Of Dreams and Yesterdays

Chapters 26-32

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 Twenty-Six

The stranger rode up to the main house two days later, sitting astride a handsome bay, all of his worldly belongings tied onto the packs that hung over the gelding's hindquarters. No one noticed his approach until he was already in the yard. Nick and Heath and a couple of the men had their hands full in the paddock, working to gentle the new horses that they had cut out of the wild mustang herd the previous day.

Nick noticed the man first, and vaulted over the paddock fence, striding towards him. "Nick Barkley," he announced, his tone friendly but leaving no doubt that this was his domain the cowboy was intruding on. "Can I help you?"

The stranger shifted in his saddle. Piercing blue eyes looked out from a long, narrow face. The man gave a friendly grin. "Ike Mathers," he introduced himself, in a soft-spoken, nasally drawl. "Nice to meet ya Mr. Barkley. Heck of a spread ya got here." His gaze swept the grounds. Nick nodded acceptance of the compliment. "I just come from Modesto way. Outfit I was workin' for run into a little trouble, had to let some men go, me included." The man reached to pet the neck of his bay, smoothing the dark hide. "I been ridin', lookin' for a place that might need a hand. I got experience with horses," he said easily, looking towards the paddock where Heath was trying to coax a black and white pinto around.

Nick continued to regard the man levelly, standing with his arms crossed, sizing him up. Ike Mathers smiled ingratiatingly. "I can wrangle too. Purty good in the smitty. Not much I cain't do when it comes to ranchin'. Ya lookin' for anyone? I can either put down some roots, or pitch in fer a time, temporary like."

While the other man had been talking, Nick had been examining his horse and his tack. Nick believed that you could tell a lot about a man by how he kept his horse and his saddle. The man had an eye for horseflesh; the bay was well bred. The horse's hooves were well cared for, it had obviously seen the attentions of a blacksmith not too long ago. It's mane and tail were brushed out, shining darkly in the midday sun, not tangled and full of burrs. The dark, equine eyes that regarded the rancher were healthy and inquisitive.

The man's saddle was well tended also. The leather well-oiled. The cinches and straps not too worn. The brass shone, as did the gelding's bridle. It was obvious that this was a man who didn't have much, beyond his bedroll and whatever was in the waterproof packs, and the man's own clothes were faded and worn beneath the grey dust that covered them now. The sandy-coloured hair beneath the brim of his hat was over long and in disarray. But he took care of his horse and he took care of his saddle, and that counted for a lot with Nick. Ike Mathers wasn't a big man...tall but on the lanky side...but he looked fit.

There was some fence in the south pasture that needed mending, Nick knew. Perhaps he could try the stranger there, and see how things went. At the least, he could offer the man a few days work, and a night or two in the bunkhouse and the chance to put a good meal in his belly.

"Sure is a hot one!" Ike Mathers said, drawing a dirty kerchief across his lower face, wiping the sheen of sweat. The weather still hadn't broken and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, no portent of rain. "Mind if I refill my canteen?" he asked. "I'd rightly appreciate it."

"Yeah, sure," Nick agreed, gesturing to the hand pump over by the trough.

Rose had been standing near the paddock with Audra, the two young women watching the men work with the mustangs. She knew that the plan was to gentle them, get them broken to saddle, and then to sell them to the army, either as mounts or as pack animals. The army was always looking for horses, and since the mustangs had been rounded up on the range, cut from the herd that roamed the canyon, the sale would be pure profit for the ranch.

She enjoyed watching them work. Nick and Heath concentrating so intensely on the task, moving so efficiently and easily among the mares, and working so well as a team. They seemed to anticipate one another's moods and movements, as though the work was choreographed. The horses were beautiful, proud and spirited, and Rose couldn't help feeling badly that they had to be tamed and couldn't continue to run free through the valley.

But she knew that if the Barkley's hadn't rounded them up, someone else would have. And, as Audra had explained, her brothers were humane in their gentling of the animals, treating them with respect, never with the cruelty that others sometimes did.

Rose had watched as the stranger had ridden in, and had seen Nick intercept him. Disinterested, she had turned her attention back to where Heath was working his magic with the pinto. The sound of the pump being primed behind her, caused her to turn her head and for the first time she took real notice of the cowboy.

When he raised his head and saw her looking at him, he tipped his hat and gave her an oily, toothy grin from a weasly countenance. The cowboy was tall and gangly, his well worn clothes and tan leather chaps covered with the grey dust that seemed to be everywhere during this dry spell. Piercing blue eyes in a lean, pinched visage roved over her in a way that made Rose feel dirty. The stranger tipped his hat to her, and called out with a twang, "G'day, Ma'am." Rose was struck with the sensation that she knew this man from somewhere. The blood ran cold in her veins and all of her senses screamed 'danger!'. He was bad news, she was sure of it. Though there was nothing in his gaze to indicate that he shared her sense of familiarity.

Without so much as a smile or a nod in his direction, Rose whirled from the stranger, and hastened over to where Nick stood, holding the reins of the other man's bay, and petting it's regal head. She grabbed for the sleeve of his maroon shirt, tugging on it insistently.

Nick swivelled to look at Rose, alarmed at the wildness in her green eyes, and the two spots of colour high on her cheekbones. "Rose, what's wrong?" he barked, his concern making his voice more gruff than he'd intended.

"That man...who is he?" she demanded without preamble, her voice an urgent whisper. "What's he doing here? What does he want, Nick?"

"Him?" Nick asked, confused, glancing over at the cowboy who was splashing the cool, clear water over his face. "Just a drifter, lookin' for work." His eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of Rose, as if to shield her from the cowboy. "What's the matter? Did he say or do something inappropriate?" The muscles in Nick's jaws clenched.

Rose shook her head. "No...it's just that...I don't know what it is, Nick," she confided, as tears shimmered in her eyes. "That man is trouble. I can just feel it." The young woman chewed nervously on her bottom lip. "Who is he?" she asked again. "What's his name?"

Nick stiffened. He looked over his shoulder at the stranger, who had wandered over to the paddock and was talking to one of the hands. Pointing into the paddock and seeming to have an animated discussion about the mustangs. Why was Rose reacting so strongly to the man? Could she possibly know him? Nick turned his head back to her, putting a gentling hand on her slender shoulder. "Said his name's Ike Mathers," he informed her, trying to keep his tone cool. "That mean somethin' to you, Rose?"

Ike Mathers. That wasn't right, Rose somehow knew. Another name floated tantalizingly on the tip of her tongue. Bruce. Bruce...something. And if Nick allowed him to stay, there could only be trouble. "No," she admitted. "Nick, you can't let him work here. Please! You just can't." Her full, lower lip trembled as she implored him.

Nick removed his hand from Rose's shoulder. Could Ike Mathers be someone from Rose's past? Nick knew that Jarrod would surely want to question Mathers if he had overheard this conversation. Would want to keep him around for a few days at least, to see if Rose could determine why she was so unsettled by him. To find out if Rose knew Mathers. And if she did...how or why. But Mathers was just a drifter, Nick told himself. And there was nothing in the man's demeanour to indicate that he had recognized Rose. It was obvious that the stranger's presence was distressing to Rose though. That was all that Nick needed to know.

"We're about to break for lunch," the dark-haired rancher soothed the young woman. "Mathers can grab a bite in the bunkhouse with the men. I'll tell him we've got nothing for him though, and send him on his way afterwards. Okay?" His dark eyes sought her emerald ones.

Rose wondered if Nick thought she was being silly. A hysterical woman. At the moment, she didn't really care though. All she knew was that she had to make sure that this man Mathers...Bruce...did not remain at the ranch. It was imperative that she protect the Barkleys. She smiled up at Nick, her gratitude evident. "I'm sorry, Nick, I can't explain. It's just a feeling I'm getting..."

"Woman's intuition," Nick grinned, taking her chin between his gloved thumb and forefinger for a moment. "I've learned to put stock in that over the years." He let his hand drop. "We don't really need anyone, anyhow," Nick assured her.

Rose looked past him to the lanky cowboy. He couldn't get off of Barkley lands fast enough to suit her. She didn't realize that Nick shared that sentiment, though for totally different reasons.

* * * * * * * *

She looked stunning in the elaborate white gown. Her face glowed as she looked up at him, the love and longing evident. His chest swelled with pride. He was the luckiest man in the valley. Luckiest man in the state. Heck, luckiest man in the whole damned country! He tucked her arm through his, the light catching and glinting on the narrow gold band that he had placed on the third finger of her left hand, just moments ago. In front of friends and family.

People threw rice as they moved down the centre aisle, between the pews. He ducked his head and laughed, and she did the same. A sea of smiling faces shared their happiness, and voices called out their support and blessings. As they got to the big front doors, he saw his dark-haired brother there. His eyes were narrowed and there was no smile on his handsome countenance. He stood with his arms crossed, his lips pursed in a narrow, unforgiving line.

He wouldn't think about that now. This was his wedding day. The happiest day of his life. He pushed the front doors open and they burst into the wonder of a summer's afternoon. The church bells began to ring, heralding the nuptials, and glorifying the bride. The most beautiful bride any man could ever wish for, with her gleaming, dark tresses and incredibly green eyes. And her lips. So soft and full and lusciously pink. He couldn't wait to claim them with his own. His incredible Rose.

The joyous strains from the belfry became disjointed. Clanging. Urgent. No longer the musical resonance to echo the land and tell the tale of the couple's blessed union, but the desperate, metal cacophony that could only be associated with...

Fire! Nick sat up in the bed, throwing off the thin covers, swinging his long legs over the side. The sound echoed across the valley through the darkness. The erratic pealing of the church bells. The sound that no one ever wanted to hear. Somewhere in the valley...there was a fire. Someone needed help.

Nick stripped out of his sleepwear and pulled on his black pants, shrugging into the grey shirt before tucking it in and slipping on the black leather vest. In seconds, the tan boots were on his feet, and he was out his bedroom door into the hall. Heath was there too, cinching his belt buckle, and then sprinting down the hall towards the main staircase, his face a worried mask. Nick ran to Jarrod's room, and just as he was about to bang on the door, it swung inward, and Jarrod stood there, also dressed and ready for action.

"Fire," Jarrod said needlessly, his features drawn with concern.

They hurried out of the right wing, into the main hall and down the stairs after Heath who was already in the front yard, calling out orders to the hands who were scrambling out of the bunkhouses, readying the horses. Audra and Victoria, also wakened by the bells, soon joined the men on the porch, standing there huddled together in their dressing gowns.

Victoria who had been concentrating on the pattern that the ringing had begun to take, called urgently to her sons, "West of the river! North of the Stockton Road!" The valley dwellers had a system, a code of sorts, that would help pinpoint the location of a fire.

"The Hendrick place!" Nick said, horrified, as all eyes turned northwest. Sure enough a faint, orange glow could be seen in the distance. The Hendricks were cattle ranchers like many in the valley, who'd recently begun experimenting with a few hundred acres of orchards. A couple with six children. His heart constricted at the thought.

Rose was brought up out of her nightmare by the insistent ringing of the bells. Then she heard the commotion in the front yard, whinnying horses, and urgent voices. She had no idea what was going on, but sensed that it was something catastrophic. She grabbed a shawl, throwing it around her shoulders, and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, before hastening outside.

As Rose stepped onto the front porch, she was in time to see the shadowy outlines of horses streaming through the main gate. The night air was hot. Oppressive. She hurried to join the other two women. Victoria explained what was happening. What the church bells meant, and where the men were going.

Fire was the absolute worst enemy anyone could face. It was cruel and indiscriminate, not caring if it devoured material possessions or human lives. It was an unpredictable danger, both to those it sought to destroy, and to those who rushed now in a valiant attempt to fight against it. Rose heard the worry in Victoria's voice, and the young woman shivered, despite the heat.

* * * * * * * *

He reined the horse in up on the high, treed ridge. He slapped it's bay neck conspiratorially. It was a fine animal this gelding. He was glad that he'd killed that annoying preacher and taken the animal. A horse like this gave a man a measure of respectability. He'd seen the way that Barkley fellow had eyed it, recognizing good breeding and quality. Hendrick had done the same, satisfying himself that the stranger was a man to be trusted.

He watched the red-gold flames shoot up into the inky blackness of the night sky, and his pulse raced, his heart thudding in his chest. Was there anything more beautiful than the sight of a raging conflagration, the feel of intense heat ready to blister your skin, the crackling of fiery jaws seeking to consume everything in it's path? Mathers didn't think so. His blue eyes were wild, his breathing heavy, his lean face dusted with black soot.

He hadn't meant to strike again so soon. He'd been at the Hendrick place less than a week. It had been not quite two weeks since the place in Modesto. Since he'd watched it burn to the ground. He found that the intervals between episodes was lessening. He just couldn't go as long in between fires. The urge that used to overwhelm him once a year or so, became every few months, then once a month, and now, it was down to two weeks. He needed this though. Couldn't stop himself if he wanted to.

His vantage point was spectacular. High enough that he could see the results of his handiwork with pleasing detail, but not so close that those scurrying around in a vain effort to halt the fire's march, could look up and see him, hidden as he was among the trees.

It would be after dawn before they gave up, he knew. Or before the hot amber fingers had touched everything and reduced it to charred, inky rubble. He wouldn't stay that long, of course. His absence would be noted, and he had a feeling someone had seen him with the kerosene. Long before daybreak he'd start picking his way down to Mexico. But he'd sit a spell first. He deserved that much. He'd earned it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Marnie Hendrick stood away from the main house, silent tears running in salty rivulets down her soot covered cheeks, while in shock she watched the men battle the blaze. Her thin arms encircled her three youngest daughters, while her older girl Anne, a young teen, held the baby Christopher. Her ten year old son Joshua, who had tried to join his father and the other men in fighting the fire but had been ordered back to wait with his mother and siblings, stood with his fists clenched at his sides, torn between wanting to help and wanting to stay far away from the incredible heat and the confusion.

The family dog, Scruff, paced in tight circles around the small group. It had been his insistent barking outside her bedroom that had roused the Hendricks from their slumber. Marnie Hendrick knew that the dog must have gained access to the home through one of the open ground floor windows, left open this stifling summer night. Even though the grey mongrel was forbidden from the house. His loyal persistence had paid off, and the entire family had been able to escape through the back entrance, while the fire that had begun in their parlour began to reach deadly tendrils into the other areas of the home. The children's pet had saved their lives.

The sight that had greeted them when they had stumbled out into the back yard had been almost more than she had been able to comprehend. The fire was not isolated to the house. The stable area to the right, and beyond it the bunkhouse too, glowed with horrific crimson and gold light. There was no way all three fires had been started randomly. Someone had deliberately set them aflame. She had stumbled as the knowledge hit her, clutching Pete's arm for support, then turning her head as her stomache had voided it's contents. Someone was trying to destroy everything they owned. Someone had tried to kill them all. And the men too.

Marnie had watched, horrified, as the hands had streamed from the bunkhouse, shouting, a couple of them screaming as their clothes and hair flickered with unnatural illumination, before their comrades grabbed them and threw them down, covering them with their own bodies, while they rolled them in the dirt, smothering the flames. She had stood uncomprehending as two men had staggered out, another limp between them. The unconscious man was dragged away from the burning building, and then laid on the ground, while the other two tried desperately to get his smoke-filled lungs to pull in fresher air.

She could hear the frantic whinnying of horses, as other men sought to get them out of the barn. Riders continued to arrive, their frothed and heaving mounts bringing other valley denizens to help them. Grim-faced friends and neighbours, whose haunted expressions reinforced for Marnie just had bad things truly were. It was her worst nightmare, sprang fully to life in incredible sound and colour. At least, she thanked God with a grateful heart, her children were safe.

* * * * * * * *

The Barkley brothers had arrived to find, incredibly, not one building ablaze, but three. Trying to save the house was the first priority, since the family was all safe outside, and the men had all gotten out of the bunkhouse. Jarrod and Nick had quickly joined the line bringing buckets of well water to the Hendrick abode. The men who had gotten there ahead of them were already covered with soot and ash, their bodies shining with sweat, their faces a mask of concentration and sorrow. Silently, the two dark-haired brothers went to work, as hot ash rained down around them.

Heath had gone with a small group who had ducked into the stable, trying to save as many of the Hendricks' horses as they could. He covered his face with a wet handkerchief, trying to breathe through the dampened cloth as the half dozen men, each holding the shoulder of the man ahead of him with a gloved hand, thick rope looped over their other shoulders, forged into the smoky building. The terrified screams of the animals assailed their ears. As soon as they had stepped into the interior, it was impossible to see anything, even the man in front of him. Even with the glowing canopy above, where the rafters popped and crackled, and the red-gold swirled heavenward through gaps it had eaten in the roof.

