For If They Fall

Chapters 25-34

by Kimberly

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 25

Although Maria had not been the first to whom he had given his heart, Heath believed he had loved her. Before with the others when it had gone badly, he forced himself not to care. But if he was to be honest, it did not matter to him as much as it should have, always having an eye to a distant meridian. He could not love as they deserved, not quite sure who he was and restless because of it. It was different with Maria. He had been settled this time, ready for it and was not expecting things to have gone the way they had. He had not been prepared; he was not prepared still.

The rain had stopped an hour before and the sun slanted through the window into his room, a square of sunlight imprinted across the foot of his bed. He watched it fade out and reappear as a cloud passed over the sun. Again his mind went on and then stopped up short, remembering the bloodstone ring and he thought only this: That it had been lost to him the way his father had been lost to him. He was not at all surprised by the turn of events, having had no right to it and that it was only fitting to have had it taken from him. It was foolishness for him to have believed that one day he might meet his father. In his mind's ear, he could still hear his Aunt Rachel admonishing him, though not without affection, in her clipped, bookish way. She always spoke as if she were addressing someone else, although he was the only one there.  "A good child, but prone to dreaming  . . . "  All he had dreamed about now lay before him, and although he should have been happy, a nettling incompleteness still remained. 

Heath had not heard Nick come into the room until he was upon him which startled him terribly. With a quick nod and smile, Nick sat down quietly in the nearby chair not saying a word. Heath became unnerved by Nick's silence, but said nothing, aware that his brother's impatience would eventually get the better of him. It had not taken long. 

"Listen, Heath, maybe it's too late for what I've got to say, but it's been on my mind for some time now. I should've said my piece awhile back and I know for a fact that I should've told Don Alfredo what he could to do with his bloodline. I've got no excuse. I let you down."     

"Nick--"  Heath's voice was rough from disuse. 

Nick waved his hand in the air. "No. Let me say what I need to say and then I'll keep quiet."

Heath nodded. "All right, Nick."

"I didn't know what to say to you, and I wasn't willing to stir up everything again. You and father, well that business was all settled as far as I was concerned and to hell with what anybody else thought. Turned out it wasn't so simple. I should've seen it coming, but I've always been of the mind not to put too much stock in other people's opinions. You're my father's son, you carry Barkley blood in your veins, once I got that through my thick skull, nothing else mattered as far as I was concerned. But I forgot one important fact.  I forgot that it wasn't about me, it was about you and for that I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be, Nick.  I know how you feel."

"Well now, I just figured it was about time I told you. And another thing, it's about high time, you stop worrying about what all those small-minded sons of jackals think."

Heath gave a canted smile. "Sure, Nick."

"Good." Nick grinned, clearly satisfied with himself.  He looked over at his brother and then looked away. He shifted in his chair several times and then sat still. "About Maria coming -- I've got to tell you I'm flat out against it."

Heath sighed and spoke softly, "I figured as much."

Nick continued, "I don't think there's any point to it except getting you all worked up. You're not up to it."

"I'll be fine. Besides it's something I need to do.  It wouldn't be right to turn her away and I'd regret it if I did. I'm not doing this just for her, Nick, and I think that's been the biggest problem."

"I don't follow you, boy. I don't understand."

"I didn't either, but I'm beginning to.  I'll tell you all about it later, but right now help me get dressed and over to that chair you've been keeping warm."

"Now hold on there, Heath.  I'll help you with your shirt, but you're staying put right in that bed."

"I want my pants."

"What for?"

"I'm not going to argue with you about this, Nick. I want my pants."

"All right. All right. Don't get so riled."  Nick stood and walked to the dresser.  He slid open the top drawer and pulled out a blue chambray shirt.  "How's this one?"  Nick grinned.  "I think the blue'll bring out your eyes."

"The hell you say."  Heath held back a groan as he tried to sit. He spoke to Nick through clenched teeth. "Just bring it here and keep your remarks to yourself."

Quickly checking the middle drawer, Nick took out a pair of butternut pants and a pair of wool socks. He smiled over at Heath as he walked to the bed.  "Let's see how we're going to manage this."  He stopped to study Heath, dropping the clothes on the bed. "We'll put your good arm in the sleeve, and then pull it around and over your left side, then button it right up." While he talked, Nick gently raised Heath slightly forward, placing several pillows behind his back.  He lowered him back down carefully. 

Nick paused for a moment and looked at Heath who was propped up against the pillows with his eyes closed.  It was quite obvious to him, Heath was not physically ready for Maria's visit and he felt distress rise and fill his throat. 

"What's wrong?"

Nick startled. "What?" 

"What are you waiting for?"  Heath's eyes remained closed.

"Thought you fell asleep."

Heath grinned lazily. "No, just restin' my eyes."

"Oh, is that what you call it?"

"I'm fine, Nick. Just a little tired. Don't worry 'bout me none. I'll be right as rain in a minute."  Heath lifted his right arm with great difficulty and then reached out a shaky hand toward Nick. His eyes remained closed. "Pass me the shirt will ya, Nick?"

"No."

Heath opened his eyes. "Give me the shirt."

"No. You need my help." Nick moved to stand next to Heath and held the shirt open so that Heath could slip his arm into the sleeve.  He sat down on the bed and lifted Heath forward to rest against him. He worked the shirt behind Heath's back and draped it over the bandaged shoulder and across the bound arm. Heath groaned and was breathing heavily by the time Nick lowered him back against the pillows. With awkward fingers, Nick began buttoning the shirt, cursing under his breath at the too small buttonholes. His mind went along at a hurried clip with worry about the outcome of everything and then feeling the slight weight of the ring in his vest pocket. He momentarily thought to himself that the ring would have to keep, not wanting to add more tension to the evening. Though Heath seemed calm, Nick could tell otherwise in his brother's subtle worrying of the blanket between his fingers.

"Pants, Nick. I need my pants."

"You are a demanding cuss, aren't ya?"  Nick smiled and reached behind him for the pants and socks.  He stood and neatly folded down the blankets. "Socks first, then pants. But I draw the line at boots." 

With the socks pulled on, Nick stood and placed the pants on the bed, lining them up with Heath's feet. He first picked up Heath's right leg and then the left, putting one then the other into the held open waist. He slid the right leg and then the left down into the pants' legs. He tugged them up as high as he could, waiting a minute to see if Heath would be able to help out by lifting his hips up off the mattress. The weak man's failed attempts became too much for Nick to watch and he put a hand on Heath's arm. "It's all right. Don't struggle. Let me do the work."  Nick then slipped a hand under Heath's narrow hips, raising him slightly and pulled the pants up to his waist. "You're really down to nothing, Boy. I swear you're just skin 'n bones. We've got to get some meat back on you." 

"Haven't been feelin' too hungry lately."

"What are you trying to say that my cooking wasn't up to your liking?"

"Now that you mention it . . ."

"You've got some nerve." Nick smiled and tapped Heath's leg as he stood.

"Oh, you're dressed."

Nick spun around to see his mother enter the room.  Her face was flushed and her quick movements gave away her nerves.  She hurried to the bed and leaned down to give Heath a kiss on his forehead.  "Cool.  Thank goodness."  She quickly appraised Heath's attire.  "Well, you two managed quite nicely."  Her eyes fixed on Heath's face. "You are pale. I'm not quite sure of that shirt's color --" 

Heath squinted up at his mother and grinned.  "Nick's of the opinion that it brings out my eyes."

Victoria smiled over at Nick while she picked up Heath's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Oh, he is?  Let me see."  She looked into Heath's eyes and quickly covered up her dismay at how sallow Heath appeared.

Nick moved quickly to stand beside her and put his arm across her shoulder. "He looks yellow, if you ask me." Nick laughed. "Maybe that shirt wasn't the best choice."

"I think Heath looks just fine."  Audra's voice was like music to Heath and he smiled.

"Thanks, Sis."

"You're welcome, Heath."  She sat on the left side of the bed, mindful of his injuries. "Are you anxious to see Maria?  I'm sure you have so much to talk about."

Heath stared at Audra a minute. "I expect this is just a neighborly visit to see how I'm doing."

Audra looked disappointed.  She shook her head.  "I can't believe you, Heath Barkley.  Maria Montero loves you.  I would say it's much more than a friendly visit."

"Audra, it's unbecoming of a lady to be so presumptuous.  It is a private matter between Heath and Maria."  Victoria's voice was gentle in her reprimand.

"Yes, Mother. But I still think . . ."

"Now, now, Audra."  Nick walked over to his sister and held out his hand to her.  She took it and stood.  "What was it Mother had said, something about a woman not exposing her petticoats?"

"Nick!"  Audra giggled. "Really!"  She let go of Nick's hand and turned back to Heath, leaning down to kiss his cheek.  "I only want you to be happy, Heath.  That's all."

Heath nodded and smiled.  "I know, Audra. Thank you."

Audra smiled, holding Heath's gaze as she spoke,  "Well, Nick, would you be kind enough to escort me downstairs?"

"I'd be delighted to, Audra."  Nick reached down and tapped Heath's calf a few times.  "I'll be up to see you later.  Get some rest."

"Thanks, Nick."  Heath's eyes drooped and Nick watched him a minute before he looked over at his mother. Victoria nodded her head once at him and then whispered for him to go on, she would be fine. He watched her pull the blankets over Heath and as she fussed with the shirt's collar. He smiled as she solicitously smoothed down Heath's hair and again straightened the shirt. As Nick left the room, he was a bit more optimistic of things turning out better than he had initially believed.

Chapter 26

Maria did not have the dark Spanish eyes nor the dark hair of her heritage; both were lighter, less severe, as was her spirit. She was beautiful, gentle and caring and Heath was more than certain she had loved him, perhaps still loved him. He believed that and trusted that in himself to know these things. He had failed at love before, but he knew the reasons for it and was not blinded to them when things had fallen apart. Most times he had been the cause. He was never cruel, but all too soon found himself growing distant and restless, overtaken by the need to find where he rightfully belonged. He began to hear the call of it more and more stridently with the turn of each year. Heath had recognized the simple truth that a man needed to know from whom he sprang -- needed to know who had given him seed and root.

He was beyond the age of idolatry, years before seeing his father through the eyes of a boy who had witnessed some irreversible and profound failing there. He had no memory nor special moment from which to draw upon, to begin anew after it all came crashing down. Far worse was that he saw himself as the end result of that failing, which made his thinking muddled and desperate, hateful and lost.

Things were better for him now after having talked it all through with his stepmother in that way of hers, always able to make sense of everything. No wiser woman was there, so willing to speak the truth of her husband, his father. An imperfect man, something he himself recognized so many years before as a boy. She had forgiven Tom Barkley and she looked to him with those eyes, those wise, frighteningly persuasive eyes, willing him to do the same.

Initially, he had thought it was largely for her sake that they had kept things civilized, kept things from becoming untidy, unseemly within those pristine walls of that fine house. But it was not that way.  Over and over he had learned from her that to live with hate, to hold anger in him only scoured away at a person, eventually losing themselves to it, living only for that hatred, which darkened the mind and blackened the soul like the most virulent of sins. He had wasted too much time already because of it. He saw this clearly that first night, when he had fallen into the gray pools of her eyes, swirling and bobbing, desperate for counsel, and she had reached out a hand to him unselfishly and he had answered in turn with his own hand, vowing then and there that he would try to forgive.

He had dozed off with those thoughts in his head, fomenting his dreams. When he awoke, his mother was at his bedside, shaking him gently and he startled with the realization of why she was there. He trembled and his stomach tightened and he saw the growing worry in his mother's eyes. She smiled and cupped a small hand to his face. 

"Heath, Maria's arrived."  Her gaze fixed on him. "No one will think less of you, if you change your mind."

He shook his head wordlessly and she smiled and then moved to the bedside table, pouring water from the crystal pitcher into a glass. She put it to his lips, tilting it up gradually as he drank.


He nodded at her and she set the glass down on the table. She turned, considering him a minute. "I can see you're anxious about Maria. But if you could indulge me for just a little while longer."

His lips moved, but no sound came. She smiled and patted his arm while he nervously watched her, taking a deep breath to calm himself. With all he had in him, he tried to listen to her, but his jumpy stomach and the anxious run of his thoughts nearly made it impossible for him to concentrate. On top of that he felt his strength sapping from him, trammeled and feeble as a withered plant in a bell jar.

At that moment, Heath heard his mother's voice lilt up and then panicked when there was a brief lull, all too aware that she had asked him something and he had not heard what she had said. She seemed unfazed by this, her face unperturbed, and continued to talk, but still her words whirled and rustled around him like tossed leaves.

He looked closely at his mother, observing her, and could find no earthly rendering for the striking brilliance of her, both in intellect and physicalness. She was a luminescent beauty with a softness that quickly could change to ferocity like that of a renegade comet trailing across blackened skies.  Beautiful, definitive, never static, and he knew without lingering doubt that she loved him. He smiled at her in that moment, watching the lyric animation of her, the eloquence and intensity, and he felt blessed for it. Then quite suddenly, to his own surprise, his head seemed to clear, and he was able to make out what she was saying over the skirl of his own brain. 

His mother stepped closer to him, her fine hands punctuating her words. "You came here looking for a name, your birthright and for that you've endured so much." Her eyes glimmered and she sighed deeply. "I want you to remember this, Heath. I want you to remember that before you ever came to this valley, people respected you by the virtue of the man you are and not by the virtue of a name. Now that name offers you a home, a family, love. It merely complements the man you have always been, which is equal to any legacy, any heritage, any bloodline. I need you to know that no matter what happens in this room tonight, your family loves you. You are a good man, a good brother and a good son."

He lifted his hand to her.  "Thank you, Mother." 

At that Victoria nodded and reached for his hand, squeezing it firmly, and then lowered  it to the bed.  "I'll let her know you're waiting."

