Nick turned at the sound of the train whistle. He hugged his sister and pulled her pigtail. She'd been so forlorn all week, he'd even welcome a hissy fit. He paused in front of Rachel and Duke. The foreman and the seamstress had been married a little over two years now. They lived in the little cottage Heath restored. Rachel had truly suffered all week and Nick stood uncomfortably in front of her. Duke gripped his shoulders and merely nodded. The tall foreman had known Nick since birth and it was like losing his own son. His eyes filled and Nick shook his hand.

"You take care of yourself Boy," Duke managed, "I got you broke in just right...don't have the energy to break in another colt."

"Yes, Sir..." Nick mumbled.

Rachel's words of encouragement died in her throat. She still saw the two bodies, one dark-haired and one blond, riding past every day to school. She still heard Heath's lagging questions and Nick's grumbled replies. She still saw Nick's guiding hands, teaching Heath; and the two growing close.

"It's okay Aunt Rachel." He soothed, returning her hug. "I'll be fine. You take care of Mother, okay?"

Now came the hard part, he eyed his parents standing by the platform steps. He hurried his step as the whistle sounded again. There were about a dozen boys from the area leaving. Several sobbing mothers wrung out damp handkerchiefs and fathers stoically stood by their side. Nick embraced his father, who'd aged ten years in the last week.

Tom struggled and tried to speak, but in the end, embraced his boy. "I love you, Son."

"Yes Sir," Nick choked, throat on fire, "Me too. I'll be fine, really. Mother...don't cry."

Victoria swallowed her last tear and embraced Nick for all it was worth. It was hug that both of them would hold onto for a long time. She finally pulled away and placed both hands on his face.' "You come back to us, Nicky..."

He nodded, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't been 'Nicky' since he started school. He turned away, and took his leaden legs up onto the train. He eyed Dante following his path, embracing Aunt Rachel and his parents.

Neither said a word as the train pulled away. Both stared out at the countryside passing in a blur of color and texture. It could have been the speed of the train causing the blur, or maybe it was the moisture in their eyes. Nick fingered the chain and swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't voice his feelings, nobody understood. Heath wasn't dead...Nick reasonsed, rubbing the half-disc against his thumb. He still had a sense of him, and it scared him. Heath was lost and hurt and Nick couldn't help him. Not yet, anyway. He eyed the autumn sky and sent his pledge heavenward again.

"I'll find you, Brother..."

"Did you say something Nick?" Dante asked

"Just thinking about Heath..."

Dante let the motion of the train lull him to sleep. The same dream returned. Heath was sitting in a field, covered in blood, his face in anguish. He was calling for help...and Dante couldn't reach him. The first few times he'd had the dream, he wrote it off to grief. But it was stronger and a persistant feeling knawed at him. Maybe it wasn't just a dream.

It was a murky, dark place full of howling winds and faceless screams. There was no sense of time or space. He fought hard against the smothering tide, pushing forward with all his might. He felt as if every muscle was ripping through his skin. He screamed into the wind.

"Lettie, Go fetch Mistah Simmons. Hurry Girl, get them feets movin'."

"Yessem," The teenager nodded, lifting her skirt and heading for the bedroom door.

Hattie Moore had been sitting by the boy's side since his arrival that morning. She'd been in the kitchen when the visitor came. She heard Moses, the gray-haired butler send Nathan, one of the stable boys, to fetch the Master. By the time she moved her painful, old joints across the floor and to the window, she'd only caught of glimpse of the buckskinned stranger and the unconscious boy. Ten minutes later, the Master sent for her. He was in one of the guest rooms, recently refurbished. The stranger was gone and the boy was sleeping. The Master told Hattie to stay by the boy's side. He said the boy was his grandson and that he'd been ill. Leah's boy...after all these years. Hattie had come to Briarcrest over fifty years ago. She'd been with Miss Mary all that time, until her death a few months before. She'd raised Miss Leah, poor thing.

"Damn fool..." She mumbled, thinking on the Master's actions all those years ago. Poor Miss Mary's heart broke when he'd driven Miss Leah away.

The sun was long gone and the night creatures sang outside. Hattie poured a mug of cool water and waited. The first thing she did after the Master left was check the boy for injuries. Other than his eyes, he seemed fine. But the black spots in his eyes were funny. Hattie knew enough about tendin' to the sick to know something wasn't right. The boy had been drugged. But she kept her mouth shut. She saw the eyes blink and finally open. Her heart caught in her mouth.

"Miss Leah's eyes...sure enough." Her wrinkled hand went to her throat. She saw his confusion as those emotive eyes wandered around the large room. They finally settled on her face. She smiled and raised his head up, helping him get a drink.

"You gonna be fine, Mister Heath." She eased, "Old Hattie's tendin' to ya."

Heath looked around the strange room. It was large and fancy, like a hotel. The cream colored walls were accented in sage green. Pictures of a fox hunt hung on two of the walls. The large cherrywood pieces of furniture were glistening. The chocolate brown eyes that smiled down at him through wrinkled skin, eased his fright. She was a slight built woman, dressed in an immaculate calico dress and white apron. He took the water offered, and drank the whole mug.

"Thanks Ma'am." He gasped, "Where...am...I?"

"You's at Briarcrest. Your granddaddy be right up. How you feelin'?"

"Okay..." Heath sat up and swayed, "Well, Maybe a little fuzzy."

"You hungry boy?"

"Yes Ma'am, I reckon I could eat."

"God Bless You, Son." She rubbed an aging hand across the pale cheek. "You is Miss Leah's boy...I'd known them eyes anywhere."

"Ya knew Mama?" Heath's voice rose and his eyes grew wide.

"I was here the night she was born and raised her up every day after, until she left. She was a fine young woman, your Mama. She sure enough was."

"I miss her..." Heath slumped, thinking of his mother, "I reckon she's happy now, she ain't sick no more, she's an angel."

"She was always an angel, that one. Sweeter chil' never been born." Hattie smiled, "We gonna get along just fine, you and me."

"Well young man, I'm glad you're finally awake."

Heath's eyes remained on Hattie's face as the male voice boomed from the doorway. He saw the cloud pass over the old woman's face and made a mental note. He trusted Hattie and gripped her hand under the blanket. She gave him a reassuring squeeze and winked at him.

"The boy's hungry, Suh," She said, "I was fixin' on gettin' him some supper."

"That's fine, Hattie," Lucius agreed, flinching as Leah's eyes seemed to look right through him. "I'll visit with Heath until you return."

Heath didn't want to be alone with this white haired stranger. He felt Hattie's hand on his face. Her smile and nod eased him somewhat. He remained silent until she'd gone. The tall, well dressed man was dressed in fancy clothes. He moved across the room and sat on the chair as Heath swung his legs around and sat up. He was in a clean nightshirt and felt a little lightheaded.

"How do feel?"

"Fine."

"Good, if you're up to it, we'll take a tour of the plantation tomorrow. I'm Lucius Simmons, you're grandfather."

Heath flinched at the name 'Simmons' and felt an anger coil inside. But before he could study it, it was gone. He walked over to the water pitcher and poured himself another mug of the cool liquid. He felt weak, but nothing hurt. He couldn't remember much.

"You've been very ill. I only learned of your mother's death a short while ago."

"Yes Sir. I can't remember too much. I can't really remember anything." Heath frowned, finding that more than a little unsettling.

"Stop frowning, Boy, that's all behind you." The older man ordered, "You're at Briarcrest now. This is your home and it's high time you learned about your inheritance."

"Inheritance?" Heath walked over and stood before the old man, meeting his eyes.

"Briarcrest, Son, it belongs to you. Your grandmother left it to you when she died." He oozed, watching the intelligence shine through Leah's eyes. This boy was smart and he'd have to proceed carefully.

"How come you never sent for us?" Heath said coldly, glaring in anger, "Ya had this fancy house and all this land. We had nothing."

"I didn't know where your mother was. She ran off seventeen years ago. I only found out about her death after yet another private detective was hired. I'm sorry." He offered and watched the impassive face. This boy was no fool and he wasn't sure if his words found their mark. Hattie and Kip entered and Lucius stood, leaning on his cane. He gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze.

"You eat your dinner and get a good night's rest. Breakfast is at dawn and we have a long day tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir." Heath shivered as the old man left, his instincts told him to be wary.

"You get back in that bed before you catch your death," Hattie commanded.

"Stop fussin'" Heath complained, "I ain't hardy no baby. I'm eatin' at the table."

"You sassin' me boy?" She said, crinkling her eyes.

"Maybe." Heath grinned, warming to the hand that ruffled his hair. "Depends on iffen y'all got a wooden spoon hid in yer apron."

Hattie laughed and hugged the boy, leading him to the table.

"This is Kip," She said of the dark-skinned boy about his age, wearing a white shirt, blue vest and gray knickers. Heath saw the buckled shoes and frowned.

"Is it Sunday?" Heath asked

"No, it's Thursday. Why?" Hattie replied.

"Why's he wearin' his church clothes?"

Hattie chuckled and pointed to the platter or roasted rabbit in wine sauce with potatoes , baby onions and carrots. A large piece of apple cobbler and a jug of cider completed the meal.

"That's your Granddaddy's doin'" She nodded. "Kip his manservant and he'll be tendin' to y'all as well."

"Huh?" Heath muffled through a mouthful of food.

"Helpin' you dress and seein' to your needs." She affirmed, watched Heath's brow's furrow.

"Been dressin' myself since I was out of nappies," Heath tossed, "Nothing personal, Kip, but I don't need nobody helpin' me dress."

"Look, don't you be startin' no trouble with yer Granddaddy." Hattie ordered. "It'll go bad for Kip iffen you make trouble."

Heath didn't know much about slaves. He'd read some and recalled Hannah's stories. He liked Hattie and didn't want to worry her. He saw the dark-skinned boy standing uneasily across the room. He remembered Hannah's stories of whippings and mistreatment. He took a gulp of cider and met the boy's eyes.

"Reckon we can be friends, iffen that's okay." He offered his hand and saw the other boy hesitate, eyeing Hattie.

"What's wrong with you boy," She scolded, smacking Kip's head playfully. "Go on and shake Mister Heath's hand."

"I ain't hardly old enough to be a 'Mister'" Heath complained, "It's just Heath."

"Not while your Granddaddy's around." Hattie warned, "Y'all will have to learn to play the game by his rules."

Heath studied the wise old face and nodded, "Okay, but when it just us, it's Heath. This sure is good. I ain't never had pie so good." Heath said, placing the empty dishes back on the tray. "Y'all got the pump outside. I best get to cleanin' these 'afore they get hard."

"Cleanin' them?" Kip finally spoke, his eyes wide, "Y'all can't clean stuff. You's the Master."

"Ya dirty it, ya clean it; Ya break it, ya fix it; Ya don't take no handouts, ya earn yer keep. Them's the rules... and ya thank God every day fer what ye got."

Hattie wrapped the boy in a bearhug and her eyes grew full.

"Yaw Mama sure did a fine job raisin' you up, Boy. Them's mighty fine rules. But thing's is different now." She took the handsome face in both weathered brown hands and smiled. "You and Hattie are gonna be real good friends, sure enough."

Heath felt safe in the tiny woman's embrace and relaxed a bit. He saw a pretty young girl about sixteen or so, in the hall, peeking shyly at him. Her skin was much lighter than Hattie's and Kip's, like coffee with lots of cream. Her features were fine and her large eyes were jade green. She was the prettiest girl Heath ever saw.

"Lettie, y'all remember yer place," Hattie snapped, watching the teenage girl appraising Heath.

"Yessem" the girl answered, moving forward. "If y'all is done, I'll take the tray down."

"Huh?" Heath squeaked, his face flushed as he was all too aware of her closeness. "Oh...yeah, thanks." His throat tightened as she leaned over to get the tray and brushed against him.

Hattie narrowed her eyes and watched the young girl play a foolish game. "Letitia! I'm warnin' ya girl..."

"Yeseem" she dropped her eyes at the handsome blue-eyed boy and took the tray away, swaying her hips slowly before disappearing.

Hattie looked at the twin pained expressions only a young male can produce. Kip and Heath stared at the empty door, hoping the vision would return.

"I'm gonna have to talk to that girl." Hattie mumbled, moving in front of the star-struck teens. "Y'all get yer tongues back in your mouth. Your leavin' a puddle on the floor. Like two hounds...the both of y'all."

"Sorry, Hattie," Heath choked, "I never seen anythin' like her. She's sure is pretty."

