"Heath..." A voice weakly called , followed by a cough.

Nick opened his eyes and tried to focus on the face looming over him. Dark hair...not Heath. He felt a hand drawing him up and a cup against his parched lips. He drank greedily and coughed again. He felt a pillow placed under him, giving him leverage. He blinked again, the dark fuzzy head didn't clear up. He pushed the hand away...he didn't want to hear the voice calling him. It wasn't the right voice. The only voice that he wanted to hear was his blond brothers.

"Get the hell away from me." He barked, then frowned as the dark fuzzy face laughed.

He rubbed his eyes and squinted as the face became clear. Blue eyes...fancy suit. "Jarrod?"

"Nick." Jarrod returned, smiling. "You back with us for good?"

"Huh?" Nick wrinkled his face and looked around the room. Memories came slamming back. An onslaught that ripped through him and took his breath away. Dante's dying plea, in this very room. Damn, maybe the same bed. Dante's dark eyes begging...Heath's pale eye's tormented. Too much...too soon. He starting shaking and his teeth chattered. His eyes were full of fear and pain.

Jarrod's smile disappeared and he moved quickly. He sat on the bed and grabbed Nick, who tottered dangerously, nearing falling out. He let his strong healthy arms embrace his weak, shivering brother. "Easy Nick...it was a tough five days, but you're going to be fine."

"Dante..." He croaked, pulling himself free and pushing Jarrod's comfort away. He drilled the blue eyes "I gotta know...is he dead?"

"No." Jarrod exhaled, "Oh God, Nick. I'm sorry. All this time...I'm sorry. I can't imagine the burden you carried."

Nick sighed and slumped back on the pillows, wiping his anxious face with a quaking hand. "He home?"

"Yes, Mother and Father met his train in Denver. He was very ill and we nearly lost him. It took a couple months, but he's fine now. He's the proud owner of Chateau Laurus, which I can't wait to see."

"Thank God." Nick finally spoke. He eyed the large room and the empty chair. "Where's Heath?"

Jarrod pulled back and stared at Nick hard. He didn't have a head injury. What brought that question on? He grappled to find an answer. He felt Nick tugging at his sleeve.

"Well, where is he?" Nick cocked his head, frowning at Jarrod's blank face. "Damn no good Runt. Did he leave. I'll kill him. I told him to stay put."

"Nick, what are you talking about." Jarrod said gently, resting a hand on Nick's arm. "You know Heath's de...not with us anymore."

"Course he is," Nick growled, draining the water. His face fell and he looked at Jarrod curiosly. "He's not here...really?"

"Nick...You've been so very ill. A fever can cause the mind to play games.. I'm sure..."

"I AIN'T CRAZY." Nick threw Jarrod's hand off. "AND I AIN'T PLAYING ANY GAME. HE'S ALIVE."

"Nick," Jarrod said sternly, his patience deteriorating. "You're not making sense. It's time you realized Heath's not coming back."

"I saw him." Nick said in a level, calm tone. His hazel eyes drilled in to Jarrod. "I held him...I felt his tears. He was kidnapped that day...not drowned. His grandfather hired some yahoo to spirit him away. They drugged his canteen and used ether or chloroform." Nick paused, seeing Jarrod's face cloud "Hear me out." He warned the approaching lecture and getting a slow nod. "Leah Thomson's father is a bastard named Lucius Simmons. He has a plantation called Briarcrest in Kentucky, near Richmond. His wife died and left it all, the house, money, all of it to Leah. With her death, it would go to her heir or the church. That old bastard..." Nick raged, gripping the pillow and shooting fire from his eyes, "used Heath for cannon fodder. He kidnapped him, made him sign a will leaving the place to the him, should Heath be killed. Damn vulture. I gonna kill him Jarrod."

"It might be a good idea to wait until you're walking again."

"You think this is joke?" Nick snarled. "The cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch signed him over to the Rebs...a fourteen-year old goddamn soldier." Nick screamed, causing every head near him to turn from their beds.

"Nick, calm down." Jarrod hissed.

"Don't tell me to calm down." Nick spat back, "You weren't there. You didn't see his face. He's sniper, Jarrod. One of Farnsworth's...a dark angel. He shot me...came over to finish me off with a knife. His eyes were void until he recognized me. He's had amnesia...You didn't see his face...you didn't see..." Nick choked back a sob and regained control.

"My God..." Jarrod sat back, astounded.

"Some God you have." Nick spat in disgust. "That would do that to my brother."

"He's my brother too, Nick." Jarrod said quietly.

"Mabye..." Nick's voice dropped "But he shares my soul."

The tenderness so rare in Nick's voice moved Jarrod. He studied the pale face now full of emotion...love...for his blond brother. Dante tried to explain it to him. That what Nick and Heath had was a rare gift. He saw part of that now.

"You all thought I was crazy." Nick said slowly. "When you mourned him and had him buried. But I knew..." Nick's voice became determined, and was laced with grit. He tapped his chest. "In here...I felt him. I can't explain it...He's a part of me Jarrod." Nick sighed. "Heath bandaged me up and we were headed back to my unit. I don't remember much after that."

Jarrod's face grew still and he sat back, absorbing the information. He thought on Nick's words and on the report he'd gotten.

"What?" Nick frowned, seeing Jarrod's shadows. "What are you hiding?"

"My God..." The lawyer shook his head.

"WHAT?" Nick bellowed, giving the heads around him cause to stare.

"Keep your voice down, Nick. These men are trying to rest." Jarrod placated, "There's no easy way to say this. " He leaned forward. "When you were found...the unit that found you. Well, there was a young Rebel pulling you on a travois. They thought he was taking you across the river...to get information..."

"Oh God." Nick sat back, the stunning realization of Heath's sacrifice hit him harder than the bullet that shattered his thigh. "Oh God...No..." He looked up at Jarrod. "Did they ...is he..." He couldnt' bring himself to say it.

"No. Well, I don't know." Jarrod scratched his chin. "The report was sketchy. It mentioned Heath being rescued by a Union officer. I don't know where he is. But, I'll try and find out. Meanwhile, you have some major healing to do. The bone was shattered and you'll be in a cast for eight weeks or so."

"Eight weeks...." Nick's discouraged voice rang out.

"Hey, it's still attached to you hip." Jarrod growled, "Take a good look around Nick. Some of these men weren't as lucky."

"Yeah..." Nick swallowed, "Sorry..."

"I'm going to find out when you an be released. You can stay with me until you're strong enough to go home. I have a place..."

"I'm not leaving without him." Nick stated.

"Nick..."

"Closed subject." Nick replied. "He's out there somewhere and I'm gonna find him."

Jarrod realized Nick was emotionally overwrought and didn't push the envelope. "I'll go find the doctor and get you some lunch."

"Hey, Jarrod." Nick called ,catching his brother by the foot of the bed. He saw, for the first time, the dark circles and haggard face. Hours...no days...of sleeplessness at his side. "Listen, I didn't mean to bite at ya. You look like hell, Lawyer. Get some sleep."

Jarrod cast a half grin and smiled. He patted Nick's foot and approached the door.

"Thanks Big Brother." Nick called and got a smile and nod. Nick turned to the window. HE saw the crimson and golden leaves swirling a lusty dance outside. "Hold on Runt." He sighed, closing his eyes and clutching the chain.

"Aw, hell." He swore, pulling off his kerchief and tying it above the wound. He spotted his dark blue uniform. They spilled out of the bushes and surrounded him. One grabbed him roughly and threw him to the ground. One took his rifle. He felt the cold steel of the gun barrell at his head.

"Don't move." A voice issued. "What do you make of this?"

"Get the Captain." A third voice said. "This rifle's one of ours...a snipers. Get him up."

Heath was hauled to his feet and stared at the angry faces around him. "It ain't what...I'm not a Yankee...well I am but I wasn't...I was one of Farnsworth's raiders. That's my rifle."

"You got some gall standing here surrounded and spillin' that pack of lies." the irate commander said, stepping forward.

"I ain't lyin'" Heath spat "I was with them, near Cedar Creek. We were trying to ambush SHeridan. We got 'em all but one...my broth...brother. I couldn't kill my own brother. I ..."

"Shut up you lyin' Yankee dog." A harsh voice said and hit his midsection.

"Nobody calls me a liar." Heath growled and sprang forward, toppling the loud mouth Captain. A rifle blow to the head brought the blond Yankee down. The Confederate Captain, nudged the body with his foot.

"Sir?" the private in front of him asked, nodding at the blond captive.

"Put in the wagon with the rest of the wounded. They'll be pulling out soon."

"Where they going?" the young red-headed Reb asked, eyeing the boy his own age who was lying at his feet.

"Carterson Prison."

December 1864, Southwest Virginia

Another faceless day shamefully raised her gray head. There was no sun to give the seven hundred plus prisoners any hope. The dismal, overcast sky seemed a fitting setting for the mood of the occupants within the Confederate Stockade. The temperature hovered just below freezing and frozen precipitation pelted the rough hewn wooden facade. The makeshift prison camp was born out of the need to house the overspill of the thousands of Union prisoners, whose skelatal, sickly frames were overcrowding the existing prisons.

Located in Southwestern Viriginia, not far from the Kentucky border, the prison camp was a former tobacco farm. The small farmhouse was solid enough, for the Confederate commander and his wife. The barn was converted into housing for the guards, so when it came time to convert the delapadated tobacco warehouse, which was in near ruin, little funds were left. Rotting timber replaced the vacant spaces and sod covered the patches in the roof. This large, damp dump became the mess hall and infirmary. The doctor, if you could call him that, had little provisions and they went to the highest bidder. The prisoners quarters were even worse. The buildings were put up in the roughest and cheapest manner, with the look of oversized shanties. A high wall surrounded the encampment and was manned by armed guards.

Inside, rows of six-by-three foot wooden bunks lay like open coffins. The quarters were crowded and conditions were horrendous. Hunger, poor sanitation, lack of adequate clothing and blankets, and miserably cold weather led to discontent and in-house fighting. Diseases ran rampant, fueled by the inadequate diet, consisting of mostly a cornmeal gruel, beans and stale bread. Lack of meat and vegetables caused scurvy, which was followed by small pox, diarrhea, dysentary and pneumonia, were endured by the men incarcerated.

Large amounts of standing water, unpoliced grounds housing foul sinks, soil reeking with accretions and rotted bones, scored the surrounding landscape. The barracks were filthy and infested, leaving the occupants to surmise only a fire would be able to cleanse them. Despite these unthinkable, subhuman conditions there was, among the weakened and ill group of Yankees, one prisoner with an indominable spirit. The fight which beamed from his sky eyes every day was inspiring. Like his comrades, he was weakened, malnourished and ill. But he endured, despite the fever and pain and watery bowels that plagued his thin frame. The shoulder length hair was filthy and thin, instead of it's normal thick, rich gold. His threw his shoulders back and stared down every guard who threw a slur. The fire that shown from the blue eyes was the fuel that kep the heart of the boy going. In years his body was nearly sixteen, his soul far older.

As another series of coughs racked his body, he wrapped the thin blanket around his shivering frame. They wouldn't beat him, he knew that. He fought a daily battle against the odds, with one thing in mind. The shining hope that dangled just in front of his fevered eyes. Home...Home to Stockton...home to that glorious white, columned house. Home to Silas pancakes, Audra's giggles and pouts, his mother's touch and his brother's eyes. Pa...his mind merged the word and the man. Those strong arms that held him that first afternoon on the tour of the ranch, were just as strong now. He felt them wrap around him and heard that commanding voice. How just one word , a look of pride in those blue-gray eyes could make him feel ten feet tall. How he longed to feel his father's embrace.

