The dark, ominous clouds shifted across the December sky, temporarily hiding the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. Snowfall in the mountains had come late this year, and the forecasters were predicting more before Christmas. The lighted windows of the Pine Meadows tavern reflected their warmth on the snowy streets as the people of the town hustled in various directions, finalizing another day.

Inside the cheery building, a bearded man stared solemnly ahead, waiting and watching. The tavern's busy entrance had a steady influx of patrons coming and going. Most of the tables were occupied and men were lined along the counter like San Franciscans waiting for a trolley. The air carried snippets and tones of many voices and the sounds of laughter could be heard at any given time.

The grim-faced man pulled a watch from his vest and frowned as he read the time. Returning the watch to his pocket, he beckoned for the house hostess to refill the empty mug which sat before him. His expression was emotionless and his words few as he handed her several coins. She took the money and nodded her thanks. He sipped on the warm cider, the hard eyes scanning the crowd. His craggy features seemed a contrast to his neatly trimmed beard and well kept appearance.

A cool breeze intermingled with the warmth of the fireplace inside as once again, the doors swung open. The man's dark eyes alerted as he fixed his gaze on the three men entering the town's busiest drinking establishment. The leader of the three returned his stare and nonchalantly headed over to the table located in the farthest corner of the room, his two cohorts in close tow.

"It's about time you got here," the introvert mumbled as his expected guests each found a seat at the table.

"There was trouble," the leader replied. "Some sort of ruckus over at the train station. The sheriff was stopping outsiders for questioning. We had to take the back road."

"Were you seen?" the bearded man inquired.

"No, Sir. Like I said, we took the back road."

"Good. Sounds like you were using your head. Now, let's get down to business. As you already know, I've called you here to carry out a mission. A mission that is long overdue."

"Yes, Sir," the burly man responded, "and I want you to know that we're all with you."

"Good! We have much to discuss. Your patience and dedication will be greatly rewarded if our mission is successful. The seeds of vengeance will be harvested, I promise you that. I've been waiting for this ever since the day that judge read me my sentence. Now, tell me what news you bring regarding our quarry."

The sun peeked in through the condensation on the windows as the family began to assemble themselves for breakfast. Jarrod, the first to arrive, sat at the end of the table, lost in thought as he read through an article in The Stockton Eagle. The jail break had been inconceivable. How anybody could escape the confinements of San Quentin was beyond him, but yet here it was again, another columnist's commentary, spelled out in black and white. The authorities of the surrounding area had all been searching, but speculation figured the fugitive to have sought refuge over the Canadian border. It had been well over a month, and the chances of recapture appeared dim.

"Any new leads?" Victoria inquired as she briskly entered the dining area and found her seat at the head of table.

"Oh, good morning, Mother," Jarrod greeted. "No, I'm afraid not. However, there is every indication that he's headed north up to Canada. If he has any sense at all, he'll stay there."

"Well, I for one am not going to let that man's whereabouts interfere with the Christmas spirit in this household. Audra and I have much to do today. Holiday baking and decorating. What time are you and your brothers planning to take off for the lodge?"

"I guess that will depend on them," the lawyer reasoned. "If they plan on sleeping half way through the morning, we'll be off to a rather late start."

"Who's sleeping?" Heath croaked, suppressing a cough as he stopped at the sideboard to pour himself a cup of coffee. "You must be referring to Nick, 'ol Sleeping Beauty, himself!"

"I don't think I'd go so far as to call him that," Jarrod jested. "Say, how's that cough of yours? I don't want you getting pneumonia on us up at the lodge."

"Don't worry about me," Heath rebuttled. "It takes a lot more than a little cold to keep me in bed."

"I wouldn't call a bout with bronchitis 'a little cold' young man," Victoria admonished. "You make sure you stay warm and take that medicine. I really don't think you should be running around that mountain with snow on the horizon..."

"I'm fine, Mother, and I'm goin'," Heath rasped decisively, his blues eyes defensive.

"I give up," she said shaking her head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd better go wake Audra so we can get to that store. It's the last shipment before Christmas and they'll be mobbed."

Victoria rose to exit the room. As she passed her youngest son, she paused and kissed his cheek. Before she could utter a word of protest at the residue of fever, he silenced her.

"Good-bye, Mother."

"Heath, really another day wouldn't hurt, you still feel warm and your voice..."

"Five days takin' it easy has been long enough. Give my regards to the hens in town," he managed.

"And about time you crawled out, Boy" Nick put in with a pat to the blue-clothed shoulder, kissing Victoria as she left. "If we're goin' to get to the lodge and back with that tree before Christmas, we're goin' to have to put a wiggle on it."

"It's only the tenth, Nick, we'll be back by Christmas Eve. I just hope Heath's voice recovers in time for his debut at Christmas services," Jarrod teased.

"Oh now that is something I have been waiting for," Nick chortled with a wink to the lawyer.

Heath grimaced at the sideboard next to his brother. He watched as Nick filled his plate with bacon, sausage, eggs and biscuits. He'd been caught singing a favorite hymn, 'Amazing Grace', while going through the Christmas boxes he and his brothers loaded in the foyer a couple of weeks before. He thought he'd had the house to himself...that Nick still out on the ranch and that Jarrod, Audra and his mother were returning from San Francisco later that evening. He finished the song and turned red-faced as the family clapped and Nick whistled. The trio had met Nick in the yard and the family converged into the house in time to hear most of the song. His mother had insisted he volunteer for Christmas services, since they were short a man in the choir. He tried every way he could think of to get out of it, but in the end, one plea from those gray eyes of hers had been his undoing.

"Not too late for you to lend a tonsil," Heath offered, taking only some eggs and a biscuit and returning to his seat.

"Oh no, Brother, you got yourself into this. My job is to just sit back and enjoy the show," Nick finished.

He started to sit down in his usual seat, next to Heath. A loud, deep, wet coughing fit interrupted his journey. Covering his plate defensively, he moved as far away as he could, seating himself on the other end of the long table.

"Wouldn't hurt you to show a little sympathy!" Heath choked through watery eyes.

"SYMPATHY!" Nick bellowed spearing a defenseless sausage and aiming it at the winded blond. "For what? It's only a couple of weeks 'til Christmas and I got no intention of catching what you got. I have dances, holiday visits and lots of mistletoe to stand under. I don't intend to be spitting up gunk, coughing and layin' in bed."

"Nick, it's not his fault he got sick," Jarrod reasoned over his coffee.

"The hell it isn't," Nick argued back. "That's what he gets for kissin' strange women."

"There was nothin' strange about her or the way she kissed," Heath strained with a smile.

"Really?" Nick's eyes widened. "That hour of passion was worth you bein' laid up all week?"

Heath didn't answer, but his smile and the light in his eyes made Jarrod chuckle. He was a little concerned at Heath's lack of appetite. His brothers were both hearty eaters. Nick's plate seemed to cover enough for the two of them. Knowing his youngest brother's penchant for covering up infirmities, he hoped that Heath didn't have a stomach problem too.

"Nick, you're eyes wouldn't be a little green today, would they?" Jarrod teased.

"Over what? That silly Madison girl? She ain't worth getting that worked up over. She's not my type," Nick defended.

"That's okay, Big Brother, I got plenty to spare. I'll throw some action your way, you bein in a slump and all," Heath rasped as he nodded to Jarrod and left the room.

"SLUMP! That's a word that's not in my dictionary, you wheezin' Lothario. Get back here," Nick hollered at the retreating back, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

"You think he's up to this trip?" Jarrod asked, rising from the table.

"He's okay," Nick concluded piling pancakes on a side plate. "He'd drag himself on one leg if that's what it took."

Jarrod knew exactly what Nick meant. This would be the third Christmas Heath spent as a Barkley and the previous two treks for the tree had come to mean something very special to him. The tradition of the brothers bonding at the lodge, drinking, joking, and just enjoying the freedom that the wilderness atmosphere offered had enriched all of them. It was at that first expedition that Heath spoke a little of his childhood and his remembrances of Christmas. The loud laughter the two older men were sharing had disappeared as their half brother shared some very moving memories.

"Jarrod? Jarrod? Hello, I'm in the room, ya know."

"Huh?" Jarrod blinked at Nick's waving hand. "Oh, sorry Nick, I was thinking about that first year we shared with him at the lodge. Remember the story he told about making his mother that nativity set out of wood scraps?"

Nick's smile disappeared as he poured cream into his coffee. Stirring slowly, he too remembered Heath's halting words of a poor ten year-old boy's devotion to his mother. How that Christmas, despite the poverty, was the best one he could remember. How he still carried the pride his mother's eyes beamed that day...for a manager made of crooked pieces of mismatched wood, held together by globs of glue, and the pasted, cracked porcelain figures within.

"Yeah, I guess that was the first time he really talked about when he was a kid. I was glad. You know what I mean, Jarrod?"

"I do, Nick. That time up there, alone in the mountains, I guess he felt comfortable, finally, opening up a little bit."

"How about last year when he had all of that spiked cider? Man, I never knew how funny that boy could be. I nearly split my sides laughing at him," Nick chuckled softly, remembering.

"That was a night to remember and so will this year be if we get going. I'll take the bags outside, you corral that missing brother of ours."

"Will do," Nick said starting for the back stairs.

He stood on the porch of the house, pleased with it's secluded location. The modifications within had been carried out to the exact measure. He nodded to the pair of brutes who carried in the supplies needed. Big, strong men who would ask no questions and take orders without hesitation. He entered the large living quarters, neatly furnished and proceeded into the kitchen. The splintering sounds of the crates being opened in the pantry told him just how close he was to imminent retaliation.

He took meat, cheese and some fruit over to the table. He poured a mug of hot coffee and sliced some bread. As he finished the meal, he thought on his mission. Soon, very soon the missing elements would be filled in. Then, he would reap his reward. Payment in full...no less, no options, no appeals. He smiled as many thoughts of the events to come filled his head. Oh, sweet revenge, thy dawn is nearing.

"NICK! Get a move on!" Jarrod hollered from the foyer.

"Yeah, Yeah, hold your pants on Counselor," Nick replied trotting down the steps carrying two bags. "He's in the bathroom."

Nick finished Jarrod's glance at Heath's room. Jarrod took one of the bags and tossed Nick his coat.

"Is he sick Nick?" His blues eyes were disquieting.

"I don't know. I think maybe he tossed up his breakfast, what little of it there was. It's not that far to the lodge. He'll be okay. We can't wait, and it won't be the same without him."

"If Mother finds out..." Jarrod's voice trailed.

"She won't. She's not here," Nick reasoned before adding. "Heath, let's go!"

Jarrod was halfway up the stairs when Heath appeared, already in his coat. Jarrod didn't miss the clouded eyes and blanched face before Heath recovered and grinned at him.

"Let's go, Big Brother. I got just the right tree picked out."

Jarrod stopped him mid-stair and looked hard at him.

"Heath, are you sure you're up to this?"

"I'm okay, Jarrod. I guess I should've skipped breakfast. I'll take some crackers and biscuits with me."

Heath bounded down the rest of the steps. Jarrod followed more slowly, hoping the bad feeling he had would go away. He picked up the remaining bags from the foyer and joined his brothers out front. The door shut and the house was cloaked in silence.

The Barkley brothers left for a special trip to the Sierras to get the perfect Christmas tree. A time for them to share and bond, talking and joking, enjoying each other's company. A trip they'd all been anticipating.

"I sure hope we don't run into a storm. Could get nasty up there," Nick commented, not knowing how much of a prophet he was.

By wagon, the journey from the ranch to the lodge would take the entire day and well into the evening. Nestled high among the evergreens, near the town of Pine Meadows, travelers, vacationers, and hunting expeditions would take advantage of the scenic beauty of the mountains, while lodging within the log walls of the sturdy structure. Fun and recreation was the trademark established by the man who had founded the resort town seventy-five years prior. His sons and grandsons had kept the torch burning after his death, and Pine Meadows had grown into one of the largest and most frequented towns in the Sierras. Besides the area's local residents, both the town and the lodge were a popular place for rest and relaxation, used by people far and near.

