The fire snapped loudly, silencing the nearby crickets that Nick had forgotten to listen to until he noticed their looming quiet. He stretched, yawned, moved over to check on Jarrod, who was asleep, arms still wrapped around John as if providing him with a lifeline. The young man’s chest still rose and fell with steady breaths, and for that small fact Nick was immensely grateful. He was also ecstatic over the fact that Heath’s fever had begun to diminish an hour ago, and might have even broken.

Nick glanced up at the sky… silk black peppered with a spread of glorious twinkling white. So many stars. How could such a beautiful night be so full of sorrow and disease?

Heath too had heard the absence of the crickets; the strange void pulled him up from the black one he’d been resting in. He was saddened to find himself face down again, confused at the briskness of the night air. Where was the close comfort of the cave? He coughed, then flinched at the flaring pain. Ah yes, arrow wounds and falls from horses. Muddy images trudged through his sluggish brain.

Movement overhead forced him to slide sideways eyes up at the dark form that suddenly knelt beside him, running concerned hands over his limbs, through his hair. “John?” he whispered.

“No, Heath. It’s, um, me, Nick.”

There was a long beat. Nick studied Heath’s face as it flickered in the firelight but it showed no emotion… not joy nor sorrow nor relief. When he’d asked for John there had been brightness there. Now there was nothing.

Heath cleared his throat, shut his eyes. Nick flinched at what felt like a dismissal. “Where’s Grey Bear John?” Heath rasped, and Nick’s heart began to race, his throat close with a sickening feeling of profound loss.

“He’s with Jarrod.”

Heath’s eyes flew open again. “Jarrod?” he called.

Nick closed his own eyes, his guilty heart breaking. “I’ll get him for you.” He stood and plodded to Jarrod, who had allowed Nick to care for Heath even though he was sure Jarrod itched to do so himself—even though, in Nick’s mind, Jarrod was the brother who deserved to care for him. Nick settled down, shook Jarrod gently awake, and reached out strong arms to take over holding John. Somehow holding the young man just seemed the right thing to do… as if it might be the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth, as if he might just fade into nothing without strong arms wrapped around him. If Heath wanted nothing to do with Nick, the least Nick could do was care for the man who had so obviously cared for Heath. Cared for him in a way Nick, his own brother, had never even come close to.

Jarrod woke slowly, then with a snap once his mind processed the setting. “Heath is calling for you, Pappy,” Nick grinned, but Jarrod could tell it was a grin tinged with deep personal regret.

Regardless, Jarrod was delighted. “His fever?”

“About gone.”

After carefully handing over his precious burden, Jarrod was finally perched beside his little brother. “Welcome back, Brother Heath,” he smiled softly into the aching blue eyes, ran a loving hand over Heath’s shoulder to gauge the temperature there, satisfied that it was indeed much lower. It had seemingly been a fever of trauma, not infection—and no doubt thanks to John’s “Modoc medicine.”

“I’ve been gone a while, haven’t I?” Heath rasped with a crooked smile. Jarrod knew he meant many things with these simple words.

Jarrod reached for the broth Nick had prepared earlier, brought the cup to Heath’s mouth. “Brother Nick’s special brew,” he said, trying to weave the two men together somehow, even in the most innocent of ways. “And yes, I’d say you’ve been gone a long while. I’ve missed you every moment of it.”

“You too, Jarrod,” Heath’s eyes had filled with tears, but then he smiled faintly. “At least the moments I remember.” He slid his gaze around. “Thought John was with you?”

And then more of the muddy memories sludged into place. “John!” Heath tried to rise up, gasped at the renewed razor pain of it.

Jarrod eased him back down. “He’s still with us. He caught a bullet to the side. We had to cauterize it.”

“I need to see him,” Heath pleaded.

Jarrod paused for a moment, considering the pair wrapped together on the other side of the campfire. “Brother Nick, let’s you and I settle John down right next to Heath here. I think they’ll fare better side by side.”

Indeed, after they’d settled the young man down beside their little brother they watched as Heath reached over and clutched John’s hand. Squeezing it, murmuring nonsense words about caves and tobacco, letters and fish. For the first time in hours John’s eyes flickered behind his lids. It was a tiny hope—a literal flicker—but it was something.

As Jarrod moved to pour himself a cup of coffee he felt something crunch beneath his boot. He bent down, squinted. It was the cross from the forgotten rosary, once thin silver filigree, now snapped in two. Jarrod wasn’t a believer in omens, so he ignored the sudden raw twisting in his gut.

But Nick, too, must have felt something from the pieces that he now saw glinting in Jarrod’s palm. He growled once, then stomped over to Coco, mounted up, and rode off towards the nearest copse of trees.

“Nick?” Jarrod called. As he watched, Nick halted his mount, but kept his back to his brother.

“I’ve got to… do SOMETHING. I’ll get the makings for a travois. Fire off a shot if you need me.” And then he spurred his mount and was off.

Jarrod looked again at the pretty bits of silver in his palm; he swore they were reflecting the distant light of a million stars.

Nick returned to the campfire hauling a loosely strung together frame for a travois, and much of what he’d need to complete it. Although Jarrod had never fired a summoning shot, Nick was still nervous about what he’d find when he got back. The wet smell of dawn was rich in the air. Night sounds had since ended and the birds were waking, shocking the world with their bright, merry noises. The sky was performing its deceptive transformation from silky black to sliding grey—as it had done for centuries before any of these four men had walked this earth and as it would continue to do for a stretching eternity after they were forgotten and dusted and gone.

Ironically, although Jarrod was upright, seemingly hovering in a crouch between the two men on the ground, Heath was the only one with eyes open, staring out into nothing. As Nick closed he saw Heath’s glance flit over him in one quick, scared start and then still again. He lay motionless but for an occasional quivering burst—no doubt of grinding pain—his eyes now steely blanks.

Jarrod, still seemingly asleep, spoke in a tone that was a rich lullaby, the tone he’d been using to croon to his patients all night. “Are you okay, Nick?”

Nick offered a wordless grumble, closed in, dragging his haul with him, settling down to complete his task. He desperately wanted to cross over and check on them… feel Heath for signs of fever, John for signs of life. Instead he stayed in exile on the other side of the fire.

“Anything more from John?” Nick waited to ask the low question until he saw Heath’s eyes finally slide shut again, and Jarrod’s open. He realized in some vague part of his brain that he was no longer hunched low and squinting over his labors. The dawn’s light was gaining strength.

Jarrod rubbed a gentle hand through John’s tousled black hair. He only sighed but Nick understood. Nothing more since moving him next to Heath.

“We’ve got to get them to a doctor,” Jarrod finally offered. It was a stupid statement and a wise one.

“Yeah.” Nick was weary in the very middle of his bones, in the very bottom of his heart. He finished the travois because it required no active thought, then moved in to fix breakfast and to replenish the supply of broth. Left to warm, much of it had dissipated like a spirit into the night sky. Nick couldn’t help but wonder if the ghosts of Hank Handy or the Charleys had supped on the spirit broth before they moved on to wherever they were headed next. The thought gave him a strange chill.

“I’m worried, though.” Jarrod’s voice was low, still crooning. “If we go to town we’re going to run into another lynch mob… what, with the sheriff dead and Hank still missing. And us hauling John.”