He cringed as the guards came through, the cries of the weakened, slumbering men roused by the thwack of the wooden baton against their backs , woke him up. He threw off the paper thin excuse for a blanket and shucked his thin, blue coat on. He stood on wavering legs and glared at the approaching guard, who snarled and shoved him into the aisle. As he marched toward the mess hall, his stomach turning at the thought of the gray, filmy disgusting meal that awaited him, he drew the picture again. It was a glorius spring day, the sweet, warm air kissed his face. The large oak tree sat on the banks of a pulsing river. Two sets of initials merged into one mighty symbol, carved in the side of the great tree. He'd return to that spot and one day take his own boy there. He'd tell him about the dark-haired, fire-eyed Barkley, who's mighty roar would never be quelled. He felt Nick every day, every minute when his last ounce of strength was sapped, when the whip lashed against his tender back, when the fever and diarrhea became too much. That familiar growl, bellowed in his head.

"Keep your head up, Runt!"

He jumped slightly and gave a small grin. Casting his eyes at the overcast sky, he nodded. He get home, of that he was certain. He wouldn't let Nick down.

December 1864, Washington

"No!, I won't go."

"Nick, listen to reason," Jarrod argued at the glaring figure on crutches. "You nearly lost that leg and died from a bad infection. You're still very weak, underweight and fighting illness. You can barely get down the hall on those crutches without passing out. Just how do you intend to manage on a battlefied?"

"He's out there, and I'm gonna find him." Nick argued, grimacing at the pain in his leg.

"Oh, for the love of..." Jarrod sighed, and walked in front of his impatient brother, frustation painted on his face, "I know how bad you want to find him. Don't you think I want that too?" His blues eyes were intense, "Where would you begin to look? The strongest clue we have is that report of an officer pulling Heath from a group of soldiers. By rights, the officer would have had to turn him over. He'd be sent to a military prison. That's the best option for us now. To hope that Heath is still alive and try to find where he's being held. You getting blown to bits by a cannon or getting that hot head of yours shot off won't help Heath."

Nick turned and used his wooden crutches to get to a chair. He absentmindedly rubbed the leg and mulled over Jarrod's words. He felt his brother behind him, but didn't look up.

"Alright, Nick, think of Mother and Father. They nearly lost you and Dante. This war's seen too many parents bury their sons. They need you, Nick, especially now." Jarrod pleaded, "I can't get home, but you can. Take the ticket and go. If you leave tomorrow, with a little luck, you'll get home in time." He saw Nick flinch and the rare glimmer of fear appear in the sharp, hazel eyes. "What ?" He frowned, eyeing his younger brother.

"Nothing. Let's eat." Nick said, rising and heading for the dining room of the boarding house he and Jarrod lived in.

"Let's not..." Jarrod stood in front on him. "What are you afraid of?"

"Take a guess." Nick snapped.

"Mother and Father?" Jarrod puzzled. "I don't..."

"Do you have any idea how hard it will be for me to look in his eyes?" Nick challenged. "I've never lied to him. How am I gonna face...He's gonna know."

"No, he won't ." Jarrod said quietly of their decision not to tell their parents about Nick's meeting with Heath. "You can't see it, Nick. But I have. From the time you were small, you've been the protective one. You won't hurt him, it's not in you. You'll protect him for all it's worth."

"I don't know, Jarrod." Nick sighed, rubbing his neck, "Maybe we should have told them."

"ANd have them bury Heath again?" Jarrod shook his head "Nick, you told me how devastated they were when they thought Heath drowned in the river. How Father was shattered. I saw the lasting effects of that anguish in Denver when I took Dante to meet them. They're healing Nick. Dante's given them a lift, the winery, your recovery and the imminent end of the war. You tell them about spotting Heath, and you'll get their hopes up. If he is dead...

"HE'S NOT DEAD!" Nick growled, clenching his fists. "Don't ever tell me that!"

"He very well may be, Nick." Jarrod reasoned, "and you know that. Do you really want to watch them die all over again? Father may not recover from that shock twice. Don't you think this is hard for me too?" Jarrod' grabbed Nick's forearms and stared hard. "I love him too, Nick."

"Yeah..." Nick mumbled, "I hear you, Jarrod."

He limped over to the window at glared at the cold, clear morning. He scanned the horizon and wondered where his blond brother was. He'd never admit it to Jarrod, but his brother was right. He was sick and the illnessess that lingered inside, left him weak and weary. He did need to heal.

"Nick, I'll make a deal with you." Jarrod inquired, giving Nick his space, he remained where he was, "You go home for the holidays and give yourself a good month, six weeks to heal like the doctor said. Then, when you're well, and you're ready to help, you come back. There's thousands of records to go through, lists of prisoners names and exchanges. You can play detective. You may just find our miracle on one of those lists."

After a brief moment, Jarrod saw the back of his brother's dark head nod once. He sighed and expelled the air he'd been holding. His felt an enormous burden lift from his shoulders. "Coming to breakfast?" Ham, eggs, pancakes, homfries, blueberry muffins were all waiting downstairs. Nick's tender stomach couldn't yet digest so much food. But he'd been tolerating more this week.

Nick heard Jarrod and nodded, he suddenly felt tired and defeated. He needed Dante...his father...the smell of Stockton air. He needed Heath...he swallowed the lump in his throat and eyed the sky outside. "Keep your head up, Runt." He whispered, clutching the chain around his neck.

Another spasm shook him, as his thin chest was racked with coughing. His thin blanket slid away and that quick a trio of bodies swarmed. Hands held him face down, while others tried to steal his coat. He watched the blanket rip as they fought like mad dogs. Then his eyes grew wide and his heartbeat quickened, his held his breath and thought it must be a dream. He saw the two bodies that stole his coat go flying in a heap, hitting the wall hard. A hand on his back was followed by a fierce warning.

"Ye lay another hand on him and it's Saint Peter ye'll be shakin' hands with."

"Who the hell are you?" One of the would be thieves asked.

"Yer worst nightmare, ye theivin' son-of-a-bitch, if ye ever come near him again. I'll slit yer manhood off yer yellow belly."

They scattered like rats, disappearing into the dark recesses of the chilly building. He dared himself to raise his head and felt his mouth go dry. He stated mutely, unable to utter a single sound. He felt a hand caress his cheek and saw the dark eyes fill with proud tears. One hand gripped the back of his neck and the other drew him up into a bearhug.

"Ye still need a haircut, Lad." The voice, thickened with a rich brogue and a lot of emotion, suggested, "But yer a sight fer sore eyes."

"I can't...believe...it'...you're here..." Heath finally choked, as tears ran down his cheeks.

"Is me name not Pat McKenna.? The soft voice asked as the two broke apart. "Did I not tell ya I'd take care of ye? Me words as good as a done deal, Lad." The hand cuffed his shoulder playfully.

"You got tall...." Heath stammered, eyeing the strapping body, several inches over six foot.

"Aye, Lad...a steady diet of whiskey and women made me what I am today." He crowed, wiping his moist eyes.

"You're full of ..." Heath's sentence was cut short as a hand clapped over his mouth

"Now what would yer fine mother say, hearin' ye say such a word?"

Before Heath could respond, his body was rocked by a violent fit of coughing. But now he wasn't alone in the small bunk, shivering and sick. Two strong hands guided him, clapping his back and reassuring him. He felt his arms slide back into his coat and eased himself onto the bunk. A few seconds later a blanket appeared, in much better shape than the one he lost. As the blanket covered him, a warmth grew inside. For the first time since he'd arrived, he relaxed.

"Easy, Lad..." The voice soothed, rubbing his back. He heard the voice, now full and rich, begin to low song. It was sad and full of the hills of Ireland and lost love. But it was soothing and Heath's eyes watched the small group appear. One man produced a harmonica and two others knew the song and joined in. His heavy blue eyes slid shut and Heath didn't hear the last stanza. He didn't feel the hand brushing the matted blond hair from his face or the voice catch as the singer saw not a sixteen year old soldier, but a nine-year old boy on the banks of a river, dreaming about what was yet to come.

"I'll get ye back to that fine house, Boy-o" he choked, "Ye have me word..."

Christmas Eve, 1864, 7 p.m. Caterson

Painful desperation lurked in every corner of the harsh camp. The wind whipped outside, adding her shrieking protest to the grim atmosphere inside. Around the world, Christians were preparing for the most holy night of the year. A time to rejoice and celebrate the birth of the Son of a carpenter. A holiday season filled with roasting chestnuts, joyful voices raised in song at church, glittering decorations on a tall tree, a groaning table of food, giving gifts of the heart to those held dear and basking in the warmth of family and friends.

There was no tree or roast turkey in the cold barracks, but there was a gift. Brought forth by the prevading spirit of the prisoners, whose bodies were racked with disease and injuries, it lingered everywhere in the dank arena. It was a simple gift, one that was as old as mankind. It had traveled to every corner of the world, from the rice fields in the Far East, through the slums in India to the Highlands of Scotland and down the waterways of Venice. It sauntered across the coal mining regions in Western Pennsylvania, through the Ohio Valley and blew across the Continental Divide and spread through the Wild West. It hovered briefly outside the tall fences that surrounded the dungeon and gained strength as it soared past Matt Bentell.

"I thought I'd find ye here."

Heath turned from the window at the voice and the hand on his shoulder. Patrick's smile was enough to keep them both warm. The prisoners that were able to walk, were gathering at the far end of the room. He eyed them momentarily and drew his gaze back to the window. His fingers caressed the disc around his neck. He stared at the lone star in the sky, a brilliant glittering diamond that winked at him boldly. His body was in the room, but his mind was thousands of miles away. Memories assaulted him; his mother's face when he gave her the locket that first year, the annual trip to the mountains where his brothers and father bonded in a weekend of tree hunting, the silent, solitary moments he spent alone sitting in front of the simple nativity in his room and recalling his Christmas's in Strawberry.

"The Padre's about ready," Patrick prodded gently, not wishing to disturb whatever had given his young friend such a blissful smile. "Are ye comin' then?"

"Yeah..." Heath said slowly. Jim Dugan was a chaplin from New York. He'd been an incredible source of inspiration to those housed in the barracks. To the dying, he was the hand they sought as they left the earth, to the living he was a kind ear and strong voice. His knowledge of theologies of various cultures and his gentle use of the Bible to inspire were a guiding force. He'd organized the officers and anyone with formal training, to utilize their skills to combat the formidable opponent - boredom. They provided activities that were intellectually and morally stimulating. Inclusive of this were games, debates, lessons in Greek, Latin, Spanish, Math, Reading and Writing; Music and Bible Study. It had become Matt Bentell's number one enemy. Despite his attempts at crushing them, they prevailed. In fact, Heath noticed in the last month, since the Padre's arrival, a change in the behavior of those with him. There were less fights, gambling was down, and no longer did he fear being attacked for a blanket or a pair of shoes. There was a church service every other day.

"Ye'll be there next year," Patrick broke through Heath's cloud, "Did I not tell ye?"

"From your lips to God's ear..." Heath slumped against the window.

"Hey, none of that." Patrick said sharply. "I'll not have ye givin' the likes of him a wisp of satisfaction." He spat of the brutal commanding officer.

"I ain't afraid of him." Heath's eyes glowed. "I ain't never gonna forget. One day I'll make him pay for every beating. For all the men he's killed."

"Aye, Lad." Patrick nodded, "I hear ye. Best to keep that under yer shirt fer now. I wouldn't want to get on the bad side of the wife. Did ye ever notice her eyes?" He shivered. "She daft. I caught her lookin' at me today, I swear I felt me bones turnin' to stone. I'd bet a shillin' her real names Medusa."

"I think you're the daft one, Irish." Heath swatted, eyeing the men shuffling by. Some supporting those to weak to walk. The distant chords of a harmonica started and a familiar hymm began to stir.

