Of Dreams and Yesterdays

Chapters 19-25

by Heartcat

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

Chapter Nineteen

As Rose set the breaded chicken into the pot of bubbling fat, the oil spattered up and out, burning her hand for the third time that evening. "Oh for Pete's sake, wouldn't it just be easier to get KFC!" she declared disgustedly, bringing the injured finger to her mouth.

Audra, who had been cutting biscuits from raised dough, turned excitedly from the work island when Rose uttered the name. She tried to keep her tone light, as she asked casually, "Kay Efsey?" But her heart thudded in her chest.

Since the trip to San Francisco, Rose had not had any recollections, or strange episodes, either behaviour wise, or with garbled words or phrases. But this name... Who was the woman and how did Rose know her? Audra thought that perhaps rather than pouncing on the name that had spilled so easily from Rose's lips, drawing attention to it, and making a big deal out of the memory, that if she was calm, nonchalant even, and just kept Rose relaxed and talking, there might be more to follow.

"Kay Efsey?" Rose repeated distractedly, frowning, looking over her shoulder at Audra. The church picnic was tomorrow and the two women were busy preparing their box lunches for the auction. With Silas to prepare all of the meals for the family, there had been little need or opportunity for Rose to spend much time testing out her culinary skills. But she was discovering that she wasn't much of a cook, as Audra had helped her with menu suggestions and guided her through their preparations.

Her pastry crust had been heavy, and she had burned the raisin pie, finding it difficult to judge the heat of the oven and to determine the length of the cooking time. It cooled now on the sideboard, looking, Rose had to admit, decidedly unappealing. Even after she had scraped off the scorched area. She had tried to cajole Audra into cheating a bit, and doing a dessert for her, but Audra had been adamant. Each young woman had to prepare her own boxed lunch, entirely on her own. Those were the unwritten rules. After all, it wouldn't do to trick some unsuspecting bachelor when it came to one's proficiency in the kitchen, Audra had teased.

"Yes, you just mentioned her name. Is she someone you knew before? Your cook maybe?" Audra suggested. "Someone who made wonderful fried chicken?" Considering the context in which Rose had spoken the name, Audra thought that was a reasonable assumption. She stared at Rose, willing her to remember. "It would be easier if Kay Efsey were here, you said." She waited patiently.

"I did?" Rose asked, puzzled. Her slender shoulders slumped. "The name means nothing to me. I don't even remember saying it." Her green eyes shifted to the floor. What was wrong with her that she would say things and then not remember them? It seemed that every time a door opened to her previous life, it would slam mockingly shut before they could even peek inside.

Audra reached to touch her shoulder. "It's all right, Rose. We'll tell Jarrod and he can look into it. Efsey is not a common surname. I don't believe I've even heard it before. If there is a Kay Efsey out there, anywhere in California...anywhere in the country...Jarrod will know how to find her," the blonde comforted. Rose nodded and gave a wan smile. "Umm...you'd better turn that chicken," Audra advised, pointing past the dark-haired woman to the big cast iron pot. "You don't want it to burn too."

* * * * * * * *

'June is Mother Nature's way of apologizing for December,' the thought rose unbidden in Rose's mind. How very true that was. The sun had treated them that morning to the most magnificent sunrise. Rose had sat on the back porch with Victoria in companionable silence, sipping coffee, and watching the day break. The undersides of the long, low-lying clouds had been blushed with the faintest peaches and pinks, which had deepened to vibrant corals and salmons as the golden orb began it's ascent into a sky that metamorphed throughout the morning from a pale, powder blue to a crisp azure.

It was a glorious day. It warmed early, but there was none of the humidity that would be a nuisance later in the summer. Rose accompanied the family to church that morning, for the second time since her arrival. On her initial visit, she had been touched by how friendly and solicitous the valley dwellers had been. It was obvious that the Barkley family was held in high esteem and regarded with genuine affection. Victoria and Audra had introduced her to their friends and neighbours, easing her into their midst so that they would not be total strangers to her, nor she to them, the following Sunday at the social.

That morning's sermon had been pleasant and moving. Rose had enjoyed watching Audra perform with the choir, and could easily pick out the blonde's clear, dulcet tones. Rose had had to stifle a fit of giggling when in the midst of one of the hymns, loud snores reverberated through the church. Jarrod elbowed Heath sharply, and the sandy-haired cowboy woke, embarrassed, glancing guiltily at the surrounding pews. Rose knew that he had been up most of the night, successfully assisting one of the breeding mares in a difficult labour and delivery. Despite the copious amounts of coffee Heath had consumed over breakfast, he had still fallen asleep in church. Jarrod and Nick bowed their heads as they chuckled at their brother's transgression and his discomfort.

Now the churchgoers congregated outside the white clapboard building. Women were busy setting up their own picnic lunches for their families. Children scampered about, heedful of their mothers' warnings to stay away from the creek, and not to get their good clothes dirty. The men stood in clusters, talking about crops and cattle and politics.

Rose stood nervously with Audra and a group of other young women near a long plank table where Reverend Adams' middle-aged wife was arranging the boxed lunches. Most were decorated in one fashion or another, tied with pretty ribbons, or small bouquets of wildflowers, or inexpensive, pretty baubles. Rose had tied hers with a yellow scrap of satin and a single yellow rose bud snipped that morning from Victoria's garden.

She had begun to second guess the wisdom of her participation in the event, claiming that it would be mortifying if no one bid on her lunch, or worse, if they did and she poisoned some poor gent! Audra had been sympathetic to Rose's jitters, but amused at the same time. She had managed to convince her friend that it was all in fun, and that if her offering proved to be truly unpalatable, there was always lots of food at a church picnic and no one would have to go hungry.

When Audra had first spoken excitedly about having Rose enter a box lunch, and Victoria had seen how keen Rose was on the idea, she had suppressed her own doubts, and agreed that Rose should. In truth, Victoria wasn't sure that Rose, whom they had not yet determined was married or unmarried, should participate. But when she considered it more fully, she had decided that there was really no harm. The boxed lunches were consumed under the watchful eyes of the parishioners, so there was no chance of impropriety. Even if it later came to light that Rose was indeed wedded, there would be nothing shameful about her participation at the picnic. And anyway, Victoria was certain that she knew who would be the high bidder on the meal Rose had prepared. She watched now, as Mrs. Adams raised the box with the yellow ribbon.

Bidding so far had been light-hearted and generous, as the unmarried men bid on the lunches, vying for the opportunity to dine with the young women. Rose could tell that some of those who ended up paired off were already couples, while others shared burgeoning mutual interests. A couple of the girls seemed unhappy with their consorts, but everyone was a good sport. The lunches fetched an average of two dollars a piece, some with more energetic bidding than others.

When it was Rose's turn, and Mrs. Adams read the contents of the box, which had been neatly printed on the top, the young woman clasped her hands apprehensively, and held them in front across her abdomen. For the first time, Rose had a horrified thought. She had more or less been assuming that Nick Barkley would be the one and only bidder on her lunch. Now, she considered, what if Nick had no intentions of bidding for her meal, and her company, at all?

For all she knew, Nick might have a special girl from among the denizens of the valley. A sweetheart. And why wouldn't he? He was a vibrant, handsome, successful man. Just because she, Rose, was unaware of the existence of any such woman, didn't make her any less of a possibility. He had never spoken of a woman, but why should he? None of the brothers shared their private, personal lives with her. She was, after all, a stranger in their home. A cosseted and cared for stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Perhaps she had read more into Nick's protective attentiveness than he had meant her too. Perhaps there was someone else he planned to spend his afternoon with. Rose stood there, feeling very vulnerable, chastizing herself for her imprudent self-importance.

Nick had edged closer to the plank table at the front, as Rose's boxed lunch was lifted into the air. Mrs. Adams read the description. Cold fried chicken. Cheese and fruit. Cold potatoes in vinaigrette. Raisin pie. Nick's mouth watered. The fare included some of his favourites. He cleared his throat, and was about to raise his hand to make a bid, when a well-modulated voice from the rear called out, "Half a dollar."

Nick wheeled, his jaw dropping open, as he stared in shock at Jarrod, who stood calmly examining his cuticles. "A dollar!" Nick doubled the bid.

"Dollar an' a half," came the soft drawl from his left.

Nick turned to Heath, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, rolling a cigarette. Nick eyed the rangy cowboy with wounded disbelief. "Two!" he countered.

"Two and one half, please Madam," the cultured voice at the rear sounded again.

Nick gritted his teeth. "Three!" he barked.

"Four."

Nick could hear Heath's smile. He frowned over at him.

Heath shrugged his broad shoulders. "Raisin pie, Nick," he offered by way of explanation.

Before Nick could raise his brother, a new bidder joined in. "Four 'n a half."

Nick pivoted to where the Morton brothers, J.R. and Zack, stood grinning at him. He wasn't entirely sure who had bid, until Zack winked at him. The idea of one of his brothers sharing Rose's carefully prepared lunch had been disconcerting enough, but to think of either of this pair spreading a blanket and enjoying not only Rose's food, but her company, raised his ire.

"Five!" Nick snarled, narrowing his eyes at the two cowboys.

Heath and Jarrod exchanged inquisitive glances. They had decided before hand that it might be fun to tease Nick a bit, by bidding on the lunch Rose was preparing for the picnic. They predicted that it wouldn't take much to rattle him, and then they would bow out of the auction. Just a little harmless fun. And they thought it might make it fun for Rose too, to have a couple of 'admirers'. It wasn't as though Nick couldn't afford to have them bid him up a bit, and the money was going to a worthy cause, after all. They hadn't anticipated anyone else bidding, since no one outside of the family really knew Rose. But they hadn't factored in the dark-haired woman's notable beauty, or the rivalry the Barkleys had with the Mortons.

Rose listened incredulously, unable to believe what was occurring. She was flushed scarlet from the open neck of her cream-coloured dress, to the roots of her dark tresses. She had been stunned when Jarrod had opened the bidding, but when Heath had joined in too, and she'd caught the look the two had shared, she had known immediately what they were up to. Nick's beleaguered expression and his obvious determination to win, while flattering, drew all eyes to Rose, and she hated being the centre of attention this way.

Rose didn't think she had met either of the two men who were grinning broadly at Nick. She could sense that this had nothing, or little, to do with her, but was some sort of personal competition instead. Still, the most any lunch had sold for previously had been three dollars and fifty cents, and to know that her woefully inadequate boxed lunch contribution was already fetching considerably more than that, was mortifying. The vivacious red-head whose lunch had sold for three dollars and fifty cents was shooting daggers at Rose, the interloper who usurped her status.

"Five an' a half," J.R. Morton called merrily. Not only was it fun to nettle Nick Barkley, but the dark-haired beauty who stood at the front was mesmerizing.

"Six!" Zack said, besting his brother, chortling til J.R. gave him a jab in the ribs.

Nick had had enough. He could see how uncomfortable Rose was. He would not allow this to draw on any longer. He stood tall, his feet apart, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Fifty dollars!" his gravelly voice rang out imperiously.

Rose hung her head, listening to the gasps from the crowd, unable to believe what she had just heard. Fifty dollars? Was Nick insane? What on earth had possessed him to say such a ludicrous thing?

Nick's dark gaze zoomed in on the Mortons. First Zack, and then J.R. raised their hands, palms out, conceding defeat. "Uh...yes...f..fifty dollars then," Mrs. Adams said, flustered. She looked curiously at the boxed lunch, as though she might see something to explain the irrationality of such a bid. "To, um, Nicholas Barkley."

Nick strode up to the front table, withdrawing his money clip and the folded bills it held. He counted them, twenty-seven dollars in total, then whispered to the Reverend, "Seems I'm a little bit short right at the moment..."

"Your credit is good here," the kindly, grey-haired minister whispered back with a smile.

Finally, Nick grabbed up the lunch, grabbed Rose's hand, and tugged her hurriedly to a spot beneath the trees, the stunned woman trailing wordlessly behind him, both of them totally forgetting about Audra whose lunch was to be auctioned next.

It didn't take long for Nick to regain his composure. He had been successful after all, achieved his goal, and he had to admit to himself that the whole thing was kind of humourous, especially the way Heath and Jarrod had blindsided him. He spread a blanket on the ground and asked Rose to sit. Some of the crimson colour was fading from her cheeks, and Rose seemed more at ease now. Nick managed to coax a smile from her. "We're immortal now, you know," he joked. "We'll go down in Valley history. This will be remembered as 'The Day That Nick Barkley Paid $50 For Lunch With A Beautiful Woman.'

Rose's breath caught in her throat. It was the first time Nick had ever called her beautiful. The warmth that spread over her now was of a different kind. She smiled shyly.

"Now, let's see what we've got here," Nick enthused. He set out the plates and the utensils, serving the food. "This smells delicious!" he declared. He thought that the chicken looked marvellous. Golden brown and crispy. His mouth watered in anticipation. He said a quick grace, then raised a piece of breast meat to his mouth. "Bon appetite!"

Rose watched expectantly, as Nick chewed his first mouthful. When he took his second bite, she relaxed and took a small bite of the leg she had selected. That hadn't been so hard after all, she told herself. This whole cooking thing. Perhaps she had underestimated herself.

Nick took his second bite of the fried chicken, staring in alarm at the rubbery flesh and runny red juices left behind near the bone. He had eaten undercooked chicken only once before in his life, while out on the trail. He had been violently ill afterwards, the incident making a huge impression on him. He liked a steak bloody and rare once in a while, 'Still mooing,' Audra would quip, but chicken was different. Nick grabbed at his napkin, discreetly spitting out the piece of meat. He couldn't eat this. More importantly, he couldn't let Rose eat this!

He surprised the young woman by taking the fried leg right out of her grasp and setting it on the plate. "Hey," he suggested jovially, "why don't we go for a little walk."

"But...but we haven't eaten our lunch yet. We just started," Rose protested.

"Well, that can wait, but this beautiful day can't," he asserted. If they left the food out, with any luck by the time they returned one of the farm dogs that had accompanied it's owner to the picnic would have made short work of the chicken. He could lament the loss of the meal then, decrying his carelessness in leaving it uncovered.

Rose raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "What's gotten into you, Nick? This is probably the most expensive lunch you've ever had. Sit back and enjoy it! There will be lots of beautiful day left to enjoy afterwards." She picked up the chicken leg again.

"Rose, no!" Nick insisted, his features pinched. He took the piece of meat from her again. "You can't eat that. We can't eat this. It's not a big deal...just a little undercooked..." It pained him to find fault with the meal she had prepared. "The rest looks okay," he added inadequately.

The squeal caught Rose's attention...it was excitement as much as fear. The children were running towards where she and Nick were seated. A little girl, about three or four, her cherubic face surrounded by masses of blonde ringlets, was scurrying over the ground, her skirts lifted so she wouldn't trip. Several paces behind her ran an older sandy-haired boy of about eight. A mischievous grin split his freckled face. Held out in front of him, in his cupped hands was the small, brown body of a lizard.

