For If They Fall

Chapters 35-42

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 35

Heath spent the next few weeks recovering from his wound, his vitality slowly returning. As he convalesced, Doctor Merar determined Heath was strong enough to begin strengthening exercises for his shoulder. Each family member chose a day to work with him, but it was always Nick who woke Heath and patiently led him through the enervating movements.

It was during those early morning hours that Heath haltingly recounted in frightening detail his time in Carterson, his mother's gift of the bloodstone ring, what it meant to him and how it had been lost. The stories were difficult to hear, but Nick had remained quiet through it all, warring silently with his emotions. It had all been senseless, heartless, and Nick felt completely shattered after the telling.

Over the weeks, their routine had become second nature and Heath's behavior, predictable. Nearly spent from the painful and repetitive motions, sweating, lightheaded and nauseous, Heath was always unwilling to stop, and each time Nick would convincingly "call it a day."

Heath would sleep for hours afterward, but before dozing off, feeling his way toward sleep, his mind would unfailingly wander to Maria. She loved him; he knew this, but because of his unassuming nature, he failed to comprehend the far-reaching depth and desperation of her love for him or that for her father or the ungovernable torment this caused her. It had all completely escaped him.

Although their courtship had been quick, a whirlwind rising too fast, churning crazily, he loved her. In the brief time together, they had impulsively planned a future, a place of their own and children -- their home bursting at the seams with them. It had seemed right -- "all the way right."

Heath sat now at the study's oversized desk, his shoulders hunched and his forehead creased, struggling to write Maria a letter. It was difficult to let her go, to put the reasons "why" into words, to put it down on paper. He shook his head, thinking ruefully of all that had gone wrong in such a short time and how it always tracked irrefutably back to his beginnings, determining every move made, every path chosen, whether conscious of it or not.

He recalled a poem Maria had read to him, translating it from the Spanish.  He had committed part of it to memory and it came back to him easily.

"Let heaven by star to guide thee! here below

How vain the joy that foolish hearts desire!

Here friendship dies and enmity keeps true;

Here happy days have left thee long ago!

But seek not port, brave thou the tempest's ire.

Until the end thy fated course pursue!"

He repeated the last line aloud: "Until the end thy fated course pursue!"

A fated course -- had it been?  More than certain, the poet had something else in mind, he still could not help, but fit the words to mirror his own situation. Although the poem spoke of despair and loss, ill will, there also sparked within hope, defiance, bearing up against all.

He thought of Maria. He hated that her face showed everything she was feeling, and that his own did as well. He hated what he was about to do, and that he still was not altogether clear of the reasons. He coolly buried his burgeoning sentiment and began the letter again, this time unshakably determined.  Perhaps, he thought, with time it would be revealed as the appropriate choice.

* * * * * * * *

It had started gradually, feeling the change only days after her visit with Heath, startling and unexpected as a pinch. Maria had been euphoric, hopeful, her dreams in clear reach, her mind as quick and light as a hummingbird. She would go to Europe, endure her father's boorish suitors, ever hopeful for her change of heart, but no longer pushing her or so she thought.

She had trusted him, believing his willingness to release her was because he loved her enough to sacrifice his own needs, his own dreams. Only recently did she discover it had been a lie, a well-executed plan, a successful bluff.  Her father had no intention of letting her marry a commoner, a man with an impure bloodline. Soon after she fell into a deep depression, and her grief became unbearable, knowing she had almost had everything she ever wanted.

Although she refused to give in to it, struggling against it, she was unable to resist. Her decline came quickly, evident only to her as she raptly watched the skin of her limbs begin to shrivel, curling back from her bones like aged tree bark, overly sensitive to touch, buzzing and shivering beneath her fingers. She no longer slept, the pounding of her buirdly heart too loud in her ears, pulsing its frenetic beat.

To her eyes, she was translucent, seeing the outline of each organ, the curving bones of her ribs exposed as if only swathed in gossamer, which was both frightening and thrilling to her. Into her womb she could see -- giddy with promise, desperately wanting something to be there, fragile and embryonic, this nebulous dream child, tamping, burrowing, latching onto her secret, fertile walls. But she found it empty, barren, its vacuity malevolent as a cancer.

She had recently cut away all her hair for fear the strands would slither to life, snaking around her neck, choking her as she attempted to sleep. She imagined a web spinning around her, helplessly shrouded in a thousand silken filaments, unable to break free, unable to move. She would lay for hours paralyzed beneath the bed's well-tucked covers.

She no longer prayed to God or the sainted, knowing all she had done had been seen. The sin of fornication was hers to bear. To whom could she profess?  All were indebted to her father, the sanctity of the confessional easily bought, her sins exposed with the public unfurling of unbloodied bed linens.

All she ever had was her father and she clung to him with childish desperation, fearful that he would leave her, too.  But it was she, who had left, sent away to an Eastern school -- an ill-fit. The girls with their pointed and pallid faces, painfully thin, were sourly remote. Maria had thrown herself into her studies, finding solace in her poetry. Sad, lonely, with eyes open, her dreams became real, the days spent in her room, drawing inside herself for love, reaching out to her long-dead mother. That had been the beginning.

Tucked away in her room now, the world outside her window had dissolved almost completely -- featureless, a blur, unimportant.  She was safe within her walls, a womb, suspended by an umbilical thread within the amnion. They had tried to batter them down, slicing open her safe world, a Cesarean.

In her dreams, she would cry without pause, feeling the tears dribbling down her cheeks, into her ears, swelling from her, bitter and enduring. Crocodile tears, crocodile love, crocodile life -- it was far easier not to feel.  A fatherless son, a motherless daughter -- had that been the draw?

Chapter 36

Jarrod and Nick entered the house talking in low, muffled voices. Surprised by their early return, Silas hurried down the large staircase, putting his coat on in haste, tugging at the mussed collar. When he got to the door, the older man smiled at them good-naturedly, taking Jarrod's hat while Nick placed his own on the foyer table.

Nick was pensive, lost in thought while watching the hat drop onto the table top. Neither man noticed Silas quietly excuse himself and return back upstairs.

Victoria came down the steps as Silas passed by her. She smiled to see Nick and Jarrod home, hoping the entire family could have lunch together. Deep in her breast, she felt her heartbeat accelerate, her breath catching when Nick looked up at her. The sadness in his eyes made her skin prick with disquiet. Was Alejandra not coming then?  Had too much time slipped by, causing a change of heart?  What did her telegram say?  Dare she ask?

Victoria was quite familiar with the tempest that was her second eldest son. In fact, she harbored  a secret pleasure when it came to Nick's spiritedness, his wild, fiery heart, his fury, his pride. Quick-tempered, but unfailingly kindhearted, she was continually awed by his unwavering loyalty and immense capacity to love. He was deeply passionate, extremely handsome, all eyes on him when he entered a room.

She took a breath and ran her fine hands neatly down the front of her dress, setting her shoulders as she greeted her sons with forced gaiety. Jarrod came over to her first, giving a light kiss to her cheek. His blue eyes loving, but momentarily unreadable. Nick's were a different story, his hazel eyes sparked like struck wire while he restlessly lashed at his thigh with his gloves, caught up in whatever was troubling him.

"What is it?"  Victoria was direct and her face showed she would not be put off by either one.

Nick shook his head, flinging his arms up in the air, but he did not speak.  Jarrod looked at Nick first and then to her.  "Mother, where's Heath?"

"Heath?"  Victoria felt her stomach tighten.  Jarrod lowered his head, no longer able to disguise his feelings.

"What's wrong, Jarrod?"

Nick walked over to her. "It's Maria."

"Maria?"  Victoria's grey eyes clouded with confusion. "I don't understand  . . .  is Maria here . . . in Stockton?"

"She never left."  Nick gave a hard slap to his thigh with the leather gloves as he made his way into the parlor.

"Never left?"  Victoria looked at Jarrod.  "How can that be?  It's been more than two weeks now and no one has mentioned a thing. Why I've not once seen Don Alfredo nor Maria in town. An occasional ranch hand. It doesn't make sense that they would be hiding away. And that's what it would be -- hiding away  . . .  From what?  For what purpose?"

"Come sit down, Mother."  Jarrod shuttled Victoria forward to the parlor's chair, holding her arm securely as she lowered down into the plush seat.  Jarrod watched Nick a moment.  The younger man's face was pinched with worry, his eyes dark with sorrow and unmistakable fear.  Jarrod turned away, his voice faint as he began to explain things.

"I had a visit from Angelina, Maria's --"

"Yes, yes, Angelina."  Victoria was not able to conceal her impatience.  "Go on."

"They never left for Europe.  It seems Maria is not well."

"Not well?  Why should they hide away because of that?  Is she feeling better?  Perhaps a visit is in order.  I really don't understand what all the fuss is about  . . .  Jarrod, tell me, what really is wrong with Maria?"

Jarrod looked over at Nick who was now looking into the cold, dark hearth, his shoulders slumped, deflated.

"What about Maria?"  Jarrod had been unaware of Heath's approach and jumped markedly at his younger brother's soft, but nonetheless urgent question.

Nick's head jerked up, startled to see Heath standing there. He swore under his breath. Victoria's lips formed a perfect, astonished "O," her eyes widening in surprise. They had been caught in an off-guard moment, now reeling as if sucker-punched.

"Heath." Jarrod extended his hand. "Come. Sit down.  I'll try to explain."

"Jarrod--" Heath's voice cracked with emotion. "What's going on? "

Jarrod moved to Heath's side, gripping his younger brother's arm.  He could feel Heath trembling slightly in his hold. "Please, come sit down."

Heath looked intently into Jarrod's eyes and then nodded. He accepted his older brother's help to the settee.