Nick merely nodded in dark agreement. He squinted around, noticing that the growing brightness of the morning was now making everything too vivid. Especially the stiff, stained colors on Jarrod—rusts and browns. He went to his saddlebags, retrieved one of his own spare shirts since Jarrod’s had all been used for bandaging. “Clean up, Pappy. You’re a mess.”

Jarrod looked down, realizing that although he’d dunked his hands and arms in the river and scrubbed them the night before, his shirt and vest were horribly soiled. They bore the dead blood of John and Heath both. He tossed the vest aside, stood, stretched, and then beckoned Nick.

“I think I’ll take you up on that. See to a few of my needs, in fact,” he winked. “But that means you need to come over here and take my place.” He had noticed Nick’s self-imposed exile, and was offering a way for him to come home. He marched off before Nick could balk.

Nick settled down beside his little brother and Grey Bear John, resting a hand on each of them. Heath jolted in another one of his pained quivers; Nick took that as a sign and removed his contact. The quick touch had told him that the fever was back, but was still low. He cleared his throat. “Well you two are some pair. Traipsing through the river, catching arrows and bullets, playing hide and go seek for days. We finally find you and what do you do? Lay here, sleeping in like it was Sunday and you were skipping service. Some pair alright. I’m off humping up stuff to haul your carcasses and you just snooze on.”

He sighed at his own nonsense, and then felt a surge of bewildering anger at the sight of the insentient pair. The fact that there were sudden tears in his eyes enraged him even more. He stomped over to the fire, grabbed the renewed cup of broth. He moved back, lifting John by the shoulders and carefully settling him against his chest. “Alright, Boy. This is broth and you’re gonna take some. You lost too much blood to just be lying there, sleeping your life away.” His jaw clenched, Nick tipped John’s head back, worked his mouth open, and then dribbled just a touch of the salty liquid in. He massaged the young man’s throat, trying to get him to swallow. The first bit went down, but the next careful pour didn’t. John choked and Heath’s eyes flew open.

“Put him down!” Heath’s voice, although a quiet rasp, was packed with growling menace. “Don’t lay a hand on him!” The blond was suddenly struggling to rise up, John was hacking wetly, and Jarrod had run up behind the group, bewildered. How had it gone from quiet dawn to chaos in just a few moments?

By the time Jarrod had appraised the scene, then moved in to take John from Nick, Heath had gotten shakily to his knees, was hollering and pointing at Nick. “Get the hell out of here! Leave us alone! Don’t touch him!”

“Heath,” Jarrod shouted, “settle down! Heath, please.”

Heath looked at him curiously, then something unfocused in his blue gaze clicked and found itself. “Jarrod?” he whispered, as if realizing his older brother’s presence for the first time. And then his eyes rolled back and he was facedown again. Jarrod, clutching John to his chest, couldn’t move in time to catch him.

And when he looked up he realized Nick hadn’t caught Heath because Nick was mounted up and racing away. Then Nick was gone.

In a moment the coughing spasm subsided and Jarrod was able to settle John back down before dashing over to check on Heath. Both seemed more or less unscathed from the flare of chaos. In fact, Jarrod mused, Nick was probably suffering the most just now. Time passed and Heath’s bandage stayed white—no new bleeding, Jarrod surmised with a satisfied nod.

“Is he okay?”

Jarrod startled, turning to face the black gaze of Grey Bear John. “Yes. You?”

“Not sure,” the young man spoke in a low, reverent tone. “Depends on whether you see what I’m seeing just now. ‘Cause if you don’t, I think I’m being called home.”

Confused, terrified, Jarrod scrambled back to John. But the young man’s face was calm… which somehow scared Jarrod even more. He followed John’s gaze.

Across the river, standing up on its hind legs, was a huge brown bear. He lowered down, waved his massive square head once, shuffled a few feet one way, and then a few feet the opposite way.

“Do you see it?” John whispered.

“It’s a bear,” Jarrod whispered back, somehow in quiet awe himself.

“Good. You see it.” John closed his eyes and then after a beat opened them again. “Maybe tell it I’m not ready to go yet, just in case,” he offered a weary, dimpled grin.

“I think he’s here for Hank Handy,” Jarrod quipped back, but his gut was clenching. Sure enough, the bear finally shuffled back along the shore and stopped to nudge a curious nose at the body Nick had dragged across the river the night before. But all the while, the bear kept its gaze on the group across the water—as if he were challenging them all for salvage rights.

“I hope he stops with him,” John offered, squeezing his eyes and arching his back slightly against a sudden thrum of pain. “Don’t feel like dyin’ today.”

“It’s not in my plan for you either,” Jarrod nodded. “Brother Nick,” he then said aloud to the air, “we need you to pull your heart together and get back here. Now would be just fine.”

The sweet cool of morning had long since given way to the sticky heat of a rancid afternoon. Even the glorious green was somehow cloying and smelled like syrupy death. Jarrod, feeling almost nauseous from a staggering heartsickness, slowly led the travois toward Landers. He labored to keep Heath’s pony reigned tightly to his own mount’s side so that Gal wouldn’t fall back and accidentally trample his patient. Jarrod kept telling himself to simply focus on the task at hand, but a thousand thousand worries consumed him—had consumed him for hours now (or had it been days and weeks and months?). Was he doing the right thing? He had to be, because it had come to be the ONLY thing.

It was hours past lunchtime when he halted—but definitely not for food. His nerves could maybe handle a sweet shot of bourbon—hell, even an acrid shot of waterfront rotgut. But food—well, the thought of swallowing even a bite of jerky made him nearly gag. He recognized that he was strung quite thin... hadn’t felt this stretched out, this twitching-odd since his very first trial, perhaps since the death of his father. No bourbon, so water would have to do.

He uncorked his canteen, took a careful sip, then dismounted wearily, and made certain Jingo and Gal were tethered where they could nibble the sweet grass, but in no way move backwards where they might jostle the travois. He headed back to the contraption, canteen in hand, and gently lifted the blankets. Heath had barely stirred in the hours since his explosion at Nick (was that just this morning?).

On one hand, Jarrod was glad because he didn’t want to have to answer any questions about Grey Bear John or Nick. The less Heath knew the better. A palm to Heath’s forehead and back, however, told Jarrod that his happiness was sorely misplaced.

The mild fever from the early morning had turned again into hell fires this long afternoon since. Heath’s lingering unconscious state was not a good thing… far from it. It was a coroner’s signature. Jarrod pulled off his neckerchief, rinsing it once, twice to remove at least the topmost layers of sweat and grime, and then soaked it in the tinny water from the canteen. He gently cajoled Heath’s mouth open, squeezing the cloth to drip in as much liquid as his brother would take. Thankfully, the tentative swallowing brought Heath around for a bit—one eye even opened to a pale blue slit—and Jarrod was able to actually pour more of the healing fluid in until Heath twitched and faded away again.

Silently, Jarrod wished he’d found the opportunity to ask John about the packets of herbs, both dried and fresh, that Heath’s savior had so carefully preserved. Surely there was some concoction as strong as the earth herself that could infuse Heath, knit him together from the inside, help him to cool and to calm and to float away, but only away from the pain. Surely.

