"Jarrod!"

"Where?"

"There - by that carriage. Jarrod!" Nick hollered again. He took off his dusty hat and waved it. Finally Heath saw him, weaving through the traffic of the busy San Francisco street.

"Boy Howdy, there's a lot of people in this town," Heath muttered. He took Coco's reins from Nick and pulled both horses back, away from a passing wagon.

"We'll both have to get used to city life again, after three weeks on the trail," Nick grinned. "Starting tonight!"

Jarrod ran the last couple of yards and slapped Nick on the shoulder. "Hey, Nick! About time you got in! Heath!"

Heath transferred both sets of reins to his left hand and shook Jarrod's with his right. "Glad to be here, big brother," he said.

Nick said: "Jarrod, I hope you've got money with you, because you are buying two hungry cowboys the biggest steaks in this town. But first, I've got a powerful thirst, and the only thing for it is some of that smooth, Irish whiskey."

"It's still pretty early, do you want to go back to the house and get cleaned up? Maybe take a nap?" Jarrod eyed his brothers up and down. They'd obviously made an effort at swatting the worst of the trail dirt off, but both were unshaven and rumpled. Heath, especially, looked weary. "If you sent that wire yesterday from Gunnar's Rock, you must have ridden straight through. That's a long way on no sleep."

"This one," Nick jerked his thumb at Heath, "said he'd rather spend the night in a saddle than one more on the ground."

"And you agreed with me," Heath reminded him.

"I did. And, big brother," to Jarrod, "Once I close my eyes, they're not opening again for three solid days. And I don't plan on spending my first night in San Francisco sleeping in your bathtub." Nick grinned and threw his arm around Jarrod's shoulders. "Ever since I chased the last cow into the pen, I've been thinking about that steak we had at Christmas."

"Jake's it is, then. How about you, Heath? Steak, whiskey, or bath?"

"To tell you the truth, Jarrod, I think bed sounds best."

"What!" Nick turned on his brother. "Bed!" But he softened when he looked closely at Heath's face. He had been dragging a bit. He'd picked up a cold in that rainstorm a week out of Stockton, and hadn't really shook it, though he'd seemed better the last couple days.

"Are you all right?" Jarrod asked.

"I'm fine. I'm just...not up to getting thrown out of the best restaurant in San Francisco tonight." Heath grinned at Nick. "One of us has to be there with bail in the morning."

"Well, how about just a drink, then?"

"No, I think I'll just take care of the horses, then turn in. I'm beat, Jarrod."

"What you are," Nick said, "is an old man. Years ago, a little thing like a trail drive wouldn't have knocked you down. Why, I shudder to think. Jarrod, another year or two, and the most ole Heath here will be up to is driving the chuck wagon. 'Course, he'll poison the whole crew with his beans."

"Well, let me deal with the horses, at least," Jarrod said. "You two can go inside," he nodded at the tavern a couple of doors down, "for a beer."

"I'll take care of the horses," Nick stated. "Jarrod, you go on and get us a table. Heath, you get yourself someplace and lay down before your old bones give out under you."

"You've got your keys?" Nick and Heath both patted their vest pockets.

Heath said: "I'll take the horses. Jarrod, that livery around the corner from your house - that still open?" He had the reins of both horses, and he was already stepping into the street, but Nick tried again.

"Will you get yourself home please?" He made a grab for the leather straps.

"I will, as soon as I take care of the horses."

Jarrod eyed his brothers affectionately. He knew there was no chance of Heath turning care of Charger over to anyone, not even Nick. He also knew that Nick was likely to escalate the argument until he lost sight of what they were actually arguing about. "Nick, I predict that we will be having this discussion until the bars close. It's time to withdraw gracefully. Brother Heath, will you promise to go straight home, eat something, and go to bed?"

Nick frowned, but Heath laughed. "I'll be sleeping before you get a table, I reckon. Goodnight - you two don't do anything I'll have to explain to Mother."

As Heath led the horses around the corner, Nick turned on Jarrod. "Thanks for backing me up. He's got no business hanging around a livery stable all night."

"He would anyway, Nick, and you know it. Now - straight to dinner? Or saloon?"

Nick rubbed his hands together. He could taste that Irish whiskey already. "Saloon," they said simultaneously.

It was 2:00 a.m. when they got home. Jarrod was unsure of where Heath might have gone to sleep, so he looked into the spare room first: empty. "You can sleep here," he whispered to Nick. He steered his woozy brother onto the bed and helped him remove his boots, vest and gunbelt. Nick rolled over and didn't move again. Grinning, Jarrod covered him with a quilt and left quietly. Figuring Heath had stretched out on the sofa in the study, he peeked in.

But that room was empty too.

That only left Jarrod's own bedroom, and the bathroom - maybe Nick's joke about falling asleep in the tub wasn't a joke after all. With a sense of unease shifting into worry, Jarrod checked both rooms quickly. Heath was nowhere to be seen, and now that Jarrod looked around more closely, he couldn't see any evidence that he had been there at all. Worry was turning into panic; he tried to talk himself out of it. Heath had decided to enjoy the San Francisco nightlife after all. He'd run into an old friend and lost track of time. He'd fallen asleep at the stable. He'd gotten lost and taken a hotel room.

No. He'd never be so inconsiderate. Jarrod could feel his heart beginning to race, thinking of the dark undersides of those possibilities: Heath had gone to one of the numerous saloons and fallen in with a sharp, guns had been drawn. He'd been attacked and robbed by one of the city's roving criminals - he was lying in an alley, dead. He'd wandered, lost, down to the docks and been shanghaied - hell, it had happened to Nick, in Stockton!

He forced himself to calm down. The late hour was getting to him. Heath knew his way around San Francisco, saloons and card games considerably better than Jarrod himself did. If he was going to do something about it tonight, he'd have to start at the livery. The question was, wake Nick or not?

As it happened, he didn't have to make the decision. There was a faint knock at the front door. Jarrod sighed in relief - he'd lost his key, that was all.

It wasn't Heath, it was John, the new young doorman. "Mr. Barkley, I'm sorry to disturb you so late. I must have been in the office when you came in. I saw your lights just a minute ago." He was holding a folded sheet of paper, he handed it to Jarrod. "Your brother was here earlier, he left this for you."

It was short and to the point:

Jarrod, I have to take care of some things. Tell Nick I'll be back to the ranch in a few days. Heath.

Jarrod stood there looking at the note for several seconds. 'I have to take care of some things'? Things he hadn't said anything about just a few hours ago? No, this was something new, something that had happened after he had left them. Jarrod looked up. "Did he say anything about where he was going?"

"No sir. Mr. Barkley, well, he did seem upset about something. But all he said was to give this to you, then he left."

The doorman started to withdraw, but Jarrod stopped him by reaching out and touching his arm. "Hold on a second, John. What time was this? Did he have his horse with him? Was he on foot?"

"No, he had that big bay - I sure do remember that horse. He gave me the note and asked me to give it to you, then he just took off. It was about...seven or so. I hope everything's all right."

"I'm sure it is. Thanks, John."

"Goodnight, Mr. Barkley."

Jarrod shut the door and took the note to the kitchen. He sat down and read it over again. He couldn't help feeling that everything wasn't all right. In fact, he was certain of it.

The man at the livery was no help at all. He'd come on duty at midnight. He said the man who’d been working earlier lived down by the bay, but he didn't know where, he was due back the next day at noon. No, he hadn't seen Heath or Charger. Coco had been long settled in when he got there.

Jarrod went back home and decided to let Nick sleep, at least until morning. It was almost four, he decided to lay down and get in a few hours himself.

Nick kept reading and re-reading the note as he drank coffee late the next morning.

"He didn't say anything? There wasn't anything bothering him?" Jarrod pressed.

"No, nothing." Nick was badly hungover, but even so, he was too worried to snap at Jarrod. "I told you he was sick a week ago, and kind of tired, but there wasn't anything bothering him, not that I know of." Heath was quiet about things that worried him, but Nick could usually tell when there was something. And Heath usually opened up, eventually. Although there had been occasions in the last year, that time with Charlie Sawyer for example, when he'd gone off on his own. Nick had to acknowledge to himself that when Heath felt he had to handle things on his own, it was usually something very bad, indeed. The trouble was, sometimes the problem was too big for him to handle alone.

Jarrod sighed. "Well, whatever happened, I'm not sure Heath would welcome our prying. He didn't ask for help. It seems pretty clear he expects you to go home."

"I don't care if he asked or not. Jarrod - he's got some kind of trouble. Now, you know he's too stubborn for his own good. He ought to know by now that if he's got trouble, we do too." Nick finished his coffee and stood. "I'm going to that livery."

"They may not know anything, Nick."

"I think whatever happened, happened there. He took care of Coco, but he didn't leave Charger. Something happened, Jarrod. It's all we got to go on."

Jarrod forced Nick to sit down and eat breakfast in a restaurant across from the livery. They both watched the entrance until a young man walked purposefully down the sidewalk and went in. "I think that's him, Nick," Jarrod said. "I think I've seen him there before." Nick jumped up; Jarrod hastily threw some coins on the table and followed.

The man from the night before was speaking to the newcomer, he looked up as they came in and motioned them over. "Mr. Barkley, this here's Joe Cramer, he was working last night when your brother came in."

"Barkley," Cramer shook hands with Jarrod, then with Nick.

