For If They Fall

Chapters 11-24

by Kimberly

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

Chapter 11

Nick woke to the early light, though it was well past his normal hour of waking. The sun in the eastern sky was now full-blown through the drape of leaves. Birds shifted and skittered through the uppermost limbs to reach the heat of the sun. He felt the beginnings of autumn in his bones, the night chill still heavy in the clearing beneath the circle of trees. His arm lay across Heath's abdomen where it had remained all night. Before he moved himself away, he felt the light thrum of his brother's pulse against his flesh. Elated at the feel of it, his heart quickened, but then slowed until the rhythm of their pulses fell into a single beating. He looked at the sleeping face, the pain gone and he was momentarily reassured, but then frightened himself into believing that Heath was near dead, now dying, and beyond pain. 

Nick sat up, turning to squat beside his brother. He watched the movement of Heath's eyes under the pale gray lids and reasoned that as long as Heath was able to dream, he would remain alive.  The suffering from those dreams, the revisiting of horrors he, himself, knew all too well, would be an acceptable price to pay, something he was willing to allow his brother to endure if it meant that Heath lived. It would pass. It must pass because a man who could not overcome, no matter that he lived and breathed in and out each day, was a man all ready and truly dead. He had seen those broken souls, lost to this life and having little faith in the next. Hopeless in a hopeless world, their minds unable to sort out and reason through the depravity, the devastation, the brutality, no longer able to see the good and because of this becoming what their minds rebelled against.

There had always been goodness. Nick had seen it many times, even in the thick of war. The sacrifice of self, the tender caring of the wounded, the comforting of those mortally broken. He had seen grown men cry and love and lose and go on.  Go on. He expected nothing less from himself.  He expected nothing less from his brother.  And though he was not a man that thought long on these things, he knew Heath was of that disposition. Not of an uncaring nature, in fact quite the reverse, but he believed that it would do little good to dwell on things that were of a morbid and discouraging bent.

At that he stood, working out the stiffness and walked to the campfire now only dying coals and white ash.  He took kindling and built up the fire, quickly making coffee and a broth from the pemmican.  The last of the sourdough bread was found and eaten in two bites as he made his way back to his brother. He eyed Heath's canteen laying on a nearby stone and knew it to be empty.  The water from his own canteen had been used for coffee and cleaning the wound. Heath would appreciate the taste of the clear, cold river water that ran down from the high sierras.

"You'd like that wouldn't you, boy?"  Nick picked up the canteens and continued to speak to Heath as though he was alert and listening to every word.  He stopped to look at his brother and noticed he shivered slightly. The only chance Heath had for survival was to get him to drink and take in the broth.  The pemmican made of bone marrow and dried meat and sweet berries would fortify him, restore the blood that had been lost. The water would also help and at that Nick spun around and moved quickly toward the riverbank, the canteens banging against his leg as he walked.  He shot a glance over his shoulder to see that Heath was now swallowed up by the shadows. 

He made quick time of it filling the canteens and returned to the fire, taking up the cup that had been warming there.  The saddlebag beside Heath held jerky and Nick carried over the canteen and cup of melted pemmican, thinning it with several dollops of water.  He set down the cup on the most level of three rocks close to where Heath lay and set the canteen upright against them.  Heath muttered low and swatted his hand wildly around, knocking the blanket from himself.  Nick was beside him in a hurry and spoke softly as he grabbed the hand into his own. 

"Hey, hey now.  Quit that now.  Don't need you getting yourself bleeding again.  Settle down now, Heath."  Nick released Heath's hand that had gone limp and lifted him up at the shoulders.  The canteen was awkward lifting it with one hand and Nick worked to keep it from knocking into Heath's teeth.  He grimaced at the broken, bleeding lips and spilled out a few drops to moisten them.  He smiled to see Heath's mouth open slightly, his tongue slowly licking at the scanty water there. 

"There's plenty more where that came from, boy."  Nick gently placed the metal rim to Heath's mouth. "Take it easy. Slow down. Watch out now."  Heath gulped down the water and he began to rouse.  Glazed blue eyes opened slowly, but seemed not to focus on anything.  When Nick finally pulled the canteen away, Heath grunted with displeasure and though it was clearly a struggle, he tried to grab at the canteen.  "Don't you go fightin' me, boy." Nick spoke gently to Heath as he lowered him, watching Heath fight to stay conscious. 

He sat down behind him, extending out his long legs wide and pulled his brother up against his chest.  His back rested against the rocks and he twisted around to reach the warm cup of pemmican. Again, Nick worried at the heat and the occasional trembles that ran through Heath as his brother's body leaned against him. The rich scent of the broth made Nick's stomach growl, remembering the jerky. He saw Heath lift his hand up off the ground, his fingers flexing as though trying to reach for and grip the cup.  Nick brought the cup to Heath's lips and was pleased when he took a mouthful and then another without choking on it.  He pressed his chin softly against the top of Heath's head and then turned his face sideways, resting his cheek there for a long moment. His hands shook as he lowered the cup, feeling the splashes of warm broth on his skin.

He was stunned by how much he loved this man and at how he was nearly numb with fear at the thought of losing him. He was brittle and tired and stretched to his limits. He wanted to talk to Heath, to ask what he thought was the best thing to do. He had grown accustomed to having him there beside him, helping him.  He remembered his words:  "You're all I got . . ."  Nothing truer had been spoken, and then smiling when Heath's words came back to him:  "Like I always say, 'Two are better than one'."

Nick groaned and lowered his head to Heath's and cupped a huge palm over his brother's forehead.  "You're going to make it.  You hear?  You're going to make."  He waited a moment, hoping Heath would answer him. There was no response.  Sorrow washed over him, his shoulders slumped, but then Nick chastised himself for his weakness.  He would do whatever it took to get Heath home alive or . . . again his anger flared at the negative workings of his mind, angry at himself for almost uttering the word dead. 

His long, fine fingers wrapped over Heath's unmoving hand.  "This ain't funny anymore, brother.  I know you're not one for a whole lot of talking, but this is just getting downright annoying."  He rubbed a hand over his face and looked up at the bits of blue sky that showed through the lattice of leaves.  "We can't stay here, but I'm worried about moving you and starting up the bleeding again.  You need a doctor. Our best bet is Jamestown.  I know you're not feeling much pain right now . . ."  Thinking suddenly of how painful the ride would be if Heath did rouse, the thought of getting him up into the saddle, knowing that alone might kill him, bleeding out . . .

"Dammit!"  Nick abruptly worked himself out from behind Heath and lowered him gently to the ground.  He looked around at the camp, his eyes stopping on the still unburied body of the boy. "Just get things done. Heath doesn't have time for hand-wringing."  

By the time Nick had fed and watered the horses, the sun had climbed higher and was no longer in the eastern sky.  He gathered up the tack and threw the blanket over the Modoc and then lifted the saddle, moving it back and forth into position.  He waited for the horse to breathe out and pulled the cinch strap, buckling it. He saddled his horse and then walked over to the boy's body holding his rain slicker.  The boy's blood had drawn the flies and Nick waved them off with a flap of his hand. He set the coat on the ground beside the boy, opening it and then rolled the body onto it.  The boy was small and the coat almost wrapped around him twice.  Nick tied up each end tightly and lifted the bundle, walking to the Modoc.  The pony, ground-tied, stamped and shook her head skittishly. Nick spoke softly to her and laid the body over the saddle, belly-down.  He tied a rope to the coat end-to-end beneath the barrel of the Modoc.

His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he had hardly eaten, only the small piece of sourdough bread.  He had no time for cooking and recalled the jerky in Heath's saddlebags.  The coffeepot was in the coals warming and Nick poured himself another cup and searched through the bags.  The sight of the jerky brought on another rumble from his belly and he bit down into the dried meat, chewing it slowly.  His teeth worked through the gristle and he swallowed it down with a mouthful of coffee.  He moved closer to Heath, still eating and lowered himself exhausted to the ground, his back thumping against the largest rock.  His head fell forward and his eyes closed while he bit and chewed through the dried meat.

A moan from Heath made him jerk up his head, eyes alert, ears perked, no longer chewing.  Nick reached over and touched Heath's exposed shoulder, the fever deep by the feel of him. A sudden raw howl from Heath caused Nick to jump.  It was a sound of such deep despair that Nick felt physically bruised. 

He bore the blood of the men he killed on the stolen garments. A man paroled from the carcel, the prison, to fight.  His forehead held a criminal's brand, but Heath was not able to make out the lettering of his crime.  An enormous man, nearly seven feet tall with red hair and beard ratted and tangled and wild.  The moon was full, hanging low in the sky and Heath saw a quick flash of light on  brass knuckles.  Like a red-haired ape, he squatted on his haunches next to the dead New Mexican boy and rummaged through his pockets, pulling off the tattered coat and yanking off the boots, helping himself to any valuables, although the boy had nothing to loot. Heath lay there in the muddy *street* watching the beast of a man picking at the dead boy like some primitive thing, not able to find his voice, hardly breathing, frightened to be mistaken as dead and too frightened not to be. The man rose up like a wild demon with his hair afire and held up a rosary of fine pearls, the crucifix in gold.  He wore an inimical grin as he crouched down again, drawing a knife and with two quick swipes lopped off the boy's ear.

Heath screamed then, raw and sickened and terrified until a large hand clamped over his mouth and nose and he was unable to take a breath.  He kicked and clawed and grabbed hold of that red tangle of hair and he heard the man swear, but then grew confused when he heard his laughter as well.  He was lifted and carried off and after a time set down on a dry blanket under an oilcloth tarp. Under the shelter, Heath watched the man work the ear onto a cord with others and after tying a knot at the end, put it over his head and placed it beneath his clothing like an unholy talisman. 

When he was done, he smiled at Heath with a grin mostly toothless and what teeth he did possess were black as cinder. His bloodied hand ran down Heath's arm and settled on his upper thigh.  Heath tensed, frightened by the man's eyes and nearly gagged when he came close, his breath as putrid as death.  The huge man laid down beside Heath and pinned him beneath an arm nearly the size of Heath around.  Wide-eyed with his heart bursting in his chest, Heath remained awake. He was a boy deadly wild and he waited there in the dark for the man to fall asleep, would rather take his own life than to be taken.  And when he heard the loud snores above his head, vibrating through him, he moved his hand to find the knife.  He nearly collapsed from relief when the tip of his finger touched cold metal and he moved soundless and unnoticed like snow falling, until he gripped the haft like hell's fury and plunged the knife blade deep into the man's heart. 

The large man grunted out his last breath, his eyes aghast and his mouth gouted with blood.  Heath watched in a satisfied horror, taking up the rosary, and then cutting away the necklace of ears from around the massive neck.  But then the face became that of Gabriel Hatch and Heath's heart jumped hard against his ribs at the sight of the boy, knifed and bloodied.  He was paralyzed with grief and he wept for all his sins. The rosary in his hand turned into the ring of his father, a bloodstone. And Heath was frightened by it and hurled it into the mud. When he closed his eyes in despair, a voice called to him and Heath recognized it as that of the white-haired old man. 

He stepped from the darkness and embraced Heath, staying with him through the night and was of a great comfort. He told Heath stories of the ring while he drifted in and out of dreams. He called the stone, the martyr's gem, a ring of special powers, a stone spotted with the blood of Christ. Heath only knew it to be his father's, the only tangible connection to a man that was more an apotheosis than anything corporeal and his heart physically pained him while thinking about his father. Heath started to sob and the old man enfolded him in his huge arms and he felt momentarily safe and warm and loved.

Nick held Heath again, his embrace seeming to be a comfort, as Heath now slept peacefully against him. He believed only one thing that he needed to get his brother home. 

Chapter 12

It had happened so quickly that Nick had been caught off-guard, confused by his brother's actions and more so stunned that he was able to move at all.  Just moments before Heath was still, had not moved for hours, his breath barely there when Nick had knelt down to lift him, working to get him up into the saddle. Nick had been gentle talking softly to Heath, explaining everything while gathering his brother up, one arm beneath his shoulders, the other under his knees.  Once in his arms, the dead weight of Heath had nearly toppled Nick face-first, but he was eventually able to get his feet under him, balancing himself and then taking that weight onto his legs.  He had been crouched low to the ground and ready to stand when Heath had jerked himself awake and jack-knifed himself out of Nick's arms, knocking Nick off-balance and down into the dirt. 

There was something dangerous in Heath's eyes, a look Nick had never seen before in his normally calm brother.  There was a wildness about him, a cold terror so powerful it vibrated off him, seeing things with those fevered blue eyes that Nick refused to witness nor accept.

Heath folded down into a low squat, the ends of Nick's black shirt untucked and loose around him, almost falling over sideways.  Nick moved toward him, but then pulled back and stilled when Heath suddenly drew a knife.  It must have been during the night while Nick slept that Heath had managed to steal the knife away from him. How easily Heath could have killed him in his fevered state.

Nick was mesmerized, watching Heath's struggle to remain upright, searching the ground frantically to find something.  It did Nick no good to move; the knife still held steady in Heath's hand, ready to be thrown at any perceived threat.  Nick saw Heath's urgency, the dust rising up around him as his hands sifted through the dirt, his fingers reading the ground like braille. 

"Heath!  What is it?  What are you looking for?"

Heath's head shot up, his eyes blazing.  "What more do you want from me?  What more . . ."  His words ended in a broken sob; tears suddenly welling and running down over his pale face, rough with a few days of whisker growth, the stubble shining goldenly in the diffused light under the trees. 

"Heath, let me help you. Please!"  Nick held out a black gloved-hand and all at once his heart seized up at the horror he saw escalating in Heath's eyes.  He struggled to remove the gloves, wondering what Heath saw, anguished over his brother's fragile state of mind.  He was afraid that anything he did would set Heath off with tragic results, recalling the recent demonstration of Heath's deadly and accurate ability with a knife.

"Heath! You need to lie down.  Don't . . ." 

"Shut up!  Shut up!"  Heath stopped his search, his eyes focused on Nick with deadly, furious intent.  Nick knew Heath was a threat, though clearly on the edge of passing out into a heap. 

"What are you looking for?  Heath, what are you looking for?  I can help if you let me.  I won't hurt you." 

It took all his will to stay upright, but he had to, had no choice because he needed to find it.  They had taken his father's ring and with it had taken his father from him.  Foolishness, he knew, to dream about a man who with a toss of a coin, he could easily hate.  He was not made that way though, his mama had told him so.  He was a good boy, a sweet boy, kind to everyone no matter . . . But would she say that now, if she knew about the one's he had killed?  Lord!  Did she know that he did it most times without thought, as easily as sighting his gun and firing as though hunting no more than wild game?  Did she know how a man changed when the will to survive rose above all else?  Would she forgive him for his sins?  Too many questions, making him dizzy and he ached somewhere, everywhere on him.  A deep ache gnawing in his bones and a weakness running through him was just about to make him flop head over heels into the dust. 

He held the knife now like he did that night, plunging it deep into the heart of a man, wanting to kill them all that beat him and had taken his only possession, its value to him not in money, but so much more.  It was ruined now, all ruined.  Like the ring, it was all lost to him, and he felt himself falling, unable to stop himself. He broke then, everything bleak and hopeless in him. 

But then something, a bit of  hope, as he laid in the dirt, his hand touching what he thought to be a chain. He followed the length of it with clumsy, uncooperative fingers and then stopped, grabbing hold of what could only be his mother's locket.

Nick watched what he could see of his brother's face, the emotions there too varied and short-lived to make heads or tails of them. Completely at a loss as to what to do, all too aware that Heath was bleeding, having seen the white cloth, he had put on Heath, marked with fresh blood.  And though he was frightened for his brother, knowing his passing out could only mean that he was weakening badly, at least now he could get to him.

When Nick knelt beside Heath, he saw a trace of a smile on his brother's otherwise still features.  He rolled Heath over and noticed a piece of jewelry gripped in his left hand, the knife dropped from the other when he had gone down.  Nick dared to take the locket from him, lifting the fingers still locked around it.  He managed to release the locket from Heath's grip and opened it, surprised at its quality.  With a soft push of his thumb, the locket opened and Nick's throat tightened, his heart paining him at the small photograph of Heath as a baby, seeing Audra the strongest because of the coloring, but catching a brief glimpse of himself somewhere in that child's face.  He could not pinpoint it exactly, whether it was the eyes or nose or set of the jaw or the mouth, but it was there, a connection not to be denied.  He turned his eyes to the photograph of the woman. She was delicate and very beautiful.  Her eyes were kind, holding a purity of heart and he could see how his father who had been alone and frightened and close to death, would have reached out to this angel of a woman.  Nick believed her to be honorable, not having sought out her fortune, choosing to sacrifice herself and unfortunately her son so as not to destroy Tom Barkley or his family.  He knew Heath had forgiven his mother for her decision a long time ago, made easier Nick supposed by putting the bulk of the blame on their father.  And deservedly so, Nick no longer argued that. 

It all came down to it, all leading back to Strawberry and the sin of his father. All the pain and anger and suffering of this boy, touching every last one of them, running like a cord through all their lives from the immediate present to that fateful moment in a small mining town.

But now Nick's only concern was keeping Heath alive and he worked quickly to stop the new bleeding. That done and with little time to waste, Nick with great effort lifted Heath up into the saddle, holding him in place as he set his foot into the stirrup and set himself behind him.  He prayed Heath remained unconscious, unsure of what nightmare he might be caught up in again if roused.  Nick pulled his brother close against his chest and legged the horse into motion, followed by the Modoc carrying the body of the boy.