"I won't prolong this. I really don't know all the details. Only what Angelina told me earlier this morning when she came to see me at my office. She was very nervous, overwrought, understandably worried, having been told by Don Alfredo not to mention anything of Maria to the Barkleys."  He paused and looked at Heath, smiling faintly to see Nick at Heath's side, a firm hand placed on their younger brother's leg. "Maria's not well, Heath. Her condition  . . .  from what I could gather  . . . from what Angelina implied . . .  I believe Maria's suffered from a similar malaise in the past . . ."

Heath wore a puzzled expression.  "I don't understand, Jarrod."

"Angelina mentioned Maria going through something after the loss of her mother, and again after being sent off to boarding school  . . .  it all took a toll on her  . . .  mentally."

"What are you saying?"  Heath's fist balled tightly, his eyes filling.

"Her mind, Heath. She's had a collapse. The pressure of choosing between you and her father  . . .  Hadley's anger, your disappointment, her father's disapproval  . . .  it was all too much for her."

Heath shook his head in disbelief.  "But it was all worked out. Her father gave his consent.  She had been happy. So happy, I couldn't bring myself to tell her my decision when she came to see me. I didn't want to hurt her. She was so sure of everything. That it would all work out, that we'd be married. I almost--" Heath's voice broke, overwhelmed by crushing emotion. "I almost believed it was possible."

"I'm sorry, Heath."  Jarrod sighed deeply. "Angelina believes Maria overheard Don Alfredo talking. It seems his acceptance of your relationship with Maria had all been a ruse, a lie. Don Alfredo had no intention of letting Maria marry you. He's taking her to a sanitarium in Georgia. Lithia Springs. The waters are said to have a calming effect on patients with compulsive behaviors, emotional disorders. Whether it will help Maria, time will tell. I'm not sure how long she'll be there."

"NO!" Heath sprang from the settee. "NO!"

Nick followed, putting a steady hand on Heath's arm. "Take it easy, Heath." Nick pulled Heath around to face him. "It's not going to happen. You hear me, Boy? It's not going to happen. All right? You've got my word."

"Nick  . . . "  Jarrod's voice held a hint of warning.

Nick shot his older brother a defiant glance.  "Not now, Jarrod."

"How are you--"

Nick cut off Jarrod's question. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."  Nick held tightly to Heath's arm.  "Mother?"

Victoria raised her head, her eyes wet, shiny with tears.

"I think this son of yours needs a rest before lunch. What do you think?"

Victoria forced herself to smile, her composure returning. She rose and moved quickly to Heath's side. She wrapped her small arm around his waist, disturbed by how thin he remained. "Sleep and then a hearty lunch. No arguments. We'll work everything out, Heath. I don't want you to worry. Do you hear me?"

Heath nodded and pressed himself into her hug. He felt Nick give his arm a squeeze, a surge of gratitude rose up in him. Heath looked over at Jarrod and met his clear, concerned gaze. He saw reassurance there and nodded at his older brother. The life seemed, all at once, to seep from him and his limbs began to turn to rubber.  He fought against his weakness.  He needed to be strong now for Maria.  Strong enough to put aside his personal feelings and accept what would be best for her.

* * * * * * * *

A knock at the front door brought Silas, once again, scurrying down the stairs. When the older man opened the door, he saw Bert Hadley there with hat in one hand, while balancing a large freshly baked apple pie in the other.

"Yes?"

"I've come to talk to Heath."  Bert Hadley shifted his feet nervously, struggling to hold the pie upright. "If that's all right."

"Who is it, Silas?"

"Mr. Hadley would like to talk to Mr. Heath, Mrs. Barkley."

"Mr. Hadley. Bert."  Victoria seemed to float across the foyer's shining floors.  "Do come in, please."

Silas reached for Bert Hadley's hat, smiling politely when the man looked at him a moment confused. Hadley cleared his throat, awkwardly entering the imposing home.

"I thank you for your courtesy.  I wasn't sure if I'd be welcomed here after my last visit."  Hadley lowered his eyes contritely. "I come to set things right with your son, with Heath."

"I see."  Victoria gestured to the settee. "Please, sit. As my husband would say, 'something to cut the dust'?"

Hadley sat and shook his head.  "No thank you, ma'am."

"HADLEY!" Nick's voice thundered through the house. "GET OUT!"

Victoria rose from her chair and smiled over at her guest.  As Nick entered the parlor, she lightly put a hand to his arm, stopping him immediately.  "Oh, good, Nick. Would you kindly get your brother? Bert would like to speak to Heath."

"You're not serious!"  Nick looked at his mother incredulously.

Victoria merely smiled, nodding.

"After what he put Heath through . . . not to mention that little dustup I had in town with him and his cronies."

"It was a difficult situation for all, Nick." Victoria sat as she talked. "You know, yourself, you would have fought with everything you had, done the very same thing, to hold on to what was yours. On all sides, emotions were running high."

Nick lowered his head, contemplative. He looked at Bert Hadley who sat stiffly on the small sofa, looking ridiculous holding a huge pie on his lap.  Nick jerked up his chin.  "What's that?"

Bert Hadley looked at Nick. "What's what?"

"That. That."  Nick pointed a gloved finger at Hadley. "That pie on your lap."

"You can see for yourself."  Hadley shook his head dismissively. "It's a pie."

"I can see that it's a pie."  Nick ran a hand through his hair. "I'd say it's apple. Are you keeping it all for yourself?"

"Nicholas Barkley!"  Victoria feigned dismay.

"What?"  Nick sat next to Hadley.  "It's obvious that he brought the pie for us."

"No."

"No? What do ya mean 'no'?"  Nick stared at the man.  "For the love of -- how many men walk around with a pie, come to a person's home with that pie, and not intend to share it?"

"I intend to share it."

"Well, good then."  Nick went to take the pie.

"But it ain't for you."  Hadley moved it out of Nick's reach.

"It ain't for me?  Well now, then who might it be for?"

"For your brother, Heath.  That's who. I had the Missus bake it specially."

"Well, my brother doesn't like apple. So why don't I just take it off your hands."

"That'll be enough, Nick.  You know perfectly well, Heath loves apple pie as much as you do."  Victoria stood, smiling when Bert jumped up immediately when she rose. She noted that he was on his best behavior, taking great pains to be gracious. "Silas!"

"Yes, Mrs. Barkley?"

"Mr. Hadley has brought Heath a lovely pie."  Victoria turned to Bert. "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable not having to hold it throughout your visit."

"But  . . .  it's for Heath."  Bert was not ready to relinquish the pie, just yet.

"I see."  Victoria looked at Nick.  "Perhaps we should get Heath then."

Nick nodded. "I'll get him."  He turned to the older man. "If he's sleeping, I won't wake him. He's had a rough time of it."  Nick's eyes flashed at Hadley accusingly.

Bert lowered his eyes. "I ain't denying my part in that."

"Good . . . good."  Nick looked at the man for a moment, and then turned quickly to get his younger brother.

* * * * * * * *

Heath had woken, startled by Nick's shouts. His door had been left open a crack and he could hear muffled voices coming from the parlor. He turned over, preferring to hide away in sleep, not up to more bad news.

Unfortunately, he could not ignore Nick when the man tried to quietly enter his room.  Nick and quiet were worlds apart.

"Heath?"  Nick leaned over him.  "Heath?  You sleepin'?"

"Not anymore."  Heath sighed, running a hand over his face and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Did I wake you?"

Heath looked at Nick, shaking his head.  He could not help, but grin at the man.  "No, Nick, I was already awake."

"Good. Good."  Nick looked genuinely relieved.  "Listen, Heath, Bert Hadley's downstairs.  He wants to talk to you." Nick paused. "Your decision. Just say the word and I'll send him packin'."

"What's he want?"  Heath sat up slowly, still groggy from sleep.

"I figure he's here to apologize."

"He apologize to you?"

Nick grinned.  "Naw, don't expect him to.  I got some good licks in. Didn't do too badly, three against one."

Heath gave a canted smile. "Two's better."

Nick looked at Heath. "What?"

"Two's better."

Nick suddenly understood. "Right. Like you always say, 'Two's better than one'." He swallowed several times, his eyes suddenly moistening.

Heath stood, searching for his boots. Nick found both near him under the bed and walked them over to Heath.  "Sit. It'll be quicker if I help."  Nick pointed to the bed for Heath to sit and then patted Heath's right calf for him to lift his leg.  Nick quickly got both boots on his brother and then helped him to his feet.

"Ready?"

Heath nodded.  "As I'll ever be."

"You want me to hang around?"

Heath smiled.  "I'd appreciate it."

"I'm only doing it for the pie."

"What?"

"The pie."  Nick walked in step with Heath. "Hadley's got an apple pie downstairs that's got to be this big around." Nick indicated the pie's size with his arms. "Won't let anyone touch it.  Says the missus made it 'specially for you." Nick put his arm across Heath's shoulder. "You better be sharing."

"Well, Nick, you know how much I love pie . . ."

"That's gratitude for you."  Nick sulked, muttering under his breath.

"But I don't hardly think I'm up to eating a pie the size of Texas all by my lonesome."

"Not Texas."

"What?"

"California. The size of California."

"Big pie."

"Yup."

"Could use some help."

"I'm there."

"You always are."

"Count on it."

Heath grinned. "Always do."

Chapter 37

Hadley's visit the previous evening had been quick and surprisingly uneventful. Heath had little difficulty forgiving the man, Hadley merely an unfortunate victim caught up in the fallout of a choice made years earlier. It had not been a malicious choice; both swept up in deep need, both lonely, desperate to be loved, conscious only of the immediate resonance of their actions.

After privately reading his father's journal, Heath discovered the man was not at all as he had judged him to be: rich, arrogant, ruthless. On the contrary, his father more closely resembled the man Heath had conjured up all those years before as a child. Cold winter nights huddled under rough, wool blankets and meticulously stitched quilts, safe and warm, he would lull himself to sleep with perfect dreams of his father.

