll be strong enough and your lung will be healed."

"Yes, Sir,...uh...Mr. Barkley," Dante saluted, grinning weakly.

"Come on boys," He gathered Heath and Jarrod and led them away, "Dante needs to rest."

"Hey Chico," Dante called from the bed, "Remember..."

"I'll always be there," Heath said quietly, remembering the vow.

Friday morning Patrick came for breakfast. The three boy's spent the whole morning together. Patrick's Uncle Brian was arriving on Sunday and he was nervous and excited. Tom promised Heath would come for a visit during the holidays. The Stockton School for Boys, where Heath would be attending, closed for a month around the holidays. Heath could go to St. Louis to visit Patrick. Then next summer, Patrick would come for an extended stay at the ranch. Patrick went to the train to see them off.

"Ye be fergettin' the likes of me as soon as ye set foot yer grand house," Patrick professed.

"I'll never forget you," Heath said too seriously, embarrassed by the drop in his voice.

"Ah, there ye are, goin' soft again." Patrick smacked his arm, "By the time I see ye at Christmas, ye'll be wearin' a petticoat"'

"Your lucky your a cripple," Heath warned, gripping the other boy in a headlock.

The train whistle ended the joviality. Patrick watched until Heath's blond head on the back of the last car was a speck. He felt Brother Francis's hand on his shoulder and turned to go back home. He was happy for Heath and hoped his new family gave him the love he deserved.

"You'll be seeing him before you know it," Brother Francis observed. "You have a new family of your own to prepare for."

"Aye," Patrick agreed, "But Dante and Heath...there me brothers, always."