They moved their way in by starting at the first stall, and feeling along the wooden enclosures, using their sense of sound to determine if each box was empty or occupied. Vision was impossible; the air was thick with the dank smoke. If a horse was found, one man broke out of the line, moved into the stall to attempt to catch hold of a halter, if the horse had one on, or to loop rope around it's neck. That was the easy part. The difficult part was trying to bring the panicked and desperate animal out of it's stall, and then to navigate the barn to the main door and safety.

Heath's arm was almost yanked from it's socket, as a mare lifted her head, screaming shrilly, and for a moment he was off his feet, but he managed to get her under control. Holding the halter with one hand, he shrugged out of his shirt, then switched his grip so the fabric could slide down his other arm. He caught the shirt before it fell, and wasting no time, he flung it over the horse's head, covering it's eyes and it's muzzle. This seemed to quiet the mare, and Heath headed for where his senses told him the barn door would be. He wanted to run, to escape the heat and the smoke, but he knew that he might lose his footing and go down, and then he would be disoriented and lose his bearings. So, even though his body screamed at him to move, he took one slow and tentative step after another, until he could make out the shadowy opening that meant freedom.

Then Heath was through it, and back into the yard. He moved quickly now, his lean legs scissoring as he jogged the mare to a nearby corral and released her to join the others. His shoulder ached where he had wrenched it and he rubbed it ruefully. There was no time to waste though, and he turned and dashed back to the barn.

He sensed more than saw the other man coming out, the black smoke billowing grey against the night air as it poured through the opening. Heath moved to help him, realizing that this would be the last, it was too dangerous to go back in there again. As the thought ran through his head, there was a terrific boom, reminding him eerily of cannon fire from the war, making his blood turn to ice in his veins. An overhead beam came crashing down, the wooden enveloped with hideous, dancing scarlet. It collapsed into the opening of the doors, onto the man and horse who were just steps from safety.

Heath shouted out, but no one heard his strident calls for help. He sprinted the last steps as a man's anguished moans reached him. The man, one of the Hendrick hands, was pinned beneath the burning beam where it crossed his upper body. His lower legs were crushed beneath the body of the dead horse. Heath reached his gloved hands for the beam, but it was immovable. He felt the heat sear through the leather, scorching his palms, and his shoulder screamed it's protest. There was no way he could shift the beam enough to get the man out.

Another of the men who had entered the barn with Heath came up behind him to help. Together they pulled and pushed on the beam. It rocked slightly when they pushed it backwards with their combined strength, but they couldn't get enough leverage to shift it. The man underneath was still moaning, and then began to scream as the fire sought new fuel and began to lap at his shirt. In desperation, Heath dropped to his back in the dirt, and pulling his legs tight against his bare chest, he tucked his boots underneath the beam. He pushed outward, exerting all the force he could muster. Again and again, he drew on his reserves, until at last he felt the beam give a bit. Not much, but it was enough for the other man to link his hands under the downed man's prone form and drag him out. Heath felt the men move beyond him, away from the barn, and he released the tension in his legs, letting the heavy wood settle back to the ground before rolling away.

* * * * * * * *

Joshua Hendrick had moved to the corral, climbing up onto the top rail and watching stoically as the men brought one horse after another to the enclosure. As time progressed, he could hear the heart-rending cries of those still trapped, and he covered his ears with his hands, shaking his head, trying to will the awful sound to stop. He was so grateful that Pilgrim, his Welsh pony, was out in the pasture and not...Oh God! the boy recalled, as his stomache convulsed. He'd brought Pilgrim into the stable last night, for a really good currying and a treat of oats and apples.

His grey eyes scanned the enclosure, but he already knew what they would tell him. The white pony wasn't there. Pilgrim was still in the barn! The Welsh pony was Joshua's best friend. His first horse. He had learned to ride on Pilgrim, and had had him for as long as he could remember. Lately, his dad had been talking about getting Josh a new horse, now that he was half-way growed to being a man. But as much as he was flattered by the offer, Joshua had resisted, not quite ready to part with his old companion.

One of the horses screaming in the burning barn was Pilgrim! Joshua had to save him! He vaulted from the rail, and raced past his mother, sisters and baby brother, in the direction of the barn. He heard his mother calling out to him in confusion as he ran past, demanding that he get back to her. He paused only briefly, calling back to her, "Ma, I gotta get Pilgrim!" his face a pale, desperate oval. The he was bolting for the barn.

Jarrod heard the woman's screams pierce the air, and he knew immediately that they heralded disaster. The raw pain in the sound, the maternal desperation, cut through him. It was Marnie Hendrick. And she was keening more than the loss of her home and property. Something was horribly wrong. With a mumbled apology to the man behind him, Jarrod left his place on the line, and rushed towards the woman.

Marnie Hendrick was wailing, calling out for the Hendricks' oldest boy, Josh, screaming his name over and over. Jarrod knew that the seven of them had been well back from danger, she and the six children. But Josh was no longer with the group. Jarrod grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him. "Marnie what is it?" he demanded. "Where is Josh?"

Her mouth worked but her lips and tongue couldn't seem to formulate the words. She pointed a shaking finger to the stable. "Pilgrim. His pony..." She began to sob again, while her frightened children clustered around her helplessly.

Jarrod realized immediately what had happened. His throat tightened and the blood roared in his ears. The stable was an inferno, ten foot flames shooting out of the damaged roof. The main door was blocked by a fallen beam, burning against the backdrop of the doomed building. Jarrod saw the small, darkened figure racing foolishly towards it. He dashed for the stable, hoping to get there before the youngster.

Joshua had raced past the men who stood in a cluster around the fallen body of another. It was obvious that none of them had any intentions of continuing with the rescue operation. The boy slid to a stop in front of the stable door. His eyes widened in shock as a burning beam blocked his path. Beneath it was the body of one of their horses. Not the small, white body of a pony, the larger sorrel body of one of the carriage horses. He was torn between grief for the red, and relief that it was not Pilgrim. There was no entry for him here though, and no time to lose. His friend needed him.

Scrambling to the back of the building, Josh went to the smaller door. It would be a tight fit to get the pony through, but he would do it. The door was closed. He reached for the handle and dropped it with a cry, the molten brass searing and branding his palm. Tears sprang to his eyes, and the terror swept over him. He wanted to turn around and run back to his mother. Back to where he would be safe.

But the frantic equine screams spurred him on. His father always told him he was so proud of the man Josh was becoming. What kind of man would turn his back on a friend and slink away with his tail between his legs, to save his own hide? A coward! The worst kind of man! Josh drew back his foot and kicked at the door. Twice. Three times. It swung inward and the thick, hot smoke billowed out. Taking a deep breath, and ducking his head, the child surged into the blaze.

Heath saw his oldest brother sprinting for the stable, and reached out to grab his shoulder, catching a handful of his shirt, and spinning Jarrod towards him. "Ya can't go in there!" he hollered in disbelief that his brother would even try. Heath regretted that there were still horses trapped inside, but it was pure suicide to go back into the burning building.

Jarrod shrugged off the sandy-haired cowboy's grip. "The boy is trying to go in there," the dark-haired man gasped, panting, his eyes wild with fear.

Heath looked uncomprehendingly at the inferno. "He can't," he said, shaking his head. "Way's blocked. Yer wrong Jarrod, I can't let ya go in there."

But Jarrod knew that as impossible as it seemed, the boy would find a way, or more horrifically, was already inside. He shrugged off his brother's hold. "He's just a child, I've got to try."

Their eyes met in the dark and Heath gave a barely perceptible nod of understanding. Whether or not the boy was really in there, his brother would not be deterred. "I'll get Nick," Heath said simply, and barreled towards the water line, while Jarrod broke away and ran the length of the building around back.

Josh couldn't see a thing inside the burning structure. He had thought that the fire would illuminate the space. But strangely, it seemed to suck all of the light out of the area, just as it sucked all of the oxygen. The boy was only steps inside when he began to gasp, his throat aching, his lungs protesting as they sought to process the hot, thick air. He was disoriented, and couldn't even tell which way the door was anymore, even though it could only be a few feet away.

The sound was horrific, unlike anything he had ever experienced. The fire seemed to have a voice. It would whisper, hissing at him, and then it would roar, seeming to scream his name and to taunt him with it's omnipotent power. He could hear it's evil laughter, and the ugly slurping sounds as it voraciously fed upon everything in it's path. The fire was not a mindless occurrence, it was a living breathing thing. It had a mind, a determined spirit, and a purpose. It's purpose was to destroy and to kill. And the more it succeeded towards that end, the stronger it's lifeforce grew.

Josh began to quake, Pilgrim forgotten while he stood in the grip of terror. He wanted his mommy and daddy. He wanted to get out. He stumbled through the heart of Hades, thinking he was moving towards the exit. Unaware that his footsteps were carrying him deeper into the fiery coffin. He tried to cry out, but the smoke grabbed his words and forced them back down his throat, choking him. Tears streamed from his itchy, aching eyes. Oh Lord, he was so afraid! 'Mommy! Daddy!' his soul cried out.

"Joshua!"

Was it just a cruel trick of the fire, or had someone called his name? Not his mother or father, but a strong, adult voice just the same. The child whimpered, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He spun, confused, unable to pinpoint where the voice was coming from.

"Joshua!" Jarrod had rounded the corner in time to see the boy slip inside the rear door. He was stunned that the child had gone inside. Heath had been right, the building was a deathtrap. To step inside was to do more than invite the Grim Reaper, it was akin to walking up to him and placing yourself in his charge. But what choice did Jarrod have? There was a child in there, and even if it was suicide, there was no way he could walk away. "Joshua!" he yelled again, his voice desperate and mournful. Then Jarrod ducked his head and pushed through the proverbial gates of Abbadon, wondering if he moved towards his own perdition.

The boy had found the rear wall, the least devoured section of the barn. It was comfortingly solid beneath his bare fingers, and he moved along it, thinking that in seconds he would be at the door. Except, he was moving away from it. When he came to the corner where one wall abutted another, Josh knew that he was hopelessly lost. The fiery fangs chortled around him, and he dropped sobbing to his knees, curling fetally, awaiting his fate.

The acrid smoke seared Jarrod's throat and lungs, clogging his nostrils, and leaving his eyes dry and itchy. It clung to his skin, hot and oily, and it made the floor slippery beneath his boots. There was so much tinder here to fuel the conflagration, and the flames skipped merrily along the walls and floor, some of them shooting up for the holes in the roof and the freedom of the night sky and the fresh sources of air to be found there. Jarrod couldn't see his hand in front of his face, couldn't make out the most amorphous of shapes. How in the world could he find one small boy in this madness?

And if he did find him, how would he ever get Joshua Hendrick out of here? Already, Jarrod was confused as to where he stood. He stretched his arms out, splayed fingers coming into contact with the back wall. He would circle the perimeter, keeping his right shoulder to the wood, so that on the way out, he would have only to switch shoulders, press his left there, and make his way back. Jarrod fought back the realization that his plan was futile. It was the only thing he could think to do. He pushed up against the wall, tears springing to his aching, grainy eyes. For a moment fear and self-preservation tried to overtake him, and his body rebelled, wanting to turn and exit this agony, but he steeled himself and forged ahead.

Heath and Nick stood indecisively by the rear door, unable to comprehend that either the young boy or their lawyer brother would have willingly entered such a holocaustic scene. Heath quickly wrapped a rope around his waist, then looped the end around a hitching post feet from the back door, while Nick circled the other end loosely around his own middle. Nick held the excess, which they would let out as the men moved deeper into the building. Nick squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then the pair forged into hell.

Jarrod's boot bumped against something, and trembling with hope, he dropped to his knees. His searching hands found the huddled body of the boy, who coughed and wheezed as the smoke sought to suffocate him. Jarrod knew that he couldn't waste what breath or energy he still had left, though he longed to offer soothing words of comfort. They weren't out of danger yet, not by a long shot, but he had found the boy, and Jarrod knew that he had only to continue with his plan to switch shoulders and keep moving, one step at a time, until they reached the door...and salvation.

Jarrod thought that he heard Nick's voice shout his name. The fire played tricks on his ears though, on all of his senses, and he no longer trusted any of them. But...if anyone had the power to cut through this ashen cloud, it was his loud-spoken brother Nick. Jarrod gathered as much of the poor air into his chest as he could gather, and then expelled it in a desperate explosion. "Here!"

Nick tugged on the rope, alerting Heath to stop. He strained his ears. He could have sworn that he had heard Jarrod call out. It was impossible to gauge distance and direction though, and the tall rancher shook with frustration. Somewhere in here was his beloved big brother, and a young boy with his whole life ahead of him. Their very survival might depend on Nick, on his deciphering just where the cry had come from. The sweat that slickened his lean form had less to do with the heat of the fire, and more to do with his desperation and the incredible pressure that accompanied it.

"Jarrod!" Nick tried again, though the shifting currents of smoke and ash seemed to rip the word from him, covering it with cotton wool, and throwing it mockingly back in his face. His lungs burned, and his limbs were already weakening from the lack of oxygen. And Jarrod had been in here longer than he had, and the boy even longer still. There was no way they would make it out on their own. He and Heath had to find them. Somehow.

Heath heard the terrible sound again, the one of impending doom. He was transported back to the battlefields of the war. Heard the muffled boom of the cannon. Knew that in reality it was another beam breaking free. He looked upward though it was impossible to see through the murky blackness. Only he could see. There was the outline of a charred and crimson beam crashing down from the ceiling somewhere to their right.

Each step was an agony for Jarrod. The child, no more than one hundred pounds, felt triple that, as Josh sagged lifelessly in his hold. His forearms and shoulders spasmed with protest. His oxygen deprived lungs screamed, ready to collapse in on themselves. Jarrod saw the beam swoop down in front of them, pressing his back against the wall, sagging against it to hold himself up as the heavy wood slammed to the dirt floor just feet away. It continued to burn, hot and deadly. Before he could react, another followed in it's wake, making an immovable barrier between himself and the child...and the door.

Through the red-gold flames, Jarrod thought that he saw Nick and Heath on the other side of the impediment, the fire illuminating their familiar forms. It was just an hallucination he knew. There would be no last minute reprieve. He had failed the child, and the two of them would die there, trapped in the blaze. He felt a sweeping sorrow for the Hendrick family, and a sadness for his own. Mingled with regrets of what his life might have been. Among those thoughts, a pair of lovely emerald eyes haunted him.

They saw immediately that Jarrod had the boy, his small, still form cradled between his arms. In the light of the fire, they could see that their brother was about done in. The rear wall was holding him up as much as his buckled legs. The could see Jarrod, but they couldn't reach him. The beams were a hurdle that could not be climbed either over or under. They crossed one another, an enormous, fiery encumbrance.

"The rope!" Heath shouted to Nick, his mouth against his brother's ear. "Tie it to the top beam, and we'll have to pull!" Heath began to cough and wheeze, as more of the foul smoke pulled into his throat and down his windpipe.

Nick nodded his understanding. The rope was thick, but how long with it take the fire to burn through it, rendering it useless? Minutes? Seconds? They had to try though. He threw the excess over the burning beam, then reached underneath it, to pull it under and through between both beams. His shirt caught fire, and his gloved hand beat it out hastily. Then he tugged on the rope behind him to alert Heath that it was time to pull.

Both brothers dug in their heels, but the ground was slippery with the greasy soot. They scrambled for purchase in the dirt, digging in, throwing their combined weight backwards again and again. While the top beam would shudder and shift, it stubbornly refused to move. Nick realized that the beam would have to be pushed away from them, towards Jarrod and the boy, in order to dislodge it. Elsewhere in the structure, another beam came free and crashed into the stall area. The whole roof would collapse in on them at any moment.

Reaching for his knife, Nick made a quick slicing motion, cutting loose the rope that bound he and Heath to the beam. The with herculean effort and furious, frenzied movement, Nick grabbed onto the incinerating wood with his gloved hands, plunging up to his elbows into the crimson heat. His hands ignited, but he ignored the pain. With a determined expulsion of air, he rooted his feet, and then shoved with all of the strength that his fit, athletic frame, and his love for his brother, could command. He felt the beam give way...saw it tumble to the floor beyond.

Heath was reaching past him, urging Jarrod to hand him the child. Jarrod stared at the two men in disbelief. He had nothing left inside, but somehow he managed to pass the boy over the remaining, smoldering beam to Heath's waiting arms. The child would be safe now. It had been worth the sacrifice. He closed his eyes.