"This is another brother, Nick. You talked to Heath?"

"Well, some, but he didn't say much. Not to me, anyway."

"What exactly happened?" Nick asked. He could see that the younger man was a little uncomfortable.

Jarrod said: "Please, just tell us what happened. We expected our brother to come home last night but he didn't. We're worried about him. We think something happened last night."

"Nothing much happened at all. He had two horses, that one," he pointed to Coco, "and a bay stallion. Saturday night and all, it was pretty busy. I couldn't help him out right off, so he was getting them settled himself. There's this old guy, sometimes hangs around. I think they knew each other, anyways they was talking. Next thing I see, that there horse is stabled, and he - your brother - he's riding off. That's it."

"He didn't say anything to you?"

"Nothing, mister. I'm sorry. But-".

"But?"

"Well, like I said, he didn't say anything. But I could tell he was mad about something, the way he rode out."

"Who's the old man?" Nick asked. "Is he still around?"

"No, and I don't know his name - Danny's what we call him. He's real old, I think he comes around sometimes cause he's lonesome. Likes the animals and talking to folks. He don't mean any harm. I think one time he said he worked at a livery when he was young. That's all I know about him."

"Will he be back today?" Jarrod asked. "Where could we find him?"

Cramer shrugged. "He don't work here, he just shows up every once in a while. Don't know where'd you'd find him, mister, I'm sorry."

Nick questioned him for a while longer, trying to get a clue about what had upset his brother, but Jarrod could tell there wasn't any more information to be had there. He wandered over to Coco and stroked his ears, thinking about what they did know.

Whoever this 'Danny' was, Heath knew him. It didn't sound like anyone who had worked the ranch, so most likely it was from before Heath came to Stockton. They had talked. Something in that conversation had made Heath angry. He had ridden off, directly to Jarrod's house, where he had left that unhelpful note. Then what?

"Did Danny leave with Heath?" Jarrod asked.

"I don't know. I don't remember seeing him again, but like I said, it was busy."

"All right." Jarrod took out his wallet. He wrapped a five dollar bill around a business card and handed it to the young man. "Danny may know something that might help us find our brother. As soon as you see him again, could you send someone to get me? My office and home address are on the card. I'll come right away."

"Sure mister, but I'm sure Danny didn't do anything. He's a harmless old fella."

"I'm sure you're right. I just want to talk to him."

Outside, in the full sun, Nick winced and rubbed his forehead. "What now?" he asked.

"I don't know there's anything we can do but wait to hear something. I'll check at the station, see if he bought a train or stage ticket. Maybe you should start for home. If he went that way, you might pick up word somewhere."

Nick shook his head. "I don't like leaving, without knowing."

"I don't like it either, Nick, but I don't know what else to do. He said he'd be home in a few days. He's certainly got a right to take a few days off and deal with personal business. If we overreact, it's only going to make him angry."

"I know, but, Jarrod...I think there's something wrong. Something bad."

Jarrod had learned to respect Nick’s instinct, and he had that feeling too. "Well, if he hasn't come home by, say, the middle of next week, then we'll have to think again about what to do. In the meantime, do you want to come with me to the station?"

Nick ran his hands through his hair, then put his hat on firmly. "No, I guess I'll head home. The crew'll be getting in tomorrow, I guess I ought to be there."

It was a very uneasy Jarrod Barkley who returned alone to his apartment an hour later. No one remembered seeing Heath at the station, and he hadn't bought a ticket under his own name. He went by the livery on his way home, just in case, but there was no sign of Danny.

He had been looking forward to spending a few days with his brothers. Nick and Heath worked hard and rarely took time off. Jarrod knew from his own experience how wearing a three-week drive through desert country could be. He had wanted to give them a vacation they'd long remember. Instead, one brother had vanished under troubling circumstances, and the other had left alone.

He looked at Heath's note, sitting on his kitchen table. It was his brother's writing, though written in obvious haste. He traced the letters of the signature. "Where are you brother?" he whispered.

The wire came to Jarrod's office early Wednesday and went unread most of the day. He was busy with a witness examination until 2:00 p.m., then had to make an appearance in court. Finally he stopped for a late lunch before returning to the office. His assistant handed him the wire along with other papers. It read:

JarrodNo word. Arriving 5:30 train. Nick

Jarrod glanced at the wall clock: 3:40. He had about ninety minutes to clear off his desk before Nick's arrival. After that, the two of them would be focused on finding their brother. He explained the situation to his associates and staff, signed a few critical documents, then returned home to change.

Nick would insist on taking some kind of immediate action. For him, even unproductive activity was better than waiting.

Nick had brought Coco and Jingo in the stock car. He was already saddling Coco when Jarrod arrived. Jarrod noted the bulging saddlebags - Nick was prepared to be on the road quite a while. Problem was, there were a lot of roads leading out of San Francisco.

"What did you tell Mother and Audra?" Jarrod asked, as he hefted Jingo's saddle and threw it over the horse's back.

"Not much," Nick said shortly.

"Was that wise?"

"Probably not, but seeing as how I don't know much, that's all I'm in a position to tell!" Nick drew in a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Jarrod, I'm not mad at you." He leaned on Coco and watched as Jarrod methodically tightened the cinches. "You haven't heard anything either, I take it."

"No. I thought we'd go by the livery again tonight."

"You've been back there?"

"Every day. And I've asked around a little bit - discreetly! - he hasn't checked in to a hotel in town."

"Well, let's get going."

As they rode down the wide streets, Jarrod felt the veneer of the city slipping off. Whenever he returned to Stockton he felt the same. Wearing work clothes, riding Jingo, spending time with Nick; the sophisticated attorney gave way to a younger, rougher Jarrod Barkley. It was strange to feel that way here in this city, his city. It was a thought - if he were seen by some of his colleagues, he might not be recognized. They might look right past him, just another cowboy. He was glad he still had that inside him.

Joe Cramer was working at the livery, grooming a pretty young paint. He nodded at Jarrod and motioned them over. "Mr. Barkley, good to see you again."

Jarrod said: "You remember my brother, Nick?"

"Sure do. Fellas, I think I may have something for you."

"Danny?" Nick straightened and looked around.

"No, no I haven't seen him. But I did talk to a man was here on Saturday night. He was here 'bout an hour ago. I sent a boy to your office, they said you'd left."

Jarrod winced.

"I think it's all right, mister. He told me everything he knows. See, he came in to settle his horse about the same time your brother was here, last week, and he thinks he remembers him and Danny talking."

"Where can we find him?" Jarrod asked.

"Well, I'm afraid he was on his way out of town. He's from down by Gilroy. But I did get his name, in case you want to write him. Anyways, I asked him to tell me everything he could remember. He said he thought Danny and your brother, they went back a ways. He thought he knew him when he was a boy, some mining town. They was talking nice and friendly, then Danny said something made your brother mad. He couldn't hear what it was about, but your brother rode off like he was mad, or scared maybe, and he said the old guy looked mighty sorry about something. That's it."

"They didn't leave together?"

"Don't sound like it. I told this fella you was awful anxious, might even be of a mood to pay if he could remember more, but he said that was all. Here's his name," Cramer reached into his pocket and pulled out a note, passed it to Jarrod. Expectantly, he said: "I thought that might mean something to you."

"It does," Jarrod said grimly. He opened his wallet and handed Cramer the first bill he came to, a twenty.

"Thank you, mister. I'm still keeping my eyes open, I even got a couple boys looking out for Danny."

"It's a great help, thank you."

Jarrod and Nick walked silently across the street to a saloon, sat down, and each downed a large whiskey. "Strawberry," Nick said, disgusted.

"It sounds that way," Jarrod agreed.

"Goddamn it," Nick said slowly, bitterly. "I thought he was shut of that place."

When Hannah had died in the spring, Nick had gone with Heath to bury her and close up the house. It had been a hard time, but when they left, Nick had been certain that Heath had finally severed the ties to his painful childhood. They'd stopped at the edge of town and Heath had looked back for a long moment. "What?" Nick had asked.

"Just trying to see it, they way it is. Sometimes I see it different. I don't want that - it's a dead town, that's how I want to see it now."

Now Jarrod said: "I guess we're never truly shut of things that hurt us when we're children."

"Well, at least we know where he went. We don't know what happened, but we do know where we have to go."

"You want to start tonight?"

"I want to start right now." Nick stood. He had a strong sense of time slipping away. He had to find his brother quickly. Heath never came back unscathed from Strawberry.

After the Charlie Sawyer fiasco, the entire family had sat down with Heath and tried - again - to make clear to him that he didn't have to try and manage hurtful things on his own. That they wanted to help, even if the problem involved his past. And he had tried. Whatever this old man had told him that had made him mad or scared or upset, it had sent him careening back into old, unhealthy patterns.

And Heath hadn't been well. Nick said: "Right now, Jarrod."

The first night they stopped in Olympus and stayed at a hotel. The next day was grueling, up at dawn and stopping only to rest the horses. At sunset Jarrod started looking for a place to camp. He finally pointed to a grove of trees beside a river. They'd have to ford it, and it made better sense to try in the morning when they had good light. Nick reluctantly agreed and dismounted. He led Coco to the river and tied him to a tree, and froze.

There, on the bank, lay a small heap of stones. He looked around slowly. A campfire, carefully extinguished and covered with smooth rocks. A pile of leafy branches.

"Heath," he said quietly. "He was here."