When his stepmother recently read from the journal about the boy, he had nearly jumped out of his skin. He had cried then, heartbroken, like a baby. He had denied the memory for so long, letting his anger and bitterness destroy it. He now had little doubt his father had been with him. The voice in his head speaking to him after a battle, comforting him, bracing him, encouraging him, telling him to fight, to live, to stay alive, it had been real and not his childish imaginings. He had thought he had lost his mind. Almost did in Carterson, losing the ring and in turn believing he had lost his father along with it, losing hope, certain he would not come out of the war in one piece. Then the old man came to him. Flesh and blood or not, the old man had been a Godsend, a true blessing.

Heath looked down at the tintype he held in his hands and smiled.  He realized in his own way he knew both his grandfather and father. Heath reached back in his mind, remembering how it had been, how he had felt. What he had thought a fantasy, a young boy's folly, was proven otherwise in his father's own script.

He reached his hand under the bed pillows and felt for the journal tucked away there.  When his fingers touched the soft, worn leather, he took in a quick, sharp breath, slowly releasing it as an ineffable feeling of well-being filled him. His heart sped up and his stomach jumped excitedly. He felt a pull, a powerful connection to something real, something good.  It pulsed through him as strong and potent as his lifeblood. The feeling was so overwhelming, so reassuring, tears began suddenly to well up and roll down his cheeks. Finally after so much time, finally after so much searching, he felt complete. There was no arguing the point, his father would have loved him from the moment he had drawn his first breath, if he had known . . . if he had only known.

Heath was able to live with that, was able to forgive that, no more regrets, no more anger.  It felt good. Damn good.

And then he thought of Maria . . .

He tried to be objective, to stand apart from all that had gone on without emotion so as not to muddle things up more, but he still found it difficult to sort it all. Shouldering his way through the denials, the excuses, his past, he could no longer turn away from what he feared was the truth. Suddenly aware, it always came down to the winning, because winning meant surviving, proving his worth, his weight, all of it having very little to do with Maria. His motives were not ingenuous, his intentions shaded, tainted, a shadow cast over their love. Ruined, unspooling before him, he now tasted the bitter, hollow victory -- "winner lose all." With alarm rising, he could no longer deny things, realizing he had used Maria in the worst possible way.

* * * * * * * *

At times she would come back, her mind containing moments of clarity. She knew this by touch, when things felt real to her: The doorknob, her bedstead, the silk coverlet, the ravening spectral window sheers pulsating in the wind, the full-length mirror with its wood gleaming like satin, remembering always to avert her eyes, not wanting to see herself, now transparent, a pale ghost. A nattering voice berated her, startled to realize it was her own. When had she come to hate herself so much?  Had she not been happy at all as a child?

In the bath last night, she had seen the water suddenly discolor with blood, spreading like red satin, the copper tang strong. She was surprised by this, as well as, the clots floating there, delusory bits of neonate. She had been told cold water would stop the flow, stop her loss -- this dream child, her last bastion. There would be no baby; there had never been. There would be no protection against it now. She would be sold off to the highest bidder, her father deftly covering up her flaws, defiled mind, defiled body, defiled soul.

Cautiously, she stepped around her room, barefoot, her uncombed brown hair loose down her back. When a sudden wind blew through the open window, her cotton nightgown belled out to her thighs. She smiled at the feel of its cool sensual relief. Slowly, she untied the ribbon at her neckline, shimmying her shoulders, then breasts, then her waist and hips through, her nightgown like mothers' milk spilled and puddled at her feet.

Out on the bedroom balcony, she stood feeling the wind against her, its touch was delicious, uncensored, freeing. Her laughter reached the workers in the garden and to the vaqueros beginning their day. She presented herself to the world, hoping for acceptance, admittance, while she waited for him.

* * * * * * * *

Victoria and Heath arrived uninvited at Don Alfredo's doorstep, both intractable, refusing to be denied entrance. Victoria worked her magic by means of charm and intimidation, while Heath quietly accompanied her inside, coming face-to-face with Maria's father.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Barkley, but your *son* is not welcome here."

Victoria remained composed, steadying her gaze on the man. "It can no longer be your decision, Don Alfredo. If you love Maria as you say you do, you will put aside tradition and duty and open your mind and heart to your daughter's needs. It's ridiculous to even try to argue the point. I think you are a very foolish man, if you continue to jeopardize your daughter's health this way."

"Mrs. Barkley . . .  Victoria--" Don Alfredo lowered his head, subdued. "Of course, you are right. I have not acted wisely or in the best interest of my daughter.  I had thought I was . . . I do love her. You must believe this."

"We do. But it's not what we believe that matters, it's what Maria believes."

Heath spoke up then.  "Maria might be all grown up on the outside, but inside there's a scared little girl, afraid she's going to be left alone, unloved. I need to talk to her and I will with or without your permission."

Don Alfredo looked at Heath for a long moment.  "Go to her. Perhaps you will succeed where I have failed."

Heath nodded, his voice soft with gratitude. "Thank you."

"Go upstairs. Angelina will take you."  Don Alfredo took a few steps, lifting his hand. A man appeared immediately. "Bring Angelina."

The man disappeared as quickly as he came.  Don Alfredo walked to Victoria and gracefully guided her to an elaborately detailed, finely crafted chair.  "May I get you something?"

"Thank you, but no."

"Senor Barkley?"

Heath slowly turned to look at Don Alfredo.  His eyes were momentarily distant. He shook his head, declining.

"Very well."  Don Alfredo stood.  "Ahh, Angelina. Good.  Will you please show Senor Barkley to Maria's room."

"But  . . .  Don Alfredo  . . .  Senorita Maria's room?"

"Yes, Angelina.  It will be fine.  You will be there."

"Si, Don Alfredo. Si."  Angelina bowed her head and then looked over at Heath. She showed a brief smile, her eyes approving.  "Come with me, young man."  She leaned toward him as they climbed the stairs together, whispering, "I will allow you and Maria time alone, but you must be discreet."

Heath nodded his thanks wordlessly.

* * * * * * * *

The sudden drape of the long shawl across her shoulders did not startle her. She had dreamed of this, seeing it before in her mind's eye, a vision, a premonition, a scene a thousand times imagined.  He would quietly come up behind her and wrap her in her robe, holding her to him with his big, strong arms.  He would say to her, "I will keep you safe," breathing those words over her, against her, into her. She would start to believe him, put her faith in him. She would whisper: "Promise you won't leave."

It ends there, this dream of hers, not able to trust even in that.  "You will leave," she thought to herself, although trying to chase the words from her head.

His strong hands gripped her upper arms, turning her to him. "Maria?"  His face showed his concern, his confusion. "What are you doing?"

She smiled. "I've been waiting for you. I'd hoped you'd come."

His face was pale, bloodless, his blue eyes brilliant with fear, beautifully sad. She ran a finger across his forehead, down the length of his nose. She blindly touched him with her fingertips, reading him, memorizing him. Desperate fingers danced over him like fingers on braille, wanting the hollow of the cheek, the full bottom lip, the fine, smooth length of the nose, the perfect brow, the well-shaped chin, to tell the story she wanted to hear.

With her eyes closed, she touched him, startling when her fingers became wet with his tears. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist, above the narrow hips, turning her face up to him. The moon and sea, an irresistible pull, magnetic, she searched for his mouth, kissing him and her heart lifted when he returned the kiss, a rhythmic curl and roll of waves against shore.

"Please, let this be where the story ends," Maria whispered. Her mind like a bell jar, her thoughts contained within, now deafening, erratic, a hundred tines zealously clinking against fluting, reverberating, ringing, breaking, bleeding -- hopeful and hopeless.

Chapter 38

Mounting dread slowly coated Maria's mind like a caul. She had no choice, but to let go when Heath began to pull away from her. Without the reassuring press of him against her, she found it difficult to breathe. Intuitively, Maria sensed her ruin, all things lost. She heard it then, the undoing of her dreams, the book closing with a bruising clap, thunking to the floor. She watched the unraveling, surprised to find some relief in its anticipated finality.

"Please, Maria, cover yourself."

Censured, rejected, she looked down at herself, her cheeks reddening at the sight: sleek, slim-limbed and unclothed. She stared mystified at her bare body for a moment, and then quickly looked away. Her eyebrows knitted, struggling to remember with her useless, amnesic mind.  How had this happened?  Now there was something else to add to her list of things she had done without her influence, finding herself more and more sleepwalking through her days. She pushed past Heath and grabbed up her nightgown, mumbling her apologies.

Distracted, Heath merely nodded, his attention on the men below in the garden who were now scurrying away with heads ducked down, hats pulled low to hide their faces. They had looked at her with brazen, hungry eyes, lustful, the scent of their judgements like a thing decayed hanging in the air, certain she was mad -- loco.

Maria certainly was not a fool nor addlebrained. She was perfection. But despite his conviction, a strange feeling came over him, and with it a terrible image he could not dispel: The apples of Sodom, outwardly beautiful, deceptively perfect, but when touched becoming the bitterest of ash. They had looked at her, had whispered to each other like the ones in Strawberry who had thought his mother of poor breeding, a doxy, talking behind her back. He vowed it would not happen again, but then immediately wondered to whom it mattered more. His mother with her perfect complacency, serene and unaffected as a saint or Maria unaware, insular, the burden of her own mind, her debilitating struggle all she can bear.  The answer was painfully obvious -- only him.

Heath turned away from the balcony and watched Maria hurriedly dressing. She looked at him through brown eyes clouded with humiliation.

Heath held a hand out to her. "I'm sorry, Maria. Please  . . . "

She looked at Heath and then quickly dropped her gaze.  "I'm so ashamed."

He slowly began to walk toward her, pulling her into his arms.

"I'm frightened, Heath."

"It's all right. I'm here now."  He held her closer.

"Oh, Heath  . . . "  Maria swallowed frantically, her throat paining her, aching, thick with suppressed tears.  "I don't -- I can't -- " Maria began to cry.  "No!  I don't want you  . . . "

Heath stiffened and pushed her back from him to see her face. "What are you saying?"