"Damn you, Jarrod!" Nick screamed at him with incredible rage. "Don't you give up!"

The older man's blue eyes fluttered open. He couldn't breathe. He felt that he was drowning, his limbs dead weight. But he reached towards the sound of his brother's voice like a beacon. He was not going to die here. Jarrod allowed himself to slip to the floor. There was a narrow spot against the wall, between it and the burning beam. Just enough room, perhaps, for a man to wriggle through. Coughing, hacking, he tried to get enough into his lungs to sustain him, and to give his body the energy to crawl through.

Jarrod felt the heat as the flames swirled around him. He was almost through. He could feel the burning near his scalp and smell the stench of singed hair and clothing. Then two big hands reached to haul him the remainder of the way.

Nick almost passed out from the agony of gripping his brother with his burnt hands. When he'd pulled them away from the beam, bits of bloodied glove had been left behind. The pain was excruciating, but Heath had the child in his arms. There was no one else to help Jarrod. So, clamping his teeth on his inner cheeks to stifle his screams, Nick had grabbed his brother's shoulders.

Heath saw Nick take hold of Jarrod. Shifting the boy's weight over his shoulder, looping the rope around his arm, and leaning back heavily, the sandy-haired cowboy began to pull them all from the inferno.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Once the men had ridden off, Victoria lit oil lamps to cast away the night's shadow, and began to move quickly and efficiently about the house to gather up the things she knew would be needed at the Hendrick place. Directing Silas, Audra and Rose, she found extra blankets, clean but worn sheets that could be used as dressings, hand lanterns, had hampers of food prepared, and loaded everything up in the back of one of the wagons. Ciego, the only hand to remain behind to keep an eye on things at their ranch, lifted onto the back two barrels of fresh water to take over. Victoria raided the liquor cabinet, and gathered several bottles of whiskey.

The Barkleys had done this before, Rose could tell, and there was little talking as each one hurried about their tasks. Her heart thudded in her chest as she thought about the brothers and the hands riding off towards potential danger. She worried about the Hendrick family. She had only met them briefly a few times at church, but they had seemed like decent, fun-loving people. And she remembered that they had several children. Nervously, she gathered up the loaves of bread, cooked meat from the icebox and other food items that Victoria had requested.

"We have to go out to the Hendricks' place," Victoria told Rose without preamble when the wagon was loaded and ready to go, inclining her head in Audra's direction. "Silas and Ciego will be staying here."

Rose knew that it was her choice to either accompany the two women, or to remain at the ranch. She knew that nothing would be said to her either way; no judgements made. She did not hesitate with her reply. "I'd like to go too, and to help out in any way that I can."

Victoria nodded impassively. Inwardly, she was pleased that the young woman wanted to go with them. She had been so worried about Rose, but since the ride their young guest had taken with Nick the other evening, she had seemed to shrug off most of her melancholy and to find joy and interest in life again. Victoria didn't know what her middle son had done to coax Rose out of the doldrums, but she was grateful that he had. "Let's get dressed then," the matriarch announced, trying not to let her imagination envision all of the possible worse case scenarios that might greet them when they drove up to the neighbouring ranch.

* * * * * * * *

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met them as they came over the final rise of the side road that took them to the Hendrick property. The sky shimmered with scarlets and golds, as though it were a breathtaking sunrise or sunset and not the darkest hours of night. The unnatural light illuminated the yard where men scurried about, calling orders and assessing a plan of attack. Horses neighed shrilly from one of the enclosures, their fear and confusion echoing that which weighed on the hearts of those who fought to save them, and to save the buildings. It was a losing battle, however. Fueled by an accelerant, the inferno raged out of control. Though no one had openly conceded defeat yet, it was a forgone conclusion that not a single structure would be saved.

Victoria expertly reined the team into a sheltered area behind the corral. The horses rolled their eyes and pawed the ground, eager to turn around and head back in the other direction. They could see the fire, that most primeval of enemies, and smell the fear, heavy in the air. She talked to them soothingly as she tied the reins and knotted them around the fence. Audra and Rose alighted, and followed the older woman into the yard.

Rose searched the sea of soot-covered faces, looking for those three that she held most dear. Most of the men looked identical in the indirect light though. As much for their slumped, weary movements as for the resigned, sorrowful expressions on their blackened countenances. She was struck by the enormity of the conflagration and by the intensity of the heat, even as far back as they stood now. It sweltered over her in torrid waves.

Victoria grabbed the sleeve of one of the men who was hurrying past. "Excuse me," she said apologetically. "The Hendrick family. Did everyone make it out of the house?" Part of her rebelled at asking the question, because as long as she didn't have the answer, there was still hope.

"Praise God, yes," a tired voice replied. Victoria recognized the voice of Hunt Lloyd, one of the Hendricks' neighbours to the north, though she hadn't at first been able to make out his lean, patrician features beneath the grimy sheen. Her eyes pricked with tears of relief. "And all just fine. The hands are out of the bunkhouse too, but the fire seemed to catch quicker there, or maybe it'd been burning longer. Some of them are injured. A couple of them, badly. Doc Merar just got here a bit ago, and is taking a look at them."

The silver-haired woman couldn't understand how quickly the fire had spread. All of the buildings were engulfed in flame.

He seemed to interpret her searching gaze as she surveyed the devastation. "Arson," he spat out bitterly. "Sure enough. Someone tried to burn them out. The house too. With young ones inside." His clipped tones barely hid his concealed fury.

"Arson?" she repeated dully. That this was no accident, but a direct consequence of evil human intervention made her head pound. Hunt nodded curtly, then moved off. "Audra, you go find Marnie and the children," Victoria instructed. "See what they need. I'll try to find Howard, and ask how we can best help the injured. Rose, please help me with some of the sheets, and the whiskey."

Rose was impressed with the older woman's business-like take-charge attitude. She found comfort in the steady demeanour that helped her to keep her own anxiety under control. Hastening to do as the matriarch had asked, she returned to the wagon, loaded her arms, then followed Victoria across the yard.

They found Dr. Merar set up near the perimeter fence that bordered the road. A few blankets were laid out on the scrub grass there. Four of the more severely injured men lay there upon them, while several others who were not as badly off, sat clustered nearby. The physician was bent over one of the prone figures, his wife Iva kneeling at his side holding a lantern. The old doctor turned to his wife, shook his head, and covered the man's face with the corner of the blanket.

Victoria's heart constricted at the loss of life. "Howard, how can we help?" she spoke, her voice ringing out clearly in the night, her determination strong, even while all around them an inferno blazed, and the sounds of destruction raged.

"Victoria," Iva looked up, smiling gratefully. "Those men all need minor burns cleaned, and some bandaging," she looked towards the weary group. "The man on the end, his arm is broken, I think. Howard will take a look at him as soon as he can, and set it if necessary."

"How many?" Victoria whispered, a catch in her throat, as her dark eyes slid to the blanketed form.

Iva knew what her old friend was asking. How many dead? "One," she murmured quietly. "One of the Hendricks' men. The smoke. Two more are in a very bad way."

"I'll get started on these men," Victoria assured the Merars. "Rose, can you please start tearing this sheet into four inch strips for me?"

The young woman worked on her task, watching while the elder Barkley approached the first man. He sat with his knees bent, his elbows resting on them, his head drooping over his crossed arms. Victoria lit and raised one of the lanterns she had brought from the ranch. He looked up at the gentle touch on his knee, his dark eyes sad and bewildered. He was just a young man, Victoria saw. Seventeen or eighteen perhaps. His shirt hung off his left shoulder in charred strips, and she could see the angry red skin blistered beneath. "Let's get this off," she coaxed gently.

There was something missing at this fire scene, the thought swirled in the back of Rose's head. For a moment it came to her...flashing lights and sirens...emergency vehicles...and then it was gone again. And she was left with only the sensation that something wasn't quite right here. She was expecting something more, but she didn't know just what.

The young man seemed embarrassed to be shirtless in front of the women, and he wouldn't meet their eyes. He winced when Victoria washed the burn, and then applied salve to it. Wordlessly, Victoria handed him the whiskey bottle. He took it tentatively, then had a large swig. He coughed as it heated his throat. Rose's bottom lip trembled as she watched, when a lone tear trickled down his smooth cheek at the older woman's touch. Despite how light her fingers were with the salve, the pain was obvious. As Victoria began to wrap a clean bandage around the shoulder and upper arm, there was a clamorous, raucous squeal followed by a thunderous crash.

All eyes turned to watch the roof and walls of the stable finish buckling in on itself. The collapse reverberated through the air and shook the ground like a minor quake. Victoria saw a slender figure running towards them hard, and as it drew closer, she recognized her daughter's long, blonde hair streaming behind her. There was a desperation in Audra's movements that alarmed her, and the older woman stood up at her approach.

"Mother! Mother!" the beautiful young woman sobbed out, her pretty features contorted with anguish. "They're in the stables!" At first, Victoria thought her daughter meant the Hendrick family. By that didn't make sense. They had gotten to safety. Why would they have gone back into a burning building, even after their stock? And then she felt the icy hand squeeze her heart. Her sons?!

"Jarrod! Nick! Heath! And Joshua Hendrick!" Audra cried out, confirming her fears. "Mother, Mrs. Hendrick said Josh ran in to save his pony. And Jarrod followed him."

Rose's knees went weak and she had to concentrate to keep from falling.

"Nick and Heath went after them." Audra looked over her shoulder at the collapsed stable which was now just one large pyre. She couldn't comprehend that the building was no longer standing.

But Victoria knew what it meant. Anyone inside the structure when it fell was never coming out again. Her vision swam. Her precious sons! "They had to have made it out," she whispered hoarsely. She turned her head and saw Iva Merar looking at her with sorrowful compassion.

Then Victoria was running towards the pile of charred rubble, Moving as though she were a young girl, Audra and Rose with her. She felt an inexplicable anger twisting her insides. Why was Joshua Hendrick anywhere near the stable? Where were his parents? Why was it always HER sons who had to put themselves in danger? Why was it always the Barkley brothers who had to be the heroes?

But she knew that that was just the way it had always been with them. As it had been for their late father Tom. She couldn't lose them! Not all three at once like this! She could never live through that kind of loss...she'd surely lose her mind as well. Her heart was breaking, each step tortured.

The three women halted near the collapsed stable, staring into the crackling, amber conflagration. Audra was weeping openly, and there was enough maternal strength left inside Victoria to slide an arm around her daughter's narrow waist, and offer comfort. Audra slipped her own hand around Rose's waist, and the trio stood in stunned silence. Their grief was a palpable, living thing, shimmering in the air around them.

Rose heard the sound and she turned to her right, towards it. There was a wall of thick smoke, dense with hot flecks of ash. She stared into it, afraid to believe what she had heard, her green eyes wide. There is was again. She knew that sound! Not the usual musical, metallic jangle now, but a slow and steady clink. Methodical. One after another. The blood seemed to rush through her veins in an explosive beat of her heart each time the sound was repeated. Clink. Clink. She held her breath, fixated on the billowing smoke.

She could make out movement! And then, impossibly, Heath's head and bare shoulders pushed through the grey-black screen. He was moving slowly but steadily on his feet, a small figure slumped between his arms. She knew it was Heath from his sandy-blond hair, though his face was as dark as pitch. He was through the smoky wall now, advancing towards her, though he didn't seem to see her.

And behind him...Jarrod! Staggering, one arm clutched to his mid section. His face too blanketed with soot. But those vivid blue eyes...she'd know them anywhere. There was no recognition in them though. He did not seem to be focused on the present, but lost in some horrific recollection, the beautiful sapphire orbs haunted. And finally...clink...clink...Nick! Weaving a path behind his older brother. His eyes tightly shut, moving more on instinct, it seemed, than anything else.

All of them standing. All of them alive!

The strangled cry that Rose voiced, rang with pure relief. Victoria and Audra turned in unison, dumbfounded, unable to conceive that the Barkley luck had held one more time. That the three brothers has somehow not only made their way into the firetrap, but had...magically...found a way out. Victoria allowed herself a single, muffled sob, her eyes flooding with tears, and she blinked furiously to keep them at bay.

Audra was the first to move, rushing the few steps to her youngest brother. "Oh Heath!" she trilled, crying, then laughing, then crying again.

"Doc here?" Heath wheezed, then was racked with a deep, torturous cough. "He's not movin'," he said dully, clutching the limp body of Joshua Hendrick.

The stable's shell had given way only moments after Heath had managed to pull them all through the narrow back door. As the building had imploded on itself, spewing flaming debris everywhere, he'd been struck with a piece of flying wood, caught squarely on the side of the head. His legs had buckled, and he'd gone down on his knees, somehow still cradling his precious burden. Then the strength had left his arms, and Josh had tumbled away from his grip.

Nick, still holding his older brother, his hands cemented determinedly to the other man's shoulders as Heath had pulled them all from the gaping jaws of hell, was knocked off his feet by the blast. He'd lain for a moment, stunned. Jarrod had begun to cough and choke as his lungs sought to pull in fresh air. His body had shuddered and heaved, and then his chest had expelled black, phlegmy masses.

Josh began to do the same, though he never seemed to rouse. His small frame had shaken with such force that Heath had thought the boy was having a seizure. The child too had retched and coughed, as his body tried to rid itself of the foreign invader that had sought to conquer him. Then the boy had stilled. Heath had found a weak pulse. Miraculously, the boy seemed not be burned, or otherwise injured. But the smoke, the silent killer, was often the most deadly, Heath knew. Suffocating it's victims. He had to get the child to Doc Merar.

Somehow, Heath had found reserves he wouldn't have thought existed, and he struggled to his feet, scooping the boy against his bare chest, and then finding enough left in his lungs to implore his older brothers to get up...to keep moving. They were still too close to the inferno, and the heat of it that rolled over him was stifling, making the air thin and hard to breathe. And the incandescent ash that rained around them might still ignite hair and clothing. The beast screamed it's anger at their escape, but it wasn't ready to give up the hunt just yet.

"Over there!" Victoria directed, and the fair-haired cowboy plunged ahead.

Audra hurried to Jarrod, placing one of his arms around her slender shoulders, cajoling him to lean on her for support. Rose moved towards Nick, sliding an arm around his trim waist, pulling his left arm over her own shoulders, and murmuring encouragement. He didn't seem to be aware of her, though he complied with her instructions. Rose knew that if he stumbled, she wasn't big enough or strong enough to keep him on his feet. But the simple act of doing something...anything that even had the appearance of helping...made her feel a bit better. Her heart ached for Nick...for all of them. What kind of unimaginable purgatory had these brave men endured?

Dr. Merar heard Heath call out his name, the young man's voice ragged and strained. Heath was on one knee, laying a small body on one of the blankets. "Josh Hendrick," wheezed the cowboy, by way of explanation.

Iva shifted her position, and held the lantern aloft, so that her husband could do a quick assessment. As Howard felt for the boy's pulse in his neck with one hand, he used the other to do a cursory examination of his skull, neck and collarbones.

"No breaks. No burns," Heath panted. "He took in a lotta smoke, Doc. He coughed up a lotta gunk a minute ago. But he hasn't seemed to wake."

As if on cue, the child turned his head and began another coughing spasm, retching as his stomache and lungs clenched and tried to rid themselves of the invasive smoke and ash. Dr. Merar pulled Josh into a sitting position and thumped him on the back a few times. Finally, with a great shuddering heave, the boy gave a long gasp, pulling in fresh air, his eyes fluttering open. Then the child began to cry, his body racked by sobs, but too dehydrated to produce tears.

Jarrod stood anxiously over the small form, bending at the waist, his hands on his knees, as he too coughed and sputtered. Audra stood slightly behind and to the side, one delicate hand rubbing her eldest brother's back. He heard the boy cry, and relief flooded through him. Josh's breathing was still rough, but he was alive and alert. They had done it!

Nick had sunk to the ground as soon they had gotten to the area. Rose had been unable to hold onto him, and he had slid back against the fence. He sat with his knees bent, his hands cradled in his lap. Rose thought that he was watching Dr. Merar work on Josh, but his features were so impassive she wasn't certain whether or not he was actually fixed on the scene in front of them. She knelt down beside him, touching his shoulder, softly speaking his name. When he didn't turn or acknowledge her in any way, Rose grew fearful.

Audra remembered that she had left Marnie Hendrick on the other side of the yard, hysterical. Pete Hendrick had had to restrain his wife after the stable had collapsed. Her frenzied screams for Joshua had torn Audra's heart in two. She had to tell the Hendricks that Josh had gotten out. That he was still alive. She murmured to Victoria, then dashed off to find the boy's anguished parents and siblings.