The horses' pace was brisk as the wagon creaked onwards, beginning the gradual uphill climb as scattered pine trees dotted the hills and roadside. The air had been fairly temperate down in the valley, but had cooled significantly as the elevation increased. Scant patches of snow resided in the shaded areas and the breath from the horses' nostrils resembled the steam from a locomotive.

Nick shifted the reigns to a single gloved hand, while he used the other to work the collar of his fleece lined jacket up around his neck. Jarrod who sat on the seat next to him, thrust his bare hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. Turning to sneak a glance in back of the wagon, he saw his youngest brother sacked out amid the blankets and supplies.

"He's out cold, isn't he?" Nick commented as one of the wheels hit a sharp rut in the well traveled road.

"That medicine Mother sent along for him must have quite a bit of sedative or alcohol or both," Jarrod replied. "As eager as he was to get started, he didn't last long."

"You got that right," Nick responded. "And Heath ain't one for catchin' catnaps in the middle of the day."

"You know," Jarrod lamented, "I'm almost kicking myself for not drugging him completely and leaving him back at the ranch."

"You'd have to do more than that," Nick added. "You'd have to hog-tie him as well. We both know that brother of ours better than that. Once he found out what we'd done, he'd be hot on our trail in no time."

"And hot under the collar when he caught up with us," Jarrod concluded. "Maybe we should have just bought a tree from the vendor in town this year. That way Heath would be home recuperating in a warm house and you and me would be...."

"Mending fences and catching up on paperwork," Nick finished for him. "No, I don't think that Heath would have put up with that, either. He's been lookin' forward to this trip more than the two of us put together, and you know how that boy gets when he has his mind set. He was bound and determined to make this trip come hell or high water and there wasn't anything that anybody could do or say that would make him change his mind."

"Yes, I guess you're right, Nick. He's definitely got that Barkley stubborn streak coursing through his veins. That alone brands him a true Barkely. We might as well just make the best of it and try to keep a special eye out for him. If he gets to hacking bad again while we're up there, I'm going to insist that he see the doctor in Pine Meadows."

"And I'll back you, Mr. Lawyer Man," Nick chuckled. "If it gets to that point, we just might end up havin' to hog-tie him after all."

"Hey, what's all this talk about hogtyin'?" a sleepy voice mumbled from the back of the wagon.

"Oh, nothin', Heath. Nothin' at all," Nick quipped. "I was just tellin' Jarrod here that when we go out dancin' New Year's Eve, I just may have to hog-tie Mellie Peters to keep her from followin' me around all evenin' long."

"Say, Nick," Heath drawled, "since when did Mellie start masquardin' as a man? I could've sworn I heard you refer to the person you were gonna hog-tie as a 'he'."

"I think what Nick meant to say, Heath," interrupted Jarrod, using humor to change the subject, "is that Mellie will need to hog-tie Nick in order to get him to go to the dance with her."

"No, that ain't what he said," Heath returned, playing along with Jarrod's game. "He said that you and him were the ones gonna do the hogtyin', and the person to be tied was referred to as 'he'. Now, just who is it that you two are plannin' to tie?"

"Heath, why don't you just go back to sleep," suggested Nick. "You were dreamin', Boy. Do ya hear me? Dreamin'!"

"Maybe that elixir of Mother's has got him hallucinating," Jarrod teased.

"I was hallucinatin' all right," Heath grumbled. "Hallucinatin' that the two of you had me all trussed up and were cartin' me off to some doctor!"

"Good night, Heath!" the two older Barkleys chimed together in unison.

With a mock scowl, Heath snugged the blanket around himself and lay back down, smiling once his face was out of his brother's view. Hey, he was on vacation and opportunities to nap during the day didn't come cheap.

It was close to ten p.m. when Nick pulled up the team and set the brake. The lodge stood before them, festively decorated for the Christmas holidays. From the sounds of music and laughter coming from within, the night was still young.

"Jarrod, why don't you and Heath go in and secure us a table," Nick offered. "I'll go over to the barn and stable up the horses. I don't know about you, but I'm ready for somethin' besides jerky."

"Well, since you're offering, Brother Nick, this is one time I'm not going to argue with you. Come on, Heath," Jarrod said, slapping the blanketed shoulder of the horizontal form in the back of the wagon. "Let's go inside where it's warm."

"Oh, we're at the lodge already," drowsed Heath. "How'd we get here so quick?"

"Never mind about that, Heath," Jarrod supplied. "Right now our job is to reserve a table for this hungry brother of ours. Come on!"

Jarrod entered the massive lobby of the rustic lodge which was outfitted for the holiday season. The fresh greens were in great abundance, trimmed with red velvet bows and icicle-like crystals.

A huge fire roared in the hearth, seemingly calling the lawyer's name. Travelers of every age and size gave the room a cozy, comfortable feeling. Hefty pints of ale were being lifted as well as hot rum and cider. An accordion player in the corner let his talented fingers work magic.

"Jarrod! Jarrod Barkley! Well, now the season is officially open. How are you?"

Jarrod smiled before he turned to face his host. Max Schmidt was one of the founder's grandsons. Now in his early 60's, his stout body showed no signs of slowing down. The thick white hair, mustache and beard gave him the look of St. Nick himself. It didn't hurt that he favored red flannel shirts.

"Max, if I didn't know better I'd swear your wife married Kris Kringle himself!"

"Ahh, Herr Kringle should be so lucky. My Elsa is heaven sent!"

"I don't doubt it one bit. I've been salivating at the thought of those heavenly creations coming from her kitchen."

"I have just the table by the window, near the fire. I'll have Gerhardt bring some steins over and some potato and bacon chowder to start with, and a basket of rye bread."

"Boy Howdy, lead the way," Heath finally caught up to his oldest brother.

"Young Mr. Barkley, it's good to see you again," Max pumped Heath's hand.

"Same here Max. Sure looks pretty. You outdid yourself."

"That is nothing. Wait until you meet Anna and Laurel, cousins visiting from the old country. Ahhh, two beauties as you've never seen. Of course, Katrina has told them all about you."

"Oh?" Heath blushed, remembering Max's dark haired niece, a beauty he'd met last year, and the cozy sleigh ride they had shared their last night.

"Brother Heath, it would appear you've established a reputation among the local ladies," Jarrod teased.

"Talk, talk, talk," Nick boomed with a hand on each of his brother's shoulders. "Is that all you women can do? Let's get movin', there's a pint and a plate of sausage waiting for me."

"Did you get the bags taken care of?" Jarrod asked.

"They're already on their way up to the three best rooms in the house! Come on, my stomach is screaming," Nick urged.

The three brothers settled into oversized chairs at the pine table. The stout pints of ale disappeared quickly. The thick soup and bread with rich, creamy butter gave way to a platter of German sausages. Bratwurst, Bockwurst, Knockwurst and a healthy helping of Sauerbraten, a roast of beef marinated with vinegar and spices were piled high on the oversized platter. Sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and spatzle, a small tasty noodle fried in butter, completed the meal. Jarrod and Nick ate heartily. Heath selected carefully, sticking to the potatoes and noodles, not wanting to rock the boat. His stomach had settled down finally, although the smell of the tart sauerkraut wasn't helping.

"Save some room for strudel, Boys. Elsa's bringing it out now. Coffee?"

"Thanks, Max," Jarrod smiled, taking a steaming mug. "Elsa's strudel is the real reason I come up here. The tree is just a ruse."

"Speaking of which, I know just the spot. I remember seeing a nice big pine, just a few miles south down that road, waiting for me," Nick boasted.

"As I recall, there were some pretty spectacular trees further up the ridge," Jarrod challenged.

"Seems to me you fellas forgot all about that spot we passed gettin' the tree last year. It's north, up the side of the mountain apiece," Heath replied.

Three steaming plates of strudel, filled with apples, raisins, nuts and cinnamon drenched in creamy hot vanilla sauce arrived, interrupting the discussion. Heath declined the rich dessert, munching on gingerbread men instead.

"Oh, Man, this is sinful, it's so good," Nick garbled through a mouthful of the wonderful dessert.

"Elsa, you've outdone yourself," Jarrod said, poking at the pastry, allowing the steam to escape.

"I'll tell you, if you were forty years younger, I'd give Max a run for his money," Nick smiled at the attractive hostess, still pretty and slim at sixty.

"Nick, you just earned seconds on the house!" she laughed.

"No thanks, I'll never get out of this chair."

Elsa had been married to Max almost forty years. A good union that produced four fine boys, all married and settled in the area. Max and his brother Carl, were the surviving grandsons of the town's founder Otto Schmidt. Carl and Annette, his wife, along with their six children, were helping to build an empire on the mountain.

Otto Schmidt came to the Sierras in search of a dream. The youngest son in a large family from a small town nestled at the foot of the Alps, he had little hope of achieving success in the old country. He came to America and spent many years traveling across the country until he saw the magnificent Sierra Nevada Mountains. Taking in the spectacular beauty, he knew he was home. He started with a small cabin and utilized his many talents. He sent word home, and soon they began to trickle in... German, Austrian and Swiss immigrants. His initial foray into the lumber business was a boom. He quickly bought up land, lots of it. Pine Meadows sprung out of his dream to recreate the little town of his birth. It's streets were dotted with alpine cottages, cafes, inns and shops. The houses in the hills also reflected this alpine heritage. It was a quaint and charming town, whose popularity had grown by leaps and bounds over the years. Otto married late in life and had one son, Ernst. Ernst, like his father, was a dreamer. The lodge, large, warm and inviting, was his creation. Now his sons carried that tradition on and their sons would after them.

"More coffee, Boys?" Elsa offered.

"No thanks, but tell Gerhardt another round of ale, please," Jarrod answered as she retreated.

"How about you two puttin' your money where you mouth is? I got some greenbacks here sayin' I got the perfect tree," Nick boasted, enjoying how Jarrod's eyes lit up at the challenge.

Jarrod loved a good wager. He returned Nick's devilish smile and offered a hand rolled Cuban cigar to his smug brother.

Nick took the cigar Jarrod offered and lit up, watching the smoke curl. He knew Jarrod loved betting and any kind of wager would spark his attention. He leaned back and smiled impishly at his oldest brother.

"You sure you can afford it?"

"A hundred dollars says my tree is the winner," Jarrod proclaimed confidently.

"Easiest money I ever stole from you, Counselor," Nick grinned and smacked Heath's arm.

"What about it, you in?"

Heath sighed and looked from one brother to the other.

"Real shame, just purely criminal," was his only response.

Nick sat forward and leaned over towards the blond, scowling at his brother's waving hand, clearing the offending smoke from his face.

"Just what is THAT supposed to mean?"

"Well, don't seem fittin' to take advantage. I mean you being a bit short and all."

"Short, is it? How 'bout double or nothing, Boy? Not only is MY TREE gonna be the one we tote home, but I bet I'll out punch your dance card by the time we leave. So, come on, youngster," Nick's brushed his thumb across his fingers, "put up or shut up."

Heath grinned broadly and shook on it, as did Jarrod. The wager was on. It was agreed that each would mark the tree of their choice with a scarf. Max, the judge, graciously donated three wool scarfs of red, green and blue. The brothers would set out in the morning, early, after breakfast and meet up at two p.m. The trio would accompany Max to each tree, not revealing who's selection it was. Max would determine the winner.

Heath started to fade after the next round of ale. His eyes were fighting him and he excused himself. Getting his key from Nick, he bade his brothers goodnight. The two dark haired man watched him leave.

"He seemed better, don't you think?" Jarrod inquired watching Heath's back.

"Yeah, he's okay. Will you quit worryin'? You're worse than Mother. I'm surprised you're not chasing him with a spoon and that foul stuff he's been gaggin' on."

"One of us has to be mature."

"Very funny," Nick derided. Then spotting two blond beauties, smiling coyly, he nudged his brother's ribs. "Now, don't crowd me, Jarrod. They're both waving this way, at smiling Nick Barkley," he boasted, returning their smile.

