Bear squatted next to the delirious captive, remembering all to well the fun he'd had at the then teenage boy's expense. Such as pretty boy, he was. He lifted Heath's shoulder and held the cup to his mouth.

"Drink up, now," he leered.

Heath obeyed the voice and gagged instinctively at the bitter, foul smelling liquid. He laid back on the mat on the floor. He heard the voice and felt the hand creeping up his leg. The terror that struck him at the familiar words forced his eyes open.

"Mornin' Blondie, welcome to another day in hell."

Heath curled up and shrank back into the corner of his cell. Blinking hard, he looked around the small, windowless room. The familiar sight of an unknown four legged creature of the dark ran through the crack on the wall. The putrid breath was followed by the sadistic laughter.

"Time for breakfast, Blondie."

"No," he rasped, pushing the maggot infested corn mush and crackers away.

Heath tried to turn away, but his weakened body was no match for the barrel chested, monstrous mountain of flesh.

"You hardheads never learn, do ya."

One rough hand forced open his mouth, and the other spooned the infested excuse for food into his mouth. The hands then worked in tandem, one covering the prisoners mouth and the other forcing him to swallow. Once released, Heath's stomach rebelled against the invasion and he started to cough it up.

"Now you don't want to do that, Blondie. I'll just put that right back in ya," the beast grinned.

Heath closed his eyes and fought the back the urge to vomit. He leaned against the dank, cold walls and tried to sleep. He felt the hand on him again, and kicked out instinctively.

"Get out."

"You didn't finish your breakfast. You eat every bit or I'll..."

Heath picked up the spoon and forced the runny meal down his throat. It took all the energy he had to stomach it. He felt the breath on his cheek as the sadist bent to pick the plate up. He cringed and shrank back as the rough hand touched his cheek.

"That's real good, Blondie, I'll be back later."

Heath wrapped his hands around his knees and started to rock. He heard the cell door close and stared. The low light from the torch on the wall offered little consolation. He wished he'd been killed in that skirmish, instead of wounded. Carterson was worse than hell could ever be. Bear's presence alone guaranteed that.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The rocking motion soothed him little. He felt her nearby. A warmth, in the otherwise coldness, that was his world. He heard her crooning, soft and low.

"Amazing Grace how sweet the sound..."

Nick lay on the damp earthen floor of his cell, his breath coming in short pants. It seemed as though every nerve in his body screamed. Cradling his left arm, he was thankful that the bone hadn't penetrated the skin's surface. The way he felt, he might just as well been on the underside of a cattle stampede. Painfully, he rolled over and tried to ease himself up on his good elbow. A worn leather boot vetoed his attempt, pressing firmly against his throat. Gasping for air, he squared a menacing look of hatred into his tormentor's eye.

"Maybe that'll learn you," Tinsler sneered, his gold tooth glistening in the dim light. "You thought you were gonna play hero, didn't ya? You were gonna whip us all with one hand...and then you'd pick up that poor, bastard brother of yours and carry him to safety. How noble of you. It's such a pity that things didn't pan out the way you planned."

"I'll kill you," Nick grunted, trying hard to mask his pain. "I don't know how, or when I'll do it, but it's gonna happen, and that's a promise!"

"Well, I don't think I'm too scared, are you Edwin?" Tinsler mocked, turning to his scar faced friend.

"I don't scare over the likes of him," Sinclair scoffed, shoving a wad of Red Chief tobacco inside his lower lip.

"And just how good is your word, anyway?" Tinsler teased. "In fact, it does seem like I recall you sayin' not to long ago, that nothin' could make you lick that ill-sired, mongrel pup you call a brother. Nothing! You sure broke that promise in a hurry, didn't ya, Boy? Man, oh, man...you should've seen the look on his face," Tinsler gloated, "You know, I think he wanted to bust your head in right in two. I was half tempted just to let the two of ya cockfight it out, just to show ya!"

"Show us what?" Nick steamed.

"Why show ya what a couple of low life, loser dogs you really are, that's what. You ain't even fit to be called human, much less men. But then, what fun would there be in the two of ya killin' each other? That pleasure's gonna be mine; all mine!"

Feeling the walls of defeat close in on him, Nick dropped his head, too tired to offer a rebuttal. He glanced at the moldy bread and stench-laden stew that been left in his cell earlier and felt his stomach turn. Yes, he was hungry, but not that hungry. Looking he at the putrid mess, he could feel the bile rising. He gagged on reflex and fought to keep it down. A thick, yellow wad of tobacco juice hurled through the air and plopped into the bowl of spoiled stew with a sickening 'splat'.

"That bowl better be empty when we come back, Boss Man," Sinclair ordered with relish, "or I just might loose my temper."

The door closed, and the latch slid into place. Nick closed his eyes to grieve silently.

He loved this old cave, it had become a harbor for him. Some place he felt safe; where the cool walls stood silent in their sympathy. He was a boy with little youth; too young to be wearing a man's shoes. He kept his treasures in here. His small collection of arrow heads, a skull he found, a tattered, yellow treasure map, a wooden boat and a beat-up lantern that shed a low light, and the book. He found it in the deserted cabin on the outskirts of town, left behind. It was about a boy named Johnny Tremaine, who was an orphan and how the young boy become a hero for his role in the Revolutionary War. He loved books, and one day he would have all he wanted, with nobody to deny him. He wouldn't be the bastard boy no more. Nobody would lay a hand to him again. But for now, the ten year old traced the faded lines on the map. His last thought as he drifted to sleep was of buried treasure, battles of glory and dreams yet to come.

"Move it, Blondie, time for your shift," the beast growled, prodding him with a large stick.

Heath rolled over and glared at Bear. He licked his dry lips and attempted to stand. His sluggish effort was not good enough for the burly guard. Seizing his captive roughly by the collar, he hauled him up and threw

him out the door. Heath caught himself and managed to stagger forward.

"Where?" he croaked.

"Laundry detail. You're working with Skinner today."

Heath turned, his eyes glowered and he clenched his fists. Anybody but Skinner. A fiendish, spineless shell of a man. His nickname was given for the gruesome occupation he'd found within this hell hole. He caught rats, skinned and filleted them. The starving souls; the very, very depraved and desperate, would trade a meager possession in order to acquire the disgusting vermin-meat. Heath had never been so desperate. Skinner was an opportunist, selling any information of escapes, riots, etc., to the guards for cash, real food, or medicine. Heath had no doubts the cretin would sell his own mother, for the right price.

Four of them had planned a break, trusting no one, they'd almost been ready to go. Then Tyler got the fever and through no fault of his own, in his delirium, spoke of their work. Skinner overheard him rambling and over a period of days, deprived him of the water and broth that might have helped his fever. There was do doctor or medicine. Skinner used every available tactic to torture Heath's good friend. They'd taken Tyler away to another cell block. Heath tried desperately to see him, but to no avail. Skinner got all the information the sick boy could produce, then left him to die. Had long had it been? A few weeks, a month? Heath couldn't remember, but he vowed to get even.

Jarrod head throbbed, keeping time with the rest of his aching body. There was no sense of time in this wretched place. Had it been days or weeks? What had happened to his brothers? The dreadful sight of Nick's blank face and the whip smacking Heath's back wouldn't leave him. He sensed someone nearby. He struggled to his feet, making sure he kept alert. He paced the small room and turned at the door.

"Who's there?"

"A voice from your past, Mr. Barkley. So how does it feel? How does the self-proclaimed long arm of the law feel now? The world looks a lot different when you're not so high and mighty."

"You're even more pathetic than I'd remembered, Rizley. You won't get away with this. You'll pay for what you've done.''

"Save your breath, Mr. Barkley. Enjoy your visit at our quaint resort. It'll be you last. You and your brother won't be so lucky this time. I spent months in that prison plotting my revenge. Justice is sweeter than I'd dreamed."

Jarrod started to respond and realized Rizley used the singular 'brother'. Had something happened to Heath or Nick? Or was it another trick. Before he could answer, the door opened and Tinsler stepped inside.

"Time to go, Mouthpiece," Tinsler shoved Jarrod hard.

"Where?" Jarrod spouted, throwing the arm off.

"To get cleaned up."

Jarrod struggled forward and down the hall where a hot tub was waiting. He shrank back, shaking his head.

"What kind of game this time? Do you intend to drown me?"

"You got a choice. You can get in on your own, or I go in with you."

Jarrod looked at the cold eyes and realized this man was the heartless killer he'd alluded to. Squaring his shoulders, he unbuttoned his shirt and approached the tub.

Twenty minutes later, with clean, warm clothes and socks, he heard Sinclair unlock the door and enter. His confusion was evident and the sadist laughed.

"You just plum run out of ideas, eh Lawyer-Man. "

"Where's the your foul friend?" Jarrod spat.

"That ain't very nice, him seeing to it you got cleaned up and all. None of your concern, anyhow. Let's go."

"No," Jarrod sat down on the floor, resting his aching head on his arms, "I'm not participating in your sick game anymore. Do as you will."

"Well now, I don't recall you having that right, Lawyer-Man. Get up and get going. Maybe this will move you're feet a little faster," he grinned, dropping a horror before Jarrod.

Jarrod stared at the three teeth on the floor. He heard the sinister laugh. My God, were would it end? The shocked look on his face as he swallowed back his meager midday meal said it all.

"Yeah, he didn't want to part with 'em , but I sort of convinced him. He ain't such a tough Barkley after all. "

Sinclair had kept the teeth, stolen from a hermit he'd run into last week on a supply run. Only two gold fillings, but it was better than nothing. The old coot didn't complain, bein' as he was dead. He saw the pain on the lawyer's face and laughed. He hauled up and pushed him out the door.

"Time to meet your new work partner. You two should hit it right off. He's in a rather surly mood seein' how you've killed a close friend of his. "

Jarrod's confusion was short lived. He staggered into a room with piles of soiled laundry on the floor. A large tub of soapy water and one with clean water were visible. He heard an awful sound, something feral and vicious emanating from the darkness on the other side of the room. Squinting into the blackness, he heard a nocturnal side to a familiar voice.

"You're a dead man, Skinner," Heath snarled.

"Heath? Come out where I can see you? I want to help..."

"Help me? Like you helped Tyler? You filthy dog, you had no right to abuse him and leave him to die. He was only a boy."

The shadow moved and Jarrod stepped forward, intending on securing Heath. He stopped when he saw the raw savage before him. Heath was filthy, clothes tattered, face battered, one eye just about swollen shut. He realized that the pain in his back was preventing the blond man from standing upright. His fever evident in the flushed skin and glazed eyes. It seemed no worse, but that alone couldn't cause this delusionary world his brother had retreated into. What had they done to him? Drugs, perhaps?

"How much did it take, Skinner? Whose soul did you sell to get the bath and clothes?" Heath growled, approaching cautiously.

So that is what the bath and clothes had been for. To further his tortured brother's delusions. He looked at Heath with all his heart.

"HEATH! Listen to me, it's Jarrod! You're not in Carterson. They're using you. Please Heath, you must remember." Jarrod's blue eyes pleaded, but to no avail.