Chapter 13

They entered Jamestown with Heath still on horseback held by Nick and the citizenry watched with open curiosity at the two men and what they all knew to be a body draped over the last horse.  A murmur rose up so loudly as to drown out the sound of flies that gathered over the body, biting viciously at the pony's croup, and occasionally pestering at Heath, the blood drawing them. Nick thought with dark humor that both were enough to "wake the dead." 

The sheriff looked up at Nick and thumbed back his hat.  "Found your brother?" 

"I did."  Nick sat his horse, still holding Heath against his chest tightly.  His arm ached and what did not ache had gone numb.  "Needs a doctor."

The sheriff nodded and walked to the Modoc, pushing open a space between the buttons of the slicker.  He recognized the face.  "Did this boy have somethin' to do with that young fella's condition?" 

"He did."  Nick was growing impatient.  "Listen, Sheriff, I'll be happy to tell you all about it after my brother sees the doctor.  Help me get him down."

The sheriff moved toward Nick and waved at a few men standing on the other side of the street.  "Jacob, Tom, Matt! Give us a hand here will ya?"

The men made their way over, slower than Nick liked, their eyes on the body covered over by the slicker.  "Who is it Sheriff?  Who got plugged?" 

"Looks to be that kid that killed old man Monroe and his wife.  Know anybody that can make a proper identification of the boy?"

"Bill Sanders can.  Caught the kid red-handed stealing from him."  The man poked a few fingers through the coat's opening.  "I bet your bottom dollar that that there is the boy that done the killing.  Hardly looks more 'n twelve."

"Don't matter none.  Old enough to kill 'n with a savagery I ain't never seen in most men."

"Amen to that. The boy had the devil himself in him."

"All right.  These men here need our help."  The sheriff pointed toward Nick. "Get the body down and take it over to Murphy's."

"Burying's too good for the likes of him."

"Never mind that, now. Jacob, let's help out this fella with his brother.  Looks like he's not faring too well."

Nick had watched as the knot of men tightened around the Modoc, seeing the pony growing nervous at their unfamiliar scent.  It took everything Nick had to keep his anger in check, the idleness of their manner and words not sitting well with him.  He caught the sheriff's eye, his scathing glance as direct as a good swift kick and the sheriff nodded to him, flustering slightly and began directing the men.

A large man called Jacob and the sheriff  took Heath from Nick and Nick was genuinely touched by their gentleness. Heath had not moved the whole time nor on the ride to Jamestown.  He made no sound and took no water when Nick had made brief stops along the way.  Desperate, his body aching from head to foot and still hungry, Nick nearly wept when they finally reached the outskirts of the town. That relief held him back from throwing his weight, name and money around, always a sure-fire way to get attention and action. 

He dismounted after Heath had been lowered into the men's arms, dismayed at the blood he saw on his shirtfront. His arm that had held the whole burden of his brother seemed oddly weightless as if it could fly off if he allowed it.  It was nearing three o'clock by the placement of the sun. 

"Where to?"  The sheriff stood holding Heath's upper body against him while the bigger man had him under the back of the knees. 

Nick looked at the man incredulously.  "What do you mean where to?" 

"Best bet would be Widow Avery's boarding house. She's a midwife. Might be helpful with bullet wounds."

"Where's the doctor?"

"Ain't had a doctor for some time now.  Went off to try his luck doing some placer mining.  Lost the teacher too.  Most of 'em came here from back east. When the luck runs out, they'll come looking for work here in town. But it don't last long 'fore the fever strikes again.  I am sorry, Mister, but that's just how it is."

Nick cursed.  "Get me a wagon."

"What?"

"Get me a wagon.  I'll buy it outright.  I need mattresses and blankets and supplies."

"You think that's smart?"

Nick did not answer the sheriff.  He pushed the man aside, grabbing Heath under his arms.  "Which way to Avery's?"  He turned to the sheriff. "I'd appreciate it if you'd find someone to see to the things I need."

"Sure, sure.  I think you're makin' a mistake. But he's your kin, not mine."

"That's right and I know what's best for him."

Nick kicked up his chin to the large man in front of him.  "Let's go."

Fortunately the boarding house was close by and Widow Avery had been alert to them coming her way.  She ushered them into the house and directed Nick and Jacob to a room on the first floor next to the kitchen. The room was clean and neat with tiny flowers imprinted on the wallpaper and a crisp white quilt with a scattering of flowers covering the bed.  Widow Avery moved quickly passed the men, turning down the bed. Without speaking, she left the room, Jacob following her. Nick heard the clang of metal, lifting his head to see she had put water on to boil.  She returned with several wool blankets. 

"Remove his clothing." 

Nick turned to the woman who stood all of five feet, barely pushing ninety-five pounds. He smiled down at her into the clear, no-nonsense brown eyes of a woman who was all too familiar with heartache. Nick assessed that she may have only just recently celebrated a twenty-fifth birthday.  Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a loose bun and she wore an apron over her dress, having most likely spent the morning hours taking care of her boarders' needs.  "I appreciate your help, Mrs. Avery, but we won't be staying the night.  I need to get my brother home."

"I'm looking at a man that is as close to death as I've seen."  She looked over at Heath and spoke matter-of-factly.  "You move him now, you might as well just put a bullet in him yourself.  Save you both a lot of time and trouble."

"Is that a fact?"  Nick smiled, but his stomach clenched at her words.  He was not sure who he was more angry at, himself or Widow Avery. 

"My father was a doctor."  At that moment the tea kettle whistled and she left quickly to attend to it.  Nick watched her moving about the kitchen and then turned to look at Heath.  He seemed worse than ever and Nick ran a hand over his face. They were both haggard, filthy and Nick was feeling the effects of not having eaten a real meal in two days. 

As if she had read his mind, Widow Avery entered the room and  handed him a warm, buttered biscuit.  "There's food set out on the dining room table.  Help yourself to it.  You look close to falling flat on your face."  She placed her small hands against his back and gave him a light shove toward the door.  "I promise I'll do my best for him."

"I'm holding you to that.  He's my brother."  Nick's voice cracked a little then and her heart went out to the dark-haired man. 

"What's his name?"  She placed a hand on Heath's forehead.

"Heath. Heath Barkley and I'm Nick Barkley."  Nick smiled, watching her gently smoothing her hand over Heath's hair.  "I want to thank you, Mrs. Av--"

"Alejandra." 

Nick nodded, smiling at her. "Thank you, Alejandra."

She smiled at Nick and then quickly turned her attention back to Heath. "Go now. Eat."

It was hard to hand Heath over to someone else's care, worried that the moment he walked away from his brother bad things would be visited on the man, either in body or soul. His thinking logically turned to getting sleep and finding food. He knew he would be of little help to Heath without either.

"He's been having some powerful dreams. If he gets worked up, call me."

"We'll be just fine." Alejandra again walked over and gently ushered Nick toward the door. "You need to eat and get some rest. Take the room just off the dining area. Soap, water, and towels are there for you to freshen up. The bathhouse is open until seven tonight and opens again tomorrow morning at five. Leave the clothes outside your door that you want laundered. Sander's Mercantile carries practical shirts and pants, if you need to purchase them. Nothing fancy, mind you, but made well."

Nick was comforted by her efficient manner and with one more long glance at his brother, he turned and left the room.

For a moment, Alejandra regretted sending the big cowboy away as she struggled with the unconscious man's boots. She had managed to strip off his shirt, but was unable to get his pants over his boots. He was a handsome man, well-muscled, sinewy and taut, his skin soft and smooth. He bore scars. But what man in his lifetime did not have at least one signature of struggle and hardship on his body, as well as, on his soul? Her mind turned to her husband, remembering the hurt, the beating he had suffered at the hands of her three brothers, trying to scare him off, to keep him away from her. It only proved to bolster her decision to be with him, to marry him. Her parents had been unhappy, refusing to recognize the marriage. Johnny Avery was a drifter, a drover, footloose and shiftless, they had said. He would be an unfit husband and would bring her only heartache. But it did not matter to her what money he had or did not have. She had fallen in love . . . seeing him now in her mind's eye, his crow black hair and the startling blue of his eyes and his smile that lit up her days.

It had not been long after they had married when he had become ill. An incurable blood disease, the doctors had told them. She had begged him to see her father, but he was too stubborn, too prideful. Though in her heart, she knew it would have done little good. Her only regret was that her family had not gotten to know the fine man her Johnny had been.

Her brown eyes clouded then and she bit her lip, fighting her tears. He had been gone two years now and it hurt as badly as it had the day he had died. He had passed in her arms, as soft and gentle as a hushed whisper, a kiss of a breeze, there and then gone. God had been gracious, taking him gently.

For him she could not keep death away, but this time she had the ability, the skill to save this man, to save Nick Barkley from the pain that still haunted her. A pain that caught in her heart at unexpected times and would bend her over in hard sobs so strong that she would need to hold to a table or washbasin or cookstove to keep from dropping to her knees. Many times her tears glistened and rolled off her face and into the sundry of foods while she prepared meals. She often wondered if the boarders would taste her sorrow or if she had in some way cursed them, predisposing them to the same sufferings. Alejandra knew her thoughts were irrational, but her pain had been so powerful, so tangible, she could not seem to move beyond it.

A low moan pulled her from her thoughts and she forced herself to take things in hand. She moved to the bed, her touch gentle when she smoothed the hair off his forehead. Her father had wanted her to be a doctor. Three sons, he would say, and it had to be the female with the gift of healing. It had been his dream, not hers, and she had wanted nothing to do with it, which she knew had broken his heart. But rather than showing his pain, his sadness, her father grew sullen and cold toward her. The relationship finally severed completely when Johnny Avery came into her life.

The truth of it was she did have the gift and she would use it now to save this man, to save him so that he could one day fall in love, if he had not already, so that he could have many children and live to be very old.

"Focus," she reminded herself aloud. "Focus."

She placed her father's worn medical bag, a present from him before things turned badly, on the bedside table next to the two enamel basins of hot water. Her dress sleeves were slowly turned up to her elbows while she thought of the instruments she would need. She placed her hands into the water, lathering them and washing her arms. A towel was picked up and dipped into the hot water and she took it and washed the grime from his chest. With effort, she lifted and rolled him onto his right side, washing his back. The white towel had darkened from the blood and dirt. She took a tincture of iodine and poured it on her hands over the second basin of hot water. A scalpel, scissors, tweezers and a curved needle were placed in the basin and the remainder of the iodine poured and mixed with the water.

As she began to probe the chest wound, Heath groaned, feeling the pain even though unconscious. He jerked violently when she flooded the wound, removing blood clots and small pieces of shirt fabric that had been pushed into it. He mumbled occasionally, believing she heard him say something about turpentine and to please stop. She probed around with the tweezer finding a small bone fragment. She felt around his ribs and then rolled him over and flooded the wound on his back. She then began to suture the wounds with the curved needle. She dressed the wounds, bounding up his left arm into the swathe of bandages and then went to the basin and tried to wash the brown stain of the iodine from her hands. For a moment, she needed to steady herself against the table, the strain and worry making her wobbly. Her husband's nightshirt was folded neatly on the large chest of drawers, having brought it in with the blankets earlier. His scent still lingered there and her breath caught.

She would dress him in the nightshirt after the fever broke and instead covered his bare body with the muslin sheet and several layers of blankets. He shivered and mumbled and she saw his eyebrows furrow in the grip of a fevered dream. She leaned over him and whispered reassurances and nearly fell over backward when his eyes opened and stared at her. She spoke to him again, and put her palm against his far too warm cheek and she could not help but notice the startling blue of his eyes.

* * * * * * * *

Nick lay there sleeplessly, thinking of the recent wire he had sent to his family and whether he had been wrong to soft-soap them rather than honestly tell of Heath's condition. He had chosen not to worry them, only telling them to expect their arrival home in a few days. After he had nearly eaten everything Alejandra had set out for him, he had found he could not hold his eyes open. He had fought against it, feeling as though he was letting Heath down by finding comfort in sleep while Heath struggled to remain alive. A man as close to death as she had seen . . . Nick had shivered, hearing her words over and over in his head and he had shot up from the table, confused as to where he should go. But then he had remembered the room she had offered him and had headed wearily toward it.

An iron bed was placed in the center of the room and there was one long and narrow window that looked out onto the main street. He had walked to the window, pushing aside the handmade curtains, and had looked toward the western skies that burned blood red. A deep melancholy had gripped him and he had swallowed back his emotions. He had known then that sleep would not come to him.

It had gradually grown dark in the room, except for a faint light coming in from the window. A moon, no longer full, still hung sizably in the star sprent sky. It had been more than two hours since he had finally taken to the bed, trying to get some rest. And he still lay there wide-eyed, his mind churning as well as his stomach. He decided to get up and go to Heath, finding it pointless to be away from his brother when he knew they would both rest much easier near each other.

He tapped lightly on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. She had let her hair down, though it was still tied back with a pale blue ribbon, matching the color of her dress. Her dark brown hair ran down to her waist and gleamed like a mink's pelt when the lamplight touched it. He watched her hands closely as she leaned over his brother, placing one on Heath's forehead and the other on his chest. She spoke softly to Heath and Nick saw his brother's troubled sleep become less restless. She had bound Heath's left arm against his chest and Nick noticed that his brother had been stripped bare beneath the muslin sheet and blankets.

He suddenly remembered her asking him to remove Heath's clothing, but she had shoved him out the door before he was able to do so. It appeared she had managed very well on her own. He could not suppress his grin, thinking about Heath's shyness and modesty around women, an almost antiquated gallantry, grudgingly admitting that most women found it appealing. It appeared that even unconscious his younger brother had captured another heart.

"How is he?"

Alejandra startled to hear a man's voice, but then recovered quickly. "He's doing better. His fever's still too high, but I've been rubbing him down with vinegar water. I flushed out the wounds. That was difficult for him. He mumbled something about turpentine and I did notice blistering around the wounds. It appears someone took turpentine to him . . ." She looked up accusingly at Nick, but did not give him a chance to respond. "I can see that he's of strong stock. It must have been quite an ordeal for him to have endured that being aware the whole time. But it more than likely saved his life. I've sutured the wounds and packed them. If we keep him quiet and get him to take in some liquids, he might have a chance."

Nick studied his brother, seeing the sheen of sweat that covered his face, as well as, his torso and arms that were not swathed in white bandages. He watched it as it ran from Heath's hairline, from his temples, along his jaw and then settling into the hollows of his collarbone. Nick moved toward the bed and Alejandra stepped aside to allow him to get closer to his brother. She saw the dark circles under his eyes and knew he must not have been able to get sleep. A rocking chair with a star-patterned quilt draped over it was in the corner of the room. She went to it, carrying it back with her to the side of the bed.

"Sit."

Nick looked at her. "What?"

"I thought you might want to sit with him for a while."

Nick nodded at her, his gratitude bright in his eyes. "I . . .I'm indebted to you . . . for everything."

She smiled. "Try to get some rest yourself. Call me if you need anything. I'll be in the room next door."

"Appreciate it." Nick turned his attention to his brother, reaching over Heath and lifting his unbound arm. He set the arm gently on the flat of Heath's abdomen and held fast to his brother's hand.

She watched the two men a moment before turning to leave. Her brown eyes filled, greatly touched by the dark-haired cowboy's unabashed show of love for his brother more eloquent than words. She blamed her sentiment on her weariness and wiped a hand over her eyes. That night she fell asleep with a smile on her lips, the image of Nick Barkley fixed pleasantly in her mind.

Chapter 14

Heath dreamed over and over about the struggling to get to something and the fearing of it, that it would be taken from him, be lost to him, and the worry never stopping. And the whole time he was actually there, but not knowing that he was, always looking beyond himself until it was gone, never knowing he had had everything.

He had thrown it all away, thinking things needed to be mended for his mama's sake, believing he should be angry at them all. But he was never one to turn a back on another soul.  And here he was turning his back on his family, leaving them in a worry over him. 

He had seen terrible things in his life and had done his share in battle, never questioning the wrong or right of it. It was just the way of things in war and best not to dwell. Certain, it was a soul not living who could walk through life unspoiled.  Not one way on God's green earth that a man could keep his soul as seamless as a newborn babe and even them said to be born of sin. A man believes what he chooses to believe, sometimes only what he can believe to get by, to find some peace, to feel half-human again.

He had cried a lot at first after it was all over. Not tears that could be seen on the outside, but inside where it hurt a thousand times more. A sickness in the soul of him, his mind so bruised he forgot how to laugh. The first time after a long time he had heard himself and he had sounded like someone else, startling himself badly. It was rusty and rough like an old gate too long abused by the harshness of the seasons. But there was one thing that had gotten him through it all, knowing he was loved and knowing he was born of affection, a caring between his mama and daddy.  A man could do worse.

The anger had started up again after his mama had died, after he had found out about his father -- a married man, wealthier than any man had a right to be, with children -- an upstanding citizen.  Boy Howdy! Did that get to him, but good! Right off believing in his worst fears that the man had known all about him, but not wanting to own up to having a bastard son, a child born out of wedlock. Like a weight lifted when he found out "he didn't know."  Able to forgive *him* then, able to trust once more in the one thing that had kept him going, had kept him believing in life.  A life sometimes so cruel, so wicked on a man that he would rather just up and die than bear another day. 

