The brilliant blue sky exhaled, sending it's cool breath across the large yard. A solitary figure inhaled its sweet scent, savoring every minute of this festive day. One long leg was bent under the porch swing; the other pressed against the porch rails. He pushed himself to and fro, smiling broadly at the sight before him.

Their laughter rolled up over the railing and caressed his ears. His hazel eyes drank in the heart-warming sight. A new generation of Barkley's scampered among the trees, gleefully celebrating the sheer joy of being a child. Carefree and brazen, their glib shouts, ruddy cheeks and bright eyes assaulted his senses. His heart tightened, as another man's face came into his mind's eye.

"Nick, do you know where Charlie is?"

Emily Barkley inquired of her daughter's favorite cloth horse. She studied her husband's pensive mask, from the doorway. Stepping out onto the large front porch, she made her way over to where the swing gracefully rocked. She sat down beside him and his arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her close.

"Nick, did you hear me?" She turned, her blue eyes searching.

"Huh?...Oh, sorry Honey," He managed, kissing her forehead, "Something wrong?"

She stared into the hazel eyes, still lost in the past. Her hand snaked up his chest and around the back of his neck. She drew him forward and kissed him.

"How'd I get so lucky?" He smirked.

"Oh, you wait Birthday Boy," She teased, eyes twinkling, "I've got something special, planned for you later."

The wolfish grin that she'd fallen in love with, ten years ago resurfaced. He returned her kiss, stronger and groaned. She laid her head on his shoulder and felt that invincibility, in his arms. They rocked for several minutes in silence, listening to the shouts of the children. A healthy flock of future bearer's of the dream. She studied his profile and saw the lost look.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

"Yeah...He'd have loved this...watching them..."

"I love you, Nick Barkley," She squeezed his hand.

Nick turned and studied the picture of intelligence, strength and beauty that was his wife. He thanked God every day for gracing him with such a blessing. Ten years of marriage, four healthy children, a fine home, all because of this dark-haired, blue-eyed independent, high-spirited personification of grace. He knew the first day he laid eyes on her, he'd marry her. That same passion burned even more so now.

"Not half as much as I love you, Mrs. Barkley, " He whispered huskily, nibbling her throat.

"Nick...the children are watching..." She giggled, swatting at him.

"So what? We're married..."

"Come on Romeo," She grinned, standing, "Let's go inside. Your daughter is in need of your services."

Ten minutes later, Charlie was once again, safe and cuddled in three-year old Grace Barkley's arms. Nick kissed away the last tear and sent her scampering. The adults were scattered among the rooms downstairs, keeping an eye on the younger children. Nick took a break from the noisy activity in the adjoining room. He made his way to the back of the house. He crossed the large kitchen and was about to walk out onto the porch, when a voice drew him back.

"Uncle Nick, you forgotted one"

He turned and squatted down to the eye level of the six-year old, with her mother's red hair and her father's brilliant blue eyes. Jarrod's daughter solemnly handed over the small package.

"Thank you Katie. What's this?"

With a shrug and kiss to his cheek, she scampered away. Nick stood by the table and looked at the small box with no name on it. He unwrapped it as his wife crossed behind him and rubbed his back.

"Who's it from?" Emily asked looking in their cupboard for more plates.

"Dunno," He frowned.

She watched as Nick lifted the lid and heard all the air leave his lungs. His face drained of color and his eyes widen in surprise. He dropped the box on the table in front of him. He felt his knees buckle and reached for the nearest chair.

"Oh My God!" He gasped.

A powerful force emitted from the contents of the box propelling a flood of memories that drove the dark cowboy's back hard into the chair behind him. He wiped the sweaty palms over his pants. He blinked hard and shook his head, hoping the vision was real.

"Nick? Nick what is it?" she worried, spotting his ashen pallor.

With great reverence, he lifted the treasure and fingered it tenderly. She saw the raw emotions on his face and the moisture in his eyes. The voice that followed mirrored those sentiments.

"It's a piece of my heart, I thought I'd lost forever." He choked, swiping a tear.

She sat down next to him and rubbed the strong arm. She watched the wonderful smile creep onto his face as his fisted the item. His tone, rich and thick, told her just how important it was to him.

"My God..."

''Emily, do need a hand with those plates?"

Jennifer Barkley paused in the doorway and saw the deep emotion on Nick's face. She cast a wary look at her sister-in-law. Whatever it was, Emily didn't know either. A thought came to mind. She caught Emily's eye.

"Hey, why don't you take the Old Boy for a walk by the water. We can handle things here."

"You sure, Jen?" Emily looked relieved.

"Are you kidding?" The vivacious red-head responded, "I'm a former schoolteacher, mischievous urchins are my specialty."

She gave her sister-in-law a fast thank you and led her dazed husband outside. After instructing the older children to mind their aunt, she took Nick's hand. They walked to the water's edge and found a favorite spot. He settled under the tree and she rested her head in his lap. Reverently, he handed her the item, which he'd clutched so tightly, it left red imprints on his hands.

"Twenty years, Emily and I remember it like it was yesterday." He rasped.

"What happened twenty years ago? What is this? Do you want to tell me?"

Swallowing hard, with a long sigh, he began.

"Actually, it really started one day in late summer, a little over twenty-three years ago. One hot day that changed everything.

Twenty three years earlier...

Rachel Caufield wiped the perspiration from her brow and cover the bread dough with a damp towel. Turning back to the bowl of potatoes, she began to peel them. The days seemed to fly by, with a growing boy to feed and care for. Her lips broke into a warm smile at the thought of the tow-headed boy whose blue eyes had finally begun to shine again.

"Is this 'nuf Aunt Rachel?"

She looked over at the nine-year old, holding a bowl of green beans. She ruffled the blond hair and took the dish.

"That's more than enough, I hope you're hungry."

"Yes Ma'am...but I's savin' some space for spice cake."

"Did you finish your chores?"

"Yes Ma'am. I's fixin' to finish my cipherin', I'll be out yonder," He nodded to the tree in the yard.

She watched him scamper off, grateful for the small things. That winsome smile, the tireless little worker, the hug and kiss each morn and night. He was a good boy, who's broken heart was beginning to heal. Six months since God took her best friend Leah Thomson. So young...so frail...so happy. Despite her poverty and station in life, despite the stares and arrogant fingers that pointed...she held her high in town. Proud of the fine boy God had blessed her with. Only in private, out of the gaze of scolding eyes, did she waver. Was it the right choice? Was it fair to him?

Rachel stood by her friend, supporting her decision. She didn't like the way Thomas Barkley shirked his responsibilities, namely the brave, blond boy who had learned too young about bigotry and hate. But Leah needed a strong arm, and unwavering devotion, and Rachel stood by the small woman, whose eyes spoke volumes. Heath had those eyes...and Rachel saw Leah there, every day.

A knock on the front door broke her train of thought. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned and made her way through the small house. She opened the door to find the minister, schoolmaster and two strangers.

"Yes? Reverend White, Mr. Harkins, Gentlemen," She nodded, "What can I do for you?"

"Can we come in, Rachel?" The stern minister issued.

"Certainly," She moved aside.

The minister took a seat in the rocker; the schoolmaster remained standing. The two strangers sat on the small sofa. One of the strangers, a silver-haired man, caught her eye.

"My name is Avery Mayfair and this," he pointed out the other stranger, "is Louis Hall. We're from the State Welfare Board. We're here to discuss the placement of one," he opened a valise and took out some papers, "Heath Thomson. Does he reside here?"

Rachel's hand went to her throat and she was stunned into silence. Recovering, she heard the words stumble forth, not recognizing her own voice.

"Yes, he's here...placement? I don't understand," She turned to see the minister averting his gaze, "What have you done?"

"Mr. Harkins and the good minister have brought to our attention that you are housing the bastard son of one Leah Thomson. Now..."

"I will not have you use that word in my house or in his presense. Just who do you think you are? He's a fine boy, and he has a home here."

"Then you are a blood relative?" Louis Hall smugly suggested.

"Well, no...I am...I was Leah's best friend, since girlhood. She, Hannah and I raised the boy from infancy. The fever took them last winter, but this remains Heath's home."

"I'm sorry, Miss Caufield, but Mr. Harkins and the Reverend feel it's in the community's best interest for the boy to be placed in a facility that will help to curtail his rambunctious, insolent behavior."

"He's neither rambunctious nor insolent. He's a good boy. They've fed you lies. You are no longer welcome, gentlemen, please leave." Her voice was cold and her eyes hot.

"He's trouble, Rachel," Theodore White spate, "The spawn of the devil. We don't want his kind here."

"He's a bold, brazen article," The schoolmaster added, "always causing fights and disrupting class. "

"You pathetic creature, to bully an innocent child..." she glared at Harkins, "...and you have the nerve to stand in God's house," She eyed the Reverend icily, "Get out!", She cried, flinging the door open.

"I'm sorry Miss Caufield, but the fact remains the boy is an orphan. Until we can find a...." Mayfair paused, rifling through his papers, "Matthew Simmons, his uncle. Do you his whereabouts?"

"That spineless, drunken excuse for a man," Her voice rose, "You'd take him from a good home, and give him to that lazy creature!"

"The law is the law, Miss Caufield. The child has a blood relative. The Reverend tells me Mr. Simmons and his wife used to live here. They left several years ago. Until we find them, Heath Thomson is a ward of the state. He'll be placed in a facility that will property suit his needs. Now if you'll him ready..."

"I won't let you take him. You just can't come in her and take him from the only home he's every known. It'll shatter him...he's not yet recovered from losing his mother. Have you no heart?" She pleaded, scanning the legal documents she was handed.

"It's not a matter of heart," Hall retorted, "it's a matter of the law. Have the child ready by nine a.m. tomorrow."

The four departed, leaving the frantic woman speechless, with tears running down her cheeks. She was trembling so severely, she thought her knees would buckle. Her eyes swept around the room and as she turned, she saw him in the next room. The body was that of a small boy, but the eyes were hard, reflecting a soul already too old. How much had he heard?

"Heath...Heath, I..."

But he turned, and ran. The back door slamming caused her shoulders to flinch. Her legs felt like lead as she moved to follow him. By the time she got outside, he was gone. She slumped onto the back steps, and picked up the discarded slate. His familiar scrawl was seen in a line of correct math problems. Despite the cruel taunts of the other children and the bigotry that burned from the headmaster's eyes, he had a great thirst for learning. She picked up a pair of his small knickers, buried her face and cried. The only company she had was the laundry, flapping in the breeze.

The late afternoon sun was unrelenting. A half-dozen hands were busy working on the repairs to the ranch's barn. Duke McCall the foreman and Buck Lassiter, who ran the bunkhouse, stood inside the sturdy facility, getting a brief respite from the sun. Three of the hands were painting the outside of the barn, two more in the rafters, reinforcing some old support beams.

"Aw, hell!" The youngest hand swore, flinging a hammer across the barn.

"I'm gonna tell...I'm gonna tell...You said a bad word, Nicky!"

The dark-haired thirteen-year old spun and glared at his six-year old sister. Her flaxen braids swung back and forth as she parroted the phrase. Squatting down, he made his threat known.

"You do, and that new doll of yours is gonna end up on a one way river trip to Sacramento." His hazel eyes squinted maliciously, causing her blue ones to widen in fear.

"You won't either, or Papa will whip you!" She stuck her chin out defiantly.

"Maybe...but that fussy doll of yours will still be fish food." He trumped, "What are you doing in here anyhow? Beat it...go find some silly girls to play with."

"I'm allowed to be here. It's my barn too."

"Miss Audra, Why don't you come with me? I think your mother is looking for you." Silas said, peeking his head in the door.