Through the mountains of laundry and the echoes of prisoners wailing down the hall, Heath's angry eyes took in the sorry sight of what he thought was Skinner. He even looked like a rat. Small, balding, reddish hair, weasely eyes; all added to his total lack of merit. He saw the coward backing up. It was time to give back for Tyler. He lunged at the coward with all he had left, ignoring the raging pain within him.

The impact send both men onto the table, knocking the clothes and wooden structure to the floor. Jarrod felt the death grip Heath had on his neck, the eyes were shooting fire. Heath would kill him. He used his two fingers to poke Heath in the fleshy area above the collarbone, temporarily cutting off his air. He was then able to push Heath away and grab him from behind. Pulling him to the floor, he held on and once again tried to get through to the muddled man.

"Heath, I care about you, I'm your brother. I'd never hurt you. Listen to my voice. It's Jarrod. I want to help you."

He felt the heat radiating from the raging man, and realized the fever was still waging a fierce battle with his youngest brother. He pulled Heath closer and heard him cry out, the rough fabric of the new shirt pressed against the open wounds on his brother's back. He eased up and that was his mistake. Heath elbowed him hard and bent his arm behind his back. Jarrod winced as Heath turned, hauling him upright. Jarrod spotted the steaming tub of soapy water he was being propelled towards.

"HEATH, NO! Listen to me. I'm not..."

"Shut up Skinner."

Jarrod had just barely time to take a good breath before his head was plunged down into the suds.

Max turned as his youngest son, Joseph, entered the office in the back of the lodge. His usual exhuberance and outward affection always gave the father's heart a tug. The bear hug today was needed. He sat down and took a large gulp of his father's coffee.

"Thanks Papa, I needed that. Boy, it's cold out today. Chris and Jenny wanted to come, but Mary thought with them fighting colds, it would be better to keep them home."

"Ja, your wife's a smart one," Max said thinking of his two littlest grandchildren. "How are the roads?"

"We made good progress today. In addition to the men in town, with all the extra visitors pitching , we were able to clear a wide path straight to the train station. Things should be back to normal by morning."

Joseph paused and grabbed his father's hand. He knew the toll that the loss of the three Barkley's was having on the usually enthusiastic man. He'd been heartsick for four days now.

"I'm so sorry, Papa. Maybe..."

He stopped not knowing where the thought was intended. He watched his father rise and walk to the window. After several minutes, his father finally spoke.

"You said the roads were clear?"

"Yes, why?"

The heavy sigh preceded the voice. "Now that the telegraph lines are operating again, it's time I let Victoria Barkley know about her sons."

Max looked at the brilliant blue sky and heard the laughter of the guests pulling out for a sleighride. The snowcapped trees and red velvet bows on the porch did nothing to ease his pain. He felt the strong hands on his shoulders and nodded. Sometimes it was a godsend to have a child. Someone, whose presence alone, did your heart good.

"Thanks son, I needed that," he said turning and hugging his boy.

"Come on ,Papa, I give you a ride to town. We need to get supplies anyway. I'll even let you buy me a hot pretzel from the vendor in the square," Joseph's blue eyes smiled.

"Okay, son," he said, ruffling the reddish hair, so like his mothers. "Let's go."

Nick paced the cell in short strides now, his strength ebbing badly. The lack of daylight in this dungeon had taken all sense of time and space away. He had no idea how many days had been lost. Was Jarrod still alive? And what of Heath? What had that animal done to him? His anger rose. If it was the last thing he did, even if it meant losing his own life, he'd make Rizley pay. With his bare hands he'd choke the life out of him.

He sank to the floor, still wearing a cloak of fury. Every breath he took felt like shards of glass were being imbedded into his chest. His arm throbbed endlessly and every muscle screamed. He rested his head and his thoughts drifted back to a happier time, the spring after Heath came and a glorious weekend at the cabin.

"Wake up, Boss Man"

The rough hands slapped his face hard. He squinted against the light.

"Whaddya want now!" Nick grunted.

Sinclair squatted down and looked the battered Barkley in the eye. He didn't want to miss the reaction.

"You're needed for duty."

"Duty? What kind of duty? I'm not playin' any more of your sick games," Nick said, rolling over.

Leaning in low, close to Nick's ear, Sinclair let the words roll right down the bruised cheek.

"Funeral duty."

The look of absolute terror and fear in Nick Barkley's eyes made the wait worthwhile. All the time he'd been locked up in that stinkin' prison, his one thought was to get even...to see fear in that cocky face and make him beg.

"Get movin!" He hauled the prisoner by the collar and threw him through the door. He relished the shocked face and stunned footsteps.

Victoria finished putting the last finishing touch on the silver candelabra and stepped back to admire the elegant pair that had been a gift to her from Tom, so many Christmas' ago.

"Oh, Mother, they're just lovely!" Audra exclaimed, slipping up from behind.

"Why, thank you, Dear. I think that when your brothers get home with the tree, I'll snip some greenery from the lower branches and try to dress them up a bit. That, with a couple of red bows, will make such a festive centerpiece for Christmas dinner."

"I can hardly wait!" squealed Audra. "Somehow I get the feeling that this is going to be the best Christmas ever! Do you think the boys will get back to today?"

"It's possible," Victoria replied, "but more than likely it will be tomorrow. I do hope Heath's been taking his medicine. That morning they all left, be barely had a voice."

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Mother," Audra reassured her. "He's got Nick and Jarrod to look out after him."

"That's what worries me," Victoria teased. "If I know your brothers...." She hesitated as a knock was heard at the front door. "I wonder who that could be?"

"Probably one of my friends here looking for Nick or Heath," Audra smiled. "I know for a fact that Elsie was hoping to catch one of them under the mistletoe this year. I'll go see who it is."

With a smug tilt of the head, Victoria watched her daughter whisk out of the room and bent down to pull a lace table cloth from the cabinet under the sideboard.

"This one will be pretty," she thought.

The delicate snowflake pattern would be perfect for Christmas. Remembering all the tedious hours she had spent crocheting it as a young girl, Victoria spread it over the large, polished table. Audra was right. This was going to be the best Christmas ever!

"Mother!"

Audra's voice seemed frantic as she rushed back into the dining room waving a slip of paper.

"That was Andy Carver from the telegraph office! He said this just came in from Max Schmidt up at the lodge in Pine Meadows. He says it's urgent!" she stammered, handing Victoria the document, still folded and sealed. "Oh, hurry and open it, Mother! What does it say?"

"Now, just settle down, Audra." Victoria's voice was even and steady, trying to mask her concern. "I'm sure it's nothing to get all worked up over."

The worry was evident in her daughter's eyes as Victoria used reached in the drawer for one of the sterling silver table knives. With one quick, strong tug, she broke through the seal at the top and began to read the tragic message.

"Oh, My Lord!" she gasped. "Something has happened to the boys!"

"What is it?" Audra begged, on the verge of hysterics. "Please, tell me...where are my brothers?"

"I can't answer that," Victoria replied, the harsh message slowly sinking in. "Nobody's seen them for almost three days now."

"Well, why isn't anybody out looking for them?" Audra panicked. "Are we just going to stand here? We've got to do something!"

"Audra, get a hold of yourself," Victoria ordered, gently gripping her daughter's arm. "They're doing everything they can do right now...but there's more. Come on, we need to get packed. I'll tell you about it on the way to the train station.

The train whistle announced it's departure from Stockton, as it slowly gathered steam, the chugalug sound getting stronger as it picked up the pace. The occasional uneven bumps in the track, seemed to go unnoticed as Victoria's gaze held fast to the front page of the daily paper. The previous prison break from San Quentin was old news, but still the main topic of newspapers around the valley. Victoria skimmed down the page, preferring to skip the familiar facts of which she was already well acquainted. The ongoing and well publicized story, hashing and rehashing the escape of Captain Rizley, along with Pete Sinclair and a bloodthirsty psycho called Tinsler, had become old and stale.

She scanned down several more paragraphs and soon became intently absorbed in the latest findings. It had been suspected all along, that there had been inside help, but now, the local authorities had solid evidence that one of the guards had been key in helping the convicts escape.

She continued to read and drew a sharp breath. The trial for Captain Rizley, and all the other's involved, had been long and tedious. Supporting her three sons by her presence, she had sat through the entire trial listening to testimony after testimony of the horrors inflicted on the prisoner's working Rizley's road gang. She remembered well, the rancher called McGowen. Though the sentence he had received was significantly lighter, she had considered him just as guilty as Rizley, himself. Now, using her sons as bartering pawns, he was willing to make a deal. He was willing to exchange some valuable information that may be vital in the safe return of her boys. The public officials had agreed to a plea-bargain arrangement, and the manhunt was now in progress. The article was vague in it's detail, but gave every indication of foul play and vengeful retaliation. The San Francisco Police Department and The District Attorney's Office had been waiting for the wires to be repaired in order to verify the wherabouts of the Barkleys. Victoria made a mental note to wire the San Francisco Police Detective, a man by the name of Pierce Summerfield, at their next stop.

Victoria glanced over at Audra, who seemed to be boring a hole through the train's glass window, as she peered out at the bleak, winter landscape. Victoria set the paper aside and settled back in the plush velvet seat of the private railcar. The rhythmic vibrations sang a lullaby as she closed her eyes and tried to relax, as each of her missing children enshrined a place in her heart.

Victoria shifted her weight and continued her doze, as her third boy came to mind.

Neither Tom or she had been there to witness his first cries as the doctor of the small mining camp handed him to his single mother. She never had the privilege of watching him grow and develop into the fine young man that she now knew and cherished. Her first introduction to Heath had been in the foyer of the families home just four years earlier. From her bedroom, that night, she had heard his wild accusations and rants, accented by the sounds of tinkling glass as he stormed around the library so angry and hostile. Nick and Jarrod had driven him away, but stubbornly, he came back.

With the boldness of one who had every right to the good things bestowed a rightful son, he had barged into the home and helped himself to a bowl of apples she had set out. As she confronted him, looking deep into the steely, blue eyes, she knew, without doubt, that this was Tom's son. He had been invited to stay, and though the adjustment was difficult at first, he was now permanently grafted into the family tree. How she loved that boy...just as much as if he had been her own. No more, no less.

The lonesome whistle told Victoria of the waterstop up ahead. She brushed the moisture in her eyes and smoothed her skirt and then reached into her small handbag for a hanky. She blew her nose, thinking of Heath and how sick he had been. If only she had insisted. If only...

"What's the use," she grieved silently. "What's done is done."

Lifting her head, she squared her shoulders. She was proud of her sons, all three of them, and with the same courage so evident in each, she would walk tall, facing whatever trials life had to dish out.

He stood like all naval personnel do in the "at ease" stance. Feet squared and hands clasped behind his back. His dark eyes had an unhealthy glow as he waited for the steward and first mate. Why the devil was it so hard for this inept crew to follow a schedule? As Captain of this ship, it was his duty to see to it that order and discipline were adhered to at all times. Sighing in frustration, he turned as one of the crew called to him.