"Don't y'all go tellin' her that. That chil's head don't fit through the door now." She shook her head and sighed. "I'll be back in the morning. Kip will get y'all anythin' ya need."

"Thanks, Hattie," Heath said, moving towards the bed, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight Boy," She rubbed his neck and shuffled out of the room.

Kip undressed and turned the lights out. He slipped into the cot on the far side of the room. Several minutes went by before Heath spoke.

"Is it hot in here, Kip?" Heath asked, wondering why he felt so warm. "I can't breathe."

"That'll pass." Kip advised, tossing his blanket down. "It's Lettie what does it. Makes me feel like I'm jumpin' out of my skin."

The two boys talked for awhile before sleep claimed them. Heath slept soundly for a change, his slumber uninterrupted by dreams the dreams of a ranch and a dark-haired boy with fire in his eyes. The dreams that had plagued him were gone.

It was a glorius day for walk. Under normal circumstances the tall, handsome man would have had time to admire the cherry blossom trees that lined road. The sky was so blue it nearly hurt to look at. But these were not normal circumstances and despite the beautiful morning sun which stroked his face, all he saw were clouds. The clouds that had mired his vision since this dreadful war that divided the greatest nation on Earth began.

The short walk from his residence to the Core of Army Intelligence took him only a few minutes. His brisk pace left his secretary in his wake.

"Major Brewster...General Davidson wants an answer on the time table for the Vicksburg campaign." The flustered clerk quickened his step as the ginger-haired officer entered the building. "Major...I need."

"Yes, Stephen, I heard you." He replied, irritated as he entered his office.

It was a good sized room on a wing in the building that faced the Potomac. He paused only long enough to take a mug of coffee from one of the clerks seated at a long table. The Major's desk stood at the far end of the busy room. His two chief aides had smaller desks nearby. He glanced over and saw them both working on the transcriptions of the latest Union Campaign.

"Good Morning, Jarrod." He paused at the young man's desk. A brilliant student who'd aced college in three years and breezed through law school, Jarrod Barkley had become a staple in the Western Campaign Office. He had an uncanny ability to strategize. This was only one of the many talents the Army Officer noticed over the months he'd taught Jarrod at Officer's training school. He frowned at Jarrod's unblinking gaze. "You with us, Son?"

"Uh...Yes, Sir. Sorry." Jarrod blinked and handed the Major an outline he'd drawn up the night before. "My projection for the Vicksburg Campaign. With any luck, she'll fall before the fourth of July.

The Major scanned the contents of the multiple page outline and clapped the young man's shoulders. "Excellent. I'm afraid you have me spoiled, Captain Barkley." He smiled and went to his desk.

Jarrod returned the smile, but it was an artificial symbol. He didn't want to smile today. He didn't want to be in this beehive. He didn't want to be the Major's 'brilliant protegee', not today. He pulled the yellow telegraph note from his desk. His blazing blue eyes were beacons of emotion as he remembered that fateful day. He glanced at river and let his mind wander back several weeks, to an anticipated joyful reunion that had been anything but.

SEVERAL WEEKS EARLIER, VIRGINIA

Jarrod scanned the crowded train station and eyed the bright-eyed boys. Scores of them in all shapes and sizes, all too eager to join the battle. He glanced at his watch and realized he'd have to hurry. He'd never spot Dante and Nick in this mass of humanity. He saw a large crate nearby and got an idea. He took an enlistment poster off the wall and jogged over to where an artist from the Washington Post was sketching the newly enlisted soldiers.

"Can I borrow your charcoal?" He asked of the writing implement. Gaining the nod, he made a large 'B' with a line through it. "Thanks," he tossed, as he left the confused artist.

He stood on the crate, placing him several feet above the massive crowd. He held the poster high and waited.

"Are you sure he got the message?" Nick grimaced, scratching the coarse white shirt, under his navy blue Union coat.

"Yeah, he got it. He's here somewhere," Dante replied, eyeing the crowd. His eyes riveted to a sign and he pulled at Nick, "There he is..." Nick saw the Barkley symbol and followed Dante silently.

"Jarrod!"

The new lawyer's head jerked as his name was called. "Dante! Nick!" He jumped down and ran to greet them. He stopped dead in his tracks, as Dante embraced him. As glad as he was to see the younger man, his eyes were riveted to Nick's face. His younger brother's normally animated features were dulled in pain. His complexion was pale and his eyes...his eyes were void of all emotion. Jarrod's heart stopped. That look could only mean one thing.

"Oh God..." He turned to Dante and saw him flinch, "Was it Father?" He sought, seeking out who had died. Dante shook his head and his mouth opened. "Mother..." Jarrod croaked, clutching both of Dante's shoulders. Once again the painful negative nod was produced. "But...who..." Jarrod stammered.

"I'm sorry, Jarrod." Dante whispered, his eyes full. "It's Heath..."

"NO!" Jarrod shook his head and pushed Dante away. "Heath? He can't be...Dante he's not..."

"He's gone. A fierce storm in March, the river carried him away. We didn't find him, just his boot and pieces of his shirt."

Jarrod dropped to his knees and swallowed hard. His arms wrapped around his chest, as if to stem the tide of pain inside. Heath...his guileless golden boy...Heath who's eyes and smile could light up a room. Taken from them, no stolen from the bosom of the family he'd only begun to know.

"Why?" He raised his wet eyes heavenward. He felt Dante's hand on his shoulder and let the young man pull him up. As much as this unfathomable pain ripped through him, he couldn't imagine what his parents must have felt. Then there was Nick. He turned to grip his brother, now understanding the stone face. Nick pushed him away and scowled.

"He's not dead..." Nick said in a low growl. He eyed Dante. "We're pulling out in ten minutes. Our orders got changed." He allowed Jarrod's hand to remain on his shoulder and met the large blue eyes.

"Ten minutes...I wanted to say so much." Jarrod sighed. "Keep your head up, Nick."

"That's what I'm here for." Dante said, as Nick nodded to Jarrod and turned away.

"How's long he been like that?" Jarrod asked, watching Nick carefully.

"Since the day after..." Dante sighed. "When it does hit him. It's gonna be hard. He's still in denial. Your father had dozens of men searching day and night. The storm was devastating. Several people drowned, farms were destroyed. He took it hard, Jarrod. I've never seen him so desolate, he's unconsolable. Then Nick and me shoved off less than a week later. I can't imagine where he got the strength." Dante saw the Corporal signaling and embraced Jarrod. "Watch yourself so you don't get a bad blister up there in Washington, okay Counsler?" Dante said thickly.

Jarrod wanted to reply, to say something profound and moving. But his chest was too full. He gripped the other man and his voice was cracking. "Take care of him, Dante," he paused drilling the determined eyes, "and take care of yourself too."

"Yeah..." Dante breathed, and shook the lawyer's hand.

Jarrod watched until the last of the recruits pulled away, headed for the bloody terrian south. He didn't hear the noise of the departure, the newspaper boys hawking their wares, or the vendors selling hot sausages. The only voice he heard was a blond boy's. That wonderful, infectious giggle seemed painful now. The image burned in his mind of that winning smile and those damn, endless blue eyes.

"Jarrod...Jarrod did you hear me?" a voice broke his spell.

"Huh...Yes, Sir." He replied, staring at the red circle on his calender. One he'd drawn two months prior.

"Red letter day," The Major mused, noting Jarrod's pensive mood and the day circled. "Something notable occured on this day?"

"Yes, Sir." Jarrod met his eyes, "My brother Heath was born."

May 15, 1863, Tennessee

A figure huddled against the cold, damp gusting wind. The clouds swirling angrily above threatened to spill rain. He bent over his work, moving his hand in precise, careful strokes.

"Entry, May 15, 8 p.m...He's sleeping or rather taking a brief respite from this carousel of carnage. We buried several more warriors tonight. There was no preacher to read over them, or weeping widows. Young men, taken too soon, torn apart by lead balls sent asunder by their own brothers. It chills me...to the bone. I look at them without seeing. They are nameless, faceless fodder stretched out across the battlefield. The bullets sometimes seem cowardly. It's the face to face combat, with bayonet's that lances my soul. Then it's done, the bodies are left behind, in a nameless field with no floral wreaths to pay homage. We move on, trudging southward to yet another crimson river. He's sleeping and I'm watching over him. Rest easy, Chico, he's safe. Happy Birthday, Heath Barkley. God I miss you..."

Dante closed the leather journal and wrapped it in the protective cloth before slipping back underneath the navy coat. The first angry pelts of rain fell and he glanced at Nick. He pulled Nick's poncho over his face, and Nick moved. So he reached in to pull the hood to protect the dark-haired Barkley.

"You come near me again and I'll break that wrist." Nick growled, opening one eye. He saw the bright white teeth flash, the only illumination in the dreary night. "You wanna turn it down a bit," He snapped, "You're giving me a headache."

Dante slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out an item wrapped in linen. He handed it to Nick. He knew this had been an especially painful day for the aching youth.

"What's this?" Nick asked, having the gift thrust at him.

"I think...it's..." Dante sighed and scratched his head. "I found it the night Heath...Well, it's the last thing he was working on. I think he'd want you to have it. I've been saving it for the right moment."

Nick fingered the tiny chess piece and felt an unfamiliar smile trying to break free. Heath had been so proud of the chess set he'd been carving for Dante. Somewhere in the top of Nick's closet at home, the rest of the set was completed. He'd saved the knights for last, they were his favorite. He eyed Dante carefully, wondering if he knew. He met the dark eyes and smiled, unable to voice his gratitude. He was still studying the fine craftsmanship, when the soft voice slipped over him. The tender tone took his breath away.

"I was lost and alone, in a storm of doubt and pain You came with the sun and sheltered me from the rain With Eagle's wings you strengthened me A kindred spirit that set me free For in your soul resides the best of me"

"That's beautiful..." Nick choked, moved to tears at the epitaph for his lost blond brother.

"Thanks...But he can't hear it." Dante emoted, tears rolling down his cheeks.

There it was. Nick felt the pain as if a bullet hit him. He gazed at the courageous man by his side and stood in awe of his strength. From the first physical blows he's withstood by that dark river, through these last weeks of emotional torture, he'd never wavered. But here, on this bitter day, when their brother should have turned fourteen, in the midst of cannons and the stench of decay, Dante Devlin broke. Nick winced at the crack in Dante's voice and saw the tremor in his hands. He gripped the downcast shoulder and willed the eyes to meet his own.

"No, But I did." Nick gritted, letting a solitary tear run a crooked trail down his muddy cheek.

Dante felt a blow so powerful it rocked him. There in the midst of the mountains of Tennessee with the teasing taunts of death surrounding them, he felt Nick Barkley's soul. No matter what lie ahead, he'd have this moment, and it would be enough.

"Devlin, Barkley, you're up." A voice boomed through the downpour.

"Come on Chico," Dante choked, wiping his eyes and hauling Nick to his feet, "We're on point."

They trudged the perimeter and noddd to the soldiers they were relieving. "Hard to believe they ain't kin." the shivering private said to his partner.

"Who's says they ain't." The wiser sergeant replied, eyeing the pair who were inseparable. "I got me some brothers, but I never had that." He spoke in quiet awe of the bond.

May 15, ten minutes to Midnight, Stockton, CA

"It's nearly midnight." Victoria said, entering the study. "Come to bed."

"Not yet." Tom replied, eyeing his watch. "Not for ten more minutes."

He'd been gone nearly all day. She only saw him briefly before he'd shut himself in the study. She slipped onto the sofa next to him and rested against his shoulder. His hand rubbed her arm and she relaxed. She eyed the beautiful rifle that was lying on the coffee table.

"That's a real beauty." She noted, "Is that where you went today?"

"I went to where I feel him strongest." Tom replied. "I took Paladin for a ride and ended up by the river, by that tree they loved. I swear I felt him..." He paused, picking up the rifle. "I ordered it two months ago, custom made from St. Louis. It's one of a kind."

She took the wonderour object from him and saw the small brass plate on the stock. 'Heath Barkley May 15, 1863'. "He would have done it proud." She pledged, her voice full.

"I ache for him..." Tom's voice broke.

"I know..." She felt the strong arm wrap around her.

They sat like that for some time. He finally rose and placed the rifle in the cabinet, on the top rack. It stood out like a diamond among rocks.

"Why?" She asked, knowing how it affected him.

"So I remember," He said, holding his hand out as she rose. "...not to forget."