And yet he, Jarrod Barkley, college graduate, famous lawyer, wealthy and upstanding citizen, stalwart son—nay sometimes father-figure and oft times confidant—knew absolutely nothing about many of life’s most rudimentary and crucial lessons… lessons known by ages of man but now slowly being lost to “modern” advances. Lessons on how to HEAL. It should be now as it once must have been—a skill for everyman, and not just the studied few, the Dr. Merars of the community.

Oration and wit be damned. Jarrod felt that he was being tried and found wanting. Because of all things to be known, a man should know how to reach into the deep pockets of the earth, to pull forth her kind magics, and to heal.

He swallowed again against the despair that had been with him since he’d finally set forth on his lonely trek towards Landers. If only he’d had the time to speak with John when he’d still been aware and murmuring about rivers and bears and journeys into the spiritworld. More could possibly be done for Heath here, now, on this desolate, frightening journey into man’s world.

Jarrod made a firm decision. As much as he wanted to stop the horses, to toil so that he might again lower Heath’s fever, he knew that he needed to get Heath to the doctor in town more. At the pace they were moving it was maybe an hour or two away at the most. If Heath couldn’t survive that distance, he probably wouldn’t survive anyway, regardless of what Jarrod did for him here and now. With a dark resignation, he fed his younger brother another wrung out dribble, gently laid the cool kerchief across his roasting brow, murmured a few discouraged words of encouragement, and mounted up. The loamy, warm smell of horse reared up and was infinitely better than the smell of death his mind had been replaying, conjuring, and projecting for hours now.

Jarrod stowed the half-empty canteen, glad for the amount Heath had taken. “At least he won’t die thirsty,” he found himself mumbling to the wilderness, and then clapped a horrified hand over his mouth. He was losing that semblance of composure he’d always prided himself on. As if on cue, his dark and dancing cabal of worries forced him to now look forward instead of constantly back to the troubles he’d left behind along the shores of the Truckee, back to the one he was bodily dragging along with him. The worries of the future took over, wispy looming ghosts with teeth.

What would Jarrod find in Landers? Hopefully, nothing too difficult since John’s presence was no longer an issue and since Jarrod could point them to the scant remains of Hank Handy if they were insistent about it. At least he hoped that would satisfy the confrontational men of his imaginings. And would there really be men he’d have to encounter, to fight his way past, in Landers? His lawyer’s gut knew there would be. He knew.

But his darkest knowledge was this: if the worse case scenario prevented itself, for Heath’s sake he’d have to lie and pin Handy’s death on Grey Bear John. He’d have to bear false witness… to spread sludge and soot upon their already hate-blackened memory of the man.

And yet there loomed the possibility that these men would still try to assign Heath some sort of blame in their own failings as humans—wasn’t that the way of the weak? They might try to harm his dying brother even more. So Jarrod would have to rely on his tongue (hell, he was too weary for that… he’d rely on his wallet) to ensure Heath smooth passage out of this godforsaken place, into the gilded safety of the Barkley train car. There, Heath would finally finally be seen and tended to by a physician. And then, for better or worse, they would finally finally go home.

In his list of worries Jarrod ticked past a stray memory. He had promised Grey Bear John that he would contact Hank Handy’s son, Billy… apologize for the man’s death, make promises for restitution and such. But that could all be done later. By letter even, if need be. If Jarrod had to worry just now about that last detail he would most likely scream aloud.

And so his mind raced as his body plodded to carefully move two horses and his fading brother towards a dangerous town. Where was Nick just now? Was Jarrod right to do this? Would Heath survive? Was he right to do this? Was the town safe or had it become a deathtrap? Was Mother worried about them all? Hell, was Mother angry at them all just now, with so little word in such a long time? Was he right to do this? How was Heath? Would he survive the next five minutes, much less the next few hours and the possible trials time and distance would bring? And what if Heath roused and asked after John?

Jarrod pulled the animals to a sudden halt, leaned over the side of his mount, and retched until his sparse bit of breakfast from endless hours ago soiled the pretty green carpet of the forest. He blew out a quivering sigh, wiped his mouth with the back of his shaky sleeve, commanded his mind to SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP, and resumed his steady ride on. When the insidious worries began again he repeated the mantra. “Be quiet, Jarrod, and calm. Heath needs you. Only Heath. Be quiet, Jarrod. And calm.…”

Behind him, his little brother began to moan.

Heath worked on memories that he couldn’t remember, keeping his narrowed eyes on the blue sky far above. If he slid his gaze to the side, caught the roiling movements of the trees, his stomach bucked, so he focused only on the far off blue. Blue like the dress. San Francisco. Snow blue. She was wet like melting snow.

He’d found her… where? In an alley. Blue sky, like her dress.

He’d gone uptown, stopped in the alley behind the opera house. His mama had always wanted to see an opera and he’d wandered up to find out what the fuss was… would write to her about it. Settled down, listening at the alley door to the sounds of the building. Rich echoes of dying music here and there over the sweet smell of his cheroot. When it was over he’d tucked behind a barrel, simply savoring the smoke.

She’d come out and found him by following the hanging gray trail. She was soaked cold with sweat, snowy cold. Reached a graceful, expectant hand out for his smoke, talked at him in a rapid, sultry language that he knew the sound of but couldn’t find the place for. Natalia. Natalia of the blue dress and the snow and the smoky dance.

She'd finally taken him down right there, in the alley. And it was just right, just good. His warm flesh sizzled on her cold until she was above him and burning him. Her head was thrown back, laughing ice teeth, murmurings, and one word, then another shared. Her two clear words in English: "hungry" and "life." She was these things. He'd shown her he was these things and more.

The blue sky above whispered the tingling memory for Heath; he’d had him a dancer once. Not a saloon girl, not a fancy waltzing party girl, but an on-her-toes swirling Russian goddess of a dancer. She’d snuck him backstage the next night so he could see. On her toes the whole time, impossible; mincing tiny steps like the prettiest bird, and oh how she could whirl. Leaping! God… leaping higher than the happiest fawn! Natalia. Blue.

Memories. Why these memories? This wasn’t what he was trying to recall, he knew. It felt so pretty and flighty, not nearly weighty or ugly enough for what he was trying to dredge forth. He could place the hard feeling but not the thought.

After the dance she’d shown him her narrow feet. They bled; her toes were mangled from years of it. Such profound beauty out of such slicing pain.

Pain. He did remember that. Heath sighed over low, jolting moans that he recognized as his own. His memories were skating, leaping, bleeding, but never finding themselves.

Where was his snow dancer now, cold like his soul and blue like this sky?

Let down and draping him, her hair was thick and dark like an Indian’s.

Did that mean something? Why couldn’t he remember his thoughts? Heath closed his eyes to the blue and a tear traced his dirty cheek. It wasn’t a tear of sadness. It was simply overflowing and then gone.

The pair plodded on towards Landers, which birthed itself from the trees in the distance.

Heath was still mumbling bits of fevered nonsense as Jarrod led his travois into the empty streets of Landers. All the buildings were drifting shades of gray, and it occurred to Jarrod that Landers had seemed empty from the beginning, just like its citizens were thus far… empty, lacking in brains and heart. Maybe even soul. Even the buildings were soulless: looming corpse husks with black, empty windows for eyes.

He had taken note of the doctor’s shingle from his earlier pass through the town (was it only yesterday morning?), and he nudged his mount in that direction, still keeping the pace slow and thus steady for the benefit of the precious cargo trailing behind. The ride had gotten particularly bumpy since they’d left behind the thick, whispering carpet of the forest and began to encounter wheel-rutted dirt roads.