Heath closed his eyes when his mother left and thought of Maria. He remembered their rides on the North Ridge. Those quiet moments when she would read to him the poetry of Wordsworth and Keats and several Spanish poets unfamiliar to him. They would spend hours talking about their lives, and then making love in the tall summer grasses into the late afternoon. She had given herself to him and he had taken her, aware that it was in conflict with her faith. He remembered that she had wept their first time. She had told him it was because she was so happy and he talked himself into believing it was the truth. It had been on an especially hot summer afternoon when they had first talked of marriage, cooling themselves in a well-hidden pool that fed from a nearby stream. A golden time like no other, a thousand dreams coming to him on those heated nights alone when he thought of her. He had been happy. 

There was a soft knock on the door then and within the beat of his heart, Maria stood in the doorway limned in the soft light from the hall. He could not make out her face, but his eyes settled on her hair that glowed in shades of auburn around her head. 

"Heath."  A tentative whisper, no louder than a breath reached him.

He smiled when he finally saw her fully.  "Maria."

She walked toward the bed, and he could do nothing, but watch her.  He motioned to the chair, but instead she took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her lips.  Even in the dim light of the room, he could see her eyes well up with tears. 

"Maria, please, don't."  He could feel the wetness of them against his skin.  "Maria--"

"Oh, Heath, I'm so sorry -- for everything, for all of this." She took in the sight of him, her eyes stopping suddenly on the useless sleeve of his shirt and the large bulging of it across his chest, aware his left arm was bound beneath it. 

"None of this was your fault."

Still gripping his hand, she sat on the bed, her eyes lowered.  Her tears caught on her full, dark lashes and Heath wanted to touch them.  She glanced quickly at him and away.  "There's so much I need to say to you.  But I'm afraid--" She pressed her fingertips against his lips before he could speak.  "I'm afraid that you no longer want me.  No longer love me."

Heath was quiet a moment, studying her face.  "That will never change."

"Will you say it then?"  Maria leaned into his good shoulder, nuzzling him. He felt her breath on his neck.  He was close to weeping for the want of her.  She was so beautiful to him that there was an aching press of something undefinable against his heart.  It was all too much for him to take in, not willing to believe this turn of events, her change of heart, as if she were seeking a second chance with him.  He became overwhelmed and bared his feelings like a schoolboy.  "I'll say it as many times as you want to hear it.  I love you. I love you. I love you."

Maria smiled and brought his fingers again to her lips, kissing each one, and then taking his hand placed his palm over her heart.  "I love you, Heath Barkley." 

His breathing was tight and small and his heart felt high in his chest and he could not believe what he was thinking, what he had decided while lying there in anticipation of her visit. He watched her hands, seeming to be in constant motion as if she needed to feel every part of him. Now, running her fingertip lightly over his brow, down the length of his nose, to his lips again and he kissed and took it into his mouth, hearing her sharply draw in a breath.  He lifted his hand and took hers into his. "Maria, I need to talk to you about everything, what's been on my mind."

She looked at him and became suddenly still. "All right, Heath." 

He saw the fear in her eyes and he felt ashamed that he had put it there. But he felt compelled to speak and could not silence himself. "I saw something in me that I wasn't proud of and I saw that your father was the better man."

"Heath--"

"Let me have my say, Maria." He waited while she shifted herself slightly away from him on the bed to get a better view of his face. "I was hurt and angry and all those old feelings of not measuring up, having to prove myself over and over again -- well, a man gets mighty weary. But the worst of it was that I used you to prove to your father, to Hadley, to all of them, that I was good enough. That I was just as good a man as any of them, just as good as any Barkley." 

"But you are, Heath. You are." Her desperation was keen, her sorrow welling up in her.   

"Don't you see Maria?  I should have loved you enough to let go of you. You shouldn't have had to choose. My holding on to you was wrong. Your father, he let you go. Everything he believed in, whether it was right or wrong, he willingly gave up for you.  He was the better man."

"Heath, no--"

"You know it's true or you wouldn't have left with him."

"He was my father . . . I couldn't . . ."

"You couldn't let him sacrifice everything."

"No, you're wrong!"  Maria gripped his hand. Her brown eyes tunneled into his. "None of that matters. It's over and done with and my father has given us his blessing.  He wants me to be happy. We can be together now, Heath."

"I'm sorry, Maria. I can't --"

"Heath Barkley, you're the kindest, gentlest man I know. A decent and compassionate man.  You're blaming yourself needlessly for other people's shortcomings.  It's not you.  It was never you and somehow they tried to make you think it was all your fault. Don't let them win. Don't let their prejudices ruin us. You said it was *all the way right* between us. I still believe that."

Heath spoke quietly. "You left."

"Yes, I left and I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness--"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Oh, Heath, you're so ill. I can see you're exhausted. I'll give you time, as much as you need.  I'll wait for you. I'll wait for you forever or until you tell me you no longer love me." 

"Please, Maria . . ."  He could not stand the pain he saw in her eyes and because of that and his overall state of being unwell and worn-down, he began to weep. She touched his face and then held him to her, gently kissing the crown of his head, running her hand across his back as a mother would to soothe a child.  He allowed himself that comfort and soon fell asleep in her arms.

Chapter 27

When Heath woke, his room was dark, except for a block of moonlight that settled squarely across the foot of his bed. He struggled to raise up higher and did not notice Nick slouched down with legs spraddled asleep in the nearby chair. Before too long, when every attempt to sit failed, Heath cursed, pounding a fist into the mattress. As he slumped back into the pillows, Nick's voice startled him.

"Don't do that!"

"Do what?"

"You scared the daylight's out of me." Heath was surprised at the truth of that, feeling his heart racing.

Nick sat up, smiling, looking at Heath through partially opened eyes. "I don't know how you didn't see me sitting here big as life."

Heath looked over at Nick, watching his grinning face. "Maybe it's because you were quiet for a change."

"I was sleeping."

Heath genuinely laughed. "That never stopped you before. If you're not mumbling in your sleep about one woman, it's another."

Nick grinned, his eyes now fully opened, taking on a far-off look.  "And every one of them's lovely and sweet as can be and I might add very appreciative."

"Appreciative?"

"Yeah, appreciative of being in the company of yours truly."

"More like appreciative that you stopped tryin' to corral them."

"Corral them! You know full well that Grace Ann and Sarah Jean both practically begged me to take them to this month's social and  . . . "

"And what?"

"And . . . "  Nick grinned.  "And I'm going to have to let them down easy.  As a matter of fact, I'm going to have to let all the fair ladies of Stockton down easy.  It'll be hard to take what with all the weeping and wailing going on when I tell them Nick Barkley's no longer available."

"What's the matter, Nick, all those women you've been bird-dogging finally come to their senses?"

Nick smiled.  "More like I finally came to mine."

"What are you saying, Nick?"

"I'm saying that I met someone -- someone real special."

Heath was quiet, thinking over what Nick had said and then smiled. "I'm happy for you. Have I met her?"

"You did. In Jamestown." Nick's voice went low with grief. "You were real sick though . . . worried me plenty. I wasn't sure if you were going to make it." He suddenly smiled, a light coming to his eyes. "Alejandra, well, she took right over taking care of you. Put those fine stitches in you and she did a pretty fair job of it. Held up real good, even when you went so far as to try to bust them open."

"I -- I remember a woman.  Thought I was dreaming of angels.  She had a nice voice. Kind eyes."

"You remember then?"

Heath's brows shirred as he struggled to recall things. "It's a little fuzzy."

"I asked her to come visit once you were back on your feet." In that minute, a joy came to Nick at the prospect of Alejandra's visit, his stomach fluttering and his heart high in his chest. It was to him a happiness that could not be matched, and only heaven's promise a close measure. 

"Don't wait on my account."

Nick looked at his younger brother. "Right now you come first."

"Nick--"

"No arguing. Besides, I expect you'll be up on your feet in no time."

"Reckon there's no time like the present." Heath made an attempt to rise. "I need to see a man about a horse and then I want out."

"Mother'll have my hide."

Again Heath struggled. "I need me some air."

"All right. All right. I 'spose we can risk it. The sun won't be up for another hour or two.  Maybe, if we're real quiet, we might be able to get away with getting you outside for a while.  Not too long, though.  I don't want to be on the receiving end of a tongue lashing."

Heath grinned, baiting Nick. "Don't tell me you're afraid of Mother?"

"And don't tell me you ain't, Heath Barkley.  Those eyes can strip the flesh off a man."

The younger man nodded. "I won't argue with you there, Nick."

"All right then, hurry up and let's be quiet about it."

Heath looked down and tossed aside the blankets one-handed, pleased he was still wearing his pants. Nick was there beside him, bent over, taking hold of his good arm. Carefully and supporting most of Heath's weight, Nick lifted Heath gently to his feet and waited a moment for the man to get his bearings.  It was obvious, Heath was close to fainting dead away, but Nick remained quiet. 

"You all right, now?" 

Heath looked at nothing in particular, his chin lowered to his chest and only a quick nod of his head was his response. He shuffled along slowly, gathering himself and then finally lifted his head, leveling his eyes. His feet dragged with every step, causing Nick to question the sense of it and only when he saw the beginnings of a smile on Heath's lips was he able to relax. With a free hand, he snatched a small quilt from the chair where he had slept.

They moved together across the room and down the long hallway, first taking care of Heath's needs and then both, stiff and awkward, continued on making slow, but substantial strides. 

They came to the formidable staircase and at the same moment looked at each other.  Heath grinned and Nick grinned back.

"Well, here goes nothing. You best hang on tight, Boy."

It had gone easier and quicker than they had expected, both now standing in the expansive foyer, catching their breath. 

"Where to, Heath?"

Still a bit winded and slightly lightheaded, Heath answered haltingly, "The veranda'll do just fine."

Once there, Nick carefully lowered Heath onto the intricately carved, high-backed iron and wood bench and then drew the quilt across his younger brother's shoulders. There was heavy dew on the flowers and grasses and the air was still cool and fresh. The scent of horse manure and wet earth from the nearby corral carried over to them on the occasional breeze. Heath's eyes were closed and he seemed to be sleeping, but then contradicted that notion when he spoke very quietly. Nick looked at him, giving Heath his full attention. He kept completely still, fearful the slightest stir would cause Heath to withdraw.

"When did she leave?" He spoke softly as if the life had gone out of him.

She meaning Maria, Nick knew that without needing to ask.  "Right after you fell asleep."  Nick watched Heath's face in the grey light, seeing his younger brother's Adam's apple bobbing violently in his throat, trying to hold down some terrible grief. 

"I wasn't ready." Heath searched Nick's face for understanding. "I wasn't willing to let her go. I gave her false hope.  It was wrong; I know it, but I didn't want to give her up."

"So then don't."

Heath smiled, knowing Nick was a man that saw what he wanted and took it. He was not a man to complicate matters by over thinking things and Heath was envious of that in his older brother.

"I do love her--"

"So what's the problem?"

"It won't work. No matter how much we love each other, the sacrifice she'd be making would ruin it in time. There'll always be some regret."

Nick nodded. "I see your point." He thought of Alejandra and he felt sad for her, aware of the sacrifice she made for love. "I'd say you loved Maria more than you realize."

Heath squinted up at Nick, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.  "How so?"

"By knowing what's best for her--"

"NO!" Heath shifted on the bench, agitated, the quilt falling from one shoulder. "I didn't stop her from making a choice before.  I wanted her to choose me, no matter what she had to sacrifice by doing it."

Nick walked over to Heath, automatically covering up his brother with the quilt. "You didn't know what you were feeling then. You just reacted when people started pushing and prodding you."

Heath sighed deeply. "It was real simple when I was with Maria. But then things started getting complicated.  I wanted to get away, go far away from here.  I was willing to leave everything behind -- mother, you   . . . "

"Like I said, you weren't thinking straight.  You were backed into a corner.  They weren't giving you any choices and the only way you saw it was to run."

There was a catch in Heath's voice. "I'm sorry."

"Hell, Heath, what's to be sorry for?  It was none of your doing."

Heath's words came from him without will. "I was on the boil when it came to everything, even you."

Nick looked into his younger brother's face and Heath turned away, not able to meet Nick's gaze. "It's all right, Heath. Tell me."

Heath shuddered and Nick adjusted the quilt to cover him better. Heath watched his brother's hands closely while he fussed with the quilt and then slowly raised his eyes to look at him. "It was because you were good enough and I wasn't."

Nick lowered his head and sighed. "I can see why that'd get you riled. It would me, too. But you're smart enough to know the truth of things.  I can't change how other people think, Heath, no matter how hard I try to. I've gotten enough split lips and busted knuckles to prove it.  All I can be is your brother and say to hell with those that don't matter."

Heath nodded. He was long in answering, considering his words. He finally spoke. "I've been so long on my own, kept my life private. No one knew me to be a whoreson, a bastard."

Nick visibly flinched at Heath's words, a breath breaking from him hoarsely as if he had been gut-punched.

Heath stared hard at Nick, but showed no regret for his choice of words, offering no apologies.  "I was a good soldier, good at most everything I tried to do. My coming here changed all that, opened up a can of worms, some people looking at me now like I'm worthless -- like I'm dirt.  I wanted a name and respect that comes with having that name, but I found out the hard way that I had me more respect when I was just Heath Thomson."

"I know it hasn't been easy, Heath -- for any of us.  Maybe it was easier before when you were just Heath Thomson, no one knowing about things, but I'm hoping that finding your family and a mother that loves you like her own, well, I'm hoping that might make up for it all.  But maybe it don't, maybe you should have just rode on out of here.  It takes a strong man to fight for what's his, to go on in spite of the name calling.  A man's got to choose for himself."

There was a long silence then, both men deep in their own thoughts.