"We're ready for the burial detail, Sir. Will you be coming?"

"Burial at sea, an old and stalwart tradition. A time-held rite passed on from generation to generation. Very well, call arms and let's have at it."

"Sir? Uh...We're not at sea. We're in the mountains, remember."

"What's that you say, Sailor? Mountains?"

Rizley rubbed his eyes as the officers' quarters melted away. He was in the front room of a cabin, a fire crackling in the fireplace. He frowned. Where had the ship gone? How did he get here? He took a sip of the hot coffee near his hand and rubbed his eyes again.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

He felt the hand on his shoulder and threw it off, standing up and issuing a loud reprimand.

"Get your hands off of me, Man. I'm the commanding officer, or have you forgotten that? I'm very aware of what's going on here," he stated loudly for Johnson as well as the large man who'd entered with him. "Don't you threaten me! I know you've been talking mutiny with the crew. You'll never get away with it, I'll see you all dead first."

"Sir, maybe you should take a rest. We can take care of the burial detail."

Rizley stood with his back to them. Bear and Johnson exchanged a worried glance. They'd all noticed that sometimes times he slipped away, but this was the most severe episode. They'd have to keep an eye on him at all times. His lunacy and mental instability had been kept in check in prison. Now, without supervision and medication, he was losing his battle with reality. They watched him ease down onto the sofa by the fire and close his eyes.

"Let's go, Bear," Johnson replied as he left the room.

A loud crack in the fire snapped Rizley back into reality. He looked at the clock...almost noon. He'd get Johnson and go in town for their weekly supply run. He needed to pick up some personal items and send a wire. He couldn't trust the men to do that. He stood up, walked into the hall and put on his coat, muffler and gloves. He saw Bear and Johnson in the barn preparing the body for burial. Sinclair was running his mouth, torturing Nick Barkley whose surly responses were earning him several blows. The delay was due to Barkley's digging efforts being slowed downby the broken arm.

"Johnson, let's go."

Johnson nodded at Bear and followed Rizley to the wagon where Jarvis was already waiting. Taking the reins, he turned to the depraved Captain.

"Ready, Sir?"

"Carry on, Johnson, we have to get the supplies and be back in short order."

The holiday fervor and glorious spirit of the season showed her full feathers in town. The town square was full of greens and red bows. There were carolers on the corner singing holiday songs, vendors selling roasted chestnuts, spiced apples and hot pretzels along with hot chocolate and cider. Shoppers and tourists crowded the streets and the clear blue sky and brilliant sun put everyone in a good mood.

Johnson pulled the team in behind Abe's Mercantile. Rizley had been dropped off out front and was already inside. Johnson withdrew the small flask from inside his coat and took a good gulp. He heard Jarvis jump off the wagon and handed over the flask. Captain Rizley didn't permit drinking alcohol of any kind, loudly stating that it dulled the mental capacities. But they all had a stash and used it carefully so as not to get their leader vexed. He stomped the snow off his boots and made his way around the corner to the front door. Jarvis followed several paces behind.

"Yes, Sir, we got most all of this stuff," the young clerk nodded suspiciously at the bearded man, "It should only take me fifteen minutes or so to get it ready," he lied. "Do you have your wagon outside?"

"My man Johnson here...JOHNSON!" he bellowed impatiently.

"Here, Sir," replied Johnson, sidling over to the Captain.

"As I was saying, Young Man, my man Johnson here will assist you. Johnson, Jarvis, I'm going to the telegraph office. Be ready to leave when I get back."

"Aye, Sir," he shuddered at the retreating back. Jarvis caught his eye and nodded.

"I can handle this if you want to get the wagon around to the front," the clerk suggested.

"Good enough, Kid," Johnson replied as he took a handful of candy and motioned to his partner to follow him out of the store.

Danny Rivers looked around to make sure they'd gone. He looked again at the morning paper. There on the bottom of the front page was a picture of the bearded man who'd just left. He quickly scanned the article and gulped. An escaped convict, maybe planning a murder? He quickly got the order together and out on the sidewalk. Not seeing the wagon or the man's aide, he ran to the sheriff's office.

Rizley waited impatiently in the long line. The wires were only working for a few hours now, and dozens of people were waiting to send telegrams. He looked over the shoulder of the woman in front of him, his eyes grew wide in alarm when he saw the photo in the newspaper the woman's child was holding. Backing out of line slowly, he tried not to create attention as he left. He saw the young boy with the woman look at his photo, then at him. He saw the child pulling on the woman's coat. She turned and saw him, too. He didn't wait, but rushed out the door. Stopping briefly at the train station, he checked the posted departure information on the wall outside. He made a quick decision and bought a one way ticket.

Johnson pulled the wagon up and put the order in the back. Jarvis went inside to pay the clerk, but the kid wasn't there. Leaving the money and signing the receipt, that was still on the counter, he turned to leave...and then saw it. He spent the next minute reading the paper's headlines. Weighing his options, he decided the little bit of money Rizley had offered him was not worth being caught and tried for murder.

He snatched the money from the counter and hit the cash register sale button, the drawer opened and he took the few dollars that were inside. He eyed the new pile-lined coats on the rack nearby and shed his old beat up cotton coat for a warmer one. He was just leaving when he heard his name called.

"Johnson, get a load of this," he said, handing the paper up to the driver's seat.

Johnson read the article under the photo of their leader. These Barkleys were more trouble than they were worth. He knew by Jarvis' troubled face that he felt the same way.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" he offered and saw Jarvis nod.

"That five-hundred bucks he promised ain't worth a neck stretchin'. I'm gettin' outta here on the first train. Here," Jarvis handed him half the money he'd taken, "that oughta get us up to Oregon. Let's go!"

Johnson jumped down and the two turned to beat a hasty retreat. As they tromped away from the wagon, they could hear their names being called.

"Johnson, we must leave immediately, there has been a change in our plans. Jarvis get that order packed. Let's go."

Rizley climbed on board only to see the two scrambling up the street. The devil take them, their presence wasn't required. Rizley picked up the reins and urged the team forward. The executions would be moved up. He'd pack his things, take his money and go. That motley crew wouldn't get a red cent.

"Are you sure, Danny?" Sheriff Colt Adams asked.

"Yes, Sir, it's him. I seen the guy with him a few times before, getting supplies. They must be holed up in a cabin nearby."

"Let's go!"

The sheriff grabbed his coat and followed the teenager up the street. They were just about to the store when a woman called to him.

"Sheriff, Sheriff wait a minute!"

"I'm a little busy now, Ma'am, if you'd just wait in my office, I'll be right back," he nodded to the woman and her son.

"We saw this man in the telegraph," she said, pointing to Rizley's photo.

"When?"

"No more than five minutes ago. He knew he'd been recognized. He got out of line and ran up the street...to the train, I think!"

"Thanks, Ma'am, you've been a big help."

The sheriff and Danny raced to the store. Finding it empty, they ran to the train station. Rizley wasn't there, but the ticket agent recognized his photo and told the lawman so.

"Yes, Sir, that's him. He bought a one-way ticket. Couldn't be more than ten minutes ago."

"Where to?"

"St. Louis...leaves at eight tonight."

The sheriff left Danny with instructions to keep a sharp lookout. He rounded up his deputyies and gave the assignments. One would be posted at the train station and one in the town square. He wired Pierce Summerfield at the San Francisco Police Department, giving him the news that Rizley was in the area and the three Barkley men were missing. He got on his horse and headed for the lodge, leaving his top deputy, Sam Heinz, in charge.

Pierce Summerfield rubbed his temples, hoping the massage would quell the headache that raged between his dark brown eyes. Sighing, he ran a hand through the ebony hair and shook his head, his handsome face screwed up in contempt. Rizley, a cretin, not worth his salt; subhuman, not fit to breathe the same air as Jarrod Barkley or his brothers. He considered himself fortunate to know Jarrod Barkley and privileged to be considered a good friend. He'd known Jarrod for over ten years now, their initial meetings were of official capacity, dealing with homicides, assaults and other crimes. But over the years, the two had really bonded. How many hours over those years had the two debated the right to life vs. death sentences over long dinners and brandy. Jarrod was one of the finest men he'd ever known. Someone who was a walking, breathing example of Integrity. Although their philosophies on law and justice differed, the intangible factors that gave both men such incorruptible moral fiber only cemented the relationship. He knew Jarrod respected him, and that meant a lot to him.

He never realized how very strong his feelings for Jarrod were until these last few weeks. Since the first wire was sent about the escape, he'd begged his blue eyed friend to take the protection the that Pierce could offer through the department. Jarrod turned him down flat, not that he was surprised. After the first two weeks went by with no sign of the lunatic, they suspected he'd gone north to Canada, something that was a rumor in the prison. Then word from Mrs. Barkley at Pine Meadows just ten minutes ago.

He thought back on how Jarrod had saved his life. Just two years ago, after being wounded in a gun battle at the docks, he thought about quitting the force. He'd been shot before, but not this seriously. He nearly died and it took months until he was able to return to work. During that time, he thought of his new bride and the fear in her eyes. Something else to thank Jarrod for. He'd introduced Pierce to Claire at a fundraiser for the centennial celebration. Jarrod had known Claire and her family for years. Her lively personality and terrific sense of humor made it seem a match in heaven. Her beauty only added to the attraction. Jarrod came to visit weekly, encouraging him, prodding and challenging him. When all else failed, he hollered, his blue eyes flashing, his face reddened...stating that men like Pierce, whose honesty, and courage Jarrod had come to admire were too scarce. San Francisco needed him, Jarrod said, chastising the detective's wallowing in pity and self doubts, citing that he was never a quitter. Jarrod didn't come back the next week and it was then he absorbed all his friend's words. He decided to stay on the force. Now he was Lt. Pierce Summerfield and he thanked God for his decision. Without being in this capacity, he couldn't use every fiber in his being, officially and otherwise, to see Rizley hang. It was his turn to save Jarrod's life. He only hoped he wasn't too late.

"Lt. Summerfield, Captain Malone is waiting."

"Thanks Mike, I'll be right there."

He strapped the holster on and glanced at the photo on his desk of Claire and their baby son. John Jarrod Summerfield, named for his grandfather and his godfather. Rizley would be sorry he ever set foot out of that prison.

Audra swiped at the foggy window with her hand and gazed at the winter wonderland just a wall's width away. The majestic beauty she beheld would have taken her breath away under different circumstances. Now, it was more like a glistening veil enshrouding a murderous, savage wasteland. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, the stately trees, elegantly adorned with miniature drifts, held much lure, an endless number cloaking the mountainside. The beguiling slopes seemed to beckon, but it was those same mountains that held her brothers captive. Lost in the storm, the snow and wilderness had sealed their fate.

Audra sighed, knowing that if fate had captured the three in the storm, their chances of surviving would supersede the odds against wanton killers bent on revenge. Just a week and a half until Christmas, the season of giving was all around her, especially here at the lodge as sojourners prepared for the holidays ahead. Inside she felt like dying, her misplaced brothers occupying all her thoughts.