"Brownie wants to kiss Shirrrrrley!" the boy cackled gleefully, gaining ground.

The little girl continued to holler, an impressive sound from one so tiny, shaking her head from side to side. "Mommmmaaa..."

Jarrod heard the commotion, and turned from where he had been laying a blanket, readying to enjoy his own picnic lunch. After needling Nick, and then waiting to see that their little sister was suitably settled with an admirer of whom he approved, Jarrod had taken Victoria's arm and insisted that there was no one there that he would rather dine with than she.

The children were rushing past him, towards the place where Nick and Rose were picnicking. Rose was staring at the children, her slack-jawed expression chilling the attorney.

"Mommmaaa..."

The dark-haired girl ran across the field, her curls bouncing around her porcelain face. Her chubby little legs were pumping hard, but the little boy was catching up to her. He was older, his coltish legs longer. There was a devilish grin on the face beneath the close-cropped brown hair. Held out in front of him, in his clasped hands, was an enormous bull frog.

"Maybe it's really a PRINCE!" the boy trumpeted.

The little girl looked as though she wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry at the prospect of coming face to face with the obese amphibian. She screamed again.

"Brady you stop that right now!" a female voice admonished. "Leave Brooke alone!"

"Mommmaaa..."

Rose was on her feet. She scrambled towards the children, reaching imploringly. Her green eyes were sunken, her face a cadaverous grey. She staggered, fell, sprawled to the ground. Jarrod was there seconds later. The children, intent on their play, went running past, unaware of the drama. Jarrod knelt beside Rose, lifting her head and shoulders, cradling her on his lap. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

Nick couldn't fathom what had just happened. He'd had to tell Rose about the chicken. He'd figured she would be disappointed...embarrassed perhaps. But this overreaction, running from him this way, being so upset... He just couldn't understand it. She was on her feet before he could move. He watched her fall. Saw his brother go to her. Moved to join him.

"Rose!" Nick cried hoarsely, anguished at the unhealthy sheen of her skin. "Dear God, what's wrong!" He looked to Jarrod, guilt etching his features. "I was just telling her about the chicken. It wasn't quite cooked..."

Jarrod shook his head sharply. This didn't have anything to do with what had transpired between Nick and Rose over lunch. Whatever had happened, whatever was wrong with Rose...

Jarrod looked over at the boy and girl who had just gone by. The Anderson's youngest two. They had stopped now. The little girl was reaching hesitantly to touch the lizard the boy held in his hands.

This had something to do with the children.

Chapter Twenty

Seated on a cane chair, Jarrod watched Nick pace back and forth in the waiting room, glancing agitatedly at the closed door beyond which Dr. Merar was examining the young woman they called Rose. Nick's fear manifested itself as belligerence. "What the devil is taking so long?" he growled, one balled fist slamming into the open palm of his other hand. He raked long fingers through the black hair that tumbled in unruly strands across his brow.

Nick stormed back to where his brother sat, composed, smoking a cigar. "You've been pushing Rose too hard!" he accused Jarrod through narrowed eyes. "Your theories that she was coming to see you that day...that she needed a lawyer...making her doubt herself and the kind of person she is, and making her question what she might have done wrong! All this talk all the time of the Pinkertons and rewards. Making her go to Stockton. Dragging her off to San Francisco on a whim when just the month before she'd been close to death. Just to play out a hunch because she happened to remember one of the most infamous names in these parts."

Nick towered over Jarrod, scowling. "She's too fragile for all of that! You knew that. You've seen how upset she's gotten. But you just keep pushing her, and pushing her..." He tried to hold his anxiety at bay by clinging to his anger. The fear was there though, just below the surface, tightly coiled, evidencing itself in the deep lines that etched the rancher's face. In the wildness in his dark eyes.

Jarrod could understand his brother's trepidation. He had held Rose in his arms, while she stared unseeingly, when her body had begun to tremble and then to jerk and spasm. He had shouted for Nick to bring a blanket, and Nick had snatched the one he had Rose had been sitting on, food and other paraphernalia flying in all directions. They had wrapped Rose, trying to soothe her, as all the while the horrible, vacant expression had lain across her chalky features. Catatonic, Jarrod had realized.

Heath had gotten the carriage, remaining behind with Victoria and Audra, while Jarrod and Nick had rushed Rose to town, praying that the physician would be there, and not called out elsewhere in the valley. Jarrod had driven the team hard, while Nick had held Rose tightly to his chest, desperately trying to coax her back to them, while she continued to stare sightlessly out of green eyes which were void of life. The trembling had stopped only to begin afresh when the had almost reached Stockton. Her eyes had rolled back in her head, and her slender body had begun to quake again. By the time they had lifted Rose down from the carriage, she was in the throes of a full seizure.

Dr. Merar had rushed out, instructing the Barkley brothers to bring the patient right on back into the surgery. It had taken Nick to hold her shoulders and upper body to keep her reasonably still, and Jarrod to force her delicate jaw open, so that Dr. Merar could insert the leather strip and hold down the young woman's tongue to attempt to keep her from swallowing it, and choking to death.

After several agonizing minutes, the paroxysm had ended, and Rose had stilled. She was unnaturally white, her body dampened with a cold sweat, her breathing almost imperceptible. She had lain unconscious on the bed, and but for the absence of exterior injuries, she looked exactly as she had when Heath had brought her, comatose, to the house that first day.

Dr. Merar had asked a few pertinent questions about what had brought on this episode, and then had instructed the two men to leave him, promising to speak with them as soon as he was confident that his patient was stabilized and after he had had an opportunity to fully examine her.

Jarrod was unsure how to answer his brother's accusations. It was entirely possible that there was something to Nick's denouncement of his actions. Whether or not he thought he had been working in Rose' best interests, in his family's best interests, it was not inconceivable that the strain of the last month had been too much for the young woman. Even though Jarrod firmly believed that what had precipitated this latest calamity was something beyond his control, and had been triggered not by anything he had said or done, but by the antics of the young Anderson boy and girl.

Still, he wondered whether or not he was culpable in some way. Had Rose's reserves, both emotional and physical, been sapped by his unceasing desire to unearth her past? Leaving her dangerously vulnerable to events such as whatever had occurred at the church?

He was every bit as fearful and worried about Rose right now as Nick was, though his cool exterior belied the depth of his concern. He kept thinking about that night back in San Francisco, when Rose had come upon him in his darkened study. When she had asked about Julia Saxon, and he had surprised himself by answering. Partly, he knew, the liquor he had consumed beforehand had loosened his tongue. But partly, it was that Rose had been such a good listener.

Jarrod had heard the compassion and understanding in the questions she had used to draw him out, and in the comments she had made during his retelling of that part of his past. He had felt, strangely, that she even knew the things that he had left unsaid. It had been both unsettling, and comforting at the same time.

To know that she was behind the wooden door opposite where he sat, possibly fighting for her life yet again, suffering who knew what after effects of the seizure, twisted Jarrod's gut, and made each strong beat of his heart echo with worry. "Perhaps you're right, Nick," he responded finally, with a heavy sigh.

Nick was taken aback by the admission. Before he could reply, the door behind him opened, and Dr. Merar joined them. Jarrod rose to his feet.

"She seems as well as can be expected right now," he told the two dark-haired men. "Her breathing has steadied, and there haven't been any more seizures. She's unconscious, but responsive to external stimuli. Her pupils are responsive, which is especially important. Her heartbeat is strong."

Nick's knees felt weak. Rose was out of immediate danger.

"Physically, I can't find anything wrong with her," Howard Merar continued. "There are no signs of swelling on the brain, or of infection. I have no idea what caused the seizure, or whether it is likely to be repeated. I don't know if this is a direct result of her recent injuries, or a prior condition and something she is prone to. I don't know anything about her medical history, of course." The physician sighed. "All I can do right now is let her sleep, and see how she is when she wakens." He paused. "I have to caution you though, I won't know til then if there has been any kind of...permanent damage."

"Permanent damage?" Nick repeated hoarsely.

"Impairment to vocal skills. Motor skills." He paused. "Brain damage."

"You said that she's responsive to stimuli, Doc," Jarrod pointed out. "Wouldn't that indicate that there was no permanent damage?"

"Most likely, yes," Dr. Merar admitted. "But I can't be sure at this point." He wiped a hand tiredly across his face. "You can go in now, if you like, but please keep it quiet. Let her sleep as long as her body needs."

Nick was the first through the door, striding across the floor and coming to stand on the right side of Rose's bed. She was still very pale, but he could tell by the rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets that her breathing was steady and strong. He took one of her delicate hands between his two big work-roughened ones, touching a finger to her inner wrist. He was encouraged by the rhythmic pulse there. He refused to believe anything other than that she would be fully recovered from this setback.

Jarrod stood on the left, looking at the young woman, but not reaching to touch her. He couldn't help but remember the times she had jerked forcibly from him, upset to have his body make contact with hers. He was heartened to see how peaceful she looked in the aftermath of her ordeal. Her skin was still blanched, but he could see how improved she was overall. He noted with some dismay that there were three small smudges on her left cheek near her mouth. Smudges that would deepen to bruises. Jarrod knew that he had caused that bruising, as unavoidable as it might have been, when he had pried her mouth open for Dr. Merar.

"When she wakes up," Nick spoke to his brother, his voice barely audible, but his resolve unmistakable, "I don't want to hear another word from you about Rose's past. Not unless she brings it up first. I'm going to ask you to let the matter rest, for now at least. I'm sure you won't be able to stop yourself from following up whatever leads you think you have so far," Nick remarked coolly. "But I don't want to hear about it, and I sure don't want Rose to hear about it. And before you ask her about anything, or tell her about anything, I'm advising you to clear it with me first." He eyes glinted.

"All right Nick," Jarrod replied quietly, "I'll do that, for now. But we can't just pretend that Rose didn't come from somewhere. That she didn't have a life before Heath found her. There have to be people out there who know her, and who can tell us, and her, who she is." Jarrod paused, unsure of how far he should go. "We don't know anything about the life Rose was living. Or who she might have been living it with." He let that hang in the air.

"It's been almost six weeks, Jarrod. Six weeks that you've enlisted the best detectives in the country, taken ads out in all the major papers, and gone to considerable expense and effort to find out who Rose used to be." Nick's eyes glinted. "If someone was looking her for, was venturing to locate her at all, we've been making it more than easy for them."

Jarrod's frustration rose. He couldn't understand either, why anyone who was even half-heartedly searching for the young woman, wouldn't have found Rose through them by now. He had done everything he could think of, to make it possible. But, Jarrod knew, there was a chance that, as implausible as it might seem, perhaps the people who knew Rose didn't realize yet that she was actually missing.

Nick's proprietary claims on the young woman, his refusal to consider that she might not be free to return his growing affection, worried Jarrod, for Nick as much as for Rose. The lawyer sighed. "Nick, has it occurred to you that because of circumstances we might not understand, Rose's people might not know yet that she was in trouble or feel they had to look for her? Have you considered that by shielding her from her past, you might be preventing Rose for remembering it?"

Nick gritted his teeth, fighting back his resentment. "Well, Big Brother," he hissed icily, "has it occurred to you that maybe these people you're so eager to deliver Rose to, might be the very same people who hurt her in the first place? And that maybe her life before now wasn't so all fired wonderful and that Rose doesn't want to remember her past?" He left those thoughts for his brother to ruminate on.

Nick laid Rose's hand along her side, and gently, reverently, touched her cheek. When he looked back at Jarrod there was no mistaking the determination in the set of his jaw. "It's been well over a month, Jarrod, going on two. And we haven't heard a single word. Nothing. If you ask me, anyone who knew Rose before and hasn't moved mountains to try to find her and get her back, doesn't even deserve her."

* * * * * * * *

He sat at the keyboard, staring at the blank computer screen. His blue eyes shifted to the framed photograph on the side of the desk. His throated tightened at the realization that she wasn't here. He shoved the bleak thought aside. He could continue to communicate with her, the way he had been doing since that fateful day. He could pretend that she was right here, and that he was talking to her again, and she was smiling that same beautiful smile, listening attentively.

Jason knew that he wasn't much of a talker. He'd never been one to express himself in the fancy, flowery way that the guys on the soap operas did. He knew that women liked that kind of thing, and it wasn't that he didn't want to please Natalie, but that had just never been his way. Instead, he'd try to show her how much he loved her with actions, instead of words.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to conjure up her voice. 'Hi Jay, how was your day?' she would have asked. And Jason opened his eyes and reached his fingers towards the keyboard, and tried to share it with her.

Hi Natalie,

It was a nice day. Sunny and warm. Brady got his report card. You would have been so proud of him. He was proud of himself. All A's, except for one B- in social studies. I tried to help him with that oral report he had, but I just wasn't sure what the teacher wanted, and I think I steered him wrong a little. But he's smart as a whip, just like his Mom, and he got a good report card.

Brooke got invited to a birthday party from a girl in her class. Sydney. You know her, the little girl whose older sister is in Brady's class. Anyhow, your mom took Brooke to get a birthday present. At first, Brooke didn't want to go, she said she didn't feel like a party, but we convinced her she should. Because I know that was what you would want.

Work is good. I got the highest sales again this week. I keep taking all the overtime they can give me. I hope you don't think too badly of me for that. I know I should spend more time with the kids, but it's just so hard right now. I can't come home to this house in the afternoons and face the fact that you aren't here. It's cowardly of me to hide out at work. Every day I tell myself that I'll go home early. But then I just can't. I'm so sorry.

I miss you, Nat.

Jason paused, trying to swallow back the lump in his throat. He looked out the window onto the rear yard. It was late, and the neighbourhood was quiet. He knew that morning was not too many hours away and that he should get some sleep. But he had to talk to Natalie first.

Miss you lots.

I need a new pair of work boots, but I didn't get them off the truck, on credit. I'm doing just like you always say and looking around first. I'll make sure I get a deal. You always thought, I know, that you were never getting through to me. And that I'd always be silly with money. But hey, I guess I was listening after all and something did sink in. You see, that's just one of the things I always needed you for. To keep me on the right track and to help me to be responsible.

Hey, I heard our song on the radio today. I thought about when we danced at our wedding. You were so beautiful that day. I've never seen anything prettier. It's a good song, and I'm glad we picked it, even if it was you who wanted it more than me. I always wondered why you women like those sappy songs. And then when I heard it again today, it sounded so much like us.

I have to admit that I haven't been paying a lot of attention to your garden. Your mom went and got some new flowers for the pots, because I forgot to water them, and the old ones died. Sorry about that. I told Brady that it's his job to remind me to water them from now on.

He got another stripe on his yellow belt, and Sensei Baker said he should be able to test for his orange at next month's grading. Sensei Baker hadn't heard about the accident til this week. He had some nice things to say about you. People are never sure what to say. What can they say though?