Lucius Simmons eyed his blond teenage grandson with a serpent's eye. The fifteen-year old was quietly studying two horses the elder man was considering to purchase. One was a large red mare; a beauty with a temper to match. The other was a jet black stallion with a starburst of white on his nose. Lucius considered himself to be a fine judge of horseflesh. He'd started breeding at Briarcrest over twenty years ago and it now yielded as much income as the sugar, hemp, cotton and tobacco crops. Especially now with the war enduring and the Yankee's blockade's preventing him from selling his crops. Briarcrest had a good name in the horse buying world and he was now selling his equine's all the way to California.

Heath had turned out to be quite an asset. He'd been with them over a year now and Lucius discovered soon after his arrival that the boy had an eye for horseflesh. He had an uncanny ability to select the very prime. He'd seen more than one peddler try to con the young landowner, only to leave empty handed. He studied the curious look on the Texan breeder as Heath silently made his observations.

"We'll take the mare," Heath stared at the large man who was wiping the sweat from his face. "Two hundred dollars, not a penny more."

"Now see here," The startled man objected, turning to Lucius, "Y'all gonna let this boy do yer talkin'. That stallion is as fine a horse as y'all will come across. I didn't come all this way to negotiate with the likes of him."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Simmons said cooly, "Two hundred for the mare. Take it or leave it."

The huffy Southerner complained soundly all the way into the house. Simmons followed, amazed at the boy's ability. The horse was worth twice that amount. He nodded to Heath, who was already leading the fine mare to the stable. He had no feelings for the boy, but respected his talent. Especially since it put money in the safe. Heath had been reluctant to make a will and it had taken the old man nearly eight months to get him to agree. Now with Briarcrest would be secure in his grasp, should an accident befall the lad. He smiled evilly and got the paperwork out for the horse.

"She sure is a beauty, Heath." Kip nodded. He and the blond had become good friends and Heath was one of the few white people he trusted.

"Yeah...she's one in a million."

"Whatcha gonna name 'er?"

"Maybe Blaze since she's red like a fire...I have to think on it some." Heath decided.

"Sure is hot today..." Kip's large brown eyes invited.

Heath smiled as he handed the horse over to one of the groomsmen in the large stable. Kip was ogling to get down to the river, knowing Lettie would be doing the wash. Sometimes she stripped down to her petticoats and cooled off. The two teens had been caught more than once peeking.

"I ain't recovered from Hattie's spoon yet." Heath shook his head refering the old woman's warning when she'd caught them the week before. "You go ahead."

Heath wandered out to the large yard and eyed the expanse of land. He like it here fine. He'd discovered his grandfather was one of the few landowners who treated his slaves so well. He asked the old man about it and was a little hurt by his response. The naive boy had thought the older man was being humane, but it turned out his solo interest was profits. A well treated slave will work better. The better the work, the more crops and the higher yield at the market. He knew his grandfather didn't approve of his friendships among the slaves. They'd seen first hand how hard the boy worked and how he respected Hattie, who they all treasured.

He took a walk over to one of the large oak trees that scored the driveway. He flopped down, pulling at the white collar of his shirt. Despite the friends he'd made in his year here, and his tolerance of his grandfather, he felt an emptiness inside. A deep yearning for something just beyond the horizon. Every once in a while he'd have a dream about a house with white columns and a laughing man with golden hair who looked like him. He knew it was a dream...but it seemed so real. He'd wake up with an ache in his chest and tears of longing in his eyes. The distinct rapport of gunfire brought him out of his reverie. He ran to the house and saw his father and the Texan in the hall. Heath grabbed the rifle from the rack on the wall of the gunroom and a handful of cartridges.

"Where do you think you're going?" Simmons demanded.

"Them shots came from the river. Kip's down there."

Heath didn't wait for a reply, he took off. He was about a quarter mile away when he saw them. A large group of Confederate soldiers milling around the banks. He put his eye to the scope of the expensive rifle and got a better look. Several of the gray-frocked soldiers had surrounded Lettie. The terrified girl's eyes were wide with fear.

"Damn Reb animals..." Heath cursed, his eyes enraged as they began to manhandle her. His rage only increased as she slapped at the half dozen arms that pawed at her. He dropped the cartridges in and took aim, just as Lettie's dress was ripped to the waist. Two soldiers forced her to the ground. One knelt behind her, holding her arms above her head. The other was kneeling between her legs, ripping her undergarments. He aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. The would be rapist fell over dead. Two more shots took out the closest soldiers. Lettie ran for the bushes, with several soldiers following. Heath's carefully aimed shots took down two more before he saw a horse moving quickly towards the melee.

"Where'd that shot come from?" the Captain demanded.

"Dunno, Sir." a private replied, stemming the blood flow from his comrade's arm. "Over yonder, a piece. I seen a flash."

"A scope...a sniper..." He scanned the area.

Heath sensed a presense and wheeled, nearly giving Kip a heart attack. The older boy dropped down beside his friend. His heart was racing.

"They got Lettie...I wanted to stop 'em but they's too many..."

"I know." Heath returned to his scope. "I took care of 'em. She's okay."

"That was you?" Kip hissed, 'You gonna get us in trouble for sure. You cain't go 'round shootin' Rebs. They'll hang ya."

"They'd have to catch me first." Heath predicted, "Damn it..." He swore seeing Lettie once again struggling in the arms of an irate soldier who was openly groping her. She was thrashing so, that he couldn't get a clear shot off. He kept his eye trained as the leering soldiers encouraged their comrade. The officer turned, not amused at the goings on and that's when Heath made his shot.

"What the hell?" The Captain dropped off his horse as his hat sailed from his head. "Find that sniper...GO!"

"Ain't ya comin'?" Kip asked, rising to his haunches.

"No, you get back to the house and warn everybody. I'm gonna get Lettie."

"Y'all is crazy. They's dozens of soldiers down there. How you fixin' on gettin' by 'em?"

"Get going Kip." He maintained, his eyes on the action.

He watched the Captain pull Lettie in front of him and hold a knife to her. Before Heath could act, he heard the scream as the knife sliced across her chest. Not enough to do damage, only a threat. He saw the officer staring at him, or at least where he thought the gunman to be hiding. Heath watched the knife rise to Lettie's throat and he stood up, tossing the rifle away. Hands seized him and roughly dragged him towards the river.

"You shoot my men, Boy?" The Captain demanded, kicking the gasping captive.

Heath wiped the blood from his mouth and threw off the soldier's grasp. "Didn't shoot no men... shot a pack of dogs." He snarled, taking off his shirt and covering up Lettie's nakedness. The sobbing girl dropped her head and fumbled with the buttons. The Captain picked up his hat and fingered the hole through it.

"Shame you missed..." he teased.

"I didn't miss..." Heath leveled. "I shot what I was aimin' for."

"What kind of a fool do you take me for, Boy?" He gripped Heath's neck. "You tryin' to tell me that you shot a hole dead center from a quarter mile away?" He asked, hearing the laughter of his men.

"I don't need to tell you nothin'" Heath shot back.

"Gimme that gun." The Captain ordered, and took his damaged hat. He handed the hat to a private and pulled Lettie from Heath.

"Take her over across that bridge and let her hold the hat in her teeth. We'll see who's lyin'...Go on now."

Heath loaded the rifle and waited. He took a deep breath and aimed. If wouldn't have been a bad shot if Lettie wasn't shaking so badly. He pulled the trigger and the hat sailed free.

"Damn...that kid can shoot." He heard someone utter. He felt the gun pulled away and he was prodded forward.

"You belong to that house up yonder? You Pa around?"

"I live there. Ain't go a Pa. My grandpa lives there."

"Good enough. He can sign for you."

"Sign what?" Heath scowled as he marched along in the June sun.

"Sign your orders. You've just become my sharpshooter,Son."

It didn't take long for the word to spread. Lettie made it well known what Heath had done. Moses and Hattie heard the heated discussion in the house and related the information. Lucius would sign the boy over or the Rebels would burn them out. Moses grumbled, having known Simmons for over thirty years. He stomach turned at the glint in the old man's eye. He was nearly euphoric.

"It ain't right." Kip complained.

"Right or wrong don't matter none," Moses advised, his stomach turning at Simmon's smile. "That devil will get his due on when he gets called home. He's sending that boy to his death. He's a fine boy, Master Heath. Sure will miss him."

Dawn broke and Heath climbed out of his bed for the last time. He reluctantly put on the gray uniform and felt the bile rising. He cursed and threw the chamberpot across the room.

"Dammit!"

"You ain't left out yet, Boy" Hattie crossed, "Don't you cuss like that in my house."

"Yes Ma'am." Heath slumped, fighting the tears as the old woman hugged him. "You take care of Kip for me. I'll be back, Hattie. You got my word."

"I knows you will boy." She choked, her wrinkled hands brushing the fair hair. "Y'all need a haircut." She teased. "You keep yer head down. Don't you go collectin' any holes..."

Heath sighed and made his way downstairs. The staff all said goodbye. Lettie gave him a sad smile and he blushed, remembering her visit the night before. She'd offered herself but Heath turned her away, accepting her kiss instead. A real kiss...one he'd remember for quite some time. His grandfather said the right words and made the right gestures. Heath still flinched at his touch. He didn't like the man...not after all this time. The driveway never seemed so long as it did that morning.

"Where we headed?" He asked a boy who was his age and looked scared to death.

"Tennessee. I ain't never been there." The red head replied.

"Me neither..." Heath answered, eyeing his home one last time.

Louisa County, VA

June 11, 1864 started out like any other day. The intense heat and stifling humidity only added to the discomfort of the Union troops marching along . To draw off the Confederate calvary and open the door for a general movement to the James River, Major General Philip Sheridan was leading a large scale raid into Louisa County, threatening to cut the Virginia Central Railroad. Nick and Dante were among the many troops under Sheridan who came together to battle with Major Wade Hampton and his Confederate troops at Trevilian Station. Sheridan's plan was to form a wedge, creating confusion among the Rebel troops. But by the dawn of the twelth, the tide turned. Hampton and his troops drew a line across the railroad and held the Yankees at bay. Nick stared grimly at the Rebel units that were turning them back. Assault after assault all morning had been an exercise in futility. He dug in behind a tree and took aim, wondering when Sheridan would retreat. It was obvious to the newly promoted Lt. Barkley that they'd lost the battle. He conveyed his thoughts to Major Peterson, his C.O. and took a swig from his canteen. He darted back to the the cluster of trees, where Dante was hunched over firing. He saw the dark head come up as he approached and bellowed, shoving the sweat-soaked mop.

"Get your head down!" He growled, landing on his stomach. The two spent the better part of the morning firing and watching their comrades fall.

"We gotta fall back Nick." Dante shouted, watching the other nod. Nick crouched and turned, picking up his rifle. The Reb's were so close he could smell them. Dante saw the pair Reb's appear through a thicket and watched the gun come up.

"No!" He screamed, launching himself at Nick and hurling his knife. The startled Reb's eyes opened for a minute, as his lifeforce ran out. His partner never hesitated. He fired.

Nick wheeled and fired, taking down the threat. "Come on, there right on our backs." He called out and paused, his heart frozen. "Dante...Dante..." He dropped down to look at Dante's wide eyed stare. That's when he saw the blood spreading through Dante's fingers across his chest.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" He asked the dazed youth, sitting against the tree. He quickly tore the Reb's shirt off and shoved it hard against the angry wound. Dante fell over and Nick picked him up, cradling him against his chest. Dante's head rested under his chin and Nick pushed with all his might against the wound. Dante's weak cry sliced right through him. A bloody hand reached out, and Nick grabbed for it with his free one.

"You...okay...Nick?" He faltered, not able to see the terrified face.

"No, I'm not okay!" Nick screamed in anger, "You bleedin' all over my damn pants!"

"Don't fit...fit..you...any...any...way..." Dante gasped. "Hurts...God...hurts..." He moaned, then his eyes grew wide again. "Nick...there?...Go...no time...Go..."

"The hell I will." Nick growled, throwing the limp arm around his neck. "We came together. We go together." Nick grunted pulling Dante a few yards to take cover behind a rocky outcrop. "I'm fi..fi..fine.. Go.."

"Shut up, Devlin." Nick growled, his sticky hands roughly creating a crude bandage. "If you weren't already shot, I'd put one in ya. You're a mess. You don't follow orders. You don't keep your head down. You use you fool self to stop bullets. Now you're gonna stay still and behave. You understand that?" He eyed the pale face, writhing in pain and his blood turned to ice. The confident demeanor and gutsy, gung-ho attitude that had earned him his promotions, were threatening to leave along with his breakfast.