Victoria passed a canteen of fresh water first to Heath, and then to Jarrod. Both men gulped gratefully. Even though the water was cool it seemed to sear their parched and abraded throats. Heath seemed all right, as far as Victoria could tell for the moment. His breathing was laboured, but he was sturdy on his feet. She was more concerned with Nick, who rested against the fence, and Jarrod, who continued to be seized with hacking coughs.

She stood by her oldest son, one hand on his arm, as she looked up into his blackened face. She finally noticed that the dark patches on his shoulders were not soot or dirt, but blood. "Oh Jarrod, you're bleeding," she said anxiously, reaching to touch his chest, just below his right shoulder.

Though his entire body ached, and the back of his neck was especially painful, Jarrod didn't think that he'd injured his shoulders or cut himself on anything. He looked at first one red smear, and then the other. Tentatively, he undid the first few buttons of his shirt, and slid it away from his left shoulder. He looked at the smooth expanse of skin. He didn't appear to be injured. Then it occurred to him. Nick had pulled him the last few yards out of the burning building, grabbing his shoulders and dragging Jarrod as Heath pulled them all to safety. Jarrod knew that if that blood wasn't his...'Nick!'.

Jarrod moved quickly, scooping up an unused lantern, and hurrying to crouch on his heels next to his dark-haired brother. Rose was huddled beside Nick, talking to him, imploring him to answer her. She looked across the rancher at Jarrod with big, frightened eyes that glistened with unshed tears. "Something is wrong with him!" she asserted.

"Nick," Jarrod said insistently, but the other man looked right through him. He passed the lantern to Rose. Carefully, Jarrod reached for the arms that were cradled across Nick's lap. Gingerly, he took the rancher's wrists, and lifted his arms, turning his brother's palms outward.

Jarrod felt the hot bile in the back of his throat. Nick's hands were a red, ravaged mess. His black leather gloves had burned and melted right into the blistered, peeling flesh. How in God's name had Nick taken hold of him when his hands had sustained such severe injuries? Jarrod couldn't imagine the agony his brother must have been in. Must still be in.

"DOC!" Jarrod bellowed. He heard Rose let out a strangled sob, and the lantern bobbed, the light dancing over them jerkily before her hand steadied.

Dr. Merar caught the urgency in the attorney's voice, and heeded the call, Victoria on his heels. Heath made a move to follow them, but Howard instructed him sharply to say with the child. The physician saw the burns on Nick Barkley's hands, and called for Iva to bring his bag. He heard Victoria's sharp intake of breath, and her horrified, 'Oh my Lord!' Iva hurried it to him. He found his tweezers and held them in steady hands.

"Hold his hands as tightly as you can Jarrod," the physician directed.

Jarrod didn't think that was necessary. His brother was unmoving and unresponsive. But he did as Howard asked. Holding tight to Nick's wrists, he watched as Dr. Merar began to peel strips of black leather from where it was imbedded in the swollen flesh. Victoria had to look away, the back of one fist pressed tightly to her mouth, her vision blurred by tears. Rose, horrified, began to cry.

Nick's breathing became rapid and then he let out an agonized moan, twisting his hands in his brother's grip. Jarrod tightened his hold. Victoria knelt over Jarrod's back, bringing a whiskey bottle to Nick's lips. He closed his eyes, tilted back his head and drank a long swig of the liquor. Then another. She lowered the bottle and Nick's dark eyes met his brother's blue ones. The torment that Jarrod saw there was haunting. Nick's adam's apple bobbed convulsively in his throat.

Nick's eyes rolled to where Rose knelt by his left side, her lovely features ashen. He didn't want her to see him like this. Tried to will her away. He knew that if Doc Merar touched his hands one more time, he was going to scream. Instead, when the physician did, he gave a deep, heart-rending sob. Tears streamed from Rose's eyes and she lifted off of her haunches, pulling Nick's head towards her breast. She held him there, smoothing his tousled, dark hair, while her tears glided down her cheeks to mingle eventually with his.

It seemed an eternity to Rose before the physician had removed the last of what was left of the leather gloves. He washed the burns, and then applied salve directly to the bandages, rather than to the raw flesh. As he delicately wrapped the cloths, Nick pulled his head back and looked into Rose's eyes. He spoke for the first time.

"Mathers," he croaked out. She looked back at him, bewildered. "One of the men...saw him." Nick's chest rattled. "Kerosene. He's not here. Gone. When it started."

With dawning horror, Rose realized what Nick was saying. That man, Ike Mathers, the one who had ridden onto the Barkley ranch just a week ago, had started the fire.

"Woulda hired 'im," Nick told her, his voice slurred. His dark eyes were clear and unnaturally bright. "You knew. Bad news." Jarrod was watching the interaction intently. "Coulda been us. Our ranch." A pause while his lean frame quaked. His gaze never wavered though. "You saved us."

Not from 'Ike Mathers' though, she knew. Bruce. Rose could feel Jarrod's stare boring into her. She risked a glance at him. His blue eyes were like chips of ice, narrowed speculatively.

Nick's teeth started to chatter then, and his body began to shake in earnest. All recognition went out of his eyes. Victoria cried her son's name.

"Get some blankets!" Dr. Merar yelled. "He's going into shock!"

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Infection. That was what worried Nick the most.

He sat propped up in bed with a multitude of extra pillows, his bandaged hands resting on the light blanket that covered his legs. It was early afternoon, and the sun was streaming through his window. He'd slept all morning he knew. But finally the pain had roused him from healing rest.

Gangrene. He'd known men who'd lost limbs to the stinking, oozing insidious invader that sometimes accompanied surgeries and injuries. And burns. Otherwise, without amputation it would spread through your whole body, ravaging your system ceaselessly til you succumbed.

But if it happened...gangrene...wasn't he as good as dead anyways? Nick swallowed hard at the thought. If he lost his hands...what kind of life could he possibly have? How could he face an existence where he couldn't work around the ranch? Where he couldn't ride. Where he couldn't even feed himself. How could he go through the rest of his life never being able to hold a woman's hand? Or caress her face? Or touch the silky softness of her hair?

He looked across the room at Rose, tucked into the big leather chair, sleeping. They'd taken turns staying with him, he knew. Mother, Audra and Rose. Tending to his every need. Trying to make him comfortable. Administering large doses from the big bottle of the laudanum Doc Merar had left for him.

He could really use a dose right now. To coin a phrase, boy howdy the pain was incredible. But for just a few moments more, Nick wanted to watch Rose in peaceful slumber. She looked even younger in rest, her lovely features not pinched with worry the way he knew they would be again once she woke. Worry for him.

It touched Nick to know how concerned the young woman was for him. Her dark hair curved over her delicate jaw, and tumbled over her slender shoulder. Her full, pink lips were slightly parted with the rhythmic breathing of her restful state. Her long, smoky lashes were dark smudges against her cheeks. She sat curled on her side, her legs gathered up beneath her skirts, just her slippered feet poking out from the hemline of her pretty yellow dress.

How he loved her! Nick's heart swelled with emotion. But what did he have to offer her now? A man who might be an invalid. Unable to work and provide for her. Unable to ever lift her in his arms again. And even if, miracle of miracles, his hands did heal, Doc Merar had warned him that scarring would likely be severe. Disfiguring. Possibly...no, probably...the thick, tight scar tissue limiting their function. Nick didn't care if they were pretty or not. But he had to keep the use of his hands. He was a man who lived and worked by his fists.

He could remember plunging his hands onto the fiery beam, and feeling the heat which was immediate and agonizing. Pushing with everything he had in him, to dislodge it and free his brother and the boy. He'd do it again too, a thousand times over, to save them. Grabbing Jarrod's shoulders to drag him out hadn't helped his hands any, Nick knew in retrospect. Might, in fact, have damaged them beyond any hope of recovery. But he didn't regret that either.

Jarrod was his big brother. They shared a past, a present, and a future. The same blood ran through their veins. And though there were things about Jarrod that Nick knew he would never understand, and was sure Jarrod felt the same about him, he loved his brother with lifelong devotion. Respected and admired him too, in ways that he did no other man.

Nick had always said he'd walk through fire for either of his brothers. And when it had come right down to it...he had. Nick took pride in that. He hadn't let Jarrod down. And the rancher knew in his heart of hearts, that if it had been his body, exhausted, caught under a burning beam in a fiery hell...Jarrod would have done the same for him. Or died trying.

Jarrod's impulsive, foolhardy, heroic act had saved Josh Hendrick's life. Doc Merar had said that Josh's being curled up on the ground that way, at the lowest level where the smoke was the least concentrated, probably made the difference in whether or not the boy had survived the inferno. The Hendricks had been tearfully grateful, expressing their overwhelmed appreciation to all three brothers. Nick was just happy that the boy was alive, and knew that for his brothers too, that was all the thanks that was necessary.

The Hendrick family had lost their home and the other ranch buildings in the fire. Two of the hands had lost their lives. A third man, that Heath had helped to save, was paralyzed from the waist down. The Hendricks had gone back east, to stay with Pete's brother for a spell, and to consider what they were going to do. The cattle and horses had been split between the Barkley ranch and two others for the time being, to mingle with their own stock for safe keeping. The orchards would be seen to, when they came ripe for harvesting.

Nick found it difficult to comprehend that the fire that had taken two lives, and ravaged others in ways that might not be fully felt yet, had been set deliberately. Sheriff Madden had deputized some men and ridden out the next morning after Ike Mathers. As far as Nick knew, they hadn't located the drifter yet. Nick had had no idea, no inkling, when he'd talked to the man that day in the yard, that Mathers was capable of that sort of heinous action.

But Rose had known. Somehow, Rose had sensed that Mathers couldn't be trusted. That he was trouble. How she had known that, Nick didn't know, and he didn't care. He didn't believe that the young woman had anything to do with the lowlife, killer scumbag at all. That was impossible. Something just hadn't set right with Rose, and she'd listened to her gut. And, thankfully, Nick had listened to her.

She was always so worried, this sweet, beautiful dark-haired woman, that she was imposing on them. Taking advantage of their kindness and generosity. Even after they had all assured her that it was their pleasure, and that having her there with them was not only a privilege but a joy. Anything that she might have perceived she owed them, any debt Rose might have believed she had accrued, would have been wiped clean by her warning about Mathers. They were all in her debt now.

Nick was thankful that his own injuries had been the worst, and that his brothers would recover fully from their ordeals. Jarrod had burned the back of his neck, and singed some of his dark hair, and he was still coughing a lot, almost as though he had the consumption, but he would be all right.

Heath had wrenched his shoulder, and couldn't move his right arm for two days. Today, the third day after that fateful night, Heath was feeling better, and when he'd come by this morning to check on Nick, had asserted that he would be back to his old working routine. Heath's hands too had been blistered that night, when he had worked to save the man trapped in the doorway of the stable beneath the horse and beam. They were reddened and while Heath had allowed Victoria to bandage them, the sandy-haired cowboy had pronounced that they didn't really bother him, and that as long as he had his gloves on, he could go about his regular work.

Nick shifted restlessly in the bed. He really needed another dose of the laudanum, bad. His hands felt as though they were still on fire. He clamped his jaw shut, while the muscles in his cheeks spasmed. He would wake Rose in a minute. For now, he would allow himself the luxury of watching her sleep. Dreaming her own dreams, perhaps, while he dreamed his.

* * * * * * * *

Rose woke to the sound of Nick's voice, softly calling her name. Embarrassed, realizing she had fallen asleep, she'd sat up in the chair, running her hands through her hair and pulling it back over her shoulder, then straightening her skirts. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, then pushed herself out of the chair and hurried to his bedside.

The smile that greeted her was warm, but the pain in his dark eyes was unmistakable. Rose settled herself at the side of his bed, laying her hand on his left forearm, smiling encouragingly. "I'd make a terrible nurse," she announced, self-deprecatingly. "Falling asleep at my post!" She'd just been so very tired. Rose wasn't sleeping well at nights, her nightmares waking her frequently, and then the residual fears and disorientation making it difficult to settle back down again. "Are you all right?"

Of course he wasn't! What a pathetic question. She'd had to leave the room that morning when Victoria, who had done night watch, had unwrapped the dressings on Nick's hands, and had encouraged him to dip them in the big basin of water that Jarrod had brought upstairs. Dr. Merar had said that it was important to continue to submerge the burned tissue, loosening the dead skin that continued to slough off, before reapplying the salve and rebandaging the wounds.

It might be necessary, but the agony that it caused Nick was too much for Rose to bear. He was brave, and though his features were stoic, the tears that shimmered in his eyes told another tale. It had to be excruciating for him, but Nick never complained.

Rose had been so frightened when Nick had gone into shock at the Hendrick place the other night. His lips began turning blue. His skin had been moist and clammy, and he was perspiring heavily. Dr. Merar had checked Nick's pulse and it had been rapid but weak. He had not slipped into unconsciousness, but he was disoriented.

Howard Merar had covered Nick with blankets, then raised Nick's legs in the air. That had seemed to help restore his circulation. Victoria had trickled down his throat small sips from the canteen, to help stave off dehydration. Eventually, the physician had coaxed Nick back to them.

"Yeah, not too bad," Nick lied, his handsome face pale.

Rose saw his eyes slide to the laudanum, and she knew that he wanted it but felt it was a sign of weakness to ask. Men and their silly damned pride! "It's time for a dose of laudanum," she said in a tone that would brook no opposition. He nodded meekly, and she poured it for him, bringing it to his lips. Nick took it gratefully, then leaned back against the cushions.

Rose knew that it wouldn't be long before the medicine took effect. She could see the little beads of sweat on his upper lip. Knew that he was trying to be brave for her, to minimize the reality of his pain. She knew how Nick felt about her.

His declaration after their ride almost two weeks ago, though neither of them had spoken of it since, had been so earnest and romantic. And bittersweet. Because Rose didn't know whether she was free to accept it. Or, if she was, if she would be able to return it. She adored the tall, dark-haired rancher, certainly. He was a wonderful, incredible man, and he made her feel safe, and cherished and wanted. But she was so confused.

Impulsively, as his eyes began to droop, Rose leaned in towards Nick and pressed her lips against his forehead. "You are the bravest, most incredible man," she said softly. "And any woman would be lucky to be your girl."

Nick's lids snapped up again, and he held his breath as her sweet lips touched his skin. He wanted to reach for her, to wrap his arms around her, and to never let her go. He wanted to hear her say that she would be his girl. He wanted that more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. His heart hammered in his chest.

Then she was drawing back from him, an enigmatic smile on her porcelain features. He thought that he saw longing there, but sadness as well. Nick could feel the laudanum pulling him under, and fought against it just a bit longer. 'I love you, Rose,' he wanted to say, but his lips wouldn't work, and his tongue was slack. The greyness morphed into black as it claimed him.

* * * * * * * *

The lightning flashed, a bolt of white light, followed by an explosive clap of thunder and the heavy rumble that accompanied it. Two more followed in quick succession.

She rolled over in the bed, still half asleep, feeling the emptiness beside her. 'Jason, it's storming,' her tired mind thought.

The brightness illuminated the room again, and then the sound that was like heavy artillery pounded through her head. Brooke! She was always so frightened by storms. Crawling into their bed on the nights when the heavens raged with one of its electrical displays, breaking the sound barrier with vivid sonic booms. Had Jason gone to get their daughter? The little girl would be scared, huddled in her bed, clutching her stuffed monkey and waiting for one of her parents to rescue her.

Brilliant luminescence filled the air. An angry cacophony roared around her. Brooke! She had to get Brooke!

Rose sat up in bed, her heart thudding in her chest, feeling the desperation wash over her. She swung her legs over the side, waiting til she felt the solid contact of the floor, and then stumbled, disoriented, to the door of her room. She flung it open, and tried to peer out into the darkened hall. She had to hurry. She was needed. She had to had to go to...

Rose stood with one hand on the door jamb, trying to blink back the night, as her confusion made her tremble. The urge to get out of her bed, to go somewhere, to go to someone, to do something, had been instinctive and powerful. But now that she was awake, standing here in the doorway, the sense of urgency had passed. She no longer recalled what it was that she had to do.

Lightning flashed, and only seconds afterwards came the rumble of the thunder. She turned back into the room, and crossed the floor to the partially opened window. Rain was slanting in underneath the sash. Hurriedly, she pushed the latch, and allowed the window to settle closed. The floor was damp beneath her feet.

