He saw a pile of rocks on the crumpled windowsill and grabbed a heavy one. He staggered over to the doorway and hid in the shadows. Carefully, he eyed the stairs and saw the brown clothed legs descending. He raised the crude weapon high, ready to defend his blond brother at any cost.

"Ahhh..."

A strangulated cry greeted the landowner as he reached the bottom of the cellar stairs. He turned away and caught the body as it fell forward. A thin, young man, perhaps twenty or so, with torn, ragged clothing and a fierce grimace struggled weakly in his arms.

"What the hell...." Brett queried as he eased the moaning man against the wall. "Who the devil are you?"

"Get yer hands off of me ye black-hearted demon."

"I've been called a lot of things, but black-hearted demon is a new one." he offered, along with his canteen. He could see the young man was injured, feverish and underweight. He recognized the remnants of union blue. "I'm not the enemy...the war's over."

"Is it the truth yer speakin'?" Patrick amazed. "How long then?"

Brett grimaced at the hope in the bright, dark eyes that looked up at him. "It is. The war was officially ended on April 6, nearly three weeks ago. You're a long way from home. That's a fine accent."

"I've not seen me native land since I was a lad. America is me mistress now and I'm damn proud of this uniform."

"I'd say that's our gain and Ireland's loss." Brett laid a wary hand on the youth's forehead. "You're burning up. I'll take you back to the house and..."

"The Lad...I'm fine...see to the Lad..." Patrick hissed, clutching the extended arm in pain.

"Your back?" Brett dodged, seeing the spine shifting painfully.

"Aye...the bastards had a fine time snapping the damn whip."

Brett gave a reassuring pat and turned towards the corner of the room. A slight figure lay curled in a ball. He moved closed and saw it was a young boy, no more than seventeen or so. Shoulder length hair, blond and matted, covered his face. Brett knelt down and eased the boy over. He raised him up and was about the tap the fever scored face, when all the breath left his lungs. His heart hammered so hard in his chest, it nearly broke through the ribs encasing it. He began to sweat and the room began to spin. One trembling hand gently pushed the tangled locks away from the boy's face. He drank in every familiar feature. He felt his heart soar painfully.

"Oh God....Oh God..." he choked, tears in his eyes, rocking the boy against his chest.

Patrick mistook the anguished, strangulated cry, for the worst possible news.

"Ah, No...not after all we've been through...God, I'm sorry Lad...I let ye down. God forgive me, Heath. " He cried, letting the tears run down his face.

The painful lament caused Brett's head to turn. He saw the horror on the other youth's face and winced at the mournful cries. "No...He's not dead...he's...he's..."

"He's what then?" Patrick snapped angrily. "Ye'd better speak up, ye damn near stopped me heart from beatin'"

"He's my brother..." Brett choked, wrapping Heath in his arms and lifting his tear-filled eyes heavenward. "Thank you..." He whispered.

"...brother..." Patrick frowned, casting a doubtful gaze at the intruder. "Do ye think I'm daft? I know all the brothers and yer not one of them."

"I only found out myself at Christmas." Brett replied, carefully easing Heath over to where Patrick was propped against the wall. He watched the older youth instintively put a protective arm around his brother. "I'm Brett Thomson, Leah was my mother...and Heath's."

"Thomson...but I don't understand." Patrick mused, tightening his grip on the unconsious blond.

"This plantation belonged to Leah's parents. They were away on holiday when as a very young girl, she met John Thomson, my father. Her father," Brett's voice dropped and a dangerous glint appeared in his blue eyes, "a more vile excuse for a human being I've never met..." He expelled a forced breath. "Lucius Simmons..."

"Ye don't have to go any further." Patrick growled, "...sure an I know about that devil. Many's the night I dreamed about inflicting me own form of justice on that beast, for hurtin' the Lad."

"The old man was a bigot and hated my father, cause he was from the North. They were married in secret and lived in this very cottage. Leah loved her mother, who was very ill. She wouldn't leave her. Somehow, Lucius found out, a few months after I was born. He ...he..." Brett's chest heaved and his eyes filled with anger and loss. "He burned the house...told my mother my father and I were killed. He told my father, she died. Bastard even showed him fake graves. My father never got over it, blamed himself til the day he died."

"Where's the bastard now then?" Patrick asked, stomach clenching at the horrid tale.

"Dead...too quickly." Brett lamented, "I wanted to skin him alive, torture him, make him suffer. All the lives he ruined, my mothers, my fathers. and stealing my brother from his home and using him for cannon fodder..." Brett unleased a feral cry and punched the wall. It was then Patrick saw the resemblence. The blue mirrors housing pain and rage, were very familiar to him.

"Yer his brother alright. Ye've the same damn eyes. Well now," Patrick swallowed his rage, and extended his hand. "Yer a man who I'm glad to shake the hand of, Brett Thomson. I'm Patrick McKenna, and I'm proud to know ye."

"McKenna..." Brett shook the offered hand and furrowed his brows. "From the orphanage?" He saw the dark head nod, "Jarrod told me about Heath's life. Come on, let's get you two out of this cellar."

"I'm fine," Patrick hissed, "Take the Lad...he needs a doctor."

"I think both of the 'Lads' need a soft bed, hot meal and the healing hands of a doctor." Brett advised. "I'll get Heath outside and come back for you. I'll take him back with me and send a man back for you. You're safe now, Patrick.

Brett eased Heath onto the horse and climbed up behind him. Patrick was resting against the side of the house, letting the warm sun bath his face. He raised the canteen and caught Brett's eyes.

"Ye sure ye don't have a wee drop on ye?"

"No..." Brett smiled, holding Heath securely against his chest. "But you better believe there be more than a 'wee drop' when we celebrate. You rest now, I'll send Kip back for you. It won't be long."

Soft. That was the first image that the lost soul encountered. Softness...his head and body were cradled in softness. He felt the light breeze dance across his face. He felt a gentle hand on his brow and turned towards it.

"Pat...rick...you?" He stammered, trying to force his eyes open.

"Shh! You rest now, Mister Heath. Old Hattie done took good care of you."

"Hattie? Hat..." He murmured, peeling a eye open.

"Here, the doctor wants y'all to drink. Here..." She raised his head and gave him a long drink of water. "You gonna be jest fine...sure 'nuf. " She nodded, stroking the confused face with a weathered hand. "You safe now , boy. Them devil's ain't gonna hurt you no more."

Heath took a deep breath and looked around the room. His old room, before he left with the Rebs. It seemed like a hundred years ago. He saw the lamp lit and the darkness outside the window. His mind scrambled...remembering.

"Patrick..." He struggled weakly against the old woman's arm.

"Now you hush." She ordered. "That boy's next store. The doctor's seein' to him. I got some broth for y'all. You wait here."

"Hattie...he's alright isn't he? He saved my life, Hattie.. They beat him..." He whispered painfully, "...he wouldn't tell."

"Y'alls both gonna be fine." She reassured, gripping his hand. "I'll be right back."

Hattie eased the door closed and walked to the railing overlooking the floor below. She saw Kip in the foyer.

"Kip, tell Lettie to bring Mister Heath's tray up. He's awake."

"Yes Ma'am" The six-foot dark skinned boy exhuberated.

Hattie nodded and made her way into the room next store. She paused in the doorway, wincing at the horrific slashes that scored the dark-haired boy's back. Most of them were infected, and the doctor had painfully extracted the pus that was embedded deeply. The poor boy didn't even cry out, only Brett's grip and reassurance kept him going. It was the dark purple skin that was raised to a swollen lump at the base of his spine that clenched her heart. He was turned on his side, Brett sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his hand. She shook her head as his bitten off cry sounded, when the doctor felt the discoloration. She could almost feel the deathgrip he had on Brett's hand.

"I'm sorry, son. I know that hurt." The gray-haired physician sympathized.

"It wasn't yer doin' Doc," Patrick hissed, "no call fer ye to be apologizin'. Will I get me legs back?"

Hattie saw the doctor nod to the kettle of steaming water in the corner. She made her way across the room and used prongs to pick out a hot towel. She rolled it and placed it under the injured area of the spine. Brett helped the doctor ease Patrick onto his back. He laid a hand across the fevered brow and sighed.

"I can't answer that now, Son. Once the swelling goes down, we'll know more. What you need now is plenty of rest and good food. Hattie, rub him down with alchohol, it'll help with that fever. I'll be back tomorrow, Patrick."

"The boy's awake." She said to Brett, who looked exhausted. "You go on, you been waitin' on this moment for months."

"Alright," Brett agreed, "Don't you give Hattie a hard time, McKenna," He warned, smiling. He'd felt every inch of pain the younger man endured while the doctor worked to elimiate the many infections.

"Who me?" Patrick's eyes were bright with fever. "There isn't a woman alive that Pat McKenna can't charm."

"Hunh..." Hattie scoffed, wringing out the alcohol laced cloth and pulling the blanket down. She bit back a smile as the weak hand intercepted her.

"I don't think I know ye well enough to be going south of me waist." He smirked.

"I already seen what's down south and y'all better talk a good game, 'cause Old Hattie's seen a lot better."

"Ye wound me, Hattie," Patrick put a hand on his heart. "Here I thought ye were after me body. A finer physical specimen ye've not seen."

"Huh..." She snorted, wiping the chest, shoulder and neck. "Y'all is a sorry sight. I've seen chickens with better chests."

"How is he, Hattie?" The fevered eyes were serious and she placed a cool cloth on his forehead. Her gnarled hands stroked the anxious face.

"Y'all got to worry about gettin' yourself well. Mister Heath's gonna be fine." She reassured, watching the eyes droop. The painkillers the doctor gave him were beginning to work. She moved away to get another hot towel. Carrying the steaming roll across the room, she saw his head turning.

"Are ye there?"

"Ye promised me a dance, Sugar. I aims to get you back on yer feet. Y'all sure talks pretty...Old Hattie wants to see ye move them fine legs. Now roll over for me." She eased the new towel under him and grabbed his flailing hand and the painfull hiss sounded. "I gotcha, Sugar. Y'all rest now...Old Hattie ain't leavin' ya." She soothed, sitting next to bed. She wiped his face and began to sing. The frantic breathing eased into a deep, soothing sleep.

"Hattie..." the dark eyes were only slits. "...I...me mother used to sing ...when I was a lad...before she...died...It washes me soul....Thank Ye..."