"Two are better than one."

Nick raised his head and looked at Heath. "What's that?"

"Two are better than one." Heath grinned. "I've kinda gotten used to that -- having you around."

Nick laughed, quickly sitting down next to Heath. He gripped his brother's thigh with open affection, his voice growing rough with emotion when he went to talk. "Me, too, Brother. Me, too."

They sat like that together for a long time, quietly waiting for the sun to rise.

Chapter 28

It was shortly after sunrise when Nick gently pulled Heath to his feet and they began the slow and arduous walk back to his room. Beads of perspiration broke out on Heath's forehead and dampened the hair at his temples. His breathing became quick and shallow as he shuffled stolidly forward. When they reached the staircase, Heath abruptly stopped at the bottom step, staring up at them. 

"Come on, Heath.  Won't be so bad."

Heath slowly turned his head to look at Nick.  He nodded and tried to say something, but he was too winded and too tired to bring up the words.

Nick saw Heath's exhaustion and thought to himself that if he could, he would carry his brother up the entire flight. His voice was heavy with resignation. "I can't do it alone, Heath." 

"Just give me a minute."  The words came out in short, sharp puffs of breath. 

"All right. Take it easy -- try to get your wind first."

"To blazes with this! I hate it!"  Heath's frustration was evident.

At that an unexpected flash of anger came over Nick and a heat rose in his belly.  "For crying out loud, Heath, be thankful you're standing here at all. It wasn't but a few days ago, I thought I'd be at your funeral!" Nick sighed deeply, his composure restored, his voice gentled.  "You know as well as I do that it's going to take time."

Heath lowered his head, chagrined. "I know and I'm grateful, Nick, not just for today, but a lot more than that. I can't help thinking that if I was out there on my own, laid up like this, I'd be a dead man."

"Your days alone are long over."

"It's hard putting those days to rest. How it used to be."

Nick nodded, thinking about a young boy alone, surviving in the world for the most part on his own. His heart clenched at the image and he pushed it out of his mind.  "Come on.  Let's give it a try."

Before long, a foot in wool socks lifted and came down shakily on the bottom step after briefly catching on the lip of the stair. Another followed, then another, their ascent slow and laborious.

Nick could feel the sweat dampening Heath's shirt when they finally made it to the top. Ready to let out a celebratory whoop, Nick soon realized his joy was premature when he felt the full weight of Heath suddenly drop and settle against him. 

"Whoa there, Brother."

"Nick  . . . "  Heath panted, his right palm slick with sweat in Nick's grip.  "I can't  . . . "

"Don't you worry about it.  You're doing just fine.  We're almost there."

"Sorry  . . . Nick."

"No more of that.  We've both done enough apologizing for one day." 

They staggered down the hallway and into Heath's bedroom and Nick was more than relieved when he lowered Heath down onto the bed.  Heath sat impassively, his chin tucked down into his chest.

Only able to see the top of Heath's head, Nick watched the blond hair as it caught the full sunlight slanting through the bedroom window. He lightly put a finger to a few strands, liking the color of it and how it reminded him of yellowed timothy hay. He had not allowed himself the luxury of idle thought or foolish sentiment since his father's death. He had been too bitter, too angry coping with his loss and too busy having to become a man overnight all those years past. Lovingly, he cupped a large palm over the crown of Heath's head and held it there until Heath shifted a little under his touch. 

"Nick?"

"It's all right, Heath."  Nick quickly went about unbuttoning his brother's shirt, bringing up Heath's chin to get at the buttons at his neck.  He smiled watching Heath's fight to open his eyes and saw the exhausted man's lips moving.  Again he reassured his brother: "Just rest, Heath.  I've got you now.  Let me help you."

Heath managed to open his eyes for a short time and focused his bleary gaze drunkenly on Nick. He smiled and Nick laughed at the loopy expression on his younger brother's face. Nick pulled off Heath's shirt and then laid him back against the pillows, quickly raising his legs onto the bed.  He covered him with several blankets and smoothed a hand over Heath's eyes when he opened them and stared blankly at the ceiling. Nick kept his palm softly pressed against Heath's forehead until he was sure the man had fallen asleep.

Nick's eyes were dry and scratchy from too little sleep and he rubbed them hard, lowering himself into the bedside chair. He closed them, telling himself it would be just for a moment, but soon he found his thoughts turning into dreams and the dreams taking a tight hold, not letting him go.

The dream was the same, but this time he was able to make out certain faces.  He saw the young boy clearly now, filthy, ravaged, too thin.  He lay on the ground, looking more like a bundle of rags than anything human.  Nick would have kicked it aside if he had not seen the eyes.  They were his father's eyes in a boy's face. 

"Who are you?"  Nick shouted in his head, in his dream, though his mouth remained frozen shut, his lips stitched snugly as a funeral parlor corpse.  He was drawn to this man-boy, but warred against it, striking at the thin, fine hand reaching out to him. 

In the dirt near his foot, Nick saw the ring and he bent down to pick it up. When he straightened, he came face-to-face with an old man, his hair and beard, long and white, his eyes, familiar. The old man spoke, repeating himself several times. "Because of you, it is not lost." But to Nick, no matter how many times it was said, the words remained a puzzle.

He felt the press of the older man's hand on his shoulder, though appearing to be composed merely of light and air, ethereal and insubstantial.  The old man spoke again: "Sleep, you have chosen well."

And Nick did sleep, but it was neither restive nor deep.

* * * * * * * *

Although it should have been ingrained, out of habit that he had awoken, it was not, having slept longer than planned and far past his normal hour of rising. It was nearly nine o'clock from where the full sun sat in the sky. He could hear the ranch's bustle, hours ago already sprung to life, the sounds reaching Heath's open window, McCall's clear and authoritative voice rising above the rest.

Nick was pleased, grateful to the older ranch hand, and had been more times than he could count, especially during those difficult months of adjustment. After his father's death, Nick could no longer rely on the world to spin as it should -- neat, orderly, true. It so drastically exhumed him of the notion that he was immune to all torment as he was hard-pressed, at the time, to think of anything that could be worse than losing his father, a man above all men. He had been shocked to learn that he could very easily lose everything as readily as the next man. A hard pill to swallow for a boy who had only known success at every turn, the hardships as inconsequential as denying him his yearly trip to the Sierras with his father for being obdurate and difficult about his studies.

It had not been because he lacked intelligence, all his teachers spoke of his quick mind and mathematical prowess, but lamented often and vociferously of his single-mindedness about the land and ranching. But at the moment, Nick knew the ranch would need to go on without him, a more pressing matter at hand.

He stood and gave a cursory glance at Heath who remained asleep even as the outside din and the room's heat rose steadily.  Nick moved to the bed and took several blankets off Heath, folding them and then laying each one across the bottom. He straightened the sheet and without any clear reason drew it up to where he knew the gunshot wound to be healing slowly under the layers of bandages.

Again he looked at his brother, and felt the unsettled feeling of having little control over the universe and its workings. The recent dreams did not help matters. For several weeks after his father's murder and then again after Heath's arrival and subsequent announcement, dreams had briefly visited upon him. But generally, he never dreamed or at the very least, so as not to appear a dullard or lacking in imagination, he never quite remembered if he had. For the most part, he slept the sleep of the dead, having exerted every last bit of thought and energy from himself by day's end. Ranch life was grueling, difficult at best, depending on God's grace and good fortune and could age a man, bringing him to despair as quickly as a boy too long in battle.

Good fortune had been his with barely an acknowledgment of God's grace, except on those obligatory Sunday mornings and even then his mind was usually elsewhere. Although, he appeared ambivalent toward God, believing in action rather than prayer, he was of strong faith. Even after, when he had almost turned his back on God, blamed God, he eventually accepted the fact that it was man and not God who had stolen his father away from him. He most recently lashed out, not wanting to acknowledge the truth that it was man who had sinned again, man who had been at fault yet another time. It had been his father who had been wrong, not God, not Heath, no one but the man for whom he had looked upon in his own naive and guileless way as nearly a god, himself.

It had been Heath who had inadvertently opened his eyes not just to his father's failings, but General Wallant as well.  Had he been that unseeing, that blind to men's weaknesses?  Was his fealty to his father as misplaced as it was to Wallant?  He was no longer a little boy, no longer in short pants playing at hearth side with his brightly painted tin soldiers.  He had been put to the test, had seen the world's avarice and depravity. The good and evil were as clear as night was to day. But perhaps that was his own failing, believing it was that recognizable, that definitive as black was to white and nothing in between the two.

In war it had been clearer. It was life or death with no time for review.  It was not the place to contemplate whether his enemy had left a wife and child behind, if it had been an allegiance to country and cause or if it had been coercion, being pressed into service.  There had been no time nor need to look too closely into the eyes of his enemy for that would mean sure death or worse a weakening of one's resolve.  He was a man of simple beliefs, complications exasperated him and there could only be a right way or a wrong -- no straddling the fence. 

And oh, boy, how wrong he had been -- about his father, about Wallant, about Heath.  Eventually he had been able to understand his father's misdeed after many hours of close counsel with his mother. Wallant, he now saw as a man to pity and despise for all the men he had led to slaughter because of a predilection for fame and glory. 

Heath had known, never falling for the obvious, the outer veneer, observing all with a schooled eye. It was as simple as trusting in his instincts, in his keen memory, able to heed his inner voice, recognizing when things were not quite right. He was incisive, seeing the subtleties in a bent blade of grass, a pebble turned. He knew the heart of a man in a single handshake, a look in the eye, a simple word spoken.  Nick smiled when he thought about how Heath would always place himself a step behind him, his shoulder almost touching him, always listening, observing, protecting Nick's back. It was never a subordinate position as Nick had initially thought nor was it his regard for Nick's social standing or at the very least for being the elder of the two. No, it had been none of those things and Nick grinned, recognizing that it meant far more. It had been Heath's way of protecting him, loving him and understanding him to be impulsive, at times heedless to peril, plunging headlong into it like a charging bull. 

Every so often, he could not help but feel amazed at how well the fit had been, he forever seeing the black and white and Heath showing him the less obvious things, the possible greys.  Feeling his brother stirring beneath his hand, he whispered reassurances. Nick had been so deep in thought, he feared the morning was getting away from him. And with a quick pat to his brother's arm, Nick headed out of the room to his own.

* * * * * * * *

It had taken some time, but Nick had finally found where he had stowed the family albums. After his father's death, he had spent many hours alone with his memories and the collection of captured images. In his hand, he now held an old daguerreotype and looked down at the man's likeness. The portraiture had captured a man in the prime of his life, dignified, monied.  The copper and silver plates were fragile and Nick took great care with each one. The daguerreotype he held had a brass mat covered by glass. It was richly detailed, allowing Nick to see many of the finer particulars of the man. With one last glance, he set aside the portrait and reached for a tintype. It was the same man, now older, his clothing a bit rumpled, his hair longer, holding a restrained undertide of eccentricity in his eyes. He looked at the man's face and probed his memory to see if the connection between dream and picture were correct. 

The man's eyes had prompted Nick to plow through the old volumes of family photographs.  There were quite a few, some of better quality than others: daguerreotype, ambrotype and tintype. Many were of family he had never met and only recalled them by a one-word attribute, a sketchy anecdote. Some images spoke of wealth, some were odd groupings that seemed to capture the land and possessions more so than the people there.  All looked grim and unsmiling.  Nick set aside each one, coming upon his own tintype smartly displayed in a Cartouche sleeve. He was in full military dress and he flushed at the arrogance he saw in those young eyes. He felt as much a peacock in his stance and his weaponry as the Federal's gaudy and oddly uniformed First New York Fire Zouaves. He sighed and put it aside and took up the other tintype again.

A knock on the door drove his head up and a sudden panic to hide everything struck him.  He felt foolish, sitting on the floor among the stacks of photographs. He was certain that whoever was there would remember his boyhood weakness.  He had mourned for his father acutely and privately, and had little by little brought the portraits to his room.  He had been searching for something, trying to hold on to something tangible, something visceral, solid, keeping a particularly favorite tintype of his father under his pillow.  He would stare at it until the light grew dim and his eyes became too tired to remain open.  His sorrow was a private matter. 

"Nick?"  It was Jarrod.  "Nick?"

"Yeah, yeah."  Nick stood, not quite quick enough to place himself away from the pictures.

He watched Jarrod enter the room, taking everything in with his keen, intelligent eyes. He saw the slight furrow of confusion gathering between Jarrod's brows and then quickly masked by a wide smile.  "To my surprise, when I went to check on both you and Heath, one brother was missing."

Nick stepped forward, ready to question Jarrod about Heath.

Jarrod smiled and answered before Nick could ask. "Now, now, Nick. Relax. If you're worried about Brother Heath, don't be.  He's sleeping soundly.  I think Maria's visit took quite a bit out of him."

Nick nodded, lowering his eyes.  "Among other things."

Jarrod lifted an eyebrow, curious, but chose not to voice it. "I won't ask you what you're alluding to, but I will ask you what you're up to at this moment?"  Jarrod walked past Nick and stopped at the daguerreotypes. He stooped over and picked up a few.  "I wondered where these had gotten off to." Jarrod grinned and looked up at Nick.  "Your room would have been my last guess."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"Now, now, Nick." Jarrod stood and turned to face his brother.  "I just meant that your days are so full as it is, you barely the time for a quick bath and meal before day's end. Looking through old portraitures of people we hardly know  . . .  well, I have to say it is somewhat out of character."

"Hardly know!  I wouldn't say Father was someone we hardly know--" Nick cut his words short and shook his head.  "Maybe you're right after all."

"Nick  . . . "  Jarrod moved toward Nick, putting a hand to his shoulder.  "Don't do this."

Nick said nothing, his mouth a grim, tight line. 