In this world, it all came down to two things, being loved and giving love.  Simple as that and somehow he had forgotten it, riding away from those that gave it willingly because of the ones that did not. 

He had a right to be angry, but not a right to be self-indulgent. Because when the thinking of things got him so mired in the muck of self-pity, he knew he might as well just give up on living, just curl up in a hole somewhere. It had never been the right time or place for dwelling on or cursing the life that God had set him down into, survival being his chief concern and focus. There was no real choice to be made, only to try to work through the life given him, to somehow make it better.

But the good Lord must not have known that the world soon would be close to coming to an end.  Man equally brutal and bloody and violent against each other, making every attempt to kill off humankind. It had been an unspooling of utter and bitter cruelty, a world gone mad and he had ample time to dwell, to hate, to feel pity. He had been a boy then, not accepting nor understanding, not having the will or nature to make peace with things. And it appeared he still held onto some discontent like a wound festering, exhibited by his anger at having to bear the revisited fruits of his father's sin.

Heath laid there like that for some time alone in a room he did not recognize, not knowing if it was the fever he was certain burned through him or if he had truly and utterly "broke," making his thoughts run muddled and crazily in his mind. He focused for a moment on his body's urges, thirst and a need to find a jakes, that more pressing a need than the other. Then he suddenly came to the realization that he was bound, but only one arm which quickly settled down the initial rise of panic. He was not in the frame of mind to pinpoint each of the aches and pains of his body, believing if he ignored them, he could get up and on with things, tricking himself into thinking he was whole. 

But that was soon forgotten, discovering right away his inability to sit up, his head seeming to be far weightier than a full keg of beer. He decided to concentrate on his legs and began to slide them toward the side of the bed, finding it difficult once there to kick back the layers of quilts.  But he soon relaxed when his right foot suddenly met cool air. 

It was day, probably late morning, seeing the sun, edgy and pushy, on the sides of the dark oilcloth shades.  He appeared to be in a well tended to boardinghouse and his eyes swept the room, stopping up short on the rocker at the side of the bed.  He thought of his brother, worried for him and then suddenly all manner of memory came back in a bright flash. All the oddities he had conjured up in his fevered brain tumbled over him: The brown-skinned New Mexican boy in the mud, rosary beads entwined through stiffened fingers, a sliver of eye-white shining beneath a slightly lifted lid like a sickle moon hung in the dead black sky; the beast of man with hair like fire and eyes wide-opened and wild in death; his father's bloodstone ring, and Gabriel Hatch. 

With unsettled emotions, his thoughts turned on those troubling dreams, while he continued his struggle to get out of the bed. He reached his good arm out to grip the leg of the bedside table and drew himself closer to the edge. Now on his side with his feet on the floor, he pushed upward and sat somewhat wobbly on the bed.  He flushed at the unexpected sight of being without clothing and sat there a moment uncovered. He was all but worn down to nothing from the effort. His legs shook as he started to rise and he nearly fell back onto the bed while tugging at a quilt to cover himself.

A pair of black pants were folded neatly on a nearby oak dresser, but there was no shirt.  "Beggars can't be choosers," he whispered to himself with a wry smile, understanding the locution all too well.  He stood and moved about drunkenly like a man in a slow-moving dream unable to make his body obey him. The quilt twisted about his legs, making the journey that much more difficult.  After several bouts of nearly tripping over it, Heath let the quilt drop to his feet and made the rest of the way unencumbered and bare.  He reached for the pants, making note they were Nick's and unsteadily worked to put them on without looking down, but only straight out ahead of him. He found that any quick jerking of his head or looking anywhere, but level made him dizzy.  He was weaker than he ever remembered being, even in those days of deprivation and his upper chest beat a painful rhythm to the drumming of his heart.

When he finally pulled on the pants one-handed and worked the top button in place, Heath raised his hand eye-level and studied the blood that had crusted and dried in his finger-beds. It appeared someone had tried to take a scrub brush to them.  A strong memory of blood came to him then, making him light-headed and weak-kneed. The tang of it no longer coppery and fresh, but foul and decayed and he gagged at the vivid remembrance. He had been a man nearly bled dry and he quickly realized the foolhardiness of his actions as the whole time his thinking grew cloudy.  The only sensible thought he held was a man in his state needed to stay abed and take in water. At that moment another notion came to him, a bible story his mama had told him about Jesus at the wedding in Cana of Galilee, but confusing the whole thing somewhat in his muddled brain. Close to faint, his eyes nearly turning up into his skull, he mumbled out incoherently, "Water turned to blood."  He stood there a minute and then without warning or consent dropped to his knees with everything quickly going black.

* * * * * * * *

"Nick, it wasn't your fault."

"I shouldn't have left him."

"You were with him the entire night and most of the morning.  How were you to know he'd decide to take a walk for himself?"

Nick smiled at her.  "Well, I shoulda known.  That boy's cussedness about being laid up, makes him do foolish things."

"He looks like a full-grown man to me, Nick." Alejandra placed her hand against Heath's cheek, looking closely at his well-favored face.  "A man accustomed to doing for himself."

She smiled and turned to Nick, looking into his eyes as she spoke.  "I can see the caring you have for him."  Her eyes filled slightly, the brown of them lightening toward hazel.  "Don't let things get in the way of that. Ever."

"Alejandra . . ."  Nick looked at her a minute, suddenly unsure of what to say, but wanting to comfort her.  All he could manage was, "I won't."  It seemed to be enough as her face lit into the finest smile he had ever witnessed.  She was lovely in a quiet way, like spring before full-bloom, the sweet anticipation of all things wished. Nick cleared his throat, aware that he had been staring at her far too long without saying anything.  But she only laughed at him and reached over, giving a light squeeze to his hand.

"I'll get broth for him.  If he roused once, we'll get him to rouse again.  He needs nourishment to heal."  Alejandra nodded to Nick once and left the room.

* * * * * * * *

Heath found himself in partial wakefulness, suspended between full consciousness and a true sleep, reaping little rest. He felt a moan rise from him, hearing it surface and fill the air and then felt a touch, first to his side and next onto to his shoulder.  It was a gentle touch and a memory rekindled of being held on horseback, a dim recall of a pain so deep through him and the stickiness of sweat and blood on his hot skin, the cloying smell of it and worse still the snarling and biting of flies.

And suddenly he was no longer on horseback, but now on a battlefield. A vicious frieze of men half-mad from the kill like tamed curs turned wild with the first taste of blood. All things done, shooting and chopping and hacking and gutting, becoming only mechanized motion without thought. After it was finished, still standing on those blood lands, he looked to his coat and though nearly covered in its entirety with mud, he saw two bloodied hand prints. One a distinct flat palm and the other as though the hand were gripping the lapel in one last mortal plea for mercy.  He was desperate to remember, but only vaguely registering a hard tugging on him and then wielding the rifle, tamping it repeatedly into a thing that was no longer human to him, all becoming only featureless, soulless matter.

Another moan, followed again by the touch, which this time was enough to fully wake him, pulling him from that godless place.  He opened his eyes, meeting those of his brothers. 

"Nick . . ."

"I'm here, Heath."

"I'm sorry. Sorry for everything."

"No need t' be."

Heath shook his head slowly. "Wasn't thinkin' straight.  Shouldn't have ever left."

Nick patted Heath's shoulder and thought a minute. "I'd agree with you there about the not leaving part and the not thinking straight part.  But there's no need to be sorry. *I'm* only sorry you felt you had to leave. That you didn't come to me or Mother, any one of us to talk things out.  You think we didn't know what was going on? A blind man couldn't have missed how Don Alfredo felt, though I never thought he'd go that far."

Heath nodded, gathering his thoughts. "I've been a long time carryin' my own load."

"I know that, Heath.  But you don't need t' anymore.  Like I said, I'm here.  Let me help."  Nick shifted closer to the bed, smiling slightly while he watched Heath fight to keep his eyes open.  "You rest awhile now. You've got some broth coming and I need you to drink it all down, get yourself well."

Heath forced his eyes opened.  "Thanks, Nick."  His voice sounded faint. 

"No thanks necessary. You and me, well, things like that just go without saying. But maybe it's time we start *saying* when it's important. That's what, you might say, was our first mistake.  Me not saying anything when I should have been and you being so closemouthed.  I should have spoken up back when Don Alfredo shot that bull."

Heath's lips turned up at the corners a little and he looked at Nick.  "You let me know how you felt . . . told me when you put a hand t' my shoulder.  That was . . . enough."

Nick nodded.  "But after everything, after Maria, it wasn't enough. Was it, Heath?"

Heath shook his head agitatedly.  "My fault. Shouldn't have run from the people I love . . ."

Nick grinned widely at those words, repeating them to himself, people I love. His thoughts were interrupted by Heath's faltering voice.  ". . . and the people who love me."

Nick cupped his hand on Heath's chin and lightly pivoted his head. He smiled down into his brother's heavy-lidded eyes.  "And that's a fact."

When Heath nodded and smiled at Nick's words, Nick grinned and gave a few soft taps to Heath's cheek. "Go back to sleep.  I'll wake you when it's time to eat."

Nick watched attentively as Heath started to doze off and then stood, working out the stiffness in his back. He walked to the window, drawing up a shade, the sun spilling into the room.  His heart felt a lot lighter, the knot in this stomach loosening.  He turned and looked at Heath, whispering, "I love you too, Brother."

Chapter 15

Nick walked up to the wood-planked table so vast it filled most of the boardinghouse dining room and tossed blanket rolls and saddlebags onto it. He cursed when one of the saddlebags missed the table and dropped to the floor and again when everything spilled out of it. He squatted down to pick things up, his eyes immediately drawn to two worn and weathered books wrapped loosely in oilcloth. One was a bible, the other a journal, the gold lettering on each so light to almost be indecipherable. He held them in his hands with an unprompted reverence, realizing at once the sacredness of the books. His heart began to pound in his chest and he felt his body tremble. Envelopes turned yellow slid from the bible when he removed the oilcloth wrapping. The letters were from Heath to his mother, the oldest postmarked the16th of May and the last the 12th of December 1863. He could not keep himself from opening them, leaving the rest of the spilled items to remain on the floor, except for the two books and the few letters he held in shaky hands. His eyes searched the boyish scrawl and he felt exhilarated and horrified by the same token. It was wrong of him to pry, he knew it, but he continued anyway, so irrevocably drawn to them.  He hoped to know more of Heath's life and in his hands he held a concrete thread to his brother's past.

Going to the nearby ladderback chair, Nick sat down, setting the bible and journal on the table off to the side while placing the two other letters directly in front of him. He began reading Heath's letter written to his mother during his seven-month internment at Carterson's Confederate Prison. The letter opened with a tender salutation.


My Dearest Mother,

     I take pen in hand to let you know that I am in good health and hope all at home are well also.  I received your fine package of biscuits, dried apples and bacon and both the writing paper and pencils. I am using them now as I had none left and worried greatly that I might not be able to write to you for some time. I shared what food I had with those in my barracks, grateful in doing so for many have kept me well and continue to watch over me. It was of great fortune that I now have a roof above my head and no longer sleep in the street among the many dead and dying. As I write this my heart grows heavy and I cannot help but cry for all those fellows that die in such a horrid manner.

     I am sorry to speak of such matters, but sometimes a melancholy so strong sets upon me and I can only think of you and home and how wretched a place I have come to with no means of earning salary to send back to you. I worry for you and I hope you are able to write soon to let me know how you, Aunt Rachel and Hannah are enduring. I know you have told me not to worry so about you and to think only of my well-being, but that I find is much easier said than done.

     I still think of the ring often and take great pains to search every man with a keen eye in hopes that I might find it. I have hurt you grievously by not keeping it in better care. Even though you have told me that the ring matters very little to you, and it is only my safekeeping that you care about, I still know that I have disappointed you sorely. I know that the loss of it must hurt you much more than it hurts me and I must confess that I am in a bad way over the whole thing. With much time on my hands and little to do, I think more and more about my father. When I was a boy, you told me he was a great man, but you never said his name and I find that I can no longer live without knowing everything. The ring was more than jewelry and I feel a great hole in me as if they have taken away the dream I had of ever knowing my father.

     I am so sorry, Mama. Now I fear that what I want will only hurt you and that is something I will never do. I will not burden you any further with my gloominess, but it is hard to remain hopeful here and more so to keep your thoughts from growing dark. Even as I write you, the fellows are talking of Morgan and Sawyer of my barracks who have just died today from small pox and dysentery. I have been told that twenty to thirty men die a day, maybe more. 

     I will close now and wait to hear from you. I hope this letter gets to you as I know how difficult things are with the ongoing war.  I was surprised and pleased that the box you sent came unmolested. You must have blessed it with a prayer for its safe passage to me. I am finding it hard to end this letter, seeing you so clear before me, your smile bringing me peace.  I will keep your image in my memory when all hope seems lost to me. 

I remain your loving Son,

Heath


Nick sat slumped against the back of the chair with the letter in his hand and looked out the room's large window. It was the size of a door, the wooden sill low to the ground. He watched while the world move forward through its day, no matter the agonies and sufferings it held, well aware that nothing would stop its onward motion except the hand of God.  He had heard the stories and listened to the opinions, the subject talked round and round, the angry recriminations and accusations of what forces were to be blamed for the prisoners' miseries. The South's war treasury was nearly depleted, financially strapped almost from the onset of the war, their women and children starving and left alone to care for themselves, their cities in ruins and then shortly thereafter the prison exchange breaking down, the North not willing to release men who would be pressed back into service to fight against the Union. Wirz had sent an emissary to Washington, Federal prisoners who pleaded for the prisoner exchange to be implemented again, but to no avail. The men were expendable and no one heard their howls of anger toward their President, toward their government that they had been forsaken. Too many arguments to be hashed through, sorted out and Nick only knowing one thing that his brother had been one of those men and it was no longer just impersonal fact to be discussed at dinner parties or over drinks.  No hand was left unsullied; the blood of many would be theirs' to bear for all time.

Nick placed the letter down on the table and somberly ran a finger over his brother's signature.  He rose from the chair, looked with uncertainty around the room and then down at the floor. The saddlebag was at his feet and he squatted down and began to pack Heath's belongings with great care. The scent of fine leather filled each breath taken and he stroked a hand over the dark, pliant bags, saddle oil rubbed and massaged meticulously into it. Everything Heath owned was cared for with painstaking attention. 

When he was finished, he stood, listening for any sound from Heath. Alejandra was with him now, needing to check the wound and change his bandages. She again had sent him on his way to rest, to eat and although Heath seemed to be faring better, it was still no easier to leave his brother's side. 

Preoccupied, he moved to the table and set the saddlebag down, returning to the chair and opening the next letter.  It was dated August 20 in the year of Our Lord 1863.  He snorted derisively at that.  In the year of Our Lord -- the good Lord was no where to be found in '63, off to parts unknown and seemed to have stayed away for a good long time after that. 

From where Nick sat, he turned his head and listened again, anticipating Heath's calls. But it remained quiet, all the boarders at work or seeing to errands. There were only three men who housed permanently at Widow Avery's, all older and without family. Nick smiled when he recalled Alejandra's kindness to the old men, caring for them as a daughter would, listening to their stories that Nick was certain had been told a thousand times before over dinner or on those quiet Sunday evenings as they watched another day end. Their eyes had met briefly during one old codger's particularly long and rambling story which had been filled with so many pauses that Nick was close to poking the man to prod him along. They had grinned at each other then and Alejandra had had to cover her mouth to keep back her laughter, though Nick had heard her giggling. At that moment when he had looked at her, he had seen the spring and the summer, full and blossoming, giving and loving and he felt something come alive in him, wanting to live safely within her, to be of her heart, sharing the seasons together. 

The moment had ended with a sharp cry coming from Heath's room, again fevered and lost. With his brother's needs uppermost in his mind, Nick quickly put aside all romantic thought. He had sat with Heath, putting the heel of his hand to Heath's cheek and had cursed the heat he felt there, the fever still deep.


He balled his fists at the memory and felt the paper ruck in his grasp. Appalled, he desperately pressed the frail letter flat with his palms. It was little worse for wear, already holding the appearance of having been handled and read often over time.  Nick thought of Leah then and onto his own mother.  He had not given much thought to his mother's pain, her worry for him when he had gone to fight. She had always seemed so strong, so willing to risk everything for what was in her view the right thing. He was like her in many ways, no room for sentiment, only doing what needed to be done and then getting on with it. With the war over, it had been back to the task of bringing the ranch to heel. At that his thoughts automatically turned to Heath, grateful for him every day. The ranch had never run as smoothly as it did now, practically hummed, Heath so in tuned to its needs and them to each others. It was a fit like no other, but he had fought tooth and nail against it. Not the first time, he had made himself out to be the fool, and he had been more than happy to eat crow, to admit he had been wrong for his brother, for Heath. 

He looked down at the frayed letter. It began with a salutation this time more stirring, more poignant in its simplicity: 


My Mama,

     It grieves me to think that my last two letters did not reach you. I had hoped to hear from you, but I am now certain the mail is not making it to us poor souls whose only joy comes from reading the words from our loved ones.  Perhaps it is because of the distance between us.  Many prisoners who have family living inside Rebel lines get near weekly packages and money.  Samuel Fletcher a kind boy of seventeen and myself now fifteen, as you know, have become good friends. He gets many a treat from his family as they live close by and it is my good fortune that he thinks of me often. 