"I don't want you to be here. Not now.  I love you, but not now.  Perhaps never  . . . "

Heath bowed his head and was silent, his Adam's apple convulsed. He was unable to speak for a time.  "Maria--"

She did not let him say anything else. The slightest hint of a smile touched her lips and when she spoke to him her voice was tender, though replete with terrible sadness. "It all seemed so good.  You and I, separate from the world.  That was perfect. That was all the way right. But we couldn't run away from the world. How long would it have been before you missed the family you had only recently found?  I couldn't.  I wouldn't have you sacrifice so much for me."

Heath tried to speak, but Maria put her fingers to his lips to quiet him. "I love my father, Heath, even now, after all this. But I can never forget the hurt, the defeat I saw in your eyes when I made my choice.  I silently begged you to forgive me.  I prayed to God that you would understand, that you would love again -- but then my father seemed to relent . . . He told me how much he loved me and only wanted my happiness."

Maria put her palm lightly against Heath's cheek, looking into his eyes.  "When Angelina told me you had gone away and that you had been shot, nearly fatal, I was so afraid.  I could only blame myself."

Heath grabbed her shoulders, close to shaking her. "Don't! Don't be blaming yourself for something you had no hand in. None of this is your fault."

Maria looked at him, but said nothing.

Slowly, he relaxed his grip. "I'm finally figuring a few things out, seeing things a whole lot clearer.  The thing of it is people make choices and those choices come with consequences, some good, some not so good."

Maria placed her hand on his and waited attentively. Heath lowered his eyes, carefully considering what he would say to her. For so long he had kept things guarded, close to his heart and in some odd way, it felt almost like a disloyalty to share it, even with Maria. Taking a deep breath, he decided to just plow ahead. The sound of his voice startled him after the seamless quiet.  In spite of it, he continued on, although initially feeling ill-at-ease. "My mama made a choice a long time ago and if I'd been thinking straight, not so balled up about everything, not so angry, I'd of seen right off, knowing the kind of woman she was, how strong she was, I'd of known she knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly what she wanted. Thinking back, I don't recall a time she spoke in anger or sadness about having me. Not once. I had some time to think lately, remembering things I'd forgotten from when I was a kid. It finally sank in, finally hit me that I was what my mama had wanted all along. She wasn't saddled with a baby and she wasn't taken and then abandoned by a married man. She wanted a child with Tom Barkley and she thanked God every day for her blessing." Heath smiled then as if amazed all over again by his discovery. He squeezed Maria's hand warmly.

She raised her eyes to him and smiled. "She sounds like a wonderful and brave woman."

Heath nodded and spoke quietly. "She was. It wasn't easy for her, but she wasn't the only woman left alone with a child to rear, plenty of California widows. When Strawberry started to grow and more of the so-called respectable folk settled there, my Uncle Matt and Aunt Martha with them--"  He stopped short and when he spoke again, his words were bitter. "My aunt couldn't hold a candle to my mama . . ." His words trailed off as he stared into the distance, remembering.

"Heath?"

He looked up at Maria when she called his name. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts and after a time, he continued, "Life got harder for my mama, then the war came and I wanted . . . well, I guess I didn't really know for sure what I wanted, but the money had been a draw and a chance to see the world beyond the Sierras." Heath paused. "I saw the world all right." Once again he had to shake himself free of the dark memories. "I was Heath Thomson and when I shook the dust of Strawberry off me, no one knew any different. I earned respect because of the man I was and not because of any name. But, coming here to this valley was a whole other story. I had my back up most of the time. Folks didn't exactly welcome me with open arms."

"Why didn't she tell you?"

"What?"

"Your mother, Heath, why didn't she ever tell you who your father was when you were a child?"

"That is a question." Heath arched a brow, giving a sad smile. "But I think I finally got myself part of the answer. You see, my Aunt Martha was always looking to be somebody, wasn't real happy with her station in life.  She never gave my Uncle Matt a moment's peace. I think my mama was afraid of what Aunt Martha would do if she found out who my daddy really was. I can't prove it, but I'm sure my Aunt Rachel died because of Aunt Martha's greed. Maybe it was an accident . . .  Aunt Rachel wouldn't give in to Aunt Martha about asking the Barkleys for money when they found out they'd taken me in. Aunt Rachel had told Hannah that my mama wouldn't want it that way."

Heath turned to Maria and looked at her intently. "No matter what, I can't change the past, and I'm finished being angry about that. I let the anger control how I felt for too many years, wanting for the things kept out of my reach . . . like my birthright, like you. I was mixed-up and was only thinking about myself and what I was feeling. I'm sorry for that, Maria. Things just got out of hand, got too complicated and after a while all I felt was resentful. I came here today to stop your father from taking you away . . ."

"But you're not so sure now. That's what you were about to say, isn't it, Heath?" Not waiting for his answer, she continued, "I've waited all my life for someone like you. Someone big and strong and handsome."  She reached a hand to his face, her small palm cupping it. She looked at Heath for a long time, her eyes filling. "It could have been so good."

"It still can, Maria. We can try again. When the dust settles . . . you'll see . . . your father put a spoke in the wheel, but he's comin' 'round now."

"Stop it, Heath! Stop it! Stop it!"  Maria looked at him. Her eyes blazed brightly, and  then quickly extinguishing to grief.  "Oh, Heath.  I'm so sorry.  Look at me. Look at me. You see it, don't you? You can't deny it.  I see it in your eyes.  You're afraid . . . What will she do next? What will she say?  Will she hurt herself?  Oh, and the guilt, I see the guilt so clearly in your eyes. Your face is so easy to read. My love, my dear, dear Heath, too good for this world. No. No more torment.  I need you to forget me."

"Maria--"

"No! It's settled."  Maria pulled away from Heath.  "Angelina!  Angelina!"

The older woman quickly entered the room, her eyes nervously glancing at Heath and then Maria. "Si, mi nina dulce."

"Please show, Mr. Barkley out.  Our visit is over. We're through here."

"Maria?" Heath choked out her name.

She looked at him.  "I want to, Heath, I do.  But I can't.  Not now.  Please, if you truly love me, you'll accept my decision." Maria lifted her hand to him, but then quickly lowered it.  "Now, go!"

Heath moved toward her and kissed her hard on the mouth, softening it as she relented.  He tasted the salt of her tears, his mind roiling.  Eviscerated, he pulled himself away from her and turned to leave, not looking back.

When he reached the main floor, he looked at no one, spoke to no one, his mind only on escape.  He did not hear his mother's call, only hearing Maria's weeping in his ears.

Chapter 39

The sere grasslands rolled out before him and Heath did not once look back, leaving Maria behind, along with his mother and when bringing his hand to his head, realizing far too late, his hat as well. When he had walked out the door of the grand hacienda, he was heartsick and angry. Yet after having walked a fair distance, he began to feel something different. It was faintly perceptible, countermanding, and growing with each step he took. He felt it pulsing dimly through him -- through body, through blood. He loved her. He did. So why was he feeling this . . . this loosening of something unexplainable, this unexpected relief? His emotions conflicted, still reeling from a pain as deep and primordial as birth, as death. He carried on this way for some time sorting through it all with little success.

From the south, a wind rose up around him and seemed to push him along. Without warning, there came a burst of vivid memory of that early morning goodbye, and how afterward he had mindlessly allowed only the wind to guide him, like the hand of God.  This time he imagined it to be his father, giving quiet counsel, giving direction. Heath looked to the sky for sign, believing the clouds offered heavenly messages to those who remained earthbound.  Are you there, father?  The name felt stiff to him, too formal, all wrong.  Pa.  He had always called him that in his boyhood dreaming.  I need you now, Pa. I need you, now.

Heath started to walk again, the grasses higher and higher and the sun beating down on his bare head.  After awhile he stopped and wiped the sweat from his forehead and temples with his sleeve. He dipped his chin to his chest, hearing the pulsing of his heart in his ears, like thunder, like an accusation.

"How can a man be so wrong so much of the time and still be permitted to go on?" He asked the question aloud to the yellowed grasshoppers at his feet. The only response was a burst of grackles from a stand of trees; black satin plumage sleek in the midday sun.

His eyes skated from one cloud cluster to the next.  "Don't seem right.  Don't seem right at all."  Without thinking he brought his hand to his throat and tugged on the rawhide cording to reveal the ring.  He held it in a tight grip for a moment, hoping for revelation, but only heard the bleak blowing of wind.

"What'd ya expect? Been on your own, most of your life, making your own way. To blazes with 'em!  To blazes with all of 'em!"

In anger, Heath pulled at the cord and though it took some doing, he managed to release the knot. Impulsively, he hurled the ring into the limitless sea of grasses and with it the rawhide cording flying free. All at once remorseful, Heath ran toward where he thought the ring had fallen. Wildly, he searched on his hands and knees for what seemed like hours.

Exhausted, his shoulder aching, he dropped to the ground and laid in the grasses on his back, half-watching the clouds through slitted eyes. Sleep began to pull on him. He thought of his mother and a twinge of guilt pained his heart. He almost expected her to arrive any moment, having by now taken the surrey off-road in her search for him, no doubt worried. But she would be fine, feisty gal that she was, spirited, a true pioneer woman. A smile came to him at the image, quietly proud of her.

Suddenly his mind was off in another direction, frenetic, out of control. In the clouds, the face of Gabriel Hatch was forming, and Heath shivered to see it. Like the boy, Heath now believed that he, too, brought ruin to the lives he touched. Of course, his was far more subtle -- a slow kill. But then he heard Nick's voice, telling him again how he was nothing like Gabriel Hatch, had never been.

Yes, sir, weren't no mudsill . . . He who is without sin . . . without sin . . . She had offered him absolution before his leaving . . .

In truth, he could endure all things, forgive all things rendered upon him, body and soul, having been proven more times than naught. But those things wrought upon others at his own hand were sins never to be forgiven.