"You're just tired."  Jarrod watched Nick closely. "Mother wanted to know if you'd like her to send up a plate of food. You must be hungry."

Nick shook himself free from his dour thoughts.  "What?  Yeah, yeah, sure.  I'm pretty hungry.  Tell mother fine and thanks."

Jarrod nodded and made a move to leave.

"Jarrod?"

"Yeah, Nick?"

"Got a second?"

"For you, I've more than a second."

Nick smiled and ran a hand over his face.  "I've been having these dreams."

Jarrod listened to Nick talk as he led his brother to the two leather wing-back chairs.  "Sit." Nick did as he was told and he felt the full extent of his fatigue when he sat down in the chair, his limbs heavy, the joints stiff and sore.

"Can you tell me about them?"

Nick looked over at Jarrod.  "Not much to tell.  It's different from the ones I had before -- before I found Heath."  Nick shook his head, struggling to make sense of it.  "I don't know where I was, but it was cold.  There was a smell.  I could only describe it as the smell of decay, of death.  I was walking and walking, but I didn't know where I was going.  There were these rags, a bundle of them.  I almost kicked them aside, out of my way, out of my sight.  But just as I was about to kick them aside, I saw these eyes  . . . "  Nick swallowed, his voice growing soft.  "They were Father's eyes in a boy's face."

"Heath's?"  Jarrod questioned him quietly.

"Yes . . . Heath's."  Nick sighed deeply.  "I didn't know that then, in my dream. I didn't know.  Only now, talking to you." 

Jarrod smiled.  "Glad to be of help."

"There's more."

"I'm listening."

"There was a man.  His hair and beard were grown out long and white as cotton wool. Said something like, it's not lost because of me and that I chose well."

Jarrod rested his head back against the chair.  He closed his eyes for a short time, considering what Nick had said. When he opened them, Nick was looking at him intently.

"Well?"

"Well, Nick, I would say it has something to do with Heath.  Perhaps you have residual feelings about Heath coming into our lives that you've buried."

Nick screwed up his face, struggling to revisit the dream and how it made him feel.  "No, no, I don't think so.  I think when I saw those eyes, it shook me up, but I didn't know it was Heath.  I do remember--"

"Remember what, Nick?"

Nick hesitated. "I remember he held out a hand to me." His voice cracked with emotion.  "I struck it away."

"Nick, don't!  It's only a dream.  We all wanted to strike out at him, send him away at first.  It's a natural reaction.  I was angry too, Nick.  It isn't only your sin to bear."  Jarrod gathered himself.  "All right.  Tell me again what the old man had said."

Nick closed his eyes.  "Because of you, it is not lost.  Those were the exact words." Nick then sat up straight and opened his eyes widely, remembering more.  "Before that, I found a ring. The bloodstone ring!  Could that be what he meant?"

"It very well may be, but I feel there's more to it."

"Well, what then, Jarrod?"

"Give me a minute, Nick."  They were quiet, until Jarrod pushed forward on his chair. "What else did he say?"

Nick was growing impatient, his tone now petulant.  "He said, you have chosen well."

"It's not about the ring."  Jarrod stood excitedly.

"What?"  Nick rose, hands on hips.  "What d'ya mean it's not about the ring?"

"Well not completely."  Jarrod grinned, the puzzle solved.  "It's about you and Heath--"

"Well, I already figured that part out Jarrod."

"No, listen to me, Nick.  This old man is telling you that you had the power -- don't you see, Nick?  If you really wanted to, you could have very well sent Heath on his way. But you didn't, you gave him a chance. Listen to me, Nick! Listen to what your dream is telling you!  He said, all is not lost.  You chose well.  It's not recrimination.  It's joyous.  It's gratitude. It's relief.  The ring, well, Father's ring is lost, but his child, our brother is not and that's because of you."

"You give me too much credit, Jarrod."

"You know as well as I do, if you didn't let Heath in, accept him as your brother, he would have left us.  He would have been *lost* to us."

Nick nodded at Jarrod and walked over to the stack of tintypes and daguerreotypes.  He picked one up and stared at it, transfixed.  Jarrod stood next to him.

"What do have there, Nick?"

Nick shoved the picture at his brother.  "This is him. This is the man from my dreams.  I'm positive."

Jarrod looked down at the mechanical image in his hands and then lifted his eyes to Nick.  He smiled.  "Well, I'll be.  Well, I'll be."

Chapter 29

Victoria could not figure out what had woken her. Her ears strained, but she could only hear the familiar sounds of night.  She changed position in her bed, adjusted the pillow and closed her eyes.  She was tired, but her mind would not allow her rest.  The question as to why she had awoken out of a perfectly deep and restful sleep would not leave her alone.  The more she tried to ignore it, the more it pestered her. 

She rose from the bed, reaching for her robe and slid her feet into her slippers that were neatly placed alongside her bed on the floor.  It reminded her so much of those nights after her Tom had died, waking for no clear reason, certain it had been Tom calling to her. Had someone called out to her now?  Was that it?  Was it one of her children in need?  Had Heath taken a turn for the worse?  He had seemed drained, exhausted after Maria's visit, sleeping through a good part of the day and only waking to eat a small amount of beef stew, falling asleep while being fed with half the bowl left untouched.  He did not seem to mind the *indignities* of having to be cared for nearly hand and foot, almost relishing her attention, seeing the bliss in his eyes.  She had been glad of that.  He was a beautiful boy and had captured her heart handily.  She smiled at her choice of words for Heath was hardly a boy, as Jarrod and Nick were hardly boys, all grown, capable men.  But that was of little importance to her, she would forever see them as her boys. 

She made her way across the bedroom and headed down the long, dim hallway.  She stopped at Heath's door, seeing it ajar. She pushed it open further and looked into the room. The bed was empty, the blankets and sheet trailed to the floor and she imagined the struggle he had to get free of them. She quickly made her way out of the room to the stairs, praying not to find his crumpled form lying at the bottom.  His whereabouts perplexed her, unsure of where he had gone. Perhaps, she thought, his hunger badgered him to search the cupboards for the heel end of the baked bread and sweet butter that he loved so much. Or maybe the wildness in him called and he walked the night, solitary, eyes drawn to the moon and stars. But something directed her elsewhere and she soon caught a glimpse of a rind of light showing under the double doors of the study.

When she entered, she at once saw him, the back of his head pale as milk against the red of the sofa fabric. As she approached him, she saw he was wrapped in her favorite quilt pulled and held snugly across his chest with his good hand. At first glance, she thought he was sleeping, his chin tilted up, his head resting back against the soft velvet sofa. But then she saw the distinct blue of his eyes that were clear, but increasingly troubled.

There was a sorrow in them that ached her heart terribly to see. The words * if only* coming to her -- if only they had known, if only his path had not been so hard. She took a breath gathering herself, knowing what mattered was that he was here now and the past, no matter how fervently wished, could not be altered.  And she had certainly meant what she had said that she would endure a thousand times over her wounded pride, rather than wish this boy out of their lives. 

At that moment, she sensed a shift in his gaze, feeling his eyes on her. She looked at him and he released his grip on the quilt and held out his hand to her. Without hesitating, she came across the carpeted floor and took it up into her own. His fine, long fingers threaded through hers, the affection in that gesture forever ingrained upon her heart. She lifted his hand to her cheek a moment, and then cupped both her hands around his, trying to bring some warmth to it. His fingers were cold, almost bloodless as if he still had very little coursing through him. Her throat ached, remembering how near death he had been and she still feared for him.  She sat at his right, his hand still held in hers and watched the tracking of his eyes. The portrait of a man barely known to him hung above the mantled fireplace. It held his attention and she could not keep up with the ever-changing emotions that crossed his features.

Both the fireplace and table lamp's dim light shadowed the hollows and angles of his face, now appearing so gaunt, so sorrowed, so brooding. Victoria shuddered inside when she looked at him, once again finding herself a witness to the sudden and senseless ravage of her son, a violence wrought upon him a week before without cause or provocation. She startled to see that he once more had been watching her. And in that instance, Victoria decided to voice the thoughts she had been keeping to herself, hoping it would not upset him further. She briefly glanced at the portrait and then looked back to Heath. She took in a nervous breath. "Of all his children, you are the one who closely resembles him. You can't see it as I can, but it took my breath when I first saw you."

Heath looked at her and gave a small, half derisive, half-sorrowed laugh. "Must be God's idea of a cruel joke."

Victoria shook her head, needing him to believe in her sincerity.  "Perhaps another might see it that way, but to me, Sweetheart, you are a true blessing in my life."

The right side of Heath's mouth canted up, his eyes shining briefly with a deep love for her.

Her heart filled and her eyes brimmed and she continued on, "Jarrod and Nick have the dark, good looks of my family and Nick's temperament reminds me very much of my father. Perhaps that's why I indulge him so. Audra has the Barkley coloring, as you do, but I believe she has my disposition and Jarrod is a wonderful blend of both families.  I often see Tom, your father, in Jarrod -- his strength of character, his sense of justice, his honor."

Victoria looked squarely at Heath for a long moment. "It's in the set of your eyes, the same wide brow, the aquiline nose, though yours is a bit softer because of your mother's influence. Your mouth, the shape of your face, your hair and eye coloring. That night, face-to-face with you, the truth of what you had said to my sons, your brothers, was a truth that I could not deny. It had been quite a blow and I worried for my family. But they handled it well, with the exception of Nick, understandable as he held his father in such high esteem. Although I do believe because of everything he has become more tolerant of people, of life's unexpected turns." Victoria smiled.  "He loves you so very much, Heath. He'd do anything for you; fight for you tooth and nail. You know that don't you? "

Heath nodded.  "I know 'n I feel the same about him -- about all of you."

"But still I worry . . . is it that easy for you really? To leave here?  To leave us? You almost did, didn't you, Heath?  With Maria?"

Heath was quiet, at last answering. "It means everything to me to be a Barkley, to be a part of a family. It seems I forgot that. I give you my word.  It won't happen again."  Heath kicked up his chin to the portrait.  "And I'm working on how I feel about him. A lifetime of feeling one way can't be changed in a day."

Victoria nodded. "May I ask your decision concerning Maria?"

Heath was abrupt. "It's over."

Victoria frowned slightly conveying her concern, but her voice remained level. "When she left, she seemed so happy, so hopeful. Is she aware of your decision?"

Heath slowly shook his head. "I couldn't seem to bring myself to tell her."

"Sweetheart--"

"I know it was wrong of me not to tell her how I felt about everything."  Heath gave a half-shrug with his good shoulder. "But I believe it's best."

Again Victoria did not push him or give opinion. "Well, perhaps you're right."

"She'd be giving up too much to be with me."

"Do you think that would really matter to Maria?"

Heath looked at her, giving long consideration to her question. "I do.  Eventually.  When it's too late."

Victoria nodded. "If you have doubts, if there is guilt  . . .  marriage is difficult enough without starting out with unsettled feelings."

"I know life ain't perfect or love, but I feel it in my heart that she'd be better off with someone else no matter how much I think I love her."

Victoria smiled and patted his hand reassuringly. "I can see you do love her, Heath. It takes a strong person to let something to that's loved  . . .  I admire you and your father, if he had been here, if he had known you, would be so very proud of you, too."

Heath's head shot up at her words.  "It'll take me some time to appreciate that."

"I'm not asking you to feel things you aren't ready to feel, Heath.  But I am asking you to open your mind and your heart . . . if you do this, then in time you'll finally know Tom Barkley, you'll finally know your father."

Heath nodded and she took his hand. She stroked a finger along his arm and whispered softly to him as he drifted off to sleep. "All in time . . . "

* * * * * * * *

It was several days later after Doctor Merar's visit that Heath made his way downstairs to join the family for a before dinner drink and that evening's conversation. When he was halfway down the large staircase, Nick saw him and quickly crossed the room to wait for Heath at the bottom.  It took great restraint for Nick not to run up the flight of stairs and help Heath as he managed the steps.  Heath's left arm was now in a sling and it made him move a bit awkwardly, but he continued on with a single-minded determination.

Heath had not yet noticed Nick at the bottom, his eyes lowered, watching each step he took. Still weak, Heath was hampered by bouts of swift and sudden lightheadedness. Nick was keenly aware of this and he remained vigilant for signs of his younger brother's fatigue or loss of balance. 

Not until the last few steps did Heath realize Nick's presence which immediately flustered him. He lost his footing and fell forward into Nick's arms. Heath flushed when he noticed all eyes were on him from across the foyer, Audra's look of concern and Jarrod halfway to him ready to lend a hand.  It made his stomach jump nervously and he tried to right himself and pull away from Nick's hold. He tripped in the process and Nick was taken by surprise at the shift of Heath's weight.  Victoria was there quickly righting him as best she could while Heath gathered himself so as not to let her bear the full brunt of his weight. 

"Sorry."

"There is no need to apologize, Sweetheart."  Victoria smiled and nodded at Nick as he unobtrusively held onto Heath.  "It seems we have managed to completely overwhelm you."

Audra moved swiftly across the foyer toward them, Jarrod beside her.  "We're just so pleased you're able to join us for dinner. I've missed you." 

Heath's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Thanks, Sis."

Jarrod grinned, clapping his hands together, all eyes shifting to him.  "Shall we continue this in the parlor?"

Nick nodded and gently propelled Heath across the foyer and to the room, impervious to protests while Jarrod escorted Audra and Victoria to the two chairs that faced the marble table. Jarrod filled three crystal glasses, handing one to Nick who had just turned toward him after having settled Heath on the settee. Jarrod then handed one to Victoria and smiled broadly over at Heath.  "I'm not sure if Doctor Merar would approve, Brother Heath. Perhaps abstinence is in order here." 

