It broke his heart, his fingers still against the imported panes of glass. It broke his heart to think that all she had known of men was pain and torture, a forcing of something she did not recognize upon her in the darkness of night, where there was no love, where there would never be love. Colleen's only experience with men was a nightmare.

Andrew thought back to their first kiss, when he had heard his heart ripping through his ears, leaning over towards her on the bench, in the garden by the hotel. Partner, he had said. You could be my partner. He meant it still. She had been so naïve, so pure, her cheeks hesitatingly red, her eyes darting back and forth from his own eyes, to his hungry lips that held back their appetite. Unsure of himself, unsure whether she wanted what he knew he had, Andrew had leaned over to brush her lips with his own. How perfect that moment in his memory. The sky was fresh, the grass underfoot full of an amorous vitality. The sights, the smells... The handsome doctor could close his eyes now and be back there instantly. There had been so few first kisses in his life, and none had meant so much as this. Never would again.

Andrew touched his heart, his fingertips shocked by the sudden removal from the frigid windowpane to his boiling chest. A lock of rebellious hair fell down from its assigned place, tickling his forehead. His eyes were heavy, but they read his spirit so well. There would only ever be her. It was amazing, to know that love was here, to know that they shared it. And also dangerous, threatening, to know that his happiness depended so dearly on Colleen, on this young woman who could turn her heart away from him without warning. But she would never. He feared it, feared her withdrawal from his arms, but he wouldn't let himself think that way. With a display of rare Boston arrogance, Andrew saw himself as something exotic, refined, a diamond amidst the naturally crude, rough-hewn coals that littered themselves through Colorado Springs. He thought he would be forever exciting, perhaps even mysterious, and even if she tired of his heart, of this immense love he bore her, he would be able to retain her still by holding out that hidden past.

But there was nothing to hide. A few crushes, hopeless schoolboy love that had dimmed as soon as he realized it was lurking. His heart was as untouched as a boy's, and he had always been proud of that. He hoped to share himself wholly one day with one woman, to let her know by his naïveté that he was hers, that he had known no other arms, no redder lips. It was the truth, his precious truth, and he prayed he had shown it to Colleen in enough time to keep her with him.

He grabbed the loose ends of his bow tie and pulled them, loosening his collar. It came willingly, as though it tired of trying to make him seem a respectable gentleman, when he was as stained and dirtied with love as any other heart-captured man. Andrew tossed the black fabric onto a nearby chair. He looked at it, landed haphazardly on the edge of the wicker bottom of the seat. He saw in the moonlight the tribal scratches on the legs of the chair, the alluring language of force. He pictured countless men sitting there, removing tight boots and undoing stubborn laces. He pictured their contemplation, their pain, their need. He wondered if they had ever known the indirect heartbreak to which he was now so accustomed. Had they ever wanted to protect a woman so much that they would shelter her from the world rather than risk her for even a moment?

His eyes trailed over to Colleen, her arms unmoved from the statuesque position in which he had left her. It was as if she still wanted him, back there beside her. His warmth, his firm chest, his outpouring heart. Do you feel me, Colleen?

Gripped by an exhaustion that knew no title, Andrew slipped back onto the bed, so very appreciative of the small space, which kept him wonderfully close to her. His socked feet danced around her own, careful to not wake her. His hands played with her hair, keeping a respectful distance. Respectful distance. It was a game he would have to play until she could see a man as gentle again, until she could see he would never hurt her. No force, no prodding, no urgency. I'll just be here. Always here.

The young doctor fell asleep and did not dream. A forceful knocking on Andrew's door awakened the youthful lovers, chaste in their all-night embrace. Andrew wiped his eyes with a balled-up hand, sitting up awkwardly on the bed. Colleen opened her eyes as much as she was able, the swelling preventing the inquisitive circles of brown from making a grand appearance. She turned demurely from him, as he listened to the knocking with his head turned towards her. Still a vision, even in her pain. Colleen watched him standing, her cheeks rosy underneath their beaten coloring.