"What?" Jarrod followed Nick's gaze. "What are you talking about?"

"I've been in enough camps he's set up - that's his campfire. He always uses river rocks, if there's any, around it. He always puts it out with more rocks. Just like that. And that stack of rocks, down by the river, he does that too."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Nick shrugged helplessly. "But he does, every time we camp by water."

"So we know we're on the right trail," Jarrod said. He was a little cheered, but not Nick. It just reinforced his sense that they were behind Heath, on the same trail, yes - but days behind. Nick had a terrible fear that they would never catch up. There wasn't anything rational behind it, but it was a powerful feeling.

They arrived in Strawberry early the next evening. As far as they could tell, there was no one at all living there any longer. There were an awful lot of towns like Strawberry, here in this part of California. Mining towns where the mine had played out. Lumber towns where the forests had been cut. Towns bypassed by the railroad, in favor of another with nothing particular to recommend it. They were all sad; the sense of defeat blowing with the dust in the street added to Jarrod's uneasiness.

Nick walked up and down the sidewalk hollering Heath's name, but the only response was a howling wolf somewhere in the woods. Hannah's house was boarded up and showed no sign of recent visitors.

"Let's find a place to put the horses," Jarrod said finally. "Looks like a barn over here."

Walking through the dusty street, Jarrod noticed something on the ground. He put his hand out and stopped his brother. "Look here," he said, squatting down. "Prints."

Nick leaned over. Sure enough, relatively fresh prints, a shod horse and a pair of boots, heading in the same direction as he and Jarrod. The barn had a broken sign dangling over the open door with faded painting announcing "Livery 50¢". The price had been marked out with a piece of charcoal and now read "10¢".

Inside the footprints continued and led to a stall that had been painstakingly cleaned. The others in the row were filthy, but this one had been carefully swept. "He takes better care of that horse than he does of himself," Nick said thickly.

Jarrod started to say, we don't know it was Heath, but truth was - he was just as certain.

They cleaned out another stall and fed Coco and Jingo with some antique hay piled in the corner of the barn, cooked dinner on a campfire built in the alley, then settled down themselves for the night just inside the barn door. Even completely empty, Strawberry stank of lawlessness. In the morning, they would begin the search in earnest.

Don’t believe it. Don’t believe it.

Charger’s hooves smacked the ground in a steady rhythm. Don’t believe it.

But he did believe it. There was no reason for the old man to lie. He had seemed genuinely surprised that Heath didn’t know. Surprised, and grieved. "I’m awful sorry, son," he had said.

He thought about coincidence and its place in his life. There must be thousands of people living in San Francisco, maybe tens, hundreds of thousands. All those people - how could it be he’d run into the one man who could tell him this story? Turn his life upside down again? This was the third time that everything he thought he knew about his father was proven to be wrong.

And that old man had recognized him! "Heath?" he’d said tentatively. "Heath?"

"Yes sir." Heath turned from grooming Coco.

"Is that really you? Heath Thomson?"

"I’m sorry, I don’t know you mister. And the name’s Barkley now."

"Well - Barkley! I’m glad to hear that, son. Mighty glad. I’m Dan Boone, from Strawberry. Remember me now?"

Heath surely did. Dan Boone had been an old man even then, working on Heath’s first mining crew. He’d been caught in a rockfall and his leg had been crushed. After that he’d moved into town and got work running a livery. He’d always tried to find work for Heath, and for other boys from the mine, in the stable. For a year or so, there’d been enough business to keep Heath out of the mine entirely. In later years Heath had come to realize that some of the work Boone had given to boys he could have done himself, but he’d always made an effort to help those more helpless than himself.

"Dan Boone." Heath shook his head wonderingly. "It’s sure good to see you, after all these years." He shook the old man’s hand warmly. "Boy Howdy, Dan Boone, here in San Francisco!"

"I heard about your ma, son. I’m sorry for your loss, she was a sweet woman. You look fine, boy - and that’s some horse you’re riding."

"This is my brother Nick’s horse, that one," he indicated Charger, waiting patiently in the next stall, "he’s mine."

"Well now, even better." Boone limped over to Charger and ran his hands over the broad neck, murmuring quietly. "I’m glad your pa did right by you, Heath. That must have been hard, what happened with the railroad. Hard to lose your pa like that."

Heath looked over at the old man, puzzled. "I didn’t know him then. That was almost eight years ago." His strokes against Coco’s side slowed. "But, you must know...must know about it. Me and Tom Barkley. Must have heard about it?"

"I guess I heard something," Boone said slowly. "But you know what it’s like with old folks, everything gets confused. I can’t hardly remember what day it is, most times. But I sure do remember you, Heath. You were a good boy, hard-working, and so good to your ma. I heard Rachel passed away too, is Hannah still living?"

"No, she died a few months ago." Heath put the brush down and faced the old man. "You know that Tom Barkley was my father. But you don’t know that I’ve only been living there for a couple years. How’d you find out?"

"I don’t know, Heath, guess I must have heard it around somewhere." Boone smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes looked sad.

"Tell me what you know," Heath said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Did you know, back then? Did you know and not tell me?"

"Heath, don’t be angry, please. It was a long time ago. Your ma, she begged us--".

"Us?"

"Son, it wasn’t any secret. You know what that old town was like, there wasn’t anything to talk about, people just talked about each other. But your ma, she, well, she didn’t want you to know. It was mighty important to her."

Heath closed his eyes a second. He’d worked so hard to force down all the anger at Leah, to finally reach a point where her memory was sweet. It was in the past, it was done, long over. Now, he’d have to find a way to live with this. The whole town had known. Not one person had told him.

"I’m sorry, Heath." Boone patted his arm. "Your family did right by you in the end. It worked out in the end. Here you are, riding this fine horse, belonging to that fine family. That’s a mighty long road you traveled, to get here from where you was as a young’un."

Thinking on some of the stops along that road, Heath could only shake his head. Had he known, had someone told him.... But those sorts of thoughts got a body nowhere.

"What’s wrong, boy?"

"Just thinking on how things might have been different." He went back to grooming Coco, smiling faintly at Boone. "People hadn’t been so good at keeping secrets. What brings you to San Francisco?"

They talked for a time about their lives, about how Boone had come to live with his sister’s family, why Heath was in town. The conversation turned a little darker when Heath mentioned his army service.

"You can’t have been old enough for that, Heath," Boone said quietly. "It’s no good, sending a child off to do killing."

Heath hadn’t considered himself a child when he’d joined up, but then he had stopped working at the livery long before leaving Strawberry. He’d spent those last years in the mine or sometimes at nearby ranches. Boone’s memory of him was necessarily that of a young boy. Finishing up with Coco, he led him into a stall and started with Charger, telling the old man a little about his war experience, ending with a much abridged version of his time in prison.

"That’s a hard thing," Boone said finally. "I’m sorrier I can say, Heath. You sure did need your pa. You know, I told him he’d be sorry, leaving it so long."

Heath froze, one hand extended toward a file hanging on the stall door. He’d wanted to do some work on one of Charger’s hooves. Now he stood there, his hand hanging stupidly in the air, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him why. Boone’s last words had lashed through him like cold steel, somehow he felt the blow without quite grasping what had happened. "You told him," he said tonelessly.

"Eh?"

"When was that? When did you tell him?" Heath looked up slowly, the expression in his eyes terrible. Boone started to back away, but Heath grabbed his arm and held him. "What do you mean? When did you tell him that?"

"Heath--".

"He knew."

After a long silence, the old man slowly nodded. "I’m awful sorry, son."

Don’t believe it. Don’t believe it. The miles vanished under them. He’d driven Charger into the dark night long past what was safe. Finally, under the glare of the rising moon, he stopped to make camp. He’d left San Francisco with nothing more than what had been in his saddlebags, bedroll and canteen. He couldn’t keep anything down, not even water, so he gave most of it to Charger. He built a small fire to huddle beside. He’d been awake and riding for the better part of the past forty hours but still couldn’t sleep.

He’d known. Tom Barkley had known. Not all along, though that was very small comfort. None, really.

Tom Barkley had come to Strawberry in 1857, when Heath was eight years old. The mine had been struggling along since he’d taken his money out, but some of his partners still believed there was good quality ore to be found. He’d come to evaluate the situation, decide whether or not it made sense to try again. He’d stopped in the livery to stable his horse, and to ask after Leah Thomson. Dan Boone, who knew everything about everybody in that town, told Tom Barkley something he hadn’t known. And that day, Tom Barkley had ridden out of Strawberry, never to return. The increased investment never came. The mine dried up entirely and so, eventually, did the town.

Boone had said: "I figured he changed his mind."

"No. He died. I found out later, from my mother. He never...never got in touch with us. Never did anything. And he knew...".

Heath had demanded proof. Of course there was none, all Boone could provide was detail, and finally names - other oldtimers who had known the whole story. Most of them had long since scattered but there was a married couple still living near Strawberry. All those years ago she had worked at the saloon, Boone had told her about his meeting with Tom Barkley. It wasn’t proof, even if she confirmed everything he had said. Still...some of it resonated inside, jolting scraps of memory he hadn’t examined closely, hadn’t put together with what he knew now. He’d made a mistake before, being too quick to believe. He had to be careful, think about this before doing anything.