Jarrod had been her father figure. Even before the death of Tom Barkley, her oldest brother had treated her like his little princess. Her father's loss only deepened their relationship. Tom had always been the disciplinarian, but Jarrod didn't have to assume that role during her early years. After he was gone, Jarrod's reprimands had always been gentle.

Nick was the brother she had always admired as a young girl. She loved to tag along at his heels, even though her efforts weren't always appreciated. He loved his little sister, and was always readily available when she needed a brother's assistance. The petty bickering that would arise sometimes between the two were more of what was typical between a brother and sister.

It was Heath, however, who had always been the one to captivate Audra. He had been so many places and seen so many things. His spirit had always seemed so free and untamed, though his creed of ethics was solid. The two had bonded rather quickly after his arrival and though he could be someone soft and gentle for Audra to confide in, when opposition arose, he was as tough as nails. From the understanding and respect established between the two, Audra knew he would defend her honor without hesitation, but had the grit to face her and tell her when she had overstepped his boundaries. Yes, there had always seemed to be something mystical about Heath. Her reminiscing took her back to their very first encounter.

She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to embrace her grieving mother.

"You looked lost," Victoria murmured, "and I know how hard this must be on you."

"It is," replied Audra, using her hand to squelch a tear, "and I miss them so. I guess I just wanted to spend a little time with them in my thoughts...remembering the good times...and the growing times as well."

Victoria offered her daughter a faint smile, fully understanding the grieving process and so desperately wishing she could stop the pain. As the afternoon lengthened into evening, the two women sat together, lending strength and comfort to each other through shared loved and mutual concern.

"Make a decision, Jarrod, you're time's running out," his mind challenged over the pounding in his ears. He had little air left as the searing pain in his lungs reminded him that he needed to act fast. Struggling to move his free hand pinned between him and the tub, he managed to make a fist. He sent it as hard as he could into Heath's side. He heard a loud roar and everything went black.

The shock of the bitter cold snow jump-started his system. Gasping and sputtering, he raised himself on all fours, unaware of his surroundings. His stomach threw itself backwards, tossing up everything it held. Jarred wretched until he nearly passed out from the stabbing pain in his abdomen. Wiping his mouth, he stared dumbfounded at the snow beneath him. His confused state was short lived, as he was roughly yanked up by the collar.

"Welcome back to Sunshine Acres, Mouthpiece," Tinsler sneered.

Jarrod turned and cried out, covering his eyes, unaccustomed to the blinding late afternoon sunlight. He felt himself propelled forward and landed a few feet from a new grave. He saw the steam rising as Sinclair spewed a mouth of chaw-juice on the burial mound.

"See you hell, Boss Man!" Sinclair saluted as he turned away from the grave.

"No!" Jarrod cried turning back to look at Tinsler, shock preventing any further words.

"We tried to wake you up for the final words, but..."

Tinsler's speech was cut off by a pained cry. Jarrod turned and crawled towards the fetal ball curled in the snow.

"Heath!" He lifted his delirious brother and held him close, trying to give him a little warmth.

"As much as this little reunion warms my heart," Sinclair mocked, "it's time for this boy to join his brother in hell."

"I'll pay you three times what Rizley is offering," Jarrod pleaded. "Name your price, I'll meet it."

He cradled his shivering brother, rubbing the burning flesh, trying to keep the circulation going.

"Yeah, Mr. Lawyer Man, I'm sure you got more 'an enough to buy your way outta this," Tinsler sneered, enjoying Jarrod's pained blue gaze. "But you can also buy me a lotta other things...like life in Quentin. No Dice!"

"Get movin," Sinclair ordered, motioning towards a box in the snow.

Jarrod held onto Heath tightly, refusing to budge. The click of the gun at Heath's ear changed his mind. He staggered, dragging Heath with him and collapsed against the iron door. Crying out, he rubbed his hand where the icy metal, burned it. The stabbing realization of what was about to occur cloaked him like a ghoulish blanket. He felt Heath torn from his numbed grasp and heard the taunting squeak as the large door opened. He pulled at Heath's leg in desperation as his brother was thrown in, the blond hair lolling against the tattered blue shirt.

"Heath! Heath! Wake up!" he pleaded, raking the blond man's ankle hard with his nails.

Heath fought hard to open his eyes, the cold air and wet ground caused him to tremble violently. His chattering teeth tried to answer the voice he recognized as Major Harris. He'd been like a father to Heath since he arrived in the unit a year ago. The major always listened carefully to what he had to say and treated him with nothing but respect. Heath never had a father and Major Harris' was the shoulder he leaned, the advice he sought, and someone he became very close to. He forced the lids to open and struggled to see. The form was very blurry, dark hair, blue eyes...Major Harris' face disappeared and Heath closed his eyes.

"NO, HEATH! Look at me!" Jarrod pleaded.

Heath squinted and saw someone else inches away. Someone whose caring and depth of emotion was written on his face and in the intense blue eyes. He cocked his head and for a brief moment, reality set in. His fearful gaze took in the jaws of the iron beast that bit into his skin. His heart pounded against his chest, his fevered eyes bore into his oldest brother's. He reached out, grabbed Jarrod's hand.

"Jarrod, help me, please..."

Jarrod's heart broke at the plea, and his numbed fingers tried in vain to grasp the weak hand. He put what little hope he had left into his voice, hoping it was enough to keep his brother fighting.

.

"Heath, I'm trying. You must hang on. Fight, Heath, fight as hard as you can. Somehow we'll get help. We'll..."

"Closing arguments are all done, Lawyer Man," Sinclair razzed, pulling Jarrod from the brotherly bond. "Don't worry, Cowboy, you'll have company where you're going. That loud mouth brother of yours is already there, waitin' for you."

The last thing Jarrod saw before the door was slammed shut was an indescribable look of raw pain and sorrow on Heath's face as the reality of Sinclair's words hit his heart. Heath looked hard at him, right into his eyes and nodded in farewell. Then the blank stare returned as his tormented brother returned to the world in which he couldn't feel any pain. Jarrod fought and screamed as they tried to drag him away, clutching at the snow. He heard the almost childlike voice crooning from the box.

"Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

and mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess within the veil,

A life of ...."

The verse from Amazing Grace ended abruptly. Jarrod shook his head in despair. The crude laughter behind him faded away. The decision came quickly, followed by a reassuring calmness. He looked at the box and back at the two armed guards. Rising to a crouching position, he unleashed a feral cry and pounced, slamming the startled Tinsler into a tree and stunning him. Sinclair hauled on his collar and Jarrod turned, hitting him in the throat. The keys dropped into the snow. Jarrod grabbed them and gouged at Sinclairs face as the guard tried to stop him. He staggered over to the box and fumbled with the lock, cursing his numbed fingers. The shot came suddenly. He slammed into the box and dropped without a sound.

Heath heard the unearthly cry and looked out the small window in the box. He saw Jarrod and Major Harris meld into one and blinked in confusion as the landscape kept changing from the mountains to a battlefield. He saw the figure stumble forward and heard the keys jingling. The shot caused him to cry out, but Jarrod never did. The last tendon holding Heath's frazzled mind together snapped with sight of his beloved brothers body sliding down the box. He never flinched as his brother's blood hit his cheek and mixed with the tears running freely.

"Nice work, Boss Man," Sinclair mocked as he propelled Nick ahead of him, through the open door of his cell. "Another one bites the dust," the fiend grinned. "That bastard brother of yours will be next, and I'm gonna make sure you've got a front row seat."

"You'll have to kill me first," Nick growled, turning and squaring his tormentor straight in the eye.

"Now, look!" Sinclair snarled. "Around here we don't take orders from mucky-mucks like you, Barkley. If I say your gonna watch, that's the way it's gonna be...even if I have to make use of a stock to hold that hard head of yours!"

"You make me sick," Nick voiced angrily as he spat in his former employee's eye, glaring at Sinclair with all the hatred he could muster.

"Why you..." Sinclair's anger was evident as we used his hand to brush away the loose spittle. "Okay, Mr. High-N-Mighty-Boss Man, you're gonna get your wish...right now," Sinclair's eyes flashed as he brandished a long, double edged knife. "I'm gonna carve you up, bit by bit, and feed the pieces to that mongrel brother of yours."

Nick saw the glistening steel and the murderous look in the avenger's eye. He felt a warm rush and positioned himself to meet the attacker head on. Sinclair circled and made a swipe, barely glancing Nick's arm as he blocked the stab with his right arm.

"You're as good as dead, Barkley," he seethed, getting ready to lash out again.

With a swift, sudden flick at the knee, Nick used the toe of his boot to send the assailant's weapon flying. Sinclair's eyes followed the soaring toad sticker as Nick cuffed him hard on the left side of his head. The element of surprise was in Nick's favor, but days of torture and starvation were definitely his handicap. Grabbing the stick in his belt, Sinclair advanced, swinging like a madman. Striking the dark haired cowboy across his back, Nick fell to his knees, momentarily stunned. It didn't take but a split second for Sinclair to scramble for the fallen knife and give his boot a resting place in Nick's ribs. His lips covered in blood and slobber, Sinclair was practically foaming at the mouth.

"Okay, Boss Man, say your prayers," he menaced, pressing Nick's throat to the ground with his boot heel.

Nick struggled with all his might, both hands grasping the booted ankle, in hopes that he would have the strength to topple Sinclair. Crouching down and compressing his weight, Sinclair was anchored and unmoveable. Pressing the steely tip under Nick's chin, he applied just enough pressure to draw a red bead.

"I was gonna go easy on you, Boss Man," he hissed, teasing Nick with the knife, "but you had to go and play it stupid. Well, now I'm gonna start dissecting you, one piece at a time."

"Sinclair!"

Sinclair turned and saw that it was Tinsler who had barked his name from the doorway.

"The Captain ain't gonna like it," Tinsler warned. "You heard what he said about us gettin' our cut and all. It's got to be done accordin' to plan...his plan. Now get that sorry hide of yours back upstairs. Rizley's gone into town and left us in charge. We're supposed to be keepin' a good lookout while he's away."

Reluctantly, the tall man stood, glowering at Nick and then at Tinsler as he defiantly crossed the floor of the cell. Nick closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. When he reopened them a menacing, gold-toothed smile came into view.

"You're gonna be all mine, Barkley...it's all part of the contract."

Sealing the promise with a kick in the ribs, Tinsler departed, leaving Nick to dwell on his words.

What a mess he had made of things. First it was his stubborn determination to be the one to single handedly rescue Jarrod, and then he had drugged his equally stubborn half-brother, not even stopping to consider what might evolve when the medication wore off. Wasn't he the one who had assumed the position of shield and guardian after his father was killed? What a great mantle of responsibility had been placed on the shoulders of the young Nick Barkley. The head-of-household role had seemingly gone to Jarrod, but it was Nick, the lionhearted, who would use his strength and savvy to protect the Barkley lair.