"Bossy...sorry-assed...cow...cow...cowb..."

"You tryin' to call me a cowboy?" Nick teased, knowing Dante knew he hated that.

"You..aim...aim...to do..something...'bout...bout..it." Dante gasped, gripping Nick's hand for all its' worth.

"Would you shut up, already?" Nick pleaded, seeing the life drain away before him. The dark eyes were dull and clouded with pain. The features now slack and the skin cold. "That's an order..." He choked, unable to breathe. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't lose Dante. He felt such a pain in his chest, he almost checked to see if he'd been shot. The soft voice floated up and totally disarmed him.

"I'm sorry Nick..." Dante offered painfully, reaching a bloody hand up to stroke the anguished youth's face. "...want you to know...how much...I...I...you mean to..."

Nick felt the tremor in the grip and heard the urgency in the weak voice. Dante's eyes were riddled with deep emotion. "Yeah...I know Chico," Nick choked, pulling Dante against him and feeling the painful gasps for air. "Me too..." He croaked and then froze as the raspy breathing stopped. "NO!!!"

The earth seemed to tremble in the wake of Nick Barkley's heart-rending call to arms. The gray clouds grew denser as if to ignore his unearthly plea. He clutched Dante against his breast; one hand ran through the still figure's dark locks. A kaleidoscope of images swirled in his head. There was the sixteen-year old boy who he met during Heath's first turbulent days at the ranch. The thousands of days after, how the initial admiration for the gallant young man had grown into a deep and unfathomable bond. He sucked in a reluctant breath, warding off the icy shards of glass that were ripping his insides apart. He felt a boiling, eruptive rage brewing and threw his angry eyes heavenward.

"You can't have him too!" He screamed, his hazel eyes livid and liquid, "I won't allow it!"

Once again Fate smiled favorably upon the tender scene and the clouds parted.She smiled and nodded her head sending a single, brilliant ray of sun shattered the otherwise dark day and basked the two brothers in warmth. A weak, sputtering cough emerged, partially obscured by the vise-like grip that bound Dante's head to Nick's chest. Nick shuddered and his eyes widened in shock. He looked down to see two slits appear in the pale face. One bloody hand clawed at his throat.

"He can't breathe..." Nick whispered, "Spit it out!" He growled, resting Dante against his left arm and opening the feeble man's mouth. "Dammit...Come on Boy...Get rid of it!" He got two fingers to the back of the slack -soldier's throat, when he convulsed again. Nick turned him as a wad of blood and muck landed on his shirt. Dante took several wheezing breaths, but they sounded wonderful to the teary-eyed Lieutenant. He cradled the trembling body and took a deep, cleansing breath. Once again, the hazel eyes lifted to the heavens, finding that single ray of hope.

"I owe ya...." He choked, nodding and swiping his tears. He felt the weak tug on his sleeve and looked down, welcoming the feel of the raspy breath against his neck. He saw the two eyes peel open halfway.

"...'kay...Chi..co?"

"Hell No, I ain't okay." Nick bellowed, brushing the dark hair from the shocked youth's face, "You spit up all over me."

"...sor...ry..."

"I'm not," Nick said softly.

Nick was in awe of the power that coursed through him. At this moment in time, holding this man's life in his hands, he felt invincible. He kept his emotive gaze fixed on Dante's dark pools of hope. He drank in the silent message full of trust and faith. He sent a message of his own, emphasized by a broad smile. It was a powerful moment neither would forget.

"Let go of him, Son."

"I don't think he can hear you, Sir."

"Barkley, let the stretcher-bearers have him.... Barkley...LIEUTENANT, THAT'S AN ORDER!" Captain Ellison shook the shocked figure's shoulders.

He'd heard the unearthly scream over the din of the battle. He grabbed two stretcher-bearers and took off towards the stricken soldier's altar. He saw Nick Barkley's head rise and followed the single burst of sun as it showered the two figures. He got close enough to witness Dante Devlin's return to the world of the living. Adam Ellison wasn't a religious man...not until that moment, when he felt sure he witnessed a miracle. Now he knelt by Nick's side and tried to relinquish the iron grip he held on his wounded brother.

"Huh..." Nick blinked and saw his C.O's concerned face inches from his own. "He took one in the back...for me..." Nick managed, his voice suddenly small. "It went right through."

"We're setting up a field hospital a few miles north of here. We'll take him there."

Nick held firm, not ready to give up his hold and lose that feeling. He shot a steely glare at the medic's.

"...don't...kill...the...messenger..." Dante pleaded, but Nick didn't budge. "I gotta...go... Cowboy..."

Nick made the mistake of looking down without changing his mask. Dante's emotive eyes grew wide at the horrid face of guilt that stared down at him. He shook his head and his pale lips moved.

"Not your fault...don't..."

"The hell it isn't..." Nick's jaw was grim and he eased the bloody patriot onto the stretcher. He once again bore twin pools of fire into the medics.

"I brought him back..." He said tersely..."You keep him that way." Nick drilled,finally looking away from the fearful faces at the weak chuckle from below. He grasped Dante's hand as the eyes slid shut. He bent low, near Dante's ear. "You fight like hell...you're a Barkley." He issued, his gut clenching as Dante's immobile form moved away.

Heath was a quick learner and adapted easily into his new role. He had to, if he wanted to survive. That's what this trek became to him...a battle for survival. Shoot only to defend yourself...don't look at their eyes...don't look at their eyes...became his mantra. He repeated as he trudged through the marshes, rivers and woods towards Tennessee.

It didn't take long before his skill as a sharpshooter became evident. The Captain took him aside one day and introduced him to a Major Farnsworth. It had been decided to form several elite squads of snipers. These skilled individuals would be used to carry out selected missions, where their talents could be most beneficial. 'Farnsworth's Raiders' soon became legendary; the Union brass christened them 'The Dark Angels' for their ability to appear, carry out their mission and disappear at will. They're were six squads of four men. Heath was the youngest and the most deadly. A cursed gift that would lead him down a dark path.

He was grouped with three other snipers, the oldest and the team leader, was a crusty Texan named Billy Curtis. The first mission sent them deep into enemy territory to take out the Major and his three officers of a Union force closing ranks. Heath nearly made it through without firing his weapon. Despite his new mantle, he stood firm under his convictions. Only shoot to save your life. Don't look in their eyes. The other three formed a triangle on the rocky slopes above the band of blue headed toward the river. Heath was in the fallback position. The hit went down as planned and the enlisted men scattered, upon seeing their commanders fall. Heath was waiting at the planned intersection, for the others, when four soldiers burst through, to his rear.

"Don't look at their eyes..." His brain murmured over and over, as his custom made Winchester silenced the quartet. He blinked when the shooting stopped, dropped his rifle and threw up. He kept heaving dry until Billy Curtis grabbed him. He recognized the saucer-like eyes that were glazed.

"First kill..." He shook his head, easing the boy to his feet.

"Sorry..." Heath mumbled, ashamed.

"Don't be..." The C.O. drilled, "It's when you stop throwin up that you got somethin' to worry about."

They made camp about five miles away, in a dark quarry. They took out a crude map and eyed their next mission. After a meager meal of hardtack, salt pork and coffee they bedded down for the night. Heath eyed the full moon and pulled out the chain that hung around his neck. He held it up to the silver disc in the sky and felt his strength renewed. He didn't understand why he was compelled to take this action any more than he understood the strange markings on the half-circle. He kissed the disc and slipped it back over his heart, a befitting place for his most treasured possession.

The Army of the Potomac, under its medical director Jonathan Letterman, developed the Letterman Ambulance Plan. In this system the ambulances of a division moved together, under a mounted line sergeant, with two stretcher-bearers and one driver per ambulance, to collect the wounded from the field, bring them to the dressing stations, and then take them to the field hospital.

Dante's first stop had been at a 'dressing station' where his wound was evaluated and initial treatment was begun. A surgeon examined the wound, with special attention to staunching or diminishing bleeding. After removing foreign bodies, he packed the wound with lint and bandaged it. He was then transferred to the field hospital, in this case, a large farm. It was nearly midnight when Nick made his way into the field hospital. He staggered backwards as the gruesome four-foot high wall of limbs met his horrified eyes. He made it to the trenches, six feet deep and on either side of the yard, just in time to lose his supper. He rinsed his mouth and his wobbly legs carried him back towards the farmhouse. It was an eerie scene, as there lying in hay, were dozens of wounded men awaiting surgery. The walls of their makeshift waiting area was the morbid pile of amputated limbs.

He made his way inside and watched in awe as the team of surgeons working by lantern light, cutting, sawing and making repairs. He knew from experience that some of these doctors would be on their feet for several days, without pause. The surgeons tried to ignore both the slightly wounded and the mortally wounded in the interest of saving as many lives as possible. Since over two-thirds of the wounds were to the extremities, due to firing from behind trees, that meant taking a limb in order to save a life. There was no time to deliberate and try to save an arm or leg.

He quickly made his way out of the surgical area to a bank of cots. He eyed the rows of bandaged bodies and winced. He managed to move forward and spotted Dante across the room. He shortened the length of space and found a medic nearby.

"Excuse me, My name is Lieutenant Barkley and I'm here about my..."

"Yes, one minute." The weary healer replied, injecting a writhing young man with morphine. Nick swallowed painfully, watching the tortured man inquiring about his legs. He screamed in pain, and Nick couldn't tear his eyes away from the flat sheets below the boy's thighs.

"Ghost pains..." The doctor, said, "I'm sorry...you were asking about..."

"Dante..." Nick motioned to the pale figure.

"The wound was cleaned out and packed with carbolic acid laced packing. He's lost a lot of blood and he's very weak. He'll be taken by ambulance to the river and sent North."

"To Washington? My other...our other brother works up there in the Intelligence office." Nick hoped. "I'd like to go with him. He shouldn't be alone."

"You'll need your C.O. to sign off on that. You'll need at least thirty-six hours to get there, have a short visit and take the return boat back. You better hurry, it's leaving before dawn."

"Isn't transferring him now a little risky..." Nick wondered outloud, "I mean, he's so weak..."

"We need the beds, Son." The graying physician replied, checking Dante's wound. "He's got a fever coming on and he'll need that hospital on the Potomac. You'd better get that pass if you're gonna make that trip."

"Yeah..." Nick said distractedly, suddenly aware of the scores of dying men moaning around him. "Thanks." He bent over his fallen brother and picked up the limp hand. "You hang in there, Buddy, I'm right here." His spirits lifted a little when Dante's head turned, seeking the voice. "That's it..." Nick choked, stroking Dante's head. "You keep fightin'"

Nick made his way back outside and began his two-hour trek back to the camp. He was sure Major Smith would give him a pass. He heard him talking to Sheridan and knew they would be lying over for a couple days until their new orders came. He shifted his pack, now housing Dante's possessions as well. He paused at a clearing and took a long swig of water. He took out some crackers, brushed off the weevils that were skittering across the surface and began to eat. He eyed the full moon and tossed away the nasty meal. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the chain. He held the half-disc up and covered one half of the silver moon. He felt the familiar warmth fill him and his mind flashed to his beloved blond brother. Wary of the time, he replaced his chain and quickened his pace.

Nick kept his hand firmly in Dante's, needing to feel him and hoping Dante somehow knew he was there. Dante's fever was beginning to set in, scoring his pale cheeks with scarlet slashes. His dark hair was plastered to his face. His chest rose and fell, issuing weak, raspy breaths. Nick was tired, not having slept in nearly two days. He threw his free foreman across Dante and rested his aching head. That's how Jarrod found them, when he reached the Army Hospital. He pulled up a chair and sat next to the sleeping pair. He gently eased Dante's hand from Nick and sat down.

The message had only been delivered an hour ago. Jarrod was barely in the office when the clerk caught him. He left word and took off, grabbing the first taxi he saw. He saw a bowl of water and a linen towel nearby and rinsed it out. He gently wiped Dante's face and was rewarded by two eyes peeling open. He grinned at Dante's unfocused and confused stare.

"Welcome back," He moved closer, as the blinking eyes continued to puzzle. "It's Jarrod. You're in a hospital in Washington. Nick is here, too."

"No...Nick...okay?" the croak came, and the eyes darted around aimlessly.