Buck and Duke shared a grin as they watched Tom Barkley's heir. The boy had a hot head and it gave his mother fits, along with his swearing. At thirteen, he was starting a summer that would see him increasingly by his father's side. Duke had been tasked to break the Barkley colt in steadily, and the boy took to ranch work like a fish to water. Tom had known from the time the boy could crawl, what his destiny was. As sure as he knew his eldest boy's ambitions lay elsewhere. Nick didn't look like Tom; rather he favored Jon Bradley, his maternal grandfather, in looks as well as temperament. But there was fire inside the boy, and already his natural leadership qualities were beginning to show. Those qualities were all Barkley, and Tom beamed every time he saw the boy.

Nick got a drink and doused his head at the pump. He took a minute to re-evaluate the problem. Nodding, he picked his hammer back up and resumed his task. He thought of Audra's pouting face. Why couldn't she have been a boy? He needed a brother. He had friends, lots of them, but it wasn't the same. Jarrod was a great brother, and they were very close. But as they grew older, they're paths began to separate. Jarrod's lofty ambitions would take him away to college and law school, leaving Nick alone. He paused, thinking on having a younger brother.

"Nick? Where you at, Boy?" Duke said, clapping the budding muscular frame.

"Huh? Oh, just thinking..." Nick mused, resuming his work.

Many miles away, on the same hot day, another boy toiled. He ran past the schoolhouse, the Jenkins farm and the old Miller place. He ran past the mine and ended up at the riverbed. He collapsed exhausted, his energy spent. The shaggy blond hair was soaked in sweat and clung to the damp face. The blue eyes were filled with confusion and fear.

He turned on his belly and studied a beetle, hauling a pebble across the dirt. He traced a pattern in the dirt, and felt his chest constrict. He loved Aunt Rachel; he didn't want to go with those bad men. He knew they were bad, they had squinty eyes. All the bad men in the dime novels had squinty eyes. He never liked the preacher...just looking at him, gave the boy chills. He did too much shouting and was angry all the time. Mama said God was good, loving and kind. How could somebody working for him be so mean?

He sat up, hugging his knees and tossed pebbles into the river. The dark eyes of the schoolteacher came into view. His face grew hard, remembering every painful welt he suffered at the man's hands. Heath didn't know what a 'bastard' was until Mr. Harkins called him one. He figured it was something bad. Then Tommy Mills and Bobby Jenkins told him what it meant. They said bad things about his mother. He felt his face flush, remembering the fight. They were bigger, but he wouldn't give an inch. He wouldn't apologize either. Which didn't make Harkins happy.

He saw Aunt Rachel's face swim into view. She was his best friend. She took real good care of him, told great jokes and funny stories. She told him to stand tall, hold his chin up, look everyone straight in the eye, to be proud. First he lost Mama and Hannah, now Aunt Rachel. Everyone he loved was taken from him.

He felt his face grow hot as the tears sprung. A slow trickle at first, angry and hot, then a flood. He cried long and hard. He shed tears for all that was and all that could have been; for losing Mama, Hannah and Rachel. Then he wiped his eyes, and made a decision. He'd never cry or get his heart broken again.

"It can't get busted, iffen you don't give it away," He theorized as he made his way home.

Honey- glazed ham, peas, roasted potatoes and candied carrots overflowed on his plate. He had one buttered roll in his mouth and another in his hand.

"Nicholas!"

"What?" He muffled, eyeing his mother, a roll dangling from his mouth.

"Don't speak with your mouth full."

"But ya asked me a question." He protested, swallowing a bite and placing the remnant on his bread plate.

Victoria Barkley rolled her eyes and counted to five. This middle child of hers was turning her dark hair gray in a hurry. Leaning toward the handsome teen, who sat to her right, she eyed the plate.

"Why must you always overburden your plate? Take what you can eat and then if you're still hungry, you may have some more."

"I am aimin' to eat this." He returned, as he speared another hunk of ham.

"You are going to eat that," She corrected, wincing at his poor grammar.

"That's what I said," He exasperated, looking to his father, "Am I crazy?"

"No, Son, " Tom Barkley laughed, "How was your day?"

Nick spent a few minutes telling his father of the branding, calf roping and mending the stall in the barn. He happened to glance up as Audra's eyes lit up. She was about to spill her guts about his swear word, when he caught her eye. He quickly glanced around and saw that the rest of the family was occupied. Narrowing his hazel eyes, he threw her an evil glare, held up a small doll's hat and drew his hand across his throat, signaling the toy's untimely end. Audra's eyes grew wide and she quickly changed her mind.

Seventeen-year old Jarrod Barkley watched his younger brother gloat. His parents missed whatever transpired, but Jarrod had a good idea. Catching Nick's eye, he threw his own threatening look. Nick caught it and made a face.

"Nicholas!"

"Aw, Mother, he started it," the teen argued.

"Your brother is beyond such childish behavior," She smiled at Jarrod, who was grinning smugly.

"Oh, Brother..." Nick lamented.

"Yes, Nick?" Jarrod teased, winking at Audra.

"Don't worry on me Aunt Rachel, I'll be fine," Heath said, clutching the small, tattered bag.

"I'll get to the bottom of this, Heath. I won't let them keep you in that place. You behave now and mind your manners."

"Yes, Ma'am" He replied.

She had been surprised the night before, at his calm acceptance of the situation. She'd shown him the papers and tried to explain. He nodded, absorbing every word. He was a very bright child, and his eyes were often wise beyond their years. They'd shared their last meal and he'd asked to be excused. She helped him pack his few belongings. He told her to keep Mama's things; she'd want it that way. After she listened as he said his prayers, he climbed into bed and she tucked him in. As she bent to kiss him goodnight, his small arms embraced her. He clung to her for some time, and she felt his heart beating through his nightshirt. He didn't say a word, nor shed a tear. Then he turned, facing the wall. The eyes that could be a luminous blue were stark and stormy. Hard eyes...dead eyes.

She blinked back into reality at the rap on the door. Heath turned and offered his small hand. The blond hair was clean and combed the handsome little face was scrubbed. The eyes held no emotion.

"Thanks, Ma'am, I'm beholdin' for all ya done. I'll remember ya in my prayers. I'll write."

"Heath...Heath..."

She hugged him close and brushed a hair through his hair.

"I love you, Boy...Don't you ever forget that."

He climbed into the carriage and held his small bag. The two state officials towered over the slight -framed boy. She watched until the buggy was almost out of sight. Then she saw him turn briefly and wave. Then he was gone.

She shut the door and made her way to the kitchen. She had no more tears to cry. She read the papers from the state again. Walking into the parlor, she cast her eyes upon the photo of Leah and Heath, taken when he was six. She took the frame off the table and fingered the frame delicately.

"I'm sorry, Leah. I know I promised, and I've never gone back on my word. Family be damned, Tom Barkley's time has come."

Rachel squinted into the sun and made her way into town. It had been two days since Heath was taken from her. She wasn't quite sure where to begin. She was going to wire the State Welfare Office in Sacramento and inquire on Heath's whereabouts. From there, she'd visit the boy. She didn't want him to think he was being abandoned.

She didn't have the money to go to a lawyer, to inquire about the legalities of the situation. Leah kept to herself and had few close friends. The little money she did bring in was from scrubbing floors and cleaning rooms at the hotel. Sometimes, she got a few coins, for her fine needlework. Heath got a job after school at the livery, cleaning up. The owner, Hank Lutz and his wife Mary were good folks, who'd always been kind to Leah and the boy.

She entered the stable and spotted Hank's dark head, bent over a mare's foreleg. He was applying liniment of some sort.

"Hank? Do you have a minute?"

"Rachel?" He called back without looking up, "Be right with you."

He finally stood, wiping his hands on his apron and made his way outside. There weren't many secrets in a small town, and Strawberry was no different. He'd heard rumors that Reverend White and the schoolmaster were stirring trouble for Rachel and the boy. He'd seen the strangers arrive in town in a hired rig. The next day, he saw them leave with Heath. Mary heard in the General Store, that they were taking Heath to an orphanage of some sort.

"Sorry about the boy, Rachel," He offered sincerely, "Damn shame. I saw the two strangers take him away. They from a boy's home or something?"

"They were from the State Department of Welfare. They said I have no legal right to Heath. That he has to live in a State Home until they find Matt Simmons."

"MATT SIMMONS!" Hank's face screwed up in contempt, "That no-good drunk's not fit to raise a dog, let alone a child."

"I told them that," Rachel sighed, "They're only concern is black and white. That Matt is the boy's next of kin, by blood. Hank, I can't let that happen. I don't know what to do. I'm going to wire the Sacramento and see where they took Heath. After I visit him, I'll see if someone in the Welfare Office has more sense and compassion than those two did."

Hank studied the concern Rachel's face and clearly saw the unrest in her eyes. He'd never questioned Leah's predicament. He and Mary moved here when Heath was five. Hank took to the boy right off. He was a good boy and smart as a whip. Mary made sure she packed a treat every day for Heath. He'd stop after school and do odd jobs around the livery.

"Hank, I have a favor," Rachel asked, "I need some advice. You and Mary were always so kind to Leah and Heath. I was wondering if I could stop over and talk with you."

"Rachel, You know Mary and I will do anything to help. Why don't you stop over for supper? We usually sit down around six p.m. or so."

"Thanks, Hank, I really appreciate it," Rachel turned to head to the telegraph office, "I'll see you tonight."

Heath had never been out of Strawberry, so the city of Sacramento amazed him. He looked wide-eyed at the fine, brink buildings, some several stories high, lined the neat streets. The sounds of children's laugher caused him to turn his head. There was a large park, lush with greenery, trees and flowers. In the center was a pond, where a group of children were feeding the ducks.

The carriage stopped in front of a large brick building with a flag whipping in the breeze over the door. The two men stepped down and approached the door. The larger man, named Louis, glared back at him.

"Let's go boy."

Heath jumped down, toting his small satchel and was shoved harshly inside. The long corridor was cool, a welcome relief in the heat. Heath followed the two men up a flight of stairs and was thrust into a chair, in yet another hallway. Louis Hall remained with Heath, while Avery Mayfair, went inside. A few minutes later, the door opened again. Heath looked up at a stern face woman with gray hair.

"Mr. Hall..." She nodded, waving her arm.

Heath was pulled roughly to his feet and forced forward. He stumbled through the door and looked around the large office. He paused, eyeing the pictures on the walls. He winced as a hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

"Don't dawdle, Young Man," her clipped voice ordered, pulling him forward.

Once again he was thrust into a chair. He listened keenly, while Mayfair spoke with a younger man, with kind eyes. He was wearing a fancy suit, like the undertaker in town. He heard them mentioned the names 'Mason Hall', 'Good Shepherd' and 'Parker House'. Hall had departed already and Mayfair shook the other man's hand and strode away. Heath stood to follow, but a hand stopped him.

"Heath, my name is Thomas Nolan," the voice said, "I'm going to tell you a little about your new home. Let's take a little walk."

Heath regarded the hand offered with suspicious eyes. He stared hard at the man's brown eyes, before returning the handshake. He was awful thirsty; they'd ridden all day, only stopping to water the horses.

"May I have some water, please?"

"Sure thing," He glanced at his watch, "It's almost five. How about we get something to eat? Are you hungry?"

Boy was he, but he bit back his response, merely nodding.

"Good, there's a place we can stop on the way to Good Shepherd. You'll like it there; it's the best facility in the State. Brother Francis is a kind man, and there are some boys your age living there."

He helped Heath up into the wagon and climbed up, taking the reins. Urging the horses forward, they began their journey. They stopped a several blocks away, at a caf‚. They got a seat near the window, with a fine view of the State Capitol. Heath's eye's widened as the wonderful aroma of roasted meat assaulted him. A waiter passed by, carrying a large tray of sizzling meat platters.

"Boy Howdy, I could eat a horse..." Heath blurted, then bit his lip and dropped his head.