Nick lay, his flushed cheek on the cool earthen floor. He felt as is all the fight he had left had just been spent. His reservoir was drained. What big shoes his father had left for him to fill. What would he say if he could see him now? Jarred was dead and Heath was just about there, as well. Soon it would be his turn. Hell, he hadn't even been able to take care of himself, much less his two brothers. Surely his father would be ashamed to call him 'Son'. Perhaps, now, death would be something for him to welcome rather than to shun. How could he go home and face his mother and sister alone? He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep, his spirit broken as his strength waned.

Nick opened his eyes again, only this time it was for real...the stabbing pain in his left arm and cracked ribs told him that. He felt his chin and scratched off the crusted spot of blood. Yes, it had only been a dream and this was all real. Oh, how he wished that it were the other way around. To wake up, finding his father by his side, and knowing that all this pain and suffering had been nothing more than a wild nightmare. Nick groaned as he tried to ease himself up. He was weak, but that spirit of fight and survival had been renewed. He would heed the words of his father, even though it had only been a dream. Somehow, someway, he would bring his brothers home...both of them. Nick swallowed the lump in his throat as he thought of Jarrod.

"You're going home, Pappy," he vowed. "Home to be with Father, and that's one promise I ain't gonna break."

The darkness closed in, and Jarrod's tormented thoughts finally lulled themselves into temporary tranquility. From a distance, he could hear the strains of an old familiar hymn being sung. It had always been a favorite of his, and the powerful stanzas of the song seemed to lift him up in spirit as his unconscious roamed to find rest. Everything was pitch black, but the words and notes echoed so vibrantly that he could feel his weakened soul and body drawing on the much needed strength. The music seemed to be coming closer as the volume and intensity of the message grew louder and louder.

"Why is it so dark?" he thought. "That music has to be coming from somewhere."

"Open your eyes," his subconscious seemed to answer.

"Okay," he reasoned, obediently lifting the swollen lids, "I'm willing to give that a try."

He squinted in the darkness as a warmth seemed to permeate his body. He couldn't exactly explain the sensation of what he was feeling...it was something that he'd never quite experienced before. Suddenly he began to feel an overwhelming joy inside and a peace that surpassed anything he had ever known. He peered off through the darkness from where the music seemed to coming. Gazing up, he saw a beautiful star much like the one that he had often imagined, led the three kings to the Christ Child. Like the magi had done in days of old, if he could just follow that star. If he could just somehow....

Jarrod closed his eyes again, knowing it was futile. His spirit was willing, but his flesh, so weak. No, he wouldn't follow the star this time, but he would bask in it's presence. He would allow the heavenly shafts of it's bright beams to renew his strength and faith. He listened, as from inside his innermost being a promise that he had once read in the Bible seemed to be magnified within his soul.

"I will never leave you nor forsake you."

Jarrod meditated on those words, feasting on each tender mercies of truth and grace. Somehow he would make it through this ordeal. Somehow he would be reunited with his brothers and the three of them would journey home together, and they would not be alone. Jarrod lay back, continuing to drift in his bliss, not wanting the moment to end. He knew that much too soon, he would have to travel the path that led back into that dank, dark cell and the painful reminder of how mortal his flesh truly was. Sooner or later reality would wake him, but for now his weary soul would find rest.

"Pierce Summerfield, San Francisco Police. Open the gate!"

The dark haired detective held out his badge as the uniformed guard squinted at it in the lantern light. Lieutenant Summerfield cantered through the heavy, spiked, iron gates of San Quentin as the keeper of the post granted him passage. The high, stone walls of the state's largest prison loomed before him, somber and silent. Once inside the warden's office, Detective Summerfield got straight to business.

"I understand you're housing an inmate by the name of McGowen," he stated bluntly, staring over the desktop of Warden Buxley.

"Yup, sure enough do," the warden answered, stroking his stubbled jowls. "He was almost involved in that prison break a few months back, but didn't quite make it. We've been holding him in maximum security ever since."

"I'd like to have a word with him, if I may."

The matter-of-fact tone and piercing dark eyes made the statement more of an order than a request. Though young in years, Pierce Summerfield had a reputation as an investigator who was fair, but tough. He was a defender of rights and justice, and didn't believe in coddling the criminal. Though Warden Buxley had been known to take bribes from time to time, he wasn't even going to attempt such a foolish move with this man. He would surrender himself in the utmost cooperative manner, not wanting to agitate this badge-toting professional.

"Clemmens!" he called to his personal aide. "Cuff McGowen and have him brought into the interrogation room."

"I'm on it, Sir!"

Summerfield paced, his tension increasing, as the guards left to prepare the prisoner. Fifteen minutes later, Lieutenant Pierce Summerfield was standing face to face with the man who had at one time been one of the state's leading businessmen.

"So you're the infamous McGowen," Summerfield stated as he tried to keep his anxiety from showing. "I've read an awful lot in the papers about you, Mr. McGowen."

"I reckon I've made a name for myself," the imprisoned rancher replied cockily.

"You're probably wondering why I've called for you," the detective continued, "so I'm not going to hold back any punches. I want you to tell me everything you know about the escape that happened here last fall."

"What makes you think I've got answers," McGowen tried. "Just 'cause Rizley and I knew each other, doesn't mean that in here, his business was mine. Around here you stay out of trouble by keeping your nose where it belongs. I just keep to myself and people leave me alone."

"Come now, Mr. McGowen. You can do better than that!" Detective Summerfield was now leaning on the small table behind which McGowen sat, drilling deeply into his shifty eyes. "I happen to know that you were in cahoots with Rizley the night those three escaped. I also happen to believe that you had just as much reason to want to get even as he did. Now, what do you say you and me talk a little business."

"What kind've business you got in mind?" McGowen questioned suspiciously.

"I'm talking about a plea bargain arrangement, McGowan. Ever heard of that before? It simply means that you scratch my back and I scratch yours. Now, are you willing to cooperate?"

"Might be," the rancher replied thoughtfully. "What exactly is in it for me?"

"Well, for starters I can tell you what is in it if you withhold any information leading to the capture of Rizley and there are some people hurt in the process. You may be guilty of aiding and abetting murder, Mr. McGowen. So far the charges brought against you are strictly parolable offenses. If you get a murder rap in addition, it could be the gallows."

McGowen eyed the detective, not sure whether to believe him or not. He hadn't planned on doing any squealing, but maybe he could work things to his advantage. Two years in prison, and the game was getting old. He wanted out.

"Maybe you could sweeten things up for me a bit," he drawled, placing his cuffed wrists on the table before him, looking Pierce straight in the eye. "Maybe you could be talkin' to that warden about an early parole."

"I've got certain authority invested in me as a member of the Police Department in San Francisco," the detective bargained. "You just cooperate with me a bit here, and I'll do what I can. I can talk to the judge about getting your sentence reduced."

"Can I have that in writing?" the rancher requested.

"Guard!" the detective summoned. "Bring me a pen and something I can write on!"

He didn't know what the rancher was going to tell him, but anything would be more than he had to go on so far. He would learn what he could from McGowen and catch the next train to Pine Meadows, the place where the brothers were last seen. Somehow he would find that missing link...the link that would lead him to Jarrod and his brothers.

**

"Come on, talk!"

The fervent demands accompanied by the sound of leather slapping leather, caused Sheriff Adams to abruptly set down the coffee pot and hustle back to the rear section of the jail where he had left Detective Pierce Summerfield to interrogate the kidnapping suspects.

"I already told you once, Mister. I ain't talkin'!"

Johnson's voice was defiant as he sat handcuffed in a cell, deliberate disrespect etched in his fleshy face. In one cell over, Jarvis sat wearing a very similar expression.

"Oh, you'll talk, all right," the detective vowed. "If I have to get me a wooden club and beat it out of you, you'll talk!"

"Summerfield!"

The sheriff's voice was sharp. His deputies had come across two men, often seen with Rizley, trying to board the West Coast bound train. It hadn't been difficult to put two and two together and come up with four. The men, Johnson and Jarvis, had been surly and insubordinate from the start. The Sheriff had all but given up when the San Francisco Police Detective had shown up at the front desk.

"Let me try," Summerfield had insisted. "I'll handle them!"

Figuring that what he hadn't been able to do, this man, an expert, quite possibly could, Sheriff Colt Adams had led the slender-built detective back to face the burly thugs. It became quite apparent, as the interrogation commenced, that this man, Pierce Summerfield, had more than just his job at stake. It was obvious to this small town sheriff that the execution of duty was much more personal than a policeman carrying out his orders for a manhunt.

"That's not the way we do things around here," the sheriff continued sternly. His tone mellowed as he added, "Let's lay off for right now, Lieutenant. Maybe he'll feel more like talkin' later."

"I'm sorry, Sheriff," Summerfield replied, brushing back the ebony locks in fatigued exasperation. "Guess I just got a bit carried away, but I'm just about positive that these Mongoloids know where those three missing men are being held and I don't plan on taking 'won't talk' for an answer!"

"Well, you know what they say," Sheriff Adams offered as the door of the jail cell clanged shut behind them.

"What's that?" the detective huffed.

"You can attract more flies with sugar than vinegar."

"Look, these aren't flies we're dealing with, Sheriff, they're more like leeches. Leeches on society who more than likely have some strong leads to the whereabouts of my good friend, Jarrod Barkley. Now, if my assessments of the situation are correct, we have precious little time available to us before it's too late."

"Come now, Lieutenant. You don't know that for a fact."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Sheriff. If Rizley made a ticket reservation for eight o'clock this evening, do you really think he's going to be leaving behind any witnesses when he leaves?" Summerfield's dark eyes furied as he pounded his fist against the wall.

"Now look! You gotta cool down! You losin' your head won't do Barkley any good." The sheriff pushed the irate policeman through the door past his desk.

"With all due respect, Sheriff," Summerfield countered, throwing the arm off, "you don't know him. He's more than a friend, and I won't let these animals get away with what they've done. If it means me pounding a little flesh..."

Pierce tried to strong-arm his way back to the cell and felt a strong pair of hands pull him back

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Sheriff Adams demanded, pulling Summerfield outside. "You

don't set one foot back in here until you cool down! Do I make myself clear? This is MY house, Detective, you don't dictate the rules!"

Pierce's dark eyes blazed, grabbing his coat as it was offered. The sheriff's strong grip didn't subside until he nodded and walked away, towards the town square. Summerfield noticed the late afternoon sun as it started start to fade and worried that he was allowing his personal feelings to interfere with his professional duty. He offered a silent prayer, hoping his rash actions wouldn't prove fatal for Jarrod or his brothers.

Bear slouched on the sofa, enjoying the freedom as much as the whiskey. He looked up as Tinsler entered the room, carrying a bottle of scotch. Flopping on the floor next to the fire, he pulled the cork out with his stained teeth and offered a toast.

"To dead Barkleys!"

"Here, here," Bear saluted and took a healthy gulp.

"When's Rizley comin' back?" Tinsler asked.

"Dunno. Not for a while, I hope. He's getting to be a real pain in the..."

"BEAR!" Sinclair's voice bellowed from the hall.

"What?" the guard answered.

"Why'd you leave your post?"

"Cause it's cold out there and it's warm in here."