"Nick's fine. He's just tired. Here, drink some of this." Jarrod offered the medical tea, induced with fever fighters. He'd spoken to the physician who had examined Dante and the news wasn't hopeful. In his weakened condition, it was unlikely he'd be strong enough to combat the fever that would be setting in. He saw Dante fumbling, seeking Nick. He smiled as the roaming hand found Nick's face and brushed against it. Nick's eyes shot open and he sat up groggily. He nodded to Jarrod and welcomed the neck massage. He saw the blinking eyes moving around and leaned over.

"Hey, I'm over here..." He growled, until the face righted itself and a smile formed. "It's about damn time."

"Thought...I heard...Jar..rod..."

"You did." Jarrod moved to the other side of the bed and took the limp hand, gripping it hard.

"Papercuts..." He asked, giving Jarrod a soft smile. "...m'tired..." he mumbled.

"No sleeping until you finish this," Jarrod ordered, "Nick, hold his head up."

Between the two, they got the wounded man to finish a full cup and a half of the spiked tea. Dante slipped off to sleep and Nick sank into the chair.

"Come on," Jarrod pulled him up, "My place is ten minutes away and full of pancakes, sausage, eggs and bacon."

"Not hungry..." Nick frowned, pacing by the bed.

"It wasn't a question." Jarrod drilled, "You're going to eat until you groan. It might be a long time before you get another meal like this. You need it. We'll be back in an hour. Catherine can look after him until then."

"Catherine who?" Nick rubbed his weary eyes.

"Catherine Whittaker, his nurse." Jarrod replied, waving to the pretty brunette with large blue eyes. "This is my brother Nick."

"Pleased to meet you," She nodded. "I'm sorry about Dante. Your brother and the doctor filled me in. I won't leave his side. You better eat something or you'll end up in the next bed."

"Yeah...okay." Nick agreed, allowing Jarrod to lead him away.

It wasn't until the second full plate of food was gone and the third cup of coffee down that Nick finally spoke of the incident. It was after the hot bath, while Nick and Jarrod were on their way back. Jarrod heard every word of the painful testimony. Nick was wearing the guilt like an armor. He thought of several cliches he could use, but it would be a waste of breath. Nick wasn' t one to adhere to vocals. He was a man of action.

They spent the day at Dante's side as he slipped deeper into the jaws of the deadly fever. Midnight came and went and he seemed to get weaker. In his delirium, he called out for Tom and Heath. Every time the bright eyes opened and spoke in tender tones to their lost brother, it lanced both of them in the heart.

Amidst his delirium, Dante had some moments of clarity. It was during one of these when he begged Nick.

"...not your fault...promise me...you understand...not your fault..." Dante beseeched, his eyes full of emotion.

"No, I can't. It is my fault." Nick said angrily, "Do you hear me. It's all my fault you got shot."

"Please Nick...I need you...to promise...want your word...please...please..." His hands fumbled as Nick pulled away.

"No. I won't promise, not now, not ever." Nick spat, walking away.

Jarrod stood in shock, his blue eyes turning angry. He glanced from the muscles rippling through Nick's back and to Dante's heartbreaking look of agony.

"Nick...don't go...Nick...don't go...please..." Dante begged, tears running down his cheeks.

Jarrod's heart was ripping wide open. He shakily wiped Dante's face and offered a little hope.

"I'll talk to him. You get some rest." Jarrod promised. He waited until the dark eyes slid shut and then left the room. He eyed the large hallway and saw Catherine approaching. She joined him by the door.

"He's outside and he's in trouble." She pained, "I've never seen someone in such pain. Go on. I'll watch Dante."

By the time Jarrod reached Nick he was livid. He spun him around, his blue eyes beaming anger. He clenched his fists, trying to quell the urge to hit Nick on that arrogant jaw.

"What the hell were you thinking? My God Nick, he could be dying. For once couldn't you swallow that damn Barkley pride and give him what he's asking for?"

"NO!" Nick growled, shoving Jarrod hard, "NEVER!"

"Why?" Jarrod screamed, "For the love of God Nick, how can you be so heartless?"

Jarrod found himself backed up against the brick wall. The strong forearm pressed against his throat, cutting off his air. The eyes were feral and the voice livid. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HIS LIFE MEANS TO ME?"

"Why?" Jarrod croaked over the muscled arm.

"Because that's the only thing keeping him alive." Nick issued sternly, dropping Jarrod.

Jarrod winced and rubbed his throat as Nick stumbled a few yards away to a clump of trees. He fell to his knees, wrapping both arms around his waist. He rocked back and forth, his face etched in agony. Jarrod witnessed the scene and went completely numb. How could he have been so blind? Nick was right. If he gave in to Dante and rescinded his guilt, Dante would let go. As long as Nick cloaked himself in a blanket of guilt, Dante would fight. He'd fight with all he had...to take Nick's pain away.

Jarrod walked slowly across to where his younger brother knelt under the dim glow of the street lamp. The raw anguish written on Nick's pale face was the depths of which the lawyer had never encountered. As he stared at the open wound on Nick's soul, he was unable to comprehend the strength his brother had. He'd said those words and heard Dante's plea...and he'd walked away. It was without question, the bravest thing Jarrod Thomas Barkley had ever seen. He grappled with a flux of emotions and wondered how to take the horrific pain away that wracked through Nick. He did the only thing a brother could...he dropped to his knees and embraced him.

It was there that it happened, after over fifteen months. Nick Barkley finally let go and let himself grieve. His body convulsed as the tears fell freely...for one brother already lost and one close to death. Jarrod held on send his support silently.

"I can't lose him too, Jarrod." Nick whispered painfully, "God help me, I can't..."

"Then we won't" Jarrod said gripping Nick's face.

Nick nodded and climbed to his feet. "That damn boat's pulling out in a couple hours. What am I going to do without him, Jarrod?" He said wiping his face on his sleeve and accepting the small flask Jarrod offered. After a liberal swig, he handed the silver flask back.

"It's okay to be scared, Nick. It proves you're human like the rest of us."

"I ain't scared of dyin'" Nick tossed back, "It's being alone out there. " Nick rubbed the back of his neck, "He's always been beside him, he anticipates my moves, Hell he can finish my thoughts before I say 'em." Nick paused, eyeing Jarrod carefully "Did you think he knows? I mean I wanted to tell him lots of times but..."

"...knows that you love him?" Jarrod said gently and saw the dark head bob, "He knows alright and he loves you too Nick."

"I can't be sure...

"I can...it's written in every line of his journal. Between every beautiful piece and prose."

"You read it?" Nick wheeled eyes fiery. "You didn't have the right. That's his personal thoughts. How could you?"

"Maybe I was wrong," Jarrod held the door open, "But I'm not sorry. It's quite possibly the finest thing I've ever read. You need to read it Nick. Especially now, before you leave. I think it will not only answer your questions, but give you a piece of him to take back, that strength that you talked about." He said, squeezing Nick's downcast shoulder.

Dante was asleep when they got there. Catherine had bathed him and changed his dressing. Jarrod waited until she left and opened the leather journal to specific page. Nick paled when he realized it as the last entry. He handed it to Nick and caught the hazel eyes.

"I wept Nick..." He hushed, "It absolutely moved me..."

Nick cast a glance at the stilled figure in the bed and then to the page before him. He bowed his head and read the verse so beautifully written out loud.

"An armor forged of Faith and Will Protects the valiant heart Weary limbs and a bloodied soul endure While fallen comrades with unseeing eyes For a greater glory, silently depart." For several moments neither spoke of the words Dante forged of Nick. Nick sighed deeply and sank into the chair. Jarrod bathed Dante's fevered face and chest while Nick read. Jarrod saw Nick's face change several times and heard the intake of air. He saw the hands move to swipe the moist eyes. Finally, Nick looked up and closed the book. He held it to his chest for a moment over his heart and then his hands, trembling slightly, handed it back to Jarrod.

"He can paint pictures with words..." Nick marveled. "Something that fine shouldn't be lost. You keep it safe. They need to know...they all need to know...how he saw and captured that." He saw Jarrod nod and bent over the bed. Time was slipping away, and he had to leave. He gripped the limp hand and issued his farewell.

"Listen up, Devlin" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. 'Hey, I'm talking to you...how 'bout you do me the consideration of looking at me?" He shouted and saw the pale face furrow. Jarrod smiled at Nick's persuasive powers and left he two to have their moment.

"...quit shoutin'...not deaf..." the rasp came and Nick was rewarded by two slits looking at him.

"I gotta pull out now. I got my orders." Nick brushed Dante's dark hair off his forehead and studied the face. It was a picture that he'd call up before every battle. Dante's spirit would endure. "You fight like hell, Boy...you promised."

"...tryin' Nick...'s'hard..." he slurred. His fevered eyes intensified and pleaded again. "Don't go...not until ...you say..."

"No, I won't." Nick spat. "It's all my fault you're laying there. I gotta go, Chico." He choked, "I want you to know...you're my brother and I...you...Aw, hell..." He swore and scowled, but got a weak laugh and smile from the patient. Dante's hand came up and tapped Nick's chest.

"I love you too...broth...brother." He whispered and fell back to sleep.

Heath shivered as the frosty night air settled around him. He was temporarily assigned with a ragged group of survivors. Major Jedidiah Caine had grouped the worn bunch of soldiers, comprised from the remnants of several divisions slain in previous weeks. Billy hadn't returned yet from his meeting up north. He had a suspicion they'd be moving into Virginia and figured he'd be leaving this group by morning. They'd marched seven hours through the mud and rain, with no rations. The last of the coffee and sugar had been dispensed at midday. The young blond recruit was used to the knawing hunger pains. They had become a part of him. He'd seen and done things he'd never thought possible since he'd put on the gray. It was hard to remember being young or innocent. He gazed at the starless sky and hugged his rifle. Some nights he felt like he oldest fifteen-year old in America.

Heath considered the Confederate soldier as he stood vigil over the shy moon. Although he walked under the 'Stars and Bars' he did not consider himself a 'Son of the South'. The wretchedness of the infantrymen and the hardships they'd endured left him with a strong feeling of respect. They marched through mud and mire, wounded, starving, desperate and somewhere deep inside hopeless. An excercise in futility. That's what this campaign of Jefferson Davis's was. Heath knew the end was coming. With the supply routes cut off, via rail and water, they're was not much left to keep the troops healthy in body and spirit.

Heath shifted and eyed the glum faces in the camp around him. The fortitude and steadfast devotion of the Confederate soldier stood out in the moonlight. How patiently he trudged along those muddy roads, carrying musket and knapsack, cold and wet and hungry day after day--without murmuring, without ever a thought of giving the thing up, without regretting his act in leaving home and exiling himself for the Confederate cause. He felt a pang of guilt, having no feeling whatsoever for 'the cause' as they did. He hear them making that pledge as they lay dying, just before calling out for the mothers. For him it was a job, a daily battle for survival. He allowed himself to doze for a bit, it was easier when you were weak from hunger.

His face twitched in sleep as the white columned house appeared again. It was the same dream that had plagued him for years. He was riding on a majestic black stallion and approaching a white columned house. He slid from the horse, his heart singing with joy as he ran to the door. The apprehension of what lie on the other side overwhelmed him as he gripped the knob. He felt invincible, the power coarsing through him was born out of what beyond that door.

"Thomson...Thomson...we're headin' out."

It ended as it always did, just as his hand turned the knob. He felt the same heavy weight of depression settle inside. He picked up his rifle and slung his pack on his back.

"Where we headed, Billy?"

"Viriginia, Shenandoah Valley, just north of Cedar Creek. We got us a big fish to fry." "Yeah?" Heath gritted, eyeing the night sky. "Who?"

"Sheridan. Step it up...we got a long way to go."

"You should have a jacket on, you'll catch a chill."

His lips turned up a bit and the pain lessened at the sound of her voice. He felt the familiar touch of the small hands as they slid into his.

"Kind of late for a walk."

"It wasn't my intention to be out strolling in the moonlight."

"Sometimes Uncle Tom isn't all that wise." He grinned and saw her smile. "If I had a bride as pretty as you, I'd be strolling every night."

"You have a way with words, Dante Devlin," She hugged him as he slid off the wall. "It's been quite some time since I've been a bride."

"Nah...You'll always be his bride, it's in your eyes, every time you look at him." He found himself the receptor of a kiss on the cheek. "I told you he wasn't that smart. See what he's missing." He chuckled.