"What makes you so sure they're looking at you?"

"You're kiddin', right? Ten bucks says I'll be wearing one on each arm before this evening's through," Nick grinned, smacking Jarrod's back. "Open that wallet and let them moths out."

Jarrod laughed and nodded to the two pretty girls as he stood. Nick followed behind, wearing his best Nick grin.

In the corner of the room, watching and evesdropping, a motley trio sat sipping on hot spiked beverages. With heads bent low and hushed voices, they went over the final touches of 'the payback party'. Discussing each detail precisely, the invitations for the three guests of honor were practically signed, sealed and delivered. Each host had a specific job to do, and timing would be of the utmost importance. Suits and ties would not be required, the RSVP was affirmed and irreversable, and refreshments would be on the house. Tomorrow would be a day that neither they or the partygoers would ever forget.

Heath rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A fitless night of hard sleeping had really done his body good. He pushed himself off the mattress and felt his bare feet touch the polished, wooden floor. Looking down at his wrinkled clothes, he made his way to the chair where he had left his bag, and fished out a razor. If he was going to go down to breakfast looking like he had slept in his clothes, he at least wanted to be clean shaven. After all, what were a few creases and crinkles? Nothing that a day in the mountains wouldn't cure. He'd save the dry change he'd brought along for the dance tonight. Last night Nick had baited him and he went ahead and bit. The wager the two had made was a fairly tidy sum of cash and he didn't plan on returning home empty handed. Nor did he care to spend the trip home being serenaded by his brother's boasts and the tinsel grin that was sure to go with it.

Down in the dining area, Jarrod pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He was amply dressed to survive the coldest weather and waiting inside the cozy lodge for his two straggling brothers was making him sweat. At least Heath had a decent excuse, but Nick...well, that was an entirely different story.

"Mornin', Jarrod."

"Oh, good morning, Heath! You slept well, I trust?"

"Yeah, reckon I really needed it. Without the roosters here to wake me up, guess I really overslept. Where's Nick?"

"That, my dear Brother, is a very good question. When I finally turned in last night, or was it early this morning...well, whenever it was, Nick was still wide awake and heavily engrossed telling war stories to a captive audience."

"You don't need to tell me the rest," Heath moaned. "Did this audience happen to be of the female gender?"

"That's a true statement, Brother Heath, and you know our brother as well as I do."

"Boy Howdy, I sure do. And if I know Nick, he had himself painted the swashbucklin' hero in every one of them stories, too."

"Well, to be quite honest with you, Heath, I couldn't hear every word that was spoken. But by the way his face was all animated and lit and by his theatrical hand gestures, I could just about hear the musket and cannon fire myself."

"And I suppose them gals he was tellin' it to were just gobblin' it all up."

"I guess that would be a fairly accurate analogy of describing how they reacted."

"He wasn't punchin' reservations on his dance card, was he?"

"I'll let you ask him that yourself. Here he comes now."

Heath glanced behind him and watched as his disheveled brother approached the table.

"Good morning, Nick," Jarrod greeted. "It's about time you decided to join us."

"Don't give me that," Nick gruffed groggily, "the day's just barely started."

"I guess that's all a matter of perspective," Jarrod returned. "Here, why don't you help yourself to some coffee? It'll make opening your eyes a little easier."

"Yup," interjected Heath, "You're gonna need all the help you can get findin' that tree, and you can't do it with your eyes closed."

"I'll have you know, Little Brother, that I know these hills so well I could find my way around blindfolded if need be!" Nick piped up, suddenly feeling much perkier. "And that goes for locatin' the winnin' tree to boot!"

"How 'bout the dance floor?" Heath asked, a sly tone rising in his voice.

"What?" replied the befuddled Nick, wondering what his younger brother might have up his sleeve.

"You think you can find your tree blindfolded, do you figure you can also find your way around the dance floor blindfolded?"

"Well, I'd like to at least know what I'm dancin' with!"

"That's where I come in," Heath baited. "You just stand in line with your blindfold on, and I'll hand those beauties to you one by one. You'll have your dance card filled in no time flat!"

"Oh, no. I ain't fallin' for that maneuver! The day I trust you to..."

"All right! That's enough!" Jarrod exclaimed. "I, for one, am leaving to go find this year's Christmas tree! Now, are you two going to come along, or do I win the bet by forfeiture?"

"Okay," Nick agreed, downing the last of his coffee and rising, "I'm with you, Counselor. Lead on!"

The gray sky glowered an ominous warning of things to come. Jarrod urged the black stallion, from the stable at the lodge, onward. Maybe he should have been riding harder. His leisurely pace of the last few hours could be picked up some. Looking at the placid beauty of the surrounding area gave him time to think about the upcoming holiday season. More and more, as his business increased in San Francisco, so did the social commitment's, occupying more of his time. He loved the city by the bay, and knew one day it would be his home. He would be leaving for 'Frisco on the twenty-sixth, with parties and socials taking him right into the new year.

His life in Stockton was a relaxing contrast. The informal, comfortable bonds of the family and the ranch gave him time to pause. He enjoyed the ranch and was looking forward to the next week of holiday festivities. Taking in the stately trees laced with snow, and the solitude of the area, he saw himself as an eight-year old boy. He remembered that day as if it were yesterday. The first year he'd come up here with his father, just the two of them. In reflection, it was an important passage. His father's guiding hand, strong persona and the pride he took in his firstborn he had felt for the first time. Jarrod still remembered beaming at the breakfast table the day they left. What a wonderful feeling it was for this father and son. Those five days, just the two of them, talking and listening. Jarrod didn't remember the words, but would never forget the deep feeling behind them. He was the firstborn, the heir, and the pride in his father's voice.

Four years later, when eight-year old Nick first made the trip, something changed. Jarrod loved having his little brother along, but missed that special time. That was the year he and his father really talked for the first time about Jarrod's future. Jarrod had known that the ranch wasn't in his future, that he was being called to a different vocation. His father knew it, too, and the first night on the mountain, after Nick fell asleep, they had talked. The firm grip on the shoulder, the reassuring tone in the deep voice and the warm embrace did more to fuel Jarrod's drive to succeed than any college or professor could.

His father was proud of the courage he felt the boy showed in being direct and honest. Now grown, he knew what his father must have felt holding his firstborn as an infant. Putting your hopes and dreams in the tiny fist that was gripped. That running the vast empire would be passed by his blue-eyed, visionary of a son. But his father hadn't seen it that way. He was proud of Jarrod and the intelligence the boy possessed. A talent and strong hands that would be needed to ensure the financial success for the generations to come. "I'm proud of you, Son," Jarrod recalled how those five words and the embrace that followed, meant as much to him today as it did to the awestruck twelve year old boy, whose father seemed larger than life.

A severe pick up in the wind drew the lawyer back to the present. His trek for the perfect tree was now forgotten. Within minutes, the strong gusts increased, accented by driving snow. Jarrod strained to see ahead. His vision impeded by the gusting snowflakes, he couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him. He slowed down the pace of the horse, as the roads were very slippery. He urged the horse back in the direction of the lodge.

Every year when they made this trip, Nick took time to remember. The quiet, timeless strength and beauty of this mountain embraced him. This ritual represented more than selecting the right Christmas tree. It was during these five day treks that Tom Barkley and his sons had shared something very special. To a small boy, the great man seemed so strong and powerful. How proud he was walking with Tom Barkley, that hand on his shoulder, the smile that never left his face as he felt the respect his father commanded. He so wanted to make that man proud of him. He remembered when he was fourteen and it was Jarrod's first Christmas home from college. Jarrod went to the town dance one night with a pretty girl from the area. Tom and Nick spent that night talking about the future. Nick felt the awesome power for the first time. That one day, the keys to the kingdom would be his. He remembered the night they came home, overhearing his father speak to his mother. "He's quite a boy, Victoria. I'm so very lucky to be so blessed. That fire in his heart shines right through his eyes. It's his ranch, by God, and I'll be by his side, watching him grow with it."

He smiled through the flurried activity on the road he traveled. With a pang, he remembered the Christmas of '65, after the war. What a great time they'd had. Perhaps he wouldn't realize the very depth of a father's love until he had his own child. How at one point, his father simply embraced them, gripping hard. No words were spoken. Too many fathers buried their sons or were only left with a memory; the body lying in an unmarked grave in a battlefield far away. He thanked God every day his boys came back safe. That Christmas, Nick found him to be especially sentimental. The bite of the wind and the increase and speed of the snow falling, changed his mind about the tree. He turned the horse around and headed back to the lodge. It could be a bad one, and this mountain's beauty would turn deadly.

Heath tied the red scarf high on the tree's base. It was a real beauty, he could see the decorations, bows and garlands dressing it up. Maybe if Nick didn't eat all the gingerbread men, they'd have a place on the tree too. He sat for a moment on a rock by where the horse was tethered. He winced as he swallowed back the raw pain in his throat. He rubbed a hand across his aching head, and frowned at the heat on his face. He'd better be quick about getting back. If he could get to that medicine and hit the bed, he could avoid his brothers dragging him to a doctor. He loved coming up to the mountain with his older brothers. It wasn't just for the tree, or the jousting they enjoyed, like all brothers did, but for something much more. Maybe it was the look in their eyes when they spoke of Tom Barkley. How these five days alone with his boys, over the years, had left such a strong imprint on Nick and Jarrod.

He peered through the snowflakes and thought about his father. How would Tom Barkley have seen him? If he'd come up here as a youth, what would those strong hands have meant to the angry young boy? He could hear Tom Barkley's voice in Nick and Jarrod, very clearly at times. Maybe that was enough, knowing the depth of his brothers' feelings...that through them, he'd found his place with Tom Barkley. Looking at the gray sky overhead, through the swirling, white shower, he nodded and smiled, feeling Tom had given him, through his brothers strong arms, a solid embrace.

Pulling his throbbing head and chest onto the horse, he headed back to the lodge. Soon riding became difficult as the storm picked up. The gusting wind and driving sleet and snow bit into his face. He wasn't aware of how long it was taking or if this was even the right road. Just fighting to keep his eyes open and pushing back the lightheadedness in order to remain upright, was all he could concentrate on. He urged the steed forward, hoping it would carry it's fevered master back to the lodge.

The slick roads and increasing depth of the snow made it difficult to proceed. The horse slid and buckled, sending it's rider deep into the snowbank. He was exhausted, so much that he made no attempt to throw off the cold, wet blanket that hugged him. Finally, he used all the strength he had and pulled himself upright, climbing back onto the road. The horse was gone and the icy fingers of fear gripped his heart. He was alone on this mountain, with no idea where to go. He plodded onward, through the shin deep snow, his eyes closed, one foot following the other. He stumbled to his knees and remained a stationary post, beyond shivering, beyond the cold.

"Hey, looked at that!" Tinsley hollered over the gale.

His large companion, known only as Bear, climbed down and approached the solitary figure. Jarrod looked up, was it real or a hallucination? No, it was real, two riders, maybe all wasn't lost after all.

"Help me," he croaked, unable to raise himself.

He felt the strong arms lift him, but his initial elation quickly disappeared. The cold eyes mirrored the smile as his hopes dissolved. A solid punch to the midsection took the little air he had left. His confused stare was met by evil laughter.

"Yeah, we can help you. We got just the right place waiting just for you."

His numbed face couldn't feel the blows it received. The last image he had was of the ground as he was dumped over the back of a horse and the terrific pain from something hard hitting his head. The two celebrated their good fortune all the way back to the small fortress which would be their captive's nightmare.

The spacious parlor area of the Pine Meadows lodge clamored with activity as weary guests made their way into it's cozy interior. Trails of moisture marked the way to individual tables and seating areas as the patrons stomped their snow-covered feet and shed their heavy winter jackets. Max hustled around the room, greeting the stragglers as they came in, trying to account for every guest listed in the registration log. From across the room he spied the stable boy entering the lodge, dusting the snow off his padded sleeves. Hastily, the proprietor made his way over to the young man.