     You will be pleased to hear that I have started up my schooling again. Another fellow by the name of Joseph Hale had been a teacher before the war.  It cheers me to do more with my day than lay about lamenting over my fate or as some of the other men, making up games with greybacks to mark time or flanking what little rations there are from the mess hall. I will not speak of food or the filth here. I am ashamed of my appearance, but we are all in the same shape for the most part. Although there are some men far worse off than myself, their clothing in tatters, wearing all but rags and lacking shoes. It must have been some evil place from whence they came so dire is their condition. I have met many young boys, some having been musicians and flag bearers, which is a brave and difficult task to undertake, what with no weaponry to speak of. I'd not want to be asked to bear the flags nor bang the drums as I am far too cowardly a soul. I feel much braver with my rifle in hand.  I must confess to you, Mama, that I have killed men, and sometimes it had seemed that I had done so gladly, unable to bring myself to think of anything more than just to end the fighting with my heart still beating and my lungs still filling with air.  I might one day learn to live with all I have seen and done, but I never will if you cannot find it in yourself to forgive me for going against you and joining up in this Godforsaken war. 

     There has been some talk of parole and most of the fellows of my barracks are hopeful.  As I have been here the longest, Fletcher seems optimistic I will be up for release first.  I pray that it is to be so, though I wish it for all. There is a cruel rumor that the exchange program might soon be stopped.  I'm not sure of the reasoning, but the fellows who know these things have had many a heated and agitated discussion because of it.

     I am afraid your son is now as skinny as a rail, but when I am finally paroled I will have 60 days furlough to be home with you, Hannah and Aunt Rachel. 

     The Officer in charge of Carterson, Bentell, is very strict so we must watch ourselves closely.  Nothing more of great importance to tell, I only hope that you are well and I will hear news from home shortly.  I am so lonely and miss hearing from you.  I am ashamed to say that I cry most nights and I could not hold them back during the daylight hours recently, but was greatly comforted by my teacher, Mr. Hale, saying that he himself cries every day and him a grown man. 

     Again I do not wish to stop writing, but I fear my paper is low and I will not have enough to last until my parole. I sorely hate to trouble you, but if you might send more, I would be most pleased by it.  Again I call up your face and find myself at the Stanislaus fishing and swimming, the water cool and clean.  I will be home soon and that sustains me.

I remain your loving Son,

Heath


Nick lowered the letter onto the table and quietly wept.

Chapter 16

Nick sat in the rocking chair beside his brother's sickbed and read aloud to the senseless man passage after passage from the bible.  He had been reading to Heath for so long and so stridently that his throat had grown scratchy and he had developed a thirst so powerful that he felt as though he could not swallow.  He was driven by something deep inside him, holding emotions within so strong, so impossible to understand that he felt as if he would be ill with each word he spoke.  He could not rid himself of the visions that Heath's letters conjured up with his own painful recollections also coming to the fore.

For no reason, he suddenly stopped reading and stood to look out the window, giving a passing glance to the quilt that fluttered to the floor.  A moment, thinking he should pick it up perhaps the quilt of some special sentiment to Alejandra.  He watched it settle over the chair's rockers and dispassionately turned away to the window.

It was nearing evening.  Another day away from the family, another day for them to wonder and worry no matter how buoyant the wording of his telegram. He was not one for subtlety and he wondered if his guise failed miserably.  He almost hoped it had, needing Jarrod now for his clearheaded thinking. The man was always calm, always rational to the point of irritation. That was what he needed: Jarrod's intellect, his mother's strength, Audra's optimism. He thought of his sister then, hearing her voice, soft and melodic as birdsong. She was beautiful, open and loving, believing him to be a man above all others and he had never wanted to disappoint her. But he had, more than once, seeing it in her crestfallen face when he had been unreasonably cruel to Heath.

Audra had accepted Heath as her brother nearly right from the start as he had so desperately wanted to do. But the anger held him back.  He was angered at the whole sordid mess, angered at his father for his infidelity, angered at his mother for her almost cowed acceptance of that betrayal and allowing the one reminder into her home to punish her and each of them, day in and day out, and even worse yet, the "boy" looked like their father more than any of them.  It was a hard, cold slap in the face and the fire in his belly burned irrationally and became misdirected, hurting a man that had already known more than his share of rejection and pain and heartache and life's cruelties far beyond Nick's understanding and this only adding to his anger. 

Nick thought back to the time on the mill stream bridge. He smiled thinking about the boy that challenged him then, the grin, the slow easy way he had of talking, sweet as you please. He could have tarried the whole morning, sparring with the man. Though the words held a hint of menacing, Nick had seen in the boy's eyes no desire to harm him, merely holding a stubbornness, a teasing, a pride as deep and inherent as his own.  It had been the beginning on that bridge, sensing someone he could ride the river with, almost familiar in a vague, elusive way, pinpointing it the minute the words were breathed out and made flesh: "I'm your father's bastard son."

He could not deny it, but deny it he did, loudly and vehemently, until he woke the dead, needing to wake the dead, to pluck his father from the sod of his final rest.  Damn you, were the words screaming in his head.  Damn you. Words meant for his father, but pelted out at the boy, the brother who stood in front of them as racked in anger and heartache and bitterness and sorrow as they were.

It seemed to be a lifetime ago, different people then, though it had only been a few months passing. Heath's ability to forgive, so generous of heart, had amazed Nick, which had made it all that much more perplexing to him as to why Heath ran this time. Was it something they had failed to recognize, something they could have prevented with the right words spoken?  His mother was Heath's staunch protector, never once backing down from Don Alfredo nor from what Heath meant to her. No one came close to Victoria Barkley's impassioned eloquence, knowing he got his "fire" from her and Jarrod his fluency with words. A woman to be admired and they all did, Heath even more so. Nick saw the gratitude every day in Heath's eyes when he looked at their "Mother." No better man could Nick have chosen for a brother and in a way he did choose, having the power, the influence to deny Heath his birthright.  It would have taken some doing, but it could have been done, driving Heath away, without doubt, to the chagrin of his family. He had been confused then, but not any longer, now deeply regretting having been a party to any of Heath's pain and more so remorseful after reading about Heath's emotional and physical strife.

He thought of Alejandra and knew that she was a fine woman. She had told Nick of herself, her life, her sufferings, her families' distance toward her, and her husband's death only two years ago. Was she ready to love again and was he ready to give her that love?  He felt cowardly as he contemplated that question, not able to give a definitive answer and because of that not wanting to hurt her again if he was not able to commit to her.  She was not a woman to dally with as he did with the giddy and somewhat witless women back home. She was a woman with backbone, a woman he could love, but still he held back, unsure, too frightened of the power he held and with it the chance of hurting someone else again. 

Nick turned and watched Heath sleep, or what he hoped was sleep and not something much deeper, further away from life.  Maria Montero was beautiful, a passing fancy to Nick, teasingly feigning an interest in her to get a rise out of Heath.  Nick had seen the look on Heath's face the moment Maria and his younger brother locked gazes.  He smiled remembering the dreamy distracted look in Heath's eyes as the carriage pulled away, having to call his brother's name several times before getting his attention. The man had been clearly smitten with the woman. It should have been a good thing, but it was not. Hands had been forced, ultimatums had been given and Maria had made her choice and by doing so had broken his brother's heart. 

Maria and Alejandra -- one choosing family, the other love and unfairly, as life so often could be, everyone losing.  It did not have to be that way; Nick knew that from firsthand experience.  He had made the right decision all those months before, accepting Heath, letting his heart override all those pointless reasons why Heath should not be a part of the family.  Ultimately, if he had not done so, so much would have been lost as it had been for Alejandra and Maria. But Nick knew the worst of it was that Heath had been thrust back into the carnage of past hurts and betrayals. 

"NO!"  Nick startled at his own voice and looked quickly at Heath, hoping he did not frighten the man.  He lowered his head dejectedly, not having gotten any response at all.

Nick moved to the bed and sat on the edge, grabbing up his brother's hand. He watched Heath's face for a long time and spoke with fervor to his younger brother. "You will get better and you will find the right woman."

Alejandra stood in the doorway having raced to Heath's room at Nick's loud shout.  Tears came to her eyes at the conviction and love she heard in Nick's words just spoken to his brother.  She brought a fist to her chest, her heart beating rapidly.  She was frightened by her thoughts and what she felt surfacing in her.  She was beginning to have feelings for the dark-haired cowboy and it thrilled her and terrified her.  She had lost everything dear to her because of love and was not sure if she was willing to endure the possibility of losing again.  She was no longer naive nor hopeful, too long having been tethered to the earth, knowing the terrible blows one took when reaching for the stars.  As a child the skies enticed her, the milky way, the dippers, watching in the night with her papa at first and then a line of beaus in between on lovers' walks and then Johnny . . . she no longer watched the night sky, no longer looked to the stars . . .  until last night with Nick.  He had pointed out each one as her Johnny had done and as her papa before him.  They had talked and laughed about everything.  She had shared things with Nick that she had kept locked away, vowing never to speak of any of it in her lifetime.  So easily he had gotten her to open up, so easily. Now he needed her as she watched his head bow and his shoulders shake slightly.  Her heart jumped in her chest aware that he was crying. 

Nick stiffened a minute, feeling an arm brush across his back and then relaxing, allowing the embrace.  He wept into her slight shoulder, unable to hold back emotions that he had warred with and usually had been able to control since the loss of his father. 

Nick slowly composed himself.  "I'm sorry."

"Please don't.  There's no need--"

"Well ah . . . I'm just . . . I've just been feelin' a little off plumb the past few days." He did not look at her when he spoke.

"Please don't feel ashamed. You've had little sleep, and the worry over your brother . . . it's understandable." She let go of him and took a few steps back.

Nick jammed the heel of his hand quickly into one eye and then the other, still not able to look at her.

"It seems to me there's a story to be told and I'll listen whenever you want to tell it."  She smiled, bending down to retrieve the quilt and folded it as she sat in the rocker. "I see life as a tragic and beautiful gift. To be given the greatest of happiness, like the love of a parent for a child, a brother for a brother, a man for a woman and then to have it stolen away -- a heartbeat of joy in trade for a possible lifetime of pain. Is it worth the chance, worth the tradeoff to feel, to love when it could all be lost?" Alejandra rose from the chair and stood in front of Nick, raising his chin gently.  "I say yes, Nick Barkley. I say yes."

Nick smiled and lowered his eyes, not saying anything. Alejandra remained where she was, a little unnerved. She waited for him to say something, hoping he would say something and then able to breathe again when he finally spoke.

"Alejandra . . ."  Nick stood and reached for her hand. He started to talk, but it seemed more to himself.  "Just seems to me that the timing's all wrong, but I can't seem to -- don't want to -- I don't want to leave here without telling you how I feel about you. I can't make any promises, not now, not until I get my brother home, get him back on his feet."

"Nick.  I don't want any promises from you." Alejandra squeezed his hand.  "I'm not even sure . . ." she hesitated, gathering her thoughts. "I thought that I would never feel anything again. I was wrong."  She looked into Nick's eyes and smiled. "I can't even tell you how afraid this makes me feel, but I stand by what I said."

Nick smiled, his dimples prominent.  But then he grew serious. "We'll be leaving come morning. I need to get him home."

Alejandra looked up at Nick startled by his decision.  She walked over to the chair and sat. She watched Nick lower himself to the bed, taking up his brother's hand. Nick looked at her, searching for understanding and assurance that his decision was sound. 

"His wound is healing, but he needs to replenish the blood loss and he's still fevered."

"I need to get him home."

"I know." Alejandra's eyes settled on Heath.  "The traveling will be hard on him, but I think he'll make it."

"He'll make it because of you. Because of all you've done for him."  Nick stood, walking over to Alejandra and raised her gently to her feet, kissing her. "Will you come to Stockton when I ask you, even though it might not be for some time?"

She looked at him for several minutes, her demeanor pensive as if thinking over a grave and life-altering matter. Her eyes were solemn and she nodded her head.  "Yes. I'll come."

Chapter 17

Nick had gotten the wagon from the smithy early that morning. One draft horse, an impressive Breton, had been hitched to it and was ready to take them home. It had not been easy getting Heath into the wagon, the man needing to be carried, too weak from blood loss, and only staying conscious minutes at a time. Several men from town including the sheriff had offered their help and they had quickly settled Heath on a ticking mattress and a newly purchased eiderdown quilt, and then covering him with blankets that Alejandra deemed a necessity even in the heat of late summer.

Nick could not ignore Heath's vague half-there stare as he was lifted from the boarding room bed and carried to the wagon. When Nick had crouched beside him, Heath had looked at him as though he were miles off, his eyes unfocused, but struggling to see him. His smile and the weak grip on Nick's hand had almost felt like a goodbye. But Nick would have none of that, talking loudly and a bit gruff, his hands set on Heath's shoulders, his eyes like fire, searing into the brother he loved. 

Alejandra had given no promises nor opinions, believing a man had to make his own choices for himself. She had told Nick that the trip might be difficult and if Heath's wounds bled again it very well might kill him.  She had then given Nick's hand a reassuring squeeze, reminding him that Heath had the Lord on his side, having bled out more than any man had a right to and still lived.

Despite the muzzy run of his thinking, Nick was determined to get Heath home, something pushing him to make sure Heath knew that no matter what happened in life, his family, his home would remain a constant, a place where he would be loved and cared for no matter. Nick had grown up with this knowledge, put it to the test more times than he could count, but his brother was just beginning to learn this. Nick knew that the boy had known love since birth, given a solid foundation thanks to his mother, Leah, and Rachel and, of course, Hannah. Nick had been grateful to Heath's mother for that, though never believing he would ever have a kind word for the woman. But knowing Heath, loving Heath, he could not help but give Leah Thomson her due. 

They had traveled now close to three hours in the high sun, Heath remaining motionless and silent the whole way. Nick had stopped several times to check Heath's wounds and to get him to take in water.  The last stop had caused him great concern, needing to rub Heath's throat to prompt him to swallow, to drink, having done this many times with ailing foals. It had worked that time, Heath suddenly greedy for the water, drinking down as much as Nick felt prudent.  Nick was glad of that, but still his emotions were in disarray, fearful of Heath's unrelenting fever and his semiconscious state.

He felt suddenly alone and anguished that the journey had been a foolhardy decision.  He should have waited until Heath was well.  What had been the rush?  What was all-fired important that he would risk Heath's life just to get him home?  He stopped up short, the answer looming in front of him, but not wanting to voice it aloud, not willing to accept what he knew to be the undeniable truth.

His thinking now was no longer confused, understanding immediately why he wanted to get Heath home.  He swallowed hard, the answer resounded in his head, repeated over and over in his mind. It was as simple as this: If Heath was to die, he would do so at home.

Nick would see to it, knowing it was the right choice. Because of his brother's relentless quest to be part of a family, because of his struggles to find his place, Nick would be damned, if he would let his brother die in some mining town in a boarding house room with only him to offer comfort. Heath had fought too hard and too long and Nick avowed if his brother should not make it, it would be a gentle and loving passing with his family all around in his own room, in his own home.

He choked down his sorrow, the thought of Heath dying sharply actual in his mind.  He would do his uttermost to keep his brother alive because he did not dare to think about what would become of him if Heath should die.  He had nearly broken after his father's death, unable to find satisfaction from the ranch, feeling as if his dreams had become as evanescent as rain on heated rock.  It had taken some time, but he had healed -- that time . . .  He looked over his shoulder at Heath, barely seeing the rise of his brother's chest, as though the effort to breathe was becoming as difficult as slogging through mud. But at least he was breathing, and Nick took some comfort in that.

* * * * * * * *

He had made the wrong choice, leaving the way he had even after seeing the worry in their eyes.  With Nick, his caring came out in waves of anger, vicious with love, wanting to bolt him to the floor, to keep him from harm, to not leave them, to not leave him.  When Nick loved, it was fierce and all encompassing.  Heath remembered suddenly, somewhere in the black depths of him, that Nick had come for him, had found him.  Slowly again, his mind working, feeling a constant pitch and shudder of something under him where he laid, moving, sometimes jarring him enough to split him apart. 

He had made the wrong choice and because of that a young boy was dead now with no chance of redemption or hope.  It was by his own hand that the boy had died, remembering the moment now as if in a slow-moving dream and then his heart jumping, his stomach reeling at the memory, a gun aimed at Nick.  Nick!  What was he doing there?  Don't! Gabriel! Nick! Watch out! 

A moan caught in his throat, and his arms felt pinned to the ground, forged into whatever he laid upon -- not land, he knew the feel and smell of that well, dirt and sweet grasses, loving the scent of rain upon it, mixing together, soothing him, but now all he smelled was the coppery tang of blood.  A woman's face came to him, her hands soft and pale ran like cool waters over him, bringing relief from the fever that pulsed from him, that rose and shimmered like heat off desert lands.  Words -- loud and plaintive -- rumbled over him and through him, a  voice that was strong and familiar and afflicted.  His thoughts rilled steadily, trying to make sense of it all. He had not died, hurt too much to be dead, but close enough to it not to be worried. 