"Yeah, well he's gone! He's not in the box!" Sinclair accused.

"Would you relax. Here, have a shot of this, it'll calm them jumpy nerves of yours," Bear grumbled.

"Take it easy, Pete," Tinsler offered, "I moved him back inside."

"Why?" Sinclair demanded.

"Cause that's what the orders were. Only leave him there to make the lawyer nuts. Then move the bastard inside. Use 'im to drive the lawyer mad, like some kinda ghost. He's just about gone, anyhow. I left him in the cellar."

"Well, I'd better check. "

"You do that, Pete," Tinlser rolled his eyes behind the guard's back as Bear laughed in delight.

Sinclair returned and brought a bottle of brandy with him. Soon all three were drunk, celebrating the freedom from the tightrope Rizley kept them on. Talk was light and foolish at first, but as the evening waned, the liquor acted as a catalysis, fueling bitter feelings of hatred and vengeance. Sinclair had been sullen all day, still nursing a headache after his earlier encounter with Nick. He could still feel the warm, goop running down the side of his face and the cloudy vision right after the wad hit his eye. Even more vividly, he could still see the stoical face as Nick gave testimony against him on the witness stand during his court trial. He owed that Barkley pig bigtime, and this time it would be on his terms. Tonight would be the night...Sinclair's mind was set. Pulling himself up from the table, he grabbed the bottle of brandy, and tilting it to his lips, sealed his vow.

"I'm gonna kill that S.O.B. right now," Sinclair stated, staggering to the door.

"No, you aint'," Tinsler ordered. "You do and we won't get any of that two-thousand bucks Rizley's supposed to fork over, so get back here. NOW!"

Tinsler stood, and roughly gripping the scarefaced man's arm, pulled him back in attempted restraint.

"Get offa me. He's mine," Sinclair cussed as he threw Tinsler off, sending him hard into the wall.

"What's the matter, Gus," Bear needled, between rounds of laughter. "Too sleepy to stay sober?"

"Don't be givin' me none of that smart mouth of yours, Lumphead," Tinsler seethed, using a chair to haul himself off the floor. "I need that two-thousand bucks and neither one of you's goin' to go pokin' no stick in the spokes. You got that...Bubba?"

By this time, Tinsler was on his feet and about three inches from Bear's face.

"Hey! Who you callin' 'Bubba'?" the large man spat angrily. "I reckon I could think of a few..."

Sinclair didn't hear the rest, nor did he see the tussel that ensued before the two intoxicated scoundrels passed out on the floor. He was already out the door, bent on carrying out his mission.

Nick heard coughing and the sound of something metallic being knocked over as Sinclair staggered down the corridor for Nick's cell.

"Damn!" he heard the scareface cuss as he kicked at the bucket from where it blocked his path.

Crouching behind the door, Nick saw Sinclair's silhouette pasted against the back wall as the lamp in the hallway illuminated the darkened cell. He smelled the liquor and saw the ornery guard stumble into view.

"Where are you, Boss Man? It's Judgement Day," he slurred, wobbling on sea legs.

"I'll see you in hell first," Nick gritted as he charged Sinclair head-on, using his right shoulder.

The force propelled the plastered guard, who was already unsteady, hard into the cement wall. Nick kicked the tormentor's wrist, sending his gun flying. The next kick caught the felon hard in the throat. Nick's boot pressured the windpipe and he waited until Sinclair slid sideways to the floor. Crouching warily, he felt for the pulse, not surprised that there was none. Picking up the gun, he peered cautiously in the hall and started for the upstairs of the house.

"Get up!" Bear smacked Tinsler's face hard.

"Whaddya want," the bleary-eyed man moaned, completely blank of the argument they'd had a few minutes prior.

"Time to check on the prisoners. You take the lawyer, I'll check on Blondie."

"Yeah, okay." He climbed to his feet and wobbled down the stairs.

Entering the cell, he spotted the unconscious man, just where he'd left him. Squatting down, he felt the neck and the pulse was still throbbing steadily. Sure did lose a bit of blood though...all over the white shirt and covering his face. He smacked the face hard, rousing the groggy victim

"Wake up, Mouthpiece! Sad to say you're still among the living."

The pain in Jarrod's head seemed to reach a horrendous crescendo with every word spoken. Wincing, he squinted at the triple faces of someone leering at him. He sat up and put a hand to the sticky mess on his head.

"Who are you? Where am I?" he asked weakly.

"You kiddin' me? You can't remember? Hah, what luck. You're a dead man, that's who you are...and this, here, is your prison."

"Prison? What are ...you ...talking... about?" Jarrod struggled to stay conscious.

"Shut up!" Tinsler slapped him hard.

"Leave him alone," the strong voice gritted in determination.

Tinsler stood up, fear racing up his back. He knew before he turned, who was standing behind him. He felt his waistband, and cursed, realizing the gun was upstairs.

"Now look, Barkley, maybe we can make a deal..."

His thought ended rather abruptly as a lethal force sent him into the concrete wall. Spitting the blood from his mouth as he slid away, he turned to face the menacing force. Nick Barkley stood before him, like a malevolent vision. Tinsler could swear the cowboy's eyes were glowing red. He had no where to go, he was already backed into the corner. He shrank down and covered his head, cowering.

"Get up, you stinkin' coward! You're gonna pay! Oh, are you gonna pay...for every bit of hell you put me and my brothers through!"

Tinsler tried crawling away, but Nick's strong boot sent him flying across the floor. Tinsler dove hard at Nick's bad arm, but the grim Barkley wouldn't be denied. He turned deftly, and Tinsler flew into the wall. He slumped against the wall and one strong hand closed around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

"Give my regards to Satan when you see him," the voice gritted.

He reached for the gun and the two struggled, resulting in a lone, fatal shot. Tinsler's eyes widened in surprise as his last breath died out.

Nick kicked the vile form out into the hall and leaned against the door, gasping in pain. Turning he staggered and dropped next to Jarrod. His hand found a good pulse before he wandered back into the hallway, looking for Bear. Spotting the pitcher of water in the laundry room, he took it and some cotton towels back to where his brother lay injured. Gently, he washed the blood from Jarrod's face and dabbed softly on the head wound across the right side of the lawyer's scalp. Several moans caused him to stop and pull the wounded man upright.

"Jarrod? Can you hear me?" he tested.

Not waiting for a reply he looked around and spotted a tin cup. He filled it with water and took a good sip, then supported Jarrod's head and encouraged him to drink, as well. Finally, the blue eyes opened and Jarrod looked around the room, his face a puzzle.

"Look, I know you hurt bad, but we gotta find Heath and get outta here before Rizley gets back. Heath ain't in his cell. Do you know where he is?"

Jarrod looked at the stranger blankly. Heath? The name sounded familiar, but...he looked back over at the dark haired man speaking to him. He flashed to a scene with the man whipping a younger, blond man who was tied up. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

"I know your head hurts, but we gotta get moving. Come on, I'll help you," Nick coaxed, pulling at his brother's arms.

Jarrod saw the blond man again, his blue eye hurt and pleading; he was holding his hand...a pain in his chest...a shallow grave. He saw the dark man raising his hand and the whip hitting the boy's bare back. Opening his eyes, he felt the arm trying to pull him upright. He threw it off and skittered to the other side of the small cell.

"Get away from me, you killed him. I saw you. You're....you're one of them. I'm not going with you," Jarrod cried as his eyes frantically raced around the room.

Nick sat back stunned. Jarrod didn't recognize him. The head wound was more serious than he had thought. Thinking quickly, he used another approach. Raising his hands in front of his chest, he showed his confused brother he meant no harm.

"Look, that crease in your head's given you some kind of amnesia. I'm your brother, Nick Barkley. You're Jarrod Barkley. Heath, our other brother, is missing. We've been held prisoner by Rizley. You gotta remember, Jarrod. Please try. Where's Heath? I can't find him."

Jarrod's confused mind was a swirling mass of color and confusion. So many images...the whip, the box, the blue-eyed boy, a mean face with a beard. He put his hands over his eyes and screamed.

"No, cut that out! Bear will hear you!"

Nick covered the small space in one move and put a hand over Jarrod's mouth. Jarrod panicked, squirming with all he had against the stronger man. They wrestled briefly and something silver, dangled in front of his eyes and caused him to stop.

"No, look Jarrod, I'm tired of foolin' around, you gotta...."

Nick's voice stopped when he saw Jarrod fingering the coin around his neck.

"It's Heath's. He dropped it the first night we were here. I'm gonna give it back to him when..."

"He's dead," Jarrod croaked, leaning against Nick's right shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Nick demanded, pulling the confused form upright.

"I...saw...they...he went in a metal box, outside. There was a grave...a body....he's gone, Nick," the blue eyes mourned.

"You show me. I don't believe it."

Bear squatted down next to Heath Barkley and felt for a pulse. Damned if the kid didn't have nine lives. The skin was hot to the touch and the breathing raspy. He'd not last too much longer in this weather. He had found Sinclair's body and saw Tinsler's in the hall. The burley guard had one more gift for Heath Barkley before he made his getaway into town.

"Shame we didn't have more time together, Blondie, I'm gonna miss you." He said with a hand on the flushed cheek.

Hauling the unconscious man over his broad back, he stepped out into the night.

Nick stopped at the sight of the two woolen coats by the door. He managed to get Jarrod into one and put one on himself. Checking his gun, he frowned at the two bullets remaining. He'd have to make them count. Taking the lantern by the back steps, he turned it up and motioned for Jarrod to follow. He helped Jarrod make the steps and they found themselves out in the yard. Nick thought on Jarrod's words about a grave. Without speaking, they stumbled to the fresh dirt and starting digging. They didn't have to dig far. The mud didn't cover the blond hair and familiar blue shirt.

"Oh God, no!" Jarrod moaned, frantically clawing at the dirt.

Nick's broken arm impaired their progress, and time seemed so much longer, but it was only seconds before they laid their brother on the frigid ground. Jarrod's shaking hands went for the throat. His face wore unbridled grief, giving Nick the awful answer. Jarrod shook his head and lifted Heath, holding him close. Nick laid a hand on the lawyer's back, his eyes dry, his heart broken.

"Well, it would appear 597 left without permission. Pity."

Nick's head shot up as Rizley approached. He threw himself at the startled man and they struggled. Rizley hit Nick hard in the left arm, sending waves of hot pain searing through the bone and marrow.

Kicking the cracked ribs, Rizley scrambled away. Nick felt numb to the pain, but his anger raged. He was on his feet in a flash, following Rizley through the dark. The woods were no place for amateurs and Rizley knew he shouldn't wander far. He waited behind a large tree with a rock, ready to extinguish Nick's wrath, once and for all.

The woods were still and silent except for the sounds in the woods of Nick's boots crunching the virgin snow. Nick tuned his ears, keenly picking up any sound. The labored breathing was getting louder and he knew he was close. The moon was but a sliver, making it difficult to see.