It was bad Tom Barkley’d been careless enough to leave his mother and not make sure. That had been hard, and he’d carried corrosive anger about it around with him for most of his life. But this...this was almost unthinkable. This truly was hatred he was feeling now. He remembered himself at eight, working in the livery, in the mine, wearing trousers made of flour sack held up by frayed rope. No, what he had thought was hate before, when he’d been a teenager, it faded to nothing before this. He found he hated Tom Barkley so much, the acid of it threatened to leach over into hatred for the rest of the family.

How would Jarrod and Nick react? And Victoria? Jarrod would be horrified, Nick would be furious. Victoria would be heartbroken. He knew them well enough to be sure. All of them retained loving feelings for the man. This would destroy them.

He felt sick, in body and spirit. He couldn’t face his brothers, knowing what he did now. Couldn’t bear to see what would come into their faces, when they knew. What he would put there. He had to stay away, until he could deal with it. Until he could find a way to keep it inside. He needed as much information as he could possibly get at this late date, before he could think on what to do.

Strawberry. It kept drawing him back. Every time he thought he’d left it behind, it lurched up to grab at him again.

By the time he got to Strawberry he felt terrible, feverish and hollow. He barely had energy to clean up a stall for Charger and find him something to eat. No one in town. Hannah was gone, though he almost thought he could hear her humming. He lay down in the hay and half-slept, dreaming fevered dreams.... Working in this very stable as a boy. Endless streams of miners, cowboys, prospectors. He remembered the day he received a big tip for taking care of a beautiful black stallion. So beautiful, it had been a pleasure to care for it. The man had been strange to him, had asked him strange questions. He’d left a five-dollar gold piece for him when he left, bending low to look him in the eye as he handed him the money. He’d been so happy - five dollars! He’d run home to give it to Leah.

Waking to violent nausea, Heath stood and gripped the top of the stall. Shivering. Tight, tight - as tight as he could - unsure which would give first, the ancient wood or his bones. So pathetically grateful for five dollars. And at that moment, that man was damning him to everything that came after. Poverty. War. Prison. Watching his mama die slowly. Knowingly doing all that. Knowing it was his son he was damning.

He lay back down in the filthy straw and cried, as he hadn’t since he was that six year old child.

******

Despite hours of searching, the prints in the street were the only sign they found of their brother. Hannah’s house was shut tight and showed no evidence of a recent visit. They thought Heath might have settled into one of the remaining houses or hotels, but then where was Charger? The only explanation was that he had gone.

Nick was unconvinced. On the ride to Strawberry, he’d experienced an overwhelming fear that Heath was leaving them behind, going someplace they’d never find him. Now he felt just as certain that they’d caught up. "He’s here, somewhere, Jarrod."

"I don’t know. We’ve looked everywhere."

"Not everywhere - or we’d have found him."

"Did he ever talk to you about places, maybe...outside of town, in the woods? Someplace he liked to go?"

"No. But he’s here, Jarrod. We just have to keep looking." Nick was very sure, but Jarrod shook his head slowly.

"I think we’re wasting time. I don’t think we’re going to find him until we talk to that old man. I’m going back, Nick."

"Well I’m staying!"

"All right - probably one of us should stay here. You can go on over to Silver Creek and wire me, if you find him. You might check in tomorrow anyway, I’ll wire you there if I find anything."

Nick squinted into the sun. "It’s early enough, you might meet the train if you go west into Rosalia."

"Yeah." If he missed it he would lose hours going out of the way, but if he caught it he would save a day’s travel. At this point, it was a worthwhile risk. Together they saddled Jingo, and Jarrod rode off at full speed.

Nick stood in the middle of the empty street and watched him go. He rubbed his forehead wearily. Maybe Heath really did intend to return to the ranch; maybe this feeling he had was just nonsense. If he rode hard, he could be home by nightfall, check in, return to Strawberry in the morning. That was probably the sensible thing to do. He wished he’d thought to ask Jarrod to wire the ranch from Rosalia. Maybe this whole trip had been a waste of time. Maybe Heath was waiting for them safe at home, wondering what all the fuss was.

But he didn’t think so. Heath was here, somewhere close. He was in trouble.

What day was it?

He’d lost track sometime back. He seemed to have lost his sense of direction, too. He rode hours toward the pass, the homestead Danny had told him about, but found that instead he had somehow gone just about due east, missing it by miles. Then in backtracking and looking for a shortcut, he’d lost what little trail there was and ended up losing the light. He camped overnight on the side of an unfamiliar mountain. The next morning he was completely lost, and had to start over - find the river, downstream to the mine workings. By the time he was oriented again it was near to sundown.

He’d run out of provisions and thought about setting a rabbit trap. He knew he needed to eat, but his stomach was still unsteady. And he’d had a terrible headache for days, the worst he could remember since that time in the Treasure Valley, over Idaho-way, when he’d had heat prostration. Every time Charger’s hoof hit the ground it drove a spike through his skull. It made him want to do nothing more than lay down and close his eyes. He certainly didn’t want to go out hunting.

Well, it could wait until the next day. Hopefully he’d find the homestead. He didn’t remember the woman; those days his mother wouldn’t allow him near the saloon. But if she was anything like most old saloon girls she’d have plenty of good food. He didn’t even bother making a fire, just tied Charger to a fallen tree near some good grass, wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the ground.

The next morning he woke very late, the headache even worse. He found the pass, and the road Danny had told him about, but he never did find the woman. Either they’d moved on, or the old man’s memory had failed. Finding a long-empty house in about the right area, he settled in for the night. He dug some carrots and potatoes from the overgrown kitchen garden and boiled them for supper. They tasted bitter and were full of worms. He struggled with a few bites, then spat it out. A little later he went outside and brought up what little he’d eaten.

It didn’t much matter he hadn’t found the woman. He owed it to himself, to his family, to find out what he could. But really, he’d just needed to get away, to reflect on all this. He had thought to himself, when I get to Strawberry, I’ll decide what to do. When I talk to that woman, I’ll decide what to do. I’ll decide what to do in the morning.

Truth was, he was no closer to a decision than he had been riding out of that livery in San Francisco. It was hard to concentrate on anything. What day - Wednesday? Thursday? Nick’d be getting mad by now. Well, he’d be a damn sight madder when he heard what Heath had to say.

Could he keep it to himself? Should he? What good would it do to tell them? None, as far as he could see. They had always been careful in what they said in front of him, about his father, but they didn’t entirely avoid the subject. Now he wondered if he could keep himself from exploding if he so much as heard the man’s name. The way he felt now, he doubted it. Sooner or later it would come spewing out. Would it be better to get it over with? God, when had he ever been anything but a misery to this family?

Normally he’d want to talk to Jarrod about it. Jarrod, who could see Heath’s part, who could talk dispassionately. But Jarrod had loved and respected his father. You couldn’t expect him to just sit down and have a calm discussion about this. Nick was out of the question. Victoria too. There was no one he could talk to, and somehow he couldn’t make any sense of it in his own head.

He rode aimlessly for a time and only became aware of his surroundings when Charger stopped and shook his head, snorting. Funny how a horse could sense a graveyard. This was the one they’d built quickly, after the accident in ’59. Most of the men who’d died had no family and the mine wouldn’t pay to bury them in town.

Heath slid off Charger and walked to the broken-down fence. It looked like no one had done any upkeep in years. The few stones were unreadable for moss and the graves covered with weeds. Like everything else in this miserable place.

****

It was late when the train pulled into San Francisco. Jarrod had left Jingo at the stable in Rosalia; if he couldn’t find the old man he’d return in a day or so. Nick, without doubt, would still be in Strawberry. He stopped at the livery - Cramer wasn’t there, so he left a note letting him know he was back in town, then hired a carriage to take him home. He was exhausted.

In the morning he went into the office, hoping there might be some word. There was none. He put in a few hours of work, halfheartedly, then headed home. He’d have to look into hiring professionals to search.

The doorman was waiting for him. "Mr. Barkley, there’s a man wanting to speak with you." He gestured across the street to a rough-looking old man sitting on a bench, who stood slowly as Jarrod looked at him.

"Thank you," Jarrod said quietly. He walked across the street. The man was ancient, with kindly eyes. "Danny?"

"Yes sir, Dan Boone." He stuck out a gnarled hand.

As they shook Jarrod said: "I’m Jarrod Barkley. You know I’ve been looking for you."

"Fella over to the livery, he said you were looking for Heath."

"For my brother."

"Well, mister, it makes an old man glad to hear you say that. I’m mighty glad that boy’s got a brother to care about him now."

"He has three brothers, a sister and a woman who loves him very much worried about him. Mr. Boone, something you told Heath obviously upset him a great deal. It’s been almost a week since he left that livery, and we haven’t had a word from him. I need to know what it was."

"Mister, I tell you, it’s like to upset a whole lot of people," Boone warned.

"If it helps me find my brother and bring him home, then I have to hear it." Boone still looked unsure. "All right," Jarrod said. "My home is just over there. Why don’t we go upstairs, have a drink, and you tell me what you can."

The Lady V. Victoria? Almost certainly. He had to smile a little. All those years ago, unknowing, laboring in a cesspool of a mine named for the woman he now called mother. A woman that treated him like a son. All those years ago, he’d suffered and cried, and men and boys had died, in a dank hole in the ground named for her. He was helpless before the absurdity of it. What was there to do but smile?