"I bet you could," Nolan smiled at the fair-haired boy, "Seems to me I remember always being hungry at your age. You're nine, aren't you?"

"Yes Sir," Heath replied, taking a large gulp of the glass of water in front of him.

"My name's Tom and I'd like to be your friend, Heath. I won't bite, I promise." He grinned, trying to catch the young boy's eye, "They're all out of horse today, how about some fried chicken instead?"

Heath nodded and stared at the man across from him. He had large round eyes that seemed to smile. Heath relaxed a little, and sat up straight, as if Aunt Rachel was behind him. She hated it when he shied away from strangers. Always after him to 'stand tall', and remind him that 'Your Mama's watching from Heaven'.

"How far we gotta go?" He asked.

"Good Shepherd is near Rancho Cordova, and it's not far from here. We'll be there before dark. There are about a dozen and a half boys living there right now. It's located on a large piece of farmland, where the older boys help out. Younger boys, like yourself, attend school most of the day and chores after your lessons."

"They have a livery there?" Heath asked.

"They have a large stable, and lots of horses, why?"

"I aim to get a job. I been workin' the livery at home for a long time. I know about tendin' horses."

"I don't doubt it Heath," Tom poured praise into his voice and was rewarded by the small shoulders squaring away, "we'll ask Brother Francis about it when we get there. You understand Heath that you'll be living at Good Shepherd until we can find your uncle. You won't be paid for your chores, that's part of the requirements of living there. To help you learn and acquire a trade."

"I don't take charity, Mister. I earn my keep or I ain't stayin'" Heath jumped off the chair and thrust his chin out, fists gripped.

Thomas smiled broadly at the defiant blue-eyed stare and proud stance. The boy's mother did a helluva job, in the few years she had him. This young warrior was already well prepared for life. The small chest thrust forward challenged him and there was no mistaking the determination in the stormy blue eyes. He laughed and ruffled the blond hair. Heath pulled away, tensing at his touch.

"You're a good man, Heath Thomson," He grinned, "You listen to Brother Francis and you'll do fine. This isn't charity, Heath. You'll earn your keep through the work you do for the Farm."

The waiter set the platters down. Heath settled back in his chair, and watched as Tom piled chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes on his plate. There were also biscuits and honey. A cold pitcher of lemonade soon appeared. He stared at the plate before him and picked up a chicken leg. He was about to take a large bite, when he felt guilt wash over him. An image of his mother flashed in his head. He placed the leg back on the plate, drawing a curious stare from his host. He folded his small hands and said a prayer.

"Mama'd be upset, iffen I didn't say Grace." He answered the curious brown eyes.

"So would my mother," Thomas eased, saying a prayer and watching Heath's armor melt a little more.

Heath was so full; he thought he bust wide open. He stood and waited as Tom finished and didn't pull away when the strong hands squeezed his slim shoulders. They stopped at the front of the caf‚ and Tom pulled some bills out of his pocket. Heath tugged at the dark brown coat sleeve. Tom looked down at the open palm, housing a few coins.

"It this 'nuf?" The blue eyes demanded.

Tom bit back a grin, remembering the boy's statement concerning charity. He selected two pennies and folded the proud hands over the remaining coins.

"More than enough, Son,"

"You sure? Seemed like a heap of food...don't seem like much. I can pay..."

"I know, Heath," Tom conveyed as seriously as he could, "You don't take charity."

The owner knew Tom well and watched the scene unfold. Leaning down, he addressed the strong-willed boy.

"Maybe I can help," He said, winking at Tom, "What did you order?"

"Fried Chicken, and some fixin's," Heath declared.

"Hmm...and how old are you," He said, skimming the menu.

"Nine...why?" Heath's brow furrowed.

"Well...yes, that's the correct amount, for children under ten."

Heath glanced suspiciously between the two men, before he relented, pocketing his coins. He walked ahead of Tom, who nodded his thanks at the chuckling patron.

As he waited by the door, Heath decided Tom was a good man. He liked the nice smile and warm laugh. He told Tom about Strawberry, and Tom told him about St Louis, where he grew up. Before Heath realized it, they pulled up to a large building. The first story was stone; the other three were brick.

His gaze ran around the perimeter, taking in the other buildings. A large barn, stable and storage facility, and several smaller buildings scattered about. Heath turned as Tom greeted a boy with shoulder length dark hair, who appeared to be Mexican.

"Hola Dante, c˘mo es usted?"

"I am well, Tom," The handsome sixteen-year old boy enthused, "It is good to see you. Who is your friend?"

"Heath Thomson, he'll be staying here for awhile." Tom motioned for Heath to join them.

Heath stepped down and walked around the buggy, eyeing up the tall boy. He smiled and held his hand out. Heath thought the other boy's teeth where the whitest he'd ever seen.

"Hello, Heath, I am Dante. I hope we will be friends."

Heath liked the warm voice and nice smile. He shook the hand offered and clutched his bag. Tom gave his shoulder a solid squeeze.

"Dante will show you to your room, while I talk to Brother Francis," Tom saw the hesitation and urged him forward, "Go on, Son, I'll see you in a little while."

Heath paused at the steps and looked at the statue. A kind faced man with a beard, surrounded by small children and lambs.

"That is our Lord, the Good Shepherd," Dante said, giving the small boy a solid hand on the shoulder, as they walked up the front steps, "Welcome to your new home, Heath,"

Heath followed Dante inside and eyed the large hallway curiously. He stayed close to the older boy, who gave him a fast tour of the first floor. Two large offices flanked either side of the foyer. Also on the first floor were a kitchen, pantry, dining hall, the chapel, laundry, and a large bathroom. The second floor held the sleeping quarters for Brother Francis the other priests, classrooms, a library, parlor, a study hall and the infirmary. The third floor housed three dormitories, where the boy's slept, as well as two washrooms. The top floor was mostly used for storage.

"Here you go, Heath," Dante stopped in front of a small bed.

There was a three-drawer nightstand next to it, with a lamp. Heath placed his bag down and sat on the bed. Large windows surrounding the immaculate room. Every bed was made in the empty room.

"Where is everybody?" Heath asked.

"Doing homework in study hall or outside playing," Dante answered, glad the silent boy finally spoke. "Brother Francis is a great guy, you'll like him. Brother Dominic sounds the wake up bell at 6:15 a.m. You have fifteen minutes to get washed and dressed. Breakfast is at 6:45 in the dining room. You younger guys have classes from 7:15 to 11:15. Lunch is at 11:30. Brother John will assign you chores for the afternoon. Supper is as 6 p.m. If you get your homework done, you can go for a ride, or play outside. That about covers the basics."

"Have you been here long?"

"Five years," Dante replied, "I split my time between the vineyard and the stables. Come on, Brother Francis is probably looking for us."

Brother Francis was the founder and driving force behind Good Shepherd. His goal was to provide a safe haven for abandoned or orphaned boys. By providing a solid education, religious and moral fiber, and a good trade, he was giving them a chance in the world. The fifty-year old clergyman was a man of modest build, housing a great heart. He looked up at the knock on the door.

"Brother, it's Dante. May Heath and I enter?"

"Certainly, Son," The gregarious pastor replied, standing and walking over to meet the new boy.

"How was the tour, Heath?" Tom asked.

"Fine," Heath said, holding his hand out to the priest, "Thanks for having me, Sir."

"It's my pleasure Heath. From what Tom has told me, you'll be quite an asset to our community. Did you get settled in your room okay?"

"Yes Sir, it's fine."

"Good, well let's see Tom to the door, then you and I will have a talk."

"Thanks, Tom," Heath said, offering his hand.

"Hey, why so glum? I'll see you again. I have lots of friends here I visit. You behave and listen to Brother Francis." He gave the small shoulders a reassuring squeeze and nodded to the priest and the older boy, "Goodnight, see you soon."

"Goodnight Tom, safe home," Brother Francis replied.

"I'll see you tomorrow Heath, " Dante grinned at the younger boy, patting his back as he returned to the stable.

"Well, let's you and I get acquainted, Young Man," the priest led the boy into the office.

Heath listened carefully to the priest, as he spoke of the history of Good Shepherd and it's goals. He explained the daily schedule, bath times, and chores. Daily visits to the chapel were encouraged. Brother Francis didn't feel forcing the boys proved anything. Nevertheless, it was encouraged and the boys followed suit. He asked Heath a lot of questions about Strawberry and his life. Heath found himself relaxing and speaking freely to the kind man. Something deep inside told him he could trust this man.

Brother Francis walked Heath back to his room. There were five other beds in the room, three of them occupied. George Meier a stout seven-year old, eleven-year old Patrick McKenna and his eight-year old brother Joseph, all looked up. The priest introduced the boys and warned them only twenty minutes until lights out.

Patrick McKenna was a tall boy with a shock of wavy, black hair and eyes like coal. His brother shared the dark hair, but had blue eyes. The older boy sat beside Heath, eyeing the newcomer curiously.

"He'll make ye cut yer hair, ye know." Patrick said confidently, "Brother Dom, that is. Ye don't want to be getting' on his bad side. He's got temper fiercer than the devil himself." The Irish boy's accent sounded musical to Heath.

"Nobody touches my hair," Heath growled, blue-eyes glaring, "Nobody..."

"Alright, then," Patrick grinned, liking the spunk the newcomer showed, "Ye got guts, Heath. Stick with me, I'll show you the ropes."

The other three left to get ready for the night. Heath unpacked his bag and took out a nightshirt. He followed the boys to the washroom and got cleaned up. He said a quick prayer and blew out the lamp. He stared out the window at the full moon. The silver disk seemed a good omen to the boy. He drifted off, thinking about his new home.

"Rachel, it's good to see you," Mary greeted warmly, "Come right in. Hank told me about Heath. I'm so sorry, Rachel."

"Thanks, Mary," Rachel took off her bonnet and followed Mary to the kitchen, "Can I help?" She offered, spotting the serving dishes.

"No, thanks, Rachel. It's all done." Mary disarmed, "You just sit and relax."

Hank joined them and Mary dished out the Chicken and Dumplings. It was delicious, but Rachel ate sparingly. Her stomach was in knots. Mary broke the tense silence.

"What can we do to help Rachel?"

"I guess I just wanted reassurance that I was doing the right thing. I want to visit Heath and make sure he's okay. After that, I'm not sure. I don't want him going to Matt Simmons, that's for certain. I need some legal advice."

"Rachel," Hank asked quietly, "What about the boy's father?"

"Hank..." Mary pleaded.

"No, Mary, that's all right," Rachel reassured, "When Leah died, she made me promise no to contact him. I didn't approve, but I wouldn't go against her dying wish. Of course, I never expected Heath to be taken away. I just don't know Hank..."

"Did you know him? Was he a good man?" Hank inquired.

"I knew him briefly. He saw Leah for several months. I'd say he was a good man, he never knew about Heath. He wrote after he left and even visited after the baby came, but Leah couldn't tell him. He was the love of her life and she couldn't hurt him. He's a well known and respected man and has a family."

"Still, he's the boy's father. He's has the right know." Hank argued, "and Heath has the right to his name."

"That was my initial reaction." Rachel assessed, "But what if he doesn't want Heath? I don't want Heath to be hurt."

"Does he live near here? Would it be possible to visit with him after you see Heath? A private meeting, that way Heath wouldn't be hurt."

"That's a good idea, Hank," Rachel calculated the distance between Sacramento and Stockton, "I'll do just that."

Rachel slept well that night. The next morning there was a wire from the Welfare Office in Sacramento. Rachel could meet with a Thomas Nolan, concerning Heath. She would take the stage the next day, transferring to a train. By the end of the week, with any luck, she'd be able to hug her boy.