Dr. Cook straightened his vest, redid the buttons, smoothed the front of his black pants. Colleen put two fingers to her lips, then touched them to his forearm. The sensation was like a fire of passion dragged across sandpaper, slowed, but noisy. I know you're there. He smiled at her, picked up the traveling hand and kissed her palm. I know.

Tearing himself from her only with his eastern decorum, Andrew stepped away, opening the door a crack. The door provided a warm shadow, shielding the white glare of the sunlight. He saw a brown cowboy hat, large-footed boots, dusty pants. He saw the familiar jawline, the warm mouth that had so often stood up for her. Matthew.

"Andrew, is Colleen here? She's been missing, and we've looked everywhere. I prayed she'd be with you. Is she here?"

Matthew stood with his anxious fists up against the outside frame of the door, sweat dried in a hazy film across his face. Andrew often wondered if he missed the glint of the sheriff star against his chest. But its absence made him no less of a man.

Such worry filled his eyes. Dr. Cook was proud to be able to say yes, but ashamed he presented his sister to Matthew in no better a state.

Andrew threw back the door, Colleen's battered face the prize within. He turned his face down, stepping back. He knew what was going to happen. And though he loved her, he had no place in it.

Matthew let out a guttural moan, a vocal pain worse than any sick man had ever uttered. It was the ache of the heart when someone loved had been hurt, and there was nothing left to be done for them. Nothing at all.

His boots stomped dusty footprints across the wooden floor as Matthew ran to his sister. He reached without thinking to circle her face with his palms, pulling back only at the last instant, fearful of doing her more harm. His eyes were weeping, his tongue angry.

"Colleen? Colleen, my God..."

She tried to smile at him, to let him know she'd be alright. But the whipped shell wasn't able to make the bright presentation her heart demanded. Her smile that felt so broad came out twisted, misshapen. Colleen started to cry. She raised her hand to Matthew's face. Her touch was still soft, the gorgeous hand of a woman unharmed. But the face that was paired up with the hand was tormented.

That groan once again escaped Matthew. He saw only the shattered face. Andrew pitied him, that he had to be told of the inside damage, the thievery that had been done to Colleen's body. Stolen, and hidden away. She'll never have it back, this thing I dreamed of making my own.

The eldest Cooper stood, rushed back across the floor, and Andrew felt his throat suddenly choked. His back met with the wall in a sudden waltz.

"DID YOU DO THIS TO HER? I TRUSTED YOU! I trusted you..."

The young man fell to his knees, and Andrew grabbed his throat, his airway constricted. Breath came back in the guise of white needles, burning as he gulped it in. He did his best to shake his head. No. No, no, no, never.

Matthew stood on weak knees, halfheartedly reaching for Andrew again. He still, however, trusted the man, and could not will his anger to take over where his heart stood in control.

Andrew backed away, still recovering from the shock of the initial attack, and focused so deeply on shaking his head. A low "No" escaped his lips. No, how could you think that of me?

Colleen stood, her pale legs fragile beneath her.

"Matthew?"

The man's name seemed blistering ice in the air of the room. It came across her lips so softly, but got his attention immediately. He stopped advancing towards Andrew. He stopped breathing. It was as if he was watching a resurrected victim.

Colleen said his name again, her lips dry, crumbling against the stress of the night, the moisture in the air full, having stolen from her supple skin. It hurt so much, but she could not stand by idly and watch her beloved Andrew take the blame for doing this to her, this unthinkable thing. No, Matthew. It was another.

Matthew ran to her, embracing her, his right hand cupping the back of her head, crying even more deeply when he felt the tangled weaving of blood and hair, once more webbed together after having lain in union the night through. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she imagined herself able. Her eyes weeped, for this brother, this sad, sad man who had lost a sister and still was unaware. She gazed on Andrew, who watched them, his breath returned to normal. All was forgiven. He didn't know.