"Abe, is there anyone left out in the barn?" Max questioned in his thick accent.

"No, Sir, Mr. Schmidt. There are still three horses out, but the riders haven't returned yet. All the stocks bedded down with fresh hay and I left the lantern going out front so that they'll be able to find their way there in the dark. It just got so cold, I wanted to come in and warm up a bit."

"You did about all that you could do for now," the kindly gentleman reassured him. "Who is it that's still out in a storm like this?" Max continued, looking worried.

"It would be those three brothers that call themselves 'Barkley'. You know; the ones that took off this mornin' in search of a tree."

"Sweet Mother Mary, I would've thought that they of all people would have sense enough to head back when the sky darkened up like it did."

"They seemed to know the hills fairly well. The one seemed a little soft, but I'm sure his two brothers will be watching out for him. At least that's how they came across."

"Well, you're probably right, Abe. Go over and have Elsa fix you up with some hot rolls and coco. You look chilled to the bone!"

"Thank you, Sir!" the lad smiled as he headed over to enjoy the warmth of the fire.

Max sighed deeply, so lost in worry over his young friends that he didn't hear his son Jon calling him. He turned at the hand on his back.

"Papa? Why so worried? What's wrong?" his eldest's asked, his blue eyes reflecting the sincerest concern.

"The Barkleys are missing. It will be dark soon and the temperature's dropping. If they don't come back..."

"They're not greenhorns, Papa. They know the terrain. They'll probably be here any minute," Jon reassured the older man in a calm and steady voice. "The telegraph wires are down and most of the roads impassable. We need a plan. Let's find George and Peter," Jon continued, referring to two of his younger brothers. "Gerhardt, we'll be in the office. Please send word if there is any news."

The burly steward nodded from his post at the bar as he continued to fill mugs of hot cider and coffee for the frozen guests.

It wasn't long after that the door burst open and a frosty figure stumbled in, seemingly formed from the frozen tundra itself. He was covered head to toe in snow and ice. Gerhardt raced from his post and guided the shivering man to the fire. Peeling off the layers of frozen clothing, his fingers retracting at the painful bits of ice, he saw the lips moving and leaned in, spotting at once who the snowman was.

"Stefan," he called out to Carl Schmidt's son, home on college break, "get your Uncle Max from the office and tell him to come quickly!"

As the youth ran through the lobby to the hallway, Gerhardt had peeled the outer layers off and the frozen socks. Maria, Max's daughter-in-law, came with a blanket and a thick pair of dry socks. She rubbed the frozen feet briskley and the close proximity of the fire did the rest. The socks were put on and the blanket secured. The eyes finally opened and looked around the room, frantically searching.

"M-m-m-m...m-y-y...Br...br...br...broth...," the frozen form stammered.

"Take it easy, my friend," Gerhardt soothed, holding a glass of brandy to the chattering jaw. "Drink this, go on."

The rich liquid burned a path from his mouth down to his stomach and he welcomed the warmth. He turned as Max knelt beside him. Before his lips could inquire on his brother's whereabouts, the elderly man's face told him the answer.

"Max?" he hoped against the inevitable.

"I'm sorry, my friend, they're not back yet. As soon as the storm lets up, I'll send men out."

The comforting words and reassuring hands did little to ease the fear and chill in the heart. His eyes found the window outside and the screaming wind, coupled with the biting ice storm, gave him little hope. He closed his eyes and shut them all out.

Max left the hot bowl of soup by the stunned Barkley, knowing it wouldn't be eaten. He made his way to his wife's side and drew her into an embrace. They stood together for several minutes, comforting and drawing strength from each other. Finally, she kissed his cheek and returned to the kitchen. There was much to do in the kitchen, due to the added number of unexpected guests staying over.

The elderly gentleman wandered over to the large front window and peered outside through the frosted glass. All he could see was a white blur. He certainly wouldn't want to be out in this blizzard, and especially so late in the day. Through the haze he saw three figures approaching and the lodge's wooden door burst open. Two white faced men trudged in carrying a third. They dropped him on the floor and Max rushed over to remove the man's scarf.

The loud bang and biting Arctic blast roused the frozen man out of his stupor. He glanced sideways at the door and then jumped up, wincing at the pain of the circulation racing through his numbed legs. He staggered across the room and dropped down, embracing his unconscious brother.

"Heath! Heath!" he called, his finger's instinctively seeking a pulse.

Nick sighed in relief and took the towel he was handed. He wiped the windburned face of his youngest brother. Turning at Max's strong hands on his shoulders, Nick could only nod, words wouldn't come. He collected himself and took charge.

"Help me get him to his room. We'll need some extra blankets and towels. "

Max watched them carry the unconscious blond man up the broad staircase. He wondered where the eldest Barkley was. He'd known Jarrod for...well, let's see. Jarrod was eight years old when he came for the first time twenty-two years ago. Such a fine man...what a devastating loss it would be for the family if.... Max didn't finish the thought. Instead he sent a prayer heavenward, hoping for a miracle. He turned as the men who'd assisted Nick stood by his side.

"Two in safely, one still lost in the cold. Where did you find him?" Max asked, looking up at the angels of mercy who had packed the half frozen Barkley in to safety.

"Oh, about two hundred yards from the barn," the tall man panted, trying to catch his breath. "Poor devil must've been out pretty far when the storm hit. I'm guessin' it took all he had just to make it as far as he did. If me and Jim here hadn't happened along, he'd be frozen by morinin', sure!"

"And I'm glad that you did! Those men have a brother that hasn't returned yet. Any sign of him?"

"No, that boy was all that we come across. You want us to go take another look?"

"Why don't you thaw for a few minutes. If he isn't back within the hour, I'll bundle up and go out with you."

Nick stood staring into the black of night. The snow had slowed, but the awful gusting wind remained. It seemed to scream at him...or did it only seem to be Jarrods' cries for help echoing in his tormented mind. Hoping for a miracle, Nick waged an inner battle with himself. No one could have survived this long in the bitter cold and icy storm; yet Nick refused to believe that Jarrod was gone. He must have survived somehow, maybe finding shelter in the wilderness.

He turned at the knock on the door. His long strides made the trip a short one. He nodded mutely as Elsa came in, bearing a tray of food and a large bowl of soup. Setting the tray on the wooden table, she walked over to where Heath lay unconscious on the queen sized bed. Her year's of motherly experience told her, before she even put a hand to the flushed face, that this boy was very ill.

"Nothing yet?"

"No, he hasn't come around at all. His breathing's good, he ain't coughing. I think maybe he's not as fevered."

"You must eat, Nick. You can't help either of your brothers by refusing food. You need to be strong." Her forceful words and strong hands guided him to the table.

"Yeah, thanks, Elsa." He took a spoonful of the rich stew and began to eat, not tasting a thing.

"If he wakes, you let me know," she frowned taking her hand from Heath's forehead.

Nick surprised himself at how hungry he was and cleaned the tray. He took a seat next to Heath, but that lasted only minutes. His restless nature took over and his spurs made a rhythmic pattern as he paced the room.

"Huh?" Nick turned at the sound of the muttering groans.

He crossed the room and leaned town watching Heath's pant frantically. His blue eyes raced around, Nick realized his brother wasn't in the room with him. He pushed against Nick's arms in a weak attempt to leave the bed.

"Take it easy, Heath. You're okay...calm down"

Nick sat on the bed and grabbed the confused shoulders. He shook them hard and then tapped the face forcefully.

"HEATH! You ain't in any battle, you're with Nick. Can you hear me? Come on, now, snap out of it," he commanded forcefully.

Heath blinked and closed his eyes, swaying. He looked again and saw the swamp disappear and Major Harris' blue wool uniform changed to a white shirt. He followed the buttons up past the chin and his relief and shock were audible at the face that looked back at him.

"Nick? How'd you get here? What happened?"

"That lousy storm is what happened," Nick said easing Heath back on the stack of pillows and handing him a glass of water.

Heath heard the howling wind and the ice pelting against the window. He savored the water and sank back, welcoming the pile of blankets Nick covered him with. He closed his eyes and felt the hand ruffle his hair.

"I'm gonna get you some soup. You need to eat. I'll be right back," Nick promised

"Nick," Heath called after the broad shoulders, "Where's Jarrod?"

Nick's hand froze on the doorknob. His shoulder's slumped momentarily. Recovering, he straightened up and turned back towards the bed.

"He's, uh...not back yet."

Nick's pained eyes met Heath's shocked ones, so easily hurt and it showed. He turned the knob and opened the door. Heath looked back at the terrific storm that teased him from the other side of the glass.

"God, please, let him be safe. Maybe somehow, he's just ...he can't be out there."

Heath heard the door shut and continued to pray in the silence, the crackling sound of the fire his own companion.

Dinner was finished and the trays cleared away. Nick sat nursing a large stein of ale, looking into the blackness outside. He heard the clock strike ten and eased himself off the chair. To his surprise, Heath was still awake. He made his way over to the bed, stopping for the brown bottle. Gripping the cork with his teeth, he pulled the stopped and seated himself on the edge of Heath's bed.

"I thought you sacked out a while ago."

He handed Heath the bottle and watched as his brother took a healthy swig of medicine.

"Good," Nick commented, "that should put your lights out real quick."

"I don't want to go to sleep. I..."

Heath's voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Lifting the bottle from his brother's hand, Nick fingered the label, unable to meet Heath's eye.

"I know, Heath. A part of me don't want mornin' to come either. If he's still out there, he's...he'll be...gone."

He felt the hand grip his knee and looked up to the flicker of hope in the pale blue eyes.

"We'll find him, Nick. He ain't dead. He can't be."

Nick sighed and rose, turning off the light. He opened the door and in the light from the hall, Heath saw the despair painted on Nick's normally confident face. His older brother's voice was determined.

"Either way, I'm bringin' him home."

The door closed and Heath welcomed the blackness. The strong, bitter potion caressed his mind and he allowed the despair to lull him to sleep.

"You're not going and that's final!"

Nick's voice was gruff as he picked up Heath's boots and shoved them inside the armoire. From his perch on the side of the bed, Heath knew that there was no argument that would change his brothers mind, but figured it was worth a try. If Nick still refused to budge, then he'd just have to use an alternate plan.

"Nick, he's my brother too. I have just as much right to be out searchin' as you do, and a good lick more than those fella's down in the lobby. Now, are you gonna give me my boots back or do I have to go get 'em myself?" Heath challenged, pushing himself up on his feet.

"Okay, Heath, okay," Nick reasoned, using a gentle push to settle his brother back down on the bed. "I guess you have a good point there, but first I want you to try and eat something. You just sit there and rest for a couple of minutes and I'll be back with some coffee and rolls."

"You ain't plannin' to sneak out on me, are you?"

"No, Heath. I'll be back in just a couple of minutes. You got my word on that."

"All right, then. I'll be gettin' myself ready. Just don't go gettin' lost on your way back up here."

"I've traveled these stairs a hundred times," Nick reassured his suspicious brother. "I reckon I can find my way back up again."

Nick pulled the door tight behind him and made his way down to the bar.

"Mornin' Gerhardt," he greeted the husky man behind the counter. "How 'bout a couple of coffees and some kind of breakfast roll to go with it."

"You got it, Mr. Barkley. Will that be for down here?"

"No, I'll take it up to Heath's room if you don't mind."

Soon the tray of crescent rolls and steaming mugs of coffee were sitting on the counter in front of Nick. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a small glass bottle. Pulling the stopper, he carefully metered out some of the white powder into one of the mugs. Gingerly, he dipped his pointer finger into the hot liquid and carefully stirred until all the powder was dissolved.

"Sweet dreams, Little Brother," he cooed under his breath.

Wiping the finger on the back of his pants, he picked up the tray and headed back up the stairs.

"Room service is here!" he greeted, setting the tray down. "Eat now or eat it cold!"

"I don't care how I eat it," Heath grumped, "but I wanna get movin', so let's hurry it up."