"Speaking of moonlight and strolling...How's Catherine?" The long sigh and smile that split his face gave her an answer. "Oh the magic of mist and moonlight." She mused, remembering how it felt to be that young and in love.

"When I'm with her," He said softly, wrapping an arm around the Barkley matriarch. "It's like I'm hugging the sun. When she's gone...I ache for her." He said of the beautiful nineteen-year old.

Victoria smiled and brushed the stray lock of dark hair from his eyes. She remembered the thin, pale wounded soldier whose fevered state had left him near death. She and Tom had met the hospital train in Denver, expecting to take Dante home. But an infection, previously undetected, had left him near death. Catherine Whittaker was the raven-haired nurse who'd accompanied Dante from Washington.

She never left his side, before the surgery in Denver to remove the abcess in his abdomen and afterwards through the many weeks it took for him to recover. She was a wonderful nurse and her lively spirit and terrific sense of humor had done as much for the injured young man as the medicine had. It took close to two months for Dante to regain his strength and she'd been there every step of the way. Encouraging him, guiding him, and berating him when he gave up. The deep friendship came first, and it didn't take long to blossom into love.

"San Francisco is hardy the other side of the world. You know how important training the new nurses is for Catherine. Just think of the wondeful reunion you two will have on Saturday, when she returns." She paused, and eyed the pain in his eyes. "But that's not all that's troubling you. Nick again?" She saw the head nod and drop. "Honey, we've been over that." She stood in front of the tall young man and gripped both shoulders. "Nick did what was necessary to save your life. You beating yourself up over it now won't change a thing."

"But I never told him...He left and I..."

"Enough." She said, putting her hand on his mouth. "Those beautiful words you wrote not only told him how you felt but gave him the courage to carry on. Now, how about escorting this bride home, soldier."

"Yes, Ma'am..." He saluted.

"Have you thought of a name yet." She asked of the winery Dante would be running. Tom had watched the dream of that sixteen year old boy who'd arrived so many years ago, blossom into reality. Dante's knowledge of soil, grapes, pressing, fermenting and all the intricate measures needed to produce quality wine had grown by leaps and bounds. The winery was now complete, along with the fine home behind it. One Victoria felt wouldn't be empty for long.

They reached the house and entered, just as Tom came down the steps.

"She's a little old for you Son," He joked, "and it takes a strong hand to control that will." "Really?" Victoria's eyebrow arched as she swatted her husband. "You'll pay for that remark."

"Ouch..." He winced. "Brandy?"

"I'll have one." Victoria nodded, and took a seat by the fireplace.

"Dante?"

"Thanks Uncle Tom." He accepted a glass of the amber liquid and swirled it.

Tom observed the young man he loved like his own as he stood by the mantle. The weight had finally returned and the lean form was as it should be. He remembered all too well the days they sweated and prayed for his life. He still saw those dark eyes lost in fever, screaming for Nick, begging him to come back. He sighed and thought of his brave son, far away on a battle field. Jarrod's latest letter suggested that an end might be on the horizon. The juggernaut of the supplies to the south was crippling them. With any luck and a lot of hope, maybe by summer his sons would be home. Inevitably when he thought of Nick and Jarrod, he thought of Heath. It still hurt, and he still heard that boyish giggle and saw that blond blur flying into his arms.

"Tom...Tom..."

"Huh..." He turned to his wife's voice.

"Dante has a toast."

"Oh?" He poured some Brandy and crossed the room to join them.

"I've been thinking on a name for the vineyard." He said quietly. "There's a Latin word 'laurus' that mean triumph. Since I've been here, the love that forged this great ranch has been fortified by triumph. Despite the pain, the losses and the war, your strength and courage has given me more than I could every repay. So, if it's okay with you. I'd like to name to be 'Chateau Laurus' in your honor."

"It's a fine name." Victoria clinked her glass.

"...and it's my honor to toast the owner." Tom praised, "Someone who's taught me what the word courage means. To Chateau Laurus..."

The trio of glasses clinked and the fire crackled. Tom and Dante went up to bed and left Victoria in the chair by the fire. She sighed and studied the flames, and eyed the calico horse in her hands.

"Where is he tonight, Charlie?" She asked the stuffed horse of his former master.

"Yes Sir," Nick saluted the Major approaching.

"Fall in with Dobbins and Gilbert."

"Sir?" Nick queried, eyeing the guards outside the tent.

"I want you on this detail. It's crucial that Gen. Sheridan reach Cedar Creek."

"Yes Sir." Nick saluted and exited.

Heath felt the comfort of the rifle against his cheek. He was high on a rocky slope overlooking a river road just north of Cedar Creek. The gunfire and cannon blasts echoed to the south, where thousands of young man were fighting and dying. Billy and the others were posted down lower. His ears pricked up as he sensed the contingent drawing near. He peered through the scope and saw the group. There were about a half dozen soldiers on foot and two on horseback. He recognized Sheridan by Billy's description and by the uniform markings. He kept his scope trained on the group. He was fallback. His belly tightened and he waited, hoping he wouldn't have to shoot.

Nick dove for cover at the first shot. "Gilbert, get the General out of here. Head back to the turnoff and cross over the river. GO!" He ordered, skirting the road and drawing fire for their escape. He raised his gun and fired two rounds into the bushes and saw a Reb fall out. The firefall continued until Nick realized he was the only one left from the escort detail. He saw two Reb's dead and stood. He turned to head back, when he saw the glint of a scope. He realized too late his mistake. He forgot about the high man. He dove and grunted as the bullet hit him in the leg. He hit his head on the rocks he was headed for. He felt a white hot pain in his leg and writhed on the ground, trying to stem the blood flow and rip he belt off. His hazel eyes peeked at the slope above and noticed the scope disappeared.

"Aw hell," he grunted, his sticky fingers fumbling with the bullets.

Heath saw he bluebelly drop and ran to the two bodies of his teammates. He checked both for a pulse, but found none. He eyed the terrain for Billy and became aware that the Yankee he shot had moved. He gripped his knife and squinted ahead as darkness began to fall. The full moon gave him a good view. He snuck up on the unsuspecting soldier as he was trying to reload.

"Ugh!" Nick grunted and felt a body slam into him. He was thrown on his back and saw the blade approaching fast. He heard his painful expulsions of desperate air and heard the loud heart beating against his chest. Everything turned to slow motion. The glint of the blade inches from his neck...he felt his strength tapping out and thought of his parents and family. Just as the blade was touching his throat, it was then that time stopped. His heart beating increased, nearly deafening in tone. His eyes widened in stunned shock as the half circled disc that danced in front on his eyes, twisting and turning. His vocal cords froze up as his incredulous gaze tore north. The face he'd dreamed about...the bearer of the pain that he'd carried for nearly three years was hovering above him. Those damn blues eyes were now vacant pools of steel. The hands that he'd lovingly taught to shoot, ride and rope with were now seconds away from killing him. Reality exploded and slammed back into him. He breathed again and open his lips.

"HEATH!"

Heath's grip slipped and he broke his own rule. He actually looked into the eyes of the man he was about to kill. Hazel eyes in a face locked in anguish. His brows furrowed in confusion at the lone tear that ran haphazardly down the Yankee's cheek. He shook his head to clear it and pressed the knife closer.

"No, Heath...For God's sake don't...it' me... it's Nick...I'm your..." Nick's voice choked off as he watched his brother's eyes cloud and the knife drop. He felt Heath's hand around his throat.

Heath was about to slit the bluebellies throat when he saw it. It sent a jolt through him that shocked him to the bone. He went numb, all senses evaporated and his vision clouded. He saw the disc strewn across the soldier's throat. His hands were trembling so bad, he couldn't pick it up. He was straddling the wounded Yankee and leaned over, bringing the other disc up and placing it against his own. The two halves formed and he cried out in pain as the viscious blow slammed into him. Every memory burned away came rocking back, exploding in a colorful cresendo. The house, his parents, Paladin, Audra, Dante, Jarrod and...

"...your brother...Heath?" Nick whispered,his strength ebbing badly. He waved his hand in front of the dazed face, which was twisted in agony. It was then their eyes met. Heath blinked and gripped the joined coins in his palm. Tears ran down his face and his lips moved, but no words would come out. He tenderly placed his free hand against Nick's cheek.

"..N...N...Ni..Nick." He gasped hoarsly, and saw the dark head nod. "Oh God...Oh God..." He stumbled back, seeing the large pool of blood. He felt a stabbing pain in his head. There lying in a pool of blood was the other half of his soul. He'd shot his own brother, the one person who shared his spirit and completed him. He crawled a few feet away and rocked on his hands and knees, clutching his screaming head in his hands.

"What have I done?" He cried out. "I'm sorry...Oh God..."

Nick wanted to move, to cry out, to wrap Heath in his arms, but his vision was blurring and he was losing consciousness. He lifted a hand out, hoping to reach his tortured brother. Heath, of all people, who felt pain so much deeper than most, was wracked in agony. His open soul was bared and raw. The look of anguish on his blond brother's face was the most painful thing he'd ever seen. His eyes started to slide shut and his hand slipped to the ground.

"Thomson...You hit?" Billy asked, running into the clearing. He gripped the body rocking in pain, arms clutched across his middle. "You get in the gut...that ain't good. Let me see." He pried the hands loose and saw no wound. He eyed the Yankee who was moving. "He's still alive..." He moved over the bluecoat and drew his pistol, aiming at the head.

Nick flinched as the shot rang out, then wondered why he didn't feel it. He eyed the gray-haired Reb's stunned face as he fell backwards. Heath dropped the rifle and ran to Billy's side.

He held Billy in his arms and cried. Billy had been a father, brother and mother all rolled into one. He'd kept Heath alive for these last months. Covering his back during missions, holding him after every kill when he threw up, nursing him through dysentary. "I'm sorry Billy. I couldn't let you kill him. He's my brother."

The bloody hand came up and touched the youngster's face. "Don't be sorry, Boy...I died a long time ago...You take that brother of yours and go home. War's over...we can't win. You're a fine soldier Thomson..." he gasped and slumped.

Heath closed his dead commander's eyes and said a short prayer. He crawled over to Nick and his shaking hands felt a pulse. He picked Nick up and embraced him, his fumbling fingers running through Nick's hair. Nick's head flopped against his shoulder and he felt the hot breath on his collarbone. For the first time in almost three years, since that dark day on the river, Heath Barkley felt whole again.

"I'm sorry Nick...Don't go dyin' on me...okay." He sobbed.

It was soft and barely audible, but it gave Heath a smile, that turned into a laugh. It was raspy and weak, but all Nick. "Quit followin' me a...a...around..Ru...Ru...Runt."

It was a soft laugh, and brief, but it felt good. He let the reality of Nick being in his arms sink in for a few moments. His moist eyes tore heavenward as twilight fell. The first stars arrived, flashing proudly. He saw the full moon and smiled as Fate once again tipped her head. His smile faded as the gravity of his action sunk in. He'd shot his own brother. The gunfire and scent of smoke in the air told him the battle was raging in full. That meant the field hospitals were still being set up. Nick needed a doctor and they were several miles from help. As his brother's ragged breath danced across his chest, Heath made a mental list. He'd have to stem the bleeding, clean and bandage the wound and make a travois. Then he'd take his brother to the nearest field hospital.

Heath took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He gently laid Nick down and examined the leg wound. It was bad, the rifle bullet did a lot of damage and it was still imbedded in Nick's thigh. He crawled back over to Billy's body and tore his gray coat off. The white shirt came next and the belt. Heath made a tournequet and ripped the shirt into pieces. He pushed hard, wincing at Nick's scream ripped through him. Nick's eyes shot open for a second and then he fell back, unconscious. Heath continued the pressure until the bloody river slowed and stopped. His hands were slick with blood. He jogged down to the river and washed his hands. He filled his canteen and Nick's and left them in a deserted spot, behind some rocks near the riverbed.

He lifted Nick from behind and dragged him slowly, keeping the leg elevated. He gathered wood and made a small fire, as the descending darkness made it difficult to see. They were far enough away from the action, so the fire wouldn't be detected. He went back to Billy's body and searched his coat. He found a small flask of whiskey, a knife, and a small amount of coffee and sugar. He gathered them up and returned to his wounded brother's side.

Nick was having a nightmare. He was walking through a hazy battlefield, his eyes burning from the smoke. Dead union soldiers were all around him, piled high in a bloody carpet. He felt a bullet tear into him and fell, as the Reb advanced. The blond Confederate with piercing blue eyes raised his bayonet and prepared to drive it home. Nick screamed in agony as the blade found its mark.