"Ya hush up...and get some sleep. Yer Mama's watching over you from heaven. Close your eyes and listen for her. She's still singing for you...you look for her..."

The tension that the pain caused seeped away. The fevered face relaxed and Patrick's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Hattie continued her ministrations, bathing the fevered body and chasing away the nightmares. Patrick was reliving the torturous past and Hattie was determined no to let the demons win. This boy had suffered long enough.

Brett hesitated in the doorway, suddenly shy. He'd thought many times over the last several months, what he would say to his younger brother. Now, he was just a few feet away and dumbstruck. The doctor went before him, striding across the room.

"Hello there, young man. I'm Doctor Kennedy. You've had us worried. How do you feel?"

"Tired...sick..." Heath sighed, "Tired of being sick."

"Yes, well, you're on the road to recovery now. You have several infections your fighting. That's why you have such severe diarhea and that fever. But, with the right medicine, proper rest and plenty of food, you'll be fine. I have some broth coming up. If that agrees with you, tomorrow we'll start on some more substantial food."

"Boy Howdy, I could eat a cow." Heath proclaimed.

"Yes, well, one step at a time." The doctor smiled, resting a hand on the fevered face. "You keep taking in fluids, as much as you can stand. Headache bad?" he inquired and saw a shrug. "I'll leave some aspirin powder, it'll help."

"How's Patrick.?"

"He's a pretty sick boy, but he's a fighter. I'm hoping that swelling is temporary and with proper care, he'll be walking again." The doctor replied, wondering where Brett was. "Well, I'll go check on that broth."

"Thanks Doc.'

"My pleasure, Son." He answered, patting the blanketed knee and making his way to the door. "Are you alright?" He asked Brett, who was very pale and shaking.

"I don't know what to say..."

"Start with hello, it usually works." The healer advised, "Go on..." he prodded.

Heath sat up in bed and gripped the bedpost with one hand. His eyes were trained on the pitcher of water nearby. He took a single wavering step and felt his knees buckle. Two strong arms caught him before he fell.

""Whoa...steady there. I'll get it for you." Brett advised, easing his weak brother back on the bed. He watched the wary eyes regarding him over the rim of the cup.

"Uh...I'm Brett Thomson." He answered the silent question. "I'm..."

"Thomson?" Heath interruped in a gasp, breathless from his long drink. "You kin of my Ma's?"

"You could say that." Brett grinned, sitting on the side of the bed and holding out his hand. "I'm your brother. My mother was Leah Thomson. I..."

"You're lying." Heath snarled, pulling his hand back. "That's a mean thing to do. Get out."

"Heath...calm down. Let me explain." Brett managed, feeling like a mule kicked him in the stomach. "Leah Simmon's parents were away when she met and fell in love with John Thomson. Lucius was a bigot, he hated my father and forbade them to see each other. They married in secret and he threw them out. She loved her mother, who was very ill, and wouldn't leave her. So they lived in secret, in that cottage where I found you today. Lucius found out and set the place on fire...told each of them the other was dead. My father took me back to New York. I'm sorry...I know it's a shock. It was for me too when Jarrod told me."

"Jarrod!" Heath's angry face dissolved and he looked right past Brett towards the door, his eyes shining. "Is he here? JARROD!"

"No...Heath." Brett stammered, wounded at the rejection. "He's in Washington. I met him at my in-laws at Christmas. That's when he told me. He saw My mother's image on a small painting and compared it to the photograph that you had in Stockton. We searched every hospital and Confederate prison looking for you. I'll wire him in the morning, your folks too."

"No...not my family. They buried me once already. Jarrod buried me twice. I won't put them through that again. I'll get home and tell them in person."

"My God Heath, they have the right to know." Brett argued, "Jarrod went through hell trying to find you. For months...he never gave up. You didn't see the anguish in his eyes. I did. I felt his pain. The only thing I've thought about day and night since December was finding you. He can be here in less than a week."

"Alright, just Jarrod." Heath consented turning away, "My brother Jarrod." He said cruelly, not missing the pain on the face before him. It was then, he saw the blue eyes react from the lance of the aching heart. His mother's eyes...right there. Could it be true? He swallowed painfully, trying to sort out the muddle in his aching head.

"Alright then. I'll wire Jarrod." Brett said dejectedly and walked out of the room as Kip entered.

Heath finished the broth, juice and biscuits in short order. His weary mind only heard half of Kip's rambling about the plantation and Brett. He was fast asleep when the tray was lifted and Kip left. He didn't feel the gentle hands that wiped his fevered brow. He didn't know it was his brother's arms that caught his thrashing .limbs as he battled the cruel guards in his tortured dreams. He didn't know it was Brett's voice that chased the demons away.

It was a strange dream, not like the others. He wasn't being tortured in Carterson or riding free on the ranch in Stockton. He was ...in the barn at Good Shepard, wrestling with Patrick in the hay. They were boy's again, laughing and enjoying the summer air. Patrick suddenly stood and hugged him, then headed for the door. The light was bright , so intense Heath couldn't see. He protested and try to follow, but Patrick wouldn't let him."

"No, Lad. It's time for me to go home. Me Ma's waitin'"

"NO! NO!" Heath screamed.

He woke up in a sweat, heart pounding. He eyed the darkened doorway and gripped the bedrail. He managed to stagger across the room, like a drunk seeking a bottle. His legs buckled in the hall, and he dropped to his knees. He crawled into the room next store, and over to the bed. He pulled himself up and sat next to the still body. He winced at the pale, almost waxen features. His trembling hand confirmed what his heart knew. Patrick was gone.

"NO...NO...You lied to me...I hate you." He screamed, pounding the slack chest. He pulled Patrick forward, the dark head lolled on his shoulder. He felt an intense pain and his eyes darted frantically. On instinct, he called the name...seeking comfort.

"BRETT ! BRETT HELP...BRETT!"

Brett was instantly awake. "Heath" He mumbled, feeling the empty bed. "Heath?" He staggered into the hall and got to the door. He saw Hattie trying to call the hysterical blond. Heath was pushing the old woman away and clutching Patrick in a death grip.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Brett asked, crossing the room and easing Hattie out of the way.

"He dying...Please Brett...don't let him die...Please. I need him..." Heath gasped, face wet with tears.

The intensity in the pain reflected in those shimmering blue pools stabbed at Brett hard. He eased the all to quiet Irishman from Heath and lowered him back down. He studied the ashen face as his trembling hand sought a pulse. It was weak...too weak. He recalled the devotion he'd seen in the cellar.

"Patrick," He screamed and slapped the face hard. "Wake up..."

"Stop that." Heath was horrified. "You'll hurt him." He clawed unsuccessfully at the strong arm.

"You hush boy, he knows what he's doing" Hattie chastised, grabbing Heath.

"Patrick...Heath needs you. He's in bad way. He's calliing for you. He looking for you. You promised him. He needs you..." Brett ordered, shaking the prone man's shoulders. He saw the unopened eyes twitch and the bloodless lips purse. A smile formed on Brett's face as he met Hattie's gaze. "I think it's working."

"What?" Heath blinked, straining to see.

"Mister Brett done scared the life back into that boy." Hattie proclaimed proudly watching the dark-haired boy fight his way back from the jaws of death.

"Lad.." The croak came, before the dark slits appeared where eyes should be.

Heath grasped the slack hand and wiped his wet face with his free hand. "Dammit, Irish. Don't you do that again, or I'll shoot ya. You scared the hell out of me."

"Yer okay, then?" The weak question was followed by a fumbling hand that grasped at his chest.

"No I ain't okay!" Heath scowled, drilling the dark eyes that seemed to laugh at him." You damn near died in my arms."

"Nothing personal Lad," Patrick gasped, "But if it's dying I'm to be doin'., it'll be in me eighteen year old bride's arms on me one hundreth birthday."

"He ain't hardly dead." Hattie chuckled, feeling the pale face. "Fever's broke. Ya needs a bath." She decided, then saw the lewd smile and wink he gave her. "Y'all is too fresh..." She fought against the grin that was forming. "Go on...scoot. He's fine...Y'all get back to bed." She ordered Heath.

Heath didn't say anything as Brett helped him back to his room. He let the quiet man give him a drink and snuggled into the soft bed. As the blanket was drawn up, he snagged the strong wrist.

"Thanks....brother." He said, eyes full.

"Brother?" Brett gasped, sitting on the edge of the bed and praying he hadn't heard wrong. "Brother?"

"Yeah." Heath grinned. "Reckon I'm the luckiest bastard alive. I'm damn near drownin' in brothers."

"Reckon, you are." Brett agreed, drinking in the lopsided grin. "You better get some shut-eye, Kid." He advised, "We got a lot of catching up to do tomorrow. I don't know anything about her." He said softly of their mother. "I was hoping I could get to know her better - through your eyes."

"I'd like that." Heath answered, suddenly feeling shy himself. All of a sudden he wanted this new brother. He liked the open hand offered and the reassuring voice. Most of all, he liked seeing his mother's smile in those blue eyes. "and I'm no kid." He argued, feeling a tug on his heart when the strong hand ruffled his hair.

"The hell your not...you little runt." He joked and saw the smile disappear.

"Heath? What's wrong?"

"He...he used to call me that." Heath gasped, his heart constricting at the term of endearment. Runt...it was then that Nick's face appeared. "Oh God..."

"What?" Brett said as the blue eyes dissolved into tears. He caught Heath as he fell forward, sobbing uncontrollably. He'd held out all this time, not allowing the reality to set in. But now, in his brother's arms, he allowed himself to grieve. "My God Heath...tell me what's wrong." He gently suggested, embracing the shaken youth.

"Nick...my brother Nick...called me runt." He hiccuped. "It hurts...Jesus God it hurts, Brett." He gasped. "I shot...killed him." He gasped, coughing and sputtering.

"Sweet Jesus," Brett mourned through his clenched teeth, "Is that what you've been carrying around inside?" He felt the head nod against his shoulder. "Heath, listen to me," He pulled the sputtering boy back and caught the agonizing eyes, a sight so painful, he nearly turned away."Nick isn't dead...he's back in Stockton. He was badly wounded, but he survived."

"For real?" Heath whispered, heart bursting, eyes wide.

"Would I lie to be my Little Brother?" Brett teased, picking up the end of the sheet and wiping Heath's teary face. "You're a mess, Kid. But I guess I'm stuck with you."