A wagon, he felt it then, the wood under his fingertips, not freshly painted, able to pick at it, feeling a bit of it catch under his nail.  Men around him, carrying him and Nick holding his hand and the look in those eyes, that fierce love, angry at him for something, and recalling the need to reassure his brother, though only managing a smile and a slight squeeze of Nick's hand, but that only seemed to provoke Nick more. Heath remembered the hands on his shoulders, rattling him, sucking him up out of his dream and into life and all its pain. Nick, angry as hell at him, a familiar fit.  No! That was not true.  It was different now between them.  Nick loved him, depended on him. They were brothers, a lifetime bridged in just a few months. He had been mistaken, it had not been anger there in Nick's eyes, it had been fear. All because of the wrong choice made. 

Another moan, this one taking flight, a wingbeat and then another and then sighing at the sound of Nick's voice as he halted the wagon. 

"Heath-boy?"  Nick set the brake and flung long legs over the seat of the wagon, landing in a loose-limbed squat beside Heath.  Nick searched his brother's face.  "Heath?" 

When the pale eyes opened, Nick's face split into a wide grin.  "Well it's about dang time you woke up.  I was getting mighty lonely.  Ain't the same without you runnin' off at the mouth."

Heath smiled lazily at Nick and lifted his hand, touching Nick's leg.  Nick felt the weak thump of it against him and took Heath's hand protectively into his own.  "Heath, listen to me, boy.  We're going home."

Heath nodded.  "That's  . . .  real good, Nick. Real  . . .  good." 

Nick smiled and gripped Heath's hand tight.  "I thought you might like that."

Heath nodded again.  "Home, Nick.  Want t' go home."

"I figured ya did."  Nick brought his face closer to Heath's, the men now looking eye to eye.  "There's one thing I'm askin' you to do for me."

Heath licked his lips and nodded.  He felt himself starting to fade, to drift, to tumble away from Nick.  A tug on his hand brought him back, suddenly remembering that Nick was waiting for him to speak.  One thing, Nick wanted one thing from him.  His mouth opened and he heard himself speaking as though he was a mile away, the buzzing in his ears making it hard for him to hear clearly. 

"Anythin'  . . . "  Heath hoped that Nick had understood him, not sure if he had strength enough to say it again.  Heath's heart nearly broke then at the look that came over Nick's face, hurting Heath to see so keenly the measure of love Nick had for him.  And then he heard Nick's words, tearing him apart, spoken in almost a broken sob: "Don't die."

Heath shuddered, still hearing the low thrum of Nick's voice, but no longer understanding the words.  Only the ones that mattered more than any other -- don't die.  Heath knew Nick would fight for him forever, would only let him go when his own life-thread had broken, only then.  That gave him the will to try, to struggle and go on as he had done a thousand times before, but this time it was love that drove him and not some wild and instinctual will to survive.  There was so much more he had to live for now.  He cursed aloud then and he thought he heard Nick laugh. Words again, this time a little clearer: "For your own good, you best not be using that kind of language around Mother."  Heath felt a  squeeze of his hand, a pat to his shoulder.  "Get some rest now, boy." 

Boy -- He had hated it when Nick had called him that in the beginning. Funny how things had changed. How one hated word now spoke of love, of caring, of brotherhood.

Nick watched Heath, seeing the corner of his brother's mouth lift in that smile of his -- a smile that expressed so much, from deviltry, to resignation, to joy.  He read Heath well now, knew his tells, but sometimes getting too caught up in himself and the ranch that he often overlooked them, trampling over signs Heath might have left for him, like he had done when it came to Heath and Maria. 

Nick climbed back over the seat and released the brake.  He would not be so shortsighted again.

Chapter 18

Nick had kept to the Stanislaus following the river road that was a well-traveled thoroughfare.  Wagon tracks were rutted deeply into the earth from heavy use, but no one had been about that evening. Nick searched the river's bank looking for a well-suited camp.  The sun was lowering to the west and a rind of moon rose vaguely in the pale blue of the eastern sky. The coolness of the oncoming night could be felt in a wind that seemed to have sprung up from the earth, itself.  There was not a single trace of another soul which pleased Nick well, not in the mood nor having the time for idle chatter with drummer or drifter. 

It would not be too long before the close of day, and Nick halted the buckboard near several windfall trees that were stacked atop each other making a natural windbreak.  A stand of willows poked up on either side of the clearing like a gaped-tooth smile.  Nick set to work, releasing the leads of their two mounts that had been tethered to the back of the rig and then unharnessed the Breton.  After seeing to the horses, Nick built up a fire and then quickly set up a sturdy camp-cot. That completed, a tarpaulin was fastened to tent poles placed above the cot, and draped down over the windfall trees. He wasted little time preparing the meal. A Dutch oven soon sat in the coals with a stew simmering along with sourdough bread and a pot of coffee. 

Heath helped as much as he could when Nick began to move him from the wagon. Nick talked of the fine cot and warm fire the whole time and Heath had caught the strong scent of onions and beef mixed with wood smoke. He felt his stomach rumble from hunger. Nick tugged at the mattress, bringing Heath closer to the tailboard.  From there, Nick gently pulled Heath forward by his legs while Heath shimmied himself toward Nick. With his long legs dangling over the tailboard, Heath waited while Nick carefully placed a hand behind his back and helped to lift him from the wagon.

"Easy now." Nick coaxed Heath on, watching closely for any signs of him growing faint. "Ready? Okay here we go.  Good boy . . .  good."  Now standing, Nick put his arm tightly around Heath's waist, his fingers gripping the leather belt and his other hand holding onto Heath's forearm that was draped over Nick's shoulder.  Heath barely was able to walk, still so weak, needing at least a week of fluids and rest to replenish the blood loss.  

Eventually, they had made it to the tarpaulin shelter and Heath now lay on the cot too fatigued to move, listening to the sounds around him: The faint rill of the river, Nick's voice, soft and distant, the sweep of wind through leaves, the flapping of canvas overhead, the clattering of a lid and again Nick's voice this time closer and in that minute of thinking, beside him, Nick now sitting on a nearby wood stool. 

"How 'bout some stew?"  Nick shifted closer to Heath, placing the bowl into the hand that held a spoon, freeing up the other to hold Heath down against the cot.  "Now hold on there. You're not going anywhere. You need to lay still."

"Can't . . . too hard."

"What?"

"Can't eat . . . flat on my back."

"You can and you will."

"Not right . . . eatin' in bed. A man worth his weight -- "

"A man worth his weight nothin'." Nick winked. "You just never been with the right woman, if you get my meaning."

"By the looks of things, my prospects . . . ain't getting any better."

"What's that supposed to mean? Not pretty enough for you?" Nick grinned and brought the bowl closer to Heath and began to feed him slowly spoonful by spoonful. But before long, Heath drifted into an exhausted sleep, scarcely eating any of the stew.

Nick lowered his head and studied the contents of the bowl as if he were reading his fortune in the patterns of thickening gravy. He fought down his worry over Heath, setting the bowl of stew down beside him.  He stood and pulled up the wool blankets to Heath's chin and cupped his hand on the crown of Heath's head as though offering a sacred anointment.  Nick did not take his eyes off Heath, even as he bent to pick up the bowl and as he stood to leave. 

The horned moon was suspended overhead in the darkening sky and Nick's heart filled with a profound and terrible sadness.  He quickly smote his growing thoughts of melancholy and ate the remainder of the stew without further preoccupation, washing it down with coffee. Everything was tasteless to him. When he had finished eating, he washed the pans and bowls at the river's edge. He lit the lantern with a shuck ignited from the cookfire and he walked encircled in a yellow light to the makeshift tent.  He gathered up and unfurled a few blankets out on the ground near the cot where Heath slept deeply.  The wooden stool worked nicely as a small table and Nick set the lantern on it while lowering to the blankets.  He stretched out exhausted, though sleepless, straining to hear the sounds of his brother's breathing. 

He thought of Alejandra and their parting. The scent of her perfume was still strong in his mind and he was able to recall quite vividly the feel of her lips against his own. He felt less afraid of the future, almost hopeful about things and with that he started to nod off into pleasant dreams of Heath on the mend and the look on Alejandra's face upon her first viewing of his valley.  He was awakened abruptly by the sound of his name being called. 

"Heath?"

"Nick . . ."

Nick raised himself onto his elbows. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

Nick waited.

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"I keep seein' him."

"Seeing who?"

"The boy, Gabriel."

"Oh."  Nick swallowed.  "No need to be doing that."

"I was just wondering . . . I was . . . thinking . . ."

"Heath?"

"I reckon my head hasn't been on straight lately."

"Lately?"  Nick tried to joke, but Heath was silent. "What's on your mind, Heath?"

"They had him settin' out there, trussed up like some kind of circus sideshow."

"You saw?"

"It was all mixed-up in my head.  Wasn't sure if it was real or not." 

"You know as well as I do, those things happen. Not the first time that an outlaw killer is set out on display with a placard 'round his neck telling of his crimes. The town was pretty riled up over that kid killing the old man and woman."  Nick rose to his knees and squatted beside Heath's cot, straining to see his brother's eyes in the dim light. "I'm not apologizing for the fact that it didn't bother me one damn bit.  That kid shot you bad and if he had his way, I'd have taken my last breath days ago." 

"Doesn't make it right."  Heath closed his eyes.

"It's not your fault."  Nick reached for Heath's unbound hand.  "Don't you carry that load."

"I left."

"Come on now, that's pretty thin.  I came looking for you.  Maybe it's my fault the kid's dead."

"No."

"Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe it was my fault. If I hadn't shown up, then that kid wouldn't have tried to kill me and you wouldn't have had to kill him."  Nick sat back on his heels.  "So really when you get right down to it, I'm the one to blame for everything."

"Cut it out."  Heath tried to pull his hand free, but Nick held on tightly. 

"Things happen, good and bad. We don't always have a say as to how things play out."  Nick tugged on Heath's hand.  "You listening to me, boy?"

"I'm listenin'." 

"Okay, then. Try to get some sleep."  Nick gave a pat to Heath's hand. It was warm and Nick knew the fever continued to have a strong hold on his brother. He was surprised that Heath seemed so lucid. Nick laid back down, covering himself with a blanket. His eyes remained open as he watched his brother's profile in the yellow slant of light from the lantern. 

"Nick?"

"Go to sleep."

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"I lost something . . . something real important t' me."

"A ring?" He felt a flash of betrayal when he voiced the question.

Nick saw Heath's head turn quickly to look at him, his eyes wide and glassy in the lamplight.

"No." 

Nick dug into his shirt's pocket.  "Maybe a locket then?"  Nick grinned at the sigh that escaped Heath when he put the locket into Heath's hand. 

Heath looked at it and then held it out to Nick. "Keep it safe for me will ya, big brother?"

Nick swallowed hard, his eyes brimming. "You can count on it."

Heath thrust out his good arm toward Nick's dark form. "It was my mama's."

Nick reached out toward Heath, thinking Heath only wanted to shake his hand.  He was happy when Heath continued to keep hold of him.  "I figured that. Saw her picture and yours." 

"It was a gift from a miner.  The fella was missing his family back east . . ."  Heath took a breath, talking was difficult for him. "He gave my mama the locket for . . . for  letting him hold me. Aunt Rachel told me for weeks after I was born . . . men kept coming.  Some giving the last of their color just to get a peek at me. Mama gave up trying to tell 'em they needn't pay to see me. Hannah said it reminded her of another birth, but then she got herself in such a stir thinking she blasphemed." 

Nick could not find his voice for a time.  He took a breath.  "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"You sound happy, remembering it."

"My Mama was happy then."

Nick was quiet.

"What's . . . what's on your mind, Nick?"

"Just thinking is all."

"About what?"

"Not exactly the picture you painted that first night."

Heath sighed, releasing his hold on Nick's hand, withdrawing.

"Heath, you don't owe me any explanation."

"I owe ya . . . everything."  Heath's eyes tunneled into Nick's. "In many ways what I told you was the truth of how things were."  Heath shook his head. "You riled me good that night. I couldn't see for the anger that took a hold of me."

Nick waited a minute to see if Heath would say anymore.  "I do have that way about me."  Nick watched Heath and was happy to see the grin on his brother's face.  "No more talking now.  They'll be plenty of time for that later.  Go to sleep."

Heath was silent and Nick thought he had fallen into a needed slumber, surprised to hear Heath speak.

"Night, Nick."

"Night, Heath."  

Nick tapped the locket that rested in his shirt's left breast pocket, his heart beating against it and he smiled.  Tomorrow they would be home.

Chapter 19

Victoria Barkley woke to a dreary dawn, hearing the rain falling in heavy drops outside her window. Remnants of a dream lingered and she tried to collect the vanishing pictures. A finely crafted rosewood jewelry box inexplicably drew her attention and she rose from bed and walked over to what had been her husband's dresser. Though his clothing and most of his accouterments had been given away, she still kept the rosewood jewelry box that held his cuff links, several watches, an assortment of rings, fobs, and one very large turnip pocket watch, a birthday gift from Nick.  Also stored there were letters saved from their days of courting which had been bundled and tied together by a satin ribbon she wore as a young girl. 

Her hand trembled as she lifted its lid and moved the pieces around with her fingertips, wincing with surprise by the slight prick of a stickpin. She checked to see if it had drawn blood and seeing none went about trying to locate the piece of jewelry that had surfaced in her memory. Specific images came back to her, although they still made little sense and she turned toward the window, watching the drops of water run down the windowpane. She remembered from her dream of standing in the rain, feeling the coolness of it upon her, soaking her and then appalled as the rain suddenly changed to blood.  She shivered from its vivid image.

A bloodstone ring she recognized to be her husband's, a gift from his father, was what she now sought. She had not seen that particular ring in many years, more than twenty if she was not mistaken. The ring had been a favorite of her husband's and he would often talk about its legend, but more so what the ring meant to his heart. She paused for a moment and tilted her head, clearly seeing him, young, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven and in her eyes the most handsome of men. She struggled to remember his words, to hear his voice. 

Victoria now thought back to that time, again watching as he handed the ring to Jarrod who sat cross-legged on the floor holding his brother, a very young Nick, in his lap. Jarrod was enraptured, listening to the story of the bloodstone ring. She heard Tom telling them the origin of the stone, one legend claiming the red spots through it were that of Phaeton's blood, losing control of the Chariot of the Sun and crashing to the earth. But the other legend that truly captivated her and Jarrod, for Nick had been too young to understand, had been the belief that drops of Christ's blood had fallen upon some jasper at the foot of the cross, staining the stone and because of this held special powers able to stop hemorrhages with the slightest touch. 

She turned back to the rosewood box and went about her searching with such intensity that she had not heard Jarrod's knocking or his calls that grew more and more urgent. When she felt a touch on her shoulder, she startled and dropped the piece of jewelry she held in her hand to the floor.  It landed with enough force to cause it to fly forward and settle beneath the dresser. Quickly kneeling, she ducked her head to see beneath the chest of drawers and ran her hand lightly over the floor until she was able to reach it.  

As she stood, Jarrod looked at the object in her hand.  "Father's ring."

She met Jarrod's gaze and smiled. "Yes, your father's ring."  Victoria handed it to Jarrod.  "The ring was very special to him."

"Yes, I know."

"Do you remember, Jarrod?  Do you really know?"

"I remember the stories that father told. Nick had been just a baby."  Jarrod clasped the ring in his hand, looking at his mother intently.  "What is it, mother? What's bothering you?"

Victoria put her hand on Jarrod's arm as she spoke, but ignored his questions. "And you were only six or so, but always older than your years. Your father loved to tell grand tales.  I remember watching both you and Nicholas . . . and your father.  My world was complete . . . "

A mental image of himself as a boy came to Jarrod, becoming caught up in memory. "I loved to listen to Father speak.  He had such presence. There had been something within him that seemed to captivate . . . to mesmerize whenever he spoke.  I could listen to him for hours.  Those stories by the fire were some of my finest memories."

Victoria walked to the window, her thoughts momentarily brooding. 

"What is it, Mother?"  Jarrod stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She tapped his hand gently, but dismissed him with the touch.  "I'm fine."  Victoria walked back to the jewelry box, closing down the lid.  "The ring was special for far more than its colorful legend.  Your father held the belief that the bloodstone saved his father's life. Your grandfather had taken ill and no doctor could make a diagnosis nor give a cure.  But clearly your grandfather was dying.  He had decided to make one last journey, although against everyone's wishes, but your father's.  He understood . . ."

"Mother?"

She waved off his worry, shaking her head.  "Four months later, your grandfather returned from his trip abroad as healthy as he had been before he had been stricken.  It was miraculous.  The doctors still remained baffled and more so skeptical when your grandfather claimed his renewed good health manifested from the ring's power.  He gave a gift of the ring to all his family, each one inscribed:  life anew. Your father believed in its power as fervently as your grandfather.  Even I could not convince him otherwise."

"Though you tried." Jarrod's words held affectionate teasing.

"I tried, although not very hard."  Victoria grew pensive.  "I had dreamed last night about this very ring and I'm not sure of its meaning."

"Does it need to hold any particular meaning?  Couldn't it just be a pleasant memory of father?"

"I would say yes, but . . . the dream was far from pleasant."

"In what way?"

Victoria shivered then and accepted the comfort of Jarrod's arm across her shoulders.  "It was cold and there was such despair . . . and blood. . . ."  She turned and buried her face into his shoulder. "Oh, Jarrod, what could it possibly mean?"  She pushed away from him before he could answer, her eyes growing distant.  "I'm worried for Heath."