"NO! HEATH! HEATH!"

"Take it easy, Nick." Heath pressed his brothers struggling body back down.

He'd washed the wound with water and doused it with whiskey, before bandaging it. An action that Nick loudly objected to. He waited until the frantic movements stopped. Nick's head moved from side to side and he moaned. Heath picked up a wet sleeve from Billy's shirt and bathed Nick's face.

"You're gonna be fine, Big Brother." He soothed, leaning close so Nick could hear him, "I'm takin' care of you."

"Who's takin' care of you?" The weak voice countered as the eyes peeled open.

Nick's hazel eyes bore into Heath's blue ones with such intensity Heath shuddered. He felt Nick moving and then a hand on his cheek. A weak grin followed and the hazel eyes were full.

"I thought...I thought I dreamed you...You're really here...Damn..." He said softly, gripping the back of Heath's neck. "God, I missed you Runt."

Heath blushed, his tight chest not able to voice any words. A small crooked grin took the place of the words he longed to say. "Here, let me help you sit up. I got a little coffee." He pulled Nick into a sitting position leaning against a rock. Heath poured him a cup of coffee and held it out for Nick to sip. His good intentions were met by a scowl and a growl.

"Gimme that...I ain't no damn invalid." Nick paused, hearing the chuckling. "What's so damn funny?"

"You are...It's good to hear you growl, Nick."

"What happened, Heath?" Nick asked quietly, sipping the bitter brew and wincing. "We thought you were dead. There was an awful storm, we found your boot and shirt in the river."

"A lot of it is real fuzzy. " Heath frowned, trying to remember, "I recall bein' real sick...riding on a train...the first clear stuff is waking up at Briarcrest in Kentucky."

"Kentucky?" Nick's face screwed up into a puzzle. "How...Why..."

"Well, until I saw that chain on your neck." Heath pulled his disc out and fingered it reverently "I had no memory of Stockton, only Strawberry. But now I remember most of it. I was whittling down by the river. I took a long gulp from my canteen and got really dizzy. I tried to get on Paladin and a man appeared. He was wearing all buckskins, like a trapper. He held a smelly cloth over my nose. He took me on the train to Kentucky to my grandfather's plantation. I've been living there ever since."

"Jesus." Nick swore, balling his fist up and slamming in on the ground. He then howled in pain as the motion sent a white hot ripple through his leg.

Heath grinned at the colorful stream of language that slid easily from his brother's lips.

"Looks like your swearin's improved since I left."

"Nothing improved since you left. Father..." Nick swallowed, seeing the painful patriarch's face, "He was devastated. He had two dozen men combing the river for days. He wired every town along the river ...but...we never found a trace. He's haunted, Heath, it broke him. Mother kept him going, but I heard her crying one night, late. It was a sound so deep and painful, it drove me from the house."

Heath sat forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. He rocked back and forth as a boiling rage built inside. Nick hadn't mentioned it, but Heath knew how much his brother must have suffered. "I'll kill that son-of-a-bitch with my barehands." He seethed, in a voice full of fury and intensity that stunned Nick. His image of an innocent, golden-haired little brother was shattered permanently by the monster who'd kidnapped him and the awful war that made a man of him too soon. That hurt Nick Barkley, it pained him to the core.

"Who?"

"Lucius Simmons..." Heath spat, his blue eyes shooting flames. "My grandfather. I never liked him, not from the minute I laid eyes on him. Now it fits...all the pieces are falling together. Damn him...damn that arrogant hide of his to Hell." Heath gritted, taking heaving breaths. He felt Nick's hand on his back, the circular rubbing motion gave him comfort. "It was his wife's property you see" he shifted and turned so he could face Nick. "and when she died, she left it to my Mama. But she was dead already and so the next heir was the church. Then he remembered his bastard grandson. After all the years we starved in Strawberry and he knew...he knew she was suffering and squatted in Kentucky licking cream like some sated cat. He knew Nick, and he let her suffer and die. He threw her out years ago, that's when she came west with Aunt Rachel and Hannah."

"He force you to enlist?" Nick said in a low voice, trying to keep his anger at bay. If he survived this bloody war, he'd hunt down Lucius Simmons and teach him a lesson.

Heath laughed sarcastically and shook his head, his blues eyes narrowed. "He's a slick as a snake in bacon grease. First thing he did was make me draw up a will. Legally, I'm the owner of Briarcrest. It's a big spread, before the war, the crops did pretty good. But now, the only thing keeping it goin' is the horses. Horse breeding is his trade. You should have heard him. 'Heath, you can't be too careful. This ensures that Briarcrest doesn't go to the church. Those horses, Heath, they'd all be gone.' He made my skin crawl, Nick. I hated being near him and got physically sick when he touched me. Cannon fodder, that's all I am to him. He couldn't sign the damn consent paper fast enough."

"The Rebs took over the place?"

"Sort of...they were passin' through and tried to rape Lettie. So I dusted them with my rifle. I's up the road apiece on a hill." Heath paused, thinking of the beautiful vision, "She's really something Nick. She got these..." His hands cupped and Nick howled, his eyes tearing in laughter. "She works at the house, she makes me hot all over."

Nick laughed and slapped Heath's outstretched leg. "You've grown in more ways than one, Runt. So did she make a man of you, Boy?" He teased, enjoying the scarlet rush to Heath's face.

"No...Well...not really."

"Not really?" Nick laughed harder, "You and me need to have a talk, Runt. There ain't no 'maybes' there, Son. You either have or you haven't"

"Well," Heath shifted, the broad grin and warm laughter from Nick filled him, taking away the pain. "She kissed me real hard." Heath peeped up shyly, a look Nick didn't realize how painfully he'd missed until it resurfaced, "She even used her tongue." He admitted, then frowned at the hysterical laughter from his brother. "Aw, hell, Nick, it ain't that funny."

"It hilarious..." Nick convulsed, "My baby brother stumbling into manhood."

"What are you?" Heath drilled the quaking form, "Some kind of expert?"

"Compared to you I am." Nick countered, "I don't want to brag, but..."

"Since when!" Heath countered.

"Well, I got a few notches on my belt." Nick crowed, drinking in the banter he'd missed so that it gave him an ache.

Heath shifted again, sitting next to Nick. He felt Nick's arm drape around his shoulders and let himself relax. An overpowering feeling came over him, a sense of completeness, the hole inside was full, the emptiness gone. "You stick with me, Runt. I'll take care of you." He said wiggling his eyebrows and giving Heath a saucy wink. It took the blond a few minutes to realize what Nick meant and he blushed again.

"I missed you, Nick." He gasped, not sure why it came out so painfully.

"I know..." Nick returned, pulling Heath closer. "I'm sorry, Heath, for the hell you've been through. But we're gonna make it right. Jarrod's workin' at the Union Intelligence Headquarters up in Washington. After we get back to my unit, I'll have the Major get you a pass and you head up there. He'll wire the folks and get you home."

"Home..." Heath said wistfully, recalling the past days of boyhood and angered at his loss. Suddenly another face appeared in his mind's eye. A handsome face with long dark hair and bright eyes. "Dante..." He turned, and saw Nick's pale face lose the little color it had. His brother's hazel eyes shifted, unable to meet Heaths. "Oh God, Nick....He can't be..." Heath bit off the thought. He had a vision of Dante's dead body lying in a unknown battlefield.

"I don't know, Runt." Nick sighed, rubbing his eyes which shielded a fierce headache. "He was wounded about five months ago. He...uh...took a bullet for me." Nick choked, closing his eyes as Dante's heartbreaking plea from the bed filled his head. "I went with him up to Washington to the hospital. My orders came in, and I left before ...well he was still critical. Jarrod was with him. I'm sorry, Heath. I wish I knew. It's been eatin' at me, ya know?"

"Yeah..." Heath sighed.

"So how'd you end up with that fancy rifle," Nick eyed the custom made piece. "That ain't regulation."

"This Captain, who was with the Reb's that took over the place," Heath replied, reaching for the coffee and handing a full cup back to Nick. "He recruited me as his sharpshooter. The Old Man couldn't sign the consent form fast enough."

"Damn..." Nick swore. "...no good, yellow, spinless cretin...I swear Heath. That dog' s gonna pay. I send him to Hell myself."

"I believe you could." Heath grinned, sending his gratitude silently. "Listen Nick, I'm gonna make a travois, "He said of the triangular wooded device used to cart a wounded body. "That bullet needs to come out before you get blood poisonin'. It won't take me long. I'll be right back. You get some rest."

"Aye, aye, Reb." Nick saluted, ruffling the light hair.

When Heath returned, carrying two long branches and one shorter one, Nick was sleeping. The blond Rebel quickly bound the two long poles forming a 'V' the shorter pole was tied across the bottom to raise Nick's legs. He used Billy's coat and pants to make a crude lining. He grabbed the coats from two other dead soldiers, to use as blankets.

"Nick...Nick..." He shook his brother gently and the eyes opened a little. "Time to go."

"...kay..." Nick slurred.

Heath eased Nick onto the travois and covered him with the jackets, tying the sleeves down to make a secure blanket. His hand brushed across Nick's face, which was already starting to color with fever. He held the canteen to Nick's lips and ordered him to drink. Nick didn't comply, so Heath nudged his lips and the jaws began to work. Satisfied, he capped the water vessel and picked up the travois. Two belts formed the straps and he eased them onto his shoulders. It was dark and hard to see, but the road was level anyway. Saying a prayer and asking his Mama to guide his steps, he set out to save his brothers' life and recapture his own.

The trek was difficult for the underweight Confederate. Nick's weight seemed to increase as the hours passed. Heath stopped several times, his legs unable to work anymore. He was bone weary and dropped to his knees, resting his head on his chest. He closed his eyes, resting them for a moment. He couldn't afford to stop, dawn was approaching. But he was exhausted...

"Hold it," The stern Union sergeant ordered, seeing the unusual sight in the middle of the road. He was in the lead of a division heading north to Virginia. "Porter, Swenson... he nodded at two privates. "Come with me."

"What's that Reb Kid doin' out here by himself." The Sergeant wondered out loud, kneeling by the crude stretcher.

"He's totin' a Union officer." Porter stated uncovering Nick's insignia. "Maybe he's fixin' on getting information out of him."

"Gotta be," Swenson added, "Why else would he be in that rig? Could be this Lieutenant is from Command. Maybe he's one of Grant's men. Maybe he was carrying orders or something."

"Maybe..." The Sergeant mused, cutting the travois straps. He lifted the jackets and spotted the sodden bandages. "He needs a surgeon." He walked over to where the blond Rebel was slumped in the dirt. He nudged him with his boot."

Wake up, Reb..."

Heath stirred and squinted, seeing daylight. "Aw, hell." He rolled on all fours and attempted to stand. His motion was met by a savage kick to the midsection. All the air went out of his lungs and he felt a rib crack painfully. "I asked you question...What are you doing out here? Where were you headed with that Union Officer? You taking across the river to torture him?" He gripped Heath's blond hair and yanked it hard, bringing the stunned head up.

"Let go of me, you damn Yankee." Heath snarled, eyeing the men picking up Nick's stretcher. "I's takin' him to find a doctor. He's my brother N..."

Another brutal kick sent Heath to the ground and nearly into unconsciousness, before he could get the name out. "Yeah...and I'm Abe Lincoln's brother." The leering sergeant countered. "Get this piece of trash outta here." He ordered three of the dozen men who were now surrounding Heath. "You two take that officer to the field hospital. It's about five miles north of here, a farm on the river."

Heath heard the words and lifted his head long enough to see Nick being taken away. At least he'll get to the hospital. "He's my broth..."

"Shut up, you Rebel dog." A voice snarled, hauling him to his feet. Before he could attempt to speak again, a fist to his jaw sent him into oblivion. He didn't feel the other blows that reined on him after he fell.

"What's going on here?" A General rode over to the group. "Stand down, this instant!"

The bullying soldiers formed a line and stood at attention. The officer climbed from his horse and squatted over the bloodied face. He turned the body over and snapped an angry glare at the offensive soldiers.

"He's only a boy. What the hell do you think you were doing?"

"He was totin' a Union Officer. We figured he was taking him across the river to their camp."

"Where's the officer?"

"He's pretty bad off. The Sarge said to get him to the field hospital. He told us to take care of ...him." He nodded.

"That doesn't entitle you to beat him." He raged, lifting the boy in his arms. "Get moving. We're expected up north."