Heath quickly acclimated to his new environment. There were other boys his age, but it was Patrick and Dante who he felt most comfortable with. Heath envied Patrick's outgoing nature and fearlessness. He shared both class work and chores with the talkative boy, who had a winning smile and a terrific sense of humor. After supper, he spent time with Dante in the stables. The older boy was gifted with horses and Heath loved to be around the equines. Dante was the older brother Heath never had. His quiet confidence and gentle nature made Heath very comfortable. He found himself opening up to Dante a little, about his life in Strawberry.

One evening, Heath was helping Dante apply liniment to the foreleg of one of the mares. They were talking quietly, when a sharp voice interrupted. The angry tone caused Heath to jump. He backed up at the approaching figure of Brother Dominic. Patrick's assessment the first night had been correct. He was one mean man.

" Daniel Devlin, I distinctly remember giving you specific orders regarding this animal."

Dante never acknowledged the presence and continued his gentle ministrations and soothing tones, hoping to calm the now startled animal. Heath flinched when Brother Dominic hauled Dante up by the back of the collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Leave him, alone!" Heath attempted to assist his friend, only to incur the priest's wrath.

"Thomson, isn't it?" He snarled, eyeing the defiant blue eyes, "Yes, you're the new little bastard. You shouldn't even be out here. You have chores and assignments to complete."

"They're done," Heath said calmly, putting his small body between the irate man and his friend, "and don't call me that name again."

"I'll call you what I damn well please, you disrespectful little urchin," He snarled, "You got to your room, before I lose my temper."

Heath stood his ground and Dante felt a swell of pride build inside. He eased a protective hand across Heath's shoulders and gently prodded him.

"It's okay, Heath. Go on inside, I'll see you later. You did good, Heath, thanks," Dante conveyed, hoping the boy realized what he meant.

Heath reluctantly moved, walking slowly towards the barn door. He felt Brother Dominic's scorching glare, all the way to the yard. He paused a moment and peeked around the corner.

"I've had it with that cocky attitude of yours, Danny Boy," He goaded, knowing the teen hated to be called that, "Your disobedience and disrespect is going to cost you."

"My name is Dante," The boy seethed, staring hard, "and you don't know the meaning of the word respect."

Heath saw the first blow and ran to get Brother Theodore, who was nearby at the well.

"Hurry, he's hitting Dante..." Heath pulled the brown robed man.

"Who's hurting Dante, child?"

"Brother Dominic, hurry..." Heath ran towards the barn.

"Get away from that boy," Brother Theodore ordered, spotting Dante slumped against the stall, "What's the meaning of this?" He demanded, grabbing the airborne fist.

"His disobeyed my orders and was disrespectful," Dominic narrowed his gaze, issuing a silent threat to slumped teen, 'We were discussing it, when he slipped and fell."

"Is that right, Son?" Theodore asked, helping the boy stand.

Dante remained silent, wiping the blood from his lip. Theodore cringed inwardly, he knew Dominic had a furious temper and lashed out all too often. He'd been transferred from several other Boy's schools, for the same problem. His first two months at Good Shepard were already rocky. Dante was a good boy and Theodore knew the charges issued were false.

"What exactly is the problem, Dominic?" Theodore leveled a hard gaze.

"I told him to stay away from that mare. When I asked him about it, he refused to acknowledge me, then he became disrespectful of my position."

"That mare is not your responsibility. I told him to apply the liniment, he's used it before and it works wonders. As for your position, Dominic, you would be wise to remember Brother Francis's generosity."

Dominic backed away and turned to leave.

"One more thing," the steely voice Theodore directed, "Don't you ever raise your hand to a child here again. Understood?"

Dominic managed a slight nod and when Theodore turned, leveled a cruel stare at both boys.

Theodore dropped to the injured boy's side and helped hit sit up. He cupped Dante's chin and turned his head. His fury rose at the mashed lip and bruised cheek. Dante saw the priest's rage and gave a half smile. Gripping the man's arm, he stood up and reassured him.

"It's okay, Padre, I'm fine. He doesn't scare me." Dante dark's eyes shone with defiance, "I don't know how long I can turn the other cheek.

"Understood," Theodore nodded, taking a wet towel from Heath, "Here, press this against your lip. I'll finish up in here. Go inside and have Mrs. Sanchez give you some ice for that."

"Thanks, Chico," Dante said, ruffling the boy's fair hair, "You got guts...I owe you one."

Heath blushed and walked with Dante back into the house. Maria Sanchez was the cook, giver-of-advise, nurse and all around good soul. She was a widow who'd been working at Good Shepard since it's inception. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and the brown eyes always invited a hug or smile. She took one look at Dante and unleashed a long stream of Spanish. Heath's scrunched his face up and hesitated in the doorway.

"I'm okay," Dante protested, pushing her hands away, "Stop fussing."

She took chipped some ice out of the top of the box and wrapped it in a soft cloth. Mateo pressed the cloth to his lip. She cupped his face, despite his protesting actions, and saw the bruise forming. Dante saw the dark look cross the normally placid face and smiled.

"What happened?" She demanded, trying to catch his averted gaze.

He remained silent; shifting the soggy linen cloth and wincing as the water stung his lip. He waved Heath over and motioned with his head for the smaller boy to sit with him. Maria hadn't noticed the small blond boy, who'd become Dante's shadow. Something about the boy's expressive eyes tugged at her heart. Brother Francis told her about Heath and she noticed already, that he was a good boy and hard worker.

"Did Brother Dominic hurt you too, Heath?" Dante's eyes narrowed, Maria was on a fishing trip.

"No, Ma'am," Heath replied following Dante's lead. His silent support spoke volumes to the older boy.

"Let's see," She pulled the cloth away, inspecting the damage, "I think you'll live, no stitches. Scoot now, I have to finish in here."

"Gracias, Mrs. Sanchez," He kissed her cheek and she hugged the likable boy, then looked at him hard, "I'm fine, really. You worry too much."

Dante and Heath walked upstairs together. Dante studied the boy's profile and wondered how such an old soul resided in such young body. Their talks had led the teenager to realize what a sensitive boy he was, wise beyond his years. Dante felt an instant connection to him. The bond they shared was unique, not unlike two brothers. He could sense Heath's thoughts and moods, and vise versa. He didn't realize how lost in thought he was, until they were at the landing.

"Night, Dante." Heath yawned, headed for his bunk.

"Night, Chico," Dante replied, ruffling the light hair, "and thanks again."

"What's that mean?" Heath asked, eyeing his tall friend

"Chico?" The handsome teen smiled, "Uh...it's like 'little brother'"

"Yeah?" Heath grinned, liking the warm feel it gave him inside.

"You bet, only one I got," He replied, giving the younger boy a blush, "See you in the morning." .

"Good Morning, Miss Caufield," the dark-haired young man greeted her, "I'm Tom Nolan, please have a seat."

"Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Nolan," She smiled nervously, "I've been so worried about Heath."

"It's Tom," The young man disarmed, shaking her hand, "and you've nothing to fear. He's fine, as a matter of fact, I'd say he's thriving. I've cleared my schedule for this morning. How about we take a ride out and you can have a nice long visit?"

"Oh, Mr...Tom," She stood, "Thank you, you have no idea what this means to me."

"I think I do," He smiled, "It's written all over your face. He's quite a boy. He's made a terrific impression on the Brothers at Good Shepherd. I'll tell you about his first couple weeks there, as we travel."

They pulled up in front on an impressive stone and brick building. Rachel eyed the statue out front favorably. She liked the fact Heath was in a Christian environment. She knew he was a spiritual boy and would feel at home here. It also eased her mind, knowing this place would provide the comfort and solace he sought. A sandy-haired man wearing a brown robe approached them. Tom made the introductions, after helping Rachel down.

"Brother John, this is Rachel Caufield. She helped raise Heath from the time he was born."

"It's a pleasure, Miss Caufield," the priest greeted warmly, "He's a fine boy. We're all quite fond of him. He's exceptionally bright, especially in Math and History. He's around the back. I know he'll be happy to see you."

"Thank you, Brother John," She smiled, "I'm glad he's been no bother."

"Just the opposite," The friendly priest grinned, "He does his chores willingly, he's a hard worker, cheerful and polite. He loves the library and visits the chapel on his own each day. Ah, there they are."

Rachel clutched a hand to her chest when she heard the lyrical sound. It danced into her ears and skipped joyfully to her heart. She didn't realize the tears were rolling down her cheek, until the two men with her paused.

"Are you okay?" Tom asked, taking her arm.

"I couldn't be happier," She sniffed, "You have no idea how wonderful it is to hear him laugh again. That infectious giggle disappeared the day his mother died. Oh my..." She choked.

She smiled, watching Heath wrestle with another boy. He was a little taller than Heath with a head full of black curls and a devilish grin. They were rolling on a mat, while an older boy supervised. The handsome teen gave them a smile and a wave.

"The boy he's wrestling with is Patrick McKenna. He and Heath are inseparable. The older boy is Dante Devlin, who's become an older brother to Heath. They're very close." Brother John informed.

"Dante Devlin?" She grinned, eyeing the boy's fine features, "That's an interesting bloodline. He's a very handsome boy. He looks about sixteen or so?"

"Sixteen." the friar agreed, "He seems to have inherited the best of both his parents. His mother was a beautiful Mexican singer. His father was a young, rancher in the San Diego area when they met and fell in love. Dante was born a couple years after they married."

"What happened?" She inquired, almost afraid of the answer.

"When he was nine, he was Los Angeles, visiting his grandparents. There was an outbreak of smallpox in the San Diego area. Dante's mother became very ill and his father wired her parent's not to send the boy back. He nursed her himself and died about a week after she did. The boy lived with them until his grandfather's death five years ago. Brother Theodore was assigned to that district and knew the boy. He brought him north to live here. He's a fine boy, and we're so very proud of him."

Heath pinned the older boy to the ground successfully. Dante counted and declared the grinning blond the victor, holding his hand up. Rachel approached, drinking in the broad grin on the flushed-face and shining blue eyes. She smiled even wider when she heard the other boy's musical Irish accent.

"Tis a favor I'm doin' fer ye, Boy-o" the curly-head bobbed, "Ye won't be bestin' the likes of me again."

"I could take you with one hand tied behind my back, Irish," Heath bragged, jabbing the bragging boy's chest.

They sparred, giggling and carrying on, until Heath spotted Rachel. He jumped out and let out a loud whoop.

"AUNT RACHEL!" He cried, throwing himself at her, "What are you doing here? I mean...I sure do miss ya and it's great to see ya!"

She closed her eyes, savoring the wonderful feel of the boy again in her arms. She smiled down at the tanned face, brushing the damp hair off his forehead. "It's great to see you to, Heath. I've missed you so." She couldn't remember him ever looking better.

"Pardon his bad manners, Ma'am..." Patrick shoved Heath in the ribs, and Dante chuckled.

"Oh...sorry guys," Heath stammered, "This is my Aunt Rachel from Strawberry. Dante and Patrick are my two best friends."

"It's a pleasure, Ma'am," The older boy came forward and shook her hand, "Heath speaks of you often, especially your fried chicken and apple pie."

"The pleasure's all my mine, Son," She eyed the handsome boy's smile, "and thanks..." She nodded slightly towards Heath. Dante understood and returned her nod.

"Ah, tis a refreshing sight, a beautiful rose in this barren desert," Patrick crowed dramatically, "I don't know if me eyes can make the adjustment."

"Oh Man, you've been in the sun too long," Dante smacked the boy lightly on his head.

"Thank you, Patrick," Rachel took the boy's hand, suppressing a laugh. This miniature con artist would break a few hearts in his day. "It's a lovely thought, and you're a true gentlemen."

"Haven't I been tellin' ye that?" Patrick gloated at his friends.

"It's good to see you again, Heath," Tom ruffled his hair, "I have to get back. One of the priests will bring you back later this afternoon. Enjoy your visit, Rachel."