Rose stared out into the yard. Sometime during the night, the clear sky had been overpowered by the heavy, dark clouds, pregnant with the rain that those who lived in the valley had been praying for. They had unleashed their precious burden, and the parched earth was hungrily seeking to draw the life-giving liquid into it's core. The dry spell was over.

She stood by the window for some time, staring out as wet rivulets ran down the outside of the glass in small streams. Nick had been so worried about the lack of rain. Refusing to allow anyone to use the word drought just yet. Even as the levels of the water holes had dipped dangerously and he'd had to move his cattle, and even as the produce in the orchards had suffered the ill effects, the developing fruit so much smaller than usual for this time of year. The rain was reason to celebrate. Not just for the Barkleys, but for everyone who lived in the valley. Ranchers, farmers, and townspeople alike.

Eventually, Rose went back to her bed. She tossed and turned though, unable to settle. Finally, she decided that it was unlikely that she was going to get back to sleep. She lit the lamp on her night stand, and checked the ornate clock on the mantle of the guest room's fireplace. It was after 3 o'clock. Still a few hours til dawn. She decided that perhaps some reading would help her pass the time. She remembered the copy of David Copperfield in the library that she had wanted to try. Quietly, she slipped from the room and down the stairs.

Rose wasn't sure where the lamps were, and had to take a few moments to try to orient herself to the room. She was fairly certain that there was one on the delicate writing desk that Victoria and Audra often used. She could make out it's shadowy shape along the right hand wall, near one of the big, multi-paned windows. There was another burst of light, and her hand moved across the finely polished surface of the desk, finding the lamp. She turned the wick low, and a subtle glow chased back the immediate shadows.

David Copperfield was on one of the shelves along this wall. If she stood slightly aside, the lamp light was enough to highlight the spines, and the engraved gold titles.

"Did the storm wake you?" the deep, well-modulated voice broke softly into her thoughts.

Rose whirled, one hand at her throat, turning in the direction of the familiar intonation.

Jarrod Barkley leaned forward in one of the burgundy wing chairs, the lamp's glow picking out his handsome features. "I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized. "I couldn't sleep earlier myself, so I came downstairs. I guess I fell asleep in my chair."

"I'm sorry if I woke you," Rose murmured contritely. She was conscious of the fact that she hadn't bothered to grab a dressing gown or a shawl, and was clothed only in the loose-fitting cotton nightdress. She hadn't expected to run into anyone else on her late night foray.

"I was more or less drifting in and out, once the storm started," the attorney confessed. He looked beyond her, past the windows to where the rain came down in torrents. "We could have used this the other night," he commented wryly.

Rose knew that he was referencing the fire at the Hendrick place. She couldn't think of a response that wouldn't sound redundant or inane, so she simply stood there.

Jarrod had had trouble sleeping since the fire. Aside from the nightmares that plagued him, the burn on his neck, while no where near as severe as what Nick had suffered, was a constant irritant when he tried to lay down, painful against his pillows and blankets, and the discomfort was enough to keep him awake, tossing and turning.

Jarrod's relief at knowing that they had saved Josh Hendrick, that the boy would recover fully, was shadowed by his worry over Nick. He couldn't help the guilt that soured his stomache, whenever he remembered that Nick's burns were a direct result of his efforts to save his older brother. Jarrod still couldn't quite believe that Nick had grabbed him with those horribly injured hands, and held onto him, pulling him to safety.

The burns were bad, and Howard Merar hadn't tried to lie to any of them about the prognosis. Nick had a long and difficult road ahead of him. There was no guarantee the physician could save Nick's hands. Only time would tell. Jarrod remembered the helplessness and self-pity he himself had felt when he had been temporarily blinded while working on a case a couple of years ago. With the help of his family, his brothers especially, it had been proven that he could still ply his trade. He could still function as an attorney without his sight, as difficult as it had been. But how, Jarrod wondered, would his brother run the ranch without his hands?

He owed Nick his life, Jarrod knew, and Heath as well. And it wasn't the first time they had been willing to sacrifice themselves for him, without hesitation. He'd thought a lot in the last few days about Beth's death and the aftermath. Had replayed in his mind the final showdown with Cass Hyatt in that dusty, trail town. He could see Hyatt cowering, begging for mercy, admitting to shooting Beth, killing her with the bullet that had been meant for Jarrod.

He could still feel his blinding rage, and knew that he had fully intended to gun down the other man in cold blood. And then Nick had stepped in, putting himself between Jarrod's bullet and the whimpering, cowardly murderer. Seeking not to save Hyatt, but to save Jarrod. To keep him from turning his back on everything that he had ever lived for or stood for. Order. Justice. The law. To keep Jarrod from destroying his life and his career...his very soul.

What Jarrod owed his brother could never be repaid, he knew. And so, when in the next couple of days he had burned to ask Rose about the strange comments Nick had made in the aftermath of the fire...about Rose warning Nick about the drifter, Mathers...he had kept his jaw clamped shut and bitten his tongue. He had not renegotiated with Nick their approach to they mystery of Rose since her seizure. As it stood, the last promise to his rancher brother was that he would not question her again. Not without talking to Nick first.

And Jarrod wasn't about to approach Nick with this right now. No matter how important it might seem. Nick had bigger things on his mind, and Jarrod wasn't going to upset him with this. No matter how it ate away at him not to be able to question Rose. He owed his brother at least that much.

"Were you looking for any book in particular?" Jarrod asked Rose, to take his mind off of the queries he really yearned to make.

"Well, I thought I might try that Dickens novel, David Copperfield," Rose replied, licking her lips nervously. She was always so nervous when Jarrod was nearby. Always so aware of him.

"I think I can help you with that," Jarrod told her easily, rising from the chair.

There was another blinding flash, and the tremors resonated through the air. The wind, which had picked up, gusted and lashed against the outside of the house. Rain pelted against the windows, and they shook in their panes. The one closest to Rose, which apparently hadn't been fastened properly, blew inward, the framed windows slamming against the walls.

Rain and bits of leaves and other debris swept over her, drenching her in a moment. The carpet was quickly soaked. She was caught off guard, both by the unanticipated event and by the fury and strength of the storm. Wet hair lashed across her cheeks and she turned her body, reaching slim arms to catch hold of the windows, struggling to close them again against the deluge. She cried out involuntarily as the cold sheets of rain sluiced over her.

Jarrod was behind her, adding his strength to hers as the cold rain teemed in on them. The wind seemed to laugh gleefully as it pushed back against their combined force, tossing the numbing water and detritus over them. Then it seemed to tire of the game, and eased back, allowing them to close the windows against the ravages of the stormy night. Jarrod reached to latch the windows, pulling them to assure himself they were properly closed.

Rose was agonizingly aware of how close Jarrod's body was behind hers. The shirt he wore was open to the waist, his bare chest pressed wetly against her back. She could feel the soaked nightdress, clinging to her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. The arms that reached around her and over top of hers, were strongly muscled, encircling her without touching her.

The heat that seemed to radiate from him was drawn into her very core. Every nerve ending tingled as gooseflesh rippled across her skin. She could smell his cologne...the scent of his cigars. She breathed deeply of the intoxicating scent.

Jarrod was acutely aware of Rose's slender body curved against his. Of her long, dark tresses, wet with rain, slapped against his chest. He looked down at her, over her shoulder, and saw the nightgown, plastered to her like a second skin. His breath caught in his throat, and his veins sang with longing. His cheek was near the top of her head. He ached to bury his face in her hair, to inhale the sweet fragrance of her.

Rose imagined Jarrod's eyes roving over her. And in their wake, she imagined his fevered kisses, trailing along her skin. So vivid was her flight of fancy, that Rose was certain she could actually feel his breath, hot against her flesh. Could feel his tongue, sliding over her, skillfully eliciting pleasure.

The fire that Jarrod had been through a few days ago paled to the conflagration that threatened to overtake him now. His breath burned in his lungs. He couldn't seem to take in air fast enough. He couldn't think or reason. Rose's body pressed against his was an exquisite torture. Though his hands were still pressed against the window, he could imagine them searching over the sweet mounds and valleys of her perfect form. Could imagine how firm, yet soft she would be beneath his splayed fingers.

Rose wanted nothing more than to pivot in Jarrod's arms and offer herself up for his kiss. To meld her body into his. To see desire in his incredible sapphire eyes. To watch his dark head descend towards her, to trace the deep crevice in his chin with her own eyes, before his lips would claim hers. Before she abandoned herself to their masterful pressure. Their tongues sliding over one another, tasting, in the age old dance. How easy it would be, to just shift her body. To communicate her longing.

Jarrod wanted to put his hands on Rose's shoulders. To spin her in his arms, and then slide them down her back, pulling her into him. He wanted to see her lovely emerald eyes sparkle with a wanting she could not deny. He wanted to taste her lips...their oft imagined honeyed sweetness. He wanted to hear her dulcet tones murmur his name. To feel her respond to his kiss. The endearments were on the tip of his tongue, striving to be set free, begging for him to give them voice.

Then the fantasy crashed down around Jarrod as he remembered his brother, upstairs, confined to his bed while he tried to recuperate from his injuries. Injuries sustained while saving Jarrod's life. The attorney envisioned his brother keeping watch over Rose at Dr. Merar's surgery after her seizure. Finally, he saw the pair again in the yard, as he had that evening a fortnight ago. Nick and Rose in conversation. And finally, Nick bending to bestow a kiss.

Jarrod dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back in contrition. What the devil was wrong with him? He'd be lucky, if the young woman had known his wanton thoughts, if he only got his face slapped. Not to mention what Nick would do to him if he knew of his older brother's lecherous proclivities. Fists mangled and bandaged or not, Jarrod didn't doubt Nick could still put him on the floor. Shame flooded over him. It couldn't overpower his feelings for Rose, but it was enough to give him strength to battle them.

Confusion swirled around Rose as she felt Jarrod move away. She wanted to cry out her disappointment, but of course she couldn't. What would he think of her if he only knew how she craved his touch? She heard him move to the shelf, though she couldn't turn to watch him. She stood stock still in front of the window, trying to quiet the galloping of her heart.

"Quite a night out there," Jarrod said huskily, attempting to interject normalcy back into the room. "Ah, here it is," he said with forced gusto. "David Copperfield!" He cleared his throat, trying desperately to rid his voice of the husky undertones, lest Rose read them for what they were. "Well, I should go get out of these damp clothes." The mess on the floor beneath the window was forgotten.

Rose nodded in the dim light, still unable to look at him. Not wanting the handsome attorney to see the foolish longing in her eyes.

"And you're soaked too," Jarrod added, then wished he hadn't, as he knees felt weak at the memory of the way her nightgown was now molded to her tiny, voluptuous frame. "Good night," he said hastily, and then as Rose mumbled a reply, he fled from the room.

Rose leaned her head against the cold glass, and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were in turmoil, her emotions raw. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She felt lost and adrift again. Her life was a pandemonium of confusion, linked inextricably with the lives of the Barkleys now.

The aftershock of another rolling peal of thunder, shook the glass.

'She's so afraid of storms!' Rose thought, her mind momentarily torn from the memory of the handsome counselor. But who it was who was terrified of Mother Nature's fury, Rose had no idea.

Chapter Thirty

He pushed open the door and crossed the room to where she lay sleeping. Sleeping. That was how he liked to think of it. Her dark hair splayed across the crisp, white pillow. She wasn't actually sleeping though. It was a coma. And though they didn't actually say it out loud, Jason knew what they all thought. Natalie was never coming back.

At first, they had been optimistic. Hopeful. Encouraging. Telling him that once she'd passed those first critical twenty-four hours, the odds of her succumbing to her injuries dropped dramatically. Then later when they'd made the decision to remove the breathing tube, and her lungs had filled with air on their own, they had said that was a good sign.

They'd had physical therapists in, going through a range of exercises, moving Natalie's unresponsive limbs, trying to keep the muscles from atrophying so that when she did waken, her body would be ready to continue with it's healing. Jason had noticed that as the days turned to weeks, the physical therapists...P.T.s, their little name tags read...stopped by Natalie's room less and less frequently. Until they no longer came at all.

He'd cornered her physician, Dr. Barstow, one night and asked the woman point blank why the therapists weren't working with Nat any more. Dr. Barstow's grey-eyed gaze hadn't wavered, as she had explained to Jason that the hospital was incredibly busy, terribly understaffed, and going through a restructuring as well, which meant that sometimes the need was greater than they could fill. She had spoken with just the right touch of regretfulness.

Jason knew the truth though. They had begun to write Natalie off. They didn't think she was ever going to wake up. Everything the doctor had said might be true, but Jason didn't doubt that if they felt there was some hope for Natalie, they would have continued to make an effort. To find the time. Sometimes, he was so enraged at the doctors, nurses and other staff. It seemed to him as though they weren't doing anywhere near enough for his wife. And they seemed so calm and uninvolved.

He wanted to yell at them, and shout, and express his frustration. He wanted to show them his wedding photo, so they could see how alive and beautiful Natalie really was...that she wasn't this pale, motionless person tucked beneath the sterile sheets. He wanted to tell them about all of her little quirks, like the way she would sometimes stick her tongue out the corner of her lips if she was thinking hard about something. He wanted to tell them about the beautiful scrapbook albums she was making for the children, to preserve their memories. He wanted to tell them about how she loved going to garage sales, and watching Big Valley, and doing crafts.

Mostly, he wanted to tell them how much they needed her. That they had to save her. Because she had family and friends whose lives would be forever alternated, impacted in such a long-reaching negative way, if Natalie wasn't a part of them. With her positive energy, and her generosity and her common sense. She was integral to the lives of their two small children. Brady and Brooke were having a hard time coping with the idea that their mommy wasn't right there for them. Even though their grandmother was doing all that she could to fill in.

He needed her. His wife. Their marriage had never been perfect, they weren't soulmates in the romantic, silver screen version of the phrase. There were times when they would quarrel, and times when they couldn't stand the sight of one another, and issues that they had had to work through. And Jason knew that Natalie was right. As she would often tell him, her frustration evident, he was a lousy communicator.

It was hard for him to share with her some of his deepest fears and his anger at his own shortcomings. When there weren't many hours at work, he would feel the stress and tension mount, because he would worry about his next paycheque. Would feel overwhelmed with a sense of responsibility towards his wife and children. It would eat away at him to ever think he would let them down when they depended on him so totally to provide for them. But he could never articulate that to Nat. His fear would manifest as grumpiness. And then he'd snipe at her because the living room was full of toys, or because they were having spaghetti again for dinner.

And she would react to his unfairness with anger of her own. And he would always want to take her in his arms and tell her how sorry he was. To unburden to her the inadequacies he felt. To tell her how he wanted only to be her hero. To make sure that she and the children had everything they needed, even if he couldn't always provide everything they wanted.

Somehow, in the midst of their misunderstandings, Natalie would always seem to sense what was at the root of his frustration. Would realize that it wasn't directed towards her. Would try unsuccessfully to coax him out, but he still could just never find the words to say all he was feeling. So instead, Jason would buy her a bouquet of cut flowers from the supermarket, or fix her a cup of tea in the evening while she checked to see if there were any interesting new additions to ebay, or looked over that Big Valley website. And he would hope and pray that she had some magic window to his soul.

He wasn't the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He didn't tell her often enough how beautiful and desirable she was. And she was. Even now that her dark hair was shot through with grey. Even after her body had changed when she'd given him the most perfect, beautiful gifts imaginable. First, his son, and then his daughter. He would watch her standing at the bathroom sink sometimes, her fingers brushing the streak of grey at her temple, and he would know that she worried about aging. And again, Jason could never find the words, but he would move behind her, and slip his arms around her waist, and kiss the back of her neck. Trying to communicate to her that way.

When Brady had first been born, Natalie had seemed tearful all of the time. Anything would set her to crying. He'd walked around for months on eggshells, feeling like an interloper in his own home. In the first couple of months following Brady's birth, when Jason would reach for her in the night, Nat would pull away from him, murmuring excuses about how tired she was. She was, of course, he knew that, but he knew that it was something more.

Finally, one night after he'd walked in on her after her shower, and Nat had exploded at him in anger, grabbing a towel to cover herself with a modesty she'd never exhibited before, she had broken down sobbing and had shared with him that she felt so ugly. With the weight she'd gained from her pregnancy. And with the long, silver scars that ran down her abdomen and across her hips. The stretch marks.

He'd been truly baffled by her insecurities. She was beautiful! Every single inch of her. He'd seen the marks of course, and they never repulsed him. They were like badges of honour in his eyes. A reminder of everything she had gone through, the risks she had taken and sacrifices she had made, to give his son life. He felt that he shared their creation, those tight, shiny marks in her skin. They were evidence of their love for one another, and the child that had resulted from that.