I hope you know that I'm trying to do my best. I'm trying not to let you down, and I'm trying to be strong for the kids and to set a good example. They sure do miss you Natalie. I'm sure you miss them too. I try to be a good dad, but I could never be their mom. It's good that your mom is here, that helps us all, but it's not the same.

Brooke was asking about going garage saling. We hadn't gone for a while. I think we just might go this weekend. I can start to watch for fall clothes for them and stuff. You know, I just realized I don't even know what sizes they wear. I have a lot of stuff to learn.

I miss you, Natalie. And I love you.

Jason

Slowly he climbed the stairs to their room. Folding the sheet of paper, he lifted Natalie's pillow, and placed it with the others. He held the pillow to his face for a moment, breathing in the lingering scent of her. How long, Jason wondered, would her essence remain in the room?

He lay back on his own pillow, his arms folded behind his head, as he stared up at the ceiling in the dark. This was when it hit him the most. When he finally retired for the night. This was when her absence was most keenly felt. God how he missed her. He missed the weight of her on the mattress next to him, the clean, soapy smell of her, and the rhythmic sounds of her breathing. He missed holding Natalie in his arms, her body curled against him.

Sometimes, he would reach for her, out of the mist of his dreams. His hand roving futilely over the empty space in the bed. And then he would waken, and reality would crash over him again. And if his children hadn't been just down the hall, Jason knew he would never be able to keep from giving voice to his fury, sorrow and frustration.

Chapter Twenty-One

"Do you like to read?" the deep voice asked.

Rose pivoted, startled, dropping the book that she held in her hands. Jarrod Barkley smiled at her from the doorway of the library. She had moved slowly, cautiously, down the stairs and through the foyer, past his study, taking pains not to disturb him. She had known that he was hard at work, pouring over thick, leather-bound legal tomes.

"I didn't mean to scare you," the attorney said contritely, moving quickly to where she was rooted by the bank of high shelves, and reaching down to the retrieve the novel. He handed it back to her with a searching look, trying to determine if it was his quiet and unexpected appearance that had made her jump...or merely the fact that it was him. "Dickens," he announced approvingly, noting the cover. "One of my favourites."

Several days had passed since Rose had woken in Dr. Merar's surgery, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. It was well into dark, and the only light had come from the oil lamp on a nearby table, it's wick turned down low so that the faint golden glow only put up the most indifferent of struggles against the shadows that claimed the corners of the room.

"Rose," the familiar voice had whispered. Then the strong planes of Nick Barkley's rugged features moved into view, as he pulled his chair forward, the wooden feet scraping the plank floor. "Hey there, Sleepy Head." His relief was tangible.

"Nick..." she'd murmured, turning beneath the thin, woolen blanket, "where am I?"

A wide grin split his face. The rancher didn't think he'd ever heard anything as wonderful as the sound of the young woman's voice. Even as weak as it was. She was back with them. And she knew him. And she was perfectly, gloriously, alert and able to hear, and see and speak. "Doc Merar's. But you're gonna be just fine."

"Wh...what happened?" she frowned. She remembered the picnic. The bidding. Sitting down to eat lunch with Nick. But that was as much as she could recall. She was tired...exhausted really...but she didn't think she had been injured. There was no pain anywhere, except for the dull ache in her head.

"You had a seizure of some kind. Doc doesn't know why." Nick kept his hands folded in his lap, his arms resting on his knees, fighting off the urge to take her lovely face between his fingers and kiss her pale, full lips. "How do you feel?" he questioned.

"Good," she reassured him. "Tired. A bit of a headache," she admitted. "I had a seizure at the picnic?" Nick's head bobbed in affirmation. "When? How long ago?" Rose knew that it was night outside, but whether it was the night of the same day, or whether multiple nights had passed, she had no idea.

"Earlier this afternoon. Jarrod and I brought you here to Stockton, and Doc Merar's been taking real good care of you." The dark-haired cowboy saw her eyes rove the room. "Jarrod went back to the ranch. To fill in the rest of the family on how you're doing," Nick explained. Jarrod had waited with Nick until dusk, neither of them speaking, except for those times when Dr. Merar had come back into the room to check on Rose. As the light slanting in through the window of the surgery began to fade, Jarrod had excused himself, telling Nick that surely those back at the ranch would be worried, and that he'd ride home and let them know that Rose was stable, but unconscious and that Dr. Merar wanted to keep her there until she woke and he could assess her.

Nick had encouraged his brother to go. He didn't need Jarrod there with him, while he kept his vigil. Nick's conflicted emotions made him feel guilty and uncomfortable around his older sibling. He knew, rationally, that Jarrod would never intentionally hurt Rose, or anyone for that matter, and anything Jarrod had done had not been with malicious intent. He knew that the concern that shone in his brother's blue eyes was genuine.

But at the same time, Nick couldn't help blaming Jarrod on some level. In the absence of a recognizable foe whom he could battle to protect Rose, Nick had needed to direct his anger and frustration somewhere, and Jarrod had been an easy and obvious target. His need to galvanize to action, to do something, anything, to help Rose and to keep her safe, had made him lash out at his brother. And though Nick knew that the other man wouldn't deliberately harm the young woman, he still believed that Jarrod had been pushing Rose too hard, and was not blameless in contributing to the factors that had brought on the seizure.

The tension between them had weighed heavily on both men. Once Jarrod had departed, the cloying stiffness had left the room, and Nick had been able to concentrate on trying to will Rose back to him. He'd sat next to her, and even as the hours had progressed, he hadn't felt the need for sleep or even to step away for a few moments to stretch his legs. He couldn't imagine being anywhere but right there. He wanted to be there for Rose when she woke up. How ever long that might be.

He'd sat in the fading light, until Howard had come into the room and lit a lamp, leaving it on low. The physician had offered to share he and Iva's dinner with Nick, but the cowboy hadn't wanted to eat. He was determined to wait there, so that when Rose opened her eyes and saw him, she would not be afraid, or feel alone or abandoned. His eyes had roamed her lovely face, memorizing each gentle curve. When she had rewarded him by opening her eyes, Nick, not normally a praying man, had wanted to drop to his knees in gratitude.

Rose had gone back to the ranch the following afternoon, after being given the all clear by Dr. Merar. He had given her more powders, for the headache that seemed to ebb and flow. He had instructed the young woman to rest, and not overdo things, and to avoid too much stress or excitement. Barring the appearance of any new symptoms, at which point he said they should contact him immediately, Dr. Merar had pronounced Rose healthy, and said that he would be out to the ranch to see her in a week or so.

When Rose had walked across the threshold of the mansion's front door of her own volition, still pale, but with no other obvious lingering ill effects, Victoria had Audra had embraced her merrily. The normally reserved and undemonstrative Heath had clasped her hand in his, pumping it enthusiastically, his other hand covering her forearm. Their unrestrained relief at seeing her again, while it made her feel welcomed and cared for, also made Rose ponder just how bad the seizure had been.

Jarrod had remained in the background, only peripherally part of the welcoming home committee. He had seemed happy to see her, his blue eyes shining, a gentle, lop-sided smile deepening the crease of his chin. But he had kept his distance. Later, when she had thanked him for his part in getting help for her, he had modestly brushed her gratitude aside.

The week had passed with leisurely sedateness. Rose had rested, napping each day, retiring to bed early and waking late, often after Nick and Heath had left the house to work on the range, and Jarrod had departed for his office in Stockton. She spent the bulk of her days in the drawing room, working on her newly developing crocheting skills, under the expert tutelage of the Barkley matriarch.

Rose had been touched by Nick Barkley's attentiveness while she recuperated yet again. She looked forward to the evenings, when the family would gather in the billiards room or the library, sharing their days. She knew that she could count on Nick to make her feel not only included, but central to the family's after dinner gatherings. He could make her laugh with the whimsical spin he would put on the every day activities at the ranch. He was loud and vibrant and attentive, and he made Rose feel happy. He was strong and decisive and easy to read. He made her feel safe.

Today was Sunday, one week from the day of the church picnic. Not just any Sunday, but the Fourth of July. Nick and Heath had left for Nevada the previous day, for the long awaited equine auction. Nick's reluctance to leave, his worry over Rose, had been flattering and touching. She knew that the dark-haired rancher had feelings for her, but just what they were or how deep they went, she would not contemplate. She didn't know who she was, or what her situation was, and because of that she had nothing to offer him. But she found herself unable to discourage his interest. He was the anchor in the storm, and when there was nothing else in this new life that she could understand or count on, Rose knew that she could count on Nick Barkley.

The auction was to begin on Monday, and would last through til Wednesday. It was one of the biggest in that state. Nick and Heath had had to depart from the train depot on Saturday morning. If they purchased any new stock, they would bring them back to the ranch by rail.

Rose had had no additional problems, except for the occasional headaches, and the fatigue which was gradually lessening. Yet Victoria had felt that, regretfully, the young woman should not accompany she and Audra into Stockton that morning for the day long July 4th celebrations. There would be too many people, too much going on, too much noise, the elder Barkley had explained, running well into the night. Since both Victoria and Audra had been active in organizing the festivities and were on the committee, they were both expected to attend, and in truth had been looking forward to the holiday. Rose had assured them that she would be fine on her own.

Except that as it ended up, she wasn't going to be on her own. Jarrod had a new trial beginning the following day. He wanted to go over his opening remarks, and review some of the eye witness testimony. It was a murder trial, Jarrod's client a Chinese launderer, accused of killing a customer over a business dispute. The man admitted to shooting the deceased, but claimed that it was in self-defense. While he hated to miss the festivities, Jarrod had told his mother and sister, a man's life was at stake, and he wanted to be fully prepared for the opening statements the next morning.

Victoria and Audra had left the ranch mid-morning, accompanied by Ciego, at Jarrod's insistence. Audra had tried one last time to coax her big brother to join them for at least a short while, teasing him that with Nick and Heath out of town, this might be Jarrod's one and only chance to ever win the boxing and sharp shooting competitions. Jarrod had laughed aloud at her imprudence, then shooed them on their way.

Rose had made a point of remaining in her room, out of the attorney's way, respecting the importance of his work. She had gone down to the kitchen for some leftover beef and vegetables from Saturday night's meal, and then taken a glass of milk back upstairs. Eventually, she had become bored of the crocheting she had been working on, and had decided to steal down to the library to see if there was a story that might interest her. She had never really examined the expansive shelves of books, though the Barkleys had graciously encouraged her to do so, should she ever have the desire.

* * * * * * * *

"I hope that I didn't disturb you," Rose said guiltily.

Jarrod smiled and shook his head. "Not at all. I was just taking a break, and passing in the hall, when I saw you. How are you feeling?"

Rose found herself unable to meet his vivid blue eyes. Jarrod often made her feel nervous and unsettled though she couldn't pinpoint just why. "I'm fine," she murmured. "Thank you," she remembered to add. "How is your work going?"

The smile left the attorney's handsome face. "As well as can be expected. The testimony of one of the witnesses is pretty damning, but Mr. Lo says she's lying, and I believe him. My client indicated that there were other witnesses who saw what happened, but I haven't been able to convince them to admit that they did indeed observe what took place, or to tell the truth about it." His face darkened. "I know it's because the deceased was a white man, and Mr. Lo is a Chinese. I'll never understand some people and their ignorant prejudices!"

Jarrod's aristocratic nostrils flared, and his sapphire eyes snapped fire. He was standing close enough that Rose could smell the lingering smoke of his expensive cigars, and the crisp scent of his cologne. He was dressed casually today, a midnight blue linen shirt tucked into black pants. The top buttons of the shirt were undone, and Rose could see a scattering of dark hairs at the neckline. She swallowed a lump in her throat and averted her gaze. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled back, and she noted an irregular brown birthmark on Jarrod's left forearm. She stared at it fascinated. She couldn't recall having seen it before, yet there was something so familiar about it.

Seeming not to notice her preoccupation, Jarrod asked her if she would like a drink, indicating that he was going to have a whiskey, but that there was sherry too on the sideboard, or wine. Rose declined the offer, and as he moved away from her with fluid grace, she returned David Copperfield to it's place.

She examined the books, her fingers lightly dancing over the spines. One in particular caught her eye, and she eased it from the shelf. It was Wuthering Heights, by Ellis Bell. Her brow furrowed, as she opened the book to the first page. The date of publication was listed as 1847, the publisher credited as Thomas. C. Newby, London, England.

Rose turned to the opening paragraph. She knew this story. The novel was narrated as an entry in the diary of Lockwood, a newcomer to the locale of Wuthering Heights, as he relates the story told to him by a servant, Nelly. The setting was the Yorkshire moors, in and around the two homes of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange. It was a tale of enduring but doomed love, Heathcliff's for Catherine Earnshaw. It detailed his departure from the locale and his rise to wealthy gentleman and his subsequent return, fueled by the need to avenge his earlier abuse. Catherine is torn between her love for Heathcliff, and her desire to be a gentlewoman and to 'marry well'.

The first half of the story was of corrupted love, a tragedy of lost potential and wasted passion, culminating with Catherine's tragic death. The later half of the novel saw Heathcliff's death and the next generation's protagonists engaged to be married, promising an end to the cycle of revenge.

All of these thoughts ran through Rose's head, as she held the book in her hands. Wuthering Heights was a Gothic novel, both horrifying and fascinating, she knew, with scenes of passion and cruelty, and supernatural elements, entwined in a dark and foreboding atmosphere. It dealt with the destructiveness of a love that never changes, and the precariousness of the social classes, set against the backdrop of the Yorkshire moors.

It was a magnificent story. Brutal, haunting and sad. It was one of her favourites. And this was a beautiful edition, the copy she held now. But something niggled at Rose. There was something about this particular book.

"That's Mother's favourite," Jarrod said warmly from over her shoulder. "The book had just been published and my father gave it to her after she told him they were expecting their first child. I was born the following year."

"It's always been one of my favourites too," Rose confirmed.

"The initial reviews were almost entirely negative," Jarrod spoke, moving to stand beside her, cradling his drink. "They implied that anyone who could create such a work must be insane, barbaric and obsessed with cruelty. Mother said that many people were shocked and horrified by the sheer violence of the novel, but she..."

"Emily Bronte!" Rose gasped excitedly. That was what had bothered her. The cover listed a masculine author, Ellis Bell. "She wrote this!"

Jarrod nodded, warming to the subject. "Her only novel. After her death from tuberculosis, Charlotte wrote a preface for a later edition, which she had published in 1850. Since she felt that secrecy was no longer necessary, she wanted to defend her late sister's character. The preface also cleared up any suspicions that Ellis, Currer and Acton Bell were one and the same. For years people had speculated that the same author that had written Jane Eyre also wrote Wuthering Heights, but of course that wasn't the case."