He felt lightheaded and a little wobbly, dizzy. Probably should go back to town, he thought, then shrugged. Just get a fire going, it’s cold. He thought about the ranch, about the love he’d received from the family, his family; how could he reconcile that with the hatred he now felt for his father? How could he tell them? If he returned, how could he not? He felt trapped. Think about it tomorrow.

He found the grave, an outline of packed earth. The weeds didn’t grow as vigorously here. Rob had been alone, even more alone than Heath. No mother; no aunt or uncle, useless as they’d been; no Hannah. The mine wouldn’t pay for a stone. Heath remembered making a marker from a couple of cedar branches, lashed together with a rotten piece of discarded rope. Long gone, of course.

God, he was tired. He sat down heavily at the graveside. Robbie, I wish you were here. After a time he found himself lying on the cold ground. Rob had been thirteen when he died. Dark hair and blue eyes. Was it hard to die? I wish you could tell me. He closed his eyes, Rob’s face came swimming before him. He was talking. Shaking him, yelling. That wasn’t like Rob. Rob never yelled. "Don’t," Heath whispered. "Don’t...yell. Robbie. Where you...been?"

He squinted up at the face. Robbie’s dark hair, tumbling over his forehead. But the eyes were wrong. Not the bright blue he remembered. He reached up. He knew those eyes.

He felt strong arms wrapping around him, felt himself lifted. It felt so good, so safe. "Thank you Robbie," he murmured. "Glad you’re not...dead. Thank you for...coming back. Missed you."

"Heath." The voice was wrong, too deep. Not a boy, this was a man holding him. There was a wealth of love in the voice. Who? Not Uncle Matt. Father?

"Heath, it’s Nick. It’s Nick. Can you look at me? Heath?"

The words meant nothing. Just sound, noise. His father hadn’t come. His father would never come.

Inside his study, Jarrod gave Boone a glass of whiskey and took one - a big one - himself. Then he sat down at his desk, opposite the old man.

Boone said: "Mister, I’ve flapped my gums two times now, when I should’ve minded my own business. And I guess Heath’ll tell you if he wants you to know. And besides that, I just don’t reckon this is something you want to hear."

Jarrod sat quietly a moment, then he said: "Mr. Boone. You don’t know me from Adam. I appreciate that you don’t want to break Heath’s confidence. Heath is a private man, and normally I wouldn’t dream of asking you, but in this case.... Mr. Boone, I love my brother very much, and the plain truth is, I’m worried about him. If there’s something you can tell me, that will help me find him, and help him, please - tell me."

The old man looked at him for a long time. Finally he said: "So you’re the fella took him in? Tom Barkley your pa?"

"That’s right," Jarrod said.

"Truth is, I remember him real well. He used to come round quite a bit in the old days. Guess you know about Heath’s ma." Jarrod nodded. "She was a mighty pretty little thing. Just as sweet and good as you could hope for. She was a widow woman, and didn’t have near enough to eat herself. Then Heath come. Mr. Barkley...do you have any idea what it was like for Heath, all those years ago, with no pa and no money?"

"I know a little. What Heath has told us."

"Well sir, I don’t reckon you can really know unless you was there. You say you love your brother, well, I loved that little boy. He wasn’t the only one in that town with no pa, not by a long shot. But he was special to me. You never saw such a hard-working, good-hearted boy. He went down into that mine, and it wasn’t right. When I could, I hired him on to work at the livery. Tried to keep him out of that mine, but there wasn’t business enough all the time. Mr. Barkley, I knew who his pa was. Most everyone did. Leah - she didn’t want him to know."

"Why?" That was the question that had troubled Jarrod, had troubled the whole family. He and Victoria had discussed it late into the night on more than one occasion. But they had never felt it right to ask Heath’s opinion. "Why didn’t she?"

"I don’t know, sir. I don’t know. Guess the only one who knows that is Leah herself. But it’s so." Boone sighed. "In them days I was pretty mad about a lot of things. I was mad that little boy had to go down that mine every day, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it, ‘cept sometimes give him some work. Work! For a little boy. And I couldn’t even do that all the time. I got mad at his pa. Seemed to me he coulda done something, and maybe would, if Leah’d told him. I was mad at them both, to tell you the God’s honest truth. It seemed to me, he shoulda looked after her, made sure he didn’t...well, do what he done. Mister, it wasn’t none of my business, and I had no right, but it seemed to me, both his folks wasn’t doing right by him. Both of ‘em was thinking first of themselves, when they shoulda been thinking about what was right for that little boy. Like I said, I was mad."

Boone drew a deep breath. "So one day who rode in but Tom Barkley. I knew him right off, and I saw that big stallion, and that fine saddle, and I thought about Heath and how he didn’t have shoes - he went into that mine and it was flooded most of the time and he didn’t even have shoes on his feet! Then Tom Barkley, he asked after Leah, did she still live in town. Was she married. Married! No man in that town wanted to raise another man’s get. Mister, I was about choking on it. So I just opened up my big mouth and I told him."

"Told him what?" Jarrod looked intently at the old man.

"I told him about Heath."

Jarrod was silent, shocked immobile.

"I’m mighty sorry," Boone said. "It wasn’t my place to do that and I sure do wish I hadn’t. Leah woulda had my hide."

"She didn’t know?" Jarrod managed.

"No sir, I don’t think she did."

"Let me understand you. You told my father about Heath. When...when Heath was a child."

"That’s right. I did."

Jarrod stood and stepped to the window, hands clenched behind his back. Boone waited silently. "Did he believe you?" Jarrod asked tonelessly, not turning around.

"No sir, not at first. He got awful mad. Then Heath come, it was his day to work. Soon as your daddy saw him, he knew. You could tell. I put him to work on his pa’s horse - was a great big black stallion. Heath’s eyes got about as big and bright as tin plates, when he saw that horse. He went right to work and Tom Barkley, he stood there and watched him. After a while I sent Heath off to the store, and I said some mean things. He just stood there kinda dazed, then he got up on that big horse and rode out. I never saw him again, and I guess Heath never did neither."

"Heath didn’t know?"

"No. I thought Barkley’d go to Leah, but he didn’t. Far as I know, he never set foot in that town again."

Oh, this was a horror. Jarrod stood at the window a long time. "That’s what you told Heath?" he finally asked.

"Yes sir, I’m afraid I did. I didn’t set out to, it just kinda came out. Hadn’t thought on it in a long time, then I saw him and he said his name was Barkley now. I guess I figured your pa had owned up. But Heath said he didn’t, that it was his ma told him finally."

"I see."

"Mister, like I said, I’m awful sorry. I wouldn’t of hurt that boy for anything. I can see that it’d be hard to hear that your pa knew all along, and didn’t do nothing for you. ‘Specially since he’s had some terrible hard times."

Jarrod walked numbly back to his desk and sat carefully. He looked once into Boone’s eyes, saw the sincere regret there and had to look away, before it turned to pity. He’d spent his career judging the veracity of witnesses, he had no doubt Boone was telling him the truth. "Thank you for coming here," he said quietly. "For telling me. It does help explain why...why Heath felt he had to leave."

"I’m sorry it’s hard for you to hear, too. I don’t think he was a bad man. I don’t. I think he...". Boone trailed off, suddenly wondering what business he had making that sort of a statement to Tom Barkley’s son.

Jarrod said: "If what you’ve told me is true, he was a man who abandoned a child of his to a life of disgrace, poverty and hardship. That’s not...that’s not what a good man does."

"Maybe it’s what a weak man does, Mr. Barkley. We’re all weak, sometimes." Boone started to stand, and Jarrod looked up quickly.

"But I still don’t know where Heath would have gone. We trailed him to Strawberry, but we lost him. Do you know where he went?"

"He was...he wanted to know if there was anybody else, could sorta...".

"Corroborate."

"Eh?"

"Confirm what you’d said. Back you up."

"Yes sir, that’s it exactly. Only one I could think of was Stella McNamara. She worked in the saloon back in them days, she married a fella and moved up into the hills. Last I heard they was still there. She knew about it. Anyways I told him where they lived. Then he just up and left."

"Can you tell me where she lives?" Jarrod pushed a tablet across the desk and watched as Boone drew a rough map, showing the house in relation to Strawberry.

"I don’t know they’re still there, she wasn’t a girl even then, and McNamara, he was older’n me. But that’s what I told Heath."

"Mr. Boone, I’m grateful to you."

"I know things’d be a lot better if I’d kept my mouth shut, back then or now. I sure am sorry. When you find your brother, you be sure and tell him so."

"I’m not sure ignorance is ever better," Jarrod mused, as he walked the old man to the door. But he couldn’t help wishing that Heath had never run into this old man. The pain it had caused Jarrod was immense, and he hadn’t even had time to think about it yet. What it had done to Heath, he couldn’t imagine.

On his way to the train station Jarrod stopped by his office. He tried to tame his whirling thoughts, with no success. How could his father have done this thing? My God, Nick would go mad. And Mother! He suspected that was precisely why Heath had gone. The thought made him sick. His father, his respected, beloved father, the man the valley had honored with a statue, his father had deserted a helpless child. But that child had taken himself away rather than burden his new brothers with this truth about their father. He felt raw anger rising within himself.

In his office Jarrod kept a photograph of himself and Tom Barkley. It had been taken here in San Francisco just weeks before his death. He picked it up and held it, staring at the image of a stranger. Nothing I know about this man is true.