"Lend a hand, will ye?" Patrick nodded at the three men who sat next to each other on a bunk across the room. When they'd arrived, they had their anger to fuel them. Long gone, in waves of gripping illnesses and homesickness, they now were among the walking dead. "Maybe them baby blues of yers will give them a grin, eh?"

"I don't know," Heath hedged, "They battled back from the smallpox...but ...well look at them."

"Aye, Lad." Patrick whispered, running a hand through his long dark hair, "they're dyin', but not from the smallpox or anything medicine can cure. They're dying of nostalgia."

Heath winced as Patrick's analogy hit hard. How many days had he wanted to 'give up'? Dwelling on too many memories of his golden days in Stockton. In his mind, before that first shoulder slumped, Nick's voice bellowed at him. Now with Nick as his conscience and Patrick as his warrior, he still had a fire inside. He opened both hands and stared at his palms. He heard Patrick's soft chuckle, as the Irishman took each wrist in his own hands.

"Aye, Lad, I hear him too," He said of their long ago mentor, Brother Francis, "Faith and Will..."

"Yeah..." Heath eyed the three ghostly faces, "Shake a leg, McKenna. We got work to do."

"There's a good Lad" Patrick smiled and slapped Heath's back as they approached the three dejected prisoners. After a little cajoling and a gentle prodding from Patrick, the three stood and joined the others at the church service. Father Jim gave a stirring service, rousing up every motivational parable he could think of. They joined hands and bowed their heads as he prayed over them, showering them with God's blessing on this Holy Night. They raised their voices in song, filling the hall with a wonderous glow. Even those who lay dying found renewed strength. Their fevered eyes shone with pride and their weak voices joined in.

"I'm glad your here..." Heath whispered, before the final refrain of the hymm they were singing. "It ain't much of a present." Heath offered his open hand to the tall, dark haired youth.

"It's a grand present." Patrick said thickly, gripping the hand strongly, and pulling the blond into a warm embrace. "Ye've made me the richest man in the world, Boy-o"

Across the yard, shivering on the front porch of the farm house, stood Matt Bentell. The pipe was gripped tightly in his clenched teeth. Both fists were clutched in anger. His eyes glittered with venom as the voices, joined in song, gained strength. He shuffled inside and slammed the door. Even as he retreated to bed, it assaulted him. He couldn't escape it.

It was a simple gift, one that was as old as mankind. It pounced on the Confederate commander and sailed triumphantly into the hearts of the men joined in God's light. The broken bodies housed battered souls seemed a little stronger and the souls were healing. As their voices sailed skyward, the gift exploded, showering them with the contents.

It was a simple gift, one that was as old as mankind. With the last refrain of song as they once again joined hand and bowed heads to pray, it descended upon them. They breathed it in through their battered and bruised faces. It nestled inside and restored their spirit.

It was a simple gift called Hope.

Christmas Eve, 1864, Christmas Eve, Stockton.

A solitary figure stood by the coral. All around him sounds of the season could be heard. In the bunkhouse, the hands were enjoying a bountiful buffet, laden with food and ale. They sang, they celebrated and they exchanged gifts. In the house behind him, a family sat in the formal parlor, resplendant in holiday finery. Fresh greens filled the house with the scent of pine, Red velvet bows were standing at attention of the edges of the mantle and doorways. A huge fir tree stood in one corner, laden with ornaments of every shape, size and color. Gifts were piled under the tree and awaiting their owners. He'd watched through the window and turned away in pain.

Now he stood uncertain, and pulled his coat collar up against the cold night air. He saw the light on in the strange house a short distance away. He began walking, seeking out the light. As he got closer, he became impressed. It was even more beautiful that he'd imagined. Even in the darkness, with only the moonlight to guide his eyes, he stood awed. It rose up reeking of romance and a quaint countryside in France. He saw the lights inside and approached the door.

He was about to knock, but the door was open. He entered and eyed the interior, which was decorated in taste and style. He heard a giggle and took a few hesitant steps. The sight that met his eyes gave him a broad smile. He inhaled sharply and felt his eyes fill. A young couple were wrapped in each other's arms in front of the fireplace. They were locked in a passionate embrace which was sealed with a heated kiss.

"Looks like you remembered all the moves I taught you." He managed, frowning as the catch in his voice. The couple broke apart and the young man's mouth fell open.

"My God..." Dante's voice shrank at the sight before his eyes, standing right in his foyer.

"No, he's a little shorter than me, with a small beard." the teasing reply came. "My name's Nick Barkley. But you can call me Lieutenant."

Dante legs took over and moved their startled owner across the cream and blue oriental rug to the doorway. He pulled the startled soldier into a bearhug. "I can't believe you're here..."

Nick winced when he heard the sudden end of the sentence and the shuddering in the tone. He didn't trust his own voice and returned the embrace. Dante pulled away and placed a hand on each shoulder. Nick was pale and painfully thin, but he was home.

"I missed you, Chico..." Dante choked, not fighting the tears that filled his eyes.

"Yeah..." Nick said huskily. "I hear ya...Listen Dante. I'm sorry, about leaving you like that. It was the hardest thing I've ever done." He paused, remembering Dante's heartbreaking calls from his bed as he left.

"It pissed me off but good," Dante recalled, not willing yet to let go of Nick's shoulder. "and it was that vinegar that saved me. Jarrod told later, I can't fathom having that kind of courage..." Dante paused and drilled the hazel eyes across from his, "Thank You, Lieutenant."

"Aw, cut it out." Nick scowled, wiping his eyes. "Jesus, Dante, you're turning us into the Crying Cowboys of the San Joaquin Valley. I got a reputation well established around these parts. Word gets out about this and I'll be ruined."

Dante laughed and clapped Nick on the back. Nick's eyes now drank in the sight of a stunning woman dressed in green velvet. "He must be keeping you hostage..."

"I'm the one that's a hostage." Dante said, wrapped his arm around her slim waist. "She got's my heart all locked up."

"Hell, Son," Nick boomed, eyeing the beautiful brunette, "If I had known about her...uh...skills." He teased, giving her a pleasant blush, "I'd have shoved you out of the way and taken that bullet." Nick tooked the hand offered and kissed it. "It's good to see you again. Although I didn't recognize you without your Red Cross." He admired of the nurse.

"Thanks, Nick." She smiled, "It's good to see you. We've been praying for your safe return. Your parents must have been thrilled."

"I haven't been home yet." Nick dropped his head.

"What? Why?" Dante frowned, eyeing the clouded face. "Uh...Catherine...would you mind getting that bottle of brandy from the kitchen."

"Nice to have you home, handsome," She said, kissing Nick's cheek and leaving.

"You are one lucky man..." Nick shook his head as she left. "She's really something."

"Yeah...sometimes I pinch myself." He agreed, then tapped Nick's shoulder. "Now answer my question."

"Didn't you get my wire?"

"No...there hasn't been much through in the last week. Problems with the lines." Dante added, "But that's not an answer. When did you get in?"

"Around four. I guess."

"Four! Where the hell have you been?"

"Hiding." Nick sighed and leaned against the marble mantle. He felt the fire and studied the dancing flames. "I need a shot of courage before I face him...them."

Catherine returned and sensed the change in atmosphere. She left the bottle and got two glasses from the sideboard. She nodded to Dante and pointed to the library across the foyer. She left, shutting the doors behind her. Dante poured them two drinks and left Nick's on the top of the mantle. He gave a small smile.

"You look like a real country squire," He teased, eyeing the dark green silk vest over a full white shirt.

"I can still take you, Chico." Dante teased, "Name the date and place."

"In your dreams..." Nick tossed, picking the glass up. "It suits you, Dante. I felt it as soon as I came in. To a long and happy life here. I mean that."

"Thanks Nick." Dante nodded as the glasses clinked.

He eyed Nick toying with the chain around his neck. He stared hard into the lost hazel eyes and saw fear and something else...pain. What was Nick afraid of? He was home...safe...what could be wrong?

"Talk to me Nick." He said quietly, laying a hand on the slumped shoulder.

Nick turned and stared into the comforting eyes. "I...I can't face him."

"Who...your father? Why?"

"I've never lied to him before. He knows me, Dante. He'll take one look and he'll see right through me. I've been seeing those blue-gray eyes of his in my sleep."

"Yeah. I know what you mean." Dante agreed. "Heath was the same way..." He bit off the sentence as the hazel eyes flicked and Nick shifted his gaze. "Is this about Heath?" What Nick didn't say, gave the older youth the answer. The eyes didn't meet his, Nick turned away, toying with his glass. "That's it...it's about Heath...isn't it?"

Nick expelled a long breath and drained the burning fluid in the glass. He nodded slightly and finally raised his eyes. "I saw him...he...he's the one who shot me."

The only sound in the room was the glass shattering as it fell from Dante's hand and the snapping of the fire. Nick saw the color drain from Dante's face and nodded to the nearby wing chairs. "Better sit down for this..." He said and began his painful story.

"Where's Dante and Catherine?" Audra demanded. "If we wait any longer, dinner will be spoiled."

"Somehow I think dinner isn't on their top priority" Tom reported, kissing the top of her flaxen head.

"They can kiss later." She decided, eyeing the door "You think they'd be worn out."

Tom laughed and cracked a walnut. He eyed the tall tree and flinched as his eye caught the wooden soldiers Heath made his first Christmas. Whoever said 'Time heals all wounds' never lost a child. He still radiated pain every day. Maybe it would have been less of a burden, if they'd had a body to bury.

"It's about time!"

Audra's voice drew him out of his thoughts. He turned as Dante and Catherine entered.

"Hello, Princess." Dante hugged the twelve year and nodded to his Uncle.

"Sorry...we uh...got tied up."

"Un-huh..." Tom nodded knowingly "I'm not so old that I can't remember."

"Where's Aunt Victoria?" Dante eyed the parlor.

"Convincing the Pork Loin not to dry up." He nodded to the kitchen. "Audra, tell your mother we can eat now."

"Uh...Uncle Tom. Is there room for one more?"

"One more..." Tom puzzled, as the front door shut. He saw Dante smile broadly and turn slightly. Tom walked to the door as the visitor found his voice.

"Hello Father."

"Nick..." Tom hushed, staggered by the sight of his flesh and blood, standing a few feet away. He swallowed hard and closed the gap, embracing his middle son. His trembling hands gripped the back of Nick's head as they broke apart. "Thank God..."

"There's a lot of that going around." Nick said. "It's a good night for that. It's good to see you, Father. I'm fine...really." He answered the worried blue eyes that studied him. He saw so much of Heath looking back at him he scared him. He looked past his father as Dante and drew strength. He'd poured his heart out to Dante and felt incredibly stronger with the older youth sharing the burden. Like Jarrod, Dante agreed that until they had word, it was best to keep the knowledge of their lost brother secret. "Is that Roast Pork? I'm starving..." Nick choked, suddenly overcome by the wallpaper, carpeting, elegant stairwell...Heath's room. Home...Home Sweet Home. Jarrod was right, he needed this, now more than ever.

They entered the Dining Room at the same time. He from the foyer ...she from the kitchen. She didn't utter a word. He held her close and let the tears fall. "I love you too, Mother." He answered her silent plea.

"Jarrod, that's it, we're calling it a night."

"Yes, Sir,"

"My wife has been looking forward to this Roast Beef dinner all week. I hope your hungry."

"For a Roast Beef dinner...always"

"I know it's not the same as being with your family," Major John Brewster sympathized. "But you've become like family to us. Emily wants to show off Jack." He spoke of his 2 year old grandson.

"Will your daughter be able to make it?"

"Their train arrived around five. I expect they're all settled in by now. It's a miracle Brett has come home." He said of his son-in-law. "Annie was so worried." He said of his only child.