Jarrod's handsome face had become animated. "If you're interested, I have a copy of a biography of the three Bronte sisters, Emily, Charlotte and Anne, written by a friend, Mrs. Gaskell, and published in the late fifties. It's really quite a fascinating story."

She nodded distractedly, hardly hearing him. "This copy though Jarrod, is the very first edition! Published under the pen name Ellis Bell! That's extraordinary! That has to be quite rare, and probably worth a great deal of money," Rose enthused. "And it's in marvellous shape for such an old book. I've always loved the classics. I've read this story over and over, but I never imagined I'd hold the original."

Jarrod contemplated Rose over the rim of his glass. He could see that she was thrilled, but he couldn't understand what she was so excited about, or why she figured the book might be at all valuable. He had been somewhat chagrined to hear Rose refer to the novel as 'old', it was only a year older than he was, after all, and though he knew he was probably ten years older than she, he hardly thought he was ancient and decrepit. Though it had gained some in popularity in the years after the deaths of the Bronte sisters, it was no where close to be a literary 'classic', and it was strange to hear it referred to as such.

As young as she was, it was apparent that Rose was quite well educated. Jarrod thought that perhaps her strange excitement over the novel, her recollection of it from her past, would be a good opportunity to try to gently guide the conversation and attempt to unearth more memories. It was so tempting. Just a casual question or two, about where and when Rose had read the book before. He could do it without any pressure, without her even realizing what he was doing. But...he had given his word to Nick.

Jarrod had continued to make his inquiries, as his brother had known he would, but had kept the methods and status of the search to himself. After San Francisco, and Rose's question to Julia Saxon about whether or not Julia had ever been a nurse, Jarrod had wondered if perhaps it wasn't Rose who was a nurse.

Had Julia Saxon perhaps once been the patient of a doctor Rose had worked for, or been at a hospital where their paths had crossed? Julia hadn't remembered Rose, but if she had been ill, concentrating on her own malady and not the interchangeable staff who hovered near, it was conceivable that she wouldn't recall one young nurse. And the nurse would likely remember a famous patient.

So he instructed the detective agency to look into that angle. To determine if Julia had been ill in the last several years, and if so where she had been taken. And then there was the name that Audra had told him Rose had spoken in her company. Kay Efsey. He had wired the Pinkertons to find anyone of that name, using alternate spellings. So far, the search had been fruitless, and they could find no such surname, or even anything similar, listed anywhere. Jarrod had pressed Audra to see if she was sure that had been the name. His sister had been apologetic, admitting that she and Rose had had their backs to one another, and it was possible that Rose hadn't actually said 'Kay Efsey', but something similar. It was another dead end.

Rose's reaction to the children...and Jarrod was convinced that it was indeed the little boy and girl that Rose had fixated on...had been immediate and striking. He had considered that perhaps Rose had been a nanny for a well-to-do family and that she had been reminded of her former charges. It was still one angle for him to pursue, but he wasn't holding out hope.

Jarrod firmly believed that the best way to solve the enigma of Rose was to help her get her memory back. The glimmers she had had...the name Richard that had disturbed her so, and those of Julia Saxon, and Kay Efsey, her familiarity with this novel...told him that Rose's past was not entirely lost to her, but instead buried just beneath the surface. If he could find a way to unlock the vault where her history dwelt, to let just a few firm memories through, he felt sure that everything would come back to the young woman. But...he had given his word to Nick.

Rose was frowning now, her face a mask of concentration. She tilted her dark head to one side, and her lovely emerald eyes held a look of confusion. She stared at the book, then looked to Jarrod questioningly. Rose had felt so excited a moment ago. Why? But for the way her heart still raced, there were no traces of that emotionally heightened state. It was something to do with the book. But she couldn't remember what it was.

Jarrod was studying her quietly. Rose was aware of how close he stood. Aware of how the indigo coloured shirt deepened the hue of his eyes. Aware of how perfectly styled his raven black hair was. Aware of the suave and sensuous masculinity of him. She could envision again the anger in his eyes and hear the offended tone of his voice when he'd spoken of the prejudice against his client. Jarrod Barkley was such a deeply principled man, Rose knew. A caring man. A handsome man.

Even though it was July, Rose felt the frigid air wash over her skin, raising the flesh on her neck and arms. She felt again that strange detachment, and sense of disembodiment, that had something to do with Jarrod Barkley. Of floating outside of herself. Nick! Her mind screamed the thought, and Rose closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, calling up the rancher's rakishly good-looking countenance. She held the image on her inner eye for a fraction of a moment, til the warmth was restored to her limbs. Jarrod was looking at her curiously, but he still hadn't spoken. The whole incident had been fleeting.

"I...I guess I'll take this one," Rose told him, bringing the book to her chest. "I'll take it upstairs." She took a step backwards, away from the attorney. "I'm sure you have to get back to work." She glanced towards the door, several paces away.

"I really should," Jarrod agreed. Rose was uncomfortable with him again, obviously, though he failed to understand why or what had changed. He wished that there was something he could do to put her at ease. He felt his frustration mount, knowing that whatever Rose had been close to recalling earlier, tied somehow to the novel, was lost to her again. The window of opportunity had shut on them once more. How many such opportunities would they get, and could they really afford to waste them?

Jarrod resented that Nick had tied his hands this way. He loved his brother. Respected him. But he questioned Nick's motives and judgement where Rose was concerned. Jarrod knew he had given in to Nick's demands on how to handle the situation with Rose far too easily. Swayed by his feelings of guilt in the aftermath of her seizure, and by his own worry for her. Nonetheless, he had acceded to his brother's wishes voluntarily and Jarrod would uphold his promise. "Enjoy your reading," he said lightly. "Silas is putting out a cold dinner in the dining room around seven. Don't wait for me, I tend to get caught up when I'm working, and lose track of the time." Their young house guest nodded. Jarrod gave her a quick smile then, drink in hand, left the room.

Rose looked at the book again. Wuthering Heights by Ellis Bell. Jarrod had said that it was one of Victoria Barkley's favourites. Rose hoped that it was good. She was looking forward to reading it. At the very least, it would take her mind off of any thoughts of the handsome attorney, sequestered in his study just one floor below.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"What do you think would have happened if Heathcliff hadn't overheard Cathy make that remark to Nelly, that it would degrade her to marry him?" Rose asked Victoria, as she ladled scrambled eggs from a warmer on the sideboard. She looked at the older woman, seated at the dinging table, unfolding her napkin into her lap. "Or, what if he had stayed and heard the rest? About how she really did love him, but could never let him know, and how their souls were as one and the same."

Rose had finished Wuthering Heights last evening, and as she had read that last sentence, then closed the cover, she had felt that same sense of loss that she somehow knew she always did at the end of a book that had been particularly enjoyable, thought-provoking or moving. It was as though after a chance meeting with a stranger, you became fast friends, the relationship a glorious whirlwind of shared, intimate thoughts and deep feelings. You felt as though you had really come to know that person, and they had become an integral part of your daily life. You couldn't imagine what it was like before you knew them, or imagine a day without them. You looked forward to your interaction with heightened anticipation.

And then abruptly, they had to go, leaving a profound hole in your life. You would never forget them, of course. One day, you might even find your way back to one another again. But it wouldn't be the same. That initial incredible journey, the learning and sharing, the investment of time and energy, the way that person had changed and shaped your life, would never be recreated. When next you met, you would know them, and enjoy their familiarity, but the way they had once quickened your heart with each new discovery...those feelings could never be recaptured.

And so it always was for Rose she sensed, that mixture of accomplishment and satisfaction mingled with sadness that the journey was at an end. There was that deep sense of gratitude for having had the privilege to have had those travels in the first place, but there was also that bittersweet sense of loss that things had reached a conclusion. One that was always underscored by the act of turning that final page, and then shutting the cover with a quiet finality that echoed a best friend's good bye.

"I wonder," the silver-haired woman mused. "Would it have made any difference? Would Heathcliff, loving Cathy so, rising from such humble beginnings, suffering humiliation and abuse early in his life, be able to see past the idea that the woman he cherished didn't think he was good enough for her? Even if he had heard Cathy say that if the world were to perish, and only Heathcliff remained, it would be as though she too remained? Even if he had heard her say passionately to Nelly, 'I am Heathcliff,'?" Victoria smiled thoughtfully. "It's impossible to say, of course. But interesting to contemplate." She reached for her fork, then paused consideringly. "You know, I've read that book so many times, and yet talking about it with you these last couple of days...well, I think I may have to go back and read it again."

Rose had been enjoying discussing the book with the matriarch. Appreciating the older woman's perceptions, and asking for clarification of scenes or character motivations that she wasn't quite sure she was grasping fully. Victoria had been delighted that Rose was reading the novel, and they had had lively conversations over breakfast the last few mornings.

Audra, who had never read the book and had no interest in it, had been feeling somewhat left out, and was secretly relieved that Rose had finished the novel and that conversation could return to topics where she could offer more input. Audra had grown to love Rose like a sister, and she had been ashamed to find that a small, petty part inside of her had been envious of the way the book, and their mutual love of it, had seemed to deepen a bond between her mother and Rose. She fought to squelch such uncharitable, selfish feelings. She didn't feel any resentment towards Rose, and knew that nothing would ever affect her own relationship with her mother, but seeing the exuberance in the younger and older women's eyes, listening on the sidelines to their animated discussions, had left Audra feeling somewhat of an outsider. Not something that she was used to experiencing in her own home.

"Today is the last day of the sale," Audra interjected brightly. "That means Nick and Heath should be home in the next couple of days." Her voice was infused with warmth as she spoke of her absent brothers, her blue eyes sparkling.

"I expect we'll get a wire from them soon detailing their return," Victoria spoke, smiling broadly at the thought of the pair. "I hope that things went well, and that it turns out to have been a productive trip."

Rose had been wondering something since shortly after she had begun the book. She kept thinking about her conversation with Jarrod in the library, and what he had told her about the novel being Victoria's favourite, given to her by her late husband during her pregnancy with their first child. Rose assumed that Heath's name was a variation of Heathcliff's and given as a tribute to the book.

She had wondered why, if the Barkleys both loved and agreed to the name, they hadn't given Jarrod the name Heath instead. It would have seemed more logical to her, considering the older brother's connection to the novel and the reason for it's presentation. Rose had thought that perhaps Jarrod, being the first child, and first son, had been given a family name out of respect for a grandfather or other ancestor. Or she had considered that perhaps Jarrod was Tom Barkley's middle name.

But then she questioned why the name Heath had not been bestowed on Nick, the second son. Instead, it was the third son who was given the name that their mother had first come upon when she was carrying his oldest brother. Rose was sure that there was a story there. And she knew that how people came to name their children, was usually something that they enjoyed retelling. The mention of Heath's name now prompted Rose to satisfy her curiosity.

"I know the story of how you were given the book while you were carrying Jarrod," Rose told Victoria. "I was wondering though how Heath ended up with the derivative of Heathcliff, and not Nick, or as might be expected, Jarrod?" Rose smiled brightly. "Though those are lovely names too, of course. And Heath's name suits him, as do his brothers'. Were Jarrod and Nick family names?"

There was a pregnant pause as Victoria Barkley regarded Rose across the table. For a moment, a shadow crossed the older woman's unlined, ageless features. "Heath is my son in every way that matters," Victoria spoke with devotion. "I am as proud of him, and love him with every fibre of my being, just they way I do Jarrod and Nick and Audra." Victoria's dark eyes slid fondly to her daughter, then she looked back to Rose. "But Heath is not the son of my body, though he is Tom Barkley's. In fact, we didn't even know Heath until he was already a man. Until after Tom's death."

Rose was taken aback. She had not expected this, and had certainly not meant to pry. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overstep..." she apologized.

Victoria Barkley shook her head. "You have nothing to apologize for. Everyone who knows us, knows the circumstances of how Heath came to be a part of us. It's not a secret." She held her head high, speaking without shame or regret. Slowly, the story of Heath Barkley unfolded. Rose listened raptly, as Victoria described Heath's arrival at the ranch, his claims of blood ties, and finally his full acceptance into the family.

"Heath was Tom's final gift to me. To all of us," Victoria said softly. She turned her head to one side and smiled broadly at Rose. "But as you see, we didn't name Heath. I have no idea how Leah came to give him that name. It's funny...until you mentioned the similarity to Heathcliff, from the novel, I never made a connection before!"

Rose was surprised to learn that Heath had been raised anywhere except here in the big mansion with his siblings. She never would have guessed that the loving relationships they all shared, did not all stem from the same history. Never once in her weeks with the Barkley family, had Rose caught even the subtlest of hints that Heath was any less loved or respected because of the circumstances of his birth, or that he was treated in any way differently. And there had been no indication that he hadn't always been a part of the family. He was brother and son, and there were no distinctions between he and his siblings.

Rose knew that it had to have been a tremendous blow to Victoria Barkley to learn that her adored and revered late husband had fathered a child with another woman, during the course of their marriage. The young woman was awed at the strength of character the older woman had evidenced in the way she had brought Tom Barkley's son into their home, and into her heart. Rose knew that it would have been the matriarch's lead, and was sure that Heath's siblings would have deferred to her wishes, and that if Victoria had refused Heath, Rose felt the others would have too.

Rose also knew that as fortunate as Heath was to have found a home here, the other Barkley's were as equally blessed to have the quiet, sensitive, loyal and steadfast cowboy in their lives.

"Sometimes," Audra added, smiling fondly at thoughts of the youngest of her brothers, "it's hard to even imagine this family without Heath being a part of it. Hard to remember what it was like before he was here with us where he belongs." Rose silently agreed.

* * * * * * * *

Rose watched as they came around the bend, and were passing under the arched sign that declared this the Barkley Ranch. Audra cantered ahead of her brothers, astride her mother's horse, Misty Girl. The blonde had been so excited about her brothers' return from Nevada with the new stock, and the wire that they would be on today's train had prompted her to ride into Stockton to meet them. She had brought with her Charger and Coco so that Heath and Nick would not have to rent saddle horses from the livery.

Behind Audra, Heath led the string of newly acquired horses, the leather tether wrapped firmly around Charger's saddlehorn. His equine charges trotted in orderly fashion, each one tied behind the next. There were several, Rose saw, mostly darker in colour, and one light grey, almost white, the afternoon sun reflecting from it's polished hide. Heath saw Rose, standing near the paddock in wait, and beyond her the regal figure of Victoria, coming to join the dark-haired woman. He raised his hand in greeting, and his lazy wave belied his immense satisfaction to be home again after almost a week.

Nick, on Coco, brought up the rear. He sat ramrod straight in the saddle, moving with the easy confidence of one who had been on horseback since before he had learned to walk. Rose's breath caught in her chest at the sight of him, even though she could not yet make out his familiar features. She had missed him, she realized. Missed the proud set of his broad shoulders, the clink of his spurs as his long, muscled legs took him about, and the deep timbre of his voice that would echo through the house. Her stomache did a flipflop now, as the procession made it's way to the side yard. Rose couldn't wait to look into Nick's dark eyes, to see his rakish smile, and to hear him say her name in greeting. She couldn't wait to welcome him back.