At the time though, the flowery, pretty words that would have set Nat's heart at ease, had failed him. He'd only been able to tell her not to be silly. Not meaning to negate her fears or her feelings. But not wanting her to waste another moment of her life worrying about something that was so immaterial to him, and changed not one whit how he felt about her, or how attractive she was to him. So, when the words hadn't come to him, he had tried to show her in other physical ways, that she was the only woman for him....ever...and that he wanted her as he always had.

Natalie on the other hand...she was a wonderful communicator. She was fabulous with words. He thought that she would have made a splendid writer. She never had a problem expressing herself. Never had a problem intuiting what he or their children needed to hear, and then making sure that whatever affirmations, commiserations or words of love and support they needed, were spoken.

And she was gentle. So gentle, and caring. About other people and about the world. She was always donating the children's outgrown clothes to others in need. Always taking a little tin here or there for the food drive. She would make sure each week that their aluminum, and papers, and plastics were taken to the curb in the blue recycling box. She'd give him a tongue-lashing if he got lazy, and dumped some in the garbage instead. Lecturing him about the planet and the need for each and every person to be a good custodian of the earth.

He'd dropped his empty coffee cup out the car window in a parking lot one day, when they'd first been married, and started to drive off. Natalie had made him turn the vehicle around, get out into the cold, winters slush and retrieve the offending article, and then promise him that whether or not she was right there, he would never litter again. Sheepishly, he'd promised her, and except for a couple of times when he was lazy or preoccupied, Jason had kept that promise.

She was sentimental and empathetic. She always cried over sad movies. Heck, she cried over touching t.v. commercials too. There was one for the Bell phone company, about a young man calling his grandfather long distance from Dieppe to say, 'thank you' for the older man's part in the war. And another about some kind of dog food, with a girl who races up the stairs with her young Irish Setter, and then the commercial shoots forward and the girl is a young woman, the dog older and grey-muzzled now, still following its mistress up the stairs. She was unashamed about showing her emotions. And Jason believed that their children would be better people for it.

All of these things, these were what he wanted the health care professionals who took care of Natalie to know. He didn't want her to be nothing but a name on a chart, with no past and no future, summed up by data they collected about this pale, damaged shell. He wanted them to see how vibrant and alive she really was. How kind and sweet she was. To know that she had interests and hobbies and friends. He believed that if they could just know her, then they would try just that little bit harder.

Part of him realized though, that they only way they could be involved in their careers was to maintain a certain distance. If they became emotionally involved with each and every patient who passed through their doors, there was no way they could continue to do their jobs effectively. The emotional and psychological toll it would take on them would be too overwhelming. Jason understood that, on one level.

He knew that each and every patient had someone to whom they were the most important person in the world. That as much as wanted Natalie to be different to them...more important...more real...it just couldn't be. He knew that they were already giving her the very best care that they were capable of.

He believed that each doctor and nurse who passed through Natalie's door was dedicated to doing everything they humanly could for her. Perhaps, what he was hoping for was some kind of superhuman effort. Something that would ensure that Natalie came back from that twilight world she was in, for once and for all. He was a product of the modern, technological world and he couldn't help believing that somehow the medical community could work magic.

Jason still couldn't understand what had precipitated the accident. Witnesses told police that Natalie had stepped off the curb, against the light, and had bent down. Whether she'd lost her balance, or what exactly had occurred, was uncertain. The driver of the Ford that had hit her, hadn't been charged. The man had been traumatized though. He had come to the hospital to try to see Natalie a few days later. She'd been in the ICU, and unable to have visitors, clinging barely to life. Jason had left her for a moment, to speak to the man, to listen to his apologies and to automatically say the words that would absolve the man of guilt.

It wasn't really anyone's fault, Jason knew. It was just an accident. How he'd come to loathe that word. Sounding so innocuous. Falling so far short of embodying just how much it had torn their lives apart, turning everything inside out, and putting their entire futures on a back burner. There was no more tomorrow. Only a succession of todays. Taken one at a time. And worse...it left him with nothing and no one to blame. No way to avenge his wife's injuries.

Natalie had been almost unrecognizable the first time he had seen her, hooked up to all of those machines, which whirred and buzzed and pumped and beeped around her. For a moment, he had tried to tell himself that it had all just been a horrible mistake. That it wasn't really Natalie...merely someone who looked a little bit like her. But Jason had come to accept that beneath that swollen, battered face, beneath the bruises and contusions, beneath the white gauze that bandaged her head, underneath that stranger's body and countenance...was his wife.

He hadn't brought Brady and Brooke to the ICU in those first days. He had discussed it with Natalie's mother, June, and they had decided that it might be too much for the children. They were too young to understand everything. Seeing their mother like that would only frighten them even more than they already were. And if...if the unthinkable happened...if Nat died...he didn't want the children's last memories of their mother to be of her battered body.

As the external healing had begun, and her swollen features had returned to a semblance of normalcy, and she had been moved from the ICU to the private room that Jason's insurance paid for, he had June had decided that it was time for the children to visit. What he hadn't been able to anticipate was the eternal optimism of childhood. Upon seeing their mother, seeing that she simply appeared to be sleeping, Brady's and Brooke's hopes had been raised. They were sure that Natalie would wake up then and there. They couldn't understand why, when she didn't look that sick, didn't have any broken bones, why their mother wouldn't just open her eyes, smile at them, and agree to come home.

He'd brought them to see her twice a week or so, after that. Enough that it seemed to comfort them to know she was still alive, but not too much that they were upset by seeing her there in the hospital, and having her not respond to them, again and again. Jason threw himself into his job. He would visit Nat on the way to work, often before dawn. The hospital didn't enforce any specific visiting hours for spouses of the critically ill, and besides with the private room, he wasn't disturbing anyone else who might need their rest. Then he would go to see her briefly in the evening again, before heading home to a dark house, where her absence was underlined by the quiet and the sorrowed pall that hung over them all.

When he had pressed for a prognosis, no one had been willing to commit to any predictions for Natalie's future. They spoke about usually and in some cases and the ever popular only time will tell. Even with a series of CAT scans and MRIs, no one could tell Jason whether or not Natalie had suffered permanent brain damage. They just continued to tell him that they didn't know. That each day she stayed with them, was a good sign. Though the longer she remained in the coma, that was a definite concern.

Natalie had had one terrible seizure, early one morning a couple of weeks ago, when Jason was finishing his visit and about to head to work. Her body had begun to spasm and convulse. It had been terrifying for him. He'd pressed the button to call for assistance, and a nurse had come almost instantly. She'd called for additional help.

The whole episode seemed to be over very quickly. The hospital staff was businesslike, almost brusque, and would say little afterwards til Dr. Barstow could evaluate things. But Jason had seen the heart monitor flatline. He had known that he had almost lost Natalie that morning. He'd called in sick to work, and just spent the day driving around aimlessly. Trying to deal with the reality that even now, when she looked as though she was recovering, and the bruises were faded away, that she was still in grave danger.

Just a few days ago, Jason's hopes had soared, when Dr. Barstow had told him that if things remained stable they would like to transfer Natalie to Sunnybrook, a long-term care and rehabilitation centre in the next city. Dr. Barstow spoke in glowing terms about Sunnybrook, saying that it was a first class facility. Jason had been so encouraged by the idea. A rehabilitation centre! Somewhere where there would be the professionals to help bring Natalie back to them, and back to her old self.

He had hurried home to share the wonderful news with June. He had watched her face pinch and them crumble, as he explained to her that they might be moving Natalie to Sunnybrook. He had thought at first that her tears were tears of relief. Then he realized that June was upset. Finally, wiping her eyes, she had told him that Sunnybrook was a last resort. That it was where they sent those cases they believed to be hopeless. To watch over those poor souls, until they died. She had known a couple of people who had gone to Sunnybrook. Both stroke victims. Neither had ever recovered. There was no rehabilitation. Sunnybrook was, essentially, a death watch. A place where those in the twilight of their lives rested as comfortably as they could be made, freeing up hospital beds for those who needed them more...those who still had a fighting chance.

Jason had been devastated. And he had vowed to himself that they were not going to give up on his Natalie! They were not going to shuffle her off somewhere to die. She was a good and decent person. Young, loving, with a family who needed her. She had had a serious setback, the accident had almost taken her from them, but Jason believed that someway, somehow, Natalie would fight to get back to them. She would never abandon them...she had to know they loved and needed her too much.

The doctors and nurses had suggested to Jason from the beginning that he should talk to Natalie. Even though it appeared she couldn't hear, and even though she couldn't respond. He had tried at first, he really had. But his conversation had been so stilted. So forced. He had a hard enough time holding up his end in a two-way conversation. There was no way he could prattle on enough to carry on a one-sided conversation. He simply couldn't think of enough things to say. And nothing that would help Natalie at all, he was sure.

And so, he usually sat with her in companionable silence. He had rented a t.v. for her, and the doctor had said that any kind of stimulation was good, so they would sit quietly, listening to the news or watching a nature programme each morning, while the sun came up. Now and then, when he could think of something, Jason would interject a comment or two. And then sometimes, Jason would go home, and all of the things that he longed to say to Natalie would come pouring out. And he would write her a letter and tuck it under her pillow. Believing that she would understand, and would forgive him his inadequacies, as she always had.

There were things he would want to tell her, of course, while he watched her in repose. He wanted to tell her that she was his heart and his soul. That the luckiest day of his life was the day that she had married him. He wanted to tell her that she was a wonderful mother to their children, and doing such a fine job of raising them to be people that he was so proud of. He wanted to tell her that she had to fight, that she couldn't leave him. That he needed her in his life. He and the children did. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for any of the times he had hurt her. For any of the ways he had failed her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but those simple words seemed so inadequate to express all that he was feeling.

So, as Jason usually did in life, he left the thoughts unsaid. And instead, he tried to communicate with her in another way. He used to watch the physical therapists go through their routine. Massaging Natalie's arms and legs, bending and stretching them, trying to keep circulation going and to bring some movement to unused muscles before they became flaccid and atrophied.

He stood over her bed now, and bent to plant a soft kiss on her unnaturally pale cheek. Then Jason took his station at the end of her bed, moved aside her covers, picked up one of her socked feet, and began to lift and press her leg, in a therapy routine of his own. Hoping that she would sense him there, that she would feel his love, and would know that he wasn't giving up on her. Ever.

Chapter Thirty-One

For three nights and two days the heavens poured down on the San Joaquin valley. Heavy, unrelenting liquid sheets drenched the parched earth faster than it's aching throat could absorb. The skies stayed so black, the stars and the moon, and then the sun hidden in turn, a solid darkness settling over the land so that it was impossible to tell where night ended and day began. The oppressive heat had broken, and the temperature plummeted so low that it became necessary to keep a fire going in the hearth. The atmosphere was an ongoing light display of jagged blue, followed ceaselessly by tumultuous cacophonies that shook the ground and reverberated in the air.

That first morning, there had been satisfied back slapping among the men, and grateful exclamations that the wells and water holes would be replenished. Everyone had had a day off, judging that with the fury the storm exhibited it would be wild but short-lived. On the second morning, Jarrod had joined Heath and the hands, suiting up in a slicker, his grey Stetson pulled low over his face, as they had braved the elements to check on the stock, and to move some of the cows and their bleating calves to higher ground.

The river and all of it's tributaries swelled their banks. The ground underfoot was a churning mass of mud that sucked at hooves and boots, splashing everywhere. Nick had vocalized his displeasure at having to remain in bed, under Dr. Merar's strict orders, enforced by three unrelenting pairs of eyes in stern, loving, feminine faces. He'd felt the frustration of knowing that in his current condition there was nothing he could do to help anyways. The men came back weary, soaked to the skin, their hands and feet numb despite gloves and boots. Too tired to do more than have a wash and a bite to eat, and then tumble into bed.

Rose had found herself unable to sleep much on these last mercurial nights. It seemed that as soon as she would slip under, a boom of thunder would bring her awake and alert again. Always with a sense of urgency bordering on panic, that she was needed. That someone would be terrified of the storm. Eventually, the rapid beating of her heart would slow, and her eyelids would flutter and then close. But then the whole cycle would begin again.

Rose had taken the copy of David Copperfield to her room, after her unsettling encounter with Jarrod, and though she had tried to immerse herself in the crisp pages, she found that she was reading the same first paragraphs over and over, without understanding what she had read. Her thoughts continued to return to the handsome attorney. Making her heart ache with a longing that bordered on physical pain. Finally, she had set the book aside, and curled up instead in one of the upholstered chairs, and worked on her crocheting. Steady, mindless work, in which she could lose herself.

The next morning, she had taken the book to Nick's room, asking him if he would like her to read it to him. He had accepted the offer, and it had taken away some of her restlessness, to throw herself into the task. He was still sedated most of the time, the laudanum offering some protection from the pain. Pain which was constant and acute when he was awake. But everyone knew of the addictive properties of the drug, and Dr. Merar had encouraged Nick to go as long between doses as he could bear. Those times when he struggled without the medicine, Rose would transport both of them to another world.

Nick loved to listen to her expressive voice as Rose read from the Dickens novel. He listened to the rain that pelted against the windows in the background, as the beautiful young woman began to tell him the tale of an older David Copperfield narrating the story of his life. He closed his eyes and leaned against his pillow as Rose described the title characters birth at the stroke of midnight on a Friday night. He imagined that he could hear the old woman telling the baby's mother that the timing of his birth indicated he would be unlucky and would be able to see ghosts and spirits.

Nick was enthralled by the descriptive tale, and by Rose's eloquent telling of it. It gave him a sense of comfort, reminding him of the times, so many years ago, when he had been just a small boy and either Mother, or more rarely Father, would read to him before bed. He listened raptly all the way through the first chapter, until Rose, noticing the tightening of his features, insisted that it was time for some laudanum and some sleep. She needed to rest her vocal chords too, she admitted.

While he had slept, Rose had watched the dark-haired cowboy. The oil lamps and the low fire in the room's hearth enveloped them in a warm glow. Sometimes, Nick would toss and moan, and she knew that the pain pursued him to the dream world. She wished that there was something more she could do for him. She sensed that her presence buoyed his spirits though. Nick truly cared for her, Rose knew. And she cared for him as well. He was a remarkable man. She enjoyed spending time with him. Was glad she had thought to share the novel with him. And it was obvious that it meant a lot to Nick to have her there.

So why, when she sat curled in the chair, watching him sleep, did she feel so guilty? Why did she question whether she was spending time with Nick because that was where she truly wanted to be...or whether she was trying to hide away from Jarrod? Away from the man who had disturbed her since she had first seen him cross the threshold of the mansion that night that seemed so long ago. From the moment she had looked into his handsome face, weary and irritated though it had been, and had stared across the expanse of the main hall into eyes so startling blue, Rose had been rocked by Jarrod Barkley's effect on her.

All that first day, and then the next, Rose had continued to weave the story of David Copperfield for the handsome rancher. She began early in the morning, waiting until Victoria had finished feeding him his breakfast, and had shaved his rugged cheeks, allowing Nick a modicum of privacy and a smidgen of pride. Then settling herself next to his bed, and feeling his dark eyes on her, as light as a caress, Rose would pick up the tale where they had last left off. Reading until it was time for him to rest, and then watching him, wondering about him...about herself...as he slept.

The war of the elements ended sometime on the third night, stopping as suddenly as it had begun. The clouds, emptied of their much needed waters, became light, fluffy shadows against the black velvet sky. When they parted, as they made their journey out of the valley, the heavens sparkled through as though freshly scrubbed, the stars incredibly bright against the inky backdrop, the moon a pale, white orb that hung low over the horizon.

Rose awake as usual, stood at her window, marveling at how one moment there was a deluge, and the next only the soft patter of droplets from trees and buildings that sought to shed their dripping excess. The night sky looked so close, that Rose fancied that if she leaned out the window, and stretched her arms to the heavens, she could grab hold of one of the multitude of stars that twinkled there.

'Jarrod will be glad the rain has stopped,' she mused to herself. The dapper counselor had business in Sacramento, and was supposed to be taking the noon train tomorrow. He had wondered, if the rain had kept up, if the trains would even be running. In the past, runoff from similar storms had flooded out sections of track, making them impassable. And he wasn't looking forward to battling the elements on his way to the depot, she knew.

But now, the rain had finally let up. And tomorrow, Jarrod would be leaving them for at least a week. Possibly two. To address the legislature about an important new bill dealing with prison reform. Rose's heart clenched with the knowledge that she would miss him.