Heath didn't give his answer verbally. He let himself relax and melt into his brother's embrace. He felt the strong heart beating and gained a hope renewed. Nick was alive and waiting for him...at home. Home...how he longed to go home. He yawned and his eyes slid shut. He felt the pillow under his head and the blanket drawn up. The last voice he heard, gave him a warm smile. One that he kept...one that chased the last demon away.

"Sweet dreams, Little Brother."

Jarrod Barkley read the message again, having lost count of the previous reviews. It still caused his heart to clench. Nine short words...nine wonderful words...nine miraculous words. "Heath alive - come immediately-Don't wire home-will explain." He folded it carefully and replaced it into his pocket. He peered up the elegant staircase, one hand on the polished mahogany rail.

"Go on, Man. What are you waiting for?"

Jarrod turned to his right as Brett's hand gripped his shoulder. He shook his dark head and sighed.

"I honestly don't know. I guess...I never expected...I mean I hoped, but...My God..."

"I know...exactly how you feel." Brett identified, recalling the miraculous moment in the cottage.

"He doesn't know?"

"He knows I wired, but I wasn't expecting you for a few more days."

They made their way up the stairs and were about a foot from the door, when that sound returned. A force so powerful it took Jarrod's breath away. He rocked back on his heels and gasped, the force was that strong.

"Jarrod?"

Brett's concerned gaze gave the young lawyer a soft smile. "Damn blue eyes..." He chuckled, thinking of Nick.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind." Jarrod closed his eyes and let the wonderous sound echo in his heart. What did his father call it...He frowned, trying to remember, then the smile came. "Breathing proof that there is a God...embrace his music..."

"That's beautiful..." Brett mused, head cocked. He saw the wistful expression and didn't interrupt wherever Jarrod was lost.

"That's what my father called Heath's laughter. He is special. My father saw...felt...sensed it immediately. His golden child, whose laughter could light up the sky. I had no idea how right he was, until we lost him and the sun went down. It's finally Dawn, Brett, after three years. The sun is going to shine again."

Brett opened the door halfway and smiled. Heath was pretending to sleep and Jack was crawling up the bed and trying to wake him up, by tickling him. Heath's laughter filled the room, accented by the blond tot who had become his new uncles delight.

"Jack, that's enough. Uncle Heath needs his rest. Come along, now." He held his hand out.

"No!" the tiny rebel pouted, curling back into Heath's arms "My Heef...you go.."

"John Andrew Thomson..." Brett gritted, eyes narrowed. "I'm warning you."

"NO!" He crossed his small arms and held his chin up in defiance. "My stay...my Heef."

"That's enough playing." He strode across the room and attempted to pry the wriggling monkey loose. "You can come back later."

"NO..." Jack defied, ducking under the blanket and trying to hide.

"Hey..." Heath tapped the small lump worming his way by his knees. "I sure could use some lemonade."

"cookie..." A muffled voice asked, accented by hiccup.

"No cookies, Jack." Brett forecast, pulling the hidden boy free. "how 'bout we get some lunch? You can help Mama make some lemonade and bring it to Uncle Heath."

He scowled at his father and reached his small hands down towards the patient. Heath smiled as the blond toddler kissed him goodbye. "My luv Heef...." He proclaimed as they approached the door, then scowled at his father. "Bad Papa..." He decided, blowing a raspberry.

"Such is my fate in life." Brett sighed, getting a chuckle and pat on the back in sympathy from Jarrod.

Heath was lying back on a bank of pillows, eyes resting. Jarrod stood in the doorway and felt the air swirl as the winds of time shifted. He was back in Sacramento...where he first laid eyes on his youngest brother, in another bed. He walked over and stood by the young soldier and winced. The golden child who had a winning smile and embraced life despite all the wrong done to him, the boy whose laughter turned their house into a home, was a young man...a soldier...a prisoner of war, who had been raped of his youth. He should have been riding in the sun with Nick, learning at the hand of his father, going to church dances and stealing a kiss by the barn door. Instead he had become a killing machine. Even the blond hair was long and unkempt as it had been that day. His hand tenderly brushed the unruly locks off the slumbering boy's forehead. Two eyes peeled open, wide with wonderment and emotion. Yes, Dawn finally broke...

Hello, Little Brother," He said simply, with a small grin.

Heath stared at the hand and shivered as the words settled inside. The full impact of miraculous journey made him blush. Jarrod sat down, seeing the tremble and the scarlett flush. "You okay?" He asked, laying a tenative hand on the trembling shoulder.

Heath's head rose slowly and his eyes were wide and full of wonderful tears. As if reading his astute oldest brother's mind, he too was taken back to a hot summer day in Sacremento. A slow, lazy smile was born on his lips, as he recounted their conversation.

"Yeah," He nodded, "Reckon them words just shook me up some."

"Me too, Heath," Jarrod choked, his eyes burning. "God, it's good to see you...I...missed...you..."

Heath's answer was muffled by the impact of being buried in his brother's strong chest. He didn't bite back the sobs. They felt good, a release of all the anxiety he'd hidden. For all the nights he thought would be his last in that hellhole. It was all worth it, to be here in Jarrod's embrace.

"I love you, Jarrod..." He muffled, not embarassed at having said it aloud. War does things to man...it makes you think...appreciate what you had long taken for granted.

"Me, too, Heath."

"Aw, hell..." Heath declared, pulling free and wiping his face on the sheet, "Nick'll think I've gone soft."

"No," Jarrod disagreed, "Nick would have spilled his heart...." Jarrod paused, smirking. "and denied it later, of course." He drank in the wonderful sound of Heath's laughter. Was it his imagination, or was the air sweeter and the sky bluer?

Brett was late for a meeting in town. He secured a junior partnership with a architecture firm in town and was meeting with them for supper to go over the contract. He was perusing the material and placing it in his valise, when a pair of arms encircled his waist and a seductive voice breathed past his cheek from behind.

"New in town, sailor? Show you a good time..."

"Sorry, strumpet, I get seasick." He replied, getting a sound thwack on his rump.

"Strumpet!"

"Well, it's not as harsh as some of the alternatives..." He smiled, drawing his pretty wife in for a lingering kiss. He felt the growing child inside her and rested his hands on the swelling abdomen. "Did I ever tell you how very much I love you?" he said huskily, kissing her again.

"Every day, sweet knight..." She replied, stroking his face.

"Hmmm...." He frowned, "Sweet knights and sailors...I'm becoming a relic of Jack's fairytale books."

"I know you're running late, but I have a favor." She asked.

"I'm not beneath accepted certain bribes," He winked "What'd you have in mind?"

"Not that..." She laughed, wiggling a finger at him. "It's Patrick...something's wrong. He's not eating...he's not talking..."

"Not talking...Patrick....McKenna?" He astounded. "He talks even when he's asleep."

"I'm worried, Brett..."

"Alright. I'll stop up and see him now. " He reassured, patting her stomach. "You take care of my son while I'm gone."

"Your son?" She grinned, "This could be a girl."

"Nah...I got a mind to establish a dynasty down here. I have five or six boys planned, then maybe we'll consider a girl."

"And who is the unfortunate woman who is going produce this brood for you? Anybody I know?" She tossed back, blond brow arched. He laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist as they entered the foyer.

Patrick was sitting by the window, eyeing the pair by the corral. Heath and Jarrod had been out riding. The first days of their stay, Heath had slept nearly round the clock. Then the time was divided, eating and resting, combined with sleeping. Fresh air and sunshine beckoned when his wobbling legs gained strength again. He now spent a couple hours each morning and late afternoon outside. The medicine was working and his digestive system was starting to heal. He was gaining strength daily and he'd be ready to go home soon. The Irishman's heart sank...he'd never broken a promise., until now. He smacked his useless legs and bit back a sob.

"I'm sorry Lad..."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Patrick." Brett said quietly, having witnessed the painful silent testimony. "Pick your head up, you're not dog to be having it hang like that."

"I might as well be..." He said coldly, smacking his dead appendages.

"Excuse me?" Brett angered, pushing the small table away and kneeling down in front of the younger man's dejected face. "Were we in the same war? The one where I saw friends of mine blinded, limbs blown off, disembowled, burned hideously...How dare you wallow in pity? Get over yourself. You have a whole life ahead of you. It's high time you got to living again."

Patrick took a deep sigh and stared into the blues eyes that burned into him. So like his brothers. "I can't meet his eye, Brett...I...feel like half a man. I gave him me word...I've never broken..." He swallowed hard, biting back the emotion inside. He dropped his head, only to have it yanked unceremoniously upwards. The blues eyes were stormy and the voice harsh.

"You gave him his life..." Brett seethed. "You took care of business Jack...every day in that prison...every night during his nightmares...every time you took a beating for him." He saw the dark's eyes widen in shock. "Yeah...he told me. So you damn well better meet his eye, or I'll kick your sorry ass but good. It's been less than three weeks, don't give up hope. There's still a lot of swelling."

"I'm sorry Brett. I know I've no call to be drownin' in me beer. I saw those same lads you did...unseeing eyes...gasping fer their mother, while their guts slipped through their fingers...I still see them." He choked, tears running down his face. "and the ones in the tunnel...I told them to go...freedom...oh it was a pretty speech I gave and they fell fer it...like sheep...I heard them screaming....God help me, Brett...What did I do?"

Brett was caught off guard, as the horror unfolded. Heath told them about that dark night, but seeing this young man grief stricken features gave it a whole new dimension. He suddenly realized just why Heath loved Patrick so, and how easily it would be for men to follow him. Leadership, bravery and honor were armors worn easily by men like Patrick. But in the end, he was a man...flesh and blood. He stood and walked behind the stricken figure and placed both hands on the downcast shoulders.

"You were his rock, Patrick, during the war and far before. You've been carrying a heavy load for far too long. You're your own worst enemy, McKenna. For now, at this moment, it's okay to be human and frail. Let it out Patrick, get rid of the guilt...it's unwarrented." He squeezed the shoulders hard and turned, tipping the anguished face up. "You did lead them to freedom Patrick. They're home...they're not in pain...not being tortured...not locked in chains. They are free...with God. I have a son of my own, Pat. Every father wonders and worries what the future will bring. I'd be honored to have him follow you...in battle...in life. Let it out Patrick...Those cracks in your heart...it's time to let the light shine through them."