"Heath, I'll be right back," She said, turning to walk with Tom.

"Is there a problem?" He asked as they walked.

"With Heath being here?" She shook her head, "No, you were correct, he's thriving. I can't thank you enough for finding this special place for him. It's his uncle that I'm worried about."

"Matt Simmons?" Tom frowned, "Why? We haven't had any luck finding him, but..."

"Good!" She interrupted, "He's a lazy lout and drunkard. He and his wife Martha depised Leah and Heath. There were openly hostile to them in public. When he drank, he'd say awful things about her. He called Heath vile names and worse."

"Worse?" Tom asked, hitching his foot on the wagon step. "Did he physically abuse the boy?"

"Not that I could ever prove," She sighed, "Heath would never tell. He'd be too afraid of the repercussions against his mother. He's wise beyond his years that way. There would be bruises, black eyes and welts. Heath used to work after school at the Hotel they ran in town. He'd arrive home late, and make excuses. But he'd never meet my eye, when he'd talk. A schoolyard fight, slipping on the stairs, a fall down the hill and others. If he goes to live there..." She bit off her words, fearing the worst.

"Miss Caufield," Tom took her small hands and met her concerned stare, "If we find Simmons and this goes before a judge, I'll make sure you get to present your case."

"Thank you, Tom." She nodded, seeing the honestly very clearly in the young man's face. "What about his father?" She hedged, "Couldn't he claim Heath?"

"Legally, Heath has no father. Leah Thomson didn't list one on his birth certificate and didn't leave a will or cite him on any official documentation. The court will assign him to his closest blood relative." Tom gripped the reins and leaned over, "Why? Do you know who his father is?"

"Yes, his name is Thomas Barkley. He lives in Stockton."

"THE THOMAS BARKLEY?" Tom astounded, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, without a doubt. He doesn't know about Heath. Leah forbade it. She made me swear I wouldn't tell. But I feel now, I have no choice."

"Hasn't Heath ever asked?" Tom squinted.

"Not to me," Rachel offered, "Whatever Leah told him, stayed with him. He's never brought it up."

"He has the right to know, Rachel," Tom said gently, "If you're sure it's his son. From what I've read and heard, he's a very kind man and more than fair. Stockton isn't that far. Would you like to go and speak with him? I'll go with you if you feel it would help."

"Thank you, Tom," She patted his knee, "You're a good man and I appreciate your help. This is one trip I have to make myself. I'll die before I let Matt Simmons raise that boy."

"I'll be in touch," Tom advised, "Please contact me if you need anything at all."

She watched him ride away and turned to see Heath and Patrick waiting for her. Her two pint-sized escorts each took an arm.

"Tis the grand tour, ye'll be gettin'" Patrick greeted, "and fer a wee bit extra, a piece of homemade peach pie." He boasted.

"McKenna, we ain't charging my aunt for the tour!" Heath glared.

"Ye can't blame a man fer tryin'." He shrugged, earning a kiss on his blushing cheek from the guest.

A week earlier:

Nick Barkley grunted and tugged at the constriction around his neck. The tie felt like a noose and the shirt and suit jacket were smothering him. He shifted uncomfortably in the church pew, wiping his sweating face with his sleeve. Finally, the minister ended his sermon and the congregation stood to sing the recessional hymn.

Once the doors opened, he bolted past the rest of his family. He took the steps of the white church two at a time. He headed for the large tree, next to the church. The summer sky was a brilliant blue as he took off his jacket. He ripped off the tie and stuffed it in the pocket of the discarded jacket. By the time his parents and siblings arrived, the shirttail was out and the sleeves were rolled up.

"Ah, sweet relief," He sighed, laying back against the tree.

"Nick!" His mother's stern voice cut him like a knife and caused him to jump, "Please remember you're a Barkley and not a street urchin. Stand up and make yourself presentable."

"What for?" He complained, tucking the shirt in, "It's hotter than blazes out here. That train is gonna feel like a da...uh furnace," He swallowed, narrowly missing a sound cuffing.

"How about we make a deal, Nick?" Tom offered his youngest son, "You keep the jacket on through brunch and change before we get on the train."

"Reckon that'll do," Nick agreed, shaking on the agreement.

Tom Barkley clamped a hand on his boy's shoulder and led the family to the buggy. They'd ride over to Cattlemen's for a Sunday Brunch. Then they'd be departing on the two p.m. train east. This was their last family vacation. Jarrod would be headed to college and then back east to law school. They'd been planning the trip for months. The boys wanted to see the cradle of freedom. Visiting Valley Forge, Independence Hall and the other places in Philadelphia where liberty first raised her voice. Jarrod hadn't been back east since he as eight, and wanted to share the experience with Nick. It would also give them a chance to visit with Victoria's father, who lived in Philadelphia. They'd hit Cheyenne, St. Louis and New York on the way out. They planned a nice visit in Denver with Tom's father and brother and their Rocky Mountain cousins on the way back. If all went well, they'd return in late August.

Two hours later, the family boarded the Central Pacific, headed for Cheyenne, Wyoming. They were a handsome family. Tom's golden-haired good looks complimented his wife's dark beauty. Jarrod resembled Tom in many ways, but had his mother's dark hair. Nick was Jon Bradley's grandson out and out. Not only did he look like Victoria's father, but he had the same hot temper. But he had Tom's lust for achievement. From the time he could crawl, his fate was sealed. Tom smiled at his youngest. Audra was the only one to inherit his fair hair. He adored her, much to Nick's annoyance. Nick would have his own little princess one day, then he'd understand.

His two sons' were going over the itinerary. They'd planned out every stop along the way. Nick's eyes were on fire as he and Jarrod went over the material. Tom's pale eyes flicked to his youngest. She was happily playing with a group of paper dolls. He felt the tug of his wife's hand and smiled over at her. The scenery passed by in a whirl of color and contour. He leaned over and stole a lingering, sweet kiss. She smiled and rested her head on his broad shoulder. They both were looking forward to this magical time as a family. They didn't realize what changes the autumn winds would bring.

Rachel climbed down off the stagecoach and eyed the streets of Stockton. It was a growing city, a bustling mixture of a variety of businesses and citizens. People of every color, shape and denomination ambled about the streets. She watched the children playing and heard the coachman call to her. She turned and took her bag, giving him a tip for his efforts. She spotted a sign in the distance for the livery. That would be her first stop. A deep voice caused her to turn.

"Can I help you Ma'am?"

"Excuse me?" She asked, spotting the middle-aged man wearing a silver star.

"I'm Sheriff Madden," He tipped his hat, "One of the nicer responsibilities of this office is to escort pretty strangers."

"Thank you, Sheriff," She nodded, "I'm Rachel Caufield. I was hoping to rent a buggy and ride out to the Barkley ranch. Is it far?"

"No Ma'am, about a half-hour or so. But they're not home."

"Oh dear," She sighed, "Well perhaps tomorrow then."

"They've gone east for the summer, Miss Caufield. I'm afraid they won't be back until the end of August. The house is closed; the foreman is in charge. If you'd like to speak with him, I can take you out there." He paused, spotting the color drain from her face, "Are you ill, Ma'am. How about we get you out of this hot sun? Mrs. Johnson's Boarding House is just up the street."

Rachel let the kind sheriff lead her up the street to a white clapboard house with blue shutters. A stout middle-aged woman was sweeping the porch. Rachel had been prepared to battle the great Tom Barkley. Now he would be gone all summer. What if they found Matt? What if he took Heath away for good?

"Mornin' Fred,"

"Morning, Betty," He greeted, "This is Miss Caufield. She just got off the stage. She's feeling poorly."

"Come on in, dear," the hostess soothed, "I know how hot and stuffy those coaches can be."

"Miss..." Fred tapped her lightly, seeing her frozen on the porch.

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry," she blinked, "Thank you."

"You sit right here, it's a nice cool spot. I get you some lemonade."

"Thank you," Rachel managed, eyeing the immaculate pale yellow room.

"Did you travel far?" Mrs. Johnson asked, returning with the cold drink

Rachel took a good, long sip before replying, "I'm headed back to Strawberry. I was on my way from Sacramento."

"Are you friends of Victoria and Tom?" Fred asked.

"No. It was a matter of business. I was not expecting him to be away."

"Well, his lawyer, Dave Mitchell, has an office in town. Maybe you should visit him? I'll take you over, if you'd like."

Rachel thought on her options. Sipping the cool drink, she decided to wait. Heath would have enough of a time adjusting. She didn't want rumors flying around town before he got there. If things got desperate, before the Barkley's returned, she'd wire Dave Mitchell. She wanted to keep this personal, if possible, between her and the Barkleys.

"Thanks, Sheriff, but I think I'll wait and speak with Mr. Barkley when he returns. August you said?"

"Yes, Ma'am, around the twenty-third, if I am not mistaken."

"Thank you and you as well, Mrs. Johnson. I feel much better now. I guess I'll go check on the timetable at the depot."

"My pleasure Miss Caufield," The hostess nodded as the pair left.

Rachel thanked the law man when they reached the stage depot. "You've been more than kind to this weary traveler, and I thank you. The

"All in a day's work," He smiled, tipping his hat.

The summer days seem to fly by for the three adventuresome boys. The Fourth of July was an exceptionally hot day. The home's annual picnic was held by the river so the boy's could swim. Rachel came down to help celebrate, bringing a basket full of pies and cookies. She watched from a calico blanket on the bank as the boys carried on in the water. Patrick was so good for Heath, she noted. Rachel noticed how Heath wasn't as introverted as he'd been in Strawberry. He was much surer of himself. His actions and body language stated this very clearly to her.

She rose, walking toward the area where Brother Theodore was cooking steaks and chicken. Rachel smiled as Dante waved to her. Every other sentence in Heath's letters and conversations were laced with the teenager's name. Heath thought the world of Dante and was benefiting greatly from his friendship.

"Can I help?" She asked, approached the two hot cooks.

"No, Ma'am," Dante grinned, wiping his face on a towel, "Those pies and cookies you brought are more than enough. Please sit and enjoy yourself. We can manage."

"Answering for me now, Son?" Brother Theodore chuckled, wiping his face. "How about getting those rascals out of the water?" He asked, handing her two towels.

Rachel walked to the water's edge and waved to the two aquamen. She backed up they emerged, shaking themselves off like a couple of hounds. She handed them the towels and watched them plunk down, resting on the blanket.

"Boy Howdy, am I hungry!" Heath proclaimed, smelling the succulent meat.

"Yer always hungry, " Patrick crowed, "It's a wonder the rest of us get anything at all."

"I can fix that," Rachel offered, tussling the boy's dark hair, "I'll be right back."

"Ah, Boy-o, yer a lucky lad and that's a fact," He eyed the kind woman walking away, "Tis a fine woman, yer aunt. Damn those paper jockey's for takin' her away, like they done..." He growled.

"Watch you language," Heath hissed, eyeing the platters on there way over.

"Blast me language!" Patrick proclaimed angrily, "It's not a bit fair, an ye know tis the truth I'm speakin'"

"Yeah...thanks..." Heath sighed, dropping his head.

"Get yer chin up, Boy-o," Patrick ordered, "Ye can't eat a thing with it scrapin' the ground. Course, if ye changed yer mind... I'll be happy to give that steak a home."

"You try and you'll be short a few fingers," Heath clamored, shoving the boy with his arm.

"Thanks Dante," Heath said, taking the full plate.

"Thank ye, Ma'am. It's smells grand." Patrick sighed.

"You boys finish those plates, or you get no pie." Rachel warned, walking over to join the adults at a table under the large trees.

"Is she yer only kin?" Patrick muffled, his mouth full of steak, "Didn't I hear Brother Francis mention an uncle last week?"