While he was giving this matter considerable thought, it was if someone, in that moment, whispered in his ear a sudden and horrible realization, telling him there would be no absolution, no salvation bestowed. And it all came down to one thing, all his very own making, far worse than any accuser had been against him -- for it was he who could not allow himself pardon nor forgiveness for being a by-blow, for being her only misbegotten son.

Heath groaned, his head hurting, unable to rid himself of the doubt, the shame, the guilt. It had been a hard road and he had grown too weary. In his troubled mind, the only thing he could bring to full coherence was that there were no more second chances for the boy, no hand to help him. He had been too late.

Heath rose up then from where he lay in the grasses with an anguished howl. He stood, feeling weak-kneed, and slowly worked to get his legs under him. Before long, he was able to walk, but then stumbled, falling. His hand landed on what he believed to be a rock. He scooped it up grass, dirt and all. In his chest rose a bubble of hope as he carefully opened his palm. A slow grin formed on his face, greatly surprised to see the ring there.

"You lucky bastard!"

He began to laugh at what he had just said as he stood and put the ring in his vest pocket.  He again started walking.  "I need me a drink."

* * * * * * * *

"NICK! JARROD!"  Victoria entered the house, frantically shouting for her two eldest sons. As the door closed behind her, she leaned against it a moment, catching her breath.  Tears threatened, but she swiftly brought up a gloved hand and brushed them away. There was no sign of her sons. She pushed herself away from the door, feeling all too weary.  Again she called out: "JARROD! NICK!  Where is everyone?"  She walked to the foyer table and placed Heath's hat gently down on it.

Audra appeared at the top of the stairs, watching her mother. She gripped the banister anxiously. "Mother, what is it?"

"Oh, Audra!  Please! Where are your brothers?  I need them now."  As an afterthought, almost too afraid to hope, Victoria asked, "Have you seen Heath?"

"Heath?  Isn't he with you?"  Audra moved quickly down the steps.  "Oh, Mother!  It didn't go well did it?"

Victoria lowered her head.  "No, Audra, not at all.  I need Nick and Jarrod to go find him."

"Mother, what is it? I heard your shouts practically all the way to the bunkhouse."  Nick took in the flushed face and the mussed hair of the older woman who was normally neatly coifed.  Her black riding pants were dust-covered and her right cheek was smudged.

"Is Heath with you, Nick?"

"Heath?  Oh, for the love of Mike!  What did Montero do this time?"

"Surprisingly, he was quite cooperative.  He was more than willing to allow your brother to see Maria.  I'm not sure what went on, what had been said . . .  I called to Heath, but he ran out the door before I had a chance to talk to him."  Victoria removed her hat and ran her hand roughly through her hair. "Why did I wait?  I knew your brother was upset. I thought I'd see him on the road home. I should have gone after him right away.  I should have--"

"You should have what?"  Nick took her in his arms.  "You know Heath always goes to ground when he's hurting. When that boy wants to get good and lost, it's near impossible to find him. He just needs some time."

"And you're not worried about him?"  Victoria looked up at her dark-haired son.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."  Nick shrugged. "Still all skin and bones, a stiff wind could knock him off his feet."  A thought occurred to him then.  "Tell me he's not on foot."

"He is." Victoria sighed. "Did Jarrod go to his office?"

Audra, though a bit dazed by everything, spoke up then. "He left right after you and Heath went to the Monteros. Do you think that's where Heath is headed?"

"Oh, Audra, I really don't know where your brother might be going or what he's thinking right now.  Maria's behavior has become more and more erratic. Maybe things should have been left as they were."

"And what were they left at, Mother?  Heath giving Maria false hopes about their future. That boy was mixed up about everything not so long ago. Then he suddenly knows what he wants to do. Marry her, save her from herself."  Nick shook his head sadly. "I won't say they don't love each other, but it would have eventually destroyed them both.  I know he's hurting right now, but I think it's worked out for the best."

"Oh, Nick!" Audra put her hands on her hips, annoyed. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "How can you say it's for the best?  I'm not sure Heath will ever get over this. I'm so sad for them.  What will become of Maria now?"

Victoria reached for Audra's hand.  "She'll get the help she needs. I've been giving this a lot of thought and I believe Heath and Maria had been drawn to each other because of the difficulties in their lives, the loneliness, alienation, abandonment. Maria was very troubled after the death of her mother and her father was often too busy to give her the attention she needed.  Then boarding school, thrust into a world she felt she did not belong, isolated, no one to confide. And your brother . . . " Victoria's voice cracked with emotion, unable to speak of Heath's tragic past. She took a deep breath and nodded.  "I agree with you, Nick, although Heath won't see it that way for quite some time."

"Well, I'll just have to help him see it."

"You'll do nothing of a kind, Nick Barkley."  Audra thrust out her chin. "You're going to leave Heath alone and you're going to give him time to work things out on his own. I'll never forgive you, if you cause Heath anymore pain than he's in right now."

"Now, now, little Sister."  Nick pulled her into a hug. His voice grew soft with affection.  "You know how I feel about that brother of ours. I'd never do anything to hurt him."

"Promise?"

"Promise."  Nick crossed his heart and then kissed her forehead. He turned to his mother.  "I'll go into town to see if Heath showed up there.  More than likely he's drowning his sorrows.  If not, I'll double-back to the Monteros."  Nick grabbed his mother's hand and pulled her closer to him, kissing her cheek.  "It'll be fine.  I'll find him."

"Bring your brother home, Nick.  Bring him home to us."  Victoria's eyes filled and Audra went to her, circling her arm around her mother's small waist.

"I'll be back."  Nick grinned.  "I expect to find a hot meal waiting for us."

Victoria smiled. "Whatever you want, Nick. Just name it."

"Steak.  Thick and juicy. And tender. So tender, it melts in your mouth like butter. How's that for starters?"

"You've got it."  There was a long pause when Nick walked to the foyer table. He gave a thoughtful tap to Heath's hat and picked it up without a word.

Audra piped up then, breaking the silence. "Tell Heath, I'm baking him a chocolate cake especially for him.  Tell him . . . tell him we love him."

"I'll do that, little girl. Now don't you worry, you two. Like I said, he's probably just licking his wounds over a bottle of whiskey."  Nick nodded to them.  "I'll be along in no time."

Victoria walked him to the door.  "You better. Both of you"

Chapter 40

That afternoon, Nick rode into Stockton down Main Street toward the saloon. He stopped in front of the building, dismounted and tied Coco's reins to the post. On the boardwalk, he watched the town a moment and then turned, pushing open the batwing doors. Once inside, he spotted Heath seated at a table in the darkest corner of the saloon. For a time, he just stood and watched him drink.

Nick looked over at the barkeep, nodding. The burly man nodded back and then looked over at Heath. He looked back at Nick, tossing him a glass. Nick thanked the man and made his way measuredly to Heath's table, not wanting to spook him. He eased himself down in the chair across from his brother, but Heath did not acknowledge him.

"A man shouldn't drink alone."  Nick took the bottle and poured a generous glass for himself.  Heath did not respond.

They sat in silence for a long time, drinking and Nick was beginning to feel the liquor. He was thinking about getting himself something to eat, when Heath spoke, startling Nick badly.

"She cut her hair."

"Maria?" Nick was quick to respond, anxious to get Heath to open up and talk.

"Yeah." Heath looked at Nick searchingly. "Why do you suppose she did that, Nick?"

Nick shook his head. "I couldn't say for certain, Heath."

Heath stared into his glass for a moment and then turned sad and confused eyes to Nick. "It all happened so quick. She was standing there on the balcony without a  stitch of clothing on. I didn't notice at first about the hair. She was so beautiful, Nick. Lit up like she was by the sun, never seen anything more perfect . . .  It took awhile before it sank in, that she was standing there like that, not dressed. For a split second, I thought, if she'd only let down her hair, it'd cover her up some . . . and then I knew . . ." Heath's voice broke. "It was like when you know something good has gone away and you can never get it back. But I couldn't give up on it. I wanted it back.  I needed to get it back . . . because I couldn't live with this too . . . knowing it was because of me that all this happened."

Nick swallowed, working to keep his voice steady. "What Maria's going through now, Heath, that's not your fault."

Heath slammed his fist on the table. "The devil you say!"  The other patrons looked over at them curiously. Heath slowly calmed. "Don't you get it, Nick? It's not just Maria. It's everyone I touch. My Mama, Maria, Mother . . ."

"Come on now, Heath. I don't buy that. You're not making a lick of sense."

"But I am, Nick. I'm making more sense than I ever made in my life." Heath paused, trying to find the words to match his feelings.  He decided to speak openly to Nick. "When I was born, my Mama told me that it took me some time to fill my lungs. I figured God must have been deciding if a cur like me had the right to breathe air. You see, Nick, if I didn't fight so hard to stay alive everything would have been a whole lot better for everyone. But I did fight. My Mama told me I fought real hard. And I've been fighting ever since. For what, Nick? I'm tired of hurting people just because I exist, just because I lived. I fought for my place on this earth, fought for my place in this family, but I was just being selfish is all. Just plain selfish."

Nick thought a moment before saying anything. He knew he had to make his words count. "Well, now, I just don't get it. From what you've told me about your Mama, I figured she loved you more than anything, more than the moon and sun and stars put together. You fighting to live, well, I reckon that was the best gift you ever gave your Mama. And you fighting for your place in this family, well that was the best gift you ever gave me."

Nick paused, letting Heath absorb what he said. He leaned forward, speaking softly, but with tremendous emotion. "I'm going to speak for the rest of the family here because I know for a fact that Mother, Audra, Jarrod, and, yes, Eugene, all feel the same way I do. And you want to know why, Heath? Well, I'll tell you why. It's because you're a good man. More than that you're a good brother, a good son. You might think that's not true, but you'd be wrong. One thing you got Heath Barkley is a good heart and you got that from your Mama.  I know for a fact you're a man that was raised real fine, growing up with a loving mother. So you listen to me now, Boy, quit feeling sorry for yourself and look around at what you got, what you fought so hard for. And know this:  It ain't going away,  I ain't going away and neither are you."