He felt the first shudders and moved in, embracing the emotional wounded man and holding on fast. He imagined it had been a long time, if ever, that this young man had allowed himself the luxury of humaness. Finally, the sobbing ceased and the chest heaved in exhausted pants. Wordlessly, Brett supported Patrick, easing him back into bed. He handed him a wet cloth and waited until he was finished. He patted the shoulder and turned to leave and felt his arm snagged. They locked forearms instintively, gripping brotherhood and embracing a new feeling. Something was born that afternoon, something that would go far beyond friendship. It would endure for over sixty years and both men would be richer for it. "The Lad has good taste in brothers. Yer not bad for a pretty Yank..." He teased...then bit his lip, his eyes shining in gratitude.

"You're welcome, Pat...Irish..." he corrected, knowing it was the term of endearment that Heath used. "Shame about you not being hungry. Annie's making Irish Stew..."

"For a fact?" Patrick's lyrical tone returned and Brett's heart warmed. "I might be persuaded...would there be a drop or two on the tray."

"You finish your supper." Brett winked, smacking the leg. "I'll provide the gut warmer later. Deal?"

"Yer a man after me own heart, Lad." Patrick grinned.

"Are you sure Heath?" Jarrod asked, helping his weakened brother from the horse. He guided him to a bench near the corral and sat next to him.

"You gotta even ask?" Heath's voice dropped

"I think it's time you went home. You have a family there that's been mourning far too long. I know you have an allegiance to Patrick but..."

"ALLEGIANCE!" Heath hissed, pushing away and walking over to Liberty's stall. Jarrod winced , realizing his poor choice of words. "as in....duty or loyalty. " Heath spat, turning back to stare hotly at his brother. "No, Jarrod it's a helluva lot more than that. It something so deep I can't reach it...so strong it leaves me breathless...so profound it chokes me. He's always been there for me...protected me...cared for me...taught me....long before I was a Barkley. When I was a nobody...a nameless bastard in an orphanage. It never mattered to him what I was...he don't work that way. Patrick don't see skin color...or parentage...he only sees your heart. He saved my life Jarrod. You ...you..." He seethed , shaking in fury.

"What?" Jarrod reached out, but his touch was jerked away.

"You write fancy speeches about Freedom and demoncracy, but you don't know the meaning of those words. That's all they are to you...words. Well, I got news for you, Lawyer, they're a whole lot more than that to me. I've worn chains so tight I passed out...I lived for seven months in a place so vile that Satan would shiver. I ate mealy bug filled mush...hell I even ate roasted rats...I felt the teeth of the whip more than once...and I don't think I have to tell you what the guards did in the dark of the night..." He turned away as Jarrod hissed and his face screwed in revulsion. "That man...was my lifeline..." He pointed to the house. "He sat by me every night and protected my back...it was his voice that pulled my through every day. The reason he can't walk...the reason..." Heath swallowed hard. "Damn..." he stammered shaking, he felt Jarrod arms and didn't push them away. "It was right before we busted out...I was sick Jarrod...dying...there wasn't enough medicine...the guards made deals...sick bastards.." his lips curled up in disgust. "and the poor prisoners, weak, sick and desperate used anything to get medicine. It was worth more than gold...there was very little. Patrick intercepted a package...got me the medicine. It's the only reason I'm standing here. They found out he took it...but not who he gave it to. He wouldn't tell...they ...they...beat him...and beat him...with clubs and bats...." Heath bit his lip, pounding his fists against the barn wall. "...and I had to watch..." He choked, biting back the sob. "So you see Jarrod, I won't leave him. I can't ...not now...You know, in all the years I've known him...he's never asked anything of himself...not once. So I reckon, it's time for me to carry his heart for awhile."

Jarrod thought for several long moments, grasping the gravity of the situation and wondering how young men like Patrick assumed a role so easily. Heath had learned a great deal in that prison, he knew his brother didn't realize that yet. That in those dark hours between dusk and dawn, in that hell hole, Patrick McKenna had saved his soul as well. He didn't have the right to ask Heath to walk away now, not when his friend was in trouble.

"Okay Heath. I'm going home next month. I'd like you to come with me. I'm returning to Washington in a couple days, but I'll stop by on my way home, for you and Patrick. I'm sorry Heath, I guess I was a bit shortsighted."

"That's okay." Heath replied, with a half grin. "You're a lawyer...it ain't your fault you're not human like the rest of us poor slobs."

Heath ducked as the strong hand pulled him back in a mock-headlock. He laughed and heard Jarrod join him. He saw the sun sinking, gold and saucy, winking at him through the corral gate. He got a premonition...a strong one, that soon, very soon, he'd be home. The smile that thought brought carried him through dinner and into a long, peaceful dream....about a special tree...a rushing river and a cocky, hazel-eyed cowboy.

"Come on Runt...I'm waitin' on ya."

"I'm coming,Nick..." He muttered in his sleep, still smiling.

Jarrod watched his brother change seats again and shook his head. He eyed the pale, new sky outside the train window and thought of the glorious June day that lie ahead. It a few short hours, they'd be pulling into the Stockton station. Heath was nervous and flitting from seat to seat. The lawyer stood and moved next to his blond brother.

"You're going to wear yourself out before we get home." He teased.

"Not likely." Heath responded. "How much longer?"

"Three hours, give or take. You want to go to the Dining Car?"

"Nah...I already drank me a river of coffee." Heath decided ,"Besides, Patrick's mouth is in full gear. It's Brett's turn to get an ear beating." He thought back on how the path that led to the train ride home.

Since Jarrod's original departure from Briarcrest six weeks before, much had changed. Patrick's iron will and Heath's stubborn disposition had worked wonders. The dark-haired youth had worked tirelessly with Brett and Heath. The numbness left him and the pain of unused muscle set in. Even the massages the specialist in Washington Jarrod consulted only offset the pain a little. But neither of Leah's sons would let the agonized Irishman quit. They perservered, despite his screams of pain, which tore through both of them. The daily hours of work paid off, with Kip and Hattie lending a hand. The whooping cries of joy at his first wobbly steps, shook the house. Since then, he'd worked long hours daily, strengthening the legs

Now he was walking fine and Heath's loss would be Brett's gain. During their hours together, Brett learned alot about the rebelious McKenna. Most importently was the youth's love of horses and his connections in his homeland. He had a cousin who worked for a horse breeder in Dublin. Patrick worked as a child with his father and knew a lot about the equines. The Major arrived and it didn't take long for a bond to form. The new found friends would found an enterprise that would become one of the country's most successful horse breeding farms. Brett and Patrick were easing into the bond Heath had hoped. In the last weeks at Briarcrest, he'd pulled back, allowing his older brother to spend great deals of time with the gabby Irishman. His plan worked, and the two were very close.

"Hey, you with me?" Jarrod waved a hand in front of the blond's fixed gaze and got a startled blink.

"Yeah...just thinking on Patrick and Brett. I'm sure glad they're getting along so good."

"With a little help..." Jarrod smiled, knowing what Heath had done. Patrick's outgoing nature and boisterous humor balanced out Brett's quieter disposition. It didn't take long for the twinkling-eyed Irishman to befriend all of the staff at Briarcrest. He was soon a favorite and with Kip's help, he was restoring the old cottage, which would be his home one day. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A little." Heath yawned, "Think I'll get a nap."

"Good Idea," Jarrod agreed, flipping open a discarded newspaper.

Dante placed that last crate on the wagon and pulled the tarp across it, securing it with rope. He drew the sleeve of his white cotton shirt across his damp forehead. He peered up at the noon sun and scratched his neck.

"Sure is hot today." He commented, eyeing his companion.

"Un-huh..."

"A beer would hit the spot right about now." He mused, standing next to the sullen figure.

"I'll pass." His co-worker decided, "Looks like you'll have to dust off that so-called wallet."

"What do you mean 'so-called'?" Dante scowled, slapping the other's black vest.

"Just what I said," Nick Barkley growled, putting his boot into Coco's stirrup. "I bet you don't even know what it looks like. 'Nick's buying' seems to be the only phrase you can remember when we're in that Saloon."

"I need my money, I'm a soon-to-be-groom." Dante pleaded, bearing a big grin.

"Fool's more like it." Nick nodded, leaning over the saddlehorn. "Not me...too many oats left to sow. I love 'em all. Redheads, blondes, brunettes...the wilder the better. Yessiree, no cat's gonna het her claws in Nick Barkley."

"Spoken like a confirmed bachelor." Dante teased, then grew serious. "Hey Nick, you want some company?" He offered, reading the mood change that settled in right on time.

"No. I need to ride the wind. But, thanks Dante. I'll see you at supper." He pulled the reins and started off. "Oh, and don't think I won't check with Tiny...Don't be spending my money freely."

"Who me?" Dante frowned, patting his heart. "You wound me, Nick." He hollered, joining the dark-haired Barkley's laughter as he rode away.

"I wish you would have agreed to sending a wire." Jarrod squinted in the hot sun at his brother, while Brett and Patrick took care of the luggage.

"I want to surpise them." Heath said distractedly, eyeing the dusty Stockton Street. He stood on the edge of the platform and looked at every board, window and hitching post. He drank in the sight, not believing yet he was actually home. The town had grown in his wake, he saw new stores and had noticed the new properties from the train window. He jumped slightly when a hand hit his shoulder.

"Tis a grand day, Lad."

"That it is, Irish." Heath grinned, "I can't believe it...I can't wait to see Nick."

"Aye..." Patrick grinned, feeling his gut tug. He knew what Heath's beloved older brother meant to him and recalled all to well the dark days when Heath harbored guilt over his brother's death. What a joyous day indeed for both of them.

"Well, shall we go?" Jarrod inquired of the quartet. "We can rent a rig at the livery."

"How about a wee toast first, to welcome the Lad home proper?" Patrick inquired, eyeing the Saloon.

"A quick beer, then we're on our way." Jarrod warned, "I'll rent a buggy from the livery and meet you."

"Reckon I could use a beer." Heath crowed following Brett and Patrick through the batwing doors.

"Lemonade." Both said in unison, then laughed.

"Aw, hell..." Heath scowled, before running into Patrick's back. He was about to complain about his friend's sudden halt, when his eyes widened. He stood abreast of Patrick and saw the slow smile forming. Heath's heart lurched and he started forward, blue eyes brimming, when a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He saw Patrick inch just behind the back of the taller man. He motioned for Heath to duck out of sight. Patrick held up two fingers and the bartender complied. He handed one back to Brett and waited. Just as the man in front of him, had the mug to his lips, he made his move.