Like most parents, they'd worried that Annie married too young. The pretty, blond met the architect-to -be a charity ball. She was only eighteen and he only a year older. The war sped up the romance and they were wed, shortly before Brett was sent south. John Andrew was born while Brett was deep in the south. Jack, as he was called, was the apple of his grandfather's eye. Annie and the baby stayed with them, until word came that Brett was badly wounded. Annie went south to Annapolis and nursed her husband back to health. He was determined to make it home for Christmas. John loved the boy, who's intelligence and bravery quickly earned him promotions.

"Well, let's not keep them waiting." Jarrod said, slipping his coat on.

"Did your brother make it home?"

"I got a wire about an hour ago, it was delayed. His train arrived this afternoon."

"What a wonderful gift for your parents."

Jarrod nodded and wondered where Heath was on the Eve of Christ's birth. His heart still hoped that somehow his blond brother was still alive but his head argued logic. He saw the first wisps of snow circling above, as the carriage took them cross town. The house was warm and inviting. A Christmas tree with gifts piled under it, called him close. He eyed the decorations and his hand touched the wings of a glass angel.

"Jarrod, there you are."

He turned and smiled as the petite woman embarced him. "Good Evening, Mrs. Brewster. Thanks for having me."

"Nonsense,. Jarrod, you're family." She took his arm. "Now. John will get you a drink, as soon as Jack lets him go."

A few minutes later, Major Brewster entered, with a tow-headed two year old on his shoulders. The toddler giggled as the Major juggled him. He eased the boy down and took him by the hand.

"You must be Jack," Jarrod nodded at the handsome child, struck strongly by his large blue eyes.

"I know every grandparent brags," Major Brewster stated, "But he is an exceptional child."

"Oh Papa..."

Jarrod smiled at the teasing tone in the blond girl's voice. The pretty twenty-one year old swept into the room and held out her hand.

"It's nice to meet you. My father brags about you almost as much as he does Jack."

"The pleasure all mine, Annie." Jarrod charmed, "He has every right to brag...about Jack that is. He's a beautiful child."

"He's his father's son." She cooed, holding the squirming boy, "Except for the hair, that's mine..."

"Where is Brett?" The Major asked. "Your mother said he looked pale."

"He's a little weak. It was a serious head wound, Papa. The doctor's said it will take a while. He's still having headaches."

"I'm fine."

Jarrod turned as a young man entered. He was about six foot tall with auburn wavy hair and blue eyes. He was greeted warmly by the Major. Jarrod hide a smile at he man whose presence caused every staff member to cringe. This powerful entity was now wrapping his embarrassed son-in-law in an embrace.

"I'm fine, Sir..It's good to be home."

"You better not scare my daughter like that again." He warned.

"No Sir, I'll try not to." Brett replied, reading the message between the lines. "and Thank You."

Jarrod couldn't help staring at the twenty-two year old. He seemed familiar. Jarrod tried to remember if the Major mentioned where Brett went to school.

"Welcome Home." He said, extending his hand.

"Thanks. I had no idea how much that word meant to me."

"I know how you feel. My other brothers all saw action and two have been wounded. They're home safe tonight also."

"Let's eat!" The hostess announced.

They were all seated, except for Jarrod. He eyed the smudges on his hands. In their hasty retreat, he hadn't time to wash up. Before he could excuse himself, Brett dropped his fork and clutched his temples.

"Brett!"

"I'm sorry, Mother." He nodded to his Mother-in-Law.

"You didn't take them, did you?" His wife asked angrily.

"Aw, Annie," He hissed, rubbing his temples "They make my stomach upset. " He said of the painkillers. "I was hoping to get through dinner. I'll get them"

"No, don't get up." Jarrod said. "Where are they? Maybe I can help? I was going to wash up for dinner anyway. As long as I'm upstairs..."

"Thanks Jarrod." Annie said. "That's very kind. We've not even unpacked. The room next to the bathroom. THere's a small brown leather box on the dresser. The pills are in a brown envelope, they're marked."

"Be right back." Jarrod climbed the stairs and washed his hands and face. Then he entered the room in question. He found the box and took the envelope out. A small lamp illuminated the room. He bent to extinguish it, and knocked over a small oil painting. It was housed in a ten-inch oval frame. He sat on the bed nearby and frowned. The young girl in the painting wasn't Annie or her mother. She was very young, seventeen perhaps and very pretty. Long brown hair was swept off her shoulders, but is was the eyes that haunted him. He suddenly realized where he'd seen her before. He took the steps two at a time and burst into the Dining Room. He held himself in check while the recovering invalid took his pills. His wife hovered at his elbow, her pretty face painted with concern. Finally the tension left his face and he sighed.

"Sorry..." He squeezed her hand and kissed it. Then he turned to Jarrod. "Thanks, Jarrod. Is there something wrong?"

Jarrod felt pins and needles prick at him as he realized why this young man looked familiar. He eased the painting onto the table.

"I saw this...it was by the box." Jarrod started, "Is this a relative of yours?"

"Yes..." Brett nodded, "That was my mother. She died a few months after my birth. Why?"

"Because I've seen her...well, a photograph of her. She couldn't have died when you were a baby."

"That's impossible..." He stammered. "My father wouldn't lie to me. Her death haunted him. She was the love of his life...he never got over it. He died about five years ago, but he was never the same. You're mistaken Mr. Barkley and I don't find it amusing." Brett glared at the man at this right.

"I'm sorry Brett, but it's not a mistake. I think it's a terrible tradgedy and I can hazard a guess at who orchestrated it. The photo I spoke of belonged to my youngest brother. He was born of an affair my father had with a beautiful young woman. Your mother was..."

"Leah Thomson." Brett finished stunned.

The silence in the room was deafening. There was long, stunning pregnant pause as the words hung in the air. Then they dissolved, sending showers of pain that erupted in a tidal wave from the stunned young man's mouth.

"NO!"

"Brett, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say." Jarrod winced, seeing the naked shock on the young man's face. He flinched as those blue eyes, 'damn blue eyes' as Nick would say, stared at him in muted hate-filled pain. Heath's eyes...Leah's eye's...Brett's eyes. The rest of the features weren't familiar, but the eyes were riveting. Emotional pools of pain...just like Heath.

"Da...Da...Da..."

Jarrod tore his eyes away and followed the child's voice. The cherubic toddler sat in his high-chair, banging a spoon on the wooden tray. His bright eyes looked at Jarrod. The resemblence to Heath was much stronger, aided the shock of blond hair.

"He looks like Heath..." Jarrod stammered. "...that's his name. My bro...our brother. Heath will be seventeen this May. He's fair like Jack, like my father and shares my father's features, except for the eyes. You have the same eyes...your mother's eyes." Jarrod took a deep breath and tried to stop his rambling speech. Twice he moved his hand in an attempt to rest it on Brett's shoulder, but resisted.

"I can't believe...how can...Oh God..." Brett slumped, resting his pounding head in his hands.

Jarrod wanted to find a hole to crawl into. Some homecoming. This young man had been wounded in the war and fought hard to get home for Christmas. What a lousy homecoming gift to be given.

"There is a fine dinner spread before us and I for one, would like to give thanks to my creator for keeping my family intact and safely delivering my son back to me." the Major broke the uncomfortable silence. Brett's head came up and he eyed the older man. He knew the Major cared about him, but he wasn't one to express his emotions openly.

"You never called me that before." Brett managed, lifting his head.

"Then I'm sorry, Brett." The Major conceded, "It's long overdue. I'd like to say grace and then enjoy the sight of my family seated around me. After dinner, we'll retire to the study and you and Jarrod can talk." He waited until the chestnut curly head bobbed and nodded for Jarrod to take his seat. He said grace and the dinner commenced. As Jarrod eyed the full plate before him, Heath's face appeared. He could almost hear the 'Boy Howdy,that's looks good.' Where was his brother on this holiest of nights? Was he still alive?

"Bed to soft fer ye, Lad?"

Heath looked up from the floor under the window, where he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. "Something like that. I've been looking at the moon, thinking about Nick."

Patrick eased onto the floor across from Heath. He rested his head against the wall and saw the patient moon stroke Heath's face with her silver fingers. The ghostly white face was set off by a hollow pair of eyes. His young friend hadn't talked Nick, not in all the weeks they'd shared in this rat hole. He saw the frail hand clutching the chain around his neck. He knew it was the boy's most treasured possession and he guarded it with his life.

"It's a fine chain. Was it his then?" He asked of the dark-haired youth who was haunted his blond friend.

"It was a gift, from Nick..." Heath's voice was low and Patrick had to strain to hear. The story unfolded haltingly at first, then flowed like a river. He listened intently over the next hour as Heath poured his heart out. Long overdue, like a festering wound, it poured forth, bringing tears and smiles. Heath stopped as suddenly as he'd begun, at the moment when he'd been captured. Once again, he was in awe of the unending depth of the proud mantle Heath wore so easily. After all he'd been through, ripped from the family he loved by a greedy monster, a boy in a man's war seeing the face of the death too soon and then to bear the weight of shooting your brother. But Nick Barkley was so much more than that, one look at the hollow blue eyes confirmed that. The shooting of his brother and the unfathomable mire of bearing the guilt of his untimely death had burned half the soul from the young soldier. Yet he endured...Nick's spirit lived on and shone through the pale eyes, burning bright with desire. "I'm gonna get home, Pat and that beast better not get in the way. I'll send him straight to hell."

"Which beast would ye be speakin' of Lad? Bentell or Simmons."

"Both..." Heath held an arm up. "Get me up Irish...All your damn chatterin' wore me out." He said with a crooked grin.

Patrick hauled his friend up and returned the grin. There was still a few hours until dawn. He eyed the quiet young man walking next to him. He was suddenly very proud to call him friend.

"If ye want, I can kick yer ass now and again." He gripped the back of Heath's neck."I'll even stomp and cuss if ye'd like." He noted of Nick's actions, which Heath was so fond of.

Heath paused and tilted his head. He could almost hear Nick laughing. He bent and stared at Patrick's scuffed, worn boots. He cocked his head and frown, before nodding.

"Don't be gettin' any ideas, Boy-o..." Patrick warned, "Me boots are quite fond of me and I of them."

"Yup..." Heath nodded, pulling himself upright. "There the same."

"The same as what?" Patrick frowned, eyeing his feet. Heath lowered himself into his bunk and pulled the tattered blanket over his shivering thin frame. Patrick shrugged and started to leave, when the soft voice floated up.

"...same as Nick's. Nobody else could wear 'em...'cept you." Heath yawned and saw Nick's scowling face before him. They were in the corral and it was a glorius summer morning. He was much younger and running to keep pace with Nick's long strides. Nick turned and his face screwed up.

"Quit followin' me around Runt!"

Patrick sat next to the bunk and swallowed painfully. His eyes flicked to the calm face of the young man, lost in a dream. He heard Heath mumbling in his sleep, talking to Nick. It was the same each night. He sat and waited, resting his eyes until the frantic screaming would start. Now he knew the true depths of the origin of the heart breaking call. He eased closer and kicked away a newsy rat. He cast his dark eyes skyward.

"I've got his back, Nick. Ye rest easy, Lad"

Victoria shivered and sat up in bed. It was the lack of the warm body and strong arms that chilled her. She eyed the empty bed and frowned. She rose and slipped on her robe and slippers. She lit the bedside lamp and eyed the clock on the mantle. It was after two in the morning. Sighing, she entered the hallway. She was about to go downstairs and seek out her missing mate, when she saw Nick's door open. She made her way down the hall and paused in the doorway. Her free hand went to her throat and she felt her eyes fill. She set the lamp down on the table in the hall and entered the room.

Tom was sitting on a chair next to the bed. In his hands was Charlie, Nick's trusty stuffed cotton steed. His eyes never left Nick's back, even though he was aware of her entrance. Silently, she slipped onto his lap and rested her head on his shoulder. One strong arm wrapped around her drawing her close. Her fingers entwined with his, guarding the little horse and his owner. They sat like that for awhile, before his voice filled the stilled night. It was rich with a tenderness she'd never heard and filled with such love it spilled tears from her eyes.