It hurt, that Matthew had confronted him, but the rage was pregnant with the heat of the instant, and the furious air that had bathed his face was now gone. Explanation. He would leave them.

Dropping his eyes from Colleen, plastering a layered smile across his lips, Andrew turned his back to the embracing siblings and walked outside. He stepped into the now-unfamiliar plateau of strangers and unknown Fates. He would never again trust the world, this world that had produced a monster who had stolen everything from her. And what hurt her, hurt him. His heart had never before been so tied to one person, and each beat knew her pain, struck itself to know it better. He weeped for her. He would never stop.

Matthew's embrace was strong. He knew the selfish pleasure of finding s omething believed lost. He now, however, also knew that the finding did not promise perfection. His Colleen was indeed still lost in that wilderness. She would wander in that night forever, searching for herself, that brown spirit camouflaged by the trees, her aqua vitality mirrored in the grass. I can't find her either, Matthew. You have not failed me.

She pulled back from his embrace. Her slotted eyes searched his own, his cheeks streaming like a crystal waterfall.

"Matthew, he hasn't done anything. He'd never hurt me. You know that."

Her voice was soft, broken with lack of use. The past days had witnessed her asleep, lost in dreams of her perpetrator's face. She had been afraid to face the sunlight, her heart, shredded bits of fabric loosely strewn throughout her chest.

Her brother was in agony.

"I know that, Colleen. But what...what's happened to you? Who did this to you?" His plea was full of suppressed anger. He was filled with murderous intent. Colleen counted herself lucky with a set of vengeful numbers. You think you've gotten away with this. But these men would avenge me. You've gotten away with nothing.

Her face was weak in responding, but her words were full of forceful dignity. It was all she had remaining to call her own.

"Matthew, I don't know him. I never saw his face. I never saw him..."

A quick hand of memory tangoed around her throat, threatening, a menacing fist frozen in the air. Colleen remembered his fist, the musculature of the ground beneath her as it held her, suspended between Hell and Heaven with this absurd cowboy atop her. She closed her eyes, fought the memory, dared it to leave her in peace for only a few moments. Matthew's hand reached for her cheek, the back of his hand soft, the knuckles rubbing with the gentlest caress over her beaten jaw, over the discoloration, the swelling, the night of terror that wanted to be seen, to be remembered.

Colleen put her own hand over that of her brother. She held his palm to her face, letting her own warmth battle that which came through him. She needed him to feel the saving power of his presence. Your heat comes from anger. Mine comes from defeat. We will help one another, Matthew. You could only ever help me.

"I was walking here, two nights ago, to give Andrew some supplies that Ma gave me, before she left for Boston. Matthew, it was so quiet, and it was cold, and I was lost in my thoughts, I suppose. Then...they were there."

The scene before her, her concerned brother's pursed mouth, his faceted eyes, disappeared, and Colleen was once again in the deserted pathway, miles, it seemed, from any aid. Miles, it had seemed, from Andrew. Between her and the dawn lay a group of men, careless men, to whom honor and chastity were merely decorative words for women yet unfallen. They had helped her along. They had urged her along. And now she suffered. She died with every breath, wished herself dead, so this waking torment would leave her.

The story flowed like autumn sap from her mouth. Colleen tried to bejewel it with her sweetest words, to take the edge off of the thrusting, the pain, the bloodied earth she spied as she kept her eyes anywhere but the sky. She wouldn't let herself believe God watched her destruction, and gave her no help. That thought would have broken her. She related the crisp image of the rawhide jacket, the rough-hewn fringes that hung from the shoulder, the smell of liquor in the air. Matthew listened attentively, sitting beside her on Andrew's bed, while the young doctor waited outside, anger building within him, facing the mountains, the sky, the God who had failed him. A brother understood finally how he had come to lose a sister. There were tears, there were redeeming smiles, and embraces to incite envy in the unloved.