"Heath?"  Jarrod stepped closer to his mother.  "Heath is fine.  Nick's wire said they'd be home in a few days.  As a matter of fact, they should be home today."

"I very much hope so, Jarrod."

"I know so.  Now don't you think Nick and Heath will find it a bit odd that their mother decided *not* to dress for breakfast?"

"Jarrod!"  Victoria gave a slight laugh and a shake of her head as she herded him to the door.  "Thank you for humoring a foolish woman's worries."

"Oh, I'd never say foolish.  Concerned, yes, but foolish . . . not in a million years."

"You're very sweet.  Now go.  I'll be right down." 

Jarrod reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.  "They're fine.  Heath is fine."

Victoria nodded at him and quietly closed the door.

Jarrod stood for a moment outside his mother's bedroom and closely studied the ring.  He lifted it toward better light, turning it to read the inscription and then abruptly looked up at the door.  He stepped closer to knock, but then reconsidered, choosing to wait for a better moment to tell.  He thought to himself how odd it was that he hesitated and wondered what stopped him from voicing a simple fact that the ring, indeed, was not their father's, but their grandfather's.

He stared again at the ring somewhat disturbed and then gripped it in his hand while making his way downstairs.

Chapter 20

Heath watched as Nick stood at the entry of the makeshift tent, his shoulders humped under the low tarpaulin, his face lifted at an awkward angle into the rain. Worry and defeat hung heavily on the man like the thick mustiness of wet earth in the morning air.  After a time, Heath thought he had caught a glimpse of a smile at one corner of Nick's mouth, the left profile to him in clear view and Nick's face seeming to lighten in the passing minutes. 

"It's clearing up."  Nick wiped down his face with the back of his sleeve and leaned over Heath.  "How 'bout some breakfast?"

Heath shook his head, his voice weak. "I'm gonna beg-off.  Could handle a little water, though."

Nick grumbled and reached for the canteen.  "You'll need to eat to get your legs back under ya."

Heath nodded and closed his eyes.  "Just water."

"All right, I'll let it go for now."  Nick placed a hand on Heath's forehead and was not surprised to still feel the heat of it.  He looked down into weary eyes, the blue of them washed-out, dulled.  Heath's face was pale and drawn and in three days time he had grown ragged, ravaged by blood loss and weakened without food, his stomach concaved, a hollow between hipbones. 

Nick had moments when he felt certain all would be lost, but it was tempered with measured hope.  So bleak was their predicament in the predawn hours with the rain's deluge at times in a sideways slant, only to have fortune rekindled with the lessening of the rain and the brightening of grey skies. The sun had begun to break through and they would be able to make their way for home with certainty arriving before evening. 

When Nick stepped out from under the tarpaulin, he was grateful to feel the end of a light mist. It was quickly giving way to a  full sun that seemed to practically sizzle and hiss on everything sopping and light steam began to rise. Nick was pleased, but hoped it would not get too hot before he had completed his tasks.  He had left Heath in a half-doze, the boy not able to give into the needed rest.  Weakness of any kind was hard on a man like Heath who was used to fending for himself.  Nick recalled his own stubbornness and foolish pride that had gotten him into trouble more than once, pushing himself unnecessarily before being completely healed.  It had not been borne of necessity. Jarrod had hit the nail on the head those times, calling it plain and simple stupidity.  Heath had reasons all his own and Nick knew it came down to survival.  But he did notice that Heath had given himself over to his care more and more, and his heart grew buoyant because of that. 

The fire had long since gone to coals and ash, the rain having doused the remaining embers, leaving a murky, gray puddle of mud in the fire pit.  Everything had been attended to the night before, skillet, coffeepot, Dutch Oven covered and safely stored away in the wagon along with their tack, all bone-dry. 

Nick was not hungry either, although he did have a powerful yearning for a strong cup of coffee.  Instead he pulled out a cold biscuit from a burlap sack and washed it down with tepid water from a nearby canteen.  He rinsed his mouth and spat the water out past his boot tips and hung the canteen on a branch that had broken off close to the trunk of a willow tree making a natural stob. He looked once at the tent that housed his sleeping brother and then went about tending the horses. 

* * * * * * * *

Heath woke startled and looked around at where he laid, confusion lingering far too long for comfort.  He was alone and his faulty memory only brought him to the moment after he had been shot and his heart thumped against his ribs with alarm. He was overwhelmed by a sense of deep foreboding, an utter feeling of doom. He could not put the layers together, could not place where he was or how he arrived at such a place.  His sight was inadequate, the edges of his vision tunneled and black, white spots like pinpricks of starlight appeared and became distorted in size and shape. He was unarmed and with that realization, his panic heightened tenfold.

It took him several minutes of great struggle to rise from the cot, and then getting his footing, he swayed about like a tree in heavy winds. The feeling reminded him of a time after the war, just turned seventeen, still not eating as a "man" his size should and foolishly drinking down some home-brewed liquor, it going to his head too quickly. He had woken that night beside a woman as pale as moonlight. She had told him her name in a whisper against his lips and it had filled him up and he had repeated it over and over as he had laid beside her with their fingers entwined. Lily. He smiled thinking of her. She was soft and frail and pure as all things born of innocence on this earth. She was the first one after the war that had shown him love and tenderness and a caring that he had forgotten could be afforded to him, afforded to mankind, holding him through the night and many nights thereafter. 

With her face still in his mind's eye, he staggered forward toward the tent's entry. He was lightheaded and he began to struggle against the bandages that bound his arm, not comprehending the harm he was causing himself with each angry tug. He felt hot and he remembered the rill of water, but was unsure if the memory had come from a dream. He wobbled toward a faint light that glowed like fox fire outside the darkened tarpaulin, his eyes sensitive that he lowered his head against it. Dizziness nearly disabled him, until he sucked in deep breaths of air to settle down his queasiness and was righted if only for the moment.  He felt something sticky and wet against his bound hand, but paid it little heed, and then with one last tug freed his left arm.  It fell alongside him uselessly, nearly numbed, and the sensation of his arms and fingers awakening brought tears to his eyes.

Heath lifted his good arm across his body and pressed his hand above his heart. Blood oozed through his fingers.  He was amazed to see it and quickly lowered his hand away from the wound and wiped the blood onto his pant's leg.  Burnt. Bone-dry. Heat flared through him and his growing thirst was beyond reason and he continued blindly toward the river that was partially remembered as the world swam around him.

* * * * * * * *

The Breton was harnessed and the wagon bed once again was piled high with quilts and blankets. Nick was anxious to get on with the last leg of their journey and he looked over at the tent which was set a fair distance from the wagon.  He was keyed up, pulled tautly as cord ready to be sprung, and he shook his head to clear away his tension and placed his gloved hands on narrow hips a moment as he breathed in the morning air.  Soon it would all be over, but to what end? Nick ran a hand through his hair and turned his eyes to the brightening sky. His thoughts were uneasy. The past lingered there like a ghost, abject and lost, needing to find rest, to make peace. There was malice in his heart and murder in his eyes and he wanted to throttle someone, but all deserving were out of his reach.  

They were of different natures, Nick understood this, as he understood that he and Jarrod were different. Heath had somehow accepted life's damages that fraught him, body and soul, having made peace with it all and able to go on headlong into it over and over without refuge. Nick reflected a moment on that and cursed, the anger momentarily burning in him, repeating aloud, "Without refuge."  That was wrong, so wrong.  Heath did have refuge. He had a home, a family, and still he ran.

Nick cursed again, knowing he had brushed aside Heath's apology, his words of contrition. It was now suddenly clear to him that old habits died hard and Heath had left to remedy things alone, to lick his wounds alone, wanting nothing more than to be alone.  It was not so much that Nick did not want to help Heath, but more so that Heath chose not to let him, would not let his guard down around him. Nick knew Heath had been happy. Maria was a lovely girl, but Nick saw that it was a tenuous match and he had seen despair and melancholy in those blue eyes that were at times as old as the world's beginnings, as old as sorrow itself.  Nick had been blessed with a resilient nature, quick to anger, but just that quick to forgive. He had been born into a far better world than Heath, born of hope and God's favor and because of that all things had been possible for him. Of course, there had been burdens, but there had been far more joy.

His anger subsided and a sudden smile appeared on his face as a thought crossed his mind, Heath had said he was coming back, that he should not have left.  Nick nodded, feeling reassured that perhaps Heath did understand it now, understanding 'brotherhood, understanding 'family'.  

With that he headed to the tent, feeling oddly exultant, a hopefulness rising in him. When he ducked his head to enter the tarpaulin enclosure, he called to Heath.  He was not surprised when there was no answer, thinking Heath finally slept. The adjustment of his eyes to the darkened tent was slow and he walked forward to the camp-cot tentative as a blind man. He was taken by surprise when his boots became tangled in blankets. 

"What the hell?"  Nick stumbled and fell hard onto the cot, his eyes wide open with terrible realization. He felt around for a time not willing to believe what his eyes finally saw or what his hands touched. He was stunned at the turn of misfortune. 

Nick jumped from the cot, shaking the wooden poles as he clambered through the small passageway.  He looked to the ground to seek out footprints in the mud which were now quite obvious to him as they would have been before if he had only taken the time to notice.  He seemed to be in a constant state of annoyance, chastising his every action, every motive.  It served no purpose, only inhibiting his every decision.  Never had he been one to carry the world's woes on his shoulder and never did he believe all things wrong were his doing, fated to misfortune, born under a dark star, as they say.

In fact, he believed quite differently, knowing that he was capable of overcoming life's hardest trials, no adversity too difficult, no challenge too great.  He was a man that did not fail nor took failure well.  So where did this uncertainty come from?  Why was he allowing himself to believe in the worst rather than rallying, rather than believing in himself as he always did?  The stakes were higher, the possible loss of a brother, the loss of Heath was like a hard blow to the stomach, a pain so debilitating that he could not think straight. He was letting fear paralyze him, allowing whatever forces at large that seemed hell bent on taking his brother from him to get the upper-hand. 

While his mind worked to free itself of the murk and confusion, Nick pushed his body into motion.  There were deep footprints in the muddy earth headed off toward the river.  Nick chose to shut down his mind, not putting words to his fears, certain it would make it actual. Every few steps he saw drops of blood on the sere halm of grasses, staggering him. His heart nearly burst when he reached the riverbank, seeing Heath floating on the waters as if a resurfaced corpse. 

Nick ran down the bank, losing his footing halfway and landing with a hard jolting to teeth and body.  He lay on his back working to get the air back into his lungs, shaking his head to set his brain in order.  After getting his wits about him, he leaped toward his brother.  He gripped Heath's belt and tugged the man to the silty river's edge, sitting with a thump and pulling Heath into his lap. His hands roamed Heath's chest, searching for a heart beating. He flung his head back in a mute prayer with tears rolling off his jawbones, forever beholding himself to a God that he worshiped more from habit than need.  A lesson here he was certain, but he had little time to ponder it, needing to get Heath warm and stop the blood that bubbled out from between stitches that for the most part were still holding.  He tore off his bandana and pressed it against the shoulder wound.

He sat there like that on the river bank for some time, holding Heath against him, willing his brother to live, feeling something more powerful than himself in the voices of the river, the beating of hearts, the thrum of blood, pulsing, pulsing, the ancients all around, those that had come before and fallen, bone and flesh committed to earth and he nearly screamed in terror and awe as he swore he saw specters rise up around him.  Nick growled at whatever it was, real or imagined, and raised a fist to them.  "You're not taking him! You won't win!"

Chapter 21

They came down the road in the pale end of evening's light, but only Nick was aware of time and place. Heath lay like a dead man under the blankets, his face void of all discomfort. Long moments passed while Nick studied his brother, his thoughts going back to the last hour of their journey.  He had been in grievous straits, nearly breaking down again when he could not feel the stir of Heath's breath against his palm. Their faces were drawn close together in a sad tableau of bleak and tender intimacy and Nick became so lost in pain too raw and brutal to give voice to it.

Never had he been so emotionally ruined, so uncaring of displaying open sentiment. He knew he was falling apart and even when bringing Alejandra to mind -- her great strength, her complete optimism amid life's darkest hours, her courageous commitment to him when she could so easily be hurt -- even that did not help. Only the sudden deep gasp of breath Heath had finally taken had been able to restore him.  

Several times after that Nick turned to check on Heath while traveling, startled at the imaginings of his mind and the tricks played on his eyes, believing he saw a thin whirling rise of smoke that trailed upward into the heavens as though he stood as witness to Heath's soul's release and ascension. 

As things grew dim around them, the white house rose out of the earth backlit by the gold light before sunset.  Hope at once sung out to Nick like a church hymn.  He felt an unbidden tear roll down his cheek as though he were in a continuous state of grief, taking little prompt or thought to weep.  From the wagon seat, he looked over his shoulder at Heath and smiled. 

"We're home, Boy.  We're home."  Not expecting a response, Nick turned back and focused his gaze on the sprawling flatlands of his valley.

Victoria stood with the last of the sunlight at her back, her eyes intent on the rising dust she had been watching for more than ten minutes. Eventually, she was able to make out a wagon coming toward her, but no riders and she felt gloom and despair tighten around her heart. A mere black spot above the shift and run of a horse articulated itself into a man and her heart leaped in her breast when she saw it was her child. Her joy was short-lived not seeing Heath beside him nor riding behind on horseback. Nick had mentioned in his wire that Heath had been slightly wounded, though the details were sketchy. Until recently, only her dreams and ill-fated imaginings had given her pause, but now her presentiment of blood and death appeared to be realized. 

Without looking, Audra and Jarrod came to stand alongside her and Victoria buried her concerns as the wagon drew nearer. She nodded her head at Audra's whispered words of gratitude to God that they had returned and she wrapped her arm around her daughter's slim waist, feeling her relief.  

They stood unmoving for a long time as if trapped in a spell until Jarrod broke the silence. 

"It seems that brother Heath may be far worse for wear than we were led to believe."

Victoria turned to look at him.  "Yes, so it seems  . . .  Audra, prepare Heath's room.  Jarrod, send someone for the doctor."  She strode forward to meet the wagon, not waiting for response or rebuttal, confident her children would act without question.

Her hands trembled when she raised her arm in greeting, her limbs weak with fear.  Nick had yet to see her, his head turned to the right, looking over his shoulder. There was rigidness in his posture as if at any moment he would need to act before something fragile and precious behind him should fall and shatter into pieces. 

The sight filled up her heart and broke it as well to see Nick's attentive protectiveness and more so when he turned himself to face her.  The wagon was close enough for her to make out his face, and she gasped to see the weariness and sorrow etched upon it.  Tears started in her eyes, but she wiped them away.  It was not yet the time for mourning nor hopelessness.

Nick pulled the wagon alongside her and he looked into her eyes.  He felt a child again, but did not balk at it so great was his need for reassurance and comfort.  He hardly was able to speak, his voice tight with emotion.  "We're home."

Victoria remained in place, her eyes locked on his face, searching for some sign of hope that seemed to have been sandblasted from him in a few short days. 

Nick had not moved from his spot on the wagon seat, but he still kept his eyes pinned on her.  She spoke softly to him then as a mother would to a frightened child after a bad dream.  "It's all right  Nick.  Everything's all right."

Nick stared for a few minutes longer at her, trying to recall how it was to believe in someone and something unfailingly, grabbing onto those words with a rekindled childlike faith.  He nodded and turned to look at Heath.

Victoria walked to the side of the wagon, but did not speak.  Heath was pale and bloodied, and she feared she was looking at death, itself.  Her head swam for a brief moment and she gripped the wagon's side and breathed in the cool evening air. 

"The wound wasn't fatal  . . . "  Nick looked away, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts drifting.

Before Victoria could respond, Jarrod and several ranch hands approached and she waved them forward. Nick gave himself over to them, relinquishing the horses and wagon and supplies with little protest. Heath was another matter and Nick struck a quick and unexpected blow to one man when Heath moaned in his grip. Perhaps it had been unwarranted, but Nick was beyond reason.  Only by his mother's persuasion did he leave Heath and not twenty minutes later he found himself on his bed, boots removed and a blanket over him no longer able to fight the need for sleep.

In the deep night, Nick woke to find Jarrod sitting in the large chair beside his bed. Before being asked, he recounted the tale of their journey to his older brother in soft, sad tones, explaining in detail what brought Heath to his near-death state. He spoke of his worry not only for his brother's physical well-being, but also his mind, having had to kill the boy, Gabriel who was similar to Heath in all manner -- appearance, as well as, circumstance -- but not in heart or nature. 

Jarred listened and offered Nick some water when his voice grew raspy from thirst and fatigue.  He put a hand to Nick's shoulder, taking the empty glass from him.  "You've had a tough time of it."

"Naw, I'm fine.  It's Heath, I'm worried about."  Nick ran a hand over his face.

"No matter what you say, Nick, I know it must not have been easy for you." 

"How is he?"

"Holding his own."  Jarrod stood and sat on the edge of the bed.  "Doctor Merar was here.  He was concerned with the amount of blood Heath lost. He's not out of the woods yet, but the doctor's confident with complete quiet and bed rest for the next week or so, Heath should be well on the way to recovery."

"He stopped breathing."

"What?"

"He wasn't breathing.  I thought he was dead."  Nick's voice trembled and he turned his eyes away from Jarrod's intense gaze.