"I never realized just how beautiful he is..." Tom's voice wavered as he free hand left the little horse and hovered over Nick's head. He pulled it back as the body in the bed turned in his sleep without waking. For a split second, he saw the bold four year old whose brazen attitude gave his mother fits and his father a swaggering grin. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and gave thanks. for his child's safe passage from the bloody hand of a hellish battle.

Jack had been put to bed and the adults sat uncomfortably in the well appointed study. The Major and Jarrod were having Brandy. The women were sipping tea. Brett was clutching his wife's hand in a death grip. Jarrod had given him a brief history of Heath's arrival at the ranch and events that lead up to Nick's arrival in Washington.

"What's he like?" Brett asked, still numb.

"He's..." Jarrod sighed, and rubbed his neck, "extremely bright, loves to read, very inquisitive, has a slow burning temper, gifted with animals, a crack shot, infectious laughter..." Jarrod smiled, still hearing that laugh. "My father said it was the sweetest music he ever heard..." Jarrod mused, recalling his father's face lighting up at the sight of his blond brother. "We were raised formally and always addressed him as 'Sir' or 'Father". But you should have seen his face when the front door would slam and Heath's "Hey Pa!" would ring out. He'd light up like the sun." Jarrod smiled. "That sun died the day Lucius Simmons stole Heath from us." Jarrod's voice grew hard and he related the events from the day by the river through to Nick's meeting Heath on the battlefield."

"That man is pure evil. My father swore if you followed him , he left cloven hoof prints" Brett spat angrily.

"How did it happen? Your father's leaving?" Jarrod sat back and studied the handsome young man's face flushed with anger.

"My father, John Thomson, was an architect, like I am He was young and reckless...out to make a name for himself. He was born and raised on an estate on the Hudson River in New York. He worked hard to get through school and signed on with a leading firm He made quite a name for himself. He had a schoolmate whose father was quite wealthy and lived in Lexington. He was invited to join them for the summer and decided to take a holiday and travel south. Shortly after he arrived, he met a beautiful Southern Belle at a horserace. She was just seventeen and the prettiest girl my father had ever seen. He said being with her was like embracing the sun. Her name was Leah Simmons."

"She was beautiful." Jarrod noted, glancing at the painting in Brett's hand.

"Yes, she was. Her parents were in Europe and she was staying with friends. They courted over the summer and my father asked for her hand. She deferred until their return in early October. Her mother liked my father but Lucius Simmons..." His voice trailed off and his face grew stormy. "He hated Yankees...especially New York Yankees. My father quickly became the enemy. He forbade them to see each other. She...begged...broke down in tears...threw herself at his feet and he slapped her."

Jarrod flinched as the images unfolded in his mind. He saw the faraway look in Brett's eyes as the story continued.

"They eloped that night, they were in love and didn't want to wait anymore. My grandmother collasped when she realized what they'd done. She became very ill and my mother was overcome with guilt. My father wanted to go north, to take her back to New York, but she wouldn't leave while her mother was still sick. They had a small cottage on the river, hidden in a thicket of trees. The servents from Briarcrest all knew where they were. They were very fond of my mother and snuck her into see her mother when Old Lucius was away. By springtime, my mother was expecting me and my father was getting antsy. My mother promised to go with him, as soon the baby was old enough to travel. My father told me the two months after I was born was the happiest eight weeks he spent on earth. Until that night..."

Anne leaned over and rubbed his back. She lifted the face etched in pain and kissed him. She took one hand and held on tight. "Go on, Honey, finish. It needs to be told." She encouraged.

"Lucius found out about them living nearby. I don't know how...my father swore the servents were loyal. Lucius got drunk and broke into the house one night. He demanded my father leave and take me with him. He said...well...cruel horrid things to my mother, and my father threw him out. He told my mother to get dressed and get me ready. He was holding me and in the lead...she went back for the picture...this picture..." Brett touched it reverently. "My father hired a local artist to paint is shortly after they were married. Lucius came in the back door, while my mother was upstairs. He attacked my father, striking a staggering blow. The force sent my father into a table, knocking over a lamp. The flames spread quickly. My father managed to crawl with me in his arms and get outside. He tried to get back in for her...but Lucius hit him again. It was a serious head injury and he nearly died. He finally awoke several days later on a neighboring plantation. A slave heard me screaming and followed the sound. They told my father the cottage burned to the ground and she was trapped. He didn't believe them. They said they attended the funeral and took him to the grave. He was never the same..." Brett's voice broke..."He was a fine man, Jarrod and I loved him dearly, but he was empty inside. There was a huge hole where his heart should have been."

"He never contacted Simmons...or his wife?" Jarrod asked quietly, seething at the horrible actions.

"No...he left right from the cemetary that day. I guess there was too many painful memories...his heart was broken, he was shattered. Plus he suffered terrible headaches the rest of his life."

The silence of the next few minutes was interrupted by the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. The Major wasn't a man comfortable with expressing his emotions. He walked slowly across the room and placed both hands on the young man's shoulders. He gripped them firmly and patting the slumped back.

"I'm sorry, Son. As soon as this war is over, we'll confront this vile beast. He'll pay for what he's done."

Brett never moved, it was all he could do to quell the rage he felt. He didn't want to scare his wife or mother-in-law. He heard Jarrod talking and struggled to hear the words.

"He'll pay the hard way...where it hurts his kind the most." Jarrod nodded. "I don't know all the details, but my guess is he staged you mother's death. Undoubtedly, he must have told her you and your father were killed. That land and everything on it was your grandmother's. It was her death and will that prompted Lucius to kidnap Heath. You see, she left all ther holdings to her only heir, Leah. If Leah had passed it was to go to her heirs or the church. From what Heath told my brother Nick, it's a pretty good sized estate and on some of the richest soil in Kentucky. It's known for high quality thoroughbred horses. It belongs to you and Heath and I intend to see that justice is done. I want that bastard to pay for what he's done...and for all the pain he's caused." Jarrod drained his brandy and felt movement. He turned to see Brett next to him.

"I want justice too, Jarrod. But there's one thing I want more. Something so powerful it hurts." Brett gripped the young lawyer's shoulder. "I'd like your help..."

"Anything." Jarrod nodded.

"I want to find my brother. I want Heath...I need him Jarrod."

"So do I..." Jarrod sighed and agreed, taking the hand extended.

The gray rain tapped on the window, the gentle stokes creating a soothing lullaby. It would have been a good night to curl up under a old quilt and let the snapping fire play the music of the night. Despite the tempting offers presented by beguiling eyes, soft curves and silken lips, he stood alone. The warmth of the fire and the brandy he held would have to be enough to keep him warm tonight. He should have been tired, having spent several hours dancing and making small talk in the White House. The Red Cross Charity Ball had been a huge success. After a fine dinner, he'd charmed nearly every eligible debutante in Washington. Stolen kisses in the shadows left him wanting more, but he'd sent desire out into the cold night.

"You better get some sleep, that train leaves early."

Jarrod turned as Major Brewster entered the room. He eyed the clock nearing midnight and nodded.

"That would be the practical thing to do." Jarrod agreed, "But even the Sandman won't take my bribe."

The older man read the dejection in the downcast blue eyes. "You've put a lot of time and effort into this mission. You're acting as if you've already lost. There's just as much of a chance that you'll find Heath, then not." He paused, seeing Jarrod's flinch. "That's it? You're afraid you'll find him."

Jarrod sighed deeply and dropped his head, letting the fire hypnotize him. For the last six weeks, he'd visited just about every hospital and field hospital in a wide perimeter. He looked at hundreds of broken bodies, left blind, limbless and paralyzed by this horrid sibling rivalry. He asked about Heath, showing a sketch done by an newspaper artist. But no a single trace of the blond was found.

Brett's injury was slow healing and his capacity to function was slowly returning. The first few weeks home, he'd slept more than not, allowing the medicine to work. The last three weeks, he finally got a step up on the injury and was nearly a hundred percent. While Jarrod searched the nearby hospitals, checking the patients and the records, Brett had begun reviewing the long lists of names of the P.O.W's held by the Union Army. There were dozens of prisons and stockades and the lists were only partially accurate.

At the onset of the discovery of Brett's identity, Jarrod drafted a letter to Lucius Simmons and his attorney. Effective immediately, Brett Thomson was the sole heir of Briarcrest. With the diary of his father, his birth certificate and a few letters from Mary Simmons, the evidence was enough to back up the claim. He'd received a letter from Garrison David White, Simmon's attorney. He and Brett were going to Richmond in the morning to finalize the paperwork. He wasn't sure how Brett would react to meeting his grandfather. Like Heath, Brett's anger was the smoldering kind, kept well hidden and controlled until it exploded.

The Major had re-assigned both young men; they'd be inspectors on behalf of the Union Army. Stopping at the Union Prisons to ensure that prisons, their inhabitants and environs were habitable. Also, with the end of the war on the horizon, paroles were being set up. Jarrod and Brett were just one of many teams sent to inspect the prisons, carrying the the order to parole the most severly injured and sick to nearby hospitals. Jarrod knew the Major had called in a favor or two to get Brett and himself transfers into the position.

"I'm terribly grateful," Jarrod finally spoke, "I want you to know that. I guess as much as I want to find my brother alive, I'm afraid of what I might find."

"You'll find a way to take him home," The Major laid a hand on the downcast shoulder. "I've seen my share of wounds and injuries during my forty years in the service. I've seen the power of family and home. It works wonders, miracles even. If Heath is alive, the bosom of his family is what will heal his wounds."

"It's not the visible wounds that worry me." Jarrod said softly, thinking of the young men he'd seen in the hospital wards. Their bodies were unmarred, but their minds were gone. The vacant eyes haunted him; keeping them safe in a world known only to them. "You'd have to know Heath to understand. He's very special. I don't know where I'd find the courage...if...if...he..." Jarrod choked off the end of thought.

"You'd find it here." The Major said, tapping Jarrod's chest. "Don't stay up too long."

"No, Sir, I won't." Jarrod nodded, "and Thank You."

Mother Nature bellowed her displeasure and her epiphany sent trembles through the weary, water-logged men. For three days the torrents of rain had caused the river to rise to a dangerous level. The citizens of Stockton, from the very rich to the migrant workers, banded together to save the valley from flooding. Their muscles screamed from too many hours filling, lifting and slapping sandbags on the muddy banks. The lack of sleep and infrequent hot meals had everyone's nerves on edge. But one particular resident of Stockton was well known for his impatience. Tonight was no exception. There was only one voice that could outshout a storm.

"I've seen old ladies move faster...throw you back into that, Jenkins. Watson, Daily , this ain't a tea party, quit gabbing and get them bags filled." the tirant bellowed, squinting against the driving rain. "Parsons..." He paused, spotting a neighboring ranchhand heading for the nearby bank of tents set up providing coffee and sandwiches. "get back here..." His long legs caught up to the older, stockier man easily. He hauled him back by the collar. "Get on that line or ...."

"Shove off, Barkley." he spat, shoving Nick hard, "I'm sick your damn barking. Go to hell."

"Let me show you the way" Nick teethed. hauling a fist back and sending the other man into the mud.

Another figure struggled in the river. The younger, stronger men were standing in the freezing water building a wooden fortress to support the bags and discourage the angry current. His long black hair was plastered to his face, the poncho did little to combat the driving wind. Every muscle screamed in pain and he was chilled to the bone. He turned as frantic splashing interrupted his hammering.

"Trouble..." The voice urged and pointing to the bank.