Heath did not offer argument, sure that the aperitif would no doubt make him drowsier than he was feeling.  He fought it as best he could, the exhaustion so strong that his limbs felt much heavier than they actually weighed.  He also felt as though he was not getting enough air, suppressing the overwhelming urge to yawn. He must have unexpectedly nodded off just then because in the next moment he felt someone shaking him. He blinked his eyes a few times and was startled to see Nick's face close to his.

"Scare a fella, why don'tcha!"

Nick grinned wide and full-toothed and sat down with a heavy thump beside Heath. He was grinning ear to ear, fishing around in his vest pocket with his large fingers, happy when he caught up the ring. He pulled it out and quickly clutched it in his hand away from sight. He looked at Heath.

"I was going to wait and give this to you when it was just the two of us, but after giving it some thought, I wanted the entire family to be here. I figured it was fitting because that's what we are and always will be -- a family. After Father died, I was so wrapped up in my own feelings and wasted a lot of time being angry and pushing people away. I didn't appreciate what I had. Oh, it got better. I finally came around. Learned to live with it all, but it wasn't until you came, Heath, that I finally got it. For you it wasn't about the money like I had thought.  It never occurred to me that it was about something else entirely, something I often took for granted.  Family. Heritage. A name."  Nick held out his hand and opened it in front of Heath. The bloodstone ring was centered in his palm. "You deserve this more than anyone. Take it. It's yours."

Heath blanched at the sight of the familiar piece of jewelry. He grew wide-eyed and his breathing turned increasingly labored. He felt light-headed, a thundering swell of emotions surging over him. Memories rose up in his mind from the dark places where he had buried them away.  He began to panic when he found he could not catch his breath.

He was certain that they discovered he had been careless and had lost Tom Barkley's ring. A ring he should never have had in the first place, a ring that had never truly belonged to him and then quite justly stolen from him. And now that ring, its stone stippled with a puritan's scarlet, as though reflecting the sins of his birth, rested in Nick's hand. It taunted him -- the sin of bastardy, the sin of adultery once again laid bare to all.   

"How . . . where did you get that?" 

It was the last he spoke before he felt himself falling, mercifully sliding into sheltering blackness.

Chapter 30

"What the devil happened out there?"  Nick looked down at the ring that he had absently slid onto his finger during the rush to keep Heath from dropping to the floor.  He shook his head forlornly, at a loss as to what to do.

After Heath's bout of dizziness, he had seemed to recover quickly, but declined to join them for dinner. At the suggestion of returning to his room, Heath had become exasperated.  He barely spoke, but insisted that he would be fine, if only they would leave him alone to rest.  He reassured them he was just tired, somewhat light-headed, and nothing more. They had left him sleeping on the parlor's settee, but not before Victoria swathed him in a blanket.

Nick banged his elbows down hard on the table top, causing its contents to shiver and rattle. 

"Please, Nick!" Victoria was clearly annoyed by her son's outburst.

Audra looked over at her mother and then across the table at Nick. "Something's wrong."

Jarrod studied her attractive face closely, well aware of her intuitive nature. "What makes you think that, Honey?"

"Heath's . . . his eyes . . . for the briefest moment, there was something there. I could only describe it as -- horror."

Jarrod turned his attention to Nick.  "Do you suppose that Heath might actually have thought the ring was Father's?" 

Nick's head shot up and he quickly looked at Jarrod.  "Oh for the love of -- why would he?  We couldn't have gotten our hands on father's ring and he knows it. How could he in the name of all that's sacred think that was even remotely possible? It doesn't make sense."

"He's not a 100 percent yet, Nick. Perhaps he's still a little fuzzy, not thinking straight. And if Audra's correct, I believe that dizzy spell may have been brought on by very powerful emotions. " Jarrod was quiet a moment. "Maybe we should be asking ourselves, why should he think otherwise?"

What are you saying, Jarrod?"  Victoria finally spoke, caught up in her own worried thoughts of Heath. 

"What I'm saying is, Heath couldn't have possibly known that we had the same exact bloodstone ring.  And then to see it miraculously appear and right here in Tom Barkley's home . . . well, I can see now why Heath was, as Audra so aptly put it, horrified."

"Well, I'm thinking it's a sure bet that Heath had Father's ring at some point, if what you're saying is true.  I am curious though as to what happened to it after all these years. And why Father had given it away in the first place -- and yes, I will say it -- and why to *her*?"

"Nick!  I don't believe you!"  Audra was angry, her hands balling into tight, delicate fists. "Surely you don't resent Heath for having the ring? I imagine it was his only connection to a father he could only dream about ever knowing.  And because of that I'm sure it meant more to Heath to have that ring than it would have to both of you . . . and then to have it lost to him . . ."

"Well, now, little girl, I guess I deserve that. It's true that it wasn't so long ago that I did resent Heath. But that's a lifetime ago now."  Nick sighed. "All right, all right. I guess I'm out of line here."  He looked at his mother who was toying distractedly with the top button of her blouse. "I'm sorry, Mother. I forget how all this affects you. I just need some answers. I don't think it's too much to ask."

"First let me say this: I for one would never disparage or demean a woman who had raised and nurtured so fine a man as your brother nor a woman who had cared for your father when he had been almost mortally beaten.  I expect no less from my children. I do not want you asking Heath about any of this ring business.  If he chooses to share it with us, so be it, if not, then we live with that.  Do I make myself clear?"  She looked at each one, but her gaze lingered the longest on Nick.  After he gave a nod of acquiescence, she continued talking.  "I fear the bloodstone ring has triggered some very difficult memories for your brother.  He is far too vulnerable emotionally and physically to be dealing with this."

"I'm sorry." 

Victoria's demeanor softened. "Oh, Nick -- how could you have known his reaction?  You meant it as a loving gesture.  Heath knows that."

"I agree, Nick."  Jarrod smiled slightly.

Nick was quiet, contemplative. "I think the ring was stolen from him and I'd bet my last dollar it was in Carterson. He talked about these fellas, called themselves 'N'Yaarkers'. Heath called them Raiders, a shiftier, no-account lot of men that the Union chose to send into battle. Thought they'd reek havoc on the Johnnies, but they ended up a bigger menace to our own men. Heath told me about the *fresh fish* being robbed and sometimes murdered for their belongings.  I'd lay good odds that that's where the ring ended up -- in the pocket of some good for nothing piece of dirt."

"Well, that certainly would explain his reaction and it also would give merit to what Audra said.  Horror -- yes, that would be a fitting description.  I can't even begin to fathom a boy, scarcely sixteen in the miseries of a place like Carterson.  What was it that Whitman had written?  I believe it was along these lines: "The dead there are not to be pitied as much as some of the living that have come from there -- if they can be called living." Jarrod looked down the long table to his mother. "I suggest we get some food into us while we can.  It may be a long night for Heath."

"If it comes to that, I'll be the one with him. I'll take care of him."  Nick reached for the platter of beef and then grabbed up the large bowl of whipped potatoes, heaping them slapdash onto his plate.  He was a flurry of movement, his dinner plate soon overflowing with food.  "Dig in!"

Audra giggled and Victoria and Jarrod exchanged amused glances.  Victoria smiled, lifting her fork and parroted Nick.  "You heard what the man said: "Dig in!"

* * * * * * * *

Heath could smell the decay of weeds and dead flowers. The snipped pieces and halm of grasses were piled on the ground alongside where he stood. Some flower heads were left to dry in the warm slant of the evening sun for seed, possibly for next year's garden, but mostly to Heath the smell of everything was stale and dead. There would always be certain smells or colors or objects that would bring back flashes of memory.  It would be so quick and so enshadowing, it would feel to him as if the images in his mind had become his true reality. To him it was as a deep narcotic dream, although he stood there awake and upright beside Nick or Mother or Jarrod, and then suddenly coming out of it to see them looking at him with loving concern.  It was not something a person could easily give explanation to and the effort of it was too draining, the cost too high.

The dead flowers, just an insignificant whiff of it on a small burst of a breeze, reminded him of the hospital ward at Carterson.  Bentell had sent some of the younger boys, a handful out of forty or fifty, to work there, to help assist the nurses and doctors thinking it was a better environment than the stockade.  It was not. The idea was to keep them from all ails of that world, not wishing the boys to suffer the terrible and inevitable fate of prison life.

Heath choked on that thought remembering the men that were so ill. The filth being the biggest problem, a minor cut often leading to gangrene, any open sore the same. Or the scurvy so bad that their limbs would draw up, not able to walk, their gums would bleed and their teeth would loosen, and those men desperate and begging for any bit of food that did not need to be chewed.  Small pox was a curse and inoculations were given and in the area of the site the skin would fester and the arms would begin to rot away because of it. 

One kind doctor would often slip Heath raw potatoes or bread, whatever he could come by, saying that it was best to eat the potato raw to protect against scurvy.  Heath ate as many potatoes as the doctor offered, taking the food with a grateful nod. He spoke little during those days of his confinement, even when the doctor tried to talk of things that he thought a boy Heath's age might find enjoyable. The horror of the place had turned Heath mute, too weak and too sorrowed to think of boyhood joys that flourished beyond the high stockade walls.

During the doctor's first days at the hospital, he had quickly discovered the appalling infestation of lice, noting with growing repulsion that if he stood too long in one spot the lice would latch upon him. The look on the doctor's face and his other antics would have drawn laughter from Heath in another time or place, but he had no laughter left in him. He had become numb, having seen too much suffering. Each morning he had helped remove body after body of men stripped naked -- for all clothing was of far too much value to be buried with the dead -- a string tied around both large toes identifying them and their arms placed upon their chest as if in an eternal and solemn prayer.  Their eyes remained open and vacuous, appearing to Heath like dark shining stones. 

In the beginning, it had been tolerable at Carterson, but then the prison exchange program collapsed and the population of prisoners had steadily increased  Twenty thousand men in an area intended only to house eight thousand. The Confederacy had been in terrible decline, the guards, themselves, having very little to eat. With that thought, a memory suddenly came to Heath of a crazy old coot that had not been in his right mind since the first moment of his incarceration and how he had been killed by those very guards when he had reached a hand over the deadline for some object that had caught his eye. Perhaps what had drawn him had been a shiny pebble, a bit of wood, a brass uniform button that was used for barter with the Rebel guards, many having a taste for bright and gaudy objects.

For most there had been no second chances at Carterson.

Heath had heard the stories on both sides, understood it in his rational mind, but in his heart it was something different all together. He conceded that he could eventually learn to forgive Bentell of the wretched conditions at Carterson, having heard that the Commandant had pleaded their case to the Confederacy War Department more than once for additional supplies. He had even sent off a contingency of prisoners to Washington to try to reinstate the prisoner exchange program, but to no avail. Yes, Heath understood this and had heard mention that the Brigadier General John Winder was the worst of the lot, being of the opinion that all Union soldiers should die and boasting that more were dying in Andersonville and elsewhere than on the battlefields.  

The memories projected in his mind ended abruptly at the sound of laughter that drifted from inside the house out to the verandah. He longed to be with them. Just then his stomach rumbled loudly, protesting the little food he had eaten over the last week, but still he could not bring himself to join them. He had obviously ruined the evening, acting so badly. Surely his behavior confused and hurt Nick who had only tried to offer Heath not just a ring, but brotherhood.  It had been ceremoniously equivalent to the boyhood ritual of the letting and joining of blood, something that had not been afforded them as boys. 

Without a doubt, he had overreacted when he saw the ring. The sight of it on Nick's wide palm had shocked him beyond all things. Of course, he now could think things through rationally, well aware the ring could not have been his father's -- Tom Barkley's. 

When he had been a boy, feeling the deerskin cord around his neck and knowing his father's ring hung from it, he had begun to believe his father real. His mind conjured up dreams of them together as a father and son, his dreams becoming far more florid in the terrifying and dreary times, squirreling himself down deeper into his enlivened and imagined world.  The ring had become a protective amulet, as powerful to him as if the man fought by his side.

He reached back in his mind recalling a gruesome image that had taken many years for him to forget.  It was that of a father and son, laying dead face up, side by side, the boy hardly past the age of ten. Heath could not tear himself away from them, drawn to this horrific union, while the others around him were more fascinated by the number of dead who laid there on their backs, naked and noticeably diseased.

The spectators increased in number and the only thing that put a stop to their morbid curiosity, his  included, was the enemy letting loose of their rifle cannon on them. Heath could not blame them for wanting the proper respect shown to their dead.  He had left there quickly with that grossly curious and touching image of father and son forever burned into his brain.  It had haunted him, even though he did not quite know what to make of it. Deep in himself, he felt a twinge of jealousy, feeling sick at his stomach for that, but he could not stop from thinking that no matter how wretched a fate that poor boy had met, he had one thing that Heath did not -- a father. 

He heard their laughter again and then the sound of boot heels striking smartly on tile flooring.  Heath stood still, listening.

"Nick."

"Shouldn't you be lying down?"

"I'm all right."

Nick was quiet while he lit a cigar. They stood watching the sun's decline. Dusk came suddenly and the two men quietly hid themselves in it, both unable to speak openly of deep and private matters.

Nick finally spoke, his words coming out on his exhale of smoke.  "I know."

Heath shifted his feet slightly, but continued to keep his eyes averted. "What?"

"I *know* you're all right."  Nick drew in on the cigar.  The tip of it glowed cherry-red in the dim light. "But if you want to talk, I'll listen."

"You know." It was not a question.

Nick waited, taking another pull on the cigar.  "You mean about the ring?"

Heath trembled, his voice shaking slightly. "Yeah."

"Not this ring I have right here, but the *other* ring?  Our father's ring?"

"That'd be the one."