Heath nodded, giving a small smile. He had a difficult time looking at Nick. His eyes bright, shining deeply with tears. "I thank you for that, Nick. I do."  Heath was quiet for a moment, thinking things over. He appreciated Nick's words, but felt ill at ease. He quickly changed the subject. "How are things with Alejandra? Thought she'd be coming soon to visit."

"Plans changed. Serves me right, though. I got me one heck of a big mouth."

Heath raised a brow, smiling. "I won't argue with you there. But, I still don't know what you're getting at."

Nick grabbed the bottle and poured a splash of whiskey into his glass. He looked at Heath and shrugged. "Talked her into seeing her family and setting things right with her father. I figured for things to be right between us she needed to settle a few things first. Fresh start. I didn't think she'd be completely happy with her life, herself, knowing how things were left with her father."

Heath winced as he thought of Maria. He had to agree with Nick, something like that would fester. But with Maria, he had chosen to ignore it, his pride getting the better of him. Even now it was hard for him to admit that it had been more about besting Montero than his love for her. He knew Maria would have had difficulty breaking free of her father, the rift in their relationship impossible for her to bear, no matter how sure she had been, how brave. Heath sipped morosely at his drink and then lowered his glass and looked at Nick.  "You're a better man than me, Nick."

"Not by a long shot, little Brother." Nick immediately knew what Heath was thinking.  How could his brother not compare it to his own situation with Maria?  He cursed Montero for everything his brother had endured.  He knew he was being unreasonably, but he could not stop blaming the man for Heath nearly dying.  It was because of Montero that Heath had needed to get away, needing some breathing room to sort things out. Nick forced a smile, hoping he could lighten the mood. "From Alejandra's last letter, all's forgiven. She's even reconsidering medical school." Nick paused. "But she did agree to come celebrate Thanksgiving with us."

"Sounds nice, Nick." Heath brought a hand to his shoulder. "I'll be the first to say she's got a talent for healing."

"You're telling me. Lucky she was there. I'll always be grateful to her for her help. I suppose that's why I'm being so gracious about the whole thing."

Heath grinned.  "Patience ain't your strongest suit."

"For Alejandra, I'd wait. As long as it takes."

Heath smiled. His words held a deep warmth and affection for his brother. "You're a good man, Nick Barkley.  Don't let anybody tell ya different."

"Runs in the family." Nick grinned, but then grew serious. "I wish I could get that through your thick skull."

Heath sighed and turned his gaze from Nick. "Well, my skull may be thick . . ." Heath hesitated, certain Nick would not take what he was about to say well. "But it doesn't change the fact that I got something that needs doing."

Nick's face reflected his confusion. He rubbed his palm over his brow hard.  "And what's that, Heath?"

"Got some unfinished business back in Jamestown."

"I'll go with you."

Heath's features hardened. "No."

"No?"

"No. I'm leaving . . . alone."

Nick went cold. He was suddenly terrified that this time Heath would not return. He had been lucky to have found Heath the last time his younger brother had decided to ride out on his own. Nick shivered, remembering all to clearly how Heath had looked when he had found him. He had truly been fortunate, stumbling upon Heath when he did. The boy seriously wounded, close to death's door, nearly bled out. No. This time it would be over his dead body. Heath was not going anywhere alone again. He took a breath and slowly released it, calming himself. "I'd like you to explain just exactly what you mean when you say you're *leaving*? "

"Just that." Heath was being difficult, stubborn. His defiance was reflexive, still not comfortable having to answer to anyone, refusing to be cowed by any man. "My business."

Nick's fear hemorrhaged into anger and he fought to control it, but was useless. Fuming, he spoke without thinking, his words heated, reproachful. "All right, Heath. You go ahead, you leave. Leave us like Father left you, left your Mother. That's how you still feel isn't it, Boy, still what you believe? Well, go on, run out on us the same way, hurt us the same way. What are you waiting for? It's easier that way, isn't it? Easier to blame us, blame him. Well, I've had my fill of it and it ends now!" Nick waited for Heath to say something. He looked directly at his younger brother and immediately saw the hurt in his eyes. Nick's regret was at once debilitating and consuming. "Heath, I'm sorry. Heath . . ." Nick silently pleaded for understanding, for forgiveness. Although shaken and ashamed, he continued, "I need you to choose, Heath. I want you to look me in the eye and choose between your past and what you have right now, right here . . . your home . . . your family . . ."  His words trailed off, until he quietly said, "And me, Heath . . . your friend . . . your brother."

Heath picked his glass up and tossed back the alcohol in one swallow. He slammed the empty glass down on the tabletop. "Nick! You are just so plumb full of yourself! You think just because you say it, it's done. Well, it doesn't work that way."

"Let's get one thing straight here, Boy. It's your choice. I'm not telling you to do a blasted thing."

"That's where you're wrong, Nick. You're telling me to choose right now, to forget about the past, forget about everything I've felt, everything I believed. Twenty years of hurting, hating -- living and breathing it every day and . . . nearly dying.  And all without him, all because of him.  It's not that easy, Nick, and you wanting something, needing something, won't just make it happen."

Nick bowed his head in defeat.

"But . . ."

Nick lifted his head slightly.

Heath looked at Nick. "I do choose my family and I do choose my brother."

Nick's shoulders sagged in relief. He reached across the table and tightly gripped Heath's arm.  He wanted badly for his younger brother to know how much he meant to him. But he only said, "I'm going."

Heath's face was impassive, but his tone was agreeable when he finally spoke.  He shook his head, helpless against Nick's determination and well-meant intentions. "Have it your way, Nick. Have it your way."

Nick grinned as he pushed his chair back from the table. He stood and winked at Heath.  "I usually do."

Chapter 41

Even after all the missteps and subsequent heartache, Heath could not, in good conscience, let Maria leave the Valley without some acknowledgment of what she had meant to him. He now took vigil on the very same rise where he had stood all those weeks before, looking down upon the wagon trace that cut through a broad swale.

From the west, he saw a plume of dust rising and soon the black, shiny rig came into view and then quickly rumbled past. He could only think to raise his hand to her, a feeble gesture at best, while he stood looking off down the road. Dry-eyed, he watched as she vanished from his sight -- vanished from the landscape.  He felt it only fitting when a hard rain suddenly began to fall.

* * * * * * * *

Later that afternoon, Heath and Nick prepared to leave for Jamestown.  It had been hard for the family to let Heath go, but Nick had reassured them he would keep him out of harm's way. The wagon Nick had acquired in Jamestown had been made ready by Heath, and Nick wondered what else his brother had hidden under the tarpaulin with their supplies. He chose not to question it, as he climbed up on the wagon seat.

Earlier, they had made their goodbyes to the family after a cordial meal. Their mother had clung to them both when they had appeared in the foyer with their bedrolls in tow. Nick smiled when he recalled the tender embrace Heath had returned to her. Ever solicitous of their mother, Heath's gratitude and love were worn on his sleeve, visibly protective of her like that of an irreplaceable treasure.

She, of course, was quite used to his own boorish ways, but Nick knew she understood the love he held for her. A quick kiss, a less-than-gentle hug, a tight grip of her shoulders -- she seemed so small, so fragile in his hold. But Nick realized, far more than any of them, the tremendous heart and spirit she possessed, very much like him.

It amazed Nick to see the love she had for Heath, this intruder, this interloper who had turned her life on its ear. She had looked beyond that and had come to love Heath, as they all had come to love him. Each day Nick saw this, holding little doubt, her love was as fierce as his own for the boy.

There was something inexplicable about Heath that struck a sentiment within Nick he could not put into words.  Somehow in a short time, Heath had managed to become the apple of the family's eye, so beloved to them. Nick had tried to narrow down the reasons, for himself in particular. Had it been a second chance at having the closest thing to his father back in his life?  Maybe that was it, though the reminders were at times unnerving.

He and Heath had never really talked about their father. A little here and there, but Heath's jumbled emotions had most times made the subject impossible to broach. His bitterness seemed to always lapse into sorrow. He was often unpredictable, one moment eager to hear as though a little boy with hero worship dreams and then the next, eyes flashing with anger and resentment and a deep indelible hurt. Could he really blame him?

At first, he had. It took a lot for him not to bust Heath right in the teeth in those early days. But those eyes, those damnable eyes, had always stopped him. Heath had never bluffed him, had never hid his feelings away from him, which was both a privilege and a curse. The welfare of his brother's heart was a tremendous responsibility, which prompted Nick, at times, to think first before speaking.

Every so often, he had to remind himself to do so through the course of the trip, finding it difficult not to question Heath about his so-called unfinished business. Rather than dwell on Heath's usual closed-mouth ways, Nick rattled on about nothing in particular, not having the heart to mention all the things needing tending to at the ranch. McCall and the men for the most part had things well in hand. Now into the last weeks of September, winter would soon be upon them. To Nick, the last couple of months felt more like years, always like a hammer blow to him whenever he thought of all that had happened in that time.

Nick thought himself to be a man of considerable intelligence, but he chose not to be what others would deem a deep thinker, as he considered it to be a powerful waste of time. His thoughts were solely on the running of the largest ranch in the San Joaquin Valley, perhaps in the whole of California. Those particulars left little time for brooding or indulging in sentimentality. The man beside him was an entirely different story. Day-to-day, Nick struggled to understand his brother's sometimes remote and sensitive nature. He sighed and shifted on the seat. Out of necessity, but mostly out of habit, his mind wandered to the ranch, making a mental list of things to be done on their return.

They traveled on this way with Heath hardly speaking well into the evening. As they began to lose the light, Heath turned the wagon off the road to make camp near the river. Willows and sycamores grew thick around them, and Heath took the horses to water downriver where the grasses were plentiful.