"Nick?" He screamed back and saw the unidentifyable head nod. Sighing, he threw down his hammer and muttered all the way to the edge. He reached up and took the hands offer, climbing over the wood and soggy bags. He winced and grabbed his hip, already bruised from a tumble downstream. His companion mistook the gesture.

"You gonna shoot him?"

"Buck?" He squinted, and felt the older man clap his back. "I just might have to. Damn hot-headed fool." He hissed, spotting Nick. The frustrations of the weary met hit a wall. Parsons, the lone combatant, now had company. Five more men tired, hungry, wet and sick of Nick's temper had banded with him. Three of the would -be-assailants were already in the mud. Nick was busy with the other three.

Nick swiped the blood from his lip and flinched as the icy rain pelted his face. He felt a hand on his shoulder and snarled, baring his teeth. He spun and drew his fist back, then jerked and blinked.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Dante hollered over the wind. "It's not bad enough I gotta worry about being drowned...I gotta worry on bailing your sorry ass out of jail?"

Nick opened his mouth twice to reply but no words came. One arm remained reared back, like a Cobra ready to strike. The other clutched the front of the soggy poncho. He stared hard at the dark eyes looking back at him. His fingers tingled, he needed to hit ...something. All the tension he'd built up over the last worry filled months had come to a head. Too long dormant, it sprang like a dragon, breath firey and eyes hot.

"Go on...Nick. Free shot." Dante offered, then menaced, "But then I'm gonna clean this camp with your face."

Before Nick could respond two of the combatants loomed behind him. Nick and Dante turned at the same time. Two fists shot out simultaneously, sending the pair to the ground.

"Back off, Dante. I got the right. These cretins ain't pulling their share. I aim to teach them a lesson."

"That's not true..."

"We've been pulling our share..."

"He's crazy..."

"Just cause he's a high and mightly Barkley, don't give him the call to..."

A chorus greeted from around them.

"Shut up, all of you." Dante ordered. "Those of you that belong on the line, get there. We're finally making some ground. Those of you on break, get your coffee and then get back to work. As for you, Lenny," He gritted to the author of the last remark. "We're not asking you to do anything we haven't been doing. Now get to work" He dispelled the crowd.

"I got a mind to teach you a lesson." Nick growled, fighting against Dante's grip.

"If you had a mind, you wouldn't be sportin' a split lip and black eye." Dante hissed, shoving Nick into the nearest tent. He forced him into the furthest corner and stood him against the wall. "Talk." He issued, wiping his face with a napkin provided by one of the women manning the mess.

Nick took the napkins and wiped his face. He glared at Dante and tried to get by him. He was met by a wet wall of resistance.

"Oh No you don't...What's eatin' you?"

"Leave me alone. I'm in no mood for one of your damn speeches. They need somebody to teach them how to follow orders."

"So you volunteered?" He tested, "That outburst had nothing to do with the flood. You've been a walking box of dynamite."

"Look, Dante..." Nick growled, clutching his fists.

"I'm trying to, Nick." Dante said quietly, totally disarming the hot-head. He rested one hand on Nick's shoulder. "Let me in, Chico..."

Nick flinched and dropped his fists, his head followed. He slid onto the nearest chair, shoulders slumped. Dante got two cups of coffee and took the opposite chair. "Drink..." He commanded, and waited until Nick finished his cup.

"I know you're worried about your father, Nick. We all are. But you gotta learn how to control that temper. Those men have been at it day and night for three days. They're hungry, tired, wet and frustrated. They needed a leader, not a...a..."

"Sorry-assed, hot-headed cowboy..." Nick offered, cocking his head and squinting.

"Yup," Dante nodded, his lips curling into a grin. "I'd say that about covers it. You need to let loose? You come see me. You don't take it out on them. That won't solve anything."

"He's dying, Dante. I'm gonna lose him too."

"Too?" Dante scowled, "Get your head up and look at me." He paused until the soggy head lifted and the pain-filled hazel eyes met his. "Quit being a martyr Nick, it doesn't become you. Your father's pneumonia isn't your fault. Neither was Heath's getting captured. You heard what Doc Merar said, it's gonna take time. He's not twenty-one anymore, Nick, he's gonna get better, but it's gonna be awhile before he's fit again."

"How long's awhile?" Nick muttered, "It's been three weeks, he's not getting better. I think he's giving up."

"Don't you say that!" Dante growled ferally. "He's the strongest man I've ever met. Don't you be so disrespectful. The people in this valley have always looked to the Barkley's for leadership. He's counting on us. I don't intend to let him down. I'd die first. You want to have a pity party? You're on your own."

Dante drained his coffee and stood. Nick watched him leave and frowned, noticing the visible limp. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He scowled and hit the table in frustration.

"That help?"

"Hey Buck." Nick said as the older man sat down. He saw more than fatigue on the muddy face.

"Look Son, I know you've had a rough time of it. Your father's sickness caught us all off guard. But Dante's right...he's counting on you two to keep your heads. Those people out there need a astrong voice and solid heart."

"Seems Dante's got that covered..." Nick grumbled.

"He needs help. His shoulders aren't broad enough to carry that weight. What he don't need is to be pulled off of building that support wall to bail you out."

"I don't mean for that to happen." Nick chagrinned. For a split second, Buck saw the small boy who tried too hard to follow his father's boots so many years ago. "But it seems my brain ain't as fast as my mouth."

Buck laughed and gripped the downcast shoulders. "You're brain just's fine. You can't be something that your not. A saint you ain't...you're human Nick and fallible. Patient...I've seen you spent hours at the side of a sick mare, with a tender voice and gentle touch. You're a born leader, Nick, the Army proved what I've known since you were just a little feller. I know it's not just your Pa's that's got you worried. You're not a talker, Nick, I know that. But sometimes it's what heals what ails you."

Nick sat silent, thinking on Buck's words. His body was in California, fighting a storm both around him and inside him. But his heart was thousands of miles away, on a riverbank with a blue-eyed Reb.

"I'll tell you what." Buck said, breaking the spell. "I'll see to bag brigade, you give Dante a hand. Seems he's inherited some of your stubborn pride. He's favoring his right side. I think when that current carried him away, he hit some rocks. He wouldn't let nobody near him. Drug himself out of the river down a piece."

Nick was already out the door before Buck finished. He made his way to the river and paused, eyeing the dozen bodies several feet off shore. He watched one struggling, decidedly favoring his right side. "...gotta a nerve callin' me a stubborn fool..."

"You better head up to the Mess Tent. You're getting a bad sunburn." Nick decided, slipping next to Dante in the frigid water.

Dante glanced over, levelling a hard gaze but remained silent. He bent over to pick up a board and Nick touched his right hip. Dante buckled and hissed in pain. Nick grabbed him and steadied him.

"You ever call me stubborn again and I'm gonna level you." Nick growled. "Get to that tent and have the Doc look at you hip."

"It's fine'" Dante pulled away."

"Fine huh?" Nick challenged, "Is that why you almost dropped when I did this?" He said, pressing the hip again. He smiled at the string of curses and the glare.

"Shut up, Nick." Dante hissed, grabbing the strong arm and holding tight. "I'll go on one condition."

"Name it."

"You get your mind back in Stockton and out of Virginia. Jarrod and Brett are doing everything humanly possible. If Heath's out there, they'll find him." He said of the mission, that only he and Nick knew about.

Nick's grin faded and his guard dropped. "I can't..."

"You have to." Dante protested, the wind and rain whipping his face. "Your mother needs you Nick. She's been putting up a good front, but's she's scared. Your sister needs you. She's thirteen now, she's growing up and needs guidance. Your father needs you...needs to see the man he raised to rule this land. Strong , confident and sure. I....I need you."

They stood for a moment in the dark, the gale force winds and stinging rain assaulting them. Nick didn't feel the cold water against his legs. He didn't feel the wicked wind and driving rain. He looked in those dark eyes and saw faith and hope. Something he desperately needed.

Dante smiled, as the metamorphosis took place. The shoulders squared back and the grit was in his eye; a calm serenity was in his eyes. The man who would someday rule a vast empire had appeared. He nodded and allowed the strong arm to help him over the barracade. He turned to leave and glanced back and watched Tom Barkley's son born.

"It's our only chance, Lad, Are ye with us?"

"You really think it will work?"

"Was me mother not a saint?"

"I don't know Patrick...escaping through a tunnel. It's risky."

"I rather die climbing out of this rat hole, that be beaten to death like a dog. Look around ye, Lad. We're down to less than two hundred men. There's only a couple dozen strong enough for his job. They're countin' on me, Lad. I'll not taste that devil's whip again. I can't bear to look in his eyes...watchin' us dying...lettin' us beg for medicine then beatin' us fer askin'. We're meetin' in the mornin' after prayers. Ye think on it, tonight."

"Rather be thinkin' on a girl."

"Are ye sayin' ye don't find me fetchin'? I'll have to check me heart to make sure it's beatin'"

"Shut up, Irish. You're crazy..."

"I'll not leave Ye, Lad. Ye have me word. If ye decide to stay, then I'm with ye. I'll help them plan and dig."

"I'll think on it."

Patrick made his way back to his bunk. His back was on fire and he was glad Heath didn't see the fever burning on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and called his mother's face up. The blue eyes and dark curls...that warm smile, her comforting arms...took the pain away. He saw the rosary in her hand and felt her arms around him. He saw her lips forming the words and he prayed with her.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost Amen..."

It was a cold day in Richmond when Jarrod and Brett arrived. March was angry and announcd her wrath in a blustery assault. Jarrod had watched that change come over Brett during these last few hours. The intelligent, aspiring architect whose candor and keen insight on so many subjects had quickly turned him into a good friend, was hidden. The mask the handsome young man wore was stone on the outside, but Jarrod knew those eyes too well. He'd seen them often enough in Stockton on Heath. Brett was a walking time bomb. Just a few yards away, up the street in the elegant brick building, was the monster responsible for ruining his parent's lives. He placed a hand on the tense, wool cloaked shoulder and paused.

"Keep it locked down," Jarrod advised, "Don't give him any ammunition. We have this won, it's all over but for the signing."

"It's not about the land or the damn house..." Brett growled low and feral. "It's about justice. He stole my mother Jarrod and all but killed my father. How would you feel?"

Jarrod couldn't answer that. Brett stared him down and then proceeded to the door. The young lawyer saw the clenched fists trembling in rage, at Brett's side. He wiped a tired hand over his cold face and eased up behind his friend. He squeezed the shoulder once.

"Ready?" He waited for the slight drop of the chestnut head and knocked.

A bespeckled clerk answered the door and waved them in. The outer room had three chairs, a small desk and a painting of a horse race on the wall.

"I'm Jarrod Barkley, this is my client, Brett Thomson. I believe Mr. White is expecting us."

"Yes, Sir. Right this way."

The clerk led them down a narrow hall and into a conference room. Around a large mahogny table were six large burdundy velvet wing chairs. A thin, impressive looking man with thinning gray hair, dressed in an expensive gray suit approached them. He extended a hand to Jarrod.

"I'm Garrison White."

"Jarrod Barkley," the lawyer nodded, "My client Brett Thomson."

"It's a pleasure. I knew your mother, young man, she was a fine woman. I see a resemblence around the eyes."

Brett remained silent, but his fingers were vocally crushing the brim of his hat. He looked around the expensive office, the degrees hanging on the walls, the ornate desk and finally rested on the vacant chairs.

"Where is he?" His voice was even but laced with hostility.

"He's been ill. He's confined to his home. Please..." He waved his arm towards the large chairs. "I have Teddy, my clerk, bringing lunch and coffee in. We go over the formalities and then head out to Briarcrest."

"How large of an estate is it?" Jarrod inquired, opening his valise and notebook.

"Just over five hundred acres. Some of the richest, blackest soil is found there. It's always been succesful. The war changed that. But Lucius added a line of thoroughbreds several years back. Briarcrest has a sterling reputation in amond breeder's worldwide."