"Here," offered Nick, handing Heath the doctored mug of coffee. "A little caffeine will help keep the bite outta the cold!"

"Thanks," mumbled Heath, accepting the warm cup and bringing it to his lips. "This ain't the best coffee I've ever tasted. Seems a bit bitter."

"Maybe your taste buds are still froze," Nick suggested light heartedly. "Better hurry and down it, time's wastin'!"

Tilting his head back, Heath drained the last of the comforting beverage before shuffling over to the armoire for his boots.

"For as cold as it is outside, it sure seems warm in here," he commented sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

"You've got a point there, Heath. In fact," Nick exclaimed, "it's so warm in here that I forgot to put on my longjohns. Why don't you just relax a minute or two longer while I run change into them."

"What's got into you anyway," Heath questioned, the annoyance he was feeling quite evident in his tone. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were either stallin' or senile."

"Well, you know I ain't stallin'," Nick replied. "I'm as anxious as you are to get the search started. Guess maybe all the stress has got me a bit unraveled. Don't go away, I'll be right back."

Heath finished pulling on his boots and settled back for a quick breather. No sooner did his head sink comfortably into the large down pillow, than the sweet land of sleep welcomed him to her distant shores.

A couple of minutes later, the door slowly opened as Nick peeked carefully inside to confirm his suspicions. Yes, the medicine had taken it's affect. Tiptoeing into the room, Nick smiled smugly at his brother's sleeping form as he gently tugged at Heath's boots. He slid the worn, brown leather boots under the bed and pulled the bed's coverlet up over the slumbering body. It was going to be a day of rough, bitter riding. He had enough concerns without worrying about Heath as well. Sure the boy would be raging mad when he awoke, but hopefully by that time, all three brothers would be enjoying the comfort of the lodge, and Nicks wily cunning would be forgotten. Taking slow, careful strides as to not jingle his spurs, Nick gently opened the door and made his escape. Stillness fell over the room as Heath slept soundly.

Heath opened his eyes as beams of sunlight streamed in through the window of his room on the upper floor. The snow outside made the room that much brighter. He felt the soft plushness of the pillow caught in his hold and loosened his grip. Boy howdy, had that dream ever been real, but here he was, back in his room at the lodge. He didn't even know what day it was. Shaking off the coverlet, Heath rolled over and sat up. His stomach was growling. He'd go rouse Nick and Jarrod so they could all go get something to eat. Maybe they could all....Nick and Jarrod!

Heath came to a halt as reality began to dawn. Jarrod was still out in the snowstorm and he and Nick were suppose to be out tracking him down. Nick had just gone to go change into some warmer clothes and....why that dirty skunk of a brother! That double-crossin', two- timin'....

Searching the room for his boots, Heath finally found them under the bed. Scowling, Heath gathered his coat, scarf, gloves and hat. Soon he was outfitted to survive the coldest of climates. Making a bee-line down the main staircase, nobody seemed to notice as he strode hastily through the lodge's main enterance. Making headway for the stable, he found an available mount in the end stall. He eased the saddle onto the animals back, pausing only to submit to an occasional fit of coughing. Leading the gelding out into the daylight, Heath swung into the saddle and headed up the mountain. If Nick didn't want him included, he would just start a search party of his own.

Gus Tinsler watched the horse approaching. He was safe and hidden high on a rock beyond the clump of trees. Smiling evilly, from his perch, he waited for his prey to fall into the trap. His mind thought of all the wicked fun he planned to have with this misfortunate soul.

Nick scanned the road ahead and urged his mount onward. Max's nephew, Stefan, rode behind him. Nick didn't want to hurt the old man's feelings, or the kid's, but he preferred to ride alone. He reined up his horse and jumped down.

"He okay?" the boy asked.

"He's foreleg's a little warm, I think I'll rest him a bit," Nick lied. "You go on ahead, I'll catch up."

He waited a full five minutes and turned the horse around. He soon spotted the turnoff. He was only a few miles down the road when he spotted it. He looked again and urged his horse forward.

Heath figured he'd been out for several hours, but without a watch, and no sun to guide him, he could only guess. His head was pounding and the sweat was causing his shirt to stick to him like an unwelcome, second skin. He drained the canteen and wiped his perspiring face. Shivering, he looked up the road ahead and then back to the one that led to the lodge. He sat for a moment weighing his options. It would be dark in a few hours, there wasn't much time.

"Come on, Girl" he urged, making his decision.

The rider was unaware of the painful greeting he was about to receive. The horse trotted confidently ahead, not knowing it would be soon without the burden on its' back. Tinsler waited and then cut the line. The heavy tree limb soared forward, knocking the rider off the horse with a blow to the midsection.

The horse skittered sideways and the victim, amazingly, was on all fours. The dripping blood from his mouth created a sick pattern in the snow. Tinsler stood before the dazed captive and grabbed the head forcefully. The pained eyes were barely open, blood covered the mouth and chin. The misfortunate soul protected the aching ribcage.

"Who are you?" the helpless captive grunted.

"You're worst nightmare, Mister," Tinsler replied delivering the first of a series of blows.

With one final painful kick to the already cracked ribs, Tinsler laughed. The sick sound echoed in the wind as he dumped the abused body over the horse.

Jarrod's arms ached, the ropes bit into his flesh like a rabid dog. His shoulders and arms pained from the angle of which he was tied, suspended from the low ceiling. His face bore the colorful imprint of the captor's fist. Every inch of him was in agony. The first few hours of his captivity, he was stripped of his warm clothes and left in

only his shirt, pants and socks. The small cell was bitter cold, the concrete floor like a panel of ice. He fell into a fitful sleep, to exhausted to brush away the furred feet that ran across his neck on the floor.

The cold water hitting his face, woke him up. Before he had a chance to recover, two sets of arms cut the restraints and dragged him out into the hall. He made the mistake of once again, asking what their demands were. His answer was a series of blows to his legs and back, stunning him. When he shook off the black spots, he was tied again, suspended from the ceiling. The blows came fast and furious, he looked up briefly to see his own black belt wrapped around the fist that was headed towards his already battered face.

Tinsler nodded for Bear to drop the newest prisoner on the ground. Bear smiled at the moan that found it's way past the mangled mouth. With a nod, he retreated to the house and left Tinsler to his job.

He was dimly aware of the change in the environment. He cried out as he was yanked upright by the hair. He felt every cracked rib utter a protest as he was body slammed into a stone wall. Sliding to the ground, he rolled over and automatically protected his ribs. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He tried to focus and saw the fuzzy outline of the horse's legs and a pair of boots.

"Get up!" The harsh words hit him the same time the boot landed on the base of his spine.

He managed roll over on all fours and heave himself upright. The rough hands turned him and pushed him forward. He stumbled and hit the side of the barn on the way out the door. He looked around, but the descending darkness hid any landmark he might remember. He turned toward the house and a strong arm pulled him back.

"Not so fast, Loser. You see, around here you gotta work for your room and board. This ain't that fancy mansion you live in. That Barkley name means nothing here."

"What do you want?" he scowled at the armed man.

The gun to his back was the only answer. He stumbled onward and stopped as ordered, behind the house.

"Pick it up, " the voice ordered.

He looked at the spade propped against the tree. A lamp on the ground provided low illumination. His confusion slowed his movement. A hard cuff to the ear sent him to his knees.

"You don't hear so good. Pick it and start diggin'. NOW!"

"I don't think so," he spat and lunged at the legs.

Tinsler was caught off guard and found himself underneath the irate fury of the Barkley captive. They wrestled briefly, but Tinsler's knee drove into the already damaged ribcage. He quickly picked the gun up and yanked the nearly unconscious man up and sent him back to the shovel.

"Next time I won't be so nice. I put a bullet in your kneecap. Now dig."

It was slow going, but soon evident by the sticks marking the outline, what the hole was for. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his back as a cold fear snuck into his gut. Pain seem to radiate from every muscle. He didn't understand the purpose of this exercise. Why didn't they just kill him and be done with it? He climbed out of

the hole and saw the gun leveled at his midsection.

"It ain't quittin' time just yet."

"I'm not diggin' my own grave. You want to kill me, get on with it."

He threw the shovel down and bent to catch his breath. The callous laughter caused his head to rise.

"Your grave?" the villain laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, it ain't for you. No siree, we got plans for you."

We, he thought, there's more than one. He couldn't stand anymore, his screaming limbs wouldn't support him. He sank to his knees and leaned against the tree trunk. He rested his head against his arm and caught the site which chilled him to the bone. He crawled over to the tarp, his mind reeling. The laughter followed him; and a boot to the back pinned him to the dirt. The foul stench of the monster's breathe nearly choked him. The lips were close to his ear as they relished every word uttered.

"Shame about your brother. He surely suffered, right to end. Screamin' in pain. Just plain heart breakin' how he was callin' for you."

The last thing he saw before the black curtain fell, was the familiar woolen sleeve of Jarrod's jacket, peeking from under the tarp.

He didn't know if hours had passed by or days were gone. He didn't remember when they left. The door opened and a man walked in, Jarrod saw the glass of water in the large, meaty paw. He licked his cracked lips unconsciously, his parched throat aching for some water.

"Please," he croaked.

The hand drew the water glass over to his lips. The sarcastic laugh volleyed around the room as Jarrod struggled with every ounce of strength he had left to get at that water.

"Well, you' ain't so high and mighty now are you lawyer-man?" the voice leered. "Go on, lap it like the dog you are."

Jarrod's blue eyes burned, "Go to hell," he spat with the last little bit of spunk he had left.

The tormentor turned, walking behind Jarrod. Jarrod's air sucked in when he felt his head pulled back and the knife at his throat.

"I could cut you and you'd suffer for quite some time." he threatened, enjoying every bit. "But, I think I'll wait."

Without any warning, he cut the ropes and sent the oldest Barkley tumbling to the ground. Jarrod curled up defensively waiting for blows that never came.

"Get up, you no good dog". He grabbed Jarrod by the hair and propelled him into the corridor. "You got some company"

Jarrod wiped his bloody face with the loose tail of his shirt. He staggered down the hall and stopped short in the doorway. His eyes weren't prepared for the sight they saw. He crawled to the battered body and his shaking hands sought a pulse. He closed his eyes in relief and turned to the monster.

"You'll pay dearly for what you've done. You won't get away with this," his blue eyes furied.

"Big talk from a little man. You're in no position to be giving demands."

A low moan drew his attention to the victim on the floor. He eased his brother upright and embraced him.

"Thank God you're alive. We're you alone? Do they have..."

Before the stuporous captive could reply, Jarrod was torn from his side.

"No, Leave him alone, haven't you done enough. He's hurt."

Jarrod fought and was backhanded severely across the face.

"Where are you taking him," he gasped through a bloodied lip.

"Take a good look, Counselor," the monster leered, grabbing Heath's hair and pulling the lolling head upright. "It's the last time you'll see his sorry face. He's going now to meet his maker."

"NO!"

Jarrod threw himself with his last ounce of strength against the leather boot, which kicked him hard in the chin.

The last thing he saw before he passed out were two brutes applying pressure to his brother's throat. He watched the feeble struggle and the arms go limp.

What a day it had been. The steep climb through the drifts had left both horses and men totally exhausted, and that wasn't the half of it. Not only was he feeling like he could keel over at any moment, Nick's belly was rumbling something fierce and every limb on his frozen body felt as if the least little jar would shatter them into a trillion pieces. Slowly he trudged up the front steps to the lodge, the jingle of his spurs silenced by the build up of frozen sludge.

"Nick!" Max exclaimed running over to greet the human icicle.

"Max, good to see you."

Nick's voice sounded less than enthusiastic as he made his way over to the large fireplace and collapsed into a wooden arm chair.

"Any news on Jarrod?"

Max's sunshine turned to gray as he shifted his focus from Nick's face to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Nick," he whispered, placing a hand on the cowboy's shoulder as he once again looked deep into the hazel eyes. "I was hoping that, well...."

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Nick managed, forcing a weak smile. "How's Heath doing?"