Another picture sitting on the desk was of the entire family, taken last year for Mother’s birthday. It was the first formal portrait taken since Heath’s arrival. Heath had been a little bit uncomfortable; Nick had to badger him into sitting for it. Jarrod examined the two pictures, first one then the other. This is what you rode away from, Jarrod thought. His anger was swamped by sorrow. You turned your back on what you could have had. You stole from us what we could have had. Your son, our brother...we’ve tried to make it up to him, but we had no idea how bad the injury was.

Jarrod went to his safe and spun the combination. In the back was a leather satchel holding papers he hadn’t looked at in years. Documents mostly destroyed that had never made any sense to him. Maybe he was beginning to understand.

One cabin on the edge of town seemed to be reasonably intact, it looked like the yard had been maintained until very recently. Nick helped Heath totter up the stairs and sit on the top step. "Just hang on here for a minute, Heath." The door was locked and the windows boarded over, but one of the boards on a side window was rotten. Nick was able to pry it loose then pulled the others free. He peered into the dark interior; could see nothing, though that didn’t matter. They were going in. He used one of the boards to break the window and crawled through.

It was a one-room cabin with a big wood stove, there was even a pile of kindling stacked beside it. Not much in the way of furniture. It felt dry and tight, the floorboards solid. Nick unlocked the door; it opened easily. He went out onto the porch and squatted beside Heath, who was leaning against the rail, eyes closed. "All right, Heath," Nick said. "You awake? Can you get up?"

Slowly, Heath’s eyes opened. For a second they stared ahead blindly, then shifted to Nick’s face. "Here, let me help you a little." Nick got his arms under Heath’s and pulled him up.

As soon as his feet were under him, Heath lurched to the porch rail and leaned over it, heaving violently. "Christ," Nick muttered. He stood beside him, one hand on the back of his neck. When Heath was finished he started to sag, and Nick moved quickly to take his weight. He hoisted one of Heath’s arms across his shoulders and supported him into the cabin.

"Sorry, Nick," Heath muttered.

"For what? For getting sick? You can’t help that," Nick grunted. "Though, come to think of it, it makes a lot more sense to be sick in your own bed instead of...instead of in an old ghost town." As he worked to build a fire Nick continued to talk, keeping an eye on his brother, who lay quietly on the bedrolls Nick had spread out. "You gonna be okay while I tend to the horses?"

"Yeah," Heath said.

"I’ll be right back. I don’t want to come back and find you missing again, you hear?"

"Sorry."

"Now you listen to me," Nick ordered. He knelt beside Heath and put one big hand on his shoulder. "I don’t want you to be sorry, I just want you to remember you got a family to turn to when you got trouble. Can you remember that?"

Heath looked up, and Nick thought he saw tears in his brother’s eyes. Then Heath reached up to Nick’s arm and gripped it tightly. He shook his head. "Nick," he choked. "You don’t--."

"I don’t know what happened, Heath. Sometime you’re going to have to tell me. But it don’t have to be right now. Right now, you need to take it easy." He brushed the hair from Heath’s forehead. "Just rest now."

Heath nodded weakly, and his eyes closed. His hand fell away.

Nick swallowed. "You rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes."

Nick found a mattress in one of the hotel rooms and dragged it to the cabin and settled Heath in near the fire, stoked it until the room was pleasantly warm. He got the pump working on the well in back and soon had a pot of coffee and another of beans cooking on the stove. Just as he thought things were looking a little better, Heath woke from a restless sleep, mercilessly sick. He brought up the water Nick had given him, then sagged back onto the mattress, panting and gray.

"I’m sorry," he said dully. "Don’t feel too good."

"Well, you look terrible, if that’s any comfort." In truth, Heath looked frighteningly bad. His hands trembled as he took the cup of water from his brother. Each time he vomited, he wanted water afterward. Nick knew enough about dehydration to know that Heath had to drink, but it just seemed to cause him to become sick. All that night, every hour like clockwork Heath roused, cruelly sick, brought up the water he had drunk, took in a little more, then sagged semi-conscious onto the mattress. Most of the time he was unresponsive, but as time went on, in his conscious moments he seemed to be out of his head. He needed a doctor, but Nick was afraid to leave him.

It was shortly before dawn when Heath’s skin began to look waxy and transparent. "Jarrod, we need you," he whispered. "Please God, let Jarrod get here in time."

It was noon when he heard noises from the street. He stood up, stiffly, and stepped out onto the porch. The relief he felt was overwhelming when he recognized Jingo. He met Jarrod at the base of the steps. "I found him," Nick said.

"Thank God." Jarrod dismounted and handed Nick a bulky sack. "I brought some supplies, thought you might be running low. He okay?"

"No." Jarrod paused and looked into Nick’s eyes, read the fear that was written there.

"How bad?" he asked.

"Bad. He needs a doctor, Jarrod." He saw something in his brother. "What is it? You found him?"

"Later, Nick."

Inside the cabin Jarrod knelt beside Heath and rested a hand on his cheek. "No fever," he said.

"No, but he’s sicker’n a dog. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down for the better part of a day."

"Did you try sugar water?"

"Didn’t have any sugar."

"There’s some in there," Jarrod nodded at the sack. "Couple of chickens. Heath, can you hear me?" There was no response. He said to Nick: "There’s a doctor in Silver Creek. If I leave now, we could be back late tonight."

"Jarrod, you’ve been on the road for, what, three days? I’ll go."

"And how much sleep have you had?" Nick looked haggard, and Jarrod shook his head. "I slept on the train. I’m fine, but I’ll need to take Coco."

"Take Charger, he’s faster," Nick said.

Even in the midst of their desperate worry, Jarrod had to smile a little. "You going to tell Heath that?"

Nick grinned tiredly. "No! And I better not hear of anyone else telling him either."

"All right. Heath," Jarrod addressed his younger brother. "I’ll be back in a few hours. Hang on."

For the second time Nick stood in the street and watched Jarrod ride off. This time was different, this time he knew where Heath was, but his fear was exponentially greater. Now he feared one brother would not survive until the other’s return.

He went back into the cabin and unpacked the provisions Jarrod had brought. In addition to the chickens and sugar, there were apples, potatoes, biscuit, coffee and a half-dozen eggs. He built up the fire and set a chicken to simmering on the stove, mixed some sugar in a cup of water, then sat down on the mattress beside his brother. Heath was cold and lethargic, he didn’t react as Nick laid his own jacket on top of the bedroll covering him. But he wasn’t unconscious, his half-open eyes followed Nick’s movements sluggishly.

"You think you’re up to some soup later?" Nick asked in a determinedly cheerful voice. "Don’t think you’ve ever had the chance to enjoy my soup. Not quite as deadly as your beans, but pretty close. ‘Course, nothing beats Audra’s stew for murder. ‘Cept maybe her eggs. Heath, do you want some water? Do you think you could try a little bit?"

Heath’s eyes closed in refusal.

Noting Heath’s pinched and gray features, Nick said: "That’s okay. You can try later. Why don’t you just go to sleep? Jarrod’ll be back in a few hours with the doctor. All you got to do is take it easy until then."

As it happened, Jarrod was back a lot sooner than Nick expected. He ran into a deputy sheriff on the road to Silver Creek, who told him there was no longer a doctor in town. The closest was in Stockton. Jarrod wrote out two telegrams and gave them to the deputy. He was back to the cabin by late afternoon.

That evening, the two older brothers watched the younger one sink away from them. In desperation they lifted him up and dribbled some sugared water into his mouth. He was too out of it to swallow, but reassuringly, what little got down his throat didn’t come right back up.

One of the wires Jarrod had sent was to Dr. Merar, in Stockton; the other was to the ranch. They expected to see the doctor by the afternoon of the next day, and a wagon from home, most likely driven by Victoria, a little later. There was nothing to do this night but wait.

Finally, Nick stood and walked to the far side of the room. Sighing, Jarrod followed. Nick said: "You gonna tell me now? You found him, didn’t you?"

"I did." Both kept their voices low; Jarrod glanced over at Heath before he spoke. "You’re not going to like it," he warned.

Nick said wearily: "Pappy, I already don’t like it."

"Nick...maybe we should go outside."

"Just tell me, Jarrod."

"All right. Just...just let me get it all out, all right? Some of it’s still unclear, at least to me. Dan Boone ran the livery here in Strawberry, when Heath was young. Do you remember, Nick, when Father went to Strawberry?"

"No."

"Of course, the first time, when he met Heath’s mother, you were too young. But later, he came back here, to look into the mine, to decide if he was going to re-invest. You would have been about eleven or twelve. Do you remember that?"

Nick shook his head slowly. "I don’t remember. He came back here?"

"Yes. I remember it because I was old enough then to look at the paperwork. The mine made a pretty good profit, even when Father got out. The new assays that had been done looked very good."

"I don’t give a damn about the mine!" Nick said impatiently. "What happened?"

"According to Boone, Father came to the livery when he was working. Boone says pretty much everyone in Strawberry knew who Heath’s father was. He did and...he told him."

Jarrod waited for it to sink in. He saw Nick’s face flush, his hands clench into fists. "He’s lying," Nick hissed.

"I don’t think so, Nick."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!" Nick’s voice rose indignantly. "Jarrod, you saw that letter - he didn’t know!"

"This was later, years after he wrote that letter. Anyway, Boone says he told him and Father, of course, denied it. A little later Heath came to work and Boone had him take care of his horse. Do you remember Shadow?" Tightly, Nick nodded. "Boone said that Heath loved horses even then. Father stood there and watched him, and--".