"Well, I had my suspicions."  Nick began to remove the ring from his finger. "You mentioned something about a ring when you were sick. More specifically, you called it the ring of my father, though you said it in Spanish.  Now my Spanish is weak, but I deciphered that pretty well.   Although, I wasn't completely sure if it was the bloodstone ring you were talking about. Jarrod said Mother had a dream about the ring. She decided to look for it. And she thought she'd found it, but it turned out she found Grandfather Barkley's bloodstone ring instead.  That cinched it for me.  I asked Mother when was the last time she'd seen the ring. She thought she remembered seeing it around the time Father had gone to Strawberry.  I just put two and two together."

Heath was quiet and then slowly looked over at Nick. "I lost it."

"Are you sure it was lost?"

"You saying I'm lying?"

"For crying out loud, Heath. I don't think you're lying, but I think you're blaming yourself for something a boy couldn't have kept from happening. It was stolen from you, wasn't it?"

Heath shivered, remembering how he had fought against them with everything he had and they had won, stripping him of everything he owned in the world. His throat ached and his heart pressed against his ribs. It took him a long time to speak, his voice only a whisper. "Yes, it was stolen."

"No one blames you, Heath.  So stop blaming yourself. You deserved that ring as much as me or Jarrod."

Heath lowered his head.  "Nick . . . "

"You do believe that don't you?"

"I'm starting to --"

"Well that'll have to do -- for now." Nick grinned, handing Heath the ring. "Here, I want you to take this. I think you would have liked Ol' Grandpa Barkley.  He was as crazy as a loon towards the end, but he was a real smart ol' codger.  I came across a few tintypes of him. I'd like
you to see them.  There's some of father when he was young.  Spooky how much you resemble him."

"So I've been told."

"I can think of worse things."  Nick grinned, but grew worried waiting for Heath's response.

"I know how much you loved him, Nick, and I can respect the fact that he was a good man, a good father.  I just need time to work it all out in my head. I can't help, but feel a mite resentful not having what you had, all my life thinking that the great Tom Barkley didn't want me."

"All I can say to that, Heath, is that he was a man of honor. When you showed up at our door, I was angry to the point that I started to doubt that, thinking it was all a lie, that he wasn't the man, I grew up believing him to be. I may not have been right about the character of Wallant, but I'm damn sure I am about Tom Barkley.  He wasn't perfect, but we ain't either.  Neither one of us should be casting stones."

Heath gave a canted smile, gaining comfort from the familiar feel of the ring in his hand. "Well, now don't that beat all. Never figured you to be able to give Jarrod a run for his money."

Nick looked quickly at Heath, considering his brother's words. "Well, now Brother . . ."  Nick grinned, enjoying the ribbing. "I've been known to have a *pearl* or two of my own."

Heath lowered his head, grinning. "Nick?"

"Yeah, Heath?"

"Thanks."

"There's nothing to thank me for."  Nick reached toward Heath and cupped his right shoulder. "How 'bout we get you some chow? I can hear your stomach grumbling from over here. What do ya say?"

"Don't have to ask me twice."  Heath grinned.  "All right so maybe you do."

"I do believe I recall you once saying that it sometimes takes awhile, but eventually the Barkleys do come around to seeing eye to eye with one another.  Well, Heath, you are a Barkley through and through."  

"Sure do like the sound of that, Nick." 

"And don't you forget it." Nick guided Heath back into the house. "Come on, let's get you something to eat.  You'll be no good to me all skin 'n bones  . . . "

Chapter 31

Heath watched the morning sky through his bedroom window while Jarrod, braced in the doorway, watched Heath. He studied the younger man who stood with his back to him, blond hair lighting up in the sunlight as if a halo framed his fine head. Jarrod could not seem to put aside a sudden thought of Christ's sufferings and how some men bore those earthly miseries far more than others, an inequity that a lawyer's mind and brother's heart could not abide.

Heath's own ruminations were worlds apart from those of his older brother, Jarrod's. He had permitted himself uncensored thought only to wonder why the pictures cast in his mind were of the time he had left Mexico. Years before, he had ridden out of Black Water in the Arizona Territory, making his way, a solitary rider, up the western rim where he had sat his horse on a lonely outcropping of Black Point. The view had stretched out in front of him seamlessly to the Animas Valley and then north to the Pelo Nullo mountains. To his east stood the Animas Mountains and beyond that the Big Hatchet and to the south Sonora and Chihuahua. He had lowered his head, giving a reverent farewell to the country and the woman he had come to love.

He saw her now, the woman, Lupe, her presence sharply actual, but then abruptly changing to that of Maria. Heath held Maria's image to him and remained in the embracing stillness of her, visibly not breathing, almost hypnotized. It reminded him of those moments before a maelstrom, when wild things are drawn nose to nose, still as stone. It seemed to Heath as if a lifetime shunted past in that space of suspension, waiting to be swept up, and having little recourse, but to join once again in life's damnable struggle. If only one was able to sidestep those pivotal moments, to stave off those times that could change a man so irreversibly.

But regret was a thing long since blotted out from his life.

One of many things sustained by Heath with high regard was his belief that a life of simple means did not suggest a man lived a wretched life. The grounds of Heath's discontent were only those owned by the fatherless, and even then it was not an issue that reared up often when he was a boy. Heath was of the opinion that the human spirit could make do and find bliss in the most meager of things. What had not existed, could not be truly missed. He was not one that coveted, and at times felt emboldened in the belief that most should be envious of him, having only known in childhood open affection and deep love.

He had run away to war and by doing so, he had broken his mother's heart, finding out too late from Hannah and Aunt Rachel that she had been unwell since his departure. He had taken too long to cure his wounded mind, to heal his soul and she had quietly slipped away from him. Even a small shred of regret would be crippling and he worked hard to live as a man with humble acceptance, tending to invisible wounds within him with a zealot's fervor. 

Heath sighed and held up the ring that hung once again from a deerskin cording. It at first moved imperceptively, but then increasing as though it were a needle held over a woman's fertile and swollen belly, eager to have fortunes told, to have answers that God kept solely to Himself.

Heath had no answers.

"There's quite a lore to that ring."

He startled at Jarrod's voice, whirling around while gathering up the ring into his fist.

"I'm sorry, Heath. Your door was open."

Heath smiled and nodded silently as Jarrod stepped into the room.

"May I?"

Heath was long in answering, and Jarrod stopped up short, a bit unnerved.

The corner of Heath's mouth quirked up and he looked at Jarrod. "Sure. Caught me woolgathering. Didn't know you were there."

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"You didn't."  Heath watched Jarrod sit in the chair near his bed.  He waited a moment and opened his palm, revealing the ring. "Tell me about it, Jarrod."

Jarrod smiled at Heath's eagerness. The lawyer had been driven to find out as much as he could about the gemstone and he was not at all surprised at what it had revealed to him. He stood, clearing his throat, thinking things over in his mind. He began slowly, seeing his father again through a boy's eyes.  "Our father had treasured this little gem. Much of what I know about the ring, I remembered from his stories. It's known by many names: Heliotrope, jasper, Saint Stephen's stone, and the bloodstone. There is something quite powerful and deeply sorrowful about the idea of the red markings being that of Christ's blood. The stone is believed to foster courage, able to give clear direction to one's life path.  It has been said that in time the bearer of the bloodstone will obtain all their wants." 

Heath looked at the ring and lifted it, opening up the cord awkwardly with his one hand and placed it over his head. The feel of the cord around his neck and the weight of the ring sent a shudder through him. He felt as though his father stood beside him and he closed his eyes.

"Heath, are you all right?"

Heath smiled and shrugged.  "Just stirred up some ghosts."

Jarrod walked over to the younger man and gripped his good shoulder. "Any time you want to talk, Heath, I'm here. I need you to know that you can always come to me."

Heath looked at Jarrod, their gaze intent and then Heath lowered his head.  He nodded and began to speak in his familiar, soft way, his words thoughtful and measured.  "I've known that without your needing to say it, Jarrod."  Heath lifted his head and smiled.  "But it's a comfort to hear." 

Jarrod smiled, his brain bursting to question his brother, to know things about him, to hear him tell of the war and his time as a child.  But he kept still and hoped that those things could be eked from the man over time.  His thoughts were interrupted by Heath.

"In the war, I wore it 'round my neck like a sacred amulet." He shook his head giving a brief and bitter smile. "I was just a fool kid, scared half out of my wits. I set great store by that ring, sure that it was the only thing keeping me alive. Indians had a name for it. Some called it puha. Paiute called it buha. A stone was permanent, immortal and had protective powers. I believed the ring had powerful magic, puha. I mostly wanted to believe it because my mama told me it belonged to my father."  Heath looked at Jarrod gauging his reaction to all he had just said. "This might sound foolish, maybe I just wanted it too badly -- " Heath suddenly stopped, memory strong upon him.

Jarrod waited, and then after a time called softly to Heath. The younger man started, shaking his head a little as though trying to gain back his train of thought.  He looked over at Jarrod and smiled apologetically.  "I'm tired, Jarrod. Do ya mind if we talk about this some other time?"

Jarrod struggled to hide his disappointment. He was quiet a moment, not wanting to speak until he was certain his tone was neutral and reasonable.  "Certainly, Heath. Some other time, then."  Jarrod walked over to Heath and gave the man an awkward one-armed hug trying to avoid the man's wounded shoulder.  He backed away quickly.  "My door is always open."

When he finally met Heath's gaze, he saw the younger man's gratitude in the ingenuous, blue eyes.  Jarrod smiled briefly and gave a quick pat to Heath's shoulder.  "Get some rest.  Call out if you need anything.  I'll be in my room." 

Heath nodded to Jarrod, sitting down slowly on the edge of his bed. Jarrod wanted to help him get settled, feeling protective, but he knew the too intimate proximity would unnerve his younger brother.  He wandered reluctantly out of Heath's room, leaving it at that.

Chapter 32

Heath tapped lightly on the bedroom door and when he heard his brother call out, he entered the room.  Jarrod looked up from his book, his face showing his surprise. 

"Heath."

Jarrod stood up quickly, putting his book down on the seat of the chair, not thinking to mark his page.

Heath lowered his head, his breathing tight.  "Sorry for barging in on you."

Jarrod recovered quickly, his smile and voice were warm and caring.  "It's just occurred to me that you've never been in my room."

Heath stared at Jarrod.  "Don't believe I've had the privilege."

Jarrod grinned while walking toward Heath.  He grabbed the younger man's arm at the elbow and ushered Heath to a chair beside the one he had recently occupied. "No privilege to speak of really."  Jarrod looked directly at Heath.  "Being in San Francisco a good part of my time and then when home, spending many late nights in the study, I rarely see the inside of this room."

Jarrod walked to his chair, picking up the book and sat.  "When I was young, I did spend a great deal of time here. Never seemed to be enough days in the week to fit in all my studies and my other interests.  It seemed I was forever jumping from one thing to the next. Discovering something new that led to something else.  Would you believe I was considered flighty, a bit fickle, by many of my teachers?"  Jarrod looked over at Heath and grinned.

Heath smiled affectionately at Jarrod. "Most kids are.  There's a whole lot of world out there."

Jarrod raised the book in his hand.  "And in here."

Heath nodded.  "I learned mostly from doing, not much time for reading.  Aunt Rachel had me read scripture every night. She had other books, too.  Took me places in my head, but what I liked most was knowing that every man had his lion's share of struggles no matter, rich or poor."

"That's true, Heath.  Money and privilege does not always buy an easy road."

Heath spoke softly.  "Or God's favor."

"Or God's favor."  Jarrod sighed deeply. "Heath, what I'm about to say might make you uncomfortable, but I need to tell you this -- when I saw how close you came to dying, how near we came to losing you -- well, let's just say it's put everything into perspective for me.  I didn't want another day passing without telling you how I feel, how much you mean to me, to the family. I'm honored that you choose to call me brother." Jarrod gazed into space a moment thinking things over. He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Why is it so difficult to express one's caring, but so easy to show one's displeasure?"

"Just the way of things, I suppose."

Jarrod gave a small smile.  "Yes."  His smile grew. "Well, perhaps here and now between us, we've changed that in a small way." 

Heath was quiet, his eyes moving over the room, taking it all in before he looked over at his brother.  He first touched the ring with his fingertips before speaking. His voice was self-conscious and soft.  "I've come to love you as a brother, too."

Jarrod nodded, his eyes suddenly welling.  His throat ached with unreleased emotion, a mix of joy and sorrow, and for a time he could not talk. He reached over to clutch Heath's arm and he saw that his hand shook. Jarrod took a breath and released it. He spoke quietly. "There may come a time that I will hurt you and perhaps a time when you will hurt me as well. But, Heath, know this, as I'm sure you feel the same -- know that my intent would never be malicious, but merely driven by love." 

Heath smiled.  "I'll keep that in mind, if you'll do the same."

"Deal."  Jarrod gripped Heath's hand.  "I presume this unexpected, but none-the-less pleasant visit isn't purely social. Was there something on your mind, Heath?  Something you need?"

Heath shook his head. "We didn't finish our conversation before."

Jarrod stared intently into Heath's eyes.  "Only if *you* want to continue it."

"I do."

"All right then."  Jarrod waited.

Heath shifted in the chair, his eyes growing dull and distant.  His voice was almost too low for Jarrod to hear.  He worried at the change that came over his younger brother as he leaned closer to him.

"When I told my Mama I was going off to fight, she cried for days. I broke her heart then, but I went off anyway, every night seeing her tears in my dreams. I prayed she'd speak to me before I left, give me her blessing. I never did get that, but she did give me the ring like this."  Heath held it up by the cord around his neck, looking at it for a time and then looked over at Jarrod. "Your daddy's ring, she told me.  Keep it close. During some dark days, I imagined him to be with me, fighting alongside me. A fool kid. Just a fool kid, but I could kill as well as any man. I fought against them that took it from me -- that took the ring.  I fought for it with my life and when it was lost to me, I knew right then in my heart that my daddy was lost to me, too. The dreaming stopped after that like a spigot shut tight.  I knew it wasn't ever meant to be -- ever." Heath took a closer look at the ring. "It's not the same, you know, the coloring's all wrong, less red showing. What did you say it was thought to be -- the Lord's blood?  Then I reckon it was a fitting ring to be wearing at the time -- what with the whole world bleeding."  