"The Lad's buyin'. Ahhh yer a generous man Dante Devlin...Didn't me fine ways rub off on ye then?"

Dante's eyes widened in shock and the mug wavered, before a hand from behind him secured it. The amber liquid had just passed the back of his throat and now threatened to return. He wheeled around and grasped the shoulders of his long time friend, who was smirking.

"What kind of Irishman are ye then? Ye never spill a drop...Steady there, Man..." Patrick chuckled as the coughing fit began. The spasms worsened and he steadied the wheezing form, clapping his back soundly. "Are ye allright then?"

The coughing fit left Dante's eyes wet with tears and as he was fighting for breath. He tried to raise his blurry vision and felt strong hands supporting him.

"We didn't come all this way for ye to be passin' out. Get ahold of yourself Man!" Patrick chided, raising Dante upright. A last round of coughs were expelled, giving Patrick's a grimace. "It's me only clean shirt, don't be heavin' on it."

"Where...did...you...come...from?" Dante wheezed, pulling Patrick into a brief embrace.

"Well now, Lad, if you don't how that works by now, It'll be a grand shock to yer bride-to-be." He teased, pulling the startled man at arms length. As their eyes locked, the years melted away, to a boy's home near Sacramento. They'd shared so much and the bond ran so deep that even the years that forced them apart melted away. "Yer painin' me eyes..." Patrick voice suddenly became tight."God, I've missed ye..."

"Patrick..." Dante managed, gripping the back of the younger man's neck and sighing deeply.

"Oh, and a Lemonade for me young friend." Patrick said to the bartender and turned sideways with his back to the bar. He smiled as Dante looked past him, expectation lingering in his eyes. Patrick waited but no blond head appeared. He rolled his eyes and frowned, "Where are ye then? Show yerself..."

Dante reeled back in shock, stunned into silence as a blond head appeared housing two emotional blue eyes. Eyes he'd dreamt about...eyes he knew as well as his own...eyes that burned into his heart eight years ago when he first met the brave boy. He stumbled forward as Heath came around the corner of the bar and fell into his arms. His first thought was that Heath's head was passed his chin...the boy was gone and a young man stood before him. After a lingering moment, Dante pulled back, eyeing the shining face before him.

"Hello Dante...I...I'm home."

"You being here...makes it one again." Dante choked, blinking back tears and eyeing the shoulder length sun-kissed locks. "You still need a haircut..."

Heath grinned and eyed Brett, who'd moved to Patrick's side. He tugged on Dante's sleeve and they joined the pair. "This is my brother, Brett Thomson." He introduced and the two shook hands.

"I want to thank you, Brett. What you did...all those hospitals and prisons you searched. You never gave up hope."

"Thanks Dante, but I can't take credit for this. It's a long story, suffice to say a force stronger than the chains that bound them, gave these two their freedom. You have Patrick to thank for Heath's salvation. He kept him alive in that hellhole."

"Don't turn Preacher on me, Boy-o." Patrick squirmed, then eased as Dante's hand gripped his shoulder. "We saved each other...and that's all there is to it."

"You're a bad liar..." Heath interjected, happy that the trio were reunited at last.

Jarrod waited outside the Saloon, letting Dante and Heath have their moment. The look of raw emotion on Dante's face would be one Jarrod would long remember. He smiled and entered, taking a beer from Tiny, the bartender.

"Well, looks like I'm just in time to give a toast." Jarrod announced, shaking Dante's extended hand. "To all our sweet tomorrow's"

"Here...here.." the group agreed, clinking glasses.

Heath drained his lemonade and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, eyeing the tavern carefully. "He's not here..." Dante said quietly, knowing who the anxious youth sought.

Heath met the dark eyes and nodded, recalling what day it was. "Jarrod..."

"I know." the oldest interrupted, with a warm smile. "Go..."

Heath was through the batwing doors in a flash, when a voice called after him. He turned to spot Dante in the doorway.

"Take the wagon...it's just down the street." Dante offered and caught Heath's intense eyes, "Welcome home, Chico."

Nick finished his apple and tossed the core away. He took a long drink from his canteen and eased back onto the grass, enjoying the sweet, summer air. He was dozing, enjoying a lusty dream when something disturbed him. He frowned as he heard the familiar sound of the brakes being locked on a Barkley wagon. He rolled over sideways and saw the wagon at the top of the hill.

"Aw for cryin' out loud, Dante. What the hell do you bring that damn thing out here for? I swear, I can't get a minute's peace. You better have some liquid libations on that wagon. That will help ease the pain of Audra's hissy fit, when she gets to whinin' about us both missing that excuse for food she calls lunch."

"Quit bellyachin' Nick, you're givin' me a headache."

"Listen here, Runt. If anybody's good at givin' headaches..." Nick's voice died in his throat and he rolled over, easing himself onto his knees. He stared at the river rushing by, the sun's golden fingers playing catch with the gurgling water. His heart was hammering so hard it was jumping against his shirt. He unconsciously fingered the disc on the chain around his neck. He rubbed his eyes and wondered how a dream could be so powerful. The air was unnaturally still and even the rushing river dimmed it's voice.

"Boy Howdy. Never thought I'd see the day...Nick Barkley...speechless." Heath teased, fighting hard to keep his emotions intact. He eyed the river, the tree and the body wavering in front of it. It was the same scene he'd replayed hundreds of times over the last three years. His heart was bursting and he felt his face flush.

Nick felt ever fiber in his body go numb. His hands were tingling and he moved the digits and felt his chest constrict. He was caught in a battle of trepidation and denial. He wanted to turn around and find Heath behind him. But he was afraid...that it was a dream. His worst nightmare, one that he'd lived with all winter.

Heath watched Nick's muscles tense in his back and eyed the trembling hands. He closed the distance and stood behind his beloved older brother...his twin spirit. He placed a wavering hand on the rigid shoulder and felt the body jerk and winced at the painful hiss of air. "Nick..." he croaked, his chin trembling.

Nick closed his eyes and felt a fire explode in his chest. It wasn't a dream...the hand on his shoulder...the touch...Heath's touch confirmed that. He reached behind without turning and placed his hand on the one on his shoulder and sucked in a painful gulp of air. "Heath..." his voice was small and unsure. He managed to stand and pull his courage up with him as he turned. 'Look at his eyes' his inner voice sang in rejoice. He was riveted in place for a few pregnant seconds, drinking in those blue pools....drowning in them. Here standing just inches away from him was all that he needed. The force of emotion that gripped him was so powerful, it nearly leveled him. He raised a hand and gently touched the side of his blond brother's face. His hazel eyes burned with tears as the cracks in his heart healed. "Sweet Jesus...you're real." He choked, gripping his younger brother's neck and pulling forward.

The force of the bearhug took all the air out of Heath and he coughed. He was about to chastise Nick, when he heard it. He would have preferred tears, as Jarrod and Dante had shed. That he could accept. But that sound...a single, painful, gut-wrenching sob, broke his heart. He felt Nick's hand on his head, which was buried in his shoulder. He let the tears go...for all the years lost and all the pain they'd both been through.

Nick didn't want to let go, of either Heath or the emotional tidal wave building inside. He clutched his beloved brother to his chest and closed his eyes. The pain exploded, bursting free after all these long months. With it's release, Nick inhaled deeply, feeling Heath's heart beat against his. The air that filled him fueled the effort, as the bearer of his soul was reunited with him. The twin spirits dance and rejoiced, as the broken hearts pumped freely again.

"I can't breathe, Nick" Heath's muffled voice drew him back.

"Huh...oh...sorry Runt." Nick coughed, rubbing his eyes and releasing his prisoner. He saw the blond smirking at his wet eyes and frowned. "You tell anybody and I'll deny it...after I thrash you."

"Never happen..." Heath boasted, sinking to the ground, and kneeling beside the tree. His fingers found the spot, before his eyes did. He traced the initials carved so long ago...by two boys harboring a dream and making a vow. He'd keep that vow...to stand by his brother's side...always. His fingers dug deep into the rich earth and he brought up two handfuls of dirt. He brought them close and inhaled, sighing in contentment.

"What are you doing?" Nick wondered aloud, standing behind Heath.

"Something I've dreamed about...for years. Here...this was where'd I come...when I lost hope." He choked up, recalling the dark days. "When that damn prison got the best of me...it was here...with you....you...Nick...got me...through..." He sobbed. "God, Nick, I'm really home."

Nick grabbed both shoulders from behind and gripped them fiercely, raising his own pained eyes heavenword, scorning and accusing. A prison...he'd read about them...and the horrors that went on inside. His younger brother, whose light gave Nick courage, in chains in a stinkin' hell hole. The rage he felt was unequaled. There was no justice. How could there be? Nothing could replace the horrors he'd endured. No prison term could take away the nightmares. But if he ever laid eyes on the beasts who tortured his brother...well, it would give a new definition to the word justice. He heard the stillness and looked down. Heath's tear smudged face was calm again. The chest wasn't heaving and the serenity that he'd remembered had returned.

"Yeah, Runt. you're home...for good. Nobody's gonna take you away from me...from here again."

Heath smiled and welcomed the protective lion who gripped his shoulders. How was it that when he was around Nick, he felt the strength of ten men? Why did he feel like he could fly like an eagle, soaring into the blue sky, strong and proud. He sighed deeply, not trying to understand the unique spiritual bond, but rather embracing it fully. He raised his eyes to Nick's and felt his soul soar.

"We were ready to sent out a search party." Jarrod complained, seeing the wagon pull up at Dante's home.

"Hello to you too, Big Brother." Nick grumbled, taking a hand down and clap on the back from Jarrod.

"Good to see you, Nick." Jarrod said warmly, catching a half grin from his younger brother. "You ready Heath?" He eyed the quiet blond, who looked exhausted. Too many reunions had worn him down.

"Yeah..." Heath nodded. "They up there?"

"Yes. I saw Father and Mother arrive home about a half hour ago. We waited here. I thought maybe you'd want to see them alone."

"No...well...gimme a few minutes." Heath decided, taking a deep breath and staring at the house behind him. "Hey...looks like a castle in one of Audra's books. Should I be callin' you Lord Dante?"

"Not until the wedding." Dante beamed, still tingling at his reunited brothers.

"Wedding?" Heath squinted. "You marryin' a girl?"

"I hope so..." Dante chuckled.