Heath remained silent, swallowing a forkful of potato salad. He cast his eyes down, studying the colorful patches on the blanket. Dante frowned, noticing the light leave the blue eyes and recognizing the still face. He saw the blue eyes grow stormy and the face clench in anger. He shook his head at Patrick, who instantly regretted his words. The Irish boy laid a hand on the blond's wet shoulder.

"Now there I go again. Openin' me mouth too wide. Tis a free shot ye have comin'" Patrick offered, jutting out his chin, "I'll not be offerin' again, Boy-o. Ye'd be a fool not to take advantage."

Heath raised his head and furrowed his brow, scowling at his dark-haired friend. "I'd end up bustin' my hand on that hard head of yours. Then neither one of us could eat and I ain't wastin' any of this food."

Patrick sat back, grinning smugly, his mission accomplished. Dante winked at the Irish boy and the three resumed their feast. After stacking the plates to the side, Heath spoke. The other two had to lean in, to hear the quiet, somber voice.

"His name is Matt. He's my Mama's older brother. Him and his wife lived in town for awhile." Heath paused; Dante took note of the disdain in the boy's voice and face at the word 'wife', "They ran a run-down hotel in town. He'd lie around the saloon drinkin' most of the day, badmouthin' my Ma. She worked so hard..." Heath clenched his jaw and fists, "and they never helped us out, not once. Sometimes I'd take her place, scrubbing the floors and such, she was so sick..." Heath's voice faltered and Dante gripped his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, Heath," He said softly.

"I'm okay, but thanks," Heath nodded, straightening up, "I worked at the livery after school. I'd keep a check on her. Once that mouth of his started, calling her names and such," He pounded his fists in the dirt, "I hated him for doing that to her. I'd steer him outta there and back to the hotel. His wife would be at the door. She'd never call me by my real name...she had other..." Heath bit back, remembering the woman's vile tongue.

"Ye don't have to be goin' there," Patrick's soft lilt beckoned, imagining the slurs, "Might be best to leave that she-devil behind ye."

Dante and Patrick both saw the transfixed look on Heath's face. His blue eyes were vacant, locked on some horrid memory from the past. Dante suddenly realized what the pain in his young friend's eyes held. His stomach turned and his eyes burned.

"He beat you, didn't he?" Dante's voice was barely audible. He stood, vexing his taut muscles after seeing the blond head nod slightly.

"She'd watch and laugh," Heath whispered, "telling me to keep my bast...mouth shut or she'd fix my Ma but good." Heath's voice wavered.

"The filthy beast," Patrick spat, eye's blazing, "I say we find the two monsters and send them straight to hell." He eyed the sullen face carefully before continuing, "To be sure that would mean missing lunch and the horse race next week. Seein' how ye need all the practice ye can get just to catch me shadow...maybe it would be best to wait a wee bit."

Dante turned, hands on his hips and grinned, catching Patrick's wink. The Irish boy was good for Heath; he knew just how to break through his moods. Heath slowly raised his head, squinting his blue eyes suspiciously at the smug, dark-haired boy beside him.

"You couldn't catch me if you were a cold," the blond boy goaded, "That mouth of yours is the only fast thing you got, McKenna."

"I'll not have ye blackenin' me fine name, Thomson," Patrick grinned, pouncing on his friend. They wrestled a few minutes until the older boy got the stronghold, "Say Uncle and I consider not thrashin' ye..." Patrick winced, realizing his poor choice of words, "I'm sorry Heath. I didn't mean...damn..." He choked ruefully, releasing his victim.

Heath sat up and wore his best angry face. He knew the only time Patrick ever called him Heath was when he was truly contrite. He cuffed the older boy lightly on the shoulder, meeting the remorseful dark eyes.

"There you go swearing again. You're gonna get us in trouble. Ain't ya got any sense, Irish?" He cuffed the other boy and grabbed his shoulder, "I never told nobody before. I kept it all inside. Sometimes it gave me a bad stomachache, ya know. Now it don't feel so bad." He looked up at Dante who was studying him closely, "Thanks, I never had friends like you..."

"He's been in the sun too long," Patrick spoke to the oldest, while gazing at Heath, "Are ye goin' soft on me Boy-o?"

"I'll show ya soft," Heath growled, raising a fist. "What about your folks, Patrick?"

"We lived in small cottage near the Moy," He paused, "Tis a river in Mayo, where I was born. Me Da worked hard, slavin' in the fields to get a few stinkin' shillings from the landlord. Ah, what a beast he was..." Patrick's eyes grew hard, "The greedy dog took everything we had. Joey was but a wee lad of four and me Ma was expectin' again. Her time came too soon, and there wasn't time to run and get Old Widow McCready."

"She a midwife?" Dante guessed.

"She was," Patrick affirmed, "Me Da left the crops to tend to her. There was so much blood." Patrick paused, breathing deeply, "Me sister...she was a wee thing, all blue and bloody. It was the first time I ever saw me Da weep. He handed her to me. I had to clean her, wrap her for burial." Patrick stopped, gulping for air and grateful for Dante's strong hand on his back, "Me Da couldn't leave me Mother, she died in his arms. The greedy dog was waitin' fer us, when we come from the funeral. The black-hearted beast tossed us out. Me Da got a job workin' in the city, at a whiskey factory. He tried hard, but he wasn't the same after me Mother passed." Patrick's voice softened, "There was a fire in the factory. Me Da got all the lads out but couldn't...the walls fell on him." He swiped at his eyes, "I took the money he'd been savin' from under the floorboard in our flat. I brought Joey to America. Me Uncle Brian lived in Boston and I knew the address. He wasn't livin' there no more when we got there. So I won us some money and we came west, lookin' for gold."

"Won money?" Heath squinted, still reeling from Patrick's tale.

"Aye, Lad...on the docks. Dice and craps...They couldn't beat Pat McKenna," He boasted, stickin' his chest out.

"How you'd end up here?" Heath asked.

"The money got us as far as Sacramento. I told the coachmen on the train me uncle was waitin'. Ye'd be surprised how many folks feel sorry fer a couple of poor starvin' lads." Patrick made a sorrowful face, ducking at Dante swatted him. The older boy could only imagine the yarns the young con artist spun. "We were doin' fine fer awhile, then Joey got real sick. I remember seein' the priest comin' to the marketplace. They brought us here about six months ago. Brother Francis is tryin' to track down me Uncle Brian. I guess we'll hang around here a bit longer."

"You got guts, Kid," Dante didn't hide his pride, "I'd ride with you any day, McKenna."

"Yer gettin' as soft as Thomson," He grinned at the older boy, "But ye ain't so bad yerself."

They sat, studying the river and enjoying the sounds of nature. The silence seemed only to solidify the growing bond. The aroma of peach pie and a soft voice broke the serene theater.

"Are you boys ready for some pie?" Rachel asked, wondering why each was so pensive.

"Ah, Fair Maiden," Patrick's eyes lit up, "Would that be a creation of yer fine hands? I'm sure I've died and gone to heaven..."

"I'm gonna be sick..." Heath commented, rolling his eyes.

"Patrick McKenna, you could charm the skin off a snake," Rachel laughed, giving each boy a hefty slice.

August sauntered in, bringing an unrelenting heat wave. The daily chores the boys did became tedious, as they heat wore them out. Brother Theodore was careful that they didn't overdo it. The smaller boys spent most of the day indoors, where it was cooler. The Library needed an inventory, so Brother Francis had the boys take the books off all the shelves, clean them, record the titles and replace them. It was a large cool room and gave the fidgeting hands a purpose.

After supper, Heath decided to return to the Library and finish the last few shelves. The wood gleamed and the shelves glowed from the boy's efforts. A few piles of books were left, waiting to return to their homes. Heath and Patrick had worked all afternoon and Heath took great pride in the gleaming shelves. He embraced the solitude, and was concentrating so hard on his task, he didn't see the intruder.

Brother Dominic eyed the blond boy with contempt. The shoulder length hair screamed at him. The boy defied him at every turn and showed him no respect. Just this afternoon, he'd ordered the boy and the Irish mutt to clean out the stables. They refused and seemed to mock his authority. If Brother John hadn't intervened on their behalf, he'd have shown those two the meaning of the word respect. Brother Francis had these urchins spoiled. Boys needed a firm hand and discipline to keep them in line. He took note of the quiet halls. The other priests were in the mill, preparing for a large order. Sacks of wheat and flour were being loaded on wagons, for an early morning train trip. He smiled and fingered the scissors in his pocket, under the folds of his robe.

"Hey, Irish," Dante called down to the dark-haired boy by the door of the barn, "Where's your shadow?"

"Haven't seen him since dinner," Patrick hollered up to the rafters, "Why?" He questioned, spotting the older boy frown.

"He's fifteen minutes late and that's not like him. Let's have a look around in the house." He decided, sliding down the ladder.

"I'll check his room," Patrick offered, running ahead to the back stairs by the kitchen, "Ye check the second floor, maybe he's still in the library."

Neither boy wasted any time or movement. Patrick flew to the top floor, searching every room. Dante ran down the hall of the first floor, calling for his friend. He took the stairs two at a time, and was just about the turn down the second floor hall, when he heard the muffled cries. He ran towards the door of the library. The sight that met his eyes caused his blood to boil. Heath was struggling on the floor, with Brother Dominic's knee on his back. The deranged priest was cutting the struggling boy's hair.

Later, Dante wouldn't remember flying across the room. He had no recollection of the war cry that caused the robed figure to stand, frozen in fear. The blood coursing through his veins and pounded between his temples screamed for vengeance. Nobody lays a hand on Heath, nobody...that was his silent mantra. Although the priest had a good fifty pounds on the boy, gravity, youth and adrenaline gave the developing teen an advantage.

Patrick was just approaching the second floor landing when he heard the scream. He flew towards the unholy sound and stopped in the door of the library. His brain calculated quickly. He made a decision and turned away, making every step count.

"We can finish up in here, Francis," Brother John advised the older man, "You've had a long day. Why don't you head back?"

"Well, if you're sure..." The gray-haired man nodded, "I have a letter to the Bishop to finish. Good Night then."

He made his way into the large building and remembered the letter was in his room. He was halfway up the stairs, when he saw Patrick McKenna race by, headed for the library. Frowning, he quickened his pace and followed the boy's path.

"Ye get yer filthy hands offa him, or it's a new button hole ye'll be sportin', ye black-hearted devil." Patrick screamed, the fury in his voice a twin for the fire in his dark eyes.

"What's going on here?" Brother Francis shouted. His eyes took in the macabre scene before him. Blond hair was strewn about the floor. Heath was huddled behind Brother Dominic, whose eyes were wild. The senior priest spotted the scissors in his hands. Patrick was brandishing a gun, standing protectively in front on Dante. The teen was lying motionless on the floor. He saw the trickle of blood on the boy's collar and his rage intensified.

"Patrick! Put that gun down this instant!" He ordered.

"Ye move that beast away from Heath first, or so help me I'll shoot." the boy raged, his steady arm trained on the villainous clothed man.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, you thick Irish Mutt," Dominic sneered.

"Oh won't I know?" Patrick's said confidently, "Ye wouldn't be a bettin' man would ye? Yer not the first loud mouth I've shut and ye won't be the last." Patrick cocked the pistol

"DOMINIC, Move away from that boy NOW!" The older priest order, his face livid.

"You spoil them. They don't know the meaning of the word discipline. You can't..."

His words were cut short by the sound of a bullet, which sent the scissors flying out of harms way. Both priests looked at the small sharpshooter in amazement.

"Ye'll get no more warnings, ye devil, now move!" Patrick spat, "Or I move ye..."

The shot brought Brother Theodore from the kitchen. He moved in behind Dominic and forced him away from the traumatized blond boy. Heath bolted past all of them and flew out the door. Patrick placed the gun on the table and dropped to his knees. Carefully he turned Dante over and tapped the pale face.