"I haven't seen your brother, Heath, since they carried him up to his room last night. He must've really needed the rest."

"Oh, he needed it all right," Nick answered. "And I helped him out a little bit in gettin' it, too. Jarrod and I had this little joke goin' on the way up. We figured that the only way Heath was goin' to take things easy was if we hog-tied him. Well," continued Nick, pulling the glass bottle out of his pocket and holding it up for Max to see, "I found something that works much more effectively."

"Ahhh, and what's your brother going to say when he finds out you drugged him?"

"I'm hopin' he doesn't," Nick replied, rising stiffly from the chair. "If things pan out the way I figure them to, Heath will just write it off to bein' dog tired, pure and simple."

"Come now, Nick. You know as well as I do that that boy's not fooled so easily. He's a smart one, that Heath. He won't buy into that for a second, and I guarantee he's not going to like what you did."

"Well, like it or not, I did what I had to do and it worked. Now, if you'll excuse me," Nick said, trying to manage a small, but cheery smile, "I think I'll go check up on that lazy brother of mine."

The white haired gentleman followed Nick's retreating form with sad, sorrowful eyes. The young man had a tight hold on the optimistic hope that somehow Jarrod would turn up safe and sound, but Max knew the odds of that were slim to none. I man trapped out in a driving blizzard with no shelter could be buried alive and never be found until spring thaw. No, Max couldn't share Nick's optimism, but he still believed in prayer and miracles.

"Please, God," he prayed silently, "makes this Christmas season a joyous one for my friends, the Barkleys."

Upstairs, Nick was just stepping out of the steamy tub. He had detoured Heath's door by the way of the bathroom, and decided a quick soak would do his body good. Finally he was getting some feeling back into his numbed appendages. Now, he would get dressed and go check on Heath. If Heath was awake and wanting to get up, the two would go down and have some dinner.

Nick could hear the scattered notes of various musical instruments as the musicians downstairs began to tune for the evening's dance. He remembered his bet with Heath and all the fun he had had making it. Things were certainly turned in a different direction now. With Jarrod still missing, Nick's heart felt heavy and an atmosphere of music and gaiety was the last thing he felt like facing. Instead of going downstairs to eat, maybe he would just have a couple of trays brought up, he thought, as he paused in front of the door leading into Heath's bedroom. Turning the handle he cracked the door and peeked inside the darkened room. Everything was still and silent; the boy wasn't so much as stirring. Nick felt his way over to the table. Groping for the can of matches, he struck a wooden stick and let it's light guide him to the lamp's wick. Adjusting the light for maximum intensity, Nick turned towards the bed expecting to find Heath sprawled out under the blankets.

"Heath," he started, "Let's get..."

His voice came to an abrupt halt. He had been talking to an empty bed.

Heath leaned back and closed his eyes. Maybe if he just 'played possum' they'd be a bit easier on him. The way his head was throbbing, he wasn't going to have to put much effort into the playing part. Every breath of air was met by the razor sharp pain of the injured ribs. A small chill pierced through his dampened body, causing him to shiver. His chest ached at the thought of his brother's body lying in a shallow grave outside. Tears stung his eyes when he thought of Jarrod. His fevered mind wandered, he wasn't sure what day it was. How long had he been here? If it was anywhere near Christmas, this wasn't the way he had planned to spend his holiday. Just his luck. When he was a boy, Christmas meant a special day set aside for just him and his mama. A day that neither or them would have to go outside the home to work.

At fifteen, he had run off and joined the Army and Christmas was never the same after that. He was off fighting Rebs the first year, and the second he'd been holed up in that stinking cesspool called Carterson Prison. After his release, he had spent time in Texas riding border patrol along the Rio Grande River, among various other odd jobs he had picked up here and there. He rarely returned home to visit, and Christmas always seemed like just another day.

After his union with his father's family, Heath began to once again cherish the Yuletide season. He had the love of a new found family to be thankful for, and the holidays were more than just a date in his pocket ledger. He wondered what was happening back at the ranch. There was no telling where the family were right now, but he imagined his Mother and Audra were just getting ready for the evening meal. He could almost smell the spicy aroma of freshly baked gingerbread and mulled cider brewing on the cookstove. The churning in his belly reminded him that he hadn't eaten in quite awhile. The shrinking candle which was perched on the window sill across the small room seemed to symbolize the way his body felt...slowly wasting away as the fuel was spent, the light growing dimmer with the passing of time. As he watched the flame fight to stay alive, his nausea subsided and he drifted off into restless sleep.

"Wake up!"

A hard, sudden slap across the face shot him back into the land of reality. This wasn't an Apache standing before him, but the eyes were just as fierce. He locked into the stare of hatred coming from his tormentor and refused to buckle.

"Be strong, Heath," he thought to himself. "You've been worse off before and have been all the stronger for it. You've survived before and you will survive this. Just keep strong."

Heath's vision cleared and the stinging pain in his cheek slowly subsided. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the lines and features on the face before him began to make perfect sense. He knew this man...knew him all too well. He remembered that day in court when he had stepped down from the witness stand. If he lived to be a hundred, Heath would never forget the icy glare that followed him back to his seat. He had seen that glare before his day in court, and many times since. Often at night he would wake up in a cold sweat with the haunting vision of this man's face interrupting precious sleep. The raucous laugh would pierce his subconscious like a dagger, only to find him sitting upright in the silent darkness of his own bedroom. So many times he had reassured himself that it was only a dream, and in time his nightmares would fade away. Now, this ghost of his past was a living, breathing reality, and no amount of 'pinching' would cause him to go away. Was it this brute's hands that took his beloved brother away?

"You look cold," the voice stated flatly. "Perhaps it would be helpful if we relieved you of your wet clothing. Tinsler! Johnson! Remove the prisoner's garments!"

Before Heath's befuddled mind could register the barked command, two pairs of rough hands were yanking the coat and clothes from his shivering body. Naked and unprotected before his captors, Heath lay motionless at their merciless feet.

"He don't seem to have a whole lotta life left in 'im," Tinsler mocked, placing a deliberate kick in the victim's ribcage.

Gasping softly, Heath resisted the urge to pacify his body's cry for comfort. Even in his weakened condition, he would not grant these men the satisfaction of seeing him react to their induced pain.

"I can see that breaking this one is going to be a challenge," the leader sneered. "But then again, I always love a challenge," he grinned menacingly. "Sinclair, bring me that bucket from outside the door.

"Sinclair lumbered away momentarily and returned toting a sloshing, wooden bucket. Standing closely, he watched and waited.

"You will be broken by the time I'm finished with you," the commander addressed Heath. "It's only a matter of time until you're groveling at my feet, begging for mercy. Resistance will only deter the survival of you and the ones you love."

The ones you love. Did that mean that Nick had been captured too? Or was this hybrid monster planning something sinister for his mother and sister? Suddenly the room began to spin as the nausea he had experienced earlier returned. He didn't know what was worse, the heat he felt from the fever or the frigid cold convulsing his body in uncontrollable shaking. A warm sensation swept from his head down to his guts as his body began to heave. Clawing the earthen floor with his finger nails, Heath managed to pull himself up on his knees. Sucking and expelling air, his stomach caved from within, but had nothing to offer.

"Are you ready for me to douse him, Sir?" Johnson inquired. "He's lookin' a mite peaked there. Maybe some of this cold water here will bring some of his color back."

"No, I don't think that will be necessary," the leader replied. "Would you like your clothes back?" he addressed Heath.

Heath remained silent, but the pleading look in his eyes produced a round of obscene laughter from his blood thirsty audience.

"I do believe that means 'yes'," Tinsley taunted. "What do you think, Sir?"

"That would be my interpretation as well," the bearded monger agreed. "Tinsley, hand me the prisoners clothing.''

Quick to follow his orders, the burly guard supplied his leader with the blue chambray work shirt, tan pants and the thick, fleece lined jacket. Refusing to touch the soiled garments himself, the man-in-charge motioned towards Johnson and the bucket of water he still held.

"These clothes are awfully dirty," Tinsley drawled, fully understanding what was expected of him. "Guess it's high time they were washed."

With deliberate, haughty strides he strode over to where Johnson stood and submerged the shirt in the bucket's depth. Retrieving the dripping garment, he flung it over in Heath's direction. Then tossing the coat to the man behind him, he motioned for Sinclair to empty the pail's remaining contents.

"Here's your clothes, Barkley," he scoffed, kicking the drenched pants at Heath's collapsed form. "Nice and clean. Too bad room service don't have the necessary equipment to dry 'em for you!"

"Oh, and here's the dinner you worked so hard for." They all laughed at the reference to the grave, savoring the haunted sky-eyes that looked back at them. "Enjoy!"

The mealy crackers and small bits of meat were dropped onto the floor. Heath's stomach rolled at the sight of the maggots that wormed their way out of the meal. Taking their lantern and bucket with them, the trio turned and retreated from the brick cell. Heath heard the key turn in the lock as once again he found himself enveloped in the darkness.

The sun was just a rosy glow as it began to surface the Sierra's snow capped peaks. The red, mercury line on the lodges thermometer was almost in the single digits, but Nick's short fuse was burning hot enough to keep him warm through the coldest chill.

"Damn that boy! Can't turn my back on him even for a second!" Nick fumed as he gave the cinch strap a healthy yank.

"I know, Boy," he agreed, patting the horse's neck as the lodge owned equine retorted with a frosty snort. "I ain't thrilled about goin' out in this cold either, but we got a job to do. You just help me find that lame-brained brother of mine and leave me to the rest!"

Nick pounded his right fist into his left palm, his expression dark, as he look another moment to mentally thrash Heath's butt for leaving the lodge unannounced like he had.

"As if I don't have enough to worry about loosin' Jarrod," he thought, his anger acting as a temporary catalyst to the wrenching pain he was feeling inside.

Nick led the steed out into the crusty snow and swung a lean leg over the saddle. It was always the coldest right before dawn. He pulled his collar up against the bracing chill and headed up the mountain's incline.

As the morning progressed and the big, red ball in the sky had transformed into a bright beacon glistening off the frosty woodland, Nick spied some freshly made tracks. Pulling up on the reigns, he dismounted. The snow crunched beneath him as he knelt and examined the tracks. The sharp edges outlining each hoof print, indicated that the rider had been through late yesterday afternoon. Any earlier in the day and the imprints would have been sun-softened around the rims before refreezing that night. The direction from which they came, left no doubt in his mind that the tracks were made by one of the horses from the lodge. Nick followed the weaving path with his eyes as he watched it snake up through the timber.

"We're hot on his trail," he told his mount, swinging back up and adjusting himself in the seat. "Now, let's go fetch that boy home so you can get your oats!"

The horse plugged along as the drifts seemed to get deeper in spots. This sure had been one whale of a storm. Upwards they climbed, until Nick's horse stopped, his ears perked forward as he stared straight ahead of them.

"What is it, Boy? What do you hear?" Nick asked squinting as the sunlight through the trees caused him to turn away.

"Hello there!" a voice greeted.

Nick looked again and saw two riders approaching. As they drew closer, and he could see their faces. One had a shiny gold tooth and the other a huge, hulk or a fellow. He knew they weren't from the lodge.

"Mornin'!" Nick replied. "What brings you boys out this way?"

"We rode in from Pine Meadows," the husky one answered. "Got word from Max down at the lodge. It seems that a couple of fellas are missin'. He asked us to help out with the search."

"Yeah?" Nick quipped, hope rising in his voice. "I'm the brother of those two. Have you seen as sign of 'em?"

"As a matter-of-fact we came across what we think may be one of them not to long ago."

"You what?" Nick exclaimed with excitability and menace. "You came across him? Well, where in the devil is he, then? You just can't leave him there!" Then pausing briefly, his voice dropped as he asked, "He ain't dead, is he?"

"No," reassured the stranger, "he ain't dead, but he will be if we don't get some help to him real quick like."