Audra broke off and headed the black to the stables. Ciego came running to take Charger and Coco as the two brothers dismounted and readied to turn their new purchases into the fenced in area, their long journey at an end. Neither Nick nor Heath spoke to the women just yet, though they both wore grins on their handsome faces that testified to their happiness in being back and having a welcoming committee. The worked quickly and efficiently, untying the string of horses, slipping off the halters and hanging them on fenceposts, and slapping the mares on the rumps to send them into the paddock. Audra hurried over to the fence, just as Heath was swinging the gate shut.

"And that's that!" Nick boomed with satisfaction. He strode over to Victoria, gathering her into his arms and holding her tight, planting a kiss on her smooth cheek. "Hello Mother!"

"Welcome home, Nick," she responded merrily.

Heath gave Audra a quick hug, thanking her again for thinking to bring their favourite mounts, and then gave Rose a quick hug too. Rose smiled shyly. The Barkleys made her feel like family, never like an outsider. Then Heath was moving to Victoria, obediently turning his cheek for a kiss from the older woman as she welcomed her youngest son home as well.

Nick wrapped Audra in a big bear hug, squeezing her amidst light-hearted protestations. Then he released her and moved to stand before Rose. "It's good to see you Rose," Nick told her with endearing shyness. Then he leaned in, hugging her to him, her head touching his broad chest. One arm was around her waist, his hand pressed to the small of her back. Rose could feel the weight of his chin on the top of her head, and feel his breath against her hair. The warmth spread through her. She reached to hold his arm, her hand clasping the fabric of his sleeve. And then, all too quickly it seemed, Nick was releasing her.

"You had a good trip?" she questioned, trying to still the racing of her pulse. She knew then why she had dressed with such care today, taking her time before selecting the buttercream yellow dress that she felt was the most becoming. Nick had stepped back and she had to put her head back to look up into his face and to meet his warm brown eyes. She wanted to say, 'I missed you,' but couldn't seem to give voice to the words. There was a smudge of dust on the right side of his chin that her fingers were itching to brush away, but she keep them curled into her palms.

"We didn't get all of the horses we bid on," Nick said with mild regret, "the prices were sky high this year. But we got the ones we really wanted." He nodded to the eight mares in the paddock beyond. "A lot with five, and then three individual mares, with superb bloodlines, that were auctioned separately. They should really improve our stock." His voice was deep with satisfaction. As always, when he spoke of the ranch and all things related to it, Nick's enthusiasm and pride was evident.

"They're beautiful," Audra was saying softly, mesmerized by the new mares.

"I'm sure you two would like to clean up, and have a bath before dinner," Victoria intuited. "Silas is making roast beef. Jarrod won't be joining us, he's having dinner in town with Mr. and Mrs. Lo."

Quickly, she recapped for Nick and Heath the outcome of their brother's latest trial. The first day of testimony had gone badly, and the eye witnesses statements on the stand had been very damaging for Jarrod's client. The story unfolded beginning with Ken Ballard going into the laundry to pick up his clothes. He had disputed the amount that was being charged saying that it was more than Chen Lo had originally stated, and claimed that Lo had lost one of his shirts. A heated discussion had ensued. Ballard had paid amidst strident protestations, and left the laundry.

Harry, the bartender at the Golden Eagle, stated that Ballard had had several whiskies in the space of an hour, and had begun to lament about the 'crooked, thieving Chinaman'. Egged on by other patrons, the drunken Ballard had staggered from the bar, claiming that he was going to go 'teach that Chinese a lesson.'

One of the women working at the saloon, who had been sharing drinks with Ken, had accompanied Ballard back to the laundry, bright-eyed over the impending trouble. She said that Ballard had told Lo that he was going to get the sheriff and press charges for theft, and spread the word throughout Stockton about Lo's dishonesty, and see that his business was ruined. Lacey had claimed that Lo had taken a shotgun from behind the counter and murdered Ballard in cold blood.

Chen Lo was adamant that though he had indeed shot Ballard, the other man had come back to the laundry, drunk and enraged, waving a pistol around the shop. Chen had tried to convince him to leave, offering to refund the total for the cleaning bill. He said that he had tried to calm Ballard, but that the saloon girl, Lacey Jenkins, had continued to rile Ballard up, making disparaging, racist remarks and encouraging Ballard to shoot Lo.

When Ballard had raised his gun and aimed it at Lo's head, and then cocked the trigger, glancing at Lacey to ask, 'Do Chinamen go to heaven, d'ya think?', Chen Lo, knowing the other man meant to kill him, had brought up his rifle and fired, shooting Ballard in the gut.

There were other witnesses who could corroborate the story, Lo had insisted. But when the realization had settled in that none were going to come forward and speak on his behalf, and that the only witness at the trial would be Lacey Jenkins, and that it would be her word against his, a resigned depression had settled over Jarrod's client.

It wasn't until late on the second day of the trial that the attorney, after an impassioned plea during the afternoon recess, had convinced teenager Joe Henley to come forward and to tell the truth about what he had seen. The jury had deliberated all day on Wednesday, and finally late in the day, the verdict had been reached. Chen Lo was acquitted of Ken Ballard's murder, as an act of self-defense. Mr. and Mrs. Lo, in their gratitude, had invited Jarrod to their home above the laundry, for a traditional Chinese dinner the next evening.

"Glad to hear it worked out, and an innocent man was set free," Heath remarked with quiet satisfaction. He had seen enough injustice in his life, been on the receiving end of it and suffered it so many times himself, that his pride for his oldest brother and admiration of Jarrod's relentless pursuit of what was right, against all odds, was an important bond in their relationship. Rose looked at Heath, sensing the pain beneath the surface, and wondering what Heath's life had been like before he had added Barkley to his name.

"Well that is good news!" Nick boomed, grinning. "I don't know how he always does it, but Big Brother is darned near a miracle worker!" His face reflected how much he too venerated his older sibling.

Audra who had been leaning on the top rail, watching the mares, suddenly cried out in distress, "Oh Nick, Heath, she's hurt!" gesturing to the pale grey mare. A curved red line marked the horse's left foreleg.

"It's not bad, really," Nick hastened to assure his sister. "She cut it somehow when they were loading them on the train. Either her own hoof or one of the either mare's, most likely. It's not deep." Nick reached to clap his sandy-haired brother on the back. "Heath here will have her fixed up in no time."

He addressed his next remarks to Rose. "I've never seen someone who was better with horses than Brother Heath in all my life. Not when it comes to gentling them or fixin' 'em up. I'd swear he was half horse himself. We'll cut the mare out in a moment and take her to the barn, and Heath can work his magic there. Why, he'll have her healed up in no time. Better than she was before."

Rose felt a sudden flash of insight, as the words tumbled to the fore. "Better than she was before," she repeated Nick's words back to him. "Better. Stronger. Faster." Something about that struck Rose as incredibly funny, and she began to giggle. The giggling turned to full-fledged laughter. She doubled over, holding her stomache, while her sides heaved. She couldn't help her mirth, and tears sprang to the corners of her eyes as her body continued to shake.

Nick and Heath looked to one another, and then to Rose, and then back at each other again. Neither was sure just which of them was the brunt of the joke, or even what the joke was. But something had certainly tickled Rose's funny bone, and as soon as she would seem to get the laughter under control, it would burst forth again, in glorious, unrestrained mirth.

Victoria and Audra too, were at a loss as to just what was at the root of the hilarity. But Victoria couldn't help smiling at the young woman's obvious glee, and soon Audra found herself beginning to chuckle for no apparent reason, other than that Rose's good humour was infectious.

The sound of Rose's laughter, such a lyrical, musical sound, and her unself-conscious joy, was heavenly to Nick Barkley. How vibrant and beautiful she was. It took his breath away. He realized that Audra was giggling now too, and that Victoria was chuckling. Even Heath's blue eyes were twinkling as he fought not to give in to the temptation to join them, and then lost. The four of them were laughing, Rose's humour renewed by that of the others, and before Nick knew it, his own loud guffaws mingled in.

None of them, not even Rose, had any idea of what had precipitated this. No clue as to just what it was that had struck the young woman as so funny. So they all stood there, outside the paddock, celebrating everything that was right in their lives, and giving primal voice to their good fortune at being happy, and healthy, and together.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rose heard the soft clink behind her, followed by Nick's satisfied sign, as he dropped another ball into the pocket, hoping to break the tie and best his older brother. Victoria and Audra were seated near the unlit hearth, heads bowed over a game of checkers that rested on the ottoman between them, and Rose could discern the familial resemblance in their graceful profiles. Rose herself was on the settee, working with a delicate hook and fine silk thread, trying to finish off the doily she had attempted as her first solo project, totally without the benefit of her mentor's assistance.

The young woman was distracted though. She had been feeling out of sorts all evening to begin with. Now, off to the right side of the room, near the large windows that overlooked Victoria's magnificent rose garden, Heath sat performing routine maintenance on the rifles. With great attentiveness, he cleaned out barrels with a small wire brush, lined up sights, and polished stocks til they gleamed. He would finish one, set it aside and go on to the next, working quickly and efficiently, his face a mask of concentration. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled back to his elbows, and the finely defined muscles of his forearms flexed as he worked. His fingers would get black with oils, and Heath wiped them continuously on the muslin rag that rested over his taut right thigh.

Rose watched him apprehensively. From the first, the guns had made her nervous. There seemed to be guns everywhere. Each of the ranch hands wore a gunbelt on a daily basis, as did Heath and Nick. Though Jarrod didn't seem to wear his as frequently, he too was often seen sporting a sidearm. She had never seen a gun drawn, and had only heard one fired once, out in the far pasture, when the Barkley foreman Duke McCall had shot and killed a rattler. No one was wearing a gunbelt this evening as they relaxed and unwound.

It wasn't just on the ranch, but in Stockton too that Rose had noted that just about all of the men were armed. For the most part guns had become an invisible part of the background, but every now and then it would weigh upon her just how big a part of the valley culture they really were. Rose couldn't be sure, but she had the sensation that wherever she had come from, wherever she had lived before, it wasn't the custom for so many people to be so openly armed. She wasn't afraid of the guns exactly, and she trusted the men who carried them, especially the Barkley men, but even after two months Rose couldn't quite shake how anxious she would feel if she gave too much thought to the prevalence of firearms.

Heath looked up and caught her stare. He gave Rose the gentle half-grin she had come to associate with the youngest Barkley brother. "Seems like I always get stuck with the dirty jobs while Nick and Jarrod run off an' play," he winked at the young woman. Heath could see that Rose was unsettled but he wasn't sure why. Her eyes darted from his face to the Winchester that rested on his lap, and back to his face again. "Do you shoot?" Heath asked casually, on a hunch. Rose's green eyes widened and she shook her head an emphatic 'no'. He hadn't thought so. She seemed uncomfortable, fearful almost. He knew many women didn't know how to fire a gun, but he had never met one who reacted to them the way Rose seemed to now.

"They make ya nervous, huh." It was more a statement of fact than a question. Rose nodded embarrassedly. Heath was speaking quietly, and so far neither his mother and sister, or his two brothers, were paying any attention to he and Rose. "A gun is just a tool, like any other," Heath remarked matter-of-factly. "Neither good nor bad. Useful in the right hands. Dangerous in the wrong ones."

"Audra says you're an expert marksman," Rose commented. "That no one can beat you at either local or state competitions."

Heath shrugged his shoulders modestly. "I can shoot some," he allowed. "I practiced a lot over the years. If you're gonna have a gun, you respect it, and you respect what it can do. For you, and to others. An' ya learn how to use it properly, an' ya take care of it. Jus' the same way you do your horse and your saddle. 'Cause ya know your life could depend on any one of 'em." His sky blue eyes were serious. "On it's own, this rifle is just a hunk of steel and wood. Come sit over here, and hold it a minute," he invited.

Tentatively, Rose set her crocheting aside, and moved to where the sandy-haired cowboy sat. He picked up one of the already serviced rifles and held it out to her. "We don't store the rifles loaded," he explained.

Rose took the rifle, surprised at how heavy it was. She could smell the oil that Heath had used to clean it. The wooden stock was highly polished; she could see her reflection in it. She held it for a moment, then thrust it back at him. "I'll stick to my crocheting needles," she said with a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

Heath wondered if at some point someone had brandished a gun with the attempt to frighten Rose. He remembered how she had been when he'd found her that first day. Bloody and battered. Near death. He thought now that repeated and vicious strikings by the butt of a rifle barrel might inflict the sort of injuries Rose had sustained. Looking at her now, the lovely, unblemished, pale oval of her face, the big emerald eyes and the sweeping dark lashes, the thick, wavy dark hair, and the still slender but no longer pitifully thin figure beneath the fashionable, pink dress...Heath found it hard to believe this was the same woman.

He was beginning to doubt that they would ever find out who Rose had been before coming here. Or what had happened to bring her to where he had found her that day. None of Jarrod's inquiries had turned up any leads. Heath had no idea where they would go from here. How long they would search. How though could they ever cease? Rose had to be from somewhere. She had to be someone.

With each day that passed, Heath watched Nick fall harder and harder for Rose. And though she didn't quite wear her heart on her sleeve the same way his brother did, Heath believed that Rose had feelings for Nick too. But as long as they didn't know anything about Rose, that burgeoning relationship had to be kept on hold. How long, Heath wondered, would that satisfy either his rancher brother or the young woman? And what sort of disaster could result if they gave in to those feelings...and then it turned out that Rose was already bound to another man?

Heath could understand why Nick would feel as he did about Rose. She was beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. She was the delicate Damsel in Distress, and Nick loved to play the Knight in Shining Armour. It was a childhood game that he had never outgrown. Rose was sweet, and kind, and bright. She had a wonderful sense of humour and a laugh like gentle rain. She was brave too, and gracious in the face of her continuing ordeal.

Heath was grateful that he had been led to find her that day. That was how he felt, when he thought about it now. As though outside forces had put Rose in his path and then guided him to her. It was though she was meant to be here at the ranch. To be a part of their family.

To himself alone, he questioned the continuing wisdom of allowing Rose to stay at the ranch. But of course she had no where else to go. Rose had suggested getting a job and a room in town, and working to repay the Barkleys for all of their kindnesses. But Victoria wouldn't hear of it, and the others had agreed. "If it were Audra out there, alone and unable to remember us," the silver-haired matriarch had told Rose, "I would hope that someone who had been as blessed as we have been and was in a similar situation to help, would do the same for her. And as Hebrews 13:2 instructs us, 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares'."