"I don’t believe any of this!" Nick snapped. "You’re telling me - not only did Father know about Heath, they met?"

"Boone said he sent Heath on an errand, and when he’d gone they talked. Father didn’t know, Nick, until then. But he found out. And he left. He left Heath here, Nick. He knew, and he did nothing about it. Then."

"‘Then’"?

At that moment, Heath stirred and rolled over, attempted to push himself up.

"Hold on, hold on," Nick ran to him and grabbed a bowl, only just in time. He held Heath over it as he retched, his body convulsing violently. Soon there was nothing in his stomach to bring up, but he continued for what seemed like hours. Finally he vomited a bit of an oily yellow fluid. After a minute of dry heaves he sagged into Nick’s arms. They settled him back on the mattress; Nick wrung out a towel and wiped Heath’s sweaty, bloodless face, then covered him with the blanket. "Feel better?" he asked gently. "Do you want some water?"

Heath’s body was trembling He shook his head.

"It’s okay, brother. Maybe you’d just like to rinse your mouth out?"

Heath winced, groaned unintelligibly.

Nick ran his hand through his hair. "I know, Heath." It was a struggle to keep his voice even, calm, reassuring. "I bet you feel like hell. You should just rest. Just close your eyes and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.

Heath was unresponsive, but his breathing had changed. Now each breath seemed to come as a sort of gasp, disconnected from the others.

"You sleep." Nick straightened the blanket and tucked it around Heath. He rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. His eyes, when he turned them to Jarrod, were wide and black with fear.

He drifted. Mercifully, the headache had gone. He was numb. Sometimes he felt Nick’s arms around him, sometimes it felt like he was floating. He could hear his brothers’ voices, urging him to hang on, to fight. Sometimes he seemed to be in the cabin, sometimes not. It was Strawberry, the Strawberry of his youth, bustling and rowdy. In the livery, working on that beautiful stallion. The man was there. His father.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why’d you...leave us?"

Jarrod and Nick looked at each other. They were the first words he’d spoken in hours, but they didn’t seem to be directed toward them. "Heath?" Jarrod said quietly. "Are you awake?"

Nick could feel him slipping away. "You stay here," he ordered, voice shaking. "Heath, you hear me? You stay here with us."

He was back in the cabin. He felt Nick’s presence, Jarrod’s. And another. "Why?"

"Hate...you...". Heath’s voice was soft and breathless.

"God." Nick tightened his grip around his brother’s body.

Jarrod took a limp hand and squeezed it tightly. "Heath, please. Listen to me. We’re with you. You’re safe. Can you hear me?"

There were tears pooling in Heath’s closed eyes. He muttered something incoherently, sighed, became utterly still.

The man was clearer, he smiled. Love. Love you, son. Love you.

Heath drew in a shuddering breath.

"Thank God," Nick whispered. He ran his hand across his wet eyes. He’d been sure.... But Heath was breathing, steady and easy. His lips moved. Jarrod bent close.

"What? What’s he saying?" Nick demanded, when Jarrod slowly straightened.

"He said, don’t go."

"We’re not going anywhere, Heath," Nick reassured.

"He’s not talking to us," Jarrod said. He swallowed hard. "He said...".

"What? Jarrod? What is it?"

Jarrod’s face was ashen. "He said, father."

Heath slept deep into the morning. When he opened his eyes he stared up at the rough ceiling for a long time before thinking to wonder where he was. This certainly wasn’t his bedroom. He looked around and saw Jarrod stretched out beside him, sleeping. He shifted a bit and saw Nick...Nick was sitting and holding him in his arms. His dark hair had fallen over his eyes.

The slight movement woke Nick immediately. "Heath?"

"Ni--? Wha--?" He couldn’t remember anything. He felt heavy and slow, groggy.

They sat him up and gave him water, and a little later some broth and then a bite of biscuit. He was thirsty, but not hungry at all. He ate some to please them then went back to sleep.

When an hour had passed and Heath kept the food down, Nick at last felt the tension begin to leave him. He joined Jarrod on the porch outside. They expected the doctor in a few hours, but neither believed, as they both had last night, that he would come too late.

"He’s okay?" Jarrod asked. He had rolled a smoke and was about finished with it. Nick couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jarrod smoke anything but an after-dinner cigar.

"Yeah, he’s still out. But his color’s a lot better. I think he’s out of the woods. Jarrod, what the hell happened last night?"

"I don’t know, Nick. I wish to God I did. He wasn’t breathing, you saw it."

"You think he really saw Father?"

"I wish to God I knew." Jarrod’s voice, and his hands, trembled.

Nick sat on the top step. "Huh." After a minute, he said: "Jarrod, you started to tell me about Father. What else was there?"

"There were some papers," Jarrod said. "From the fire. I didn’t understand. I still...I’m not sure what to think about it all."

"What that old man said, you believe it?"

Jarrod said gravely: "I’m afraid I do."

"You believe that Father found out about Heath, when he was a boy, and he didn’t do anything about it."

"I think that’s what happened, Nick. These papers," he patted the satchel beside him. "They’re from much later. We’ll have to go through them. But now, before Mother gets here, I think we at least have to talk to him about what Boone said. I’ll bet Heath doesn’t want her to know. I think that’s why he left; he didn’t want any of us to know."

"If it’s true, she has to know."

"Eventually, yes. But I think it’s up to Heath to decide when that is."

Heath woke again at noon, much stronger. He drank a cup of coffee gratefully, some eggs Jarrod cooked, and allowed his brothers to clean him up. With only a little assistance he went out onto the porch and sat in the sun.

Nick sat beside him. "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No," Heath sighed. "But I guess we better."

"Let me start," Jarrod said. "Heath, I talked to Dan Boone. I know what he told you. First of all, did you find Stella McNamara?"

"No. Think they must’ve moved on."

"Do you believe what Boone told you?"

Heath looked Jarrod right in the eye. He didn’t say anything for a long time, and Jarrod could see the war within him. Finally he dropped his eyes. "Yes," he said softly.

"For what it’s worth, Heath, I do too."

Nick was silent, but he put his arm around Heath’s shoulders.

"I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ is...painfully inadequate."

"Wasn’t anything to do with you," Heath said.

"No, but I am sorry. Terribly sorry." Jarrod looked ashamed, shamed to be the son of the man.

"Guess I am too. It was surely a bad mistake."

"’Mistake’," Nick snorted.

"Heath, I don’t know if this will make it any better. Maybe it’ll make it worse. I hope not. But, there’s more to it. I didn’t understand it myself, until I talked to Boone."

He held out the satchel. "When Father died, I took all of his papers back to my office. You may not have heard, there was a fire, we think the railroad tried to burn him out. He had rented an office in Stockton - it was more convenient for all the ranchers to meet there. He kept some of the ranch paperwork, and it turns out, some personal papers there. In the fire a lot of it was destroyed. What was left got boxed up and stored. After he died, I went through it. Most of it was the lawsuit against the railroad. There were some papers I never could understand."

Jarrod drew in a deep breath. His eyes were intense. "He hired Pinkertons to find someone, during the war. When I first read them, they didn’t make any sense." He showed them burned bits of paper. "These were in his safe. The heat incinerated them, there are just scraps left. The dates I can make out are from 1865 and 1869. At first I thought he’d been looking for Nick - there was a time in 1864-65 when his unit was unaccounted for."

"That’s right," Nick said. "We got cut off and couldn’t get word out for six weeks." He took one of the burned papers from Jarrod and held it carefully.

"The contract with the Pinkertons went on even after the war, for several years. I contacted the agency to find out more. But they wouldn’t disclose client information, not even to me. Mother didn’t know anything. I put the papers away. It wasn’t until I talked to Boone that I understood.

"Heath - he looked for you. For years. The last document I can find," he showed them a fragile, badly damaged paper, barely more than a cinder. "It’s in his writing, dated two weeks before he died. The date, and just a few words - that’s all I can make out. One of the words is ‘Carterson’."

Jarrod handed the paper to Heath. "They found you, at least, where you’d been. Just days before he died, he was still looking for you. There’s no way of knowing what he would have done. But he hadn’t forgotten about you. You were on his mind, even then, even in the middle of the railroad mess."

Heath silently looked at each one of the papers. The three of them passed them back and forth, puzzling out the few legible words. Finally Heath said: "Why didn’t he just go to Mama? She could’ve told him, without all this."

"There’s a lot of things we’ll never know, Heath. I think this is probably one of them. Does it make it any better?"

Heath was silent for a long time. Finally he handed the papers back to Jarrod. "I don’t know," he said. "I don’t know what to think, Jarrod. I guess I got to think on it for a while, let it settle in. I can’t seem to think any sense right now."

Nick said: "You’ll come home with us, though, right? You won’t bolt again?"

"I’m sorry to have worried you," Heath said. "I just...I just had to find out, if I could."

"But you were coming back?"

"I didn’t think that far ahead, Jarrod, I just didn’t."

"But you will come home now?"

"Don’t know where else I’d go." He grinned at the badgering from his brothers. "Boy Howdy, guess you got to go a long ways to get away from you two."

Fall had settled over the landscape. The usual frantic activity of harvest had ended, the summer hands had been let go, and the ranch entered into a long sleepy time.