Later they ate quietly and then gathered their bedrolls. Heath laid wrapped in his blanket on his back, looking up at the night sky.  It was well after a good hour of trying to sleep when Nick finally broke the silence. He sat up and stared into the coals of the fire. He grinned and looked over at Heath. "You got a cruel streak a mile wide, you know that don't ya?"

There was a long stretch of time before Heath said anything. "If you got something on your mind, Nick, just say it plain."

"All right, Heath. I want you to tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

"There ain't nothing to tell."

"Oh, I think there is. I saw you riding out today before dawn."

"Last I knew it wasn't a crime."

"You're not up to it."

Heath sat up and looked over at Nick.  "You a doctor now?"

"No.  Just your brother.  And I know you're still not in the best shape."

"Been worse off and survived."  Heath turned his gaze to the fire. "Just got soft is all."

"You almost died."

"But I didn't."

"Dammit, Heath!"

"What do you want me to say, Nick?"  Heath gripped his knees.  "What do you want from me?"

Nick shook his head and gave a bitter smile.  "I don't know, Heath.  I just don't know."

"Well that makes two of us."  Heath laid back down.  "Let's get some shuteye. Tomorrow'll be here soon enough."

Nick settled back against his saddle, his thoughts were still restless, unsettled.  "Heath?"

"What?"

"I know."

"You know what?"

"I know what I want from you."

They were both silent.

"Well, you planning on sharing or do you think I can read minds?"

Nick grinned at Heath's sally. He sat up and nervously tossed kindling into the fire, close to changing his mind.

"Come on, Nick. I'm just about able to keep my eyes open."

Nick sighed.  "Happy."

"What?"

"What I want. I just want you to be happy."

Heath was quiet and Nick waited for an answer, at once feeling as though he should have kept his thoughts to himself.  He reached for his canteen and took a long pull from it. When he tossed it aside and laid back down, he was surprised to find Heath watching him. Without saying a word, Nick closed his eyes and tried to appear as if he was near to dozing. After a time, he could still feel Heath's eyes on him. Although it was difficult for Nick, he remained quiet, feeling more than a little gloomy, certain he had said the wrong thing. But then his mood lightened considerably when Heath finally did speak, saying he was grateful for that, giving him a slanted smile. Nick broke into a grin then, no longer under strain. In fact, Nick was so upbeat and relaxed after hearing Heath's words, he found he was able to sleep, deep and dreamless, throughout the night.

* * * * * * * *

By first light, they continued east over the gold grasses of the plains toward the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Though still a fair distance away, they could hear the wind in the mountain's timberline. There would be a killing snow in the higher elevations.

Soon they began to ascend the lower hills and a few hours later a town emerged and took form before them like that of a separate world having all this time been hidden away in the mist. Heath stopped the wagon and Nick saw his brother's hands tremble. He wondered what Heath recalled of those days. To Nick it had been a nightmare and only Heath's foolish desire to return had made him come back.

It had never occurred to Nick that Alejandra might not want to leave her home or that she might even hold strong feelings for the place. Her husband had been buried in the town's cemetery and before that they had built a fine life together. And, of course, there was the boarding house.  His was from a whole other perspective, nearly losing his brother . . . yet then finding something special, finding Alejandra. Suddenly joy lit up in him, but slowly burned out when he gave credence to a voice telling him Alejandra would never be his. He chose to whipsaw it, bury it away, needing to be on an even keel to handle whatever Heath had in mind.

Simultaneously, both men turned to look at each other, but neither spoke. So many emotions passed like a hard and terrible storm between them, rendering them mute. Nick saw the despair in Heath's eyes and the unspoken apology there. He could only shake his head and rasp out: "Don't Heath."

Nick was aware, months ago, that his younger brother's capacity for guilt was not solely limited to one specific thing, but was without limitation due to the tragic and immutable byproduct of his birth. He understood now that Heath viewed every mishap to be somehow of his own making, the responsibility of every man's welfare somehow entirely his own, which was a task impossible to meet. Even Gabriel Hatch's death had taken on a life of its own, Heath's guilt pervasive, choking, burdensome. Suddenly the reason Heath had needed to return, came to Nick.  Heath had been driven, compelled to set right his lapses, his errors. This was his punishment for failing the boy, his penance, and God-willing by enduring this, it would offer him the elusive brass ring of redemption. Even laid out before him, it was difficult for Nick to comprehend. He tried to fit in his brother's skin, to view the world as Heath would view it.

Nick briefly saw things with acute clarity which frightened him. There was a birth, his own, a second son gloriously thrust into the world, fierce and wide-eyed, his mother's fluids cleansing him of sin. While Heath would always be to himself unwashed, unclean in birth.

Nick immediately saw Heath cared little for the money, the Barkleys' wealth, wanting a thing that could not be bought. A man could not be reborn, was not able to adjust the circumstances of his birth to suit his liking. Unless, of course, he believed in reincarnation and tempting as that might sound, he might find himself as the lowliest of beasts. But then each has a place on the earth, as did Heath, as did he.

Although the path leading Heath to him and to the family had been circuitous, difficult, it was the path Heath had been fated to travel, and Nick thanked God for what he had come to see as their tremendous good fortune. Now he would walk beside Heath and bear his brother's self-imposed sins and suffer it gladly. In time, Nick was confident, Heath would learn to finally forgive himself.

The wagon abruptly halted at a red brick freestanding building, and Nick nodded at the sheriff sitting there.

The man stood up, grinning. "Well, if it ain't the Barkley Brothers!"  He shook his head, amazed. "Never thought I'd see both of you riding back this way.  I didn't want to believe it, but truth be told, Son, I thought for sure you were a goner."  The sheriff smiled.  "Glad you pulled through."

Heath pushed back his hat and grinned.  "I'm kinda glad about that myself."

The sheriff laughed.  "What brings you boys to town?"  He looked at Nick.  "Miz Alejandra's away on personal business, but you must know that already."

Nick nodded.  "She did mention it."

"Well then anything I can do for you while you're here, just holler."  The sheriff touched a finger to his hat brim and headed to his office.  As he started back, Heath called to him.

"You need something, Son?"

Heath looked down at the man, his body tensing, suddenly poised as though he expected trouble.  "The boy, Gabriel Hatch, I need to know where he was laid to rest."

The sheriff looked up at Heath and then over to Nick.  He pushed back his hat, lifting it as he scratched his head.  His face plainly showed his thoughts on the matter, a mix of disapproval and disappointment.  "I can't stop you from whatever you plan on doing, boy's long dead and buried, but I don't have to like it.  I think it's best to leave the likes of that boy alone, even in death.  He was through and through Satan's spawn and most folks think you're a real hero for what you done. The killing was too quick for him, didn't nearly suffer enough for the sins he committed.  I only pray the Good Lord took up our cause and that the boy is suffering gravely in Hell's eternal damnation."

Heath started to speak, but only lowered his head, looking at his boot tips.  Nick gave a quick pat to Heath's leg.  "We understand your feelings, Sheriff.  Believe me.  I know what that boy was capable of, being in his cross-hairs myself.  If it wasn't for my brother here, I'd be the one that was six feet under and turning to dust."  Nick glanced quickly over at Heath, sighing when he saw the utter despair on his brother's face.  He removed his hat and blotted the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.  He cleared his throat.  "If you could just tell us where the boy is buried, we'll be on our way."

The sheriff grew thoughtful.  "He ain't buried with the decent folk.  He pointed to a far-off knoll. "Down that way. Boot Hill. Just him and another fella. We've been fortunate."

"Much obliged, Sheriff."

"Not my business, but it seems to me to be a plumb foolish waste of time on that one, alive or dead."

Chapter 42

When they reached the graveyard, Heath pulled the wagon to a stop, set the brake and smoothly jumped to the ground. He was red-eyed and solemn and looked at the world from a safe remove. To Nick it seemed, Heath had separated himself from all emotion, as if observing things from a distance, and only the task at hand was his sole preoccupation.

Nick watched awhile from the wagon seat as Heath made his way to what appeared to be the newest of the graves and then squat down next to a small cross carelessly made of branches and twine. Nick at once thought his brother was praying, but quickly realized, Heath was merely working the cross free from the pile of rocks that held it in place. He watched as Heath finally pulled it free and went to toss it aside, but then hesitate, setting the cross down gently next to him.

When Heath stood up, Nick moved quickly, climbing down from the seat. He walked over to Heath who had made his way to the back of the wagon. Heath slowly removed the canvass covering, and Nick no longer needed to wonder what was hidden under the tarpaulin. In the far left corner of the wagon bed lay a large cross with blankets packed around it and one under it. Heath climbed up into the wagon and began to tug on the blankets, the cross sliding toward Nick who immediately reached for an end and tugged along with him.

Surprisingly, it was not as heavy as it appeared. But it was --  to Nick's eye --  quite stunning. He noted the three-tiered base and Latin Cross, and at once recognized it to be a Calvary Cross, the base symbolic of the trinity or faith, hope, and charity. Recently, it had become quite popular as a grave marker, having seen quite a few in the Stockton Cemetery.

For Nick there was then the slow realization that over the past month, Heath had crafted the cross himself of wood, varnishing and polishing it until it gleamed, its sheen now brilliant in the sun.  Most wood would slowly decay, but Nick believed this cross would not, having been hewed of centuries old oak, eventually weathering to the hardest of stone. Nick would never be convinced the boy was worth the fuss. In fact, he was certain someone like Gabriel Hatch was best forgotten, the world better off ignorant to the predaciousness, the degeneracies of mankind. It was something to be left undisturbed, not to be reawakened. But Nick knew when Heath's mind was set on something there was no stopping him.

So together, they now worked to carry the cross to the gravesite with Nick every so often asking Heath how his shoulder was holding up under the strain. Heath only offered a quickly mumbled, "fine," but Nick knew differently. The cross was cumbersome, and although manageable, it grew heavier for him with each step taken.