"Dominic, go to my study and wait." Brother Francis's frosty issue went unchallenged. He sighed, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder.

"I'll not be apologizin'" The dark-eyes raged, "Not to the likes of him. Ye can't make me. I'll..."

"Calm down, Patrick." The priest soothed, "I'll make sure he's punished for his actions. He'll never hurt another child again. Where did you get that gun?"

"From the study. I saw Brother John put it inside that fat, ugly green pot on the desk." Patrick answered, his eyes never leaving Dante's face.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Brother Francis asked, dropping to the injured boy's side.

"Make 'em count." Patrick recalled, gripping his friend's hand, "That's what me Da said. I'd have to look out for me Mother when he was in the fields. That landowner was a dirty dog..."

"What happened, Patrick? How did Dante get hurt?" Brother Theodore asked, examing the boy's neck and head.

"That beast was cuttin' Heath's hair and Dante tried to stop him. He threw Dante over the table and broke it. When Dante tried to stand up, he hit him with the table leg." Patrick ired.

"My God!" the younger priest exclaimed, "He could have killed him."

"Have ye no eyes?" Patrick seethed, eyes burning, "He's daft. He's been after Heath since he got here. He's always tormentin' Dante. He's gets a funny look in his eyes. He's gone, I tell ye. Did ye not know? What's wrong with the likes of ye? Why didn't you do somethin' sooner? Before Dante..." He choked, his full eyes running over.

"You're right Patrick, we should have done something sooner. I'm sorry..."

"Yer sorry now!" Patrick's voice wavered, as he tried to bite back a sob, "Tis a day late and a shilling short ye are. I don't want yer damn apology!" Patrick's shoulders shook with rage.

The two priests exchanged a worried look and continued to assess the injured boy.

"Let's carry him down to the infirmary and send for Doctor Lynch." Brother Theodore advised.

It only took a few minutes to carefully carry the injured boy down the hall. After stripping the bloody shirt, they placed him on his side on a bed. Brother Theodore gently moved the dark hair away from the wound to examine the severity. Patrick hovered at Dante's side, his face pale and features pinched with worry. He had a death grip on the unconscious boy's hand. He watched every move the priest made. Brother Francis placed a bowl of water next to the bed. He gently attempted to clean the area around the wound. Dante cried out and buckled at the touch.

"Yer hurtin' him!" Patrick pushed the hands away, "Leave him be."

"Patrick, listen to me," Theodore pulled the boy aside, "We have to see how badly he's injured. We need some ice. Cold ice will help him feel better. I know he'd appreciate it. You can do us a big favor by going to the kitchen and having Mrs. Sanchez give you some ice in a bowl."

Patrick remained rooted and Brother Francis interceded. "You did a fine thing. You saved both of your friends. Dante needs that ice, Patrick."

Patrick scowled at both priests. Leaning over his friend, he bent close to the still youth's face. He gently rubbed the pale cheek and whispered in his ear.

"Ye better open those eyes, Dante me boy, or I'll not be forgivin' ye. Do ye hear me? Please wake up..." He faltered, squeezing the limp hand hard, "I'll be right back."

Finally, the reluctant miniature gunslinger left. Brother Theodore turned and saw the worried look on the older man's face.

"I don't think it's serious. A bad concussion. No broken bones. His back's a little bruised and he'll need some stitches. His pulse and breathing are good. I'll send John to get Dr. Lynch. Are you going to punish Patrick?"

"Patrick's a survivor and a born leader. He's the type that men will follow to Hell and back," the older priest didn't hide the pride in his voice, "That boy has lived a lifetime in his short eleven years. That courage in his heart and valor he wears so easily cannot be learned in any book. This world is already too short on heroes. I'm not going to break that boy's spirit. I'll have a good talk with him." Francis decided, "Now to find my other brave warrior and mend a broken heart. I'll tell John, you stay here."

He knew where Heath would be. He entered the barn and eyed the loft above. He climbed slowly, and as his head crowned the hay-strewn floor, he saw the raging colt. He walked slowly over to where the boy was curled up; wincing visibly at the uneven, shorn locks. He sat down next to Heath, careful to keep his distance and not touch him. He saw the flush of rage and red-rimmed eyes, glowing with a feral intensity.

Heath heard the footsteps and saw the brown-robed figure sit down. He waited a long time before breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"He didn't have no right to do that," Heath choked through a scarlet mask of fury, "It was my hair...all mine...mine...mine." He pounded the floor.

Brother Francis realized it wasn't losing his hair that upset the boy. Everything he cared for or valued had been taken from him. This was the one thing he'd held onto, clinging to it for all it's worth. He'd held on to it fiercely, wearing it like a badge of honor. It represented his pride and the mettle of what made him.

"Your hair will grow back, Son," The wise man spoke softly, "But there are two things you were born with. These priceless tools will be with you always, Heath. Nobody can ever take them away from you." He paused, feeling hopeful as the small head turn towards him. He watched the expressive blue eyes absorbing each word intently, "Faith and Will. Use them wisely, Son and they'll never fail you."

Heath sat up, drawing his knees up. He wrapped his arms around them and resting his head on the kneecaps. He thought for awhile and slowly nodded. He eyed the older man and nodded again. He stood up, and Brother Francis saw the anger dissolve. The intelligence shone clearly through the bright eyes. "I understand," He whispered, sending a silent ray of gratitude, "Thank you." He offered his small hand.

"My pleasure, Heath," He shook the hand with pride, "What Brother Dominic did to you was very wrong. He has a sickness, and I'll see to it that he never hurts another child. I'm so very sorry, Heath."

Heath sighed and shook his head, and made the slow descent down the ladder. He waited at the bottom for the priest to join him. He didn't pull away from the hand on his shoulder.

"Now let's go check on Dante, shall we?"

"How is he?" Heath asked, wearing his guilt openly. His mind flashed to the body lying on the floor.

"Brother Theodore thinks he'll be just fine. The doctor is on his way. But I know he'll be worried about you."

They entered the house and went up the stairs. The priest gave Heath a slight shove and pointed to the door of the Infirmary.

"You go wait with Patrick. I'll be in shortly." He watched until the boy disappeared and then made his way to the study.

He never said a word as he entered. He didn't look up when he sat at his desk and began to write. He could hear the other man's heavy breathing. He knew Dominic was angry. When he finished, he sealed the envelope and looked at the frocked-figure with loathing and disgust.

"You'll be leaving in the morning for Vancouver."

"VANCOUVER!"

"SILENCE! Don't you utter a single word. Would San Quentin suit you better? I can arrange it..." He teethed, looming over the shaken priest, "There's a monastery on an island several miles off the coast. They do hand written books of scripture. You'll never be near another child again. You'd do well to pray, Dominic, for God to have mercy on your soul. Get out of my sight." He issued severely, handing him the new orders.

When he returned to the infirmary, the two younger boys were sound asleep. Each was in a chair on either side of the bed. Each flung one arm protectively over the slumbering Dante. He smiled thinking of the power of their loyalty. It was a picture he'd remember for some time. He waited nearby, until the doctor came. They moved the reluctant guards to a nearby cot, so the healer could examine his patient.

"How is he?" He asked when the young doctor finished up.

"He has a concussion and some nasty bruises on his back. I don't want him out of bed for at least a week. He's likely to have dizzy spells and even blackouts. You might want to keep a basin handy, at least through tomorrow; you'll need it. His stomach is going to be very rocky. Wake him up every couple hours. Make sure he knows who he is, where he is and the like. I'll stop back in a couple of days. If he gets worse, let me know immediately."

"What should we do with our do watchdogs?" Theodore grinned, nodding to the sleeping boys.

"I guess it's best to let sleeping dogs lie," the older man assessed. "I'll stay with Dante. You can relieve me at midnight."

Two hours later while reading, a moan brought the pastor to his feet. He leaned over the bed as the dark head began to move. He lowered the lamp as the body shifted painfully. Two eyes blinked up at him, trying to focus. The slight motion was enough to get the wave started.

"Uh...oh...uh...no..."

"Easy, Son," Brother Francis soothed.

He eased Dante over the side of the bed and held the basin, while the boy vomited. He supported his shoulders during the painful dry heaving and then cleaned him up. After getting the injured youth to drink some water, he eased him back onto the pillows.

"Better?"

"A little...what stomped on my head?" Dante mumbled, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Do you know who and where you are?"

"Huh?" The croak emerged ahead of the unfocused eyes, "Brother Francis, its Dante. I'm ...I'm..." he squinted painfully around the room, "in the Infirmary. I'm not sick" He stated, attempting to sit up, "Why am I here...I'm f..."

"I know, you're fine." The priest sighed, lowering the slumbering boy back into the bed.

Heath woke up and stretched, wincing as the harsh sunlight cut into his eyes. He blinked in confusion for a moment, not realizing where he was. He squinted over and sat up, spotting Dante and Patrick staring at him.

"Morning, Chico," Dante offered weakly.

"It's high time ye were movin' them bones, Lad," Patrick crowed, "The sun's been up for a good while now. Ye'll be missin' breakfast if ye don't shake a leg and get washed up."

"Nice haircut," Dante teased, eyeing the uneven shorn locks.

"Ye look like Cochise himself scalped ye," Patrick teased, grinning at his blue-eyed friend.

Heath sat silent for a moment, recalling the awful scene. He dropped his head and sighed. Patrick and Dante exchanged a worried look. Heath opened each of his hands and stared down at them. Faith and Will, he remembered, and straightened himself out. He stood up and walked over to Dante's bed.

"Reckon it needs a trim." He agreed, giving his friends a small smile.

"Just a wee bit," Patrick chuckled, ruffling the chopped locks, "Mrs. Sanchez is pretty good. If ye look upset, she gives ye an extra muffin. Spring a tear or two and ye'll get an extra dessert at supper."

"Patrick!" Brother Francis chastised, suppressing a grin, "You wouldn't be taking advantage of that woman's kindness?"

"Me?" Patrick's eyes widened in his best innocent face.

The priest put a hand on each of the younger boy's shoulders and looked at Dante.

"I want to apologize to each of you for what happened last night." He eyed the two smaller boys. Dante remembered nothing of the incident and the priest had filled him in earlier, "What Brother Dominic did was a terrible thing. He's been transferred up north, to an Island. He'll never harm another child again."

The two younger boys remained silent, not wishing to discuss it, despite the priest's offer. "Well then, Heath, why don't you get washed and dressed. After you eat, Mrs. Sanchez can fix that hair. Then see if Brother John needs you for anything."

"Yes Sir," Heath rose and walked away, with Patrick on his heels.

"How are you, Dante?" The older man asked, spotting the greenish tinge to his complexion.

"I'm fine." The youth professed, "Well, other than an upset stomach and a bit of a headache."

"Not to mention the dizziness..."

"That too," Dante agreed, sitting up, only to meet with a firm, unyielding wall.

"Sorry, Son," The cloaked man ordered, "A week in bed, doctor's orders. The concussion is nothing to fool around with."

"But I gotta go. That new foal needs tendin' to and the vineyards..." His voice faded just ahead of his body. He slumped back onto the pillows, fast asleep.

Later that morning, Brother Francis was in the hall, when a knock on the door drew him over. He stepped back surprised when Tom Nolan stood before him. He opened the door and invited the young man inside.

"Tom, what brings you out here?"

"Business, I'm afraid."

"Okay, let's go into my office."

Tom settled into a chair across from the gray-haired man. He shifted uneasily and sighed heavily, sliding a folder across the desk. He watched the other man's eyes scan the document. The face was blank, but the eyes registered pain.

"That's it, then? They're not considering what the boy wants?"

"I'm sorry, Francis," Tom's voice fell, "I tried everything. They ruled against us. Simmons claimed to have turned over a new leaf. Claims that the 'Lord showed him the way'" Tom disgusted.