"A brief history?" Jarrod continued.

"It was built in 1814 by a wealthy English couple, Leander and Elizabeth Covington. He'd purchased the land after visiting friends in nearby Lexington. They had one child, a daughter, Mary. She was a quiet child, painfully shy and beyond plain. By the time Lucius met her, she was well into spinsterhood. She was past thirty, living with her widowed father. It was a...whirlwind romance."

"I'll bet..." Brett's bitter voice was finally airborne.

"Anyway," Garrison continued, "Leah was born a couple years later. She was a beautiful child, she looked just like her grandmother, Elizabeth. When she was oh, eighteen or so, Lucius and Mary went abroad and left her with friends in Lexington. That's where she met John Thomson."

"Brett filled me in on what transpired next. The fire?"

"A terrible tragedy..." Garrison's voice was sincere. "Mary was ...devistated. She never recovered. She loved Leah...but Lucius is a powerful man and she feared his wrath."

"You knew about the secret cottage?" Brett sat forward.

"Yes...Mary and I were good friends. I didn't approve of her marriage to Lucius. I think deep down she knew the truth. That hurt me deeply, but her father wasn't going to last forever and she saw stability and acceptance by society. There was never any love between them." He sat forward and stared hard into Brett's face. "I'm so sorry Brett. I had no idea about the ruse. I knew Lucius was cold and calculating. But to defile himself in such a way...to ruin their lives...your life. I'm truly sorry."

"Thank you." Brett saw only sincerity in the green eyes and decided to trust Garrison White.

While Garrison had been going over the family history, Jarrod had been reading the paperwork that was prepared. White had everything nailed down. As Leah's firstborn child, Brett inherited the whole estate and all her holdings in the bank.

"It's all in order," Jarrod said to Brett, handing him the documents. "Just sign. We'll need a witness."

"Teddy!" Garrison called.

Brett hesitated, reading the scrolling script before him. "What about Heath?"

"Heath?" Garrison bristled, "Despicable...what Lucius did to that boy. Jarrod's letter mentioned Heath is missing. I'm sorry, for both of you."

"Thank You, Mr. White." Jarrod nodded. "We've been searching some of the Prisons, but have had no luck."

"I want Heath to have his half. It's what my mother would have wanted." Brett said quietly.

"You're proposing to buy him out and give him half?" Garrison shook his head. "I don't think you have that kind of money."

"Besides, Brett. Heath would never agree to that. He's as stubborn as you, maybe worse, he's half Barkley." Jarrod grinned. "I think the shock of having another brother will be more than enough of a legacy for him. His home is in Stockton...he and Nick will inherit the ranch one day."

"Excuse me for being so forward," Garrison eyed the young Thomson."But you don't strike me as ...uh..plantation gentry."

"No, Sir," Brett's lips turned upwards, "I'm an architect. I dream about streamlining designs and fine, tall buildings that scrape the sky."

"You're going to sell Briarcrest?" Jarrod's brows furrowed.

"No, of course not." Brett sat back. "It's not just my decision. I need to talk to Annie and the Major. I have Jack to consider, I want it for him." He glanced at the paper again.

"Then sign it ...and keep it safe for him." Jarrod gentled.

An hour later the three pulled up in front of the iron gate. A long, graceful driveway, scored by tall magnolia trees led up to a Greek revival style mansion. It was spectacular. Garrison pointed out several independent buildings along the way. A one room schoolhouse used by the slave children. It was one of the few times Lucius every consented to one of Mary's whims. There was a large, stuccoed brick kitchen, a building housing the privvy's, a cistern house, a dairy and a smoke house. There were dozens of well maintained slave quarters and a large barn. Then the moment of truth arrived, and they pulled up in front of the house. A small slave boy ran down the steps and took the reins.

"Hello, Percy, How are you?" Garrison nodded to the nine-year old.

"Fine suh," He grinned, "I'll keeps a watch on 'em."

"Good man." Garrison tossed him a coin.

They walked up the steps and to the door. A rap was followed by a footfall. An elegantly attired black man with silver hair opened the door. He nodded to Garrison and eyed the others, his gaze lingered on Brett.

"Good Afternoon, Moses. We're here to see Mr. Simmons."

"Yes Suh." he moved away and let them in.

It was a well appointed house, but the war had taken it's toll. The Confederates and Yankees both had claimed it at varying times during the war. Stripped of some of it's furniture, silver and other finery, it took nearly naked. But Brett's trained eye saw beyond that. The style, wainscoating, graceful arches, staircase...all of it was brilliantly done.

"He's just rising from his afternoon nap. He'll be down presently."

"Thank you, Moses." Garrison nodded.

Jarrod and Garrison headed for the study, but Brett lingered. He saw the large portrait of his mother, done when she was about sixteen, hanging over a fireplace in the formal parlor. He swallowed hard and stood numb, drinking in the soft smile and beautiful features.

"My God...you're more beautiful than I imagined." He choked, reaching out as if to touch her.

"An angel...that's what my girl was...the sweetest chil' every born. I raised her from her first breath...til that night...when that devil done his deed."

Brett turned and saw an elderly slave woman standing beside him. She smiled, and a gnarled hand reached up and touched his cheek. He saw tears forming in her wise eyes. Her chin trembled and she shook her head.

"You is her boy...sure 'nuf'. Your Mama sure made some handsome babies. She blessed both her boys with them eyes. I'm Hattie..."

"I'm Brett Thomson." He took her small hand in both of his. "and thank you, Hattie, for loving her."

"It wasn't right, what he done." Hattie's rage shook her. "I always know'd somethun wasn't right about that story. Taking a chil' from his mother. That devil will burn in Hell...mark my words."

"It's not good enough." Brett snarled. "My father did die that night...his heart did anway. He never got over losing her."

She put her wrinkled fingers on the side of his face. "He had you boy...that be her heart...sure 'nuf. Old Hattie knows 'bout that. You're a good boy...I knows ya are. I heard him talking to Mr. White about y'all. You got a little one..."

"Yes Ma'am." Brett smiled. "Jack, he's almost two and a half. God saw fit to smile on me and sent me a real angel, named Annie. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. We're expecting another child by summer's end."

"Well now...that be somethun' to celebrate...these halls been missin' a chil's laughter. I likes you, Son. We gonna be good friends."

"I'd like that Hattie." He said, taking the frail arm and helping her towards the door. "I think she'd like it too." he nodded to his mother's smile.

"Sure 'nuf'' Hattie's eyes crinkled and she traced his smile with her fingers. "Like she standin' right here. You got her smile...took my breath away."

"It's not your fault." Heath sighed, sliding his weary frame onto the hard floor. He eyed the small prison cell and grimaced. The stone cold floors bit into him like an angry wolf. No mat...no chamber pot, just a hole in the floor and no window. No sense if it were day or night outside, or how long they'd been confined there. One cup of water and a stale crust of bread once a day was their only sustainment. No sound from his cellmate, as it had been since they'd been thrown inside this concrete pen.

He dropped his fevered head onto his upturned knees. He winced and shifted constantly, trying to take the endless pain out of the streaks on his back where the lash struck. They'd worked so hard...it had gone so well. Patrick's silver tongue had every man believing in themselves and their mission. He'd wavered until the end, then joined them, diving in at the end of the escapee's crawling like rats, just behind Patrick. His heart stopped at the staccoed shots from overhead. The screams of those in front of him. The panic as they tried to back up and couldn't. The tunnel was narrow,barely wider than their shoulders, and in their panic, the carefully constructed tunnel began to cave. Heath grabbed Patrick's ankle and tugged him backwards.

They tumbled into the cellar where the tunnel began and right into the sadistic guards waiting arms. Before they could even cough out all of the dirt they'd swallowed, they were brutally stripped of their clothes and groped with animal lust. 'Searching for weapons' the leering guards suggested. They were marched out into the main aisle of the mess hall and tied to the central post. Matt Bentell's eyes lit up in fervor as the lashes rained down. Given only ragged pants, they were thrown in the bitter cold yard and forced to dig the graves. Patrick had yet to utter a single word, but Heath heard him as clear as a bell. He'd seen the life drain out of the dark eyes, when they hung from the post. Listless, dull and empty...murky mirrors that even pain couldn't reach. Patrick blamed himself solely for the disaster and Heath knew his trusted brother was hearing those awful screams...the screams of their dying comrades as they were picked off one by one, exiting the tunnel. The eyes that looked to the brave Irishman for leadership and followed him so willingly, now were burned into his mind...lifeless and staring. Somebody sold them out...one of their own...that hurt the worst.

"Please Patrick....I need you...Don't quit on me...not now."

He crawled over in the dark to the body curled on his side. Patrick hadn't moved since they'd been thrown in the hell hole. Heath had to feed him and force water into him. He placed a hand on the hot skin of Patrick's chest.

"I need you, Irish...You promised me...a McKenna never goes back on his word, right?"

A deep sigh was his only response, he slumped back against the wall and dropped his head again. Then he heard the single ragged breath. He panicked and grabbed his fallen friend.

"Damn you, don't you die on me." He pleaded, pulling the weak body upright. Then he heard a single sob. It came from deep within the suffering soul's chest, far beyond when physical pain dwelled. It was the single most horrid sound Heath had ever heard. An anguished, agonizing cry that scorched his soul. He felt Patrick collaspe against him and held the trembling body. He faltered, not sure of how to reach the wretched figure in his arms. He called to mind another time, and another frail figure with a broken heart. A eight-year old boy who's beloved mother was just laid into the ground. He'd ran from the cemetary, until his legs gave out. Rachel found him and held him. He closed his eyes and heard her voice. He held onto Patrick and began to rock. "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me..."

Brett and Hattie just entered the foyer. She felt him stiffen and suck a painful breath in through his teeth. She squeezed his hand once and stepped back. Moses, Kip, Lettie and half a dozen other servents were skirting the room. They'd all heard about the new Master coming and were curious.

Brett turned and watched the devil's descent. He was frail, the ravages of a winter's worth of sickness clinging to his frame. The arrogant eyes regarded him with distaste and the face curled into a reptilian smile.

"Well the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You're as dispicable as the cowardly bastard who sired you." The elderly man said, stopping on the bottom step as Leah's eyes burned into him from a stranger's face.

"You smug son-of-a-bitch." Brett lunged gripping the royal blue silk robe and throwing him against the wall.

"BRETT!" Jarrod screamed and hurried from the middle of the study.

"Unhand me you half-breed mongrel. How dare you!" came the sniveling reply.

Brett's face curled into a contemptable sneer and he inched it closer, gazing right into the cold, heartless eyes. "I've seen snakes with more compassion. You took my brother from a loving family and tortured him...you signed a boy's death warrant and sent him to war. No court in this country would convict me for choking the life out of you...for Heath. And Leah... She was my mother...How could you? How? How could you steal a baby's mother from him? Your own daughter..." His face curled in unbridled disgust.

"Brett...that's enough." Jarrod warned, seeing the explosion ready to implode. The blue eyes were simmering pools of rage. He pulled Brett off of the senor man and felt the muscles rippling under the white shirt. "Calm down..."

Brett didn't hear Jarrod. The room seemed to fade away. His heart was beating like a drum. He saw the evil smile and heard his grandfather's words, dripping with venom.

"She stopped being my daughter..." He baited, "The day that Yankee bastard put his stick into her. He defiled her...he ruined her...tainted her blood."

"Shut your filthy mouth!" Brett shoved Jarrod hard, sending him onto the floor and picked Simmons up and threw him against the wall. "They loved each other...something you wouldn't understand. How could you...you heartless bastard. You have no blood...you don't feel anything. "She cried for you...for months..." He gasped, wiping the blood from his split lip and smiling at the incensed younger man. "Every time I told her how you roasted alive, screaming..."