The nervous thrum of his heart slowed as he got nearer and nearer his destination without encountering grief—the wild, screaming, jostling posse of his imagination. And then, as Jarrod rode past the sheriff’s office, Emmett stepped out of the shadows. A quick glance revealed to Jarrod that the burly man now sported a badge, gleaming out from his grimy shirt. It was clear to Emmett that Jarrod had no intention of halting his mount for him, so he began to stroll on the sidewalk in the same direction. It was clear to Jarrod that the big man had some prying and gloating to do.

“Well now,” Jarrod finally opened with false cheer, “I see you not only made it back in one piece, but that you profited from our little adventure as well?”

“This?” Emmett swelled his barrel chest even more. “T’ain’t nothin’. Just the folks ‘round here recognizin’ the sorta man it takes to lead out in this fine wilderness.” He spread his arms expansively, as if offering a hug to all of his new kingdom.

“I see. So you’ve garnered an official post? With pay?” Jarrod couldn’t help himself.

Emmett frowned a bit, and Jarrod knew that he’d hit a nerve. He should dismount to allow the man back his sense of superiority. Big fools feeding on self-importance always twitch when men are in any way larger than them. He swung a weary leg out of the creaking saddle so that he was now looking up to Emmett’s bulky frame, made even taller by the wooden lift of the sidewalk.

“Not yet,” Emmett cocked his head, squinted at Jarrod—as if trying to decide if he were being mocked. “But it will be. That’s a guar-an-tee.”

“I’m sure,” Jarrod nodded, but then dropped the subject as he went back to tend to Heath.

Emmett didn’t come any closer, leaned against a post and observed Jarrod. He was just too happy to have an audience to his new status in the world, so he chatted some more as the lawyer worked with his patient. “We was just about to set a posse out looking for you all. Wouldn’t want to make the Governor mad if’n his special friend Barkley went missin’.” Only then did he seem to take true notice of the travois. Quite the astute lawman, Jarrod mused darkly.

“Whatcha draggin’ there? Or should I say who? Your loudmouth brother? Got shot up by the injun, did he, and now you come limpin’ to my town, lookin’ to us to take care of you? Could’a told you that one weren’t no good. Just like all of ‘em. Crazy and lazy and killers, the lot.” But Emmett’s curiosity was peaked and he moved in, looming over Jarrod’s shoulder.

“Wait… that’s not your brother…not the one I meant, the one from yesterday. This is the missin’ one. Where’s the other one? And what happened to this one?” Emmett’s tone was turning dangerous; he was confused and thus a bit afraid, and that did not bode well.

While working steadily on the travois, Jarrod sized up the situation. Regardless, Emmett was still just one man, and one man that he could easily bully all the while allowing him to think Emmett himself was in charge. And Jarrod was in a bullying mood—anger was so much better than despair. “This ‘one’ is named Heath. He was injured by one of the renegades. Your ‘dangerous’ Indian neighbor, Grey Bear John, kept him alive. Now, in respect to your new position, I will do you the courtesy of answering all of your questions and more.” Jarrod turned steady eyes to Emmett. “But know that it is just that… a professional courtesy. And only AFTER I get my little brother, here, to the doctor.”

Emmett considered this for a long while, Jarrod now ignoring him and working to manually maneuver the travois as close to the doctor’s door as possible. Finally Emmett shrugged, and with huge, gnarled hands that worked with a sudden surprising carefulness, he helped Jarrod unload Heath and carry him into the well-kempt little clapboard. Jarrod noticed that this was the only building that seemed alive in the entire gray place.

The doctor, Theodore Tallen, was all business, his round wife scurrying, red-cheeked, behind him. The pair worked in silent tandem, communication seemingly not even needed. As soon as the man finished with his examination of Heath and some cursory but very careful ministrations, he turned his attention back to Jarrod. Emmett hovered past the surgery door in the foyer-turned-waiting-room, and Jarrod was aware that the big man’s ears were straining to pick up every bit shared between him and the doctor.

“We call it surgical fever,” Tallen opened abruptly.

“So it’s not from infection?” Jarrod frowned, moving close to his brother and running a hand through his freshly washed blond hair, noting that the doctor had placed a single careful stitch on a nick at the top of Heath’s ear.

“The better word is trauma. He’s been through a lot, obviously. Can’t even imagine the all of it. This wound is days old. He’s clearly been cut open, but from the shape he’s in—and based on what you’ve told me—I’d hazard that he was carrying around the arrowhead for quite a long time before that.”

The doctor shook his head, avoiding Jarrod’s gaze by frowning at the patient they were discussing. “Nasty business, all of it—particularly since it wasn’t a qualified surgeon who did the cutting. There’s muscle damage; I’ve stitched what I can there. Add to that a few broken ribs. Extensive blood loss. And you tell me he fell from a horse? Might even have knocked his head around a bit, although I can’t find any swelling. Yup, Mr. Barkley, you have one sick young man here. I’m surprised a fever is all we’re battling just now. In fact, with the ribs broken—and the pain of the injury itself—were going to have to go to great lengths to see that he breathes properly so that we can avoid a deadly lung congestion.”

“You mean pneumonia? Not one to pull your punches, are you, Doctor Tallen?” Jarrod had to chuckle darkly at the man’s honesty.

“Not my style. But I will grudgingly admit that Grey Bear John did do an admirable job. No surgeon, but he kept infection at bay, and perhaps a great deal of pain in the bargain. Never held much store in herbs and such, but I might have to rethink that. Just a bit, mind you.”

Jarrod slid a glance from the still-unwrapped back injury to Heath’s incessantly closed eyes. Which were open! He dropped to his knees beside the bed so he could cup a gentle hand on his brother’s cheek. “Well, well, Brother Heath. You’ve decided to join us.”

Heath went to speak but only managed a croak. The doctor’s wife appeared out of seemingly nowhere with a cup of what smelled like chicken broth. “Slow sips,” she told Jarrod, pressing the cup into his hand.

Jarrod shushed Heath, who continued to try talking until Jarrod had managed to force half the broth into him. “Could you shut the door, Doctor,” Jarrod requested with an indication towards Emmett’s hovering form. Tallen nodded knowingly, and excused even himself.

“Now, what do you have to tell me that’s so critical it couldn’t wait until this delicious broth was finished?” Jarrod’s eyes twinkled as he rubbed a slow hand on Heath’s exposed shoulder.

“‘M sorry, Jarrod.”

“Sorry? For what?”

There was a beat as Heath’s brow creased in a frown. “Can’t... seem to remember.”

Jarrod’s voice was packed with mirth even though his eyes were somber. “You haven’t done anything to be sorry for, Heath.”

Heath dredged at the scant remains of his memories. Was it a dream? Had he really seen him out there, in the midst of the wildness that was Heath’s dying?

“Nick?” There; that seemed like the right thing to ask.

“Nick is a big boy. He can handle himself.”

And that seemed like the proper response. Heath decided to take Jarrod on his word, although he wasn’t sure what that word meant. Nothing useful would come to his mind. Except dancing and blood.

He closed his eyes again and finally drifted away on a sweet, wispy cloud of laudanum.