"God, Lad, yer embarrassin' me." Patrick goaded, hearing Nick's laugh. "Weren't ye listenin' when I told about the ripe lassies in County Mayo. Didn't I school ye good in the ways of women?"

"Aw, hell...that ain't what I meant." Heath ducked out of Patrick's grip "I know about women and how to handle 'em." He boasted, blushing when they all laughed at him. "Shut up, all of ya."

"The women in Stockton will never be safe again." Nick warned, tussling the blond hair.

"Welcome home, Heath." Jarrod swatted, "Go on...they've waited long enough."

Heath let the musical laughter follow him up the path to the house. He paused at the clearing, drinking in every white column, rose bush and ivy coated wall. His pained eyes took in the barn and the corral. He saw Buck and Duke on the porch of the bunkhouse. He was still numb...it was too surreal. His legs led him to the door and his hand hovered above the knob. Taking a deep breath, he turned it.

"Just you and Mr. Barkley tonight for supper?" Silas asked Victoria Barkley who'd just entered the kitchen.

"I'm not sure yet, Silas. I'm going upstairs for a rest."

"Yes Ma'am"

Tom took his coat off and poured a brandy. He swirled the golden fluid in his glass and stared at the barren fireplace. Sundays were the hardest. How he missed Sunday dinners with all his children around him. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the visitor steal inside.

Heath's heart lurched painfully as he eyed the man he loved so much. There was more silver in the hair and the small bit of the face he could see sported a beard. He opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. He walked closer, now only a few feet away. His raw, red eyes, already overworked, got into gear again. The tears spilled before the words did. He reached a hand out, trembling as he attempted to fill the need...to touch...be held by those strong arms. The same ones that held him the first day on the ranch on that fine horse. The ones he'd sought out when the pains of hunger and brutality lashed at him in prison.

"Hey Pa..." He choked, tears spilling freely.

The only sound in the room was Tom's glass shattering against the marble floor of the fireplace. He turned and his blue-gray eyes widened in shock . He shook his head and backed up, not believing what he was seeing. There, before him was his son...his lost boy...his golden child...whose youth was brutally taken from him. Gone was the small boy who's lyrical laughter made his heart sing. Gone was the beautiful child whose smile and simple analogies filled him with pride. Gone was the the wonderful miracle he'd created. But before him stood a young man...a familiar stranger...who now stood eye to eye with him; a warrior, brave and true; a survivor who'd defied the odds and found his way home. Yes, that was who stood before him...a Barkley...his son...his pride and joy....a man.

There were no words...none would capture the boundless joy he felt. His heart was soaring ...his world was whole again. The void inside, the awful hole that had formed over three years ago and festered every day since, was healed. Wordlessly, he held out his arms and closed his wet eyes in prayer as his golden child sank into his arms.

There is was. Heath smiled through the tears that ran down his face. The strong arms that held him, the persona...the man whose boots he longed to fill was really here. He felt taller, stronger and full of pride. The love that shined from his father's eyes couldn't captured in script or found in a dictionary. There were no adjectives or descriptive elements that could capture that emotive blue fire. It wasn't something tangible. It was deep...deeper than anything he'd ever felt before. The hands held his face touching him almost reverently. Strong fingers brushed the long locks from his forehead. He felt the hand grip his neck and pull him foreward. He felt his father's lips touch his forehead and the sire's tears hit his own face.

"My miracle..." Tom choked, finally finding his voice. He didn't want to let ago and Heath didn't either. "We thought you were dead...the river. I searched, Heath. I tried...everything. Please don't..." He grasped, not wanting the boy to think they'd given up. Before he could utter another word, a hand covered his mouth.

"I love you, Pa..." The blue eyes were brilliant and gave the older man peace. Heath's heart shone loud and clear.

"Not as much as I love you, Son." He emoted, knowing the how's and where's would be filled in later.

"Tom, I'm going to take my afternoon nap. I told Silas....HEATH!"

"Victoria!" Tom left his son to catch his swaying bride, whose gray eyes were tranfixed. She pushed her husbands hands away and let her shaky limbs carry her foreward. She couldn't believe the tall young man who stood before her, towering over. Her mothers' eyes noted how painfully thin he was and saw the signs of a retreating illness. Like her husband, the questions of what had taken him from them so long ago, nagged at her. But for now, there was only one thing she wanted.

"Hello Mother." he said and held onto her, smiling down at the tears. "Boy Howdy, did you shrink."

Her soft laughter and the caress to his cheek gave him a shy grin. The one she'd first seen in Sacramento and many days after. The one she'd missed all these years. The gentle soul and sensitive spirit that lurked deep inside those blue eyes and hid behind the shy smile was finally home. Her eyes shined and she nodded as the door opened and five anxious young men spilled inside.

"Jarrod..." Victoria and Tom both said at the same time and moved foreward to greet their oldest child. After hugging him, she eyed a familiar face, grinning at her openly. The dark unruly curls...the winning smile..."Patrick...McKenna?" She wondered aloud and saw the head dip.

"Aye Dear Lady, in the flesh. Tis a sight fer soar eyes yer are. You don't look a day older. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was the Lad's sister I was seein'"

"Oh brother," Nick lamented, "It's gettin' a little deep in here."

Victoria swatted her hazel-eyed son and greeted Heath's old friend warmly. She saw the same fatigue and lingering illness in the handsome face as she'd seen in Heath's. "It's good to see you..." She then noticed an auburn haired young man, standing by the door.

"Have ye lost the use of yer legs?" Patrick crossed, waving his hand. "They won't bite...they're good people...despite their oppulance."

"Watch it Mister." Victoria warned, with a smile.

"Uh....Mother..." Heath came foreward as Brett shifted into the room, unsure and uncomfortable. "This is Brett Thomson...my brother."

"What?" Tom scowled, "Your brother...but how..."

"It's a long story...and I'm too tuckered out to say it more than once. So if y'all will get comfortable..." He hedged, waiting for them to sit and Jarrod dispense whiskey, brandy and sherry. "It started over three years ago...on a day of a terrific storm by the river."

They sat entranced as he wove his tale, leaving out the more painful elements. Finally, it was done and Heath sank into chair, exhausted. Nick and Patrick immediately flanked him, each gripping a shoulder and offering silent support. Tom's rage built with every word. He threw himself out of the chair and paced angrily, cursing Lucius Simmons. The brutal hands of that beast has robbed his son of his youth and the rabid jaws of war had taken his boyhood away. His chest was still heaving when he felt the featherlike touch on his face. He turned and saw his youngest son's face contorted.

"Please, Pa...leave it go. I can't bear to see you in pain..."

Tom's anger melted into astonishment. After all Heath had been through...all he'd suffered and endured, he was worried about his father. He saw the compassion burning in those blue eyes and nodded, letting the anger go.

Nick watched them and stood by the far wall, eyeing Jarrod. His own anger began to build. Jarrod had known Heath was alive and safe. All this time, he'd known and kept it a secret. He saw Jarrod look at him and frown.

"What?" the lawyer inquired, seeing Nick seething at him.

"How could you?" Nick challenged, not hiding his anger. "You knew he was alive...for months now and you hide it from us. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"He's my brother." Heath snarled, jumping in front of Nick and pushing him against the wall. "That's who the hell he is. Do you know how hard it was for him to keep it a secret? He fought me on that. He wanted to tell you right away. I told him...begged him not to. I made him promise." He snapped, eyes blazing.

"Why?" Nick begged, "For God's sake...why?"

"Because you buried me twice already. I couldn't bear to put you through that again. Do you know what's it like to be stripped of your dignity Nick? Do you know what it's like to wake up so cold your bones ache and your numb all over? To have such pain in your gut your hands look for a wound...only to realize it's hunger pain? Do you Nick?" He challenged, "I do...there was only two reasons I survived Carterson. Two reasons why I didn't die last winter when they dumped me in that hellhole. One is that man." He pointed to Patrick who flinched. "Who saved my life every single day. He didn't let me give up hope...he chased my nightmares away...every time I woke up, he was next to me, holding me, comforting me and kicking my ass when it needed it. He stole...." Heath swallowed painfully, "...stole medicine...for me...saved my life that night..."

"Don't Lad...it's done. Don't do this to yerself...please..." Patrick whispered, glad for Brett's hand on his shoulder.

"He needs to hear it," Heath responded. "The guards didn't take to kindly to that...they wanted to know who got the medicine. They tried to beat it out of him...with clubs and whips...he never uttered a sound. They took his legs away, Nick. He's been working day and night for weeks to get them back." Heath paused, took a deep breath and watched his father move to Patrick's side and grip the downcast shoulders not hiding his gratitude and admiration. "The second thing...that got me through was your voice." he saw Nick wince and dug deeper. "'Keep your head up, Runt. Don't give up, Runt. Hang in there, Runt....So don't you ruin this for me, Nick." His chest was heaving and he felt Nick's hands on his shoulders. "Do you know how long I've waited for his moment....to have all my brothers around me. My brothers in blood and my brothers in arms....Please Nick...let it go."

"I'm sorry, Heath." Nick whispered, gripping the downcast shoulders. He led his shaking brother back into the fold. Jarrod, Patrick, Dante and Brett surrounded him. He was drowning in a sea of brotherhood and loving every minute of it.

Eighteen months later, December 1866, at Chateau Laurus

The winds howled outside the county villa making the occupants of the cozy room appreciate the crackling fire even more. If he didn't know better, Tom Barkley would believe he was in the French countryside. Dante and his wife, Katherine, had turned this beautifully appointed house into loving home. Nick and Heath spent as much time over here as they did in their own home. He eyed his boys across the room, Jarrod and Heath were playing chess. Nick was pacing, like a caged panther, eyeing the foyer. A loud cry brought Jarrod and Heath to their feet, and to Nick's side. The three Barkley brothers eyed the staircase in anticipation.

The smile that split Nick's face was wide and warm. Coming down the stairs was his best friend, wearing a drunken grin. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his hair was damp and sticking to his face. In his arms, was a lusty, infant. The dark-haired, howling bundle of joy caused a cheer to arise in the room. Dante looked scared to death and Nick loved every minute of it.

"Breathe Man, Breathe" He coached, eyeing the healthy babe nestled in his father's arms. "The hard parts over," he added, placing a hand over the tense shoulders. "Turn that boy around and let me have a good look."

"How'd you know it was a boy?" Dante's voice was shaky.