As they set the Calvary Cross down and started to position it in place, the skies immediately darkened. Sinister gray clouds scuttled above their heads, the rays of sun bleeding out from beneath their bellies.  Heath did not seem to notice, though Nick did, visibly shivering.

"Reminds me of Carterson."

Nick looked at Heath warily. "How so?"

"Reminds me of where we buried the dead.  Everything was gray. Gray land, gray skies."  Heath's eyes grew distant, roving to places Nick could not travel.

"I find it's best, Boy, not to chew on things too long. Best to let some things go."  Nick turned away from Heath and looked at the cross. He read the inscription aloud:  "Here lies the son of a good woman."  Nick looked back at his brother. "That's real nice, Heath."

Heath nodded. "Thanks, Nick." His eyes were wet when he looked at Nick. "I thought folks should know this boy had a mama that loved him. He told me that his mother worked the pest houses for money, not wanting to prostitute herself.  She was a good Christian woman. Folks ought to know that."

"A good Christian woman like your mama, Heath?"

Heath looked sharply at Nick.  "That's not why I'm doing this, Nick, if that's what you're thinking."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell, Nick."

"You're nothing like him, Heath. Wasn't nothing easy about your life and you still chose right. That boy didn't. You chose right."

"'The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.' William Cowper." Heath glanced over at Nick. "There was a school teacher in Carterson would quote all kinds of things. That one seemed to stay with me."  Heath hung his head. "I hope that's true for his sake. "

Nick grunted. He wanted more than anything to get away from the place.  "Well, it's in God's Hands now, Heath. Nothing more to be done. Come on. Let's get out of here."

Heath gave no response, only digging his fingers into his vest pocket, and then abruptly holding out his hand to Nick.  "I want you to take this back."

Nick automatically reached out, taking hold of what he realized was the bloodstone ring. "I don't understand . . .  Why?" At first Nick was stunned, but then grew confused when Heath stood there smiling at him.

"Don't need it anymore."

"What the blazes are you talking about?"

"I thought I needed it. But I don't."  Heath grinned at the look on Nick's face. "I thank you for giving it to me, but it's yours.  It was never mine to--"

"I gave it to you, Heath.  It *is*  yours to keep."  Nick was starting to get annoyed.

"Listen to me, Nick. Just hear me out."  Heath looked imploringly at his older brother.

"All right, Heath."  Nick nodded.  "All right."

"During the war, I believed that the ring, the other ring my mama had given me, kept me alive.  I  talked to him --  to *father* in my head.  Sounds crazy, I know, but it's the truth.  I swore he spoke to me. After reading his journal, I know he did. That's your ring, Nick, not mine. Grandfather Barkley wanted you to have it.  I don't need any ring. Not anymore."  Heath took a breath. "Jarrod told me a little bit about the bloodstone. He said that the stone gives a person courage and direction to follow their life's path. I reckon I got a little lost on the way and my path might have been a path of sorrow a lot of the time, but I finally found me a little bit of heaven. I am happy, Nick. And I thank you for wanting that for me."

Nick smiled, momentarily speechless.  "Well, now . . . you're welcome." He cleared his throat with difficulty, overwhelmed.  "Well, what do you say, Brother?  Time to be heading home?"

"It sure is. Fact is, it's the only place I want to be."

Nick patted Heath's shoulder and then affectionately squeezed the back of his younger brother's neck. "You're giving me gray hairs, Boy. You know that don't ya?"

"I suppose blaming me is a lot easier . . ."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't mean nothing, Nick."  Heath climbed up on the wagon seat, looking over at Nick, wearing a big grin.

"So help me, Heath, you better tell me what you meant by that or I'll bust you one."  Nick landed hard on the wagon seat, his irritation was evident.

"Now there's no need for that, Nick." Heath arched a brow.  "I just meant, if it's easier for you to blame me for those gray hairs, that's just fine by me."  The wagon started forward with a lurch, pitching Nick backwards.  Heath turned his face away, trying not to laugh.

"Well, who else would I blame?  No one else has me running all over creation for days and nights on end, nearly getting himself killed and me too, I might add.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'd do it again in a heartbeat if you needed me, but I ain't getting any younger."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"I'm glad you can finally admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you ain't getting any younger."  Heath smirked.  "And that maybe it's not me that's giving you those gray hairs. Could be you're just getting old."

"Old!"  Nick's face reddened.  "Who you calling old?"

"Settle down now, Nick."  Heath's tone was sympathetic, his face showing concern. "I didn't know it was such a touchy subject for you. I take it all back."

Nick huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.  "Take it back.  That's not something you can take back. Old . . . you got some nerve! Why I can out rope, out shoot, outride, you or anyone else any day of the week.  Old!"

Heath thumbed his hat up and looked at Nick, wearing a wide grin. Pleased with himself, he happily headed the wagon toward home.

Epilogue

It was now late November, Thanksgiving Day, and it brought with it a brief, cold snap.  Heath stood alone just outside the parlor on the veranda. He could hear the family inside, their voices enlivened, robust with goodwill.  Alejandra had arrived that morning and Heath had never seen Nick happier or more mannerly. Heath could see that Nick was truly smitten by her and was Alejandra's for the taking. It would not surprise Heath if he was to hear that they would soon wed.  But then, Heath reflected, life had a way of turning things on its head.

Immediately he felt a pang, the sunlight just right, reminding him of that moment when he had found Maria, standing there naked with her nightgown about her feet.  It had been the defining moment of her madness, tragically beyond his reach.

A hand brushed his and he jumped in spite of himself.  He smiled, recognizing her perfume. A small arm encircled his waist and the press of her against him felt warmly maternal and comforting.

"Did you enjoy the day?"

Heath nodded and sighed contentedly.  "Boy Howdy, did I! Don't think I ever ate so much in all my life."

Victoria smiled up at him.  "Good.  I'm glad to see you've gotten your appetite back. Doctor Merar will be pleased."

They watched the horses run for a while in silence.

"What do you think of Alejandra, Heath?"  Victoria turned toward him, waiting.

Heath grew thoughtful.  "I think she's a fine match for Nick."

Victoria heard something else in his voice.  "But . . ."

Heath startled.  "There's no buts."

Victoria pressed him.  "You can be honest with me about anything. You know that."

"I do."

Victoria smiled.  "Then tell me. I sense that there's some reservation."

Heath shrugged. "It just seems to me that they're headed in two different directions, what with Alejandra thinking about her schooling and Nick thinking about settling down, having a family." He smiled.  "Nick did say, he'd wait for her, as long as it took."

Victoria nodded.  "I see."

Heath gave her a hug.  "I made you worry.  Not my intent."

Victoria smiled at him. "A mother's prerogative."  She removed her hand from his, and began to search her dress pocket.  She then took his hand again in hers.

"What's this?"  Heath felt the coolness of metal against his palm.  He raised his hand and saw his mother's locket there.

"Nick asked me to return it to you for him."  Victoria searched his face.  "Do you remember giving him the locket?"

Heath furrowed his brow, drawing a blank.

"You had asked Nick to keep it safe for you."

"Gabriel Hatch took everything, left me for dead, but then came back because of this locket."

Victoria cringed inwardly at the mention of the boy's name. She stayed quiet, realizing he wanted to tell her everything that had happened.

He gradually began to talk, speaking softly.  "He came back to help me after he had left me for dead.  He said the locket made him think of his mother. He said she was a good woman and wouldn't want him to leave me to die seeing how neighborly I'd been to him."  Victoria instantly felt a tremble run through him. "He wasn't gentle about it, but he did what he could."

"His mother must have guided him back to you or perhaps . . . " Her words trailed off and then she continued in a voice just above a whisper, "or perhaps it had been Leah."

"I thought about that and I wouldn't dismiss it after everything that's gone on.  It helps to know . . ."

Victoria gently gave a squeeze to Heath's arm, prompting him to continue.  "Helps to know what, Heath?"

"That they're up there, watching over us, helping us when they can."

Victoria looked intently at Heath. "You do realize you have a family right here, right now who are willing to do the same for you no matter what?"

Heath smiled. "I do and I'm grateful to you, to all of you for that.  I got more than I ever dreamed was possible."

Victoria waited, suddenly sensing Heath withdrawing.  "No, no. Not that, Heath. Not with me. What's troubling you?"

Heath sighed. "I'll hurt you."

"Why on earth would you?"

"Not intentionally, but there might come a time that I will.  Every day, I work to make peace with it all and most times I think I have . . ."

"I understand, Heath.  More than you know."  Victoria looked him in the eye.  "I love you as my own, Heath, but I can't deny your father's infidelity, no matter his reasons, doesn't hurt.  Every day when I wake and think of him, I must bring myself to forgive him all over again."

She felt him pull away from her a little, but she held onto him firmly. "Now you listen to me, Heath Barkley, because this is important. However I may feel about your father has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Never doubt that, not for one moment. And never for one moment doubt your family's love.  If you do, Heath, if you do, you'll only hurt them and yourself." At that moment, Victoria raised herself on her toes and kissed his cheek. "Happy Thanksgiving, Heath."

Heath gave her a firm hug. He pulled away and smiled at her.  "I think they're waiting on us for dessert. Shall we?"

Victoria gave a light tap to his arm. "You go on. I'll be there in a moment."

"All right."  Heath kissed her lightly on the mouth, leaving her alone on the veranda.

Victoria listened to the sound of his boot heels gradually diminish, and then his soft-spoken voice as he joined in with the conversation. She smiled and wrapped her arms around herself and breathed in deeply the crisp, evening air. She began to reflect on recent events and all Heath and her family had endured. Her head lifted, her shoulders straightened and she raised her eyes upward. Impulsively, she spoke aloud, her voice carrying to those inside. "He's fine. Our boy's just fine."

In that instant, whether it was Tom or Leah or Grandfather Barkley, she would never know, but she swore she felt a kiss lightly brush her cheek.

Or perhaps, she reasoned, it had merely been the wind.

THE END