"I'm sorry you had to endure that by yourself, Nick."

"I thought I lost him." 

"Well, you didn't.  We didn't."  Jarrod gave a light pat to Nick's leg.  "Doctor Merar explained that heavy blood loss can lead to shock and sometimes death. You kept him alive, Nick. You brought him back."  Jarrod was quiet for a moment, remembering the doctor's words. "It takes time for the body to replenish blood, but as I said with rest and proper nourishment, Heath will be as good as new. I guarantee it."

"Well, if you guarantee it, Pappy, I guess I'd be a fool not to believe it to be the God's honest truth."

Jarrod smiled and stood up, looking at his younger brother who struggled to keep his eyes open.  "Get some rest, Nick. Now it's our turn."

Nick was in a deep sleep before Jarrod even reached the door. 

Chapter 22

He remembered the feel of it clearly, the touch of her hand on his brow, the soft, lingering tracery of her fingers moving in arcing sweeps from temple to cheek. She would sing to him in low, rich tones the ancient songs that sprung out of the mountains from where she came. Her songs rendered a mourner's release and despite their grim lyrics and plaintive tone, he embraced hope and found contentment. There was no song sung this time, but her touch remained soft and kind and he struggled to see when she called out to him. Even so, no matter his heart's ease, somewhere in the back of his brain like a pestering itch, he knew it could not be his mama.

Oft-times he longed to go to her, hearing her calls in the high winds far above the timberline. But it was not yet his time, as it had not been his time during the war. What he and Nick could not bring themselves to share of those days, knowing it to be an incommunicable sorrow, Heath believed his mother saw and understood, seeing his soul and now abided his sufferings for him. 

In that moment, his memory flicked unexpectedly with the image of the white-haired old man, startling him. The old greybeard's face was acutely clear to him and his embrace as real as the day he had been lifted from the muddy street and wrapped in the blanket. Heath then jerked up his arm, his hand reaching for his neck. The bloodstone ring was gone. His heart pounded and again he felt their hands searching, taking his father from him . . .

"Heath! Heath! Stop that, you'll hurt yourself."  The voice was brittle with fear and worry.

He slowed his breathing at the sound of her shouts, trying to settle himself, struggling for awareness.

"Heath!" The voice was softer, but just as urgent. "Heath!"

She leaned over him, her tears starting when he looked up into her face. He smiled slightly and she prayed that there would be some recognition in his unfocused eyes. 

"Mother?"

"Yes, Heath. Yes."  She gripped his hand, moving it away from his neck. She felt him grow rigid, his face expressive as all manner of emotions crossed over it. His grip on her hand tightened while he pressed himself to recall things.

"Nick?  Where's Nick?" 

"Nick is fine. He's sleeping."  Victoria sat on the bed nearer to Heath, her right hip snug against his.  She looked at him.  "Heath, I need you to listen to me. You're very ill."  She stopped a minute and watched his face. He blinked a few times, his eyes darkening in confusion.  She patted his hand.  "Now, now, there's nothing to be concerned over. You're home, you're safe and now all you need to do is rest and get well."  She cupped a hand to his cheek. "You gave Nick quite a fright.  He thought he had lost you.  For your sake, as well as, ours, I expect you to follow the doctor's orders to the letter.  No matter how well you may think you're feeling, you will not leave this bed. As you know, I am not in the habit of giving an order twice." 

Heath licked his lips, his mouth working while he tried to form his thoughts. "I don't understand. He thought he lost me? No. Nick found me. He came for me."

"Yes." Victoria placed her palm on his forehead which was still warm from fever. "Nick did find you. That's true. You're very ill, Heath. You've lost so much blood and if you lose much more, you could die -- as you almost did on the way home."

"Close call?"

"Too close from what Nick has told us."

"Don't want to cause worry."

"Oh, Heath -- a family doesn't know any other way. When a loved one is ill or suffering, it's only natural to worry." 

"Family."  Heath nodded and smiled, as he said the word.  "My Mama worried. Worried too much, made her old. I expect I gave her plenty of cause. Don't want no more worrying over me.  Don't want no more people suffering because of me."

"You don't have any say in the matter, Heath Barkley."  Victoria placed her palm on the right side of his face, positioning his line of sight in her direction. "It's not something you can control. When you love, you take all that comes with it. I will never stop loving you and with that I know that I will suffer when you suffer and I will rejoice when you rejoice. I will worry as only a mother can worry and I will love as only a mother can love.  Don't you dare try to stop me, Heath Barkley. Don't you dare."

"Since you put it like that, I'd be a fool if I did."

Victoria smiled.  "You are no one's fool."  She bent to kiss him softly on the lips.  "Get some rest now."  She began to rise, but she realized that he was not releasing her hand.  "Heath?"

His blue eyes tunneled into hers.  "Stay."  He swallowed and looked away, but as he did he spoke again. "Please -- stay."

Victoria squeezed his hand and repositioned herself on the bed beside him.  She smoothed a hand over his hair and smiled when his eyes finally closed and he immediately fell into a deep sleep.  Her eyes filled and she lifted his hand to her cheek, the run of her tears wetting it. She lowered his hand, bowing forward to his ear and whispered to him, saying, "I love you."  And then not able to suppress her emotions, she began to repeat the phrase over and over, until her words faded, shuddering into quiet sobs. 


Heath rolled his head side to side in the throes of what only could be a terrible dream.  Jarrod watched him closely, observing the twitching animation of his brother's face, the eyes beneath blue-bruised lids spastic in their movements. All of Heath appeared paralyzed, only his head in constant motion. It seemed to be a violent struggle against the subconscious and his dire visions. Jarrod leaned forward in a moment of closer inspection, but involuntarily jerked back at Heath's unexpected howl. It was wrought with despair so deep that Jarrod was affected terribly, but he knew no appropriate balm that could soothe what ailed his brother. 

He lowered his head and placed a hand on top of Heath's and uttered his brother's name in fine, soothing tones. Jarrod knew he had a gift for words, but perhaps far more compelling was his voice. The modulation, the timbre, the practiced changes of the meter to stir-up, persuade, evoke emotion. Nick had once jokingly said it was akin to a  preacher moved by God, sending souls into religious frenzy.  But still he was unsure of Heath's needs. Physically, it would just be a matter of time, God willing. Emotionally, well that was entirely a horse of a different color. 

As Heath settled, Jarrod sat back suddenly remembering the ring in the pocket of his smoking jacket. He removed it and rolled it between his fingers and thumb, his eyes growing distant. A rind of a moon appeared from behind a covering of clouds, but soon disappeared as more clouds scuttled passed.  To Jarrod, the moon and clouds were an analogy of his muzzy childhood memories and quite limited understanding of the ring he now held. Having buried himself in his work for most of the day and well into evening, he had not mentioned his finding to his mother about the ring.  He almost did not have the heart to tell her the ring was Grandfather Barkley's and not their father's.  She had seemed to be in such single-minded pursuit of the piece of jewelry, as if a woman possessed.  It seemed to Jarrod to be a bit too otherworldly, a tad arcane which was something an analytical mind, a lawyer's mind had difficulty understanding. 

"How is he?" 

Jarrod startled, clutching the ring up into a tight fist.

"Whatcha got there?"

Jarrod opened his fist, the ring centered in the flat of his palm.  "I'm not quite sure, Nick."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Nick leaned over and took the ring from Jarrod's hand. "Anyone can clearly see it's a ring." 

"Your powers of deduction still continue to amaze, Brother Nick."  

Nick handed the ring back.  "Well, I hope you're deducing that one more smart remark like that and this fist is going to--" 

"Now, now, Nick--"

"Now, now nothin', Jarrod.  I asked you a question and I want a straight answer."

"All right."  Jarrod looked over at Heath.  "He's having a rough night.  A lot of dreams."

Nick walked over to the bed and placed his open palm on Heath's forehead.  He gently ran his hand over Heath's hair before taking it away.  "He's warm.  Can't seem to shake that damn fever."

"He will." 

"Your lips to God's ear."

"Amen to that."  Jarrod stood and motioned Nick to the chair. "Sit."

Nick looked over at Jarrod and nodded, taking the seat.  "Tell me about the ring."

Jarrod was momentarily contemplative.  He tossed the ring up in the air, catching it and then stared out the window.  "Do you remember Father talking about a ring -- a bloodstone ring?"

Nick shook his head that he did not.

"Well, you were only four or five at the time, perhaps younger."  Jarrod smiled.  "You would climb into my lap and believe it or not, you would stay still the entire time Father spoke. I'm not sure if you understood it all, but you certainly appeared to be listening to every word he said."

"Well, when I got older, he certainly got my attention more times than I would have liked."

"Yes, I do recall many a lecture --  audience of one."

Nick squirmed in his seat and smiled.  "More than a lecture sometimes."

Jarrod grinned. "Yes, and deservedly so."

"The ring, Jarrod?"

"The ring  . . . "  Jarrod again looked at the ring and then slipped it back in his coat pocket. "This morning I found Mother searching for something.  She was so absorbed that she didn't hear me calling to her.  I never saw her so distracted or distraught.  When she found the ring, she seemed jubilant, but then she became pensive, distant.  I asked her what was bothering her and she mentioned a dream she had and how she worried for Heath."  Jarrod glanced at his younger brother.  "She felt something was wrong."

"Well, she was right on that count."

"Yes. It appears her dream was a harbinger of Heath's condition." 

Nick titled his head, his mind working.  "Funny . . . "

"What's funny?"

Nick shook his head, hedging.

"Come on, Nick.  What?"

"It's probably nothin'.  Just a fool coincidence."

"Tell me, Nick.  Nothing is coincidental to a lawyer."

Nick rolled his eyes.  "Well this is.  I'm certain of it."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Nick waved a hand impatiently at Jarrod.  "All right. All right. But I'm tellin' you it's nothing." 

"Nick . . . "

"All right.  It was when Heath was out of his head. He was speaking in Spanish.  Anillo de mi Padre.  That's what he said.  The ring of my father."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Ask him! He was out of his mind half of the time and the other half he was unconscious."

"I'm sorry, Nick.  I didn't realize  . . . "

"Not your fault, Jarrod.  The one at fault here is Gabriel Hatch. But I do hold Don Alfredo equally responsible. He started the whole mess.  Now he deserves  . . .  well, I don't know what he deserves  . . .  but damn it, Jarrod  . . .  this just isn't right."

"No, it isn't, Nick."  Jarrod smiled when Nick reached out and rested his hand lightly on Heath's forearm, needing that physical contact.  "We can't undo what's been done, but we can help Heath through it."

"Better late than never.  Is that it?"

"I will admit we were all a bit remiss when it came to getting Heath to open up about his feelings over Hadley and the whole business with Maria."

"I knew exactly what Bert Hadley was thinkin' when it came to our brother.  In fact, I had a run-in with him in town before everything blew up in Heath's face."

"I do recall you sporting a few new colors."

"Well, that's nothing compared to what Heath's put up with."

"You're right and it's up to us to fix it."

"Well, I just hope it's not too late."  Nick looked up at Jarrod.  "What I told you about the ring, what do you think it means?"

Jarrod paused a minute before answering.  "Well, Nick, I think the best way to get at the truth is to go directly to the source."

Nick looked puzzled and then nodded.  "Heath."

"Yes, Brother Nick -- Heath."

Nick stood up and sat on the bed, watching Heath sleep.  "But only when he's better.  I don't want anyone upsetting him."

"Kid gloves, Nick, kid gloves."  Jarrod's face grew dark.  "I still have to tell Mother that this isn't Father's ring."

"Well, now that should be interesting because if I'm right about this, it appears Leah Thomson had Father's so-called treasured ring all those years."

"Nick, watch your tone. Heath might be able to hear you."

"Okay. Okay. I'll be careful."  Nick shifted on the bed, looking at Jarrod. "Get out of here.  I'll stay with him tonight.  Go get some sleep."

"All right, Nick.  I'll go, but only because I know it'll do little good to argue with you."  Jarrod put a hand on Nick's shoulder. "It'll be all right. Trust me."

Nick nodded, offering a slight smile. "Always have, Pappy.  Always have."

Jarrod squeezed Nick's shoulder.  "Try to get some rest, too."

"I will. Night, Jarrod."

"Good night, Nick."  Jarrod stopped at the doorway. He was relieved to have them back again, safe.  It was not often that prayers were answered and he considered his good fortune while watching his brothers. He whispered his thanks as he walked from the room, surprised at how difficult it was to leave them. 

Chapter 23

The close of evening had gone without notice, the night sky now swelling with stars, and the moon bright, though incomplete. Jarrod sat in the yellow glow of hearth light while Nick moved through the parlor like a wraith, lighting lamps and then returning to the fireplace to work the flames. The warmth of it was comforting, although the night gave no sign of autumn's approaching chill. A long day for all, and Jarrod knew the hours that loomed offered little respite. Heath was very ill, holding long, optimistic moments of lucidity, but then with a certainty and virulence the delirium returned like crows in winter blackening skies.

Jarrod had gone into town for several hours to finish up a few pressing matters and putting aside all that could wait. He now watched while Nick continued to busy himself with the fire, poking and jabbing the logs in frustration. It was apparent Nick's intent was to ignore him, not willing to discuss the visitor that had shown up at his office that day. There was an aching behind Jarrod's eyes that just now was beginning to travel to his temples. It all gave him pause, wanting more than anything to drop the whole matter, but knowing it would be against his character to do so. 

"Maria would like to see him."

"No!" Nick spun around from the vast fireplace and faced Jarrod. "No."

"Nick--"

"Nicholas, it is not your decision."  Victoria interrupted Jarrod as she entered the room with Audra at her side. 

"Heath . . . ?"  Nick started to the staircase. 

"He's sleeping.  Now sit."  Victoria walked to the elegantly upholstered chair closest to the hearth and sat, folding her hands neatly on her lap.  "Jarrod, what's this about Maria?"

Jarrod stood and turned to his mother, hooking a thumb in the waistband of his tailored trousers. "Miss Montero stopped by my office this morning.  To be sure, I was more than a little surprised to find her back in Stockton.  She quickly explained that her father was called back on business, but it was only to be a short stay before leaving to go abroad for several months."  Jarrod paused and looked at his mother.  "While in the mercantile, she overheard talk of Heath's condition.  She was clearly overwrought, deeply concerned for him."

Nick huffed and turned back to the fire.  "Deeply concerned my--"

"Nicholas!"  Victoria stood and placed her hand on her son's back.  "We have no reason to question or diminish Maria Montero's feelings about your brother."

"No reason!  That girl--" 

"That girl had a difficult choice to make and she made it.  There is nothing we can do to change that.  We can only offer Heath love and support."

"But right now our primary concern is getting said brother well again and back on his feet."

Audra looked up at Jarrod considering his words.  Her mind went back to that morning when she was finally able to get Heath to hold down some beef broth. She was appalled to see how weak he had become in such a short time.  He lay there on the white sheets, his face as gray as slate and his body still as death. But what had disturbed her most had been his eyes as if his soul had departed his earthly shell, leaving him vacuous without thought or sentiment.  She shook her head, speaking her worry aloud: "Do you think Heath is ready to see Maria again?"

"No, I don't. But does anyone care what I think?"  Nick stood facing the three of them. 

"It will be Heath's decision and only Heath's decision."  Victoria returned to her chair.  "Is that understood?"  Victoria waited as each nodded in agreement.  "Good."

Jarrod walked to the beverage trolley and poured himself a generous brandy.  He lifted the expensive crystal decanter in silent offering and then settled it thoughtfully in place at their decline. He turned around slowly, carefully choosing his words.  The bloodstone ring now encircled his finger and he edgily twisted it around in his rumination. 

"What is it, Jarrod?"  Victoria watched her son's movements closely, well versed in the signs that something else was on his mind. 

Jarrod startled a moment, his head lifting quickly at her words.  He smiled at her.  "You know me so well."

"I know all my children well."  Victoria sighed.  "I pray one day I might say the same of Heath."

Nick narrowed his eyes.  "Well, I know him."

Jarrod looked over at Nick and was warmed by his brother's visible loyalty and conviction. "Without question, we can see the fine man that he is, but he has lived a life separate from us, and because of that there's much we don't know.  No, Nick -- you may believe you do, but if you're being completely honest, you'll see it isn't true."

Nick faced Jarrod.  "Don't try your lawyerin' on me, big brother.  When you work day in and day out alongside a man, when you depend on him -- sometimes more than a child does his mother -- watching each others backs, sleeping side by side on drives, laying closer than lovers on those nights when it's so cold your bones ache and you're grateful to finally feel nothing at all. In your sleep, dreaming you're back in the war and some sawbones gone and taken your legs . . . And that's something else I know about him, Jarrod, and him about me. We know what it's like -- I see it in his eyes and he sees it in mine.  We've gone to hell and came back from it. So don't ever tell me that I don't know him. Don't ever."

Jarrod nodded and slanted his glass to Nick.  "Well I seem to have put my foot in that one. My apologies, brother. I stand corrected."  He walked over to his mother, sitting down across from her.  "Now to answer your question, Mother -- there's really nothing wrong, although perhaps a bit disappointing  . . . "

"Go on."  Victoria watched as Jarrod glanced down at his hand, her eyes following his gaze. He pulled the ring from his finger and extended it to her.

"Mother, this ring--"

"Is your father's."

"No."

"No?"

"No, it's not father's."