Heath recovered quickly and jumped back into his routine. By unspoken agreement, neither Nick nor Jarrod discussed what had happened, what they had learned, with the rest of the family.

One Sunday the whole family, except Heath, went into town for church. Nick often skipped, but he had his eye on the daughter of the new banker. Heath came along infrequently, more usually spending his Sunday mornings riding, once or twice joining Silas at his church.

This Sunday he slept late after staying up all night with a sick horse. When the rest of the family returned, there was no sign of him. As it began to get dark Victoria came into the study. Nick was standing at the window, staring out at the corral. Jarrod sat at the desk trying to read the paper. Both looked around quickly as she entered.

"Supper will be in an hour. Don’t you think you’d better go find him?" she asked dryly.

Whatever had happened, all those weeks ago, there had been a difference in the way Jarrod and Nick treated their brother. There was no decrease in affection, but there was a reticence, a care that hadn’t been there before. In Nick, especially, it was notable. He seemed to be genuinely careful of Heath’s feelings in a way he had never been with anyone before - even refraining from teasing him about the beard he had let continue to grow. At least, in her presence.

"He won’t like it," he said now, hesitantly.

"Well, I won’t like it if I don’t have all my sons here for supper."

"All right Mother." Nick kissed her on the cheek. "Coming, Jarrod?"

"Let me just get my coat."

As Jarrod moved past her, Victoria touched his arm. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened?"

"Mother, it’s Heath’s to tell, or not. I don’t think he has it settled in his mind, what really did happen. And people might be hurt."

She had suspected it concerned Tom. "You mean I might be hurt. Jarrod, if this involves Heath’s father, then it involves me."

"He’ll tell you when he’s ready, Mother," Jarrod said.

"Just tell me this. He isn’t...questioning his place here, is he?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"I just feel that...I wish he felt comfortable enough to tell me when he’s troubled."

"We all wish that, Mother, and I think that he’s starting to. But you can’t rush him."

"Well, rush him along a little tonight, if you can."

When he had gone, Victoria wandered, unsettled, into the parlor. She stood before the fireplace and looked up at the portrait of her husband. Whatever had happened, she felt in her heart that it had to do with him. She remembered another time she had felt this unease. Tom had returned from Strawberry and announced he would not be investing further in the mine. Jarrod had questioned the decision, and Tom’s response was odd. All he had said was that Strawberry was "a bad place".

Yes, it had been a bad place for them. Later, in their room, he had stood at the window and stared out at the yard, the barn and corrals. Quiet and obscurely worried all evening, Victoria had finally asked: "Did you see her?"

He had closed his eyes, made no pretense of not understanding. "No."

"You wanted to."

"God forgive me, I did. But when I got there, I knew it was a mistake. Such a terrible mistake."

"What happened?"

He had sighed. "I came face to face with what a fool I was. I had all this, and I risked it, I threw it away. Victoria...". He had turned to her.

"It’s in the past, Tom," she had said. "We survived it, it’s over. I think your decision was the right one. Better to leave Strawberry in the past."

He had walked over and taken her hand, kissed it tenderly. "All I want, Victoria, is this life we’ve made together. Please believe me, that’s all I want."

She remembered her husband that night, strange, that she hadn’t thought of it since then. Of course the babies had been very sick, she had been taken up with caring for them. Not surprising events from that time seemed a little hazy. Had she suspected something, all those years ago? No, surely not. Impossible to remember clearly now, and any thoughts she might have were colored by the certain knowledge of Heath’s existence. The memory was disquieting nonetheless.

Sighing, Tom put his pen aside and stood. He paced the length of the room, to the front window and looked out onto the dark empty street. Yesterday someone had shot at him, he was certain of it. He’d been riding home from town and had felt the wind of the bullet’s passing. He’d thrown himself off the horse and into a gulley and lay there, his heart pounding, until a group of ranchers galloped into view.

This battle might very well cost him his life. It might cost him everything he’d worked for his entire adult life. What he’d sacrificed. Somehow he felt certain that it would. He’d come to the end of his life, maybe it was natural to focus on regret, on his youth. Beautiful Leah, a memory of his youth that still ached. What would she say to him, if he came to her door and asked after his son?

The second, and worse part of this secret occurred years later. I had left Strawberry in disgrace, but mining continued on a small scale. A new exploratory shaft showed promise, and my former partners approached me about investing again. I went myself, thinking I should keep my partners away from that town in case tongues were still wagging. I’m an old man now, I think nostalgically of my youth, even when I am also deeply shamed by the same events. God forgive me, I had begun to feel trapped again by my precious family, tied down, hobbled. Jarrod was nearly a man. I looked at him and remembered what it was like to be a young man. I wanted to remember how that felt. I wanted to see Leah.

Tom rummaged through the stack of papers and found the document he was looking for. He read it over slowly, feeling anew the horror at seeing the name in the conscription ledger: Thomson, Heath. Age 18. Strawberry, California.

He’d gone to the examiner, Harold Sweaney, and demanded an explanation. "Harold, I know the family. That boy isn’t eighteen."

"Well, I figured he wasn’t eighteen. But I think he was sixteen, and a grown sixteen at that. There are lots of sixteen-year olds fighting this war, Tom, on both sides. Besides, I know some about those old mining towns, figured the Army’d be a better place for him."

My son, Tom thought, better off in a war than where I had left him. And an even worse thought, if I had been serving on the board that day, what would I have done?

Tom smoothed the report and read it over slowly. He wrote:

He carefully blotted the letter, folded it and put it in an envelope with the final Pinkerton report, some other documents, and sealed it. He put it in his safe, to be found with his other important papers.

Somehow they knew where to go. Neither of them had been to their father’s burial place since returning from Strawberry; as far as they knew, Heath hadn’t either. But they rode directly there and found Heath, sitting on Charger, staring at the grave.

Nick dismounted and stood there a second, waiting to see if Heath would speak. He stroked Charger’s neck. "Do you forgive him?" he asked finally.

"I don’t know. I hate that he did it. But...I’m here now."

"Part of me wishes we - you - hadn’t found that out, but it’s better to know the truth, I think." Nick looked at the grave. "Goddamn, but I wish he was here. He owes you, us--".

"He can’t make up for it, Nick. He can’t make it right. All he could do would be to try to make things better now, and that’s already happened. I guess you’d like a chance to bust him one, and I would, too. But it wouldn’t change a damn thing that happened. And he did...". Heath’s voice trailed off. When he concentrated, he could still feel his father’s presence. He knew that he had only lived because of that burst of strength and love he’d felt in that cabin. "He did what he could," he said quietly. He stretched his back and grinned a little down at Nick.

Outlined against the cold sky and setting sun, bearded, the heavy winter coat giving him the bulk Tom Barkley had, he looked enough like Nick’s memory of his father to bring tears to his eyes. That sad expression that had come into his eyes - how much of that, in later years, came from this one triggering event? Nick’s memories had been twisted by his own grief, now he remembered clearly the depression and unhappiness of those last weeks.

"What?" Heath was staring at him.

Nick rubbed his eyes slowly. "It’s just...you look like him. A lot. Sometimes it’s like going back in time, to look at you. When I was a boy. Since you’ve been here I’ve been remembering him more, from when he was younger."

"I’ve felt that way too," Jarrod said. "Heath, we haven’t talked about what happened. Do you want to?"

"I don’t rightly know what happened," Heath said musingly. "Thought I did, then I thought different. Then I talked to Dan Boone and it all changed again. Then...". He shrugged. "I don’t think talking’s gonna clear it up, Jarrod."

Nick start to speak: "In that cabin, you--".

"I don’t know what happened," Heath interrupted, a little sharply. He didn’t want to talk about that, not yet. "Maybe I was just...out of my head."

"Is that what you think?" Jarrod asked softly.

"I don’t know," Heath shook his head slowly. "I just don’t know."

Jarrod said: "Whatever Father did, in his life, we’ll never know for sure. We’ve learned some things that have been painful, some that are surprising. If he had lived.... But I think he did come to you, Heath, in that cabin. I’ve felt him, too. Sometimes I feel him in Nick, and in you. Heath, that first night at the house...I think I felt him then."

Heath stared at Jarrod intently. "Tell me what you mean."

Jarrod looked helplessly at Nick. "Can you explain it, Nick?"

Nick sighed. "There’ve been times, when I was sick or hurt. Jarrod’s there and somehow...somehow Father’s there too. I don’t know how else to say it."

Heath looked over at the gravestone. When he’d been so sick, he could discount that. The mind would play tricks. But since then, several times.... He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, Jarrod had woken him with a gentle shake. Wide awake but before he opened his eyes, it had been his father’s hand on his shoulder. Another time, with Nick, at supper. He’d been telling a story from his first trail drive as a green hand, the butt of rough teasing the whole way. Nick had laughed himself silly and his eyes, tearing helplessly - Tom Barkley had been looking at him through those eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t anything supernatural. Of course Jarrod and Nick had their father in them, all sons did. Maybe the miracle was that he felt it so clearly now. When Tom Barkley had died, long before Heath even knew he was his father, he’d lost any chance to know him, to form a relationship. But it seemed that in the loving bond he’d formed with his brothers, he’d somehow, miraculously, found it after all.

Nick said: "Heath. None of us can figure it out. Even if he were here, I’m not sure we could settle it. All I know is, I’m awful grateful to have you as my brother. Now, can we get back to the house before Mother sends the sheriff?"