From out of the brush, Rizley sprang, catching the victim unawares. Nick went down hard, losing his hold on the gun. Rizely noticed the silver glint as it tumbled to the ground. Releasing his grip on the rock, he dove for the gun. Grabbing it, he hauled Nick upright, holding the gun to his throat.

"Let's go 370, it's time for you and your brother to be sentenced."

Jarrod hugged his brother's lifeless body against his chest. Heath's head resting just below his chin. He wrapped his arms around Heath and rocked, the tears freezing to this cheeks before they could trickle down to the shoulders of the tattered, blue shirt.

"I'm so sorry, Heath."

Jarrod stopped rocking and listened. Did he imagine it? Pulling Heath's nose and mouth closer to his ear, he listened intently.

"HEATH! HEATH!" Jarrod slapped the cold face forcefully.

A wet cough was his answer. He laughed, the tears he spilled now sprang forth with joy and gratitude. He hugged his brother close and slowly pulled him into the house. It seemed like an eternity, the dizziness and nausea working against him. But he was bent on a mission and no one would stop him. Laying the frozen form by the fire, he stumbled to the nearest bedroom. Pulling the blankets with him, he fell several times, and gasped at the reeling walls dancing before him. Not wanting to trust his own legs, he crawled, pulling the blankets behind him. He rubbed the stiff arms and legs briskly and then nodded as the skin began to become pink and warm. He wrapped his youngest brother in blankets and held him close. Swallowing back the nausea, he ran a hand through the blond hair and kept a steady conversation going, pleading with Heath to fight back.

Heath felt the icy fingers of death leave him, defeated by a much stronger force. He felt the warmth and basked happily. He heard the words and did as ordered. Alerted by the moans, Jarrod reached for Bear's abandoned whiskey flask and knelt over the stirring form.

"Heath, here, drink this." Gently, Jarrod tipped the whiskey into the parted, bluish lips.

Heath sputtered briefly and swallowed. Jarrod smiled as two blue slits appeared. The mouth worked but no words came. The hand fought against the pile of blankets covering it. Jarrod opened the blanket and took the weak hand, gripping it.

"You going to be fine, Brother. I've got you and I'll keep you safe. You just rest."

Every breath was painful and the blue eyes were dim. He looked at the bloody shirt and awful head wound. Heath's hand reached up to touch the face of 'Major Harris'.

The soft touch against his abraised cheek reminded Jarrod of the reason behind his brother's worried face. He smiled back down at him, offering words of reassurance.

"Stop worrying. I'm fine. It's much not as bad as it looks."

Heath tried to talk, but fell asleep before a thought could form itself into words. Jarrod put the arms back under the covers and settled in beside his brother. Holding the gun he found on the table nearby, he tried to stay alert. The gun dropped to the floor as the lawyer's head slipped down onto his brother's chest. The two slept peacefully, unaware of the villain who lurked nearby.

"WAKE UP!"

The harsh words and the cold water in his face caused the eyes to open. Jarrod blinked hard and looked down at his hands, secured to the chair beneath him. Across the room, the only face that could match the hellish voice, looked back at him. Jarrod's heart sank. Rizley was standing between Heath and Nick. Both were seated on the sofa, Nick's right hand tied to the back of his belt. The dark cowboy's eyes glared at him defiantly. Nick wasn't defeated yet. Rizley stood behind the two, a gun at Heath's ear.

"Choose, Mr. Barkley. Which one gets the bullet. There's only one in this chamber."

"What?" Jarrod's confounded stare completed the reply.

"CHOOSE! I believe I've made myself quite clear."

Jarrod looked at Heath's slumped head and then to Nick whose unblinking gaze was unsettled and fierce. He cast an eye back to Rizley. The beast's eyes were glazed over in lunatic's delight.

"No," Jarrod confirmed.

"Will you beg, Mr. Barkley?"

"What game is..."

"WILL YOU BEG. HOW MUCH DOES THAT BARKLEY PRIDE MEAN TO YOU! DECIDE NOW! I'M THROUGH WAITING."

He cocked the pistol in Heath's ear.

"NO!"

Jarrod looked at Nick briefly. The hazel eyes were full of fire, his mouth a grim line. Shaking his head, Nick mouthed the word 'no'. Jarrod knew what Nick wanted. He couldn't do it...trade one life for another. He'd rather die first.

"Very well, then. We'll let the crew decide," Rizley canted. "Johnson! Tinsler!" Rizley's head swivled. "Where the devil are they? Mutinious bunch of losers. Spinless, all of them! They'll never get away with taking over this ship. Once we get into port..."

Jarrod saw Nick's mind working as the pained hazel eyes flicked back and forth. Rizley was walking the fine of reality and illusion. Maybe if they could stall him somehow...

"Somehow, what?" Jarrod debated himself.

"The time has come, Mr. Barkley, decide." Rizley's eyes gleamed demonically as he waved the gun, his fingers itching. "The cocky one or the bastard?"

Jarrod felt his heart leap into his throat and almost choke him. Nick never wavered. He sat up straight and proud, wearing a mask of grit and steel. Unblinking, unemotional, he leveled his gaze at Jarrod. Something in those eyes reached Jarrod and his pounding heart slowed it's pace. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on Nick.

Jarrod could see Rizley tense up as he pulled back the hammer. It came without warning.

"NO!" Jarrod screamed, as the shot rang out.

"Jarrod? Jarrod? Can you hear me?"

The voice seemed to come from far away. Jarrod struggled through what seemed to be an endless abyss. His eyes were so very heavy. Finally, he managed to open them a little and squinted at the blurry face before him. He felt the gentle tap on his cheek and the strong arm around his back. The voice seemed familiar, somehow.

"Who...are ....you? " he croaked.

"Now, that's a fine thing to say to the father of your godchild!"

No, it couldn't be, could it? He closed his eyes and opened them again and the world became much clearer. The fuzzy face became ....

"Pierce! My God...how on earth...what happened...my brothers..." He struggled in vain against the strong arm.

"Take it easy, Jarrod. They're fine, see?" Pierce pointed across the room.

Jarrod's shaky hands accepted the brandy and he sipped it as he watched the sheriff and his deputies tending to Nick and Heath. Nick's arm was being splinted and Heath was being wrapped in blankets, both men were unconscious.

"But Heath...the shot ...how could he miss?"

"That shot was mine. I took Rizley out." Pierce cast a dark eye to the blanket-covered figure on the floor.

Jarrod's hand grasped his friend's, and his blue-eyes conveyed what the words 'thank you' couldn't. The nightmare was finally over. How long had they been gone?

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

"You said it just fine, Jarrod." Pierce patted his back and smiled.

"What day is it? My God, I feel as though we've been gone for weeks," Jarrod winced.

Leaning back, he tried to stem the fierce throbbing in his head and the desire to vomit.

Pierce looked at the pale face spotted with blood and the shirt that matched. His gaze went over to Jarrod's brothers and he shook his head. One minute longer, well, he didn't want to think about what might have been. What was important was that he'd gotten there in time. He had sent a man back to town to have the doctor meet them at the lodge. All three were suffering from exposure, exhaustion, dehydration and a variety of other injuries, but they were alive.

"How long, Pierce?" Jarrod asked weakly, eyes closed.

"It's December sixteenth, Jarrod."

"Five days? It seemed like weeks. I can't believe it's over. It was a living hell, Pierce. An unfathomable nightmare of a world."

"From what I saw on a quick run through the place, it looked like a dungeon. We found two dead men downstairs."

"Two?" Jarrod's eyes shot open. "You mean three, right?"

"No, just two plus Rizley."

"There's one missing. Was one of them a huge, burly man?"

"No. Who's he?"

"A guard from Quentin, the inside man. They called him 'Bear'. He used to work at Carterson. He brutalized Heath there, as well. Pierce, what they did to Heath was...," Jarrod swallowed as he saw the blond man carried out to the wagon.

"I'm sorry, Jarrod, for what they did to you, but it's all over now. You'll be fine," Pierce said, pulling Jarrod up.

"Not while he's loose," Jarrod pulled on the gray sleeve of his friend. "You must find him. He has to pay. There's no punishment befitting a monster like him."

Jarrod gave Pierce a description of Bear and the detective immediately dispersed men to seek him out with orders to shoot to kill, if necessary.

"Pierce, I'm almost certain they used a drug of some sort on Heath. They bent his mind, he was hallucinating, back to the darkest days of youth and past abuses. It was...ghastly. They put him through hell all over again. Whatever it was, we may need it. There's no telling what damage has been done and how to correct it."

"I'll search this place from stem to stern. You have my word. Right now, you need a doctor. Let's go, my friend," Pierce promised leading the dazed, battered lawyer outside.

Jarrod eased himself between Heath and Nick and welcomed the warm blankets. With one arm around each, he pulled them close. Nick's head fell on his shoulder, Heath's under his chin. He never felt closer to anyone in his life as he did at this moment. Pierce saw the look of raw emotion as Jarrod held his brothers close. Giving his friend a moment to collect himself, he waited until Jarrod caught his eye.

"I'll see you at the lodge after I get done here." Pierce patted the bloodstained shoulder and nodded to the driver. He felt a hand grab his shoulder.

"Pierce, I...," Jarrod swallowed hard, his blue eyes full.

"It's okay, Jarrod, I understand. You saved my life too, remember?"

The air didn't seem so cold, or perhaps it was the warmth of having his brothers near. The wagon lurched and Jarrod eased his head back, looking at the brilliant starfield that seem to wink at him. His eyes sought out a star above him, a beautifully brilliant, majestic marvel. It was all too familiar. Smiling, he eased back, understanding, perhaps for the first time, the depths of divine intervention. Here on this icy mountain at the edge of reality, he felt God's breath and inhaled, savoring the moment.

"I will never forsake you...," Jarrod nodded, remembering, aloud.

With renewed strength of soul, he watched that star, and as they climbed down the road to freedom, his heart soared.

The china tea cup in Victoria Barkley's hand clattered as she jumped. Did someone call her? Looking across the crowded main room of the Pine Meadows Lodge, she saw Max waving frantically. Crossing the room, with Audra in tow, Max met her halfway, sweeping her off her feet in a jubilant frenzy.

"They're alive, Victoria, they're alive! Pierce found them! He sent one of his men ahead so we could be ready! I'm so happy for you, Dear Friend!"

"Thank God!" she said as Max released her, only to find herself in Audra's embrace.

"Oh Mother, I can't believe it. Are they hurt?"

VIctoria waved at the deputized messenger, who made his way over.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"I"m Victoria Barkley. My sons? How were they when you left?"

"Jarrod was awake and talking to Pierce. He was able to walk to the wagon, he's got a nasty head wound. The other dark haired one's got a busted arm and the blond one seemed to have a fever. We didn't check them that close, we got a doctor on the way over."

Victoria saw something else in the young man's eyes as he hesitated.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked suspicsiouly.

"Ma'am you need to prepare yourself. They look awful. The place they were held in was set up like a prison. The men Rizley hired beat them up pretty bad. The blond fella's got whip marks all over his back. All of them will need lots of rest and some food. They're pretty weak."