"Heath -- I'm so sorry."  Jarrod filled up with great sadness for his brother.  "I'm so terribly sorry."

"A man is able to live with and live without. It's done now, Jarrod.  I decided a long time ago that I was going to get through whatever came my way.  And I did.  It's no different now."

Jarrod stared at Heath for a long time, his eyes wet and his voice rough when he spoke.  "I admire your fortitude. I admire you."

Heath smiled.  "My Mama wouldn't abide with anything less."

The brothers locked eyes, both trying to find the appropriate words to put to their feelings.  They sat in silence until Nick's shouts exploded through the house and into Jarrod's room. Both men startled and blinked rapidly as if they had been woken from a deep spell. They smiled at each other when Nick bellowed out their names again.  Their grins spiraled into laughter, hearing their mother's voice.  Nick clearly was getting a strong dressing down by the petite woman.

Jarrod turned to Heath. "Shall we rescue Brother Nick and see what all the fuss is about?"

The corner of Heath's mouth quirked up.  "Sometimes that man can't seem to get out of his own way."

A joy lit Jarrod's eyes seeing the obvious love Heath had for Nick and now assured the same love was held for him. He helped Heath up from the chair, then together they walked out of the room. Heath stood in the hallway while Jarrod closed the bedroom door.

The lawyer grinned mischievously at the younger man. "Do we dare?" 

Heath lifted a brow at Jarrod's words, smiling. "Right about now I can't help thinkin' we're both  gluttons for punishment. Should be real interestin'." 

Jarrod rolled his eyes while lightly touching a hand to Heath's back, making their way down the hallway. "With Nick is it ever any other way?"

It felt good to Jarrod to walk alongside this brother, vigilant and protective of him. He felt closer to Heath than he ever thought was possible and his love for his brother hummed through him like sweet music.

Nick sprinted up the steps and met them at the top.  "JARROD! HEATH! Didn't you hear me calling ya? We're going through some old photographs and Mother's found some of Father's sketches."  He stepped to the other side of Heath. Now both dark-haired brothers flanked the blond on either side.  "You up for it, Heath? We can always do this later."  

"I'm fine, Nick. All this resting is tiring me out." 

"All right. All right. But if I see your eyes close just once, you're back to bed."

Jarrod smiled while he watched Nick wrap his arm gently around Heath's waist. The entire time Nick spoke to their younger brother about the day in calming tones. He looked at Heath's face and saw the man was enraptured listening to Nick.  But then a worry rose in Jarrod when he noted the darkness under Heath's eyes like black scars, certain that his brother's recounting of the ring drained the man terribly. 

Halfway down the flight of stairs, Heath stumbled and Jarrod without thinking, grabbed hold of Heath's bad arm. Heath groaned and his knees buckled, but Nick was there to keep him from tumbling down the final steps. Jarrod remained frozen on the stairs, dazed by what he had done, seeing over and over in his mind his hand shooting out and hearing Heath's moans. He had reacted badly and had hurt Heath because of it.

Heath's insistent, though gentle voice broke into his reverie.  "Jarrod. Jarrod. You gonna stand there all day?" 

Jarrod lifted his head and looked at Heath who now stood in the foyer, leaning heavily against Nick.  His face was pinched and Jarrod saw lines of pain around the younger man's eyes.  Jarrod's mouth hung open a moment and then snapped shut, uncharacteristically tongue-tied and unnerved.  All he could manage was a quickly mumbled apology. 

"For the love of God, Jarrod!  This boy is getting heavy!"  Nick was growing impatient and he could feel Heath pulling away from him. He grudgingly let him go, watching Heath stagger a little as he headed back to the stairs.  He was relieved to see Jarrod finally make his way down the steps to Heath.

"Come on, Jarrod. Nick's getting antsy and you and I know firsthand that that ain't good."

"Very funny, Heath."  Nick put his hands on his hips. "Well, you both coming or you planning on puttin' down roots there?"

Jarrod was still uneasy, but he pushed himself to let the tension go.  He saw Heath's worry change to relief and immediately chastised himself for causing that small upset, too.  Enough of this foolishness, Jarrod reprimanded himself inwardly, Heath is fine.

He smiled sheepishly at his brothers, grateful to them for charitably overlooking his misstep. Reassured by his brothers' warmth and acceptance, his demeanor and the expression on his face returned to that of the self-assured lawyer.  The three stood now shoulder-to-shoulder and then moved together through the foyer to the parlor.

* * * * * * * *

Scattered about the floor and piled in neat stacks on top of the marble table was what Heath considered to be the Barkley's sacred tome. He instantly felt a crippling shame like a black curtain drawn around him. Perhaps, he did resemble his father or some other distant and unknown relative, but it was a misbegotten familial connection that should never have known the light of day. He was that which should only be spoken of in hushed tones and embarrassed shushes, born to backdoor handouts and indifferent charity, to be hidden away in garret or cellar. There would be no daguerreotype of Madonna and child nor that of a father. His heart beat hard against his ribs in terror and rage. He looked over at his stepmother who sat pensively, watching him. He saw then in her grey eyes that she knew his thoughts as true as if he had voiced them out loud. 

He suddenly remembered a similar moment in this very room where he sat holding his father's boots, burdened by the weight of them in his hands and that of his new family's expectations. Again he heard their joyous outburst when the boots slid on effortlessly -- a perfect fit. He would carry the tragic irony of that moment to his grave. Heath shivered once more seeing in his weary brain the fury in Gene's face and hearing Nick's barely contained forbearance and more than certain that they had all felt the same outrage at what they judged to be a cold shoulder given, a heartless rejection of their father. A mongrel pup like him should not be turning up a nose and walking away from the honor of wearing the Great Tom Barkley's boots. 

But she had understood then and Heath saw that she understood now. 

He watched as she stood and walked toward him and he felt her arm slip through his and he moved in step with her when she led him to the chair where she had been sitting. After seeing that he was comfortable, she looked at him intently. Her eyes tunneled into his and her hand was pressed firmly on his right shoulder. She spoke to him softly, but no less commanding. "If your father was here today, he would take great pride and delight sharing all this with you. I knew your father as well as I knew myself, though I can't deny that I had been badly shaken when you came to claim your birthright. But I had faith in myself and in the man I loved and I knew that faith to be well-founded.  I speak to you now, Heath, as I know your father would have spoken to you. Take pride in whom you are, the man you have become. He would have been so proud of you.  I can say quite confidently that he would not have turned you away."  

Heath was overwhelmed, a surge of love and lightheadedness mingled in that moment and he could not take his eyes from her. He heard his heart pounding in his ears and could not tell if he was breathing. It took a great deal of control to look away from her, fear and curiosity getting the better of him, needing to know. He lifted his head and moved his eyes slowly from one to the other, hoping to see the truth of her words in their faces.  And in each one he saw unqualified love. 

Victoria patted Heath's hand when she saw the curve of a contented smile on his lips. She kissed his cheek and knelt down among the photographs. A brown daguerreotype caught her attention and she held it in her milk-white hand, smiling at the captured image.  She lifted it for Heath to see, giving him details, explaining lineage and family history.  Photograph after photograph passed by him and he sat smiling vaguely at each one and though, he knew he would not remember many he found a comfort in their faces. 

His eyes began to grow heavy and the images held in front of him became bleary. His blue eyes wavered and then closed. Unnoticed by the others, he would briefly nod off and then startle himself awake, his gaze each time locking on the next tintype that drifted and swam in front of him. But suddenly his eyes widened with recognition looking at one particular likeness and he heard himself saying out loud, "I know him. I know this man." 

He did not seem to notice when the room fell completely silent.

Chapter 33

Heath saw by the clothes worn that the man in the tintype was unmistakably American, though  the features were distinctly English, the hair and skin plaster-white. He stared at the mechanical portrait he had torn from his mother's hold, his hand trembling when the image seemed to come alive, suddenly real. It was as if the old man in the portraiture had stepped through the years that separated their lives.

It took no time for the memory to come back to him clear and sharp in his mind. It happened quickly within a breath, a wing beat, and he was certain his only hope of breaking free was to shut his mind down, to snuff it out like the flame of an extinguished lamp. But before he was able, everything rose up and swirled in his brain like murky waters, an eddy. His words began to gout from him in Spanish, a language he had not spoken in years.

Instinct told him his family was watching him, he could sense them there, could feel their eyes. They were afraid to move toward him, to speak to him as though he had most assuredly gone mad. But then in a whoosh, a rush of air, he was no longer in the warm, familiar room, finding himself savagely dropped in a world he would have gladly forgotten.

Everything was gilded saffron in the late afternoon sun, the gold seeping around him as he stood on a muddy street in Carterson.  A scarecrow dressed in ol' Mrs. Bentell's red silk dress and straw hat was fixed firmly in the fertile soil of her garden. It stood solemn and still like a rood, the weighted plants bowing down before it as if in prayer.

Heath wrenched his eyes away and looked down at his hand. He no longer held the tintype, surprised to find a bloodied knife gripped tightly there instead. It was his skinning knife. He looked away quickly and turned his line of sight to the far horizon. There against the south wall of the stockade was a rick of bones ascending nearly to the top, even in death trying to escape. Nearby on a small knoll, a blond-haired boy sat an old silver grulla. The boy's shirt was blood-red and his eyes were dead as a lamp burned out.

Again Heath turned away, dropping his gaze to the ground, at his feet were the grotesque remains of the red-haired man. The bones were huge and white like the elephant tusks he had once seen while working the docks. The red hair had fallen away from the skull, the brand of the man's crimes long since rotted away with flesh, now having to answer to God's divine law. The old man from the tintype stood nearby wordlessly observant, watching him with those eyes like glittering jewels that gave nothing away. 

Heath felt the fear run up his spine. "Quenes es usted?  Who are you?" 
"Me recuerda usted? Do you remember me?"

Heath watched the old man's mouth closely when he spoke. The animated tintype's voice was clear and strong and he sounded as alive as any other man. Heath answered it.  "Si. Yes."

He remembered an old gypsy woman, a reader of fortunes, telling him that to have truly spoken to the dead, the spirits must speak normally using their mouths, if not it was only thought to be a dream. 

So was this a dream then or real?  Did he now live in the world of his mind, trapped there in the horrors of Carterson, never to break free?  Dread gathered in his heart and he panicked, realizing he could no longer see his family. Where had they gone?

"Aydeme!  Help me!"

The old man smiled and Heath held out a hand to him, but when he touched him there was nothing, but air. 

"Mi hijo, usted no ha sido abandonado.  My son, you have not been forsaken."

"Digame! Quenes es usted?  Tell me! Who are you?"  Something happened then and it all fell away from him.

Stunned, they watched Heath with horrid fascination. The young man, breathless and agitated, suddenly stood and began to speak Spanish with surprising ease to no one they could see.  Although he was physically standing in the room with them, they were quite certain he was somewhere else in his mind. 

Nick was the first to react, rushing quickly to his younger brother's side. He stood next to Heath and touched his brother's face and then brushed his hand over the blond head. Heath did not respond; his blank expression frightened Nick. The eyes were opened, but seemed to be looking inward. The blueness of them was unusually bright and not once did they drift or blink.  

"Heath?"  Nick persisted.  "Heath! Where are you, Boy?"

"Nick! Wait!"  Jarrod stepped closer, his eyes on Heath.

"Wait! Wait for what?  How's waiting going to help this boy?"  Nick took Heath's arm and moved him back to the settee. Heath was compliant, sitting when Nick pushed down gently on his shoulder.

Jarrod looked over at their mother who sat transfixed in a spill of photographs, her eyes only on Heath. Quietly, he walked over to her and gave her his hand, helping her up from the floor. While rising, she looked at him briefly, nodding her gratitude, and then went quickly over to Heath. Audra stood next to Jarrod and he put his arm around her shoulders, bringing her tightly up against him.  Neither spoke while they watched Nick and their mother attempt to reach Heath. 

Victoria found the offending tintype and held it up so Heath could see it. Her face became suddenly pinched with disappointment when he gave no reaction. His eyes were empty like a blind man's. She grabbed his face and moved it toward hers. She was close enough to feel his breath on her. She squeezed her fingers a bit deeper into the flesh beneath his cheekbones. Again there was no response, but she persevered.

"Heath!  Heath Barkley! Look at me!" Her tone was plangent and desperate. "Look at me!  I'll not stand for this one more moment!" And then she slapped him. It cracked and resonated through the room, through their flesh, through their bones. Victoria then burst into tears, overcome. 

He began to fall, something striking his face like the sting of ice on bare skin, hearing his name and he tried to move, to answer. He struggled, desperate to get back, to get away, his right hand went out and touched something soft, wonderful, familiar, comforting  . . .  

Heath found his voice; it came to him slowly. His throat felt filled with dust. "Mother?"  

"Yes, Heath. Yes. It's mother." She pressed a kiss to his too-cold forehead and wrapped her arms around him in guarded relief, her heart a bit lighter.

Nick ran a hand up Heath's back and squeezed his shoulder.  His eyes met his mother's and he silently mouthed, "Doctor Merar." 

Victoria nodded.  "Jarrod?"

Jarrod understood instantly, having watched their brief exchange.  "I'll send someone posthaste." With that he quickly fled the room and was on his way to the bunkhouse.