"What else would it be?" He declared, scowling at Jarrod's bemused expression. "That's not what I meant...plenty of time for a girl later, after a few more boys." He boasted, eyeing the handsome infant who had perfect little Devlin features and a head full of dark hair. "Hey, he looks like me..."

"God forbid," Dante worried, "The world isn't ready for two Nick Barkley's." He lowered the mewing infant and heard Heath and Jarrod's praises.

"Hey. little fella..." Heath caught the tiny flailing fist and shivered at the silken skin. "Guess you're the new runt."

"Not hardly." Nick said, slapping Heath's back "You're still the runt. That Kid almost as big as you."

"Nine pounds." The proud father boasted, jutting his chest out.

"Well now, he might give me a run for competition" Jarrod teased, patting his expanding girth. "Congratulations Old Man, he's a beautiful baby. It must be quite a feeling, it's not every day you get to create a miracle." He said softly, stroking the infant's tiny rosy cheek.

"Thanks Jarrod." Dante nodded, his eyes trained on one figure, who sat by the fire, eyes full. He lowered the baby into Tom's arms and saw the older man struggling.

Every baby was a gift from God, Tom Barkley truly believed that. He sat in awe of God's majesty as he looked at his healthy boy. He felt a jolt when the tiny hand grabbed his finger. "Damn fine looking boy, Son." He said proudly, eyeing the handsome infant. The new voice caused the small baby to cease his crying. The unfocused eyes gazed upwards.

"He stills has it..." Nick teased of his father's seemingly omnipotent power. He couldn't keep the drunken grin off his face, seeing Dante's wide-eyed wonder at the mircle of his son.

"What's his name?" Heath asked, kneeling by the chair and eyeing the baby.

"We discussed it our on trip downstairs." Dante said, kneeling by Tom's side. "I'd like to introduce, for the first time, Thomas Joseph Devlin. He's named for the man who fathered me and the man who became my father." He felt Tom Barkley's arm wrap around his shoulders and saw the blue-gray eyes fill up.

"My God..." Tom choked, "What an honor...Thank you, Son."

"No, Sir...thank you."

"Alright, all of you back up." Tom barked at the bodies closing in, "Give my grandson some air."

The tiny baby didn't know it, he was the first in a long line of proud bearers of the mantle. In the years that would follow, there would be many more to carry on the name and tradition started by a visionary from the east name Thomas Barkley and his strong bride.

A breeze lifted up her hair, sending the soft tendrils across her forehead. The emotional journey down the corriders of his mind, both dark and light, left him exhausted. For several minutes, neither moved. She sat up and stroked his face, kissing him tenderly. Then she took the disk, suspended on a chain, and slipped it around his neck.

"Thanks..." Nick managed, his hand immediately reaching it.

"No, Thank You..." Emily Barkley eased softly, watching the emotional play on his face as he studied the silver treasure. "I can't imagine how hard that was for you to bear." She said of his pain of the loss of his brother. "I'm sorry you had to relive it. I had no idea..."

"No, don't be," He turned, grasping her hand. "It needed to be said. I've held that guilt in for so very long. I feel...lighter somehow. "

It was then she noticed the small section carved in the base of the tree. A smile split her pretty face as traced the crooked lettering done by a pair of young boys, so very long ago.

"How come you never told me..." She awed, realizing now special this place was to him and why he insisted on the exact measurement when their home was built.

"We talked about it," He replied in a faraway voice, "Heath and I. That when we married, we make sure that the tree was exactly in the middle of the properties. I miss those Sunday afternoons. Somehow life got in the way. It was such a special place...almost as if time stood still."

"Maybe it's time you took up fishing again." She relayed, watching the smile form.

"Yeah...come to think of it, that boy owes me a new pole." Nick teased of his blond brother.

She watched the smile fade and an almost painful mask form. "What?"

"Saying it again...reliving it..." Nick rasped, rubbing his neck. "Makes me realize how close we came to losing him. My God, Emily...without Heath..." He swalllowed hard, biting off the rest of the thought.

With great effort, he'd eased her off his lap and risen from where he was resting against the broad tree. She watched his back, muscles tense, and saw him slip his hand into his shirt and touch the chain. She joined him by the water's edge.

"I know you're a man of great faith, Nick." She stood in front on him and placed a hand on his chest. "Did you ever think maybe God's hand is just that fine. That Patrick and Dante were meant to meet Heath. Dante saved your life during the war and Patrick saved Heath's. So you could both find your way home. Maybe it was meant to be that way."

"Guardian angels....Dante an angel?" He laughed of the man who was, for all intents and purposes, his brother.

"I don't see anything humorous." She smiled, "He's handsome enough..."

"He's no Nick Barkley." Nick crowed, pulling her close and hugging her. "Now Heath...that boy looks like an angel...but I know different."

"Heath's the gentlest soul I've ever met." Emily mused, thinking on her quiet brother-in-law. "Nick, he's nearly thirty-two, married and a father. He's not a 'boy'."

"The hell he isn't" Nick grumbled. "No account runt..."

"My God, Nick," She shivered, "He was only a little older than Tom" She noted of Dante's oldest sone, "...locked in chains...beaten." She said of Heath's time in Carterson. ."He was only a boy. That's barbaric. "

"Emily, all wars are full of boys. It sad and barbaric..and a part of life. He doesn't talk about it," Nick said of Heath's internment, "Only the first night he came home."

"If men older and stronger didn't make it," She theorized, "It's just hard to conceive...how he endured...survived."

"He's a cut above, Emily. He's the strongest man I've ever met."

"It's getting late." She noted of the afternoon sun. "Come on..."

They strolled lazily back to their fine home. Nick paused at the crest of the hill, watching the brood of Tom Barkley's heirs scampering and shrieking in delight. The smile he wore turned into a chuckle and then a laugh. He picked up his wife's hand and kissed it.

"My God, Em...listen to that sweet music." The smile faded and his somberness came on in a hurry.

"There you go, thinking about him again." She said of her late father-in-law.

"Yeah..."Nick said huskily. "He would have loved this...them. God, he was so proud."

"He had every right." She nodded, eyeing the new generation. "They're every inch a Barkley."

"Yeah...I'll...uh...be back in a little while." He said, eyeing the large barn next to his home.

"I know." She replied and kissed him deeply. "Don't be too late."

Nick picked up his pace as he approached the barn next to his home. He paused in the doorway, his lips turned up into a smile as he watched the hard working hand. He was tall for his age, lean and intense. His shoulder length dark hair stuck to his damp face. He was brushing a beautiful, black mare.

"Hey, Chico."

Nick jumped at the hand that clapped his back and the warm voice that preceded it. The years had been kind to Dante Devlin. He was still lean and his raven-hair was untouched by gray. The smile he wore matched the pride in his dark eyes, as he looked upon his firstborn child.

"Man, do I feel old." Nick commented, eyeing Thomas Devlin working. "Where did the years go?"

"I'll tell you about feeling old." Dante commented. "Old is catching your teenage son kissing a girl for the first time."

"Ouch!" Nick sympathized. Their laughter caused the boy to pause, a smile complimented by startling white teeth, lit up the barn. He looked so much like Dante it made Nick wince. Tom was only a little younger than Dante had been when he arrived.

"You know, Young Man," Nick mocked-stern. "Working this hard on a holiday will get you fired."

"Uncle Nick!" The boy called out warmly, carefully replacing the brush and coming to meet the two older men. "Your birthday isn't a holiday."

"It should be." Nick decided, ruffling the dark hair. "So what's this I hear about a kissing bandit on the loose?"

"Uh-oh..." The youth blushed. "I...uh...well it wasn't that kind of a kiss...well I wanted to but I didn't want her to know...and she moved and then my hand got stuck and..."

"Another smooth talking Romeo from the Barkley ranch..." Nick laughed.

"The women of Stockton might never be safe again." Dante added, enjoying his son's color.

"Pa?" The boy pleaded, eyes wide. "Can I?"

"I don't know..." Dante hedged, making him squirm.

"Aw, come on, Pa...please...I did all my chores...I even did extra...I worked with her all day...Please..."

"Okay." Dante grinned, watching Nick's perplexed stare.

"Uncle Nick." The youth moved forward and handed his godfather the reins. "Happy Birthday. "

"What?" Nick stammered, eyeing the boy and the mare in disbelief. "My God..." He choked.

"Her name is Isabella..." The teenager gushed, "She came all the way from Spain. Her line goes back to Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. I picked her out myself...well, Uncle Patrick helped." He noted of the world reknown breeder. McKenna Farms was Patrick and Brett's joint enterprise in Kentucky. Dante and Thomas had made the trip, just to pick out Nick's gift. Seeing the emotion of Nick's face made it worthwhile. "So...Do you like her?" The boy asked, eyes wide.

"Like her?" Nick gasped, drawing the boy in for an embrace. "She's the finest horse I've ever seen. Thank You, Thomas." He gripped the crown of the dark head and recalled the lusty infant he held so many years before. This fine young man had such a place in his heart..."Damn hayfever..." Nick complained, releasing the euphoric boy and wiping his eyes.

"Yeah..." Dante imparted, smiling. "Good work son. Get cleaned up and changed. As soon as Uncle Nick gets back, we're having dinner."

"Yes, Sir." Dante nodded.

"Well now Young Lady." Nick cooed, stroking the fine mane. "How about you and me getting better acquainted?"

"I'll get her ready for you, Uncle Nick." the younger Devlin offered, taking the reins.

"You okay, Nick?" Dante asked as the two men reached the barn door.

Nick watched the boy work, eyeing the tall, lean frame with budding muscles. Wasn't it just yesterday he'd held that baby? Wasn't it just yesterday when Tom Barkley stood proudly beside the handsome four year old on his first pony? Here he was, a fine young man, strong and true...just like his father. He eyed Dante carefully.

"You..." He paused, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. "...should be damn proud. I sure as hell am." He choked.

Dante followed Nick's emotive stare and felt his chest tighten. "I am...and thanks Nick." He said of the high compliment.

A trio of small voices drew their attention away from the barn. They turned around the doorway and Nick found himself wearing a small blond boy. The four-year old had wrapped his arms around the dark trousered legs.

"Nick...Uncle Nick..." The tow-head chirped, arms thrust upwards.

"Patrick..." Nick hollered, heaving the boy skyward and getting rewarded with a bounty of giggles. He growled like a lion, and bared his teeth, only causing more giggles. He settled Heath's son onto his shoulders and eyed the two seven-year olds whose dark heads were huddled together.