Matthew sat beside her, watched her sleeping. How very long it had taken to convince her to once again sleep, to give up the fight for another collection of hours. The tray of food sat untouched on a near countertop. The food seemed pale, cold, unwanted. Was this how she felt? The eldest Cooper held her hand once more and kissed her knuckles, only politely scratched by an obliging twig as she had crawled along the ground. I'll love you, Colleen. We'll all love you. You've lost nothing in my eyes. Nothing at all.

Holding his sweat-stained hat in his hands, Matthew exited the room. He closed the door behind him quietly, recognizing the onrushing dusk in the cooled air absorbing him. It took his anger, took his stoicism, took his pride. There was nothing left. He had come here, searching out a sister. He had found a victim, a prideful woman robbed of her chaste memorial.

Andrew sat on a distant boulder, a fixture in the landscape that belonged with a natural ease. There was no touch of the foreign in his face, nothing of refined Boston in his posture. He was a man, angry, asking God for answers. Dr. Cook was as close to God as he could get, and still unsatisfied.

Matthew approached him, throwing a mischievous shadow over the doctor's back. Noticing the lack of light, Andrew turned around, their eyes meeting as friends.

"Is she alright, Matthew?"

Colleen's brother nodded.

"As well as she can be, I suppose. Andrew, I...I'm sorry, about before..."

Cook raised his hand, stopping Matthew in mid-sentence. "No, I understand. You saw me, you saw her, and what else could you have suspected? Things like this don't happen to good people, and God knows Colleen is one of the best people either of us know. Why would you have thought any differently? I was the only likely man, right?"

Andrew asked this last question uncertainly, a touch of the cruel hanging on the words. He hated Matthew for believing a monster so vicious could be hiding under his tanned frame. He loved him for being her brother, for holding her with a closeness he had yet to master. His heart was torn, but he vented his anger as best he knew how, indirectly.

"No, Andrew. You're right, that I never would have believed the story if I hadn't seen her...like this. Men have never seemed so vile and base to me as they do now. To think that a man could turn on a woman so weak, so much younger, and hurt her with such abandon... My God, it's beyond me..."

Matthew turned his eyes away, ashamed of the tears that welled deep within them. He rubbed an errant hand through his hair, needing occupation.

"But to think that you would ever have hurt her like that, Andrew, it was wrong of me. It's just that I...I couldn't get my hands on them. I don't know if I'll ever have that chance, and I hate it. I have never hated anything more in my life. But I apologize."

The eldest Cooper extended his hand, seeking out the reconciling palm of the Boston doctor. Andrew gladly offered his own, and felt a weight removed from his heart when their palms touched in friendship. How Andrew wished to call him brother. No other man would have more suited the title.

"What exactly was done to her, Andrew? Is she...will she be able to heal?"

Andrew turned his eyes back to the horizon, afraid of facing that truth once more. How hard, to relate the details of the damage done to a man who deserved to know. How much easier, to keep that truth from strangers. His collar began to tighten, or so he felt, and he reached up to undo it, loosening his shirt in the process. A bare chest breathed in the cool autumn air, and Andrew knew it was right. Hard, heartbreaking, but right.

"They did some internal damage, Matthew. Some tearing. She was bleeding when I found her outside my clinic a couple of nights ago, and I had to perform...perform an internal inspection. But I think she'll heal. Her shoulder was dislocated, but I put it back in the joint while she was unconscious. Her face will heal. She'll be just as beautiful as she ever was."

Matthew seemed relieved.

"And children?"

Andrew was surprised at how his heart leapt at the thought of Colleen's children. He imagined them, perfect, healthy, warm in her arms. It seemed such a distant fantasy.

"I think she'll be able to have children. There should be no difficulty, as long as no further complications arise while she's healing."

Again, Matthew exhaled, his worries diminished in some small capacity. Andrew had to make the confession. As much as he loved her, the truth must be spoken, though he dreaded to hear the words.