"NO!!!!" Brett screamed gripping the monster's throat and squeezing.

"Brett...stop it...you'll kill him." Jarrod tried in vain to pull the iron arms free.

"I'd be doing the world a favor." Brett gasped.

"and depriving your children of a father...you'd be as guilty as he is. You..." Jarrod paused, as Brett blinked and released Simmons, who crumpled at this feet. He caught the younger man's eye and saw him nod once, indicating he as alright. He bent over the older man, who felt fear rippling.

"You listen to me, you spineless pile of refuse." He seethed, fists clenched. His voice was clear and deliberate "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Moses and Kip exchanged broad grins. "Thank you, Lord," Moses eyes went heavenward. "For letting me live to see this day. I like that boy." He tossed to Kip, who nodded readily.

"I'll do no such thing...I'm not well. You can't just put me out. Where would I go..I could die in this weather."

"I don't give a rat's ass." Brett seethed, towering above the shaking bully. "Just don't die on my land, you'll ruin the soil. Drag yourself threw the gates and drop dead. This is private property. You have an hour. If you're still on my land, I'll shoot you myself."

They eyed each other for a long, pregnant moment and then the reptile slid up the stairs. For a few tense seconds, they was silence. Brett felt Jarrod's hand on his back and turned.

"So much for controlling your temper, Brett."

"You haven't seen my temper yet." He joked and turned as a small hand touched his arm. :"You cuss like that again, Boy and I'll use my wooden spoon."

"Yes, Ma'am" Brett blushed and smiled. Jarrod started to laugh as the blush he thought was only Heath's colored his brother's face vividly. "Sorry...Forgive me?"

"Lord, with that smile and them eyes...Does I have a choice?" She smiled, taking his face in both hands. "Y'all come over and meet the new Master.

"No...Hattie...please don't call me that." Brett squirmed. "Not now...not ever. It's just Brett, okay?"

"I'm Moses, Sir,' and I'd like to shake your hand."

"Moses...fine name." Brett said taking the strong grip. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's an honor to meet you, Sir. and I truly mean that." Moses smiled, "She'd have been right proud, your Mama , She was every inch a Lady."

"Thank you, Moses," Brett swallowed hard, "That means a lot to me. Oh..." His eyes widened as a beautiful young girl in a tight low cut dress addled up, smiling coyly.

"I'm Leticia...and I'm real glad to know y'all." She leaned in, exposing her ample cleavage.

"Lettie!" Hattie snapped, smacking the temptress's arm."Ya listen to me, Girl. Ya mind yer manners. Mister Brett's got himself a fine woman and a little ones. Ya take yer claws outta him. Get to that wash...go on now."

"Yes 'em'' She frowned and winked, rotating her hips as she left.

"She needs to come out of her shell..." Brett joked, giving Kip a laugh.

"Garrison?" Brett asked the local lawyer. "Take care of it." He nodded to the room above.

"I've already thought of that. He's got friends in Lexingon who will take him in. The doctor doesn't expect he'll live much longer."

"Good riddance to bad trash." Brett spat.

"Brandy?" Jarrod guessed, reading the younger man.

"I thought you'd never ask." Brett sighed, following Jarrod into the study.

"To Briarcrest's new owner. A long and healthy stay."

As March bowed gracefully and gave April the stage, the last breath of the Confederacy was a shuddering gasp. General Grant cut a three hundred mile path of destruction all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. On April 9, 1865, the commander of the Confederate army, Robert E. Lee, surrendered his forces at Appomatox Courthouse in Viriginia. This ended the bloodiest war in American history with more than a half a million casualties. It also ended the bondage of four million Blacks who had been enslaved. Freedom would soon follow for all Americans.

Stockton, Ca

"Mr. Barkley...Mr. Barkley...it's over...Lee surrendered...Hey, Mr. Barkley.

"Slow down Matt," Nick jumped over the corral and caught the ten-year old, who worked at the General Store in town. He took the wire from Jarrod and scanned it quickly. "Thanks, Kid! That's great news." He ruffled the blond hair and tossed the boy a coin.

"Gee, thanks Mr. Barkley." The boy nodded and headed by to town.

"Well, 'Mr. Barkley'," Dante grinned, from the other side of the fence. "What's that all about?"

Nick walked back over to where Dante stood and took in the teasing smile. He still wasn't used to being called 'Mr. Barkley'. Tom Barkley's lingering illness had made a man out of his son, over the winter. Nick was not only 'Mr. Barkley' in name, but had earned all the respect that went with it. His parents were visiting friends in San Diego.

" Lee surrendered...war's over. Jarrod's been selected to work with Reconstruction team. He'll be tied up through then end of June or so." Nick answered distractedly.

"War's finally over." Dante sat on the fence at Nick's shoulder. Both men reflected for a moment, lingering over the youthful blond they'd lost. Jarrod worked day and night for months, and moved heaven and earth in search of their missing brother, but to no avail. He saw the longing in Nick's scorched eyes and swallowed painfully. He gripped the black-vested shoulder and heard Nick's deep sigh. No words were needed.

"Come on...them calves won't wait." Nick growled of the large number of young cows that needed branding.

"He's a fine boy, Miss Leah. Ye'd be right proud of him...sure enuf." She decided, as she steppe inside. She was nearly bowled over by a flying bundle of boy.

"Atty...Atty...Atty."

"Slow down, Boy...y'all is gonna fall and take Old Hattie with ya." She bent and caught the two-and-a-half year old blond.

"Cookie...Atty...cookie..." He pleaded ,tugging on her hand.

"Now, y'all know ya ain't getting any cookies until ya eats some lunch." She informed the impatient tot.

"Pees...pees...Atty." He cast his best woeful eyes up at her.

"Don't even try that." She warned, scooping the boy up in her arms. "Them eyes is no stranger to Old Hattie. Let's go find yer Mama and git some lunch." She said, tickling him and letting the infectious giggling overtake the old heart.

Annie Thomson was an angel, Hattie reflected as she heard the sweet voice raised in song. The Mistress of the house was fixing lunch. She had turned the house into a home. A place full of love and understanding. They all fell in love with her, the kind heart and sweet laughter had done that. Yes, Hattie had a lot to be thankful for...and that was because of Brett and Annie.

"...wuv Atty...wuv Atty..." Jack nestled his head into her neck.

"Y'all is 'bout to bust my heart, Boy." She sighed, "But ya ain't gettin' any cookies..."

"Boy Howdy, we're gonna eat like Kings today!" He proclaimed, and quickly set about skinning them and preparing them.

The rolling fields of County Mayo, Ireland were lush and green. The fertile land was as rich as the lusty maiden that lay contentedly in his arms, their skin slick from passion. The cool waters of the river sailed by in the background, giving the lover's a ready lullaby. He eyed the ripe beauty with a favorable glance and caressed her, leaning down to capture her lips. Suddenly the image trembled and he blinked, eyeing the trees above, blue sky peeking through.

"Ah..." He sighed, for the loss of the sweet dream and the inhaled wonderful air, the air of freedom. He'd never again take breathing free air and not wearing chains for granted. "Give me a hand, Lad." He reached up as the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat assaulted him. "Yer a fine man, Boy-O" He proclaimed.

"Good thing...since you're a bum" Heath teased, worried at the death grip the hand had on his arm. Patrick had refused to yield to Bentell's tyranny, and he'd paid the price. The swollen, discolored area at the base of his lashed spine had the blond worried. His legs were numb most of the time and his back on fire. They'd made their escape about a week ago, overtaking the night guard and not looking back. It was a slow process, both were suffering from fever, diarrhea, and other maladies of Bentell's hotel. But they were free and in Kentucky. Briarcrest wasn't far and for now would be home. Both of them needed food, rest and medical treatment. "Who was she?" Heath asked, recalling the lusty grin his companion was wearing before he'd roused him.

"AH...she was a beauty,Lad." The other replied, taking a bite of the meat. "Hair as dark and glossy as a Raven's wing. Me fingers were wrapped in those glorious curls that cascaded down her back. Eyes as blue as the summer sky...lips like lush strawberries..."

"Get to the good part." Heath goaded, chomping on his lunch and elbowing his partner.

"Where was I then?" Patrick teased, feigning forgetfulness.

"You were past her lips and heading south." Heath leaned back, taking a drink.

"Ah....yes..." Patrick grinned.

By the time the tale and the meal were complete, it was time to get moving. Heath jogged ahead, disappearing for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he was wearing a broad smile on his gaunt, flushed face.

"What is it then?" Patrick inquired.

"Home, Irish...we're on my land." He boasted.

"Go on Heath," Patrick grimaced, the pain coursing through him. "I'm done."

Heath ignored him and took one weak arm around his neck and gripped the shabby waistband of the older youth. "We go together or we don't go at all." He announced, pulling Patrick to his feet. "There's an old cottage up ahead, burned out like...but the cellar's intact. We can rest there and then I'll go for help."

"All right then, Boy-o," The other agreed, "Let's have a go of it. Was there a ripe lassie there? It would do me bones good."

"Your bones ain't ready for any ripe lassies." Heath grumbled, "You ain't hardly fit to look at."

"I'm a McKenna, Lad." the dark eyes danced, "We're always ready...."

"See there," Kip complimented his new friend, "Y'all is gonna make a right fine farmer."

"Not in this lifetime." Brett laughed, gripping the tall youth's neck. "I'm just holding my head above water until the Major arrives." he said of his Father-in-Law, who was coming as soon as his retirement was finalized in June. The Major had grown up in Virginia on a plantation and was well versed in running one. He was thrilled at the invite to both reclaim his replanted family and become a plantation owner.

The walked towards the stables. Brett pumped the arm of the water pump and doused his head good ,then took a long drink. "You head up the house and get some lunch, Kip."

"Where you headin'?" The dark-skinned youth asked his new friend.

"To the cottage." came the sullen reply.

"Y'all want some company?" he asked, noting the slumped shoulders.

"No, but thanks,Kip." He smiled, and locked hands in brotherhood. "You know, I don't know how I can thank you. You've taught me so much. It's means a lot to me."

"I think y'alls been the sun too long." Kip laughed, slapping the sweat-soaked back of his friend. He eyed the damp, chestnut curls and gripped the back of the pale neck, "It's me that's got thankin' to do. Y'all have given me a home, something to be proud of. A part of the land, the horses, the soil. I'll have a boy one day and I can learn him too. That's all because of you and MIss Annie."

The shared a long quiet moment, not letting words interfere with the emotion. Nodding, Brett finally spoke. "Speaking of my beautiful wife, she's making chicken pot pie for lunch. You save me some, okay?"

"Can't promise that." Kip declined, "Ya know how easy Miss Annie's cooking goes down. If y'alls not back by three, I'm comin' for ya." He warned, knowing how the other man got lost in time at the spot where his family was torn apart.

"Deal," Brett agreed, climbing on Liberty, the fine red stallion he'd claimed.

As he rode towards the old cottage, he thought of how much his life had changed. The road twisted and turned severly since the Christmas announcement of his lost heritage. He loved the country, Kentucky was a state rich in black soil and good fortune. He loved the home and the people he worked with, like Kip, who'd become a close friend. But he missed the dreams he saw of tall buildings scraping the sky. ONce the Major arrived and took control, he had intentions of opening an office in town.

His hand slid to the saddlebag and drew out the picture. Jarrod had sent it upon his arrival back in Washington. It was the one the lawyer had on his chest of drawers in the Major's house, where he lived. It was the last photo of Heath, taken at Christmas prior to the kidnapping. The blond hair, fair features and winsome smile ate at his heart. His brother...his very own brother...lost forever to him. He sighed and slipped the treasured object back into the saddle bag. The house loomed up, and he eased off his horse. He took the canteen and the photo and headed towards the cellar, a cool respite on this warm day.