"What are you talkin' about," Nick demanded, leaning forward in his saddle to deadlock the stranger right in the eyes. "Somehow things just aren't addin' up, here. Now, I want some answers and I want 'em now. Quit beatin' around the bush and tell me what you know."

"Well, we spotted these guys in a house not too far from here...just back over that yonder ridge. They had some poor beggar slung over the back of a horse."

"What was wrong with him and what did he look like?" Nick jumped in. "Come on, hurry it up!"

"I was just gettin' to that," the stranger replied, sounding a little annoyed. "He seemed to have bond or light brown hair. He was wearing tan pants and a thick fleece lined jacket. From what I could tell, he'd been beat up real bad."

"Well, why in blazes did you leave him there?" Nick roared. "Come on, let's go get him!"

"Now, just hold on there a minute," the large man responded, holding up a halting hand. "Those guys that had him didn't look to friendly like and there were a lot of them. We were just on our way back down to the lodge so as to round up some help."

"Forget the lodge!" Nick stormed. "This won't wait! You just take me to that house and let me handle it!"

"Okay," the man agreed, reluctantly. "Have it your way."

"Mister, I've been all over this mountainside for the past two days lookin's for my brothers. You can bet that gold tooth of yours that I'm goin' to have it my way. Now, lead on!"

Nick drew his horse to a stop, following the lead of the large man ahead of him.

"Why are we stopping? I thought you said that the house wasn't far from here?" Nick quizzed impatiently.

"It ain't, but..."

"BUT WHAT!" Nick hollered.

Bear smiled at the roar to his rear. Nick Barkley was just as impatient as he reputation stated. Clearing his face, he turned, feigning a worried glance.

"I don't about this Mr. Barkley. Mr. Schmidt said I was to bring you back. We can come back with help. We don't know how many jaspers are up there holding your brother. We don't even know if he's there."

"You said you saw two men with an injured man with blond hair on a horse," he gritted, "how far?"

"Just up the road apiece, but I really think we should turn back."

Nick reigned the horse in and rode past the large man, not seeing the grin that spread on the beefy face.

"If you say so, Mr. Barkley," he spat at the retreating horse.

"Whoa!" Nick hollered and jumped down, racing to the familiar sage colored jacket. He sank to his knees in the snow and picked it up carefully. His heart sank at the sight of the blood staining the front of the coat. Holding the jacket as if it were an infant, he rose as did the anger in him.

"This," he said holding the object to Bear's approval, "is all the proof I need. It's his and when I get done with the animals who hurt him, what's left of their sorry hides won't fill a tea cup. "

"Yes sir, looks like they roughed him up a little."

Nick's growl was the only sound as he mounted the horse and charged forward, right into the lions den.Bear's hand pointed to a turnoff, obscured by the curve in the road.

"Right there is where I saw them. Two upright, and the blond guy over a saddle."

Nick followed the path and saw smoke curling from a chimney beyond a clump of trees. Easing off the mount, he got out his gun and crept forward. There was a porch out front and no sign of a guard. He quickly thought out a plan.

"This is what we're gonna..."

His rescue effort was cut short by a severe blow to the side of the head. The force drove him hard into the rocks nearby. All the air was knocked out of him and spots of every color danced before his dazed eyes. Before he could react, the gun was torn from his grasp and a boot found it's mark on his back. He managed to throw himself at the walking mountain and the throaty laughter told him this was an exercise in futility. The first punch landed squarely in his midsection, followed by an uppercut to his cheek. Like a bulldog, he hung tough and grasped at the belt of the imposing force. A hard backhand to the face sent him sprawling down a short embankment. The awful cracking sound he heard was his ribs as the boot found a new home.

"Get movin', we're already late."

"What's the matter with you? What are you doing?"

"I ain't gonna repeat myself." The fist that cuffed the side of his head was the answer.

"Drop dead!"

Nick spat a wad of blood in the beasts face. He felt himself airborne and the last thing he saw was the tree that met him head on.

Nick's body lurched forward as a swift kick sent him sprawling to the earthen floor. He heard the door slam shut behind him and the iron latch being dropped into place. In the dim light he could see the form of another man slumped, unconscious in this make shift prison. It was too dark to make out the details, but something about the sleeping form seemed all to familiar. Pulling himself up on all fours, Nick paused a moment to catch his wind. Taking a deep breath, he began crawling towards the other man, then suddenly stopped.

"Heath!" he cried out, as he scrambled over to his brother's side. "Heath! My God! What have they done to you?"

Placing a hand to his brother's cheek, the scalding skin sent his stomach soaring into his chest. Who were these people that were holding them and what was the purpose? If it was money they wanted, Nick would gladly pay it, just as long as it would buy their freedom. He knew that his brother was in desperate need of a doctor. His flesh was burning and his face badly battered. Whoever these men were, their tactics were sadistic. The creaking hinge caused Nick to look up as the door opened and the outline of a man stood towering in the entrance. From beyond the doorway, Nick could see the light of a lantern and hear the movement of the guards.

"Please," he thought to himself, "tell me who you are and what you want."

How strange that these men had randomly captured him and his brother, both. No, there had to be some sort of motive involved. The fact that he and Heath were prisoners together seemed way to coincidental to be an accident. Before, when he had tried to talk, he'd received knuckles instead of answers, but this man before him seemed different. His stance communicated power and authority. This man was obviously their leader. Nick knew he was at their mercy. His choice of words may gain him favor or damn him into more torture. He could already feel the painful bruises from the cruel beating he had received earlier. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak, but before he could form the words, a wicked laughter echoed the brick walls of his confinement.

"Welcome 370 and 597. So nice of you to drop by.

The fiendish laughter seemed to be rising from the depths Hades itself as Rizley towered over the two brothers with mocking menace radiating his person. Nick could feel the hairs on his neck stand to attention. For a split second, Nick forgot his image of the brave Spartan so many people admired. The tough bar room brawler who would stuff any insults regarding his family or bastard brother back down the throat of the foolish offender. Nick Barkley, the gladiator who had wrestled with a cougar and later came out the victor. Telling himself, now, that he felt no fear, would be an absolute lie. He knew what kind of man this Rizley was; he knew the intensity the dishonorably discharged Navy Captain could hate, and the depraved extremities he'd journey to bring forth his schemes for revenge.

In the background stood two more men. Nick thought he knew one. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Edwin Sinclair, a hand that he had fired almost four years prior. Fired wasn't exactly the right term either...run-off was a much more accurate description.

Heath had been new to the ranch. Sinclair had behaved obstante from the beginning. Insubordinate and insipid, refusing to accept Heath's orders. There had been words, resulting in a bloody fist fight between the two. When Sinclair had reached for an ax handle and used it to beat Heath senseless, Nick had stepped in and turned the tables. Sinclair was tough, but not tough enough to withstand what Nick had to dish out. When he was finally licked and barely able to drag himself up, he had cursed Nick with bitter words of damnation, swearing to someday even the score. Knowing the threats were no more than idle words, Nick had scoffed in the face of the man who bore so much hatred and malice.

However, that 'someday' promise was fulfilled just a short time later. Nick had come home from town quite late one Saturday night. The rest of the household had long since turned out the lights. Not wanting to disturb his family, Nick quietly snuck in through the back door. In the dark, he stumbled across an intruder helping himself to the ranches payroll. Using the element of surprise, Nick was able to over power the thief and hold him until the family roused and Heath was there to assist him. When the lamps were lit, and the culprit unveiled, it was none other than Sinclair himself. It was Nick's testimony at the trial that had sealed the man's fate. Judge Lawson had given him ten years of incarceration to pay for his crime. It had been almost three years now, and from his hardened appearance, his time in San Quentin had toughened the man even more. His face bore the scars and callousness of one who had to fight to survive.

Nick's mind vollied around like a billiard ball, trying to peice together the chain of events and somehow get a bearing of what was in store. He thought of Jarrod. Had he, too, fallen into the fateful hands of these men so bent on revenge? It was Jarrod who had prosecuted Rizley. Between the lawyer's courtroom expertise and his spotless reputation of upholding justice, both judge and jury had unanimously agreed that the discharged Navy Captain should be punished to the fullest extent of the law. There hadn't been enough evidence to prove that Rizley had every actually murdered anybody, but the intent was there the night he tried to force a prison break. Upon Jarrod's recommendation, the judge had sentenced Rizley to life imprisonment, no chance of ever being paroled. Now, two years later, here he stood, a free man.

Nick heard Heath stir and turned as the blue eyes opened. He watched as Heath looked up at Rizley and then over to Sinclair. His face was unreadable. Void of any emotion, seemingly cast of stone, the young cowboy remained steady and stable. It wasn't until a third man stepped from out of the shadows, that a wild and savage fear danced across his ashen face.

There, standing before him, was one of the wickedest demons from Heath's past. The man know as 'Bear' had been a guard during his confinement at Carterson. His reputation was as putrid as the defiled stream of filth in which the inmates had been forced to drink. His brutal methods of 'breaking prisoners' were even ridiculed by those who worked beside him. Heath, a boy of sixteen, had withstood this man's torture. Through concentration, courage and an undying faith in God, he had sought refuge in the clef of Christ, The Rock. Heath's body had been whipped and beaten, but this beast had never been able to break his spirit.

On the night of the escape attempt at Carterson Heath had found a sharp rock in the tunnel. After the guards started to fire, the men in the tunnel retreated, and when they returned to the cell block all hell had broke loose. In the course of the riot, Heath had spotted an opportunity and seized it. While Bear had his hand raised to strike a fellow prisoner, Heath came from behind and bashed his head with the rock. After the riot had subsided, Bear was transported to the infirmary for treatment of his massive head injury. The war ended before he was fully recovered, but the imprinting in his skull branded him for life. It wasn't until his employment at San Quentin that he became acquainted with Captain Rizley and learned of the bitter hatred for one man that the two held in common.

Addressing the three men who sat at the kitchen table, Rizley opened the thick folder as the meeting began. His three companions had all been carefully handpicked by the Captain, himself, and their assignments given the utmost consideration.

"As you gentlemen are well aware, each of you has a specific purpose for being here," he droned. "Now that our three captives are secured, we shall commence. The information provided by Bear, along with what I found out during my journey to a desolate spot known as 'Strawberry', will provide us with just the right fuel to fan the fire."

"Fire, sir?" Tinsler asked.

"Yes, Mr. Tinsler, fire. Heath Barkley will be the pawn used to drive his brothers against each other. You see, a man can only remain sane and logical for so long. Hours of captivity in a small dark cell, hearing screams of those you love being tortured, evidence of their deaths, causes doubt to creep in, and eventually, the mind breaks apart."

"What's next," Sinclair asked, draining his coffee.

"Heath Barkley will be taking a trip back in time." Rizley paused and took out a large bottle filled with amber liquid. "This is a hallucinatory agent I procured from the Far East. It's very expensive and very effective. The good fortune of his illness, accompanyed by fever, will only add to the delirium. With the right ammunition and support, his mind will bend and become ours to use as we see fit."

"When do we start?" Bear asked, eyes lighting up.

"Patience, all good things come to those who wait. We can't have him dying on us just yet. So we'll move him to a cleaner cell, give him a little medicine and of course, some soup and juice with just the right added ingredient. The fever and drug will do the rest. Let's get started. Here are your assignments."

The three nodded and laughed as the plan unfolded. Revenge would be sweet indeed.

"Wake up. Come on Jarrod, you're dreaming."

Nick supported the battered head of his oldest brother. Jarrod's bruised body gave every indication that he'd been through hell. Now he was lost in a nightmare. Nick tapped the bruised face lightly, and finally shook the bare shoulders. The low flicker of light from the candle illuminated the eyes blinking. Jarrod looked up at

him finally, but said not a word.

"Jarrod, you're awake now. You were having a nightmare."

It took Jarrod's lost mind more than a few minutes to recover. His eye's look right at Nick without a flicker of recognition. Nick had seen Jarrod through a lot of tough times, but this blank, lost look scared him a little.

"Hey, it's me. Come on, let's get your shirt on," Nick tendered.