When the doctor returned—without Emmett—Jarrod proposed his plan, backing it up with a proffered two hundred dollars. Far more than a man in a town like this might make in a year, sometimes even two.

“All this for simply riding with you—in your own private train car, no less—to the next town up the rail with a doctor?”

“Well,” Jarrod tried his best lawyer’s voice. “I figured I’d need to buy you out of your Hippocratic Oath, because I know you’re going to bluster at my suggestion that we move my brother immediately. I also know you won’t like leaving your town untended for any length of time. Of course,” he hurried along, “your good wife will be here, you’re going to catch an immediate train for home. And you’ll be satisfying my family’s needs and thus incurring our eternal gratitude!” It was low to sell the Barkley good name, but Jarrod was beyond desperate to get moving, particularly now that he was more confident about Heath’s state. Nothing could be done here that couldn’t be done on the train, including tending to the fever now that it had lowered a bit.

The doctor still looked wary, so Jarrod placed the money carefully (but oh so visibly) on a small desk in the corner of the room. “You consider it. Please. For Heath. I have to wire my mother, the marshal in Sacramento, and then see that our car is secured. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He took a last, fond look at Heath, whose color seemed to be improving in the lightest pink hint. “Please take good care of him while I’m gone.”

He stepped outside into the piney sunshine… and into the waiting company of Emmett, Wayne (who wore a slightly rusted deputy’s badge), Yellow Shirt (now sporting a crutch), and a few lingering others. Jarrod sighed, mentally checked for the count in his wallet, and scrounged for the last reserve of his wits.

“Gentlemen,” Jarrod tipped his hat in greeting and moved to make his way past the cluster of men surrounding him. But Emmett’s “friendly” grip on one shoulder told the counselor that the encounter had begun. Jarrod did not flinch in the slightest. He simply stared at the hand curiously, as if wondering mildly how a fleck of mud had gotten upon a freshly laundered silk suit.

“If’n you remember, you said you was gonna answer my law questions?” Emmett was a different man, Jarrod observed in one corner of his mind, now that he had an audience.

“Yes, I did, and I will. I have some business to take care of first.”

“Not as important as my business,” Emmett grinned darkly, but he did remove his paw from Jarrod at the man’s steady, unblinking blue gaze there.

Jarrod straightened the shoulder, then himself, and in a millisecond ticked through his options. He was about to lie, and he knew it—perhaps, as punchy as he was, he should merely think of this as poker. He was about to try a bluff. He felt safe thinking of this encounter as a game because he trusted the doctor, and Tallen knew who to contact should something happen to him.

For the moment, then, Heath was safe—and by his mere absence, so was Nick—and so bluffing whilst playing a mere game of poker, instead of a game where lives were the currency, was just fine with Jarrod. After the strain he’d been laboring under it sounded almost delightful.

“Fine, your business first. But make it quick, if you don’t mind. As fellow practitioners of the law, we both know how busy the details can make a man.” He offered a melodramatic sigh and an eye roll for effect. “For example, all the way back to town I had nothing to do but think. I began to really ponder the situation that the death of a sheriff created here, and I’d already decided that I needed to wire the marshal in Sacramento. It had occurred to me that perhaps he could see to securing this position—with pay of course—right away. And then when I got to town and discovered the job would go to you, Emmett, and,” he added with a bright nod at Wayne, “deputy Wayne, of course, well that made my input all the more urgent.”

Jarrod actually intended to wire the marshal to let him know of the actions leading to the deaths of the renegades, including the unfortunate attack on Heath. But more importantly perhaps, he needed to document the outright murder of Delilah’s Man Charley that had occurred in the name of justice, and the subsequent shooting of Gray Bear John. Jarrod would also clarify that the suspect in both cases, Hank Handy, was dead, but that others would have, more than likely, participated without the Barkleys’ intervention. More importantly, Jarrod also intended to wire the marshal about what a disaster this area was as far as the law was concerned, and that temporary leadership needed to be established until someone trustworthy could be placed.

His flashing, merry eyes conveyed none of this though. Jarrod knew in an instant that the men before him hadn’t the cunning to think through all of the dark possibilities that a wire to a marshal might create; in fact, Wayne was beaming. He still saw suspicion in most of their gazes, however. But this was the suspicion of the outsider, the man from a separate class…. Ironically, it was the same suspicion that had caused the problems for the renegades and Grey Bear John in the first place.

“All I know is you said that boy in there was with Grey Bear John. You CLAIM John was helping him, but I only got your word for that. ‘Cause, after riding with him way back when on that posse, I think I’ve decided I don’t trust that brother of yours. He seemed to side with them redskins, if I recall.” Several of the small group nodded in dark agreement at this, causing Emmett to puff up just a bit more. ”Now what I wanna know is where is Hank Handy, where’s your other brother, the loudmouth? And,” this one was delivered most pointedly—the question of the day, it seemed, “where’s Grey Bear John?”

There was an almost tangible shift in the air. The game had picked up. It was now quite dangerous, wildly so. Jarrod’s flashing gaze noted with bright clarity every pistol worn, how low each gun belt was slung, that there was a coil of rope thrown casually over a nearby hitching post. But Jarrod’s mind was likewise racing in its wonderful, efficient way. He was seeing with internal clarity as well… one of those moments of KNOWING.

Grey Bear John. Bear medicine. Grey BEAR John. And the mental picture of the scant, spotty remains of Hank Handy, who had largely been ingested by a grizzly acting out its scavenging dog nature.

“Well, gentlemen, I do believe you’ll be happy to find the remains of your missing Indian on the banks of your fair Truckee. He was dropped by a bullet… Hank Handy’s, I have to assume, although I haven’t seen Handy since he left our posse at the cave. I found my brother just in time… the grizzly that was gnawing on Grey Bear John might have decided to snack on Heath too. And as for my other brother, Nick… well, let’s just say he was here under duress. He and Heath don’t see eye to eye on many things—Indians included—and he’s probably halfway home by now.”

There was a long pause. Jarrod felt the tiniest twitch in the muscle beneath his left eye, but he knew that particular tick. It happened when his mind worked just so, or when he’d read a jury’s faces and found them to his liking. And the tick wasn’t visible. He’d studied himself in the mirror while in law school to make sure. A lawyer couldn’t afford a tell, particularly one that meant he’d won.

Suddenly Emmett boomed… but with laughter. And Jarrod smiled. “What do you know about that?” Emmett wheezed. “Grey Bear John gets eated by a BEAR! There is a good god after all, hey fellas!”

The men, still unsure, chuckled a bit and shuffled. Jarrod could tell that one or two of them were disappointed that they weren’t going to be participating in a lovely bit of violence. Emmett swung a smelly arm around Jarrod’s shoulders. Jarrod didn’t tense, but he knew what to expect next. The man would need the last word.

“So I guess, while you do your law business, I’ll do mine. Me and the boys here will ride on up and poke around. See that chewed up body for ourselves. Might just be a sight to tell about. Hell, might get a little bit of bear huntin’ in for good measure. But I tell you what, I’ll leave Deputy Wayne here to watch after you… help you out if’n you need it.” He winked at Jarrod, darkly.

The group was happy with this last bit of posturing and the lovely bit of threat implied and began to move in unison towards their mounts. And sure enough, Emmett grabbed for the rope that hung so innocently over the hitching post. He turned, gave Jarrod an almost apologetic grin.