"But I'm not a mental doctor, Matthew. I can heal her wounds, and I can be here for her with as much love as possible, but I don't know what scars this will leave on her. I don't know if she'll ever want a man near her again. I don't know if I can help..."

Matthew placed a hand on Andrew's shoulder. Dr. Cook looked up into the shadowed jaw, the stubbled cheek. The sunlight was horizontally streaming across the land, burning a fierce pumpkin orange on the young man's face. His eyes seemed stronger than ever before.

"You're the only one who can help, Andrew."

It was an affirmation of his own weakness. The man in Matthew could do nothing for her. The brother could do nothing. It was out of his hands, though those callused palms itched to be of assistance. It was a pointless yearning.

Andrew sighed, cast a quick glance back towards the hotel. Such obligations awaited him there. Preston, an endless clientele, aged hypochondriacs who needed attention he was no longer able, or willing, to give, a foundling practice that was not what he had come to Colorado Springs for. Why had he come? He knew now it had been for her.

"Matthew, do you want her to come home with you? I can come to the homestead to check her. It's no problem."

There was the ring of exhaustion in Andrew's voice. His time to guard her was ending, or so he thought, and the wall he'd constructed between his heart and mind was beginning to crumble. He was so tired. Andrew had spent the past days in the grip of a furious worry, and hadn't had the liberty to work through the personal nightmare of finding Colleen worshipping the ground outside the hotel, her blood baptismal water beneath her. Now that Matthew had come to absorb his share of the frustration and anger, Andrew could break down. He could release it. Oh, God, it was the promise of freedom.

But the eldest Cooper did not accept the offer. He wiped a gentle shroud of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, toyed with the brim of his cowboy hat. Andrew waited patiently for the young man to speak. An unseen falcon howled in the bright horizon, as the young doctor sat with his hands on the knees of his well-tailored pants. Speak. Say what you need to say.

"No, Andrew. I can't take her away from you. Not now."

Andrew looked up at Colleen's brother questioningly. Matthew met his gaze.

"She's loved you from when you first got here, Andrew. Colleen's quiet, but I've seen the looks she's thrown your way when your face was turned. I've heard her tell Dr. Mike stories about your awards, the good things you've done. You've slowly become everything to her. And she needs you now. I'm just...," and he began shaking his head, turning his face down with his awkward habit, "...just a brother. And a brother is not a man like she needs. You can protect her and love her. I just need to know that she's alright. She's with you. So I know that."

Matthew threw a glance to Andrew, and the two men understood one another. It was the passing of the torch, the relinquishing of Colleen's heart. Andrew accepted it gratefully.

"She's sleeping now, so...I'll just leave. I'm at the homestead, with Brian, if she needs anything."

Dr. Cook stood, accompanying Matthew to his horse. Colleen's brother held the reins with one hand, loosening them from the white banister of the hotel porch with the other. Andrew smiled at the rough-hewn manners the young man had, appreciating and respecting them in a way he never had before. The dusk air was clear and thick, perfumed with sweet friendship, earned so harshly through the destruction of a woman they both loved.

Matthew suddenly was possessed with speech, and let the horse stand idle, munching on an untrodden oval of brown grass in the hotel street. Dust rose from the two men's shifting feet, and he looked at Andrew keenly, searching out his own heart in the immigrated chest of the Boston doctor.

"I don't pretend to know what you're going through, Andrew. I've never had the woman I loved come to me, beaten, destroyed, afraid, and me unable to do anything at all about it. But I do know what it is to lose that woman, to watch her helpless, her life slipping away and you able only to watch it happening, knowing you'll never see her smile, hear her words, as only she can put things. I lost Ingrid. And I never thought I would survive."

Matthew kept his eye on Andrew, forcing the doctor to return the stare. It was important that Andrew knew this was Matthew's heart, voicing its screams in plain English. It was a heart that cried still, suffered a loss from which it would never be able to repair itself.