"Of course, it's your father's.  Whose else could it be?"  At that Victoria's eyes widened in understanding. "It's your grandfather's isn't it?"

"Yes, mother."

"When your grandfather died -- oh, now, how long has it been?" She thought for a moment. "It was before the outbreak of the war, well over fifteen years. That had been a difficult time for your father. You, boys were both so impassioned, greatly sympathetic to the Federals, ready to fight for the cause. Ultimately such a high price to pay.  He could only let you go . . ."  Victoria's eyes filled, but quickly calmed.

It was Nick who spoke first as he knelt beside her, raising her hands to his lips. "I'm sorry, Mother."  He then looked up, searching her face. She was still as lovely as the day he had left for war, almost ageless.  Fine, sculpted cheekbones, skin like that of a first snow, unblemished and soft as thistledown, her gray eyes holding intelligence and compassion. 

She patted his hand. "Nonsense.  There's no need to be sorry. It was not of our making nor control."

Nick stood and kissed her lightly on the cheek.  He walked behind her chair, resting a hand on her shoulder.  Again she tapped his hand and then glanced at Jarrod.  "To be truthful, Jarrod, I am a bit disappointed that it's not your father's.  What has become of it, I'll never know.  He had hoped to pass it on to his firstborn son, to you, Jarrod and Nick, Grandfather Barkley's intent was to give his ring to you."

Nick squeezed her shoulder.  "I want Heath to have it."

Victoria turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him.  "Heath?"

"Yes."

She was silent, her gaze going to the fire.  "Oddly enough, a dream prompted me to search for a ring I hadn't given a thought to in years." Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she clasped them around her waist. "Heath was connected somehow."

Jarrod took a sip of his brandy. As he lowered the glass, he spoke, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "It all seems so cryptic, but I can't  rule out the ring's curative powers nor the power of dreams. Maybe we're being moved by--"

Nick laughed. "Come on now --  rings that can cure."

"It's not out of the realm of possibilities."

Nick scoffed and threw up his hands.

"All I know is that something prompted Mother to search for the bloodstone ring. And you can't deny that something prompted you to go after Heath, although there was no real threat or clear sign of danger."

"It was a gut feeling, Jarrod.  I've gone on that more than once."

"I'm sure you have. But think Nick, there was no concrete reason for you to have worried about Heath's well-being. He was merely going off to clear his head, to think things through.  It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last."

Nick looked down at his hands. "I had a dream."

"What?"

"I had a dream, too.  I couldn't make heads or tails of it, but there was blood . . . lots of blood.  Like when I found him.  God, I thought he was dead."

Victoria stood up, grabbing Nick's hand as she walked around the chair.  "You brought him back to us.  I, for one, am grateful to whatever or whoever had a hand in saving Heath's life."

"Hear, hear."  Jarrod raised his glass.  "Mother, there's more. Nick has a theory as to where father's ring might have gone."

Victoria looked up at Nick and pulled him around the chair to sit across from her.  "What is your -- what did Jarrod call it-- your theory?"

"Yes, that's it."

Nick looked at Jarrod, his eyes dark with annoyance.  He muttered under his breath, "So much for going to the source first."

"I thought about that, Nick, but I think this might be the better way to go.  Everything out in the open." 

"You thought and be damned to what I think."

"Did you both forget that Audra and I are still present?"  Victoria's eyes snapped with impatience.

Jarrod looked at his mother and sister.  "I apologize."

"And right you should."  Nick stood with his hands on his hips, clearly angry.

"I'm sorry, Nick, but as I said, I feel Mother should know before we talk to Heath."

"All right! Enough, both of you!  I want to know what's going on right now."

Nick cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts.  His temper rose again, angered to be put on the spot, not sure if his speculation about the ring was even true.  "I'll just say it flat out.  I think Heath had father's ring."

Nick looked at his mother.  She remained silent, waiting for him to continue and he did so without further hesitation. "When Heath was out of his head, he talked about a ring -- his father's ring. I just put two and two together when Jarrod brought up Grandfather's. How long has father's ring been missing?"  Nick waited for an answer.

Victoria appeared not to have heard him, but then taking him by surprise answered his question in a quiet, reflective voice.  "I'd say more than twenty-six years. It was missing after your father's last trip to Strawberry.  I distinctly remember asking what had happened to it.  He never answered. I suppose we must have been interrupted by some crisis or another.  You and Jarrod were always getting into mischief.  Was that the day you broke your arm, Nick?  Oh, yes.  The old oak.  Somehow you managed to get to the lowest limb and then continued to climb to a frightening height. You were doing just fine on the way down, but wouldn't you know it, not a few feet from the bottom you lost your grip."

Nick smiled.  "It was Harry's fault."

"The old barn cat?"  Victoria's eyebrows lifted in amusement.

Jarrod spoke before Nick could respond. "The cat didn't need your help, Nick.  He climbed that tree to get away from you and I do believe while you laid in a heap on the ground that cat further added insult to injury by gracefully landing on your backside and running promptly away."

Audra's laughter filled the room and Victoria joined in with her.

"Very funny, Jarrod.  I've got plenty of stories I could share about you.  You weren't always so smart  . . . " 

Victoria suddenly grew serious.  "I think your theory is sound, Nick.  Heath may very well have your father's ring."

"Had.  Had the ring."

"What do you mean, Nick?"  Audra leaned forward, confused by Nick's words.

"I think it was taken from him or lost."  Nick thoughts went back seeing Heath out of his mind in delirium, bleeding out, his torment unbearable for Nick.  "Whatever the case, it nearly killed him."

"Nick?"  Victoria's tone held concern.

"Don't ask me to explain."

"All right, Nick.  No one will question you further."

"The ring should go to Heath."

"Well, it's yours to do with what you wish."

"No."

"No?"

"It's not mine. It's Heath's. I don't want him to ever find out that it was left to me.  If he ever found out, he'd never accept it."  Nick nodded his head with conviction. "It's the right thing to do."

"He won't find out."  Victoria stood then. "I'll say good night now."

"Mother, one thing . . ."

"What is it, Jarrod?"

"We seem to have overlooked how you're feeling about all this, what it might imply."

"About your father and Leah Thomson?"

"Yes, to be frank."

"As I told Heath, your father was an imperfect man. After reading the letter, I understood it to be a one-time indiscretion. Your father had been badly injured, nearly beaten to death, Hannah had said as much. I believe your father was terribly disheartened and so alone.  As he healed, still missing me, missing his family, he misguidedly took solace in the comfort of a kind and beautiful woman.  Why he gave his treasured ring to her?  I can only hazard to guess, but it does me little good to dwell on it.  I've forgiven your father and this is the last I will speak of it. To wish the past away, to wish certain circumstances to have never occurred would be to wish away Heath's existence.  I would gladly suffer my wounded pride a thousand times over than to never have had Heath in our lives."

At that Audra rose from the settee and ran to Victoria, hugging her.  "I love you, Mother."

"And I, you."  Victoria gave her a gentle pat.  "Now let me see to your brother."

Chapter 24

The past few days had been that of intermittent waking, vivid dreams and black nothingness. There had also been voices, though he could not remember what had been said. He was weak and muzzy-minded, feeble as an old woman. He had been stripped and bathed, and had only briefly felt the shame of being unclothed. The relief from the cool cloth moving over his heated body and the solace gotten from the gentle hands that touched him had been worth the unease. No sooner had the misery of his fever ended that the shivering began, his limbs convulsing. He had felt the sharp pull of the stitches above his heart and his wounds throbbed keeping him from true sleep. He had dozed in and out until exhaustion had finally claimed him.

A storm now rolled across the valley like the brutal rumblings of a far-off battle and memories rose up in him too hard to hold down. He felt the medicine working in him, making him groggy and his eyelids weighted, though it did nothing to stop his grisly imaginings. The storm trundled closer and he frantically directed his thoughts to Strawberry, reawakening a kinder time, his mama beside him on the small front porch watching the skies blacken, the lightning livid and wild across it. After the storm, all things were rain-washed and the scent of the air was to his liking. His senses alive with the smell of wet earth and the sounds of birds and wild creatures alike emerging from the shelter of bough and brush and scrub.   

His face must have shown his pleasure because his mother's voice broke into his thoughts asking what he was thinking. His response was a slight lifting of his right shoulder in an awkward shrug and when he opened his eyes, he saw her disappointment, though she covered it quickly with idle, bright talk. It was not his intent to hurt her, but some things were not easily shared, holding certain memories in a well-guarded box to keep unspoiled and safe only for his eyes to see.  He feared that sharing would bring it to ruin and he hoarded it like a starving man hunched over meager fare.

Again her voice strode into his thoughts, as she put a hand to his brow.

"A bit cooler now.  How are you feeling?"

He went to talk, but his voice was not there. He cleared his throat several times, grateful for the cool glass of water that appeared.  It felt good on his throat, feeling the slide of it through him and then settle as a pool in his stomach. His belly was empty and if he had jumped about at that moment, he was sure he would hear the water sloshing inside of him like that of a half-full canteen.  He raised his unbound hand indicating he had his fill and he closed his eyes and lowered his head down to the pillow. 

"Perhaps it is too soon . . . "

Heath remained silent, not sure the remark was directed at him.  If it was, he had no appropriate response.  He opened his eyes and watched his mother tauten his blankets and tuck the overhang between the mattresses.  He sighed, snug beneath them, a comfort there as if swaddled. Just then a flare of lightning gave full revelation of his mother's face.  She was watching him, a question in her intelligent eyes, her comportment appearing unsure. 

"What is it, Mother?"  His voice came out as a raspy whisper.

Victoria shook her head and sat on the bed, lifting his good hand in hers.  "Do you remember anything of last evening?"

Heath thought a moment and then shook his head that he did not.  There was immediately the press of unease against his chest.  He waited.

"I was afraid of that."  She patted his arm.  Her pale hand dove-winged to her face, ivory against ivory, her lips making a striking contrast in red. She spoke lightly, "Perhaps another time then when you're better up to it."

Heath struggled to order his thoughts, certain of the futility in it, not having all the pieces of this particular puzzle.  "Please . . . I don't--"

"Of course you don't. How could you then?"

He looked closely at her.  "Mother, you look done in. Have you slept any?"

"I don't want you to concern yourself with that. I've gotten more than enough."

Heath licked his lips and nodded.

"You can't imagine how frightened we were of losing you.  Nick . . ."  Victoria smiled.  "Well, your brother Nick was out of his mind with worry. We all were, although you did seem better last evening. I should have waited a few more days, but unfortunately there wasn't the luxury of time."

"Don't know what's got you so spooked, but I know you'd never willingly hurt me."

Victoria stood and walked over to the window and put a hand to the glass.  She could feel it quiver beneath her fingertips from the thunder's reverberation.

"Mother, what is it?"

Victoria looked over at him.  "Maria Montero is here in Stockton, but only for a few days.  She's asked to see you.  I sent a messenger with word last night that you were willing."

Heath closed his eyes and sighed.  "You can rest easy. I'd never turn her away."

Victoria sat again on the bed.  "Heath . . . we never talked about the circumstances leading up to Maria's leaving. Perhaps something should have been said." Victoria hesitated, distractedly running her thumb over the back of Heath's hand. She looked directly into his eyes. "Don't allow your pride to rule you. You have a home and a family to turn to now.  No matter the circumstances, you can come to us, any one of us and we will help you any way we can."

"I'm obliged to you for that. It's just  . . ."  Heath gripped the blankets in his hand, frustrated.

"Just what, Heath?"

"It's complicated."  Heath shifted on the bed, the painful movement nearly bringing tears to his eyes.

"I see. Perhaps what I'm about to say will help simplify things for you then. I want you to listen to me, Heath, really listen. You are Tom Barkley's son. You are a part of us. You are my son.  When Don Alfredo came to see me to make *arrangements*, he asked  why I would do so much for one that was not mine.  I told him you were my husband's son and you meant as much to me as the others. I believe that fervently and I believe you know this once you get beyond your hurt, your anger. I suppose we all must work things out for ourselves no matter the good intentions of others.  I just hope that you truly know that you are loved and respected and will always be a part of this family."

"What you said, I want you to know it means the world to me." 

"Good."  Victoria stood and gave a pat to Heath's hand and leaned toward him to smooth back his hair. "I'll send in Jarrod to help with your needs, let you freshen up a bit. Then we'll try a warm bowl of porridge.  It will do you good." She stood a minute, looking at him and then bent to kiss him gently on the lips.

Heath smiled at her and nodded. At the moment, it was all he was able to muster, feeling his strength spill from his body like the leap and run of blood from a knife cut. 

* * * * * * * *

Victoria ran her fingers over the chair's velvet upholstery before sitting. Nick watched her, and quietly made note of her distracted state. Before he could comment, Audra entered the room with Jarrod close behind her. Each gave their mother a light kiss to her cheek and then found their usual place.  All seemed to be wrapped up in their own thoughts and it did not take long for Nick to grow impatient with their silence.

"Well?"

Jarrod lifted his head and looked over at Nick.  "Well, what Nick?"

"Well, how's Heath?"  Nick stood between the settee and chairs, lifting his booted foot up onto the low marble-topped table and placed an arm across his thigh. 

Victoria adjusted her dress, smoothing the fabric in place while in her mind going over her conversation with Heath. True to his nature, Heath hardly spoke, leaving her to do most of the talking. She did not push him, giving him time to get his thoughts together, but he was still too weak and a bit mixed-up about everything. 

"It will take time, Nick.  You know that."

"Of course, I know that.  I'm the one that brought him home half-dead.  I'm the one that watched him practically bleed to death.  I *know* it will take time!"

"Nick, please."

"I'm sorry, Mother." Nick ran a gloved hand over his face.  "I've got a lot on my mind."

"You've got to get some sleep, Nick. You've been working the ranch and then keeping night vigil.  It's too much for one man, even you. Becoming worn-down and ill won't help Heath at all."  Victoria grew pensive, her eyes suddenly lifting to the staircase landing and then stopping at Heath's bedroom door.  "He didn't remember about Maria."

Jarrod leaned forward, his brow furrowed, considering his mother's words. Before he was able to question her, Nick dropped his foot to the floor and squared himself to face their mother, uttering a low growl of annoyance.  "I knew it! The whole way coming home, he was in and out of it.  I wasn't sure where his head was at one minute to the next.  The same damn thing happened! I knew it would.  I told you all as much."

Jarrod looked over at their mother.  Her eyes were downcast and her hands were folded together white-knuckled. He felt a wash of anger at Nick's insensitivity, but kept his words even-tempered. "I think, Nick, that your anger is uncalled for and a bit misdirected. Are you really angry with us or more so angry that Maria is coming to see Heath at all whether Heath had agreed to it or not?"

"He did agree." Victoria's gaze held Nick's.

"You just said he didn't remember that she was coming -- and coming today as a matter of fact.  So you got him to agree to it again."

Victoria spoke heatedly, "I did not *get* him to do anything.  It was his decision.  I explained it all to him.  I apologized and all he said, which had reassured me immediately, was that he would never turn her away. He's more than willing to see her Nick and you have got to let go of your resentment. Is it really Maria you're angry with?"

"You're damn right I'm angry at her.  She doesn't love Heath."

"And how did you come to that conclusion, Nick?"  Jarrod looked at his brother and lifted an eyebrow curiously.

"I just know."

"I would be most grateful if you could enlighten us.  We seem to be in the dark here or in your opinion making a grievous error in judgement.  Again I ask you, how do you know?"

Nick puffed loudly, fists propped on slim hips.  "I met a woman."

Jarrod again leaned forward and Audra gave a half smile, looking first up at Nick and then over to her mother.  Victoria nodded at Audra returning her smile and then turned back to look at Nick.

"Please tell us, Nick."  Audra sat up taller and her smile grew larger.  "Is she pretty?"

"Yes."  Nick walked to the fireplace and lifted his right hand to rest on the mantle. "I planned on telling everyone about Alejandra after Heath was back on his feet.  She agreed to come visit then."

"I'm happy for you, Nick, but I still do not see how this relates to Heath and Maria."

"Well, Lawyer, give me a chance to tell you."  Nick turned to face his family.  "Alejandra was forced to make the same choice. You know, love or family.  She chose love, simple as that."

"I don't understand, Nick.  Alejandra is married?"  Audra's face reflected her confusion. 

"Was, Audra, she was.  Her husband died a few years back."

"I'm sorry to hear that."  Jarrod stood and moved toward Nick, placing his hand on Nick's upper arm and gave it a firm squeeze.  "Has she reconciled with her family?"

"No, but I think she should."  Nick grinned.  "We're taking it slow and easy.  I don't want to hurt her any more than she's been hurt already." 

"Well, I think it's wonderful."  Audra jumped up and knelt by her mother. "What do you think, Mother?  Isn't it wonderful about Nick and Alejandra?  I can't wait for her to arrive."

"Now, now Audra, I think Alejandra and Nick might want to spend their time together without any interference from us."  Victoria lifted her hand and reached up to Nick.  He took her hand and smiled at her.  "I'm happy for you, Nick, and I can't wait to meet her.  But first things first, as you said, getting Heath on his feet again is our first priority. We'll just have to let Heath and Maria work things out for themselves. I do believe that if it does go well for them, Heath's recovery will be that much quicker." 

Jarrod returned to his chair and nodded in agreement.  "We can only hope."

To be continued…