When the men were gone Jarrod offered Wayne fifty dollars to help him gently secure his brother in the sumptuous private train car that would ultimately take them home. Wayne was very agreeable—as agreeable, it turned out, as Doctor Tallen, who had pocketed his own offering and carefully readied Heath for travel.

Just before the train had departed, Jarrod had slipped Wayne an extra ten to secure a barrel full of sweet well water floating with slushy bits of shaved ice. He and the doctor were using this just now to lower Heath’s temperature even more. Heath was still floating on a beautiful sea of laudanum, muttering occasional words in… was it Russian?... to someone named… Natalia? Jarrod stowed this delightful knowledge away for the future; lawyers traded in knowledge, after all.

Jarrod never paused in his ministrations when the train began to slow several miles outside of town. The doctor, however, dashed to a window. “What’s going on? A hold up? Why are we stopping?”

“Because, if worry and prayers count for anything, I’m about to need your services further. There’s another hundred in it for your help, and your silence after.”

“I won’t be part of anything illegal.”

“No, you won’t be.” Jarrod looked up, assuring Tallen with a steady gaze. “If all goes well, you’ll be helping to save a man’s life.”

The doctor seemed somewhat assuaged by this. When the door to the car opened, however, he still jumped nervously. But when he saw the sight before him he understood the need for all of it: silence, suspicion, and extra pay.

In stormed Nick Barkley. In his arms, wrapped in careful furs, was the still form of Grey Bear John.

Simultaneously the Barkley brothers peered at one another’s silent, fallen patients—like parents gazing after a lengthy departure on illness-ravaged children. “Is he…still…” they barked their questions in nervous unison.

But hasty, rejoicing nods settled suddenly clenched stomachs and hammering hearts. Nick moved forward, and with Jarrod’s help, settled John carefully down on a berth made up with fresh, crisp linens. “Did you run into the trouble we thought you would in Landers?” Nick asked, stepping aside so the doctor could check on his new patient’s status.

“As much as I hated splitting up, we made the right decision,” Jarrod sighed. “I had to lie, cheat and steal just to get Heath aboard safely. John would have started a riot and these two were in no condition for that. We might all be dead. At the very least John would.”

Tallen, who had moved in immediately, monitored John’s pulse and respiration, then began to gingerly cut the dressing from the wound. John was dreadfully still and, Jarrod noted, a bit grey. “How long has this man been like this?”

“Too long!” Nick wiped a weary hand over his face, gladly accepting the drink that Jarrod poured for him. “Help him and there’s a bonus in it for you.”

“I’ve already received a bonus from your… brother I presume? Two, in fact.”

“So that means you’ll snort at three?” Nick was already holding his glass out for a welcome refill. “This man saved our brother, and we’re gonna do everything we can to return the favor… including keeping him far away from the murder-happy folk you call neighbors.”

“We’re not all like that,” the doctor sighed as he worked to meticulously clean the ugly gunshot wound, paying particular care as he worked around the blistered and black-singed results of the cauterization. “For example, I don’t need anymore bribery just to do what I took a solemn oath for.” He sounded suddenly disgusted with himself at the money he’d already accepted. As a result, he lashed out at the injury. “This wound is a mess. Why didn’t this boy take as good care of himself as he did your brother?”

Even with two bolts of “nerve tonic” burning his gullet and the knowledge that they were actually, finally experiencing the end of their wild travels through the wilderness—indicated by the slow starting movements of the train, each clack taking them further from their nightmare—Nick was not to be calmed down. “Because he was shot by one of your posse! Tends to limit one’s ability to nurse, don’t you think?”

Nick ran a wild hand through his hair and marched to the window. There he gathered himself together, all the while thinking back to his long, frustrating journey from the river to the stopping point he and Jarrod had agreed upon, and which Jarrod had so-recently arranged with the conductor. Nick had cradled John on his horse in front of him the whole way. A second travois had been prepared, but in the end he’d been afraid to use it. If the young man were laid in it, Nick felt, it would be akin to stretching him out in a cold, lonely hole in the ground. Strong, warm arms still seemed the only things keeping him tethered to this world. That and a running conversation whenever John was awake, and frequently when he wasn’t.

Nick did his best. He even tried for a time to bait John into arguments just so that the young man would stay alert. “Ain’t you a bit young for a shaman?”

The reply was a gravelly whisper, John’s head hung forward, hair hiding his face, but the words were laced with wry humor. “Ain’t you a bit bald for a grizzly?”

Nick was stumped. “YOU’RE the one named after a bear.”

“Yeah, but a quiet bear. One who shuffles along, taking just what he needs, retreating when he has a mind to.” Nick thought the odd speech finished, but after a few moments of rest John resumed. “You’re a big ole ornery bear, just looking for a fight to show all the other critters you can claw ‘em apart.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup.” He sighed in pain, lifted his head and leaned it back against Nick’s broad shoulder. “Like the way you were pickin’ on Horse Heath before he headed out this way. Don’t you know horses got hearts that are wild? They’ll bust rein and run right off ‘less you treat ‘em just so.” John, eyes closed, chuckled at the irony. “And you call yourself a rancher.”

The argument tactic had backfired because Nick kept losing the arguments and dropping into sullen silences since he couldn’t rightly yell at the man he was supposed to be keeping alive.

And at some point Nick had realized that they were indeed a pair. Two grizzlies, fighting over the same territory, only the territory was a blond brother named Heath.

John had fallen forward again and the man was now silent, either unconscious or asleep. Nick gently eased him back against his shoulder once more, keeping a gentle hand on the warm forehead of his new friend.

Nick was drawn back to the present when Heath mumbled a moan. And, as Nick whirled, he saw John flinch at the sound, and his black eyes fly open… right in the middle of some of Doctor Tallen’s more painful ministrations.

John hissed, tossing his head from side to side, then barked out something in Modoc. Nick and Jarrod were both at his side in a moment.

Nick grabbed his hand, which was reaching out for nothing in particular. “How you doing?”

“A bit more trimming of this dead flesh and then just a few more stitches and we’re done,” Doctor Tallen offered with a focused frown. “I don’t want to anesthetize you, young man, because at this point it would do more harm than good.”

Nick put a steadying hand on John’s chest since the young man was quivering in agony. Jarrod, eyes steadily on the procedure, had stepped back to Heath so that he could monitor his brother (and stay out from underfoot, since Nick had so obviously put himself forward as the Doctor’s assistant). John’s dark eyes were blank, his gaze flitting around the car, until it fell on Heath, who now slept comfortably on a neighboring berth. John seemed to find a sort of peace then. Although the stare remained tortured and blank, his bodily quivering slowly ceased.

“That’s it, Boy,” Nick murmured.

It even surprised the doctor when, in the midst of his surgery, John began to talk in a low rasp. “Been dreamin’. Mostly ‘bout you, Nick. I think you’re gonna have to be careful. You’ve got some hard medicine comin’ your way. Wolf knows all about you. Wants a taste. So does cougar. ‘M thinkin’ you need to balance your evil ways.” At that John offered a weak, dimpled smile.

“Balance my evil ways?” Nick had had it with this hoodoo. “Balance my ways! I’ll balance your…”

“Don’t argue with your patient, Nick.” The Barkley brothers whirled in unison. Heath, eyes closed, was grinning. “’Specially when he’s right,” the chuckle was low, gravelly, but it came from a forgiving mouth, not an angry one.