And so the days and then weeks had marched on. Rose's unofficial status as part of the family became firmer and firmer entrenched. Heath too adored Rose. But he was worried. For her, and because of her. Instead of outside employment, she spent her time helping Victoria around the house, working in the rose gardens that had given her her name, polishing silver and crystal, or refilling the oil lamps. And Rose often went to the orphanage with Audra, seeming to enjoy it there as much as his sister. Today both young woman had spent the entire day with the children.

"Best way to get over your fear of somethin' is to learn all ya can about it," Heath counseled quietly. "A big part of fear is the not knowin'. I can see you don't cotton to guns. And maybe ya got a good reason to be afraid. But if ya like, I can help you to get over that. I can teach ya to handle a gun, and care for it, and to shoot."

Nick and Jarrod, who had concluded their final game with the attorney emerging triumphant, had laid their pool cues on the green felt surface and were watching Heath and Rose intently. Rose was as yet unaware of being observed. She smiled wanly at Heath. "I appreciate the offer, thank you, but I don't think so. And I don't know why they bother me. It's not fear so much, really, I don't think. It's just that...I'm not used to them," she explained to the fair-haired man. "At least, I don't think," she amended with an almost imperceptible shrug of her slender shoulders. "I have a feeling that where...where I'm from...that there aren't so many guns as there are here."

Nick and Jarrod held their breath. Was Rose on the verge of remembering something? Were they chancing upon some new clue that might help them narrow their search? Or which might catapult Rose into recalling everything? Dr. Merar had said that it could happen that way. One small and seemingly inconsequential thing might open the floodgates on Rose's past.

Jarrod wondered where Rose might be from originally. In the west, guns were as much as part of life as hats, or gloves, or boots. Could she be from back east? The slightly more civilized states on the north Atlantic side of the country, with it's more populated, more modern cities, still saw most men going armed, at least a portion of the time.

A thought occurred to him. Perhaps Rose was from one of the more reclusive religious factions that shunned weapons. There were no other signs that pointed to that though. Her style of dress, on the day she had been found, had not been the simple, homespun choice of most of the women from such sects. And her obvious education, and her manner of speech, was not in keeping with their philosophies either.

Rose seemed not to have anything more to say about 'where I'm from'. Her conversation with Heath switched from that of guns, to horses, as Rose was asking about the young foal that Heath had helped deliver a couple of weeks ago. Jarrod felt the hope that had risen in him fade away. As always, her sliver of remembrance, if you could really call it that, was something...but it wasn't enough.

* * * * * * * *

Sleep did not come easily to Rose that night. It was a warm evening, muggy, and she had left the window sash open, hoping that the still air might circulate a bit and alleviate some of the heaviness. She left her door partially open for the same reason. She slipped on a thin, loose-fitting cotton nightdress. Folding it up neatly, she removed the quilt from her bed, laying it on a nearby chair, and then pulled the blanket down to the end of the bed. She pulled her thick tresses up, tying them with a ribbon, so that the hair wouldn't lay uncomfortably against the back of her neck. Finally, she poured a glass of water from the jug on the bureau, letting the liquid trickle down her throat.

Rose turned down the lamp, and slid beneath the fine linen bedsheet, pulling it up to her waist, as she snuggled into the downy pillows. Slumber tried to claim her as she tossed and turned, her mind resisting, even though her body cried out for rest. Her thoughts kept returning to the orphanage where she and Audra had spent the day, cleaning all morning, and then playing with the children long into the afternoon.

Rose enjoyed witnessing the rapport that Audra had with the orphans. The blonde woman really came alive when she was interacting with the children, and they all adored her, from the baby girl, Laura, who was just five months old, to Will, the teenage boy and oldest of the fourteen youngsters who called the orphanage home. Audra was firm when it was called for, but always her unconditional love shone through. As much as the young woman gave though, she seemed to receive tenfold, and when they left the orphanage at the end of the day, Audra always exhibited a peace and a satisfaction that Rose silently envied.

The generosity of the Barkley family, and others in the valley, saw to it that the children had no material wants. All were well fed, and properly clothed. Ciego would drive a buggy out during the months that school was in session, and take the ones who were school-aged into town. There were books and clothes. The orphanage was over-flowing with love, and even though individual children at times struggled with missing families who had once loved and cared for them, or others were despondent that they had never known a home beyond the orphanages stone walls, the atmosphere was one of hope and fellowship.

As much as she enjoyed her time there though, a visit to the orphanage always left Rose feeling unsettled and melancholy. She couldn't understand why. At first she had thought that maybe it was because of her current situation...that she could relate to the existence of the youngsters, having no one to call their own or to lay claim to them. Dependent on the beneficence of others. No matter how contented and well cared for. Rose realized that she was an orphan of sorts.

Though that might be part of the reason behind her emotional reaction, Rose felt that that wasn't the entire cause. Sometimes, when she watched the children at play, or cuddled one on her lap, she felt such an overwhelming yearning. Followed by a sense of profound loss. She had never spoken of this with Audra. Rose didn't want her conflicting feelings to in any way spoil the uplifting experience that being at the orphanage provided to her friend. She didn't want Audra to have to be worried about her, the blonde woman's focus deviating even slightly from the real reason they were there. Which was the children.

Rose rolled over in bed again, sighing deeply. She had no idea what time it was. Late. The three Barkley brothers had ridden into Stockton a few hours ago...once Jarrod and Nick had helped Heath to return the rifles to the rack...ostensibly to seek out a friendly game of poker and catch up with friends. The three women had retired to bed not much after that. The men hadn't returned yet, and it was probably still before midnight, Rose figured, or not too much past.

It was midweek, and Nick and Heath anyway would have to be up early to see to the running of the ranch. On the couple of occasions that the brothers had gone into town for the evening on a week night, they were usually back no later than one or two. Weekends were a different matter of course.

Rose found herself wondering what Nick was up to. She could envision him seated at a round wooden table in one of the saloons, holding his cards, money piled in front of him, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. A scantily clad saloon girl on his lap, perhaps. Rose frowned in the dark, trying to banish that image, as the inexplicable jealousy welled up inside her. She had no claims on Nick Barkley. She was in no position to make any.

Eventually, the racing of her mind slowed. Her fidgeting became less. Rose lay curled on her side, as her body relaxed and her breathing became slow and rhythmic.

Chapter Twenty-Four

They were playing in a meadow. A dark-haired man of medium height and build and two small children. He was chasing the dark-haired youngsters over the grasses and wildflowers, while they laughed with delight, struggling to keep ahead of him. He caught the little girl, hoisting her up in the air, onto his shoulders, and then the two of them charged after the boy, who danced just out of their reach. At last the man, laughingly set the girl on the ground, and called 'I give!' to the boy, his voice warm and kind.

Both children grappled the man's denim-clad legs, hugging him fiercely. She noticed that there was something odd about the trio's attire. The little girl, instead of wearing a long dress and petticoats, was wearing a pair of dungarees, like a boy. The boy wore a pair of short pants, above the knee. All three wore short-sleeved undershirts, immodestly, with nothing over top. And their footwear was strange. Not the sturdy, practical boots or leather shoes with buttons that one might expect, but flat, white footwear, tied with looped string.

The man collapsed on the ground, and the children jumped on top of him. 'Daddy!' they squealed in protest, as he began to tickle first one than the other. Finally, they all rested, panting from their exertions, the man on his back with his arms folded behind his head, and one child curled against each side. They looked up at the deep blue sky, and tried to find shapes in the clouds.

She was enchanted by the scene. How happy the three looked. A family, out for the day, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. There was something so familiar about them. Something that made her pulse race. She found that she wanted to go to them. To join in their fun. She walked towards them, through the grass, and yet strangely they continued to remain the same distance away. She had to get to them. She started to run, but though the three who smiled and conversed among themselves as they pointed up at the sky, stayed fixed where they were, her movements brought her no closer to them.

Frantically, she pushed herself to run faster, picking up the skirts of her butter yellow dress, her lungs searing as they gasped for oxygen. It was vitally important that she get to them. She had to talk to them. She watched as the man stood up, offering a hand to each child, then leaning back a bit as he lifted them to their feet.

Their demeanor had changed now. The joy they had experienced just a moment ago, was replaced with a dejection that manifested itself in the slumping of the man's shoulders, and the pinched look on the children's faces. Still holding a hand of each, the man began to walk away, his back to her. The children shuffled disconsolately on either side, their dark heads bowed. She heard a sniffling sound and knew that the little girl was crying.

'Wait!' she called out, but they didn't appear to hear her. She had to get to them before they reached the end of the field and disappeared through the line of trees where they would be lost in the forest beyond. She couldn't let them get away. She had to get to them! Talk to them! Touch them!

There was the sound of approaching hooves, and she turned to see Nick Barkley ride up alongside of her. She was so tired from running, a stitch in her side shooting pain across her ribs. He trotted there on Coco, looking down at her with a wounded, disapproving expression. He bent in the saddle, and she grasped his hand, and somehow she found herself swinging in the air, coming to rest behind him on his mount.

'Nick, thank God!' she panted. She pointed to the departing figures. Nick would help her. There was no way the trio could outrun Coco. 'Hurry! I have to get to them!'

But Nick slowed Coco to a halt. He shook his head and looked back at her. 'You know I can't go there,' he remonstrated.

She looked across the field. There was no barrier, neither man-made in terms of a fence, or natural in the form of a river or chasm, that would prevent the rancher from taking her where she needed to go. 'Please!' she implored.

Nick sighed. 'I can't go there,' he repeated slowly, indulgently, as though he were speaking to a child. 'That's not Barkley land.'

She could have screamed her frustration. But there was no time to try to convince the rancher of anything, either the importance of what she had to do, or the ridiculousness of his objection. She swung her leg over the stallion's chocolate hindquarters, and dropped lightly to the ground. Then she was off again, her legs pumping like automatons, as she pursued the departing figures.

'Wait!' she called again, her voice shrill, ringing with angst. Then the names came to her. 'Jason! Brady! Brooke! Please!'

The little girl broke away from her father's grasp, and pivoted, to stare open mouthed across the expanse of green. 'Mama!' the child cried out incredulously. 'Mama!'

'Brooke!' she called back, feeling that she was gaining ground now. She could see the vivid blue of the child's eyes beneath a fringe of dark bangs. She pushed herself, calling up the last of her reserves as she sprinted the final yards towards her family.

The man had turned, and he was scooping the protesting child into his arms, smoothing the ringlets back from her cherubic face. The little boy, still holding his hand, stared back at her over his shoulder with shocked disbelief. Tears flooded his grey-green eyes, and spilled onto his cheeks.

'Jason...wait!' she implored again.

The man was shaking his head, his handsome face a mask of sorrow. 'You left us,' he reproved, and the pain and anger in his voice was a verbal slap. 'You left us. And now it's too late.' The little girl struggled in his grasp, her chubby little arms reaching out, while she wailed pitifully.

The sound was breaking her heart. She was upon them at last. She felt the tears gather in her own eyes, as she reached one hand towards her daughter and the other towards her son. They reached for her in return, but just as their fingers were about to meet, just as she could almost feel the warmth of their flesh against hers, the man took a step back.

They had reached the tree line. She hadn't made it in time! Her husband's arm extended towards her, and in his hand he held a long-stemmed pink rose. She knew that she shouldn't take it for some reason, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. The moment she touched it, the three disappeared, and she was alone at the edge of the meadow, the thorns on the flower's stem pricking her thumb, drawing a bright red bead of blood.

She threw back her head and began to keen her loss.

* * * * * * * *

She was walking through the rooms of a small house. It was twilight, and the diffused grey that slanted through the windows was the only illumination. The furnished rooms had a vague familiarity. Her fingers trailed over framed prints on the walls, the back of a wing chair, the solid surface of a dining table. She moved through the home slowly, dreamily, as a somnambulist.

In the kitchen, dirty dishes rested in the sink, and on the stove, as though someone had just finished a meal not too long ago. She touched the stove, it's porcelain surface still warm. But there was no one in the main rooms. She began to ascend the stairs, and peered into the bedrooms that led off from the hall.

The first was frilly and feminine. Pale, lilac walls and cream-coloured rug. A border with teddy bears dancing ballet. A toybox in the corner overflowed with Barbies and baby dolls. The little white wooden bed was made up neatly. No child rested on the mattress, or sat on the floor playing with the toys. The room was quiet and undisturbed.

The next room was painted primary red, a border of stock cars running around the top near the ceiling. A wooden toy box, designed and painted to look like Thomas the Tank Engine, was tucked into one corner, overflowing with pieces of wooden track. The loft bed in this room was similarly straightened, the room's occupant nowhere to be seen.

The last room was the master. Rusts and peaches and creams brought together in an epitome of country decorating. A quilt covered the queen-sized bed, and at it's foot rested the curled form of an orange tabby cat. But not a single person was to be found in this room either, and the bed here looked unslept in, the sheets pulled tight and tucked beneath the mattress.

She began to feel anxious. Where were the people who lived in this house?

She seemed to float back down the stairs, moving to a small room beyond the kitchen. There was a bluish glow from the room, and as she stepped inside, she saw that a computer had been left on, and it was the monitor that emitted the strange light. A screen saver swirled a steady pattern of whorls across it's surface. She reached to touch the mouse, and the main screen steadied, a black and white picture of a man's handsome face coming to the fore.

He wore a grey Stetson, and was frozen in time dismounting from a covered surrey. His light shirt and impeccable grey suit were well-fitted to his frame. The black string tie was a perfect bow. He looked very dapper, his rounded face impossibly handsome. The picture was in black and white, but she knew that his eyes would be a vivid, azure blue.

'Where is everyone?' she asked the man on the monitor, as though it was the most natural thing that he should answer her. A coldness settled in her bones. 'Where am I?' She thought she knew the answer to that question, it was there in the recesses of her mind, but she couldn't quite retrieve it. The house felt unnaturally empty. As though it were...waiting.

The figure on the screen moved. One finger tipped the hat back on his forehead, and he regarded her amiably. 'You tell me.'

'I can't,' she protested. 'I don't know!'

'Yes you do,' he encouraged.

'Who are you?' she asked him.

'You tell me,' he said genially.

She stared at him. 'I don't know,' she whimpered. But then she did. Richard Long. Or, as he would always be to her, Jarrod Barkley. He seemed to read her thoughts and he nodded.

'But...who am I?' she asked, on the verge of tears.

'Yes,' he repeated. 'Who are you?'

'I don't know!' she cried. 'But I think you do. Please, tell me. Who am I?'

'Who are you?' he mused.

'Yes!' she said more stridently. 'Who am I?!' It was vital that she learn the answer. Everything hinged on her knowing.

He nodded to the flower that she held her in hand. A perfect, pale pink rose bud. 'Perhaps more importantly,' he suggested, and she began to shiver uncontrollably at his next words, 'is...who do you want to be?'

* * * * * * * *

She was walking outside the orphanage, circling the building. It was dark, with only a small sliver of a crescent moon to provide any light. She was barefoot, wearing only a thin, cotton nightdress. There were pebbles under her feet that pressed uncomfortably into her soft soles.