Victoria nodded, her mind racing to absorb all the information. No matter what condition they were in, they were alive and once they were well enough, they'd go home and celebrate Christmas. What her boys needed more than anything was a good dose of old fashioned love and nurturing.

"Thank you, Mr...."

"Todd, Ma'am, Jeremy Todd. I work with Pierce and have had the pleasure of meeting your son, Jarrod, on many occasions. He's a fine man. I was glad to help." Tipping his hat, he left to aid in the manhunt.

"Victoria, why don't I have them taken right over to the house," Max said, holding the small hand. "Elsa and I don't need all that space. We're over here all the time, anyway. There's plenty or room, you can have the house all to yourself. Those boys will need the privacy. We have a suite over here we use most nights, anyway."

"Thank you Max, that's very generous. I can't thank you and Elsa enough for all your prayers. I know they helped. "

"Come along, we'll have bandages, towels...." Max's voice died off as Elsa and Victoria walked arm in arm behind the list-maker.

The Schmidt house was a short walk from the lodge. A sprawling, two story Alpine wonder, it was as warm and inviting as it's owners. Like the lodge, it featured a large main room with a huge stone fireplace and oversized, stuffed leather sofas. Gingerbread wainscoting graced the walls and the kitchen was large and well stocked. Two bedrooms were on the main floor and three more were upstairs, with a bathroom on each level.

Max had the clothes and other items moved from the rooms that the Barkleys had reserved at the Lodge, over to the house. He made a list for the store in town for additional items that the injured men would need. Elsa was already busy in the kitchen making a large pot of chicken soup. Victoria was mapping out the bedrooms, trying to figure out what the best course of action would be. The sound of the door opening caused her to jump. The rush of cold air didn't stop the tiny, yet formidable woman, from rushing outside.

She stopped and covered her mouth with her hand in horror at Jarrod's bloodied face and shirt, as Pierce eased him off the wagon.

"Jarrod, Oh My God, what did they do to you?" Her gray eyes brimmed with tears at the battered face and bruised body.

"I'll be fine, Mother," he gasped though closed eyes as two deputies carried him into the house.

"That way," she directed to the large bedrooms upstairs, nodding gratefully at Max who went ahead of them.

She shook her head and held the sobbing Audra's hand as Nick was led in, his face marred by cuts and bruises, and his arm in a splint. Finally, Pierce and two other men carried Heath in. Victoria gasped as she let go of Audra's hand and rushed over to the side of her youngest son. His face was a colorful mass of bruises and his breathing raspy. As she grabbed the icy hand, she didn't need anyone to tell her that Heath was very, very ill.

Audra and Victoria followed the men upstairs. She met Pierce in the hall and without a word, hugged him tightly. Finally, she pulled away and kissed his cheek.

"I want you to know, Young Man, that you have the undying gratitude of this mother's heart."

"Thanks, Mrs. Barkley, but I think I had a lot of help on this one." He smiled down at her, and raised his eyes heavenward.

"I don't think I'll be able to thank Him enough," she agreed, patting his hand and entering Jarrod's room.

Max directed Pierce outside where the sheriff was waiting. Two of Pierce's men would be left to guard the house in the event the missing felon showed up. Pierce was going back to the house in the woods to check in with the rest of his men. He would coordinate with Sheriff Adams later concerning the manhunt.

Victoria watched her oldest child's chest rise and fall. Pierce had managed to get Jarrod cleaned up and secured under the warm quilt. She stared coldly at the bloody clothes in the corner of the room. Pouring a glass of water, she sat on the bed, and with eyes brimming, kissed the swollen, bruised gash on his cheek.

"Heaven sent," he managed without opening his heavy eyelids.

"How do you feel, Honey?" she whispered.

He didn't answer right away and finally, the bleary eyes opened half-mast and a weak smile greeted her.

"Blessed, Mother. Truly blessed."

She helped him drink the water and eased him back down onto the pillow.

"How's Heath?" he asked, the concern in his eyes cemented her intuition.

"I haven't been in to check with the doctor yet. He looks awful."

"The fact that he's here at all is nothing short of miraculous. The things they did to him...."

Jarrod closed his eyes and shook his head, drifting away. She kissed his cheek and left to check on her other two boys.

"He's busted up a bit, but I think he'll be fine," Max noted of Nick as Victoria entered the room. "If I know your Nick, he'll be stomping around here, giving orders in no time!"

Max squeezed her hand and took the soiled clothing as he left. Victoria smiled as she sat on the edge of the bed and brushed the same familiar stray lock as she had for years.

He turned at her touch, her hand traced the bruises that seemed to cover most of his face. She took his hand and frowned at the difficulty breathing. Pulling the blankets back, she felt his ribs and heard the audible cry. She searched through the large closets and spotted extra pillows on the top shelf. Easing them under her cowboy son, she smiled, satisfied. Now that he was more upright and he could breathe better, his face relaxed.

Grasping his hand, she held her tears in check, but her heart raged against the brute who did these heinous things to her sons. Kissing his forehead, she left for Heath's room.

She paused in the doorway, as Max was wiping the burning flesh of her blond son with cool water. His repose was unnaturally quiet and her heart jumped to her throat. A wheezing sound as he struggled for each breath accented by the low moans as the icy water clashed with the heated skin. As she drew nearer and turned the lamp up, the tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Oh My God, Heath. What did those brutes do to you?"

His back was a map of scarlet rivers and angry welts that stared at her defiantly. Max got up from the bedside chair and allowed the anxious mother to take control. Her small hand drew back at the scalding skin, his soft moan tugged at her heart. She caressed the hot cheek and spoke to him.

"Heath, it's Mother. You're safe now. You just rest, Sweetheart. You'll be fine."

Voices from the floor below drew her to the door. A distinguished looking man in his mid-fifies, was handing his coat and scarf to Elsa. Behind him stood a younger man, late twenties, maybe. She watched as her hostess pointed upstairs and the man picked up a large black bag and followed her.

"The doctor, thank God," Victoria thought as she met him at the top of the stairs and gave him a rough overview.

He nodded, confirming what he already knew from the messenger. His name was Dr. Charles Edwards, and his assistant was Dr. James Marshall. They went to Nick's room first. His precise movements and confident manner were a calming influence. He dictated orders to the younger man to set the broken arm in plaster, wrap the broken ribs and suture the laceration on the scalp. Leaving Nick in his assistant's capable hands, Dr. Edwards followed Victoria to the next room.

Jarrod's wound required more attention. The fact that he was conscious and spoke to the police and his mother was a good sign. The doctor cleaned the deep graze and wrapped it. He mixed a prescriptive powder with water and poured it into a bottle. Leaving it at the bedside, he told the concerned mother that it was for pain and to calm the raging headaches that this injury could produce. Blackouts and dizziness would keep him in bed for at least a week. The other contusions, bruises and cuts would be painful, but time would heal. Snapping the bag shut, he followed her into the last room.

Heath lay on his side, where she had left him. The doctor didn't say a word, but Victoria didn't miss the look of suppressed anger on his face at the sight of the whip marks. He gently cleaned them, feeling the scalding skin flinch at every swab. Heath never uttered a sound, but Victoria held his limp hand and brushed her fingers through his hair, talking to him in a low voice. The doctor rolled Heath onto his back and Victoria went to get more cool water while he completed his exam. When she returned, Dr. Marshall was holding Heath upright while Dr. Edwards pressed the stethoscope to his back. After placing the instrument in several spots he frowned and resumed wrapping the broken ribs. With a nod, Heath was eased back onto a large bevy of pillows. The doctor opened the patient's mouth and peered down his throat with an odd looking instrument. He gave Dr. Marshall orders to stitch the lacerated lip and motioned for Victoria to join him by the door.

"Heath, Heath!"

"How sick is he?" Victoria asked

"Like your other two sons, exposure, exhaustion and a little malnourished. That will all go away with rest, food and a mother's love." He patted the small hand and took in the wan smile. "The lacerations on his back will fade in a few days. Whoever did that to him was only teasing him, they didn't apply enough force to do permanent damage. He's got some broken ribs like your son, Nick, but it's the congestion in his lungs and the inflammation in his throat that are causing the fever. If we keep on top of it, and he gets the right rest and medicine, I think he'll be fine. But he'll have a rough couple of days until that phlegm is cleared from his system. He's very weak and may need help when he coughs. James and I will take shifts. You get some rest. You'll be needed tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor, but maybe I should stay with him," she replied, eyeing the bed anxiously.

"I know how you feel. I have three children of my own. But if you don't rest now, you won't have the strength you'll need over the next couple of days. Believe me, Mrs. Barkley, I wouldn't advise you otherwise."

"All right...in a little while. I want to sit with him for a bit and then visit my other two boys."

She saw the younger doctor smiling as he wiped Heath's face.

"He's a fighter, Mrs. Barkley. I can feel him pushing his way back. He woke up for a minute and seemed upset until he saw you...then he calmed down."

"He's a Barkley, Doctor. We're all fighters," she smiled and leaned down to kiss the scarlet cheek. "I'm right here, Heath."

She saw his face furrow and the lips move, but no sounds emerged. She felt a movement near her leg and saw the fingers searching. She sat on the edge of the bed and grasped the hand. Then the first in what would be an endless series of coughing spasms occurred. Dr. Marshall clapped the patient's back and urged him loudly to 'cough it up'. Heath did as ordered and was rewarded with a spoonful of ice.

Jarrod winced as the sun's brilliant beams rudely pierced his eyes. Groaning, he attempted to sit up, only to be forced back down. Blinking through his fingers, he waited for the room to stop spinning and tried to focus on the stranger before him. His pained eyes took in the beamed ceiling, a large picture of the alps with a field of flowers in the foreground, the crackling fireplace and handsome furnishings. Finally, he gazed back at the stranger.

"Who ...are...you?" he croaked, accepting a spoon of bitter tasting liquid, "and what was that?" He grimaced.

"I'm Dr. Marshall and that is for your aching head. How do you feel?"

The young Doctor eased Jarrod up against some additional pillows and let the battered head rest against the backboard of the large pine bed. Without opening his eyes, Jarrod replied wryly

"Like I went over Niagara Falls in a paper boat."

"Well, at least your sense of humor is still intact. Other than your head, any pain?"

Jarrod thought for a moment, lifted his legs and arms and shook his head.

"No, the head is enough. How are my brothers?"

"Still sleeping. Nick has a broken arm and ribs, and the same colorful array of bruises. Heath..."

Jarrod opened his eyes and gazed through a red haze at the young doctor.

"What about Heath?"

"He had a rough night. His lungs are very congested and he's too weak to expell the fluid, but we're working with him, helping as best we can. His fever is still very high, Dr. Edwards is a little concerned. As I said to your mother last night, he's a fighter."

"You know something, Doctor," Jarrod said, staring, locked in a thought. "I found how just how much of a fighter he in these last few days."

"Jarrod, any nausea?"

"A little, dizziness more than anything."

"I'm afraid you'll be experiencing that for awhile, so you are to stay in this bed. How about some broth and bread?"

"Sounds like champagne and lobster! Bring it on!" Jarrod nodded.