"But you don't believe him."

"Not for a minute. I consider myself a pretty good judge of people. I shook his hand and looked right in his eyes. However, despite my report, with your testimony and Rachel Caufield's, the Judge ruled in his favor." "So Heath will be leaving us?"

"Matt and Martha Simmons will be picking him up at the end of the week." Tom Nolan stated flatly, not missing the pain in the priest's voice. "They're restoring an old hotel about ten miles from town. Do you want me to tell him?"

"No, I'll prepare him." The priest winced, thinking on the past night's events.

"I filed a protest, so they know they're being watched. They'll be checked on a regular basis at unscheduled intervals. If that boy so much as has a cut finger, I'll be all over them. Also, Rachel is going to contact the boy's father."

"How does that stand legally?" Brother Francis inquired, leaning forward.

"On unsteady legs," Tom replied, "He's not named on the birth certificate, nor did Leah Thomson ever claim him as the father legally. However, he's very wealthy and Matt Simmons kind understands that better than blood. I'll be back on Friday for Heath."

"Okay Tom, thanks for all your work. I know you have Heath's best interests at heart and you're fighting for him."

After the clerk left, the priest started upstairs. A fit of giggling took him back up the hall. He paused in the doorway, watching Patrick tease Heath mercilessly as Mrs. Sanchez cut his hair. Each boy had an oversized oatmeal cookie and a glass of milk in front of him. He felt the weight on his shoulders and entered the sunny kitchen.

"Well that looks a lot better," He boomed, "Once you guys finish in the library, how about packing some sandwiches and going swimming this afternoon."

"What's the catch?" Patrick's sly gaze sat over a white-mustache.

"No catch, Mr. McKenna. Now while Mrs. Sanchez gets your lunch together, you two finish with those books. Scoot!"

"Yes Sir!" They chorused, whooping all the way down the hall.

"What's happened?" the widow's voice held a trace of fear.

"Heath's leaving us. I want him to have these last five days be memorable ones. He'll need that in the weeks ahead."

He heard Mrs. Sanchez's reciting prayer's in Spanish as he watched the two boys scamper away. Heath Thomson was as strong a boy as he'd ever encountered. But just how much could that small frame shoulder? He sighed and made his way outside, to update the other brothers.

On Thursday, Brother John took Heath and Patrick to Sacramento with him. There was a Farmer's Market on the plaza on Thursdays and Fridays. The local farmers brought fruits, vegetables, pies, meats, bread and other homemade gems to sell. The boys had a great time, touring the city, playing in the park and helped pack the wagon. Heath's grin disappeared when they pulled up out front of Good Shepherd. Brother Francis was on the front step. Heath met the priest's eyes and knew immediately there was bad news.

"How was your day?" He asked Patrick, who'd jumped down.

"It was grand, Padre," The boy enthused, "We saw the capital, raced wee boats in the pond in the park, met Tom for lunch..." He paused spotted the look Heath was giving the priest, "Is Dante alright then?"

"Dante's fine. He's sitting out back on the patio, getting some sun. John, why don't you and Patrick take the wagon around and unload it? Heath let's take a walk."

"He's here, ain't he?" Heath said quietly, refusing to budge from Patrick's side.

"Who?" Patrick asked, then his face screwed up, "Surely ye don't mean...ye didn't?"

"I'm sorry, Heath. Your Uncle Matt and his wife will be here tomorrow to take you home with them. The Judge interviewed them and got sworn testimony from some witnesses in the town they moved to. Your Aunt Rachel testified on your behalf, but he Judge ruled against her. You have to go with them, Son."

"I ain't goin' and ya can't make me..." Heath gritted, bolting for the barn.

"How could send Heath into the arms of that dog." Patrick raged, fists clenched at his sides. "He beat him...Yer supposed to protect him. My God, are ye daft?

"Patrick, listen to me," The priest moved forward, "The Judge made the decision. I gave Tom a statement requesting he be sent back with his Aunt Rachel. They ruled against us. Mr. Simmons has sword he's a changed man. His pastor offered testimony. I'm sorry, Son. I know you two are close..."

"Ye'd should be sorry, it's a damn foolish thing yer doin'" Patrick spat, "A tiger doesn't lose his stripes..."He warned, throwing off the priest's arm, "Don't be touchin' me."

Brother Francis watched the boy scamper to the barn. He never met Matt Simmons and shouldn't place judgement. He'd requested a meeting, but the Judge turned him down. He had to hope what the documents and testimony stated was true. Maybe Matt Simmons had reformed. He turned and saw another set of hostile, dark eyes scowling at him.

"Dante...I'm sorry." He managed, spotting the pain etched on the youth's face. Dante didn't say a word, his face was set in stone, but the eyes glowed like coal. Without a word, the boy walked past him towards the barn.

Patrick couldn't produce a sound; the ache in his chest was too great. He walked to the ladder and slowly made the painful trek to his best friend's side. The blond's knees were drawn up. His stormy blue eyes stared out the window over to the vineyards in the distance. Patrick dropped beside Heath and laid a hand of support on the tense shoulder.

"It was a grand ride we had, Lad," He choked, his throat constricting.

"It was fool thing to do," Heath whispered, remembering his vow, "I shouldda kept to myself. It was stupid thinkin' the three of us could be...stay...I ain't meant to be happy."

"What are ye sayin'?" Patrick's angry voice countered, "Would ye be givin' up the last three months we had? I wouldn't trade a minute of it. Yer me best mate...Do it mean nothin' to ye, Boy-o?"

Patrick's words struck him like bullets. He flinched and finally looked over at the flushed Irish face. Heath allowed his expressive blue eyes to speak for him. They spoke volumes and assured the older boy of his undying loyalty. He embraced Patrick briefly and sat back. Patrick relaxed and slumped next to him. A shadow fell across both of them. Patrick looked up and nodded to Dante. He rose and wiped his dark eyes. He gave Heath's shoulder a firm squeeze and left the two alone. A somber silence cloaked the two for quite some time. Finally, Heath spoke.

"I aim to bust out the first chance I get."

"Wouldn't blame you." Dante offered, "Maybe he has changed. Maybe..."

"He'll never change. His kind never does." Heath issued in a voice matured beyond his years.

Dante heard the dinner bell and stood. Heath was hunched over at his knees. He gripped the downcast shoulders and squeezed hard. "I'll always right here, Chico," He reached over and tapped the boy's chest from behind. "You'll never be alone. I'll be around, in the shadows...watching. I won't let him hurt you. You got my word."

He turned as Heath stood and found the boy buried in his chest. He gripped him tightly and hung on for all it was worth. He felt the younger boy's shoulders quaking and bit back his own tears. He ran his hand through the damp blond hair and swallowed the lump in his throat. Finally, Heath pulled away and headed for the ladder.

"We best get to dinner. Mrs. Sanchez don't like it when we're late. I got my eye on at least two pieces of peach pie." Heath forecast as his head disappeared down the ladder.

"I got my eye on you, Chico," Dante whispered, "I'll make this right, I promise." His vow carried on the wind.

"Hello, Heath."

Heath looked up from the side of his bed. His eyes held no expression as they lingered on Tom Nolan. He didn't move when Tom sat next to him. Not until the arm went around his shoulders. Tom winced visibly when Heath jumped up, throwing his arm off. The blue eyes flashed anger, resentment and distrust. The smoldering look burned a hole right through him.

"I'm sorry, Son, I tried. Your Aunt Rachel wanted to come today, but she's been take ill." He saw the noble eyes widen in concern, "It's not serious, just a bad summer cold. But she has a fever and it's too hot for her to be traveling. She sent this to you." He handed Heath a white envelope. He watched as Heath slid it inside a book he held.

"Tell her thanks and not to worry on me," Heath said flatly and turned away.

Tom stood and exhaled a deep breath. He couldn't blame the boy for being bitter. He wanted to wrap him in a bearhug and drive that deep-ridden pain out. But Heath was no ordinary child. He chose his words carefully.

"This isn't over yet Heath. Your Aunt Rachel and I have one more ace left to play."

Heath regarded the words and the bearer with suspicion. He gazed right into the brown eyes and saw only concern. He nodded and walked towards the window. Tom picked up the small bag and sighed.

"It's time to go, Son"

A somber pall lingered on the group huddled on the front porch. Heath squirmed in Mrs. Sanchez's grasp. He didn't understand the sobbing woman's Spanish, but read the love in her eyes. He nodded and made his way forward. He thanked the priests for all they'd done. He fingered the fine leather volume of The Three Musketeers they'd given him. He paused in front of Brother Francis.

"Thank you for the book, Sir," He acknowledged, offering his hand, "It's a fine gift and I'll treasure it always. Thanks for all you've done for me. I won't forget it."

"You're the real treasure, Heath," He smiled, gripping the small hand, "Remember, Son, Faith and Will..."

"Yes Sir, I will." Heath vowed, nodding his head.

Heath put his bag down and placed the book carefully on top of it. He stared at Patrick, a grin tugged at his mouth. He almost laughed at the sad face. It was unnatural to see his boisterous friend so somber and sullen. They'd stayed up late the night before. They spoke of their feelings, dreams, goals and so much more. He felt closer to Patrick than ever before. Somehow, and he couldn't explain the feeling, he knew they'd meet again.

"No account Irish Mutt," He teased, punching the boy's shoulder.

"Don't be pushin' yer luck, Laddie," Patrick choked, "I can take ye with one hand tied behind me back." Patrick's smile faded and his voice grew hollow, "God keep ye, Heath."

"Thanks, Pat," He nodded and turned to Dante.

He felt the awful pain slam into his chest. It nearly rocked him back on his heels. No words were needed. The strong gaze they shared said it all. He felt Dante ruffle his hair as he passed by. His uncle looked haggard. Heath flicked a fast gaze and read the weak eyes. He hadn't changed. He'd fooled them all good. His aunt narrowed her eyes in a veiled warning as Heath looked at her boldly. He didn't back down and kept staring at her. He tossed his bag in the bag and carefully set the book on top. He jumped into the wagon and looked at his friends for one last time.

"Move out of the way," Matt Simmons called to the defiant, dark-eyed boy who boldly stood in front on his wagon.

"Ye'd best be watchin' yer back, Mister..." Patrick growled, giving the driver such a stare, he paled. Even more fearsome, was the burning, hate-filled gaze of the teenage boy who gently pulled the young lion back. He met the youth's eyes briefly and didn't miss the bloodlust they contained. He urged the team forward, not wanting to linger another minute.

"This is a chance for a new start for us, Matt. I won't have you ruining it." She crowed, casting a wary eye on the boy in the back, "That bastard of your sisters is going to save us the cost of hiring help. It's a small hotel, but in a good spot."

"What makes you think he won't bolt?" Matt asked, "That kid hates us."

"Oh, now Darling," She cooed, tossing Heath a lethal stare, "You misjudged the boy. We had a long talk about his new family responsibilities. Didn't we Heath?" She met the boy's terrified gaze.

Matt saw the boy nod and return to his book. Heath hunched forward, biting back the pains gnawing at his insides. He remembered her cold-hearted delivery and the nails biting into his skin. Martha Simmons had come up to his room and cornered him. She hissed a chilling warning. If he didn't stay, toe the mark and keep his mouth shut, his two friends would have an accident. Heath sighed and closed his eyes. He folded his small hands and prayed for a miracle.

Rachel squirmed restlessly on the hard, wooden seat. She wrung her hands, and tried to quell the fierceness of her heart thumping against her ribcage. She spotted the green-shuttered hotel outside of town. She felt Tom's hand grasp hers and took a deep breath.

"You okay?"

"I will be, Tom, as soon as I see my boy..." Her voice died as she took his hand down. They approached the immaculate porch and rapped on the door.