She looked up, drawn to a tapping sound at one of the windows. Two children, a little dark-haired girl with ringlets, and a dark-haired boy a couple of years older, pressed their faces against the pane of glass and stared down at her.

What on earth were they doing here? These weren't orphans! These children were loved and cared for by two parents who cherished them immensely. They should be at home, tucked safely into their own beds, following a nighttime story, and a kiss on the cheek. She waved to them. She would go inside and get them now. There had obviously been some mistake.

Suddenly, the children began pounding on the glass, terrified. Behind them, she could see the red-orange glow, as the conflagration flared up behind them, reaching hungry fingers towards where the pair crouched, pressed against the window. Their screams ripped through her.

She scrambled towards the front door of the building, slipping and stumbling, the sharp edges of jagged stones drawing blood so that she left red smears where she stepped. She didn't feel the pain though, her panic blocked out physical sensation. She reached the door and grabbed onto the iron knob, twisting and turning it futilely in her hands. She began to pound on the wood, screaming for the Padre to open up. Screaming that he had to get the children out...there was a fire!

'Come on!' a man's voice yelled, and someone was tugging on her hand. 'We've got to form a water brigade!' His blue eyes were frantic. Jason! Together they would save the children.

She followed him towards where two other men worked quickly to draw water up from an old well. It sloshed out of the bucket as the one dressed in black, with darkly hazel eyes, passed it to another man in a fancy, grey suit, his blue eyes intense and worried. The second man hurried across the packed earth towards her, handing off the bucket, then hurrying back for another.

She carried the bucket in front of her, both hands gripping the cast iron handle. Her arms and back strained, and she misstepped, losing her footing, but she managed to keep the bucket upright. She ran towards Jason, passing it to him, then hurried back to await the next one.

'There's no water in here!' Jason complained, shouting at her. In disbelief she stumbled back to him. Impossibly, the bucket was not only empty, but stone dry. She snatched it from him and flew back towards the well.

She could hear the frantic cries of the children, and she tried to cover her ears. Oh dear God, how would they ever get them out? Hot flames lapped through the roof, and pale grey smoke rose into the night sky. The blue-eyed man passed her another bucket and she knew from the weight of it, from the way it splashed up onto her nightgown, that it was full. She redoubled her efforts and brought it, gasping, to her husband.

'There's no water in here!' Jason complained, shouting at her. In disbelief, she stumbled back to him. Impossibly, the bucket was not only empty, but stone dry. She snatched it from him and flew back towards the well.

She could hear the frantic cries of the children, and she tried to cover her ears. Oh dear God, how would they ever get them out? Hot flames lapped through the roof, and a pale grey smoke rose into the night sky. The blue-eyed man passed her another bucket and she knew from the weight of it, from the way it splashed up onto her nightgown, that it was full. She redoubled her efforts and brought it, gasping, to her husband.

'There's no water in here!' Jason complained, shouting at her. In disbelief, she stumbled back to him. Impossibly, the bucket was not only empty, but stone dry. She snatched it from him and flew back towards the well.

She could hear the frantic cries of the children, and she tried to cover her ears. Oh dear God, how would they ever get them out? Hot flames lapped through the roof, and a pale grey smoke rose into the night sky.

'Mama! Mama!' the screams tore at her heart.

She went to the wooden door instead, reaching for the knob. She pulled her hand back as the intense heat seared and bubbled her flesh. She pounded on the door, crying, while acrid tendrils of smoke curled out beneath the bottom. She could hear the crackling of the fire beyond, as it sought to devour everything in it's path. She clawed at the door, ripping her fingernails from their beds. She slammed her shoulder against the hot wood, again and again, then began to kick at it in desperation.

'Jason...help me!' she shrieked frantically.

The man was shaking his head, his handsome face a mask of sorrow. 'You left us,' he reproved, and the pain and anger in his voice was a verbal slap. 'You left us. And now it's too late.'

Her husband's arm extended towards her, and in his hand he held a long-stemmed pink rose. She knew that she shouldn't take it for some reason, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. The moment she touched it, the three men disappeared and the desperate cries from within the orphanage's walls ceased. She tightened her grip on the rose, and the thorns on the flower's stem pricked her thumb and her index finger. It drew three bright red beads of blood. She was too late to save them.

She threw back her head and began to keen her loss.

* * * * * * * *

He'd left his brothers at the Golden Eagle, drinking whiskey and winning at poker. It just wasn't his night. He had to be at the land office in Silver Springs by noon tomorrow, to file some claims, and morning would come early. The house was quiet, the women long since retired. Even Silas, often a night owl who could be found prowling the kitchen in the wee hours, getting a jump start on the next day's preparations, was in his darkened quarters.

He climbed the steps of the grand, curving staircase, the gold carpet muffling his footfalls. He went to the wing on the right, and down the hall to his room. He sat on the bed and removed his black boots, setting them near the armoire. He changed into a pair of sleeping pants, and slipped his silk smoking jacket around his shoulders, tying the sash at his waist. It was very warm in the house, uncomfortably so. It was a humid night, the air preternaturally still. He would just as soon have left the jacket off, but even though it was unlikely he would meet Mother, Audra or Rose in the halls on his way to the bathroom, out of respect he would not wander around half-clothed.

Jarrod padded quietly down the hall, across the landing, and into the other upstairs wing. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble there. He hadn't shaved since early morning and his beard shadow was heavy. He liked a nice, smooth face, as did his brothers, even though the current fashion leaned more towards mutton chops, handle bar moustaches and beards.

He heard her muffled cries as he passed by Rose's room. Her door was partially open, probably to encourage the circulation of any late night breezes, should there be any. He was struck by how tragic the sound was. So bereft and lost. It raised the small hairs at the back of his neck, and his face softened with tender empathy. He paused outside the door, unsure of what to do.

Clearing his throat, Jarrod tapped softly on the open door. "Rose?" he whispered. "Rose are you all right?" Of course she wasn't...she sounded heartbroken. But he was at a loss for words. There was no response, except the mournful sobs. He pushed the door open a bit more, leaning into the darkened room. "Rose? It's Jarrod. Do you want me to get Mother or Audra?"

She still did not answer him. He heard her moaning, then thrashing in her bed. Perhaps she was dreaming. Having a nightmare would be more accurate. If she was, someone should wake her. She was obviously in great distress. For a moment, the attorney debated whether or not he should rouse his mother or sister and ask them to tend to Rose. He wrestled between his desire to let them sleep, and his uncertainty at the propriety of him entering the young woman's bedroom.

Nick wouldn't like it, he knew instantly. But Nick wasn't here. If it had been Audra, crying out in her sleep, Jarrod knew, he would have gone to her without hesitation, offering comfort and assistance. So why shouldn't he do the same for Rose? He opened the door all the way, and went into the room. In the pale light of the crescent moon that shone through the open window, he could see that Rose was tossing restlessly, sobbing quietly, a pitiful, heart-rending sound.

Jarrod hurried to the bed, reaching to touch her shoulder, and giving it a gentle shake. "Rose, wake up," he whispered urgently. "You're having a nightmare."

She sat up in bed, disoriented, tears streaming in rivulets down her high-boned, ivory cheeks. She looked at him fearfully from out of the shadows, and Jarrod felt the familiar disappointment wash over him. Then her demeanour changed. "Oh Jarrod!" she sobbed brokenly, reaching for him with slender arms.

He settled onto the edge of her bed, and put his arms around her, drawing her to his chest. "It's all right, Rose," he soothed. "It's all right. It was just a dream. No one will hurt you, I promise."

She clung to him, her hands grasping the front of his silk jacket, her eyes closed, trembling as the sorrow poured out of her in damp waves. He rubbed her back, feeling the ridges of her spine beneath her thin, cotton nightdress. She was sweat-soaked, the gown damp. He ran his hand over the back of her hair, noting how silky soft it was beneath his splayed fingers.

Rose burrowed her face into Jarrod Barkley's chest. She had been dreaming, she knew, but what that dream had been, or why she felt this way, she did not know. She only knew that she couldn't stop crying. The ache was deep inside her very core, and whatever had caused her sorrow and grief was not alleviated by the act of waking.

She felt Jarrod's hands rubbing her back, and smoothing her hair. He smelled of cologne, and cigars, and whiskey, and the masculine scent was a comfort. She didn't know how he had come to be in her room. She didn't care. She just curled into him, accepting his kindness, trying to shut out memories of terror and loss.

Jarrod was acutely aware of how lithe and warm Rose was in his hold. Of how good her hair smelled, as he rested his cheek against her head and inhaled. To his horror, he found himself remembering the time he had walked in on her in her bath. The soft, feminine curves of her beneath the clear, scented water. His thoughts shifted to the night in San Francisco...how bravely she had faced Julia Saxon, and the unknown. He could hear her sweet voice asking him about that part of his own past, and he recalled how good it had felt to unburden himself, at least a little, and how her compassion had been a living thing in the room. He remembered how at the picnic, for just a moment, he had considered actually bidding seriously against Nick for the right to share lunch with her, wondering why it should be a foregone conclusion that that honour would go to his brother.

He was gladdened that she didn't pull away from him now. Jarrod hadn't realized until this moment just how much it had hurt to know that at times she had feared him. Or how much it had hurt to have had her draw away from his touch. He would never do anything to harm her.

Rose became aware of the fact that her cheek was resting on Jarrod's bare chest, where his jacket had gaped open. She could feel the fine, dark hairs there, curling softly against her skin above the beating of his heart. She had to steel herself against allowing her fingers to rove over the broad expanse of flesh. Her own heart seemed to thud too loudly beneath her breast.

Her fear and her sorrow were forgotten in the tenderness of his embrace. Her trembling ceased and the tears dried. She knew that she should pull back from him now, but she couldn't resist the circle of his strong arms.

Jarrod felt her still, and knew that no fresh tears spilled from her incredible green eyes. Reluctantly, he pulled back a bit, reaching into his pocket and handing her a silk handkerchief. She took it and dabbed her face. He couldn't make out her features fully in the dim light, but he was warmed when she rewarded him with a small smile. "Are you all right now?" he asked, praying that Rose wouldn't hear the huskiness in his voice or interpret it's source.

"Yes, thank you, I'm fine," she said shyly. She set the handkerchief on the night table. "I must have had a bad dream," she added lamely.

He nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

She inhaled deeply. "I don't even remember it," she told him honestly.

"Perhaps that's for the best," Jarrod remarked. He realized that he was still sitting on the edge of her bed, with nothing but the thin blanket between them. He cleared his throat and sprang guiltily to his feet. "Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk? Perhaps a brandy?" He suddenly felt the need to explain his presence in her room. "I was just getting ready for bed...I...I was passing by...I heard you crying..." Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I'm fine now. I feel so exhausted though. I'm sure I'll be out the minute my head hits the pillow."

Jarrod relaxed. She didn't seem to find it strange and didn't appear to be offended to have woken and found him in her bedroom. And she didn't seem to realize that he was standing here now, wanting to offer her so much more than comfort or a drink. "Well, I'll let you get back to bed now," he murmured. "If you need anything, anything at all..." he let the thought hang in the air.

"Thank you, Jarrod," Rose told him appreciatively.

"Good night, Rose."

"Good night."

Contrary to what Rose had claimed, she did not fall asleep again the moment her head touched the pillow. She lay there in the dark for a long time, until the galloping of her heart had slowed. She tried to recall her dream, but there was only a wall of sadness there. She tried not to think about the way she had felt when Jarrod Barkley had held her, or how, when he had asked if she needed anything, she had been horrified to discover that the words 'a kiss' had almost tumbled from her lips.

She was still awake when Nick and Heath returned home about an hour later. She heard each man pass quietly in the hall on the way to the bathroom. She knew that it was Nick who had paused outside her door, standing for a moment in the darkened hallway, before continuing on. And she felt the guilt and confusion wash over her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was a change in Rose after that night. She began to withdraw, becoming more introverted. Her gentle smile was seen less frequently, and her musical laughter did not ring out again, warming either the halls of the mansion or the hearts of it's occupants. Her visits to the orphanage in the next fortnight became more sporadic. She would beg off with a headache, and Audra would make the journey alone, missing the company of her friend. When she did accompany the blonde woman, her previous enthusiasm had waned. She would watch the children from the sidelines with a sad, preoccupied gaze.

Audra had been so pleased with Rose's earlier efforts, and her natural maternal instincts and understanding of the youngsters. And the children had taken to their new friend, sensing in her someone who was also adrift on life's seas. The children noticed the difference too, and Audra was touched and humbled by the way they reached out to Rose, hugging her more in an attempt to comfort her, than to seek solace themselves. Rallying around her protectively, trying to please her, and to elicit rare smiles with their antics.

Rose would sometimes retire early in the evenings, forgoing the customary gatherings in the library or billiards room. She might select a book from among the leather-bound novels, and then take it up to her room, seeming to prefer her own company, and to want to lose herself in the stories of others. When she did join them, though she would participate in their banter, or engage one or the other of them in games, there was always an indefinable sadness in the depths of her lovely, emerald eyes. At other times, her mind would drift, and she would gaze off into some unseen distance, and they would have to repeat parts of their conversation to her, or prompt her that it was her turn at checkers.

She began to spend more and more time in the rose gardens. Even in the glaring rays of the midday sun, she could be found outside, a straw hat covering her dark tresses and shielding her eyes, as she devoted her attention to the profusion of colourful blooms. She would dead head those flowers that were past their best displays. She would cut lovely bouquets to grace the dining table or the mantle in the drawing room. She would studiously examine the leaves and stalks of the plants, painstakingly removing the insects that sought to damage or devour them. She would cut off any portions that evidenced mold or disease.

For a time, Victoria or Audra had attempted to join her in these pursuits, but they had quickly realized that what Rose really wanted was solitude. And so they left her to her tasks, thanking her for her care and diligence with the plants, expressing their pleasure and gratitude for the artful displays she would arrange in the cut crystal vases. All the while feeling helpless and unable to connect with her, wondering what they might have done wrong, or what was troubling her, or just what had precipitated this sad, unwelcome change. And while the varieties of beautiful blooms that graced their gardens flourished, their Rose seemed to be fading away.

It was obvious that she was not sleeping well. The dark smudges beneath her eyes told them that. She would pick at her food, often leaving more behind on her plate than she consumed. She lost a bit of weight as a result, and she could ill afford to do so.

On a trip into Stockton, Victoria had stopped to have tea with Iva Merar, and then had spoken with the doctor before taking her leave, expressing her worry over their young guest. Dr. Merar had explained that it wasn't so unusual, really, after a severe illness or life-threatening event, for a patient who had seemed to make a complete physical recovery, and to have faced their ordeal with optimism and strength, to lapse into a depression. The medical community had no idea why this would sometimes be the case. There were theories of course, but no real answers. They could not predict who might fall victim to this fate, and who might resist it.