"What are you guys up to?" Dante asked of his son and Nick's, who were inseparable.

"We got a problem." Matt Devlin said seriously, his blue eyes furrowed.

"Yeah..." Tommy Barkley agreed, eyeing his father. "Pa, I can three wives, can't I?"

"Don't see why not." Nick said, keeping a straight face. "As long as you can support them."

"What's support?" Matt asked.

"Paying for their food, clothes and such." Dante imparted, trying not to laugh at the serious small faces. "Why three Tommy?" He asked his nephew.

"Well..." The boy replied, hands on his small hips, "One to cook for me...one for the house, to clean and stuff..and one to take care of my horses."

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Nick lauded, "One wife just for the horses. That's a fine idea son."

"You're going be working awfully hard to support all those wives." Dante warned, then saw the small face scowl.

"They ain't getting any of my money." Nick's minature decided with a hot glare. "They're gonna be working girls" He decided proudly, then frowned when both his father and uncle doubled over in laughter. They were laughing so hard, they were crying.

"What's so funny?" Matt asked his cousin.

"I don't know." Tommy shrugged, "Grownups..." He shook his dark head. "Let's go." He turned, heading for the house. He paused and looked back, at his small blond cousin. His face scowled, "Come on, Runt."

"Down...Nick..." The blond wiggled frantically. "Put my down...my go now...."

"Huh?" Nick wheezed, wiping his moist eyes. "Oh, sorry Patrick." He patted the small blond head and set him on the ground. The small legs flew down the hill, following his two cousins.

"That's your boy alright." Dante lauded, clapping Nick's back. "Working girls...My God that's funny."

"His mother won't think so." Nick smirked.

"All set, Uncle Nick." Tom handed him the reins and stood by his father.

Nick's veteran hand stroked the soft leather of the expensive, new saddle. "Happy Birthday, Chico." Dante said.

"Thanks Dante..." Nick complimented, eyeing the fine saddle. "It's a beauty." He put his boot in the stirrup and climbed up. He felt like he could touch the sun, his heart was soaring so. He tipped his hat and trotted off, only to stop at the soft call.

"Hey, Nick." Dante said "Give him my best."

"You already have." Nick sent back. "Every day you've been here."

She rode like a dream...they melded as if destiny forged it that way. He slipped off the fine saddle and knelt by the simple, solitary stone. He brushed some debris away and sat down. He pulled out a shot glass and a small flask with the initials TJB on it. He poured a shot and placed it in front of the stone. He took his hat off and ran a hand threw his hair. Then he touched the lip of the glass with the flask.

"Hello, Father." Nick whispered, taking a long swig and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He grimacing at the familiar stab in his chest, the pain still ebbing after all these years. "I miss you. We're all fine. You should see Tom...My God he's just like Dante...

It was almost dark when Nick rode in, he left his fine gift with Antonio, Ciego's grandson. "You take good care of her, she's special.

"Si, Senor."

Nick made his way to the pump, banging the dust of his vest with his hat. He hung the dark hat on the fence and moved his arms briskly. He took a good long drink and washed his face and hands. He was groping for the towel Emily always left, when a hand gave it to him. He smiled under the towel, recognizing the cologne.

"Thanks Jarrod." Nick said, "Just like you to show up for a free meal."

"You wound me, Nick." the forty-year old, slightly portly Attorney General of the State of California imparted. The blue eyes didn't miss the pain in the hazel ones. He knew where Nick had gone...they all did. His birthday visit to their father's grave always was hard for Nick. He'd suffered most from the tragic loss. "You okay?" He asked, leaning against the fence

"Yeah..." Nick hushed, "Somedays are hard...like today. I can see him, in my mind's eye, riding with Tommy and Matt, like he did with Tom. He'd be so proud." Nick sighed, "I swear I heard him today, Jarrod, when a soft wind blew by..."

"Yeah..." Jarrod agreed. "I know, Nick. Come on, let's go inside."

Nick followed his older brother to the door. As they arrived, it hit him. The joyous sounds of their laughter; Tom Barkley heirs.

"Nick?" Jarrod perplexed, seeing the stoic face, unmoving in the doorway.

"That's what I call beautiful music." Nick said, finally moving his legs.

"Better than Bach." Jarrod agreed, shutting the door. "Nick, there's a small army in here threatening to mutiny if you don't cut your birthday cake. So shake a leg will you?"

"I got a feeling those kids aren't the only ones wanting cake, Jarrod."

"Nick, sometimes you have an uncanny ability to read minds. I'll have an end cut and don't be skimpy."

"Spoken like a true veteran of many State dinners." Nick laughed and slapped Jarrod's back.

In the large parlor of Nick Barkley's county estate, a blond man worked tirelessly. His blue eyes were locked in determination. A small army surrounded him. The best kind of troops...the kind he loved and endured with a tenderness and humor that awed his brothers. Heath was wearing two of his three towheaded children on each leg, three of Dante's sat in front of him, with Nick's youngest. Jarrod's two redheads and two of Nick's were draped over each sturdy shoulder. He didn't seem to hear the clamor, or squealing or pouting. He answered every question patiently and endured the endless stream of commentary with a half grin.

"Boy Howdy, I sure wish the birthday boy shows up before my arm falls off." The blond grunted. as he cranked the machine making ice cream.

"Hurry up Uncle Heath, I'm starved."

"Reckon you should have eaten more dinner Tommy."

"Let me help. I can do it."

Heath smiled down at Nick's seven-year old son. The boy exuded self confidence. He paused rubbing his sore arm and ruffled the dark hair.

"Sorry, Kid, it's too hard for little guys like you."

"I can too. I'm real strong. Look at this." He angered, flashing an all too familiar hazel glare.

Heath tried to keep a straight face as he looked at the minature Nick scowl and felt the small muscle. He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's a mighty fine muscle. Come on then."

Nick turned into the large parlor of his house. He passed his relatives and nodded, only half hearing their greetings. His full heart and burning eyes sought only one face...one set of blue eyes. He felt the broad smile as it was born. It grew from a place deep inside and blossomed quickly. He eyed his younger brother in awe. He could always find Heath in a crowd. You just look for a bunch of kids, and there he'd be, right smack in the middle. His own kids, his family's and anyone else's; the man had the patience of a saint. Sure enough, there he was with two of his own at each leg, several more hanging over his back and sitting on his feet. Nick's boy Tommy stood in front of him. He watched as Heath leaned over the boy, helping him crank the ice cream maker. Tommy was beaming at the praise his drawling uncle was giving. His brother's blue shirt was unbuttoned at the top. As he bent over the boy, a silver disk suspended from a chain, danced on the child's dark head. Nick smiled and fingered the chain he wore. Heath looked up as Nick approached. "It's about time you showed up. My arm's about to fall off..."

Heath didn't finish his thought. He saw the chain his older brother wore and felt a warm flush rise to his face. He was transported back in time, to a night when a thirteen year old, stood in his older brother's room, scared to death that he'd never see him again. He heard the echoes of gunfire and saw the horrific image of Nick falling, due to his bullet. He recalled the wonderous sight of Nick's face at the river, the day he'd come home. He gave the dark cowboy a lopsided grin.

"Nick, the cake is this way. Nick...? Jarrod perplexed, spotting the rare show of unbridled emotion on his middle brother's face. The lawyer's eyes glanced at his youngest brother, who was radiating joy. The room was suddlenly hushed as the two met. Each held out half and the pieces united. Nick gripped Heath's right shoulder tightly. Neither said a word...they didn't have to. The silent transmission was loud and clear. Jarrod smiled warmly, envious of the rare bond.

"Well how about that, a perfect fit" Jarrod announced, clapping a hand on both backs.

"Yeah, " Nick choked, drilling the sky eyes with his own, "That's how I always saw it." He gasped, finding Heath's eyes.

"Me too, Big Brother" Heath affirmed, "Happy Birthday."

Later on, most of the adults were scattered about the large home, having coffee and talking. Jarrod and Dante were playing chess in the study. Emily, Katherine and Becky, Heath's wife, were in the Dining Room, having tea and chatting. Sleeping children were scattered on various sofas, chairs and even on the floor. Heath tiptoed throught the minefield and found Nick standing on the porch.

"Wondered where you got to" He said shifting his tow-headed boy to the other shoulder.

Nick looked over at the sleeping toddler. He ran a finger along the pink cheek and brushed the fair hair tenderly. They stood watching the stars, embracing the solidarity they found in solitude.

"Where did you find it?" Nick asked, breaking the warm silence.

"Stuck between the sideboard and headboard of your old bed. Mother asked me to take it down when we came for supper last week. You and Emily were still away. I couldn't believe it. I didn't realize how long I'd been sitting on the floor holding it until Mother came in looking for me. Near as we could figure, it' must have fallen off when you got shot by Mike Farrell."

"Mike Farrell?" Nick frowned. "Oh yeah..." He nodded, recalling the shooting.

"It was about six months or so before your wedding. You had a fever for several days. We kept moving you to change the wet linens, it must have slipped off and just stuck in there"

"I thought I'd lost it forever. " Nick rasped painfully. "You have no idea what this means to me Heath."

Heath kissed his son's soft cheek and welcomed the light breath the tot left on his neck. He gazed over the small blond head at his older brother. Both were more than a little emotionally spent. Heath's warm voice slid easily into Nick's waiting heart.

"I do know Nick," The blond gracefully imparted. "I feel it everyday, when I see this chain on my neck. Haven't had it off in twenty years, not once. Makes me realize how very lucky I am to have such a brother." He sighed deeply, swallowing hard.

"Now there you go reading my mind again, Runt" Nick teased, patting Heath's back. "Come on, Boy, let's get my namesake bedded down and I'll let you beat me at pool"

"Well ain't you in a generous mood, Old Man." Heath chuckled, "...not that I need your help, time hasn't improved your game one bit. I can still lick you good."

"Well, now that sounds like bettin' words to me." Nick challenged.

"You can't afford me, Big Brother."

Young Nicholas Jonathan Barkley didn't hear his uncle's words or feel his soft kiss. He didn't hear his father's tender words, as he laid him on a quilt by his grandmother's feet. But he'd learn, as he grew, like all the Barkleys did. About family and honor; and how important are the bonds that tie. The laughter from the billiard room, of a dark man and his blond brother, sailed effortlessly into the night. The wind carried it to a solitary grave, where it caressed the name of Thomas Barkley, whose spirit endured.