“Heath!” Nick’s call was one of sheer delight. And luckily the doctor finished the last of the stitching just then. Jarrod made an excuse of wanting to help with wrapping John’s injury, and he left Heath alone for Nick.

The dark-haired rancher dropped down beside his younger brother, smiling into the now-open blue eyes. “Hey, welcome back.”

“Welcome back yourself.” There was a beat and then Heath frowned. “You have been gone, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, me and John thought we’d take a little tour of the countryside. But we’re back now.”

“You’re back,” Heath sighed and gave his brother a shaky grin. “Me too.”

“Promise,” Nick asked, his eyes misting just a touch, one tender hand clasping Heath’s.

“Yeah. Back for good.”

The train swayed and clacked its way away from Landers on the Truckee, and towards life.

Victoria had received a worrisome telegraph saying that, although Nick and Jarrod had found Heath and another man who had supposedly kept Heath alive in the wilderness for almost two weeks, they were all four stopping over in Colfax for more rest and doctoring before heading on to Stockton. She was tempted to join them, even though the telegraph swore that the worst was far behind them.

The worst of what? Kept him ALIVE in the wilderness for WEEKS? Victoria had been devastated when Heath had left, confused when Jarrod had allowed it, and then furious when her two oldest sons headed to a tiny town called Landers with only a note of scant explanation… something to do with Heath… and not so much as a word from them in days! And then to receive this!

But she had always trusted her sons… damnable and irritating though they may at times be. She didn’t want to demonstrate distrust in them now by barging into Colfax like a mother bear crazed with worry, all set to cuff her baby cubs. Her babies were adults, as difficult as it was for her to allow that in some ways. And she was strangely elated (although frustratingly curious) that Nick had gone along with the whole trip, obviously helping, and was still with Heath instead of storming home early and hollering about “the blond interloper.” No, on second thought, she’d enjoy the last bit of quiet in the house. She was still not a happy woman, though. Resigned, about to find herself well rested, but not happy.

She suspected, two days later, that they were feeling her quiet ire all the way in Colfax, because she received a package of letters written by, not only Jarrod and Nick, but Heath and this mysterious fourth man as well. She settled onto the settee with strong, hot tea turned a lovely caramel with a drop of rich cream.

As she shuffled the letters, each addressed to her in its own unique hand, she was reminded of Jarrod and Nick as boys. Jarrod had started the tradition, and thoughtfully taught Nick to follow it. When Victoria found sweet, loving notes in her needlepoint bag, slid beneath her door in the morning or atop her pillow at night, she’d known the children had either gotten into horrible mischief, or were readying some wild request that would undoubtedly lead to more.

(Her favorite had always been Nick’s pitifully scrawled, “Dearest Mother, I love you even more than cookies.” Of course, she had gone downstairs to discover that he’d eaten half of the dozens of cookies she’d prepared for a social that afternoon… but, well, if he loved her MORE than cookies, and he so CLEARLY loved cookies, she could only soundly scold him instead of paddle him… and make him help her with the catch-up baking—despite the fact that the sight of cookies just now turned him an odd shade of green.) Why did she feel as if she were about to read the pre-apology kindnesses of just such a group of mischief makers?

Because she had missed him so, she started with Heath’s letter, written in a surprisingly neat hand, but one that wandered a bit on the page. It made her worry anew about the nature of whatever ailment he’d sustained.

“First off, Mrs. Barkley, do not believe a word any of these rascals might be writing. I did not almost die. I was hibernating in a cave with my good friend, John, who is part bear (and who did almost die later, saving us, but that’s a long story that would be better told in person, once you have met him). My broken ribs finally seem to be healing and there was an arrowhead in my back for a long while, but it’s out now, so that’s good.”

“An arrowhead!” Victoria exclaimed aloud with a jump, nearly spilling her tea. Now Heath was on her list as well. She read on, frowning, but Heath had moved right past the subject of injury and into… oh, that boy!

“Jarrod insists that when we return home I begin to call you ‘Mother.’ Nick says that you’ll probably slap my face if I call you ‘Ma’am’ again, so I will try ‘Mother’ once when we are alone together and we can both see how it sounds on the tongue and in the ears. If that is alright with you, of course! Please don’t even consider it if it offends you, but my brothers seem so positive so I wasn’t afraid to pen you of my hoped-for intention. But I will await your blessing on the matter.”

“I do so long to see your lovely face again. I have missed our talks, and how you hold my arm or my hand, and make me somehow feel as loved as my own sweet mama did. I didn’t think it would be possible, but you make her death hurt me just a little less with every day we share. You are a wonderful lady, Mrs. Barkley (do not be angry at the title; I haven’t your permission yet). I must close because I am tiring. I’m sorry if I caused you any pain in leaving, but I left and found myself. I found Nick, too. I love you, Heath.”

Okay, so he was definitely off her list again, she thought, as she dabbed at a glimmer of tears.

She quickly skimmed Jarrod’s letter which, although it did downplay Heath’s injuries out of deference to her propensity for worry, made clear that the situation had been terrifyingly grave for some time. But even reading between the lines left her satisfied that, with much careful tending—including several weeks of bed rest once they’d gotten him home—Heath would, indeed, pull through just fine.

Nick’s letter was brusque, just like its penman. He informed her that he and Heath had “made it all up,” that they were bringing home a very important guest, and that they all hoped he would stay for as long as he saw fit—and perhaps even longer if Nick had his say. He stated that, although Grey Bear John would also initially need a great deal of nursing from she and Audra, he wanted his mother to have one of the men begin working on the line shack that was on the woodsy northern edge of the property to make it a bit more homey in case John “took to growling about being confined indoors or too near to folks.” Nick also wondered—and she found this most curious—if she and Audra knew how to decorate a building so as to make it look like the inside of a cave?

Victoria’s interest was beyond piqued by the time she opened the final letter, addressed to her from the now infamous Grey Bear John. “Ma’am,” it began, “I have not met you yet; I am your son, Heath’s, Indian brother, John. I feel as if I know you, though, because when I was most ill the dreams took me many places, including showing me of your ways. Right now you are hummingbird, that pretty little peace bringer, but I am sorry to say that your daughter is one playful otter. Nick says it’s alright if I write this… tell her that all that flirting could get her in trouble some day.”

“Your sons tell me I may have to stay at your home for a time while I heal up and until they can find me a proper cave. I hope you don’t mind. I already know not to smoke in my room and I won’t wear my leathers in the house. (Nick says I’m skinny enough to wear Audra’s pants, but I don’t think she’d appreciate that, nor would I.)

“I look forward to meeting you. Hummingbirds are such pretty things. Don’t you love it when they buzz past your eyes? It’s like you’ve seen the world’s most beautiful little present, and you always hold your breath in joy. I am honored to be spending time with you, if hummingbird has chosen you, much less if Heath and Jarrod and Nick have. (I do wonder though, how can a hummingbird raise a grumbling grizzly like Nick? I understand Jarrod, the wise crow!) In sum, I have almost nothing to offer, but to repay the hospitality that I know you will insist on showing I’ll at least help you keep an eye on your sleek Audra Otter. Humbly and respectfully yours, Grey Bear John.”