He tried to reassure Victoria that it was likely nothing the family had done, or not done. He expressed regret that there was nothing he could do to help a patient through a dark emotional time, no magic powders he could prescribe. It simply had to be waited out. In the meantime, he urged the elder Barkley and her family to continue to surround Rose with the same love and support they always had. And to be patient. It had to be no small thing, he conjectured, dealing with the total loss of one's self through the loss of one's past.

Having no way to define who you were, where your life had been or where it might be going, was not an easy thing to imagine, and even harder, he wagered, to deal with. And as the days had continued to come and go, with no leads, no word, no one seeking to find Rose, and with no insight or memories from within herself to draw or build on, the physician imagined that Rose must be at a terrible crossroads. How long should she live her life in limbo, afraid to think beyond the next day, or to plan her future? At what point should she realistically be expected to forget that which was in the past, and to forge ahead, giving free rein to her wants and desires in the here and now? No longer trying to live as the person she once had been, but to create a new life for herself as the woman she now was.

* * * * * * * *

Rose had decided to join the family in the billiards room that evening. She knew that she had to make the effort to be more social, and to be more upbeat. That it was unfair to the Barkleys to continue to hide away from them. She knew how concerned they were about her. She saw it in their faces, and heard it in their voices. They had given her the world, their world, and had asked for nothing in return but that they be allowed to do so. She appreciated their kindnesses, their compassion and caring...their love...more than she could possibly express.

But as the dreams continued to plague her, haunting her nocturnal hours and then vanishing with the morning light, leaving no residual traces except for the twisting of her stomache, the pain in her heart, and the dampness on her cheeks, Rose found herself pulling away from them. Even Nick, whose hurt was palpable when she chose a seat across the room from him, or declined his offer to play checkers or to try her hand at billiards, or his efforts unsuccessful when he tried to cajole the young woman to come for a walk in the evenings, when the blazing, oppressive heat of the day had mostly dissipated.

She didn't want to hurt him, and she knew that he didn't deserve to be shut out the way she was doing, but she was just so confused. She questioned her feelings, and she questioned her motives. She adored him...she needed him...but she began to wonder if she hadn't been too quick to allow him to pull her into the future, while negating her past. His strength and determination, in the face of her fear and uncertainty upon her arrival at the ranch, had been a salve. His unself-conscious and unwavering affection for her, had been something to cling to, so that she wouldn't have to think about what the life she had left behind might have been like. Had she used him as a buffer to memories that she didn't want to recall? Or had his larger than life personality worked towards it's own ends, to block them from her?

There were so many moments in those two weeks, where Rose wanted to just give herself up to his care. To bury herself in his arms and to let him soothe away the bad dreams and convince her that everything would be all right. That nothing could go wrong, because he, Nick Barkley, would make sure of it.

And then there was Jarrod. Suave, sophisticated, debonair Jarrod. Nothing like his rancher brother on the surface. Quiet where Nick was loud. Cautious where Nick would run full tilt. More reserved with his emotions, while Nick wore his heart on his sleeve, and gave voice to his anger, and never put a rein on what he was feeling. Jarrod loved the law, and the solidity of the heavy books with their tortes and precedences. He drew his strength from the ideals of equality and justice for all men. Nick loved the land, and the solidity of the earth when he held it in his palm. He drew his strength from the enduring reality of mountains and rocks and streams that had been here long before him, and would be here long after.

Yet, they were also so much alike, these Barkley brothers. Both had an overpowering sense of duty, and an unwavering love of family. Both were intensely loyal, and dependable. Honest and trustworthy. Both devastatingly handsome in their own ways.

Since that night when she had woken to find Jarrod in her bedroom though, when he had brought her out of the throes of that terrible nightmare, he had been in Rose's thoughts constantly. She became convinced that her being here had something to do with the dapper counselor, as the family had first suspected. She began to feel that in fact her whole reason for being here, was Jarrod Barkley.

The fear she had felt on her initial encounters with him, that sense of wrongness that would often wash over her, was gone, swept out with her tears that night. Evaporated along with them, as Jarrod had held her in his arms. She would stare at him sometimes across a room, and feel as though she had known him all of her life. She could almost anticipate the words he would speak, the pose he would strike...she sometimes felt as though she could read his mind. She loved to listen to him speak...the deep melodious tones of his elocutions.

She had never witnessed him at action in a courtroom, yet she could picture him so clearly, as he surely must look. Striding confidently across the floor, impressing his point upon the jurors, one hand tucked into the pocket of his grey, silk vest. She could see him with his hands spread apart, leaning onto the witness stand, his intelligent blue eyes blazing as he determined to get to the truth. Sometimes, she almost thought that these visions were real memories, rather than her overactive imagination, but that was impossible of course.

She would watch him now and then, struck by his vibrancy. How full of life he was. And then, inexplicably, a deep melancholy and an overwhelming sense of loss would settle over her.

"Rose, would you like to go for a ride?" Nick, who had appeared at her elbow asked, though his tone indicated that he held out little hope. "There are still a few hours til dark. It's cooler up on the ridge, and the scenery is great."

She looked up into his dark eyes, and saw the tenderness there. She hadn't yet been on horseback since coming to the Barkley Ranch. Dr. Merar had suggested that she wait until her injured ribs and hip were more completely healed, warning that even once the external evidence of her injuries had faded, that the bones and muscles would need more time. "I don't even know if I can ride," she admitted to him.

It wasn't an outright refusal and Nick was encouraged. He grinned rakishly at her. "We've got a couple of really gentle mounts, perfect for a beginner, til we can check it out and see how comfortable you feel on a horse," he assured her. "We can just take a short ride for the first time out."

Rose surprised both of them by answering, "I think that sounds like a wonderful idea." She looked across the room at Jarrod, who regarded her impassionately before turning his back to fix himself a drink.

* * * * * * * *

It had been a while since the valley had seen any rain, and though they were a long way from having to consider the word drought, it was a dry spell that they were eager to see break soon. The horses' hooves on the parched earth kicked up small clouds of dust. Nick rode slowly beside her on Coco, while Rose familiarized herself with her mount, Twilight, a gentle dappled grey mare. He talked about how they had had to move the herds to the south pasture, near the bigger of the two waterholes, since the level of the one in the north pasture had dropped so significantly, even in the last week.

Nick had been delighted when Rose had agreed to accompany him for a ride. He had whistled his good humour as he had saddled the mounts in the stables, while Rose changed into a smart black riding skirt and pale green blouse. His worry over her unusual behaviour had intensified over the last few days. He had thought at first, stricken, that it was just him who Rose had changed towards, but it quickly became apparent that she had withdrawn from the rest of his family too. He looked everywhere for dragons to slay for her, but there were none. All of Rose's troubles seemed locked away inside her. When she had taken him up on his offer to go for a ride, his heart had soared. Wherever their Rose had gone, Nick was determined to bring her back to them.

The ride was wonderful. Rose found that it wasn't too difficult to keep her seat. She realized that it was her legs that had to do most of the work, gripping the mare's sides, and Nick showed her how to lean forward when the grey was ascending a hill, and to lean backwards when she was descending it, to keep Rose's weight in the most advantageous position to help the horse. Nick pointed out the animal inhabitants that they shared the valley with, and various types of plant life as they moved across the Barkley lands.

They paused on one windswept knoll, surveying the lower ground. Nick's black gloved finger traced a grey line on the horizon, and he told Rose that that was the rail line. He launched into the tale then, of how the railroad had tried to strong arm it's way into the valley, plowing under the inhabitants who had given their sweat and blood to carve out a niche for themselves in this often inhospitable land. Land that had, at one point belonged to the railroad, but which they had sold off, figuring it useless. Until new towns began to spring up, and Stockton itself grew.

Then the railroad men had tried to take that land back. To steal if from the ranchers and farmers, legally if they could, or through violence and murder if that didn't work. His gravelly voice ringing with pride, the dark-haired rancher told her of the fight the valley denizens had given, spear-headed by the late Tom Barkley. And then, his voice hoarse with sorrow and loss, his eyes thundering his rage, Nick had told her of his father's murder by thugs and cowards.

Rose listened, fascinated by the tale. She had known Tom Barkley had been murdered, but she had not been aware of the circumstances surrounding his death. She leaned out of her saddle, reaching across for Nick's hand, giving it a squeeze, while she expressed her condolences. He nodded, touched by her sympathy, his dark eyes warm.

"I took over the running of the ranch," Nick explained, "though I still had a lot to learn. I threw myself into the work though, determined that I was going to take what my father had started, and build on that legacy, so that people would know you can never stop a Barkley. Never get a Barkley down. It helped, working from sunup til sundown, not to feel the pain so bad that first little while." Nick sighed, remembering.

"Now Jarrod, he stepped right up to the plate too," Nick continued. "He took the head of the table, and he became surrogate dad to Audra an' me. He was already practicing law at that point, already handling the family's personal and business interests. He helped me out, being there for me to lean on, to offer advice, or to just listen. He made a lot of the decisions for the family that would had been my dad's, and I know he was the greatest source of comfort and strength to Mother."

He paused. "Mother took it real hard. Except for the early years when my dad would travel sometimes, setting up the mines and some of our other businesses, they were pretty much inseparable." Nick cleared his throat. "'Bout six years after my dad was killed, the railroad tried again. Thinking they had one less Barkley to fight this time around. Only the thing is, they didn't realize, while we'd lost one Barkley, we were gaining another." He laughed, a deep, throaty sound.

As he told Rose the story of Heath's arrival at the Barkley Ranch, beyond what Victoria had shared, Rose had the strangest sensation that she had heard it before. As he talked about the stand the ranchers had made, and the stranger who had claimed kinship coming to fight alongside them, Rose could picture everything clearly. It was as though she were actually watching events unfold. It was a disorienting sensation.

When he was done, they sat in thoughtful silence, the only sound the swishing of the horses' tails as they sought relief from insects, and the restless stomping of their hooves. "Nick," Rose said suddenly. "Can you take me to where Heath found me that day?"

Nick considered her request. "It's not too far from here," he allowed reluctantly. "Are you sure you want to go there? I don't know if that's a good idea, Rose." He frowned, his dark brows drawing together. Jarrod had spoken at one point about bringing Rose out there when she was feeling better, to see if it would prompt any memories. But at first she hadn't been up to it, and then Jarrod hadn't mentioned it again.

Rose considered for a moment. "I'm curious, I suppose. I just want to see it. I doubt that it will help me to remember anything. But I suppose if there is even a chance..."

"All right then," Nick decided. He knew that if he didn't take her now, that if Rose mentioned the request to one of his brothers, they would in all likelihood oblige her. So, it was better that he go with her, and be there in case she needed him. He squeezed his thighs against his mount, urging Coco forward, and made a soft clicking sound to encourage Twilight to do the same. He re-adjusted the hat on his head, and they began to pick their way towards the ridge.

"There's really not much to see," Nick told her apologetically as they drew to a stop near a cluster of scrub brush just off the unused trail. He knew that Heath had found Rose near the bushes.

"I think I'll just get down for a moment," Rose told him. He dismounted and held Twilight's bridle, holding Rose's forearm while she climbed down from the mare's back.

The rancher followed the young woman as she walked the length of this portion of the ridge. She raised a hand to her brow, shielding her eyes from the setting sun, and looked pensively at a nearby cliff face. Nick knew what she was thinking. "No, Heath's sure it didn't happen that way. And the cliff is too far."

Rose walked back to the brush. She knelt down on the dry earth, and touched the spot. There was nothing to indicate that she had ever lain here, close to death. She was struck by how remote the area was. It was a miracle that the men had even been passing this way that day...a miracle that the stragglers had broken off and Heath had ridden up the ridge after them. If he hadn't...

Nick's gut twisted as Rose crouched there by the side of the trail, her delicate ivory hand tracing over the surface of the ground. He remembered how horribly battered she had been. He felt nauseated recalling it now. The terrible bruising, the abrasions, the swelling. He could see again the greyness of her skin. He knew how close they had come to losing her, and he felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and ride away from this spot.

How had she come to be here? Rose wondered. What would bring her way out here, in the middle of nowhere? Or...who would? And if someone had left her here, surely they had left her to die. She felt cold and her vision swam. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself. She stood up. There were no memories of this place, no sense that she had ever been here.

"Thank you," she told Nick, walking back to where he stood with the horses. He helped her into the saddle then remounted with fluid grace. "I just needed to see it."

As they rode away, Rose looked back over her shoulder at the ridge. Oddly, in a way, that spot beneath the brush had been a birthplace of sorts. A new beginning for her. Now, she pondered, what do I do with this second chance?

To Nick's surprise, seeing the place where she had been found did not upset Rose. In fact, it had just the opposite affect. She was more animated on the ride back to the ranch. More her old self. When she laughed at something he told her, it was as though the heavens had opened and a heavenly chorus sang just for him. There was colour in her cheeks, and the veil that had shrouded her beautiful green eyes, seemed to have lifted.

When they dismounted in the courtyard, and Rose was brushing the trail dust from her skirt and blouse, and Nick stood across from her, readying to take the horses to the stable, he reached impulsively for her hand. "It's good to see you smile again, Rose," he said softly.

"I'm sorry if I've been distant or churlish," she apologized.

Nick shook his head. "You've had a lot to deal with this last couple of months." He cleared his throat, rocking on the balls of his feet, releasing her hand. "Rose, I think you know how I feel about you..." he began.

Rose looked distressed. "Oh Nick, I..."

He nodded interjecting swiftly. "I know what you're going to say," he told her. "I know that things are...uncertain for you. I know you don't know what you've left behind you. Or who."

He drew a deep breath. "I don't know if there's a man out there who thinks he had a claim on you at one time. I just know that if you were my girl, Rose, and you were missing, nothing on God's earth would keep me from you.

"I'd go to the end of the horizon and beyond, to find you. I'd use every last resource, every last ounce of strength I could muster." The intensity of his gaze mirrored his conviction. "Nothing and no one could keep me from you, and as long as I had breath in my body, I'd devote my life to getting you back again."

Rose's throat felt tight. She couldn't speak. She stood there mesmerized, seeing the truth on his handsome face.

"Nothing would matter to me more than getting you back. And there's nowhere I wouldn't go, nothing I wouldn't do, to be with you again. I'd move mountains and change the course of rivers," Nick asserted softly. Then he was leaning towards her, his towering frame bending close. Ever so softly, so that it might have been the brush of a feather, he kissed the corner of her mouth.

"That's what I'd do," he whispered gently against her cheek, closing his eyes for a moment, inhaling the sweet scent of her. "If you were my girl."

Rose could hear the jingle of his spurs and the sedate clop of the horses' hooves as Nick moved away, but she didn't see him go, for the tears that shimmered in her eyes.

And she didn't see Jarrod Barkley draw back from the window of his study, the lace curtain falling back into place.

Continued…