* * * * * * * *

When Rose went to Nick's room the next morning, the leather bound novel tucked under her arm, Victoria was just leaving, closing the door firmly behind her. "Nick had a bad night," Victoria admitted, dark smudges under her eyes. "I gave him a double dose of the laudanum this morning. He's sleeping, and should probably remain that way until at least mid-afternoon. What don't you take the morning off, take some time for yourself," the matriarch suggested kindly. Victoria saw the concern in the young woman's green eyes. Rose cared so much for Nick, the older woman knew. And Nick....well, Nick was clearly in love with Rose. "Dr. Merar is coming by later today to check on the healing."

"How is he doing, really," Rose asked, her eyes shining with emotion.

Victoria inclined her head. "I can't really tell. Burns are all so different. There is no sign of infection, so far as I can see. I guess we won't know more until Howard can give his assessment." Her voice rose slightly on her final words, belying her calm exterior. She was desperately worried for her middle son. That he would lose his hands. Or worse...his life. She was so incredibly proud of him, of all of them, for what they had done. That Nick's horrific injuries came at the cost of Jarrod's life was a bittersweet realization.

Victoria had cried hot tears of empathy and frustration in the night, as Nick had thrashed about in agony, a low grade fever hovering in his veins. She wasn't sure if he'd been sleeping, or was actually delirious. He had called out for Rose more than once, and Victoria had tried to comfort him. Finally, his head had cooled to her touch, and his body had ceased it's movements. When he had stirred just now, she had given him the laudanum, praying that he would find respite from his torture.

"Maybe I should still sit with him," Rose told her, staring at the closed wooden door as though she were trying to see through it, to the man who rested within. "I'll be very quiet."

Victoria appreciated the offer. But she knew that they should all take a break when they could. Nick's healing would be a long process. "Now that the rain has finally stopped, perhaps you'd like to get out for some fresh air for a bit," the silver-haired woman suggested.

This morning the sun was beating down, long golden rays working to dry everything again. The sky was a soft, powder blue, dotted with tiny wisps of clouds. She took Rose by the arm, and steered her down the hall, making the suggestion more a gentle order. Rose smiled to herself. She was soft-spoken and lady-like this Barkley matriarch, but she was a formidable force when she wanted to be, brooking no opposition. Rose had watched Victoria handle her adult children this very same way.

* * * * * * * *

Jarrod turned the buggy into the yard, pulling up in front of the stable and calling for Ciego. When the other man hurried out to take the rig and the mare, Jarrod lifted his valise from the back, and vaulted up the front steps and through the main door. Mother and Rose were just coming down the stairs, their arms linked companionably.

"Well, Stockton Road is washed out," he told them without preamble. "I can't even get through to town to find out whether or not the trains are still running. So, it looks as though you ladies are stuck with me for at least another day." He lifted his eyebrow, in that little quirk that made Rose's pulse race, and then he winked at them both before removing his Stetson and hanging in on the coat tree.

Later, Rose looked up from her crocheting, as Jarrod entered the billiards room. She had spent the earlier part of the morning in the rose gardens, pruning off the heads that had been damaged by the storm. The ground had been littered with thousands of petals...a kaleidoscope of colour. It had felt good to be out in the sun, to feel it beating down on her as she went about her task. Everything smelled so earthy, the ground still damp and soft underfoot. It was almost lunch now, and while Victoria helped Silas in the kitchen, and Audra worked in her room on some correspondence to friends in the east, Rose picked up the slim needle and continued to create the set of doilies she was practicing on. Her stitches had gotten much finer, more delicate, and she was proud of the progress she had made under Victoria's tutelage.

"I'm tired of working in the study," Jarrod said to Rose with good humour, as she looked up from her needle work. "I've been over and over my remarks for the legislature til my head swims. I think I need a little break...some fresh air and a change of scenery. I was wondering, Rose, if you'd care to accompany me on a short buggy ride. I've coaxed Silas to put together some things in a hamper, and Ciego is hitching up a carriage. What do you say?" Jarrod strove to keep his tone casual. To hide from Rose how desperately he wanted her company. To downplay just how important it was to him that she accept his proposal. He kept his smile light, his stance relaxed.

Rose froze. Her heart hammered in her chest. Jarrod was inviting her for a drive. Just the two of them! Of course, it didn't mean anything, other than what he had said. He just wanted to get out of the study for a bit. In all likelihood, Victoria had put him up to this, her way of ensuring that Rose got out of the house for a while herself, just as the matriarch had mentioned earlier. It didn't mean anything, this casual offer. It was apparent that it didn't really matter to Jarrod whether or not she went along. But it mattered to her. It was as though she had been waiting for this since her arrival at the ranch.

"That sounds nice," Rose found herself saying, struggling not to sound too eager. Jarrod might rescind the offer, if he knew some of the things she had been thinking about him lately. Then she thought of Nick, upstairs, injured and in pain. Nick who adored her so. And she felt the heat wash her cheeks.

Jarrod saw Rose colour. He had embarrassed her, obviously. Put her on the spot, leaving her to feel that she had no gracious way to refuse his plans. He had spent the morning struggling with whether or not he should proceed with the idea of a drive and perhaps a picnic. And finally, his longing to spend some time with the beautiful young woman had overridden his common sense. Well, it was done now. He had put forth the suggestion, and Rose had agreed.

"Wonderful," Jarrod said levelly. "I'll just be loading up the buggy. I'll be out front whenever you're ready."

Rose didn't think he sounded too excited about the prospect of their spending time together, but that didn't change how much it meant to her.

"Ready for what?" Audra's sweet voice broke in, as she entered the room with a swirl of blue fabric, her sapphire eyes inquisitive.

"Oh, uh...I just thought I'd go for a short drive, and, uh...figured Rose might like a change of, um...scenery too," the attorney told his little sister.

Audra's eyes widened, flying to Rose, then to Jarrod, then back to Rose again. It seemed to her that both her brother and her friend were studiously avoiding looking at one another. Jarrod's normally silver tongue stumbled over his words. Rose looked nervous and guilty about something. 'No, no, no!' the blonde thought with dismay. It was supposed to be Nick and Rose. Her thoughts went to her other brother, upstairs sleeping. How could the pair of them do this? Go off together for some...some sort of assignation? Audra was distraught. It was on the tip of her tongue to invite herself along. To chaperone the pair. This was all so unfair to Nick...

Jarrod watched Audra's lips move, and for a moment he was certain that she was going to ask to come along. And then, of course, how could he refuse her? It would look scheming...premeditated...if he made up some limp excuse as to why Audra wasn't welcome to accompany them. He might as well come right out and declare his feelings for Rose then and there, if his little sister made the request and he denied it. Rose would know that he wanted to be alone with her. Would see right through him to his ulterior motives. His blue-eyes honed in on Audra's full, pink lips, his ears waiting for the words to come that would destroy his elation.

Audra loved Nick. But she loved Jarrod too. And Rose. Maybe she was wrong, and this outing was innocent. But even if it wasn't...did she have any right to interfere? And if she did...would it really make a difference in the long run? "That sounds lovely," she found herself saying at length. Praying that Nick would understand his sister's betrayal.

* * * * * * * *

Rose stood on the front porch, next to one of the big, white columns, waiting for Jarrod to bring the buggy up. The columns soared up two stories, holding the roof's overhang, providing a grand facade for the mansion. Enormous bumble bees hovered around the blossoms of the scarlet roses that climbed the column, their legs heavy with the precious yellow pollen, creating their low familiar buzzing as they danced around the bright red blooms nestled in thorned vines of dark, waxy green.

The sky was so soft and pale, seeming so ephemeral after the heavy black ceiling that had covered them for the previous few days. Rose could hear the trumpeting call of one of the stallions in the west pasture, and then the excited whinny in return from one of the mares. Then there was the gentle clopping of shod hooves as Jarrod guided the black surrey, pulled by a pretty dappled grey mare, up to the house to where Rose stood.

The ground was still soft, so Rose lifted the skirts of her pale green gown, as she descended the few front steps. Jarrod alighted from the buggy, giving her his arm as he helped her to take her seat. The genuine smile in his handsome tanned face, his teeth so white against his skin, soothed any regrets and uncertainties she had had about agreeing to accompany him for a drive. Then he was around the front of the buggy, and settling into the seat next to her, flicking the reins and clicking to the grey.

The day was glorious, a true late summer's gem. It was warm, but there was a cool, gentle breeze wafting down from the mountains. The stifling heat of the previous weeks was forgotten. Everywhere, the plants looked so green and lush. Wild poppies had seemed to spring up overnight, their red and orange heads clustered in little groups by the roadside.

They passed some of the Barkley orchards, on their right, where transient workers hired just to pick this season's crop, were busy placing juicy, ripe peaches in wooden boxes. One of the hands, who was overseeing their efforts, waved to Jarrod and Rose, and they waved in return.

'Was there any more perfect place on earth?' Rose wondered. Anywhere that could possibly rival the magnificence of the San Joaquin valley? That could rival the splendour and luxury of the Barkley mansion? That could rival the expansive perfection of the Barkley ranch and all of it's lands? If there was, Rose couldn't imagine it.

The young woman realized that somehow, she had begun to think less and less of her past. Hadn't even wondered or imagined about the life that she had come from for quite some time. It was as though she hadn't really existed until she had stepped into this incredible world. She found herself caring less and less about discovering who she had been before. She was Rose now. It had become apparent to her that no one was looking for her. She had had no recollections of the figures who had crossed the stage of her past.

She had settled into her new life and new role as an adopted Barkley, with an ease that was remarkable. It hadn't happened all at once of course, the transition had been gradual. But she had accepted these wonderful people as hers, and they had seemed to accept her in turn. She no longer even felt as though she was imposing on their hospitality. She had come, she knew, to feel as though she belonged.

Rose listened to Jarrod's deep, sensuous voice telling her about the crops the Barkleys grew. About the property. About how a young Tom and Victoria Barkley had come here with nothing but their love and a dream, and carved an empire out of the untamed land. Rose could hear the pride in Jarrod's voice, as he spoke of his parents. Knew that he must miss the father who'd been murdered by the corrupt railroad.

Though Jarrod's life had taken him in a different direction, his talents and contributions to the family and it's holdings different from that of his brothers who worked the land, the attorney's appreciation for the foundation of the family's empire, his respect for his brothers and those who did the daily, back-breaking physical work of the ranch, was evident.

From time to time, Rose would steal a sidelong glance at the handsome attorney. At the fine grey fabric that stretched taut across his lean thighs. At the capable hands that guided the reins, and the fine, black hairs that scattered their backs. He sat so straight and tall, a grey vest buttoned over the crisp, white shirt, his black string tie still looped at this neck. Dressed as he had been that morning when he'd headed out for Stockton and the depot.

Rose felt a satisfied thrill that the aftermath of the storm had kept Jarrod here with them, at least a day longer. Instead of chugging his way over iron rails towards the state capitol, Jarrod was here next to her. Whatever had spurred him to invite her for a drive, Victoria or his own polite consideration, Rose didn't care to analyze. She was here with him, and that was all that mattered.

Jarrod marvelled that the young woman at his side seemed to have no idea of just how beautiful she was. Of the effect she would have on him, as a man. There was nothing coquettish or vain about Rose. She was as fresh as the mountain air that blew through the valley. Her emerald eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she joined his conversation. She was bright and articulate, interested and fun. She was tiny and delicately feminine, making a man feel protective of her. Jarrod could see why Nick was so smitten with her.

Nick! How Jarrod had debated with himself when it came to his burgeoning feelings for Rose. He knew how Nick felt about the dark-haired beauty. It was evident and undeniable, even if it hadn't actually been voiced. Of course Nick would want her...any man would.

Nick was his brother and Jarrod loved him with a bond that even his powers of elocution could never fully encompass. There was nothing that he wouldn't do for his brother, and nothing that Nick wouldn't do for him. Jarrod had agonized as he had fought his attraction to Rose, physical at first, and then emotional as time progressed. Part of him believed that it was a betrayal of his brother to make any attempt to pursue Rose. And the timing of things, Nick laid up after the fire, fighting perhaps a battle for his very life, was disturbing to the principled, decent attorney.

But as time went by, and Jarrod watched Nick and Rose grow closer, he found that he could no longer deny his own feelings. Just because Nick had had the opportunity to know Rose first, to spend more time with her, to be the one there to protect her in the beginning when she had been so very fragile...did that mean that Nick had some ultimate prior claim on Rose?

Jarrod had wrestled with his feelings. Finally though, as much as he knew that he would give his brother the world, would do anything for Nick, Jarrod had come to realize that Rose wasn't something that he owed his brother. She wasn't property or a chattel. A piece of land to be staked, or a maverick cow to be branded. She was a fully sentient human being with thoughts and feelings and opinions of her own, who was not a prize to be taken or given or earned.

Rose deserved to make her own choice. To know that she even had one. Perhaps Rose had a man in her past. But Jarrod couldn't afford to wait any longer to determine that before letting her know what was in his heart. Because if he did, he might be too late, and Rose might already have fallen for his rancher brother. Perhaps Rose was already in love with Nick. Perhaps, given the choice, she would prefer the boisterous, chivalrous, laughing Nick over him. Perhaps. And if that was the case...that would be all right. Jarrod would back off graciously. Would make no further attempts to woo Rose away from Nick. Because that would be crossing the line.

But if Rose's heart was still unclaimed...if there was even the slightest chance that maybe...perhaps...she might develop feelings for him in return...Jarrod felt that he owed it to himself to take the risk. He loved his brother unconditionally. If Rose truly did love Nick, Jarrod would not interfere. But if she didn't...Jarrod couldn't simply turn his back on his feelings for her, just because Nick had seen her first. It would be insulting to Rose. And it would be insulting to Nick. And it would be unfair to all three of them.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The rider cantered towards them along the main road, his bay loping easily over the ground. As he drew closer and reined in, Rose recognized him. It was one of the cowboys who had bid for her boxed lunch that day at the church picnic, just to antagonize Nick. The cowboy pushed his cream-coloured hat back on his sandy hair and grinned at her, winking. "Jarrod. Ma'am," he drawled softly.

"Morning, J.R.," Jarrod returned in friendly fashion.

"If yer headin' Stockton way, the road is washed out further along," the cowboy informed them. "I tried the bridge, but parts of it are under water too, the river's burstin' it's banks."

"Thank you," Jarrod replied. "I was out earlier and saw that. We aren't going to Stockton."

"How's Nick?" J.R. asked, sobering, the hazel eyes that had been sliding up and down Rose's curvy, diminutive frame leaving her to rest compassionately on the attorney. J.R. had helped to battle the fire at the Hendrick place as well that night, though he hadn't heard about what had happened to the tall, rangy rancher til later. He and the middle Barkley might not be friends by any stretch, but none of the Mortons truly wished him ill. J.R. had heard that Nick had burned his hands real bad, and he hoped that the other man would pull through okay.

When it came right down to it, rivalries aside, the folk in the valley were always there for one another. J.R. couldn't imagine his own life without the use of his hands, and could only think what Nick Barkley must be going through, mentally as well as physically. "That was a mighty fine thing, the three a ya done, savin' that boy," J.R. told Jarrod, his voice deep with respect.

"I'm glad that Josh is going to be okay," Jarrod answered modestly. "Nick is doing as well as can be expected. So far there doesn't seem to be any sign of infection. I'm sure he'll pull through, Nick always does," Jarrod said heartily, with more confidence than he felt.

"Ya, well, ya tell 'im we're thinkin' of 'im, alright?" J.R. instructed. "Oh, did ya hear we got that sonofa..." he swallowed back his next word, remembering the mixed company,"...gun? Me and Zack and some boys got sworn in by the sheriff the next morning, and picked up the lowlife's trail. We got 'im cornered in an ol' mining shack higher in the mountains, two days later, just before the rains come. There was a shoot out, one of the men was hit, not too bad, but we got the murdering snake." His eyes blazed their satisfaction. "Mathers won't be causing no more trouble to nobody. Ya be sure an' let Nick know."

"Thanks, I will," Jarrod assured him.

"It sure was lucky for us that Mathers didn't make it as far as our spread," J.R. considered. "Like as not we might a hired 'im to help for a few days at least. I hear he stopped at yer place too. Lucky Nick sent 'im on his way or it coulda been you Barkleys burned out just as easy as the Hendricks." The cowboy shook his head uncomprehendingly at the thought. "Well, I'll be seein' ya, Jarrod. Ma'am." He tipped his hat to Rose again, then spurred the bay's sides and continued on his way.