Nick was sitting next to Heath on the settee, his mother on the other side. He ran his hand over the back of Heath's head and placed it lightly at the base of his brother's neck. His large fingers pulsed anxiously against the cord of muscle.  "Heath?"  Nick's voice was just above a whisper, tightly solicitous.  "Heath?  Let's get you to bed. You're plumb wore out.  Do you think you can walk?"

It took a minute, but Nick saw Heath's head bob slightly. At that Nick stood and lifted Heath under his right arm while grasping him around the waist.  He half-carried the younger man.

Dizzy with exhaustion, Heath made every attempt to help Nick. He trembled noticeably from the effort and his knees buckled when they finally reached his bed.  He felt Nick stumble slightly under his weight, but then quickly regained his footing. He tried to mumble an apology, but the words came out all wrong, unintelligible.  He gave up and allowed his brother to position him on the bed, feeling the tug of one boot and then the other.  He felt himself being shifted, his legs raised and set gently on the bed.  His head was lowered to fresh, cool pillows, a blanket tucked around him.  He could not seem to keep his eyes open and he fell asleep listening to the seamless baritone of his big brother Nick's voice.    

* * * * * * * *

It was midday when Heath finally awakened.  His mother was dozing in the chair beside his bed and he felt a twinge of guilt and then intense embarrassment as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. He groaned and ran a hand over his face. The exhaustion he felt was relentless. No sooner awake, his eyes drooped again and he drifted off to the safe, protective cushion of sleep.

Victoria quietly watched her son wake, saw the wash of guilt on his expressive face, heard the groan that was more an indication of an emotional discomfort than physical. She sat up and reached for the small journal that she had placed on the bedside table, the leather of its cover softly worn from handling. Her heart suddenly began to pound with thoughts of sharing what was penned inside.

It now seemed a lifetime ago when she had stumbled upon the journal while rummaging through the old trunks for a charity drive. The journal had been hidden away, wrapped in an old satin vest.
Her hands had shook terribly when she had opened the book and saw the familiar handwriting. She had become so lightheaded that she had been close to faint. It had taken quite awhile for her to regain her composure. At the time, she had a strange sensation of eavesdropping, a voyeur. She had spoken aloud to the empty room of her distress, but no one had answered.

While waiting for Doctor Merar to examine Heath, she had allowed each of her children to take the journal to read quietly themselves. Audra had sobbed without consolation for hours afterward, a child's tragic loss of a parent again surfacing, a scar within her still pink and raw. Nick merely had nodded, handing the journal back to her, his eyes wet with grief. Jarrod, too, had no words, embracing her for a long time and she suspected he had cried, feeling the small tremors of his body against hers. 

Doctor Merar had told them he believed Heath had suffered an acute reaction to trauma, being both mentally fatigued as well as physically. His prescription was rest and avoiding unpleasantries at all cost.

"Perhaps then the journal would cause more harm than good," she mused aloud. "Perhaps . . ."

She saw all things lately as portents, each omen proving to be far more than mere coincidence or purely superstition. The significance of each became more and more clear to her as she took them into account. It seemed to Victoria the journal might very well be the close of things, a step toward understanding and healing.

Victoria held the journal open and looked at the tintype she had placed there to mark the significant entries. Her thoughts wandered, remembering Tom's vulnerability which felt as a knife-cut to her heart on her first reading. She recalled those days now, never truly knowing -- his terror, his guilt, his profound love and his desperate need for her. But perhaps it would be helpful to know a father's truth, to know his words, his remembrances. In that moment, she made her decision, speaking aloud, though barely audible, "Perhaps, I shall."

Chapter 34

When Heath awoke in the late afternoon, Victoria was there and when he awoke again that evening she sat, eyes alert to his every movement. He fell back to sleep with the comfort of knowing she kept vigil. She grounded him like nothing else could. The mesmeric sound of her soft, even breaths, the occasional light touches to his forehead and the feel of her hand smoothing back his hair was enough to fight away all things that haunted.

By moonlight, he came to total wakefulness and he looked slowly around the room. The occident light of day's end was long expired, the moon and morning star now radiating brightly in the black dome of sky. From his bedroom window, the moon appeared to be caught in the high limbs of the oaks, its spectral light illuminating the thin clouds around it like morning mist. The window had been left open a crack and a soft breeze riffled the bottom edge of the draperies. For a moment he was lost in its motion, his thoughts, serene, idyllic as a child snug in a maternal embrace. He remembered his father then, forming the man in his mind from the recently viewed daguerreotypes and from his mother Leah's words. He was a boy again, the hope in him at first like a scatter of birds, fragmented, searching, and then in a single moment rising, assembling in a perfect formation of undulating wings.

He recalled the words of the old man: "Mi hijo, usted no ha sido abandonado.  My son, you have not been forsaken."  The old man spoke the truth.  All things in time.  That had been what his mother had said to him while looking at his father's imposing portrait over the mantle -- all in time. The hurt and the abandonment were slowly ebbing, were not as raw.  He touched the ring.  It was alive against him, pulsing and warm, feeling its healing powers, giving him clarity, giving him strength.

His mother entered the room carrying a tray, something for him to eat, no doubt, but nothing too heavy, too difficult for his gone-too-long-without stomach. He had nearly forgotten how to eat, having no appetite.  The effort to do so had become laborious, toilsome.  But he would not disappoint her, forcing it all down to the last. When he had finished everything, she kissed his forehead and he could feel her relief flow through him like a current.

"Thank you, Sweetheart."  She looked at him closely and smiled, straightening up around him and then picked up the tray to bring down to the kitchen.  He silently watched her leave the room, waiting for her return.

She came back quickly, her hands out of his sight, but then he saw a small leather-bound book.  He eyed it quizzically, arching a sandy brow. He shifted himself up higher against the pillows and touched a nervous hand to the ring. There was a look on his mother face he could not quite place. He watched as she sat stiffly on the edge of the chair's seat, the book placed gingerly on the small space of her lap. Her white hair was luminescent in the oil-lamp's glow like winter sun on snow. 

"Will you tell me what happened to you?"

Heath dropped his gaze, not answering.

"There was something about the tintype that upset you."

Heath still did not respond.

"Do you remember?" Victoria leaned forward and touched him lightly. "Where had you gone, Heath?"

He looked at her, taking a long time to answer. "Carterson."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"NO!" Heath became irrationally panicked by his obvious disrespect. "I - I - I'm sorry," he stammered.

"There's no need to be sorry." She picked up the book from her lap and studied him meaningfully. "Will you answer me this? Will you tell me how you feel now?"

He sat there for a long time. He closed his eyes and listened to the aching, creaking silence of the house. His discomfort was high, acutely aware she was waiting for him to say something. How did he feel? Out of control, lost -- that life would have been easier on everyone if he had never breathed his first breath. Good and sorry for himself -- that was how he felt. 

"You don't want to know."

"Of course, I do. Why would you say such a thing?"  Victoria smiled gently, scrutinizing him. "Please, Sweetheart, don't be difficult."

"I don't want to be." He took in a breath and let it out loudly. "You can't deny that life would have been a lot easier for you and for my mama if I'd never been born."

He saw her flinch from his words, her features crumpling. He could tell she was close to tears, but then recovered quickly. When she finally spoke, her tone was enraged, her voice untempered like cold, dark metal.

"Easier! Easier! You listen to me, Heath Barkley, easy has nothing to do with it. And to hear you speak of never being born -- do you think so little of your mother, so little of me? We've been over this and over this. Admittedly, it was a shock for us all.  . ."   Her voice grew soft, despairing. "To not have you in our lives would be an unspeakable loss. And your mother -- my God, Heath! How could you think for one minute she did not want you?"

"I didn't say--"

"Your statement implies just that. Do you doubt our love so much?"

"No. I didn't mean . . ."

"To love sometimes means to sacrifice . . . to love is not always an easy course. We came close to losing you and that only reinforces how much you've come to mean to us, how much you've come to mean to me. I won't hear any more of this nonsense." 

"Things are all mixed up in my head, going 'round 'n 'round."  Heath touched a shaky hand to the ring, speaking in a whisper. "I killed a boy.  I killed a boy that never had a chance in his life."

"Are you speaking of Gabriel?"

Heath's head snapped up and his blue eyes searched hers.

"Yes, I know about the boy.  Gabriel Hatch.  The boy who shot you and left you for dead.  The boy who almost killed Nick. He had, I'm sure, many chances in life to do the right thing and he chose wrong."

"Wasn't his fault."

"We all must take responsibility for our actions."

"His mama had to work the pest houses for money and then she got herself sick and died.  He was just a kid.  He had to learn quick how to survive in this world."

"So you think it's acceptable for him to hurt people, to rob and to murder for his survival?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying."

"But it is, Heath. That's exactly what you're saying.  I understand life was difficult for the boy, but there were other ways to survive, people who would have helped him."

"Who? Who would have helped him?"

"I can name one."

Heath looked at her quizzically, lifting a brow.

Victoria laughed lightly. "You, Heath.  A person like you."

"Too little, too late, I reckon."

"Perhaps, but I do know one thing, you offered that boy help and he turned his back on that help. He wanted things the easy way, the wrong way.  He hurt you, Heath, and he would have hurt Nick. You had no choice."

"I suppose." Heath reached out to her and she took his hand.

"Well, now that that's settled  . . . "  She released his hand, giving it a gentle pat and turned her attention to the small book on her lap. "I want to share this with you, but I don't want to do anything that might hurt you. The day you left, I came across this journal.  It was your father's. Would you like me to read some of it to you?"

"A journal?"

"Yes. It was separate from your father's important papers and several other journals he had kept over the course of his life. This one only holds a few entries.  It was written during a time when your father was very troubled and I worried terribly for him."

"I'd like to hear it."  Heath smiled slightly. "If you're willing to read it."

Victoria nodded.  She reached over to the lamp to raise the flame.  The room lit up brightly and she opened the book.  Her hands trembled somewhat, and she took a deep breath and then released it.  Slowly, she started to read:

Spring  1862

~ The dream came again, stealing over me in the night as it always does. I am haunted by him, this boy I can give no name. His face, his eyes -- there is something  . . .  something that seems so familiar. I have gone too long without restful sleep, nearly a month, and now he comes to me in my waking hours. I hear his heart beating in my ears, his terror, his sorrows are mine and I wake shivering in a sweat, the linens twisted about me and my dear wife's worry as pointed as the fear that grips my being. Victoria insists it is the grief over my father's death and the boys, our dear, precious boys -- Jarrod and Nick -- now gone off to fight, that cause my sleepless nights.  Oh, what a brave woman! My sweet Victoria, bearing up so well.  What greater despair, what greater pain can a mother endure than to send her sons to war? I gain strength from her.  I must buck up. My family is beginning to suffer, the ranch as well.  This must end now.

Victoria stopped reading and quickly paged through the journal.  Satisfied she had found the right entry, she began to read to Heath again.

Summer 1862

~ I have put my father's ring away.  It haunts me as much as the boy. I woke last night crying out in my sleep and my dear wife held me as she would hold a child.  I am ill. My malaise is great.  This time the dream was so actual I could feel my father's tears on my skin. He was crying for the boy he held in his arms, the boy in my dreams, and I feared him dead.  Feared him dead!  Has my sanity left me altogether?  How could something, someone that does not exist except in my mind -- die?  I have gone utterly mad!  And if the dreams were not  burden enough, I have been thinking of Leah which only adds to my turmoil. The ring -- my father's ring has become my conscience and in his death I fear he is privy to all my sins.  I was weak, missing my family, missing my Victoria, my eternal love -- and then gentle Leah, with her warmth, her compassion, her joy  . . .  bringing me back to full health.  On the edge of death in that alley, the angels' songs in my ears, I shiver now to think of it, robbed blind except for the bloodstone ring.  It was all I could leave her, not nearly enough for what she had given back to me -- my life.  Perhaps these bouts of despair are my penance, although falling far short of my debt. 

She looked up from the journal. In the lamp's glow, her face appeared pale and ethereal as cloud wisps. Her breath caught at the sight of tears streaming down Heath's gaunt face. She made no mention of it and lowered her eyes back down to the journal.  She thumbed through the pages and waited a moment. When she began to read again, her voice sounded tight and small. It was a voice on the edge of some great and terrible emotion. 

Winter 1863

~The dreams are gone and I can't help but wonder if the ring had something to do with it -- the start of them and ultimately their end.  It's as though I can breathe again, my burden has been lifted from my shoulders.  But I cannot say all is entirely well.  A strange melancholy grips me at times.  Oddly enough, I miss the boy, although he was that of my own imaginings.  How very strange to think him as real.  I believe my father now rests in peace, no more nightly visitations.  I miss that as well. It seems things are looking up, the war nearing its final days and at the boys' last writing both are in good health.  The Lord in all His kindness. I could not have want for a better life.

Victoria closed the journal and looked over at Heath.

"That boy . . ." His voice wavered, sounding like a hopeful child. "Was I that boy . . . the one from the dreams?"

"Yes, Sweetheart, I believe you were."

Heath nodded while wiping at his eyes furiously.

From its safekeeping between the journal's pages, Victoria removed the tintype.  Tired, heavy-lidded, she studied the image. She turned the picture toward Heath for him to see. 

"This man, Heath, do you know this man?"

Heath swallowed, his jawline pulsing with tension.  "Whether a dream or real, I've seen him before."

"When Heath?  When have you seen this man?"

"When I was a boy . . . in Carterson."  Heath took the tintype from her. "I was poorly, fevered . . .  I swore he was real."  Heath looked at his mother. "Who is he?"

Victoria smiled, her face soft with tender remembrances  "This man, Heath -- this man is your grandfather. Grandfather Barkley."

"My grandfather."  Heath looked at the tintype again.  His voice was low, tired. "I would have gone crazy without him. He saved my life."

At that Victoria stood and wrapped her arms around her son. "And for that I will be eternally grateful."

Continued…