He placed the boy on his horse and climbed up after him. They rode for about a half-hour when they reached a union camp. He handed the youth down to two infantrymen who greeted him.

"Sir?" One puzzled, seeing the beaten Reb.

"Bring him to my tent." He pointed, then turned to the other soldier, "Scare up some bandages and liniment. Bring me some food too. This poor boy a bag of bones." He saw both men hesitate. "That's an order!" He barked.

"Yes Sir!" They chorused.

Heath awakened slowly, his fuzzy vision spotting a gray cotton ceiling. He tried to sit up and felt a flash of pain in his chest.

"Easy son," A deep voice soothed, "You've got a couple cracked ribs. You're face didn't fare much better. How do you feel?"

"Huh?" Heath blinked, nodding at the hand that helped him sit up and stagger to a chair. He eyed the blue Officer's uniform. "Where am I?"

"Virginia. We'll be breaking camp soon and headed north. What were you doing with that wounded man."

"Wounded..." Heath's eyes snapped open. "NICK! Nick...How is he?" He grabbed the Officer's coat.

"Take it easy Son." He saw something in the boy's eyes that startled him. Emotional angst...a deep concern. The kind that only comes for someone you care about very deeply. "Who's Nick?"

"My brother. Nick Barkley. I shot him last night." Heath gasped, covering his face. "Not on purpose...I didn't know it was him."

"Your brother?" The bearded General pushed a plate of food and a cup of coffee at the underweight youth. "Eat." He ordered, the fair hair and sky eyes reminded him of his own son, safe in school. "How is it you and your brother aren't on the same side?"

"That's a long story, Sir and I'm too tuckered out." Heath sighed, swallowing a mouthful of salt pork. "I's taken from my folks about two and half years ago. I had amnesia. It wasn't until I seen Nick last night...it all came back. He's okay, ain't he?"

"He's at a field hospital a couple miles from here. I'm told it was a nasty wound. Where'd you get this rifle?" He asked, eyeing the custom made piece.

"I'm with Major Farnsworth." He grunted, "Not that it was my choice. I's forced" He said, shoveling more food in. He took a gulp of the hot coffee and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Farnsworth's Raiders?" The Officer's voice didn't hide his shock. "You must be good. Wait a minute...Barkley...I know an Officer named Barkley. Not a Nick though. Met him up in Washington at the War Office."

"My brother Jarrod." Heath supplied, without looking up. "Blue eyes, dark hair, talks a lot. He's gonna be a lawyer."

"Yes, that's him." The wise man's head nodded, "He's a fine young man. I was impressed."

"Why are you doin' this for me?" Heath blurted, eyeing the bright blue eyes curiously.

"This war is a men's game being played by boys. You shouldn't be one of Farnsworth's damned raiders." He said angrily. "You should be home, going to school, going to the church dance, having Sunday dinner with your family or riding your horse across a plain. I'm tired of seeing dead boy's faces, Son. I'd like to think I helped one get home. I'll get you a uniform. That Gray coat will get you killed."

"Thank you, Sir," Heath stammered, taken aback at the offer and the hand on his shoulder. "I don't know what to say."

"You're welcome Son." He smiled at the expressive eyes. "You said it just fine. Let's get that uniform off." He moved across the tent and produced a pair of pants, shirt and coat. "You put these on and get some sleep. We'll be passing by the field hospital, I'll drop you off there."

Heath fingered the fabric and the man who held them out to him. He felt tears springing up and welcomed the strong arm around his shoulders. "Go on, now, get some rest."

"Yeah...thanks..." Heath whispered. "Sir?" He questioned, causing the kind man to turn. "Heath Barkley, reporting for duty."

The General eyed the bruised face and thin body that stood before him, saluting. His handsome face broke into a smile and he returned the salute. "As you were, soldier.' He pointed to the cot. "I believe I gave you an order."

"Yes, Sir!" Heath beamed, grabbing the hard biscuit and crawling painfully back onto the cot. He was already asleep when the half-eaten biscuit was taken from his hand. He didn't feel the thin blanket being pulled up over him or the kind hand that brushed the long blond hair off his face.

General Ulysses S. Grant poured himself a cup of coffee and settled down to write a letter to his wife. He eyed the brave boy who risked being killed, crossing the enemy lines to save his brothers' life. He envied the boy's brother, to have someone love you that much. He picked up the pencil and began.

"Dear Julia. I saved a boy's life today. A rather remarkable young boy...

It was cold night. The chilling air hinted at an early winter. Heath shivered and pulled the collar of the scratchy blue uniform up closer to his neck. They'd been marching for several hours now and with every step the young Barkley's stomach knotted. He kept his eyes trained on the horizon, hoping the converted farm would appear. He turned as the sound of hooves drew near.

"Young Barkley..."

"Yes, Sir," Heath paused and saluted at the Leader of all Union forces.

"As you were." General Grant said, leaning over his saddle horn. "When we cross that bridge ahead, there will be a road that runs parallel to the river.," He indicated, "That's where you will pull out. The field hospital isn't far. You get back to that brother of yours. We're pushing north. Good Luck to you, Son and God Bless you."

"Thank you, General." Heath saluted, "For everything."

The kind leader gave him a broad smile and returned to his position. Heath watched him leave and felt a sense of awe inside. He'd seen first hand the reason that the word 'great' was applied to certain military leaders. Throughout history, they lead men into battle, sometimes against overwhelming odds. Their courage was inspiring and their mantle easily worn. The man with the beard and kind eyes was such a leader. A great leader...a great General and a great man.

Heath fell back behind the division and eased his stride. He took a deep breath as they crossed the bridge. He eyed the dark river road and followed it. It had been....he cocked his head, he didn't know how long it had been since Nick was taken from him. A day or more, most likely. He made his way up the path and saw the Union guards out front. His stomach clenched and he gripped the rifle closer. He saw the edge of his blue coat and started to chuckle.

"You're a damn blue bellie now, Heath." He mumbled.

He made his way up to the large farmhouse. Rows of wounded men lie in the yard outside on blankets. They were awaiting surgery. Heath's eyes flitted to some and his stomach started churning. Their cries of agony ripped through him. He rocked back at the smell. It hit him like a tidal wave, staggering him. He stopped in his tracks and got a hold of himself. He kept his eyes forward, not daring to look at the horrid wall of human limbs that were piled outside the door.

The interior was brightly lit and bustling with activity. Heath saw the backs of the surgeons working and drew closer. He flinched at the determination in the face of one exhausted doctor, covered with blood and human entrails. The saw in his bloodied hand was working it's way through the meaty leg of a large soldier. Heath turned and held his breath, forcing his meager breakfast back down. He stumbled to the other side of the large first floor and found more sugery. He eyed the staircase and started upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, was a woman with graying brown hair and a severe mask. She was wheeling a rickety cart, full of bandages, linens and syringes. Heath followed her and eyed the rooms with wounded men inside. His blue eyes searched frantically, but came up empty.

"Ma'am?" Heath called, his voice nearly hushed, he took off his cap as she turned and clutched it nervously to his chest.

"Yes." She said sternly. "Well what is it? I don't have all night."

"I'm looking for my brother. He was brought here uh...yesterday some time, I reckon."

"One face among hundreds. Sorry, I can't help you." She turned away.

"I'm sorry." He dropped his head, "I didn't meant to be a bother."

She paused and frowned, seeing the slumped shoulders and hearing the unhidden pain in his voice. "Hold on a minute." She left the squeaky cart and approached the soldier. When she got within a few feet, she saw how young he was and the pain in his eyes. "What was...is his name?"

"Barkley." Heath's spirits lifted with his head. "Nick Barkley. Lieutenant Nick Barkley," He concluded, not hiding his pride.

"Barkley..." She sighed..."An officer. I'd should have a record of that. What was the extent of the wound?"

"His thigh, rifle shot." Heath choked, still clouded with guilt. He followed her to a desk near the staircase. She was bent over, scanning a long list on two sheets of paper in a large book. Heath stood in the middle of the first step.

"Out of the way." A voice barked, and the blond shuffled over to the railing as stretcher bearers came through. Several more followed and the woman looked up, spotting the new charges being taken down the hall. She turned the last page as she made a mental note to get more bandages.

The name appeared under her finger at the same time her own name was bellowed loudly.

"Mrs. Grayson..."

"Yes, Sir," She called to the harried physician. "I'll be right there."

"NOW!" He barked, "There's a man hemoragging..."

"He's gone." She said bruskly to the startled, wide-eyed boy. She disappeared into a small room across the hall.

"Gone..." Heath stammered. "What do you..." The reality slammed into him. Nick was dead. "Gone...wh...wh..when?" He stuttered, as she appeared with an armful of towels and bandages.

"Yesterday." She tossed, running as the impatient doctor's voice screamed for her. "After surgery." She called back.

Heath's hand gripped the railing and he managed to get down the stairs. His shoulders brushed against stretcher bearers. He heard the screams of the dying and smelled the gore of the surgical rooms. He couldn't see. His eyes were clouded with memories and pain. Memories of all that should have and could have been. The unfulfilled dreams of two boys, cast out long ago on a sunny Sunday afternoon by a rolling river. Gone...his brother...his best friend...his soul. All the hopes and dreams were gone because of him.

"Move out of the way, Son." A brusk voice ordered.

"Huh..." Heath blinked as stretcher came by, carrying someone else's brother.

He staggered down the path, his limb...senses all numbed. With every uneven step, his jagged mind brought up Nick. The fight the first day they met. The growl that never scared him. The scowling face that didn't fool Heath. The gruff voice that always made him feel safe. The hands that taught him to shoot and rope. The pride he felt when Nick thrashed Adam Carson. The very instant by the river when the word 'brother' fell out of Nick's lips and into Heath's heart. His cold fingers found the chain around his neck and he swallowed hard. His eyes were dry, he could shed no tears. There was no pain...just an awful numbness. He followed the river back to the bridge. He eyed the crossroads with twin pools of blue hopelessness.

"Where do I go now?" He hushed, as a foreful, bitter wind ensued. It shieking voice caused the blond to wince.

"Quit followin' me around Runt!"

"NICK!" Heath spun, his eyes darting to where the voice came from. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his thin chest. It was in his head, searing like a branding iron.

"I'll be back,Runt. I promise..."

"You lied!" He screamed in anger at the dark sky and bellowing wind. "I hate you Nick...I hate you...I...I...I'm sorry..." He cried, clutching the chain. "NICK!! NICK! Oh God....NICK!" His agonizing call went heavenward as the flood withing him surged forth.

"Heath!"

A pained cry, the voice tight with fear, brought the nurse to the young man's side. His distraught face was flushed with fever. The wet head spun wildly, as the eyes shot open.

"Steady there, Son." She sat down and pushed him back on the bed. "You're sick and need to rest."

"I gotta go...he needs me. He's hurt. Jesus, his hearts broke...Heath!" He tried to push here away. " "Where is he? I heard him screaming..." His eyes went around the wooden walls. "Where are we?"

"You're on a hospital boat. We'll be in Washington soon. You were wounded a couple days ago in Virginia."

Nick's hand shot sideways, recalling the awful vision of the severed limbs when he was searching for Dante. He sank back in relief as his leg was firmly under his hand. The relief was short lived. His eyes tore frantically around the room. "Where's Heath?" He grabbed the long white apron of the Red Cross nurse. "Please...my brother...I have to know." He beseeched, bordering on desperation.

"You're brother is in Washington. You'll see him soon." She pushed the exhausted man back down. His fever was spiking and she wrung a towel soaked in alchohol and water out. She lifted his head and made him drink some herbal tea, induced with fever fighters. "Heath...Heath..." He slurred as she wiped his face and neck.

Exhaustion claimed another victim. She stole away, leaving the blond boy behind. He huddled , curled up fetally and slept. It was almost dawn when Heath woke up. His swollen eyes could barely focus. He climbed up on shaking limbs and shivered in the cold morning air. It was barley above freezing. The thin wool coat didn't help much. He eyed the crossroads...which way? He thought.

"Up north to Jarrod...he'll get you home."

Nick's voice again...back by the river. "Home..." Heath concluded. Stockton, where his father and mother were. Where Audra was. Where Dante...Was Dante there ? Or maybe Dante was with Nick, in a battlefield above...still guarding those he loved. Jarrod. His mind drew up the kind blue eyes and smile. Suddenly his legs couldn't move fast enough. North...to Jarrod...to home.