Victoria Barkley cocked her head to the side, laying them down on the table and then touching each special letter, one at a time. Then she shrugged, stood, and whisked off in a satin swirl to ready her home for the wonderful return of her family. Every last bright-soul one of them. Because some small part of her heart had already told her that they had just found one more beautiful, wayward son.

As she passed a window, a hummingbird hovered just outside the pane and then dashed off in a whir, joyously in search of the sweet red bottlebrush tree that was its home.

Epilogue

Nick helped Victoria up into the wagon, then turned for Audra, who gestured at the packages waiting in the foyer.

“Could you load those, Nick,” she asked sweetly as he lifted her onto the seat, where she settled with a flounce. “I forgot a few things.”

“Thought you were going for the weekend, not the season,” Nick growled, heading back for the parcels, then tossing them into the wagon with the bags that had been loaded that morning.

“Be careful,” she scolded. “I think my new perfume is in one of those.”

They all paused, watching the packages for a moment, waiting for some burst of telltale lavender. Nick shrugged when nothing was forthcoming. Satisfied, Audra leaned down and kissed his cheek as Victoria pulled on a pair of pale yellow kidskin gloves and took up the reins.

“I left the doctor’s instructions…” Victoria began.

“I know, I know, in the kitchen with Silas. And I’m supposed to check their bandages every day, make sure they stay in bed, that they don’t overdo their exercises, all that trap.”

Victoria gave him a long, steady gaze and he cleared his throat and amended his attitude, heading contritely to her side of the wagon. “Alright, it’s not trap. They’ll be good and I’ll be careful and the house will be tidy and shiny when you get back, I promise. Besides, you know you don’t need to worry. Since I notice you made sure Pappy does his business from HOME this weekend.”

Victoria grinned, eyes twinkling, then leaned down, ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. “And you’ll see that John eats all of his food? His appetite has been worrying me lately. He’s worse than Heath.”

Nick nodded his agreement. “I’m gonna change his name to Grey BIRD John, the way he picks at his food.”

“You two squabble so,” Audra frowned as she settled her drawstring silk bag on the seat beside her.

“Oh, now, and you two don’t?” Nick grinned mischievously at Audra as Victoria started the wagon forward with a cluck.

“And just what did he mean by that,” Audra grumped as Nick waved them off.

When the wagon was well on its way he clapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them in gleeful anticipation. “Come on out you two,” he bellowed, and Heath and John, who had been hovering unseen just inside the doorway, burst into the sunshine.

“See, Heath,” John said, eyes closed as he lifted his face with rapture. “I told you the sun still showed up every day, regular-like.”

“Was startin’ to doubt your word, John.” Heath stretched carefully, then went to immediately unhitch the soft cotton sling that kept his left arm secured to his torso.

“Ah-ah!” Nick scolded, moving in and resecuring it. “I sprung ya, but you’re wearing the sling.” Off Heath’s wounded look he scowled further. “And don’t try them eyes on me. They don’t work for Mother or Jarrod or Silas, what makes you think they’d work on me?”

“They work on Audra,” John offered.

“Yeah, and Audra. But I’m not Audra. Sling stays. So does the medicine and the exercises and the meals and the bedrest. I’m just letting you two see the outside is all.”

John flashed Nick a dimple and headed after Heath, who was already marching towards the barn.

“I said that’s ALL,” Nick growled. “No horses, Heath. No riding. None.”

“Telling Horse Heath not to ride… that’s just plain unnatural, Nick.”

“Traitor!” Nick barked. “You took care of his sorry hide for weeks and now you’re gonna suggest I let him swing up into a saddle and gallop all over the ranch?”

“I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout swingin’ up or gallopin’… and maybe you could saddle it?”

“Well, yeah. No, wait.” Nick dashed forward and planted himself between the two escapees at the white gate that led into the barn. “I mean it, Heath! No horses!” He pointed at each of them in turn. “You’ve been skewered, you’ve caught a good chunk of lead… but it’s my neck that’ll end up in a noose if Mother finds out you so much as sniffed in the direction of a barn.” Heath’s eyes narrowed as he considered this, so Nick dropped his voice, looking around at the lingering hands who couldn’t help but stare at the threesome: boss Nick, Heath in a sling and friendly with the brother that hated him a month ago, and the half-breed, also injured, who had been seemingly adopted by the family. “She always leaves spies, you know.”

Heath winced at that and John looked around nervously.

“Can she even tie a noose?” Heath finally asked with a wistful look past Nick and into the dark doorway of the barn.

“Yup. It don’t matter that I’ll be hung up by a bunch of pretty silk scarves, I’ll still be hung. Not gonna happen, baby brother or no.” He studied them. Heath looked mournful, all big blue eyes and sad mouth. John put on a pretty pout. But Nick also noticed that they were both too thin, their coloring still off. He took himself seriously then. “About face. You can park your butts in the garden. I’ll go get the lunch and bring it out. But that’s it.”

“Can I have my tobacco too?” John asked, brightening.

“Oooh, yeah. And a drink?” Heath bargained. Nick knew he was sunk as he led them each by an elbow back towards the garden. “Fine. Lunch and smokes and a drink or two. But then naps for both of you. And NO HORSES.”

Jarrod could only shake his head in wonder when he wandered out into the garden an hour later to find the three of them stretched out on the grass, passing a bottle and a smoke amongst them and discussing the shapes of the fat, drifting clouds.

“It’s a pumpkin,” John insisted.

“A bustle,” Nick parried, squinting.

“I suppose I can see that,” Heath drawled, reaching for the smoke.

“See which,” Nick frowned, lifting his head and glaring at Heath. “And how come you can’t come up with your own interpretations? Always borrowing ours.”

“I’m just being agreeable,” Heath shrugged his good shoulder, then took a gander at the sky again. “And it’s definitely a pumpkin.”

“That’s eight for me,” John said mildly.

“Oh, and it’s a competition now, too? A body’d never win with you two in cahoots.”

“To be fair, you do have one point, Nick.” Heath took a swig and Jarrod swore he was slurring a bit.

“Yeah, but there was no denying the bust of George Washington.”

“Still say it was a duck,” John pursed his lips thoughtfully, reached for the bottle that Heath automatically passed his way, tensing just a bit at the pull to his side.

“Since when do ducks have wooden teeth,” Nick was grumbling as Heath winked at Jarrod.

“Hey, Pappy. What do you think about that cloud there? Pumpkin or bustle?”

Startled, Nick was on his feet in a blink. “Jarrod! What…. Hi.”

“Definitely a pumpkin,” Jarrod quipped dryly, reaching for the bottle and holding it up to the sunlight. “Having a few nips, fellas?”

“Better than laudanum?” Nick tried in a voice that was almost a squeak.

There was a long beat and then Jarrod settled down on the grass next to Heath, took a hearty swig. “Indeed, any fool can see that’s a pumpkin.”

“Oh, fine,” Nick grumbled, settling back down between Heath and John. “And now there’s another wiseass in the competition.”

When the bottle was empty and the tobacco pouch put away Nick’s patients were glowing and agreeable and headed indoors for a nap. In fact, all of the Barkley men napped that fine afternoon away, dreaming of bourbon, busts, and bustles as the clouds outside their bedroom windows drifted into sweet, crisp darkness.