"I don't want you to have to go through that, Andrew. Ingrid died, and I had to teach myself that was God's plan, that I could do nothing about it. But I believe that Colleen was able to get here," and he waved a gloved hand around apathetically, almost sarcastically, at Preston's chateau, "for a reason. You were here. You were awake, and you were there when she screamed for you. A thousand things could have kept you away at that one moment, but you were here. You need to see that you are the one meant to pull her through this, Andrew. Don't blame yourself. You couldn't stop this, but you can stop it from ruining her. I need you to bring my sister back to me. Please."

Andrew said nothing, only nodded his head. His throat felt heavy, as though words were collecting like molasses and would not emerge should he try to speak. There was no need. Everything was understood clearly between the two men. Matthew put one dusty boot into the hanging stirrup, and Andrew saw it collapse against the horse's midriff with a gentle force, lifting Colleen's brother atop the animal. Matthew only tipped his hat to the doctor as he turned the horse around slowly and trotted towards town. The smell of masked sweat and elderly accomplishments returned to the air as the young man departed, and Andrew knew he was nowhere but home. This place was home. Colleen was here. She would stay.

He kept himself from his room, stepping in only to freshen up for an uncredited appearance in the hotel's dining room. Andrew straightened his tie, smoothed his vest, brushed the lint and stray hairs from his black trousers. He forced himself to see only his own reflection in his mirror, to keep his nutmeg eyes from the sleeping woman in his bed. Closing the door quietly behind himself, Andrew kissed his fingers and touched them softly to the rough wood. Be peaceful, my love. I won't be far.

Dr. Cook smiled at the wrinkled faces he recognized once he stepped through the curtains into the room, nodded politely, and with an air of unformidable mystery, to the guests he had not before seen. Preston was engaged in the conversation of sales with a group of middle-aged men, some with thick brown mustaches and thinning hair, others with full beards and petite spectacles that clung tenaciously to the bridge of their noses. He waved his hands frantically, passing off his chateau as the finest establishment in Colorado, guaranteed to relax the spirits and quell all tensions. Here, the hot springs, there, a carriage house of the grandest proportions. Andrew only turned his eyes to the man as he passed by, wanting only to fade into the proverbial woodwork, to mull over coffee and his tensions.

An empty table waited in the eastern corner of the room, illuminated with the glow of a single ecru candle, half-burnt, slathered in a fleshy suit of melted wax. His fork was spotted, his knife dull, the fine china plate brand new. As he waited for the waiter to come, Andrew used his napkin to clean the utensils. He needed to wipe away the filth of what he had become. He was worse than the man who had done this to Colleen. Dr. Cook counted himself an utter coward. He thought again and again of Colleen's muffled mouth, her innocent lips crushed in the grip of a carnally starved hand. He thought of her, perhaps thinking on him, wishing he would ride up on a blanched steed to save her from the evildoers. Oh, God.

The waiter listened to his mumbled order, two hardboiled eggs, some toast, coffee, muttered in a voice unpracticed. He had had little to say to anyone since she had arrived at the hotel. Everyone was suspect. It bothered him, to suddenly have no dam of trust. But necessity spoke to it.

Andrew ran his hand over the candle's flame, pursing his lips every time the heat would politely singe his palm, creep in serpentine patterns of pain across his fingers.

"Andrew?"

His name. The word was full of worry, experienced presentation. Preston.

Andrew looked up to see the man pulling out the chair opposite his own, his mouth speaking to him while his eyes perused the full faces of the middle aged men of before. He heaved a deep breath from his chest, laid it bare on the table as a warning to his employer. But Preston ignored the motion, and began the subtle interrogation. Or accusation.

"Andrew, I demand to know what you've been doing with yourself, why the clinic has been closed. There are guests here, Andrew, paying guests, who expect your medical attention at any time they may see fit to require it. And I expect you to deliver it to them."

Preston's eyes were indicting, his cheeks sucked in with his own swallowed power.

"Andrew? Answer me."