He pulled the ragdollish arm up and put the garment on. He leaned Jarrod back against the concrete wall. Wincing, Nick closed his eyes, the effort creating havoc on his cracked ribs.

"Nick?" Jarrod wondered.

Nick looked over and nodded, seeing the hand touching him, as reassurance.

"I'm real, Brother. It ain't no mirage."

"What's this all about? Do you know?"

Jarrod watched amazed as a look seldom seen crossed his brother's abused features. Fear, pure and undiluted. He heard Nick exhale and saw the pain as his hand guarded his chest. His pained hazel eyes met Jarrod's fearful blue ones. The one word sent an arrow of despair through the lawyer.

"Rizley."

Jarrod's leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away. Then it hit him, the stark realization. Did Nick know? He looked over and hesitantly spoke, laying a hand on the muddy brown pants.

"Nick, I have terrible news. Heath's dead."

"No, he ain't," Nick said flatly. "You were just having a bad dream."

"No, Nick, I saw it, they...they...choked the life out of him. I couldn't help him. I just let them take him away. I..."

Nick turned and laid a strong hand to the blood stained shirt of his oldest brother. The despair in Jarrod's voice contained a heavy-handed dose of guilt. His voice was firm and strong, his eyes tried to conquer the fear of Jarrod's.

"Jarrod, I'm telling you he's alive. I was just with him. He's pretty sick, but he ain't dead."

"I was so sure...," Jarrod's relieved voice trailed off.

"It's all part of some kind of sick game Rizley's playing," Nick said, "and he's got help. Some sadist brute named Bear who was a guard at Carterson and Edwin Sinclair."

"My God, Nick, we're as good as dead. Where's Heath now?"

"In a cell nearby. After the grand introduction, they hauled me out and dumped me in here."

"How do we get out?" Jarrod asked.

"I don't have the answer to that one, Brother, but we don't have a whole lotta time. Heath's in a bad way."

Both men sat in silence, shivering from the biting cold and the realization of the unnamed fate yet to come. Then inching his way over, Jarrod sidled his body next to Nick's. With the wall to support their backs, the two men huddled close, sharing heat and drawing comfort.

The length of their solitude, they did not know. It could have been hours or days, the dark room didn't allow for time or space. They heard the bolt slide from the door, as the captors entered. Suddenly rough hands hauled Jarrod upright and threw him against a wall. Nick moved to aid his fallen brother but was slammed backward.

"Not so fast, Mr. Boss man," Sinclair leered, putting a choke hold on Nick and enjoying it. "You stay put, we got plans for you."

Jarrod staggered onward without looking back. The door closed and once more, Nick was left alone. In the biting cold and desolate darkness, he curled up and prayed.

Heath woke up and looked around. He eased his aching body upright, surprised to find he was on a cot. The cell was clean and a blanket covered him. He saw the steaming bowl of soup, and the tantalizing aroma drove the knives of hunger piercing his stomach into a frenzied dance. He staggered over and carefully dipped the tip of his finger into the hot broth to insure it was real. He tasted it cautiously. It was rich, chicken broth with rice. A large mug of cold orange juice got his attention and he made short work of it. The juice tasted funny, but the way his mouth was all cut up, it was a wonder he could taste at all. "It must be the blood," he reasoned as he licked his lips and started in on the soup. He ate quickly, finishing the soup as well as the bread. The gnawing, hollowness was sated for now. Picking the last of the crumbs from the plate, Heath rested his elbows on the table and closed his eyes.

How long had he been here? Why hadn't Nick come? So many questions, his hand wiped the sweat from his hot face. His aching head wouldn't cooperate with his resolve to remain awake. He didn't even have the strength to get back to the cot. He laid his heavy head on the cool table and slept.

The door opened and Rizley entered. He nodded to Bear, who picked up the unconscious man with little effort. He carried Heath to the room next door. Furnished with the fixtures purchased from Martha Simmons, it almost mirrored the Simmon's bedroom back in Strawberry where the young boy spent some unpleasant time. His shirt was removed and Heath was placed against the brass footboard, each hand secured to a post and his head resting against the brass spokes.

Rizley sat on a chair behind Heath and kept checking his watch. Finally, when he was sure that the drug had began it's affect, he began. Speaking in a low, monotone voice, he called to young Heath Thomson. He filled the vulnerable mind with remembrances of the drunken uncle who beat the young boy.

"You like your Uncle Matt, don't you boy?"

"No good drunk....not hurt me again...," the feeble voice mumbled.

"But you're were bad, Heath. You must be punished."

"No...No.. Not again...he's gone..."

"No, he's right here in this room. Look, Heath, look around." Rizley waved the strong chemical under the victim's nose.

Heath coughed and his eyes shot open. His terrified gaze took in the bed, the faded roses on the walls, the cracked pitcher and bowl on the nightstand. He saw the small tattered shirt and looked down at his bear chest. He struggled against the rails, his heart pounding.

"It's Sunday, Heath, and you know what that means. It's the busiest day for her over in the cafe. She won't hear you."

"Mama?" He tested, watching the door. "Mama!" louder now, pleading.

"Come on Boss Man, time to go." Sinclair said, hitting Nick hard with a stick.

Nick growled and lunged at the brute, but the stick hit his leg hard, causing him to fall.

"Temper, temper. Now get moving"

The rough hands sent him staggering in a drunken gait down the hall. He stopped short in the doorway and raced inside.

"Heath, Heath. Look at me? Can you hear me? Heath are ...."

He dropped on his knees and his hand froze along with his thought as the eyes that looked back at him were full of hate and loathing. The bloodied lip curled in a sneer and the voice that followed drove a stake in Nick's heart.

"Get your filthy hands offa me. I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you!"

"Heath? It's me, Nick. What've they done to you?"

He held the tortured face in his trembling hands and then drew back as Heath's teeth attempted to bite at his fingers. The reunion was ended as Nick was hauled to his feet and pulled backward. Rizley's voice came from the shadow's in the hall to his right.

"Pick it up, 370."

"What?" Nicks' face screwed up in confusion, he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, peering into the darkened hall, searching for the person behind the voice.

"PICK IT UP, NOW, 370," Rizley commanded.

Nick felt a painful blow to his back that sent him to his knees. That's when he saw it. He shook his head and retracted, scrambling backwards.

"If you think I'm gonna take a strap to my on brother... well you may as well kill me now. Never, Rizley," Nick hurled. "You'll never make me strike him!"

"Maybe this will change your mind," Tinsler laughed.

Nick turned to the left as a door opened.

"Jarrod!" Nick cried and attempted to leave.

"I don't think so," Sinclair appealed, pulling him back. "He can't hear you anyhow."

Nick's eyes focused and he saw his dazed brother, blindfolded and tied to a chair. The thick fabric was wound around and around his ears and eyes, preventing him to see or hear what was happening in the small bedroom.

"Now 370, you have a choice. You can pick up that whip and commence 597's punishment or..."

"Or what?" Nick's voice contained the fear his heart held.

"Or that do-gooding mouthpiece of a brother youe're so fond of, will get a lead ball in his knee," Rizley threatened, nodding at Jarrod

Nick's tortured glance fell to where Jarrod sat. Bear held the pistol aimed at Jarrod's knee.

"You're bluffin'," he challenged.

Rizley nodded and Bear slammed the gun butte into Jarrod's cheek, opening a gash.

"That was just a warning. Next time, he catches a bullet. Decide 370, which of your brother's lives means more to you," Rizley goaded. "Of course 597 is only half a brother. A mistake your father made with some no good saloon girl. Should make the choice so much easier...don't you think?"

"I'll kill you, Rizley," Nick seethed. "So help me, God. I'll tear you limb from limb."

"Time's up 370," Rizley nodded to Bear. "Shoot him."

Nick watched the gun cock and made his choice.

"NO WAIT!'" he cried desperately.

With his hands trembling and his heart heavy, Nick bent down and picked up the leather whip. He fingered the bits of steel on the tips of the lash, painfully. He swallowed hard, unable to look at Heath.

"God forgive me, Little Brother," he halted, tears welled in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Rizley nodded to Bear who doused Jarrod with ice water. The lawyer sat upright and shivered, sputtering. The blind fold was taken away and replaced with a gag. Jarrod strained against the ropes as he shocked eyes took in the gruesome sight. He flinched at the horrific sound of the leather biting Heath's unprotected bare skin. Heath never cried out, his blue eyes stared ahead, flinching with every lash. Jarrod mouthed Nick's name in vain, against the offensive gag. What was Nick doing?

Something in Nick's mind shut down. His arm would rise and fall, but the room seem surreal. With no sense of time and space, his emotions were held in check. He didn't hear the garish laughter or the jumbled, jargon from the gagged captive. He didn't see the scarlet ribbons his actions created on the bare flesh of his youngest brother. He didn't feel the hot tears that ran down his face unchecked. Forcing himself into a state of unawareness, he retreated to the hidden depts from within, void of all thoughts and feelings. Finally, a roar in his ears transported him back to reality. He dropped the whip and fell to his knees. Covering his ears with both hands, he balled up his body and screamed.

Heath kept looking at the door. Why didn't she come? Where was she? His back was on fire and the insides of his cheek was bitten from the forceful teeth.

"Mama," he cried out, "Mama help me. Uncle Matt's gonna kill me. Please Mama. Why don't you help?"

Jarrod looked helplessly from one brother to the other and watched as the sad chapter from Heath's past come to life in horrible, living color. He never knew Heath had been abused as a child. Realizing the tactics their tormentors were using, he was overcome with rage, knowing that Rizley was raping his brother's memory. He watched Rizley cut Heath loose and wondered what scene would unfold next.

"He's already hurt your mother, Heath. That's why she didn't come to help you," Rizley lured, enjoying the hate in Heath's adolescent eyes.

"You're a big boy now, Heath. She's counting on you. Don't let him hurt her again."

Nick shook off his stupor and looked around the room confused. He shut out the awful view of Heath's marred flesh and swallowed back the vomit that rose up his esophagus. God, what have I done. The feral growl caused Heath's eyes to open. Nick had seen Heath angry, but never like this. The look in the steely eyes held one thought...murder.

"Heath, No!" he defended as the raging man flew at him.

"I hate you. I'm gonna kill you. You ain't gonna take that whip to me no more. You shouldn't have hurt Mama. You're a no good drunk!"

Nick felt the death grip around his throat and tried to pry the fingers away. His time was running out and as much as he didn't want to hurt Heath, he had no choice. He hit Heath in the ribs and the pain that rippled through the already injured body, caused the adrenaline rush to cease. Heath collapsed on his beloved brother's chest. Nick flipped over and held him close, Heath's head rested on his brother's shoulder. Rocking him, brushing a hand through the wet head, he implored the eyes to open.

"Heath, I'm so sorry. Can you hear me?"

Heath struggled to get his eyes open. They felt like dead weight. Finally, he managed to open them a crack and saw the whip. His body was worn out and had no fight left, but he needed to get away. It was so hard to see, it seemed he was looking through water. He strained to hear, but the voice was speaking too slowly. He pulled back and saw Nick. Nick would help him, but how could Nick be here? Nick didn't live with Mama and Hannah?

"Nick? ... help me...Uncle...Matt...please?"

Nick looked down at the imploring sky eyes and his heart just about broke. He swallowed hard, wishing Matt Simmons were still alive so he could have the pleasure of squeezing the life out of him. He spoke directly into Heath's ear, not giving the sadists a chance to hear.

"He's dead, Heath. He ain't gonna hurt you again. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"You got 'em...Nick?"

"Yeah, Brother," was all he could manage.

Suddenly, the rough hands pulled Heath from his tender embrace. Nick fought them like a wildcat. Disregarding the searing pain in his chest, he lunged at Sinclair and drove him into Tinsler. A horrendous pain in his arm and awful cracking sound told him his arm was broken. Cradling his injured left arm, he called out to Heath, despite the fact the blue eyes were closed. He winced as they drug Heath out, his head dragged on the floor, bouncing off every board.