Rose felt the ice flood her veins. That man...Mathers...was dead. Her warning had perhaps saved the Barkley ranch. But perhaps if she'd been more insistent, Nick wouldn't have run Mathers just off of the ranch, but out of the valley as well. Saving their neighbours' home and property, and the lives of the two men who had died as the result of the fire. Sparing Nick the ordeal he had faced that night, that all three of the brothers had faced, and the trials and tribulations that still lay ahead of him. Because Rose had known that Mathers was trouble. Serious trouble. Except that he wasn't Mathers, he was...Bruce...and Bruce was always trouble.

"Rose, are you all right?" Jarrod's voice, heavy with concern, interrupted her thoughts, as he laid a hand on her forearm.

She swung her head towards him, her green eyes haunted in a soft, oval face suddenly drained of colour. Jarrod's features were carved with worry. "I was just thinking...about the fire...how terrible that was..."

Gently, Jarrod squeezed the slender arm beneath the soft, green fabric of her sleeve. "It's over," Jarrod reassured her softly. "And Mathers has paid for his evil."

Rose nodded her agreement, pushing all thought of Mathers...Bruce...aside. This was a new day. A beautiful day. And she was spending it with Jarrod Barkley and nothing and no one was going to spoil that.

They came to a fork in the road, and Jarrod guided the surrey along the least used path, heading towards the river. It ran for a while, parallel to the river, before it ended in a flat, treed area. A lovely, protected grove. He reined in the mare, then shifted in his seat. "I thought we might stretch our legs," he suggested. "There's a pretty view from up here, across the river. Then we can sample some of Silas' cold beef salad." He grinned, a relaxed, happy expression.

"That sounds wonderful," Rose replied, returning his smile. Jarrod jumped down from the carriage and came around to offer her his hand. She took it, enjoying his strong grasp, his skin warm beneath her fingers, as she stepped down. She had to bite back a sigh of regret when he released her, to go tie up the grey.

The ground was mostly flat rock here, so they didn't have to worry about picking their way through the waterlogged earth. Jarrod led the way to the edge of the embankment, and they peered over at the river, fifteen feet or so below. It had risen dramatically after the rains. The water, muddy brown, churned as it raced past, carrying uprooted trees and shrubs, and other debris on it's swirling surface. Hidden power was contained in the river's murky depths.

"Maybe not the best time to try fishing," Jarrod remarked wryly, and was rewarded with Rose's soft, lyrical laughter.

They began to stroll along the riverfront. Across the other side, the land was flat for miles, then mountains, smoky blue against the horizon, thrust triangular peaks into the sky. It was a lovely, panoramic vista. Rose, forgetting that Jarrod was tired of thinking about his upcoming visit to the Sacramento legislature, asked him about the Prison Reform Act, and Jarrod, forgetting that he had said he was tired of the topic, began to elaborate on what it was he and some of his colleagues hoped to change about the conditions of some of penitentiaries, and the new pardon system they wanted to see implemented.

That Jarrod, who had helped to put away some of the meanest, cruelest men in the state during his stint as prosecutor, still cared so deeply about how those same men were being treated once they were behind bars, spoke compellingly to Rose of his compassionate nature. When he described the treatment that he had heard prisoners routinely received, censoring some of the more graphic images for her benefit Rose was sure, she could see the grief and the anger in his remarkable blue eyes.

It hadn't always been easy for him, she imagined. Trying to bring law and order to a part of the country where men were used to handling their disagreements through the barrel of a six-shooter. Where travelling circuit judges often didn't stop in some of the smaller towns for months at a time. Where power and corruption bent what laws people fought to draft and uphold, for their own purposes. Fighting to ensure protection, and equality and justice for all. It was his life's work though, Rose knew. It was everything that Jarrod Barkley believed in and stood for.

Jarrod was not surprised to find that Rose was an excellent listener. As she had that night in San Francisco in his townhouse, she drew him out again, with skillful, salient questions and meditative, discerning comments. Jarrod found Rose's conversation to be articulate and intelligent, and he felt that he could share with her anything, and that she would understand him.

Rose loved experiencing, even peripherally, Jarrod's passion for his work and the causes that he believed in. To listen to the rise and fall of his voice, it's familiar, sonorous tones, as he shared with her some of who he was, was a secret pleasure. Walking alongside him, their arms brushing occasionally as they ambled, made every nerve in her body sing. Rose forgot about everything and everyone, except the tall, handsome man at her side.

"Are you happy, Rose?" Jarrod asked her, after a pause in the conversation. "Being at the ranch?" He stopped, and she ceased walking as well. He had been wondering lately whether or not Rose might want to be getting on with her life. Might not want to create a new place for herself in the world, which might be separate from the Barkley family. He wondered if she might not want to test out her talents and her interests beyond the limits of their rather secluded life on their property outside of Stockton. Jarrod wondered if she might not be ready to spread her wings, now that her healing was complete.

As beautiful as their place was, as much as Jarrod believed that it was the most wonderful place on the earth, a little bit of heaven that would always be home...no matter where business or other interests would take him...he wondered if perhaps the whole family wasn't presuming too much in believing that the ranch would be that same haven for Rose. She was a young, beautiful woman, and as much as he knew she appreciated their efforts in saving her life and trying to reconnect her with her past, Jarrod knew that the family had begun to feel possessive about their Rose.

When they all gathered around the dining table to eat now, that one extra chair that had sat empty since his father had died...and Jarrod had moved to take Tom's place at the head of the table..was now filled by Rose. It was as though their circle was finally complete. Rose was like a piece of the puzzle that they had never even known was missing. She had come into their lives so suddenly, and under such sad circumstances. But as she had regained her health, and blossomed under their care, this incredible young woman had found a place in their home. And their hearts. Whoever she had been before, they all loved her for who she was now. Rose. As lovely and delicate as any of the fragrant blooms in Mother's garden, but with an incredible strength inside her willowy frame, like the slender thorned stalks of her namesake.

But what did Rose want? As much as he knew she loved them in return, did she see it as her destiny to remain at the ranch? To make their lives hers?

'Was she happy being at the ranch?' Rose was stunned that Jarrod would even ask her that. It was as if any dream she could ever have imagined, all of the best yesterdays, todays and tomorrows, were manifested in her life now. Rose didn't know where she had come from, or what her life had been like before. But she believed that being here, with the Barkleys, was where she had spent a lifetime trying to be. She felt, deep in her soul, that her presence here, however it had come about, was the epitome of a lifetime of longing. This place, these people...were everything she could ever possibly have wanted. To be a part of it all now...well, to say that she was happy would be an understatement. An injustice to the magnitude of her feelings.

Rose sensed Jarrod's honest desire to know what was in her heart, no matter what the truth might be. She could see the sincerity in his deep blue eyes as he asked the question. His consideration for her. For her feelings and hopes and aspirations. "I can't imagine any place I'd rather be," she murmured inadequately.

Jarrod smiled then, a broad, toothy, lopsided grin. The index finger of his right hand went to the brim of his grey hat, tipping it back on his dark hair. "I'm glad to hear it!" he said jovially. Then his lips pursed seriously for a moment. "But if that ever changes, Rose, if you ever feel you need to explore beyond the boundaries of our little world here, or believe that your journey might take you away from us, that your destiny might not be ours...I hope that you know that you can share that need with us. And that we'll help you towards that end, in any way we can."

Rose stared in Jarrod's blue, blue eyes, mesmerized by their intensity.

He continued. "You are not confined here. You are not beholden to us in any way. I hope you know that we only want what is best for you, whatever that may be. I hope that you believe that, Rose. Whatever you decide, ever, we will support you." Jarrod noticed for the first time the soft golden flecks buried in the emerald seas of Rose's irises. "You mean the world to us." 'To me,' he thought.

"Thank you," Rose said softly, as she felt the tears prick her eyes. "You are all so wonderful."

"I just wanted to be sure you understood," Jarrod explained. He looked away from Rose for a moment, across the river at the distant mountains. There was so much more he wanted to say to her, but he wasn't sure just how. "Shall we turn back, and avail ourselves of some of that delicious lunch?" he suggested, smiling down at her again.

They retraced their steps, resuming a more casual conversation, as Jarrod lit a cigar. As Rose listened to Jarrod speak of the new vineyards the family was proposing to cultivate, and the new varieties of grapes that Heath had suggested they import from Italy, her thoughts kept straying to that drifter. Mathers. Dead now, after a shootout with the law. Once again, that other name was on the tip of her tongue. While one part of her concentrated on Jarrod's words, another part worked to retrieve the knowledge that Rose sensed was buried somewhere in her subconscious. It was important for some reason, that she remember this Bruce. It wasn't so much that she knew him, she sensed, or that they were acquainted in any way. But somehow...she knew of him. Bruce...Tanner? Danner? Stern?

"Not Ike Mathers!" Rose exclaimed suddenly, whirling to grab hold of Jarrod's left arm. "Dern! His name is...was...Bruce Dern!"

Jarrod was caught off-guard by Rose's interjection. He looked down at her furrowed brow, the spots of colour high on her cheeks, and felt the insistence of her fingers on his bicep. Jarrod remembered Nick's strange comment at the Hendricks' place the night of the fire. Nick had been telling Rose that Mathers was the one who had set the fire. Deliberately.

"Woulda hired 'im," Nick had said to Rose, his voice slurred, his dark eyes clear and unnaturally bright. "You knew. Bad news." Jarrod had watched the interaction intently. "Coulda been us. Our ranch." Nick had paused, his lean frame quaking, though his gaze on Rose never wavered. "You saved us."

How Jarrod had wanted to ask both Nick and Rose what that had meant! Rose had remembered, or thought she had remembered, Mathers. Either she had seen him at some point in her past, or the drifter had reminded her of someone she knew. And now, she stood before him, offering Jarrod a name. A name he had never heard before, and not one she would have picked up unwittingly around the ranch. Rose felt that she knew Mathers...had known him...only she was saying that Mathers was just an alias. The arsonist's real name had been Bruce Dern.

Questions swirled through Jarrod's head, dozens of lightning jabs, that formulated and faded before he could quite catch them. Despite the golden rays that radiated around them, and the fact that he wore a long-sleeved shirt, Jarrod felt a chill that cut him to the bone. This was Rose's first real memory...the first name from her past, other than the once mentioned Richard which had not panned out. Could Rose be on the verge of a breakthrough?

Jarrod threw down the half-smoked cigar, capturing Rose's hands with his, holding them low between them, his deep sapphire eyes seeking her shining emerald ones. "How do you know this, Rose?" he asked, his tone a mixture of elation and apprehension. He refused to believe that Rose had any personal ties to a man like Mathers...Dern...that was ridiculous.

Rose shook her head, trying to focus on Jarrod's handsome face, trying to lock onto his incredibly vivid eyes, as the images bombarded her. The long, weasly face of that man, Dern, stubble on his face, a cruel look in his blue eyes. She could see the man. She could see Victoria training a gun on him, insisting that he was going to help a trapped Heath. She could see him taunting another, bigger man, an innocent man recently released from prison and brought to the ranch by Jarrod.

"I just...I just see him," she cried desperately. "I just know!"

Just as she had known that Jarrod had sat at his desk that day, rereading the telegram from Julia Saxon. And then later had stood at his window, as the angry townspeople had milled around the blonde woman, giving voice to their disgust and betrayal. Just as she had known that Jarrod had taken Julia to Matt Parker's gravesite, the two of them standing there in the moonlight, Julia still dressed in her finery after her disastrous performance, Jarrod's face a twisted mask of guilt.

Just as she had known that Nick was going to say, 'This is a working ranch!' that day, even though she had never heard him say it before...because that was what Nick always said.

Jarrod saw the panic in Rose's eyes, the tension in her lovely, porcelain features. He lifted their cojoined hands towards his chest, pulling her closer to him. "What is it, Rose?" he asked hoarsely.

Rose stared up into his handsome face. The countenance that was so familiar to her. If she closed her eyes, the young woman knew that she would still envision the faint pocks that dimpled his right cheek, and the small, brown mole there. Would still picture the deep, downcurving crease in his smooth-shaven chin. Even across the width of the front hall that first evening, when Jarrod was not yet close enough for her to distinguish all of these details, she had known them.

And that time in the library, when his shirt sleeves had been rolled back and she had seen his arms exposed for the first time, and had stared at the large, irregular birthmark there, Rose had sensed that it wasn't the first time she had seen his bare arms, or noted the brown shape on his skin.

Somehow, someway, there were things about all of the Barkleys, but especially Jarrod, that Rose knew. Things that she could have no way of knowing. That no one, who wasn't a part of the family, could know. One after another the pictures flashed across her inner eye. Jarrod, blind, stumbling around the courtroom, humiliated. Jarrod with the lifeless body of his new bride slumped in his arms, mortally wounded by a vengeful bullet meant for him. Jarrod trying to charm Barbary Red with suave words, not wanting to hurt her, but desperate to find Nick before his shanghaied brother was put to sea.

There was no way Rose could have been witness to all of these moments, and yet she understood that they had all taken place, exactly as her confused mind conjured them up. Jarrod was her reason for being here. Because...because she had loved him her entire life. And the feeling of wrongness she had had, that had been because...

Rose pushed herself further against Jarrod, their hands imprisoned between their bodies. She turned her head up to him, her eyes wild and bright. Her soft, pink lips parted gently, as her heart drummed a staccato beat in her chest. They stared at one another, Rose willing Jarrod to sense her need. The longing that she had been afraid to communicate to him the other night. Her tongue traced her trembling bottom lip in slow, unconscious invitation.

And then, Jarrod was bending his head to hers, his desire liberated by the passion in her eyes, and the darkening and swelling of her lips. His hands released Rose's, and then slipped around her waist, while her own went under his arms, and held fast to his broad back, tantalizing through the thin fabric of his shirt. His lips touched hers, gently, reverently, feeling them quiver. Her breath was exquisitely warm against his mouth. Jarrod pressed his lips to Rose's, sliding them searchingly over hers.

The kiss was everything Rose could ever have dreamed or imagined. She closed her eyes, revelling in the masterful pressure of his mouth on hers. Tasting the salty sweetness of him, and the pungency of his recent cigar. Every sense seemed heightened. The feel of his muscles beneath her palms. The aroma of his cologne. There was a spreading heat where his own hands touched her waist. She could hear his breathing against her skin, rapid and intense.

"I love you," she whispered into his mouth, finally setting the words free.

"I love you too, Rose," he murmured gently, huskily.

Jarrod had called her Rose. Of course he would. That was the name she had chosen, the name they all used, but it hadn't always been her name...

She heard a roaring in her ears, as though a giant tidal wave was sweeping over her, and she clung to Jarrod before the imagined danger could wash her away. The recurring dream, the one that she could never remember once she came fully awake, floated in front of her now...

'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?'

Bewildered, disoriented, overwhelmed, her hands left Jarrod's back, and she was pushing away from him. Stumbling backwards. Frightened and disconcerted by the memory of the dream. She hadn't realized how close to the edge of the embankment she was. The ground, softened by the rains, crumbled beneath her feet, eroding under her weight. Rocks and earth sloughed away, tumbling down to the raging river below.

She screamed as she began to slip down the bank, her face white with terror. Jarrod lunged for her, grabbing desperately, catching one of her slender hands in both of his broad ones. Her body continued to slide, her feet scrambling feebly for purchase in the soft earth. Jarrod fell to his chest, heard the wind whoosh out of him, but never loosened his grip on her hand. He was laying flat out at the edge of the embankment, Rose dangling horrifically above the cold, agitated waters some ten feet below.

She screamed again, looking down at the swollen river, gulping convulsively as her feet swung in the open air. She tilted back her head to stare up at Jarrod, her green eyes wide and uncomprehending in her mud-streaked face. Everything had happened so quickly. One moment she had been in Jarrod's strong arms, wrapped in the incredible wonder of him, tasting his lips, and the next she was in terrible peril.

"I've got you, Rose!" Jarrod ground out through gritted teeth, feeling the strain across his neck and shoulders, even though she was so tiny. He was supporting her entire weight, he knew, there was no place for her dig in her heels, nowhere to press her body. How in God's name had this happened? She had been safe in his embrace, all of his desperate longing had come to a head, she had said the words he had only dreamed of hearing, and he had professed his feelings in return. And now...now Rose was less than a dozen feet from a cold, brown grave. Not even the strongest swimmer could battle the treacherous currents of the river's tumescent state.

Jarrod heard her strangled sob, and watched Rose look down at the river below, listened to it chortle as it rushed past, laughing at her predicament. "I won't let you go!" he railed. "It will be okay! I promise, Rose!"

Continued…