A Trust Betrayed

Chapters 1-10

by Redwood

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.

When I watch an episode, I tend to think in terms of questions: What else could have happened? What was missing? And, how else could it have turned out? So, not to take anything away from how the original showed Jarrod’s unselfish self-reliance, or from that wonderful poker scene in Stockton with Nick and Heath. . .here’s an alternate version of “Hazard” revisited as: “A Trust Betrayed.”

(While there will be other differences in this version and the original, an essential assumption of this story, critically different from the episode, is that Jarrod does NOT say he is going to Coreyville to find out the truth about Gil Anders until AFTER Heath leaves the house in anger.)

The characters are as in the original, except, Eugene does not exist, poor thing.

Chapter 1

The anger radiated off of him in undulating waves of fury, like the ripples of late afternoon heat rising from the landscape around him. With his eyes on the road before him, he moved naturally with the horse beneath him, unconsciously ticking off the miles in his head as his anger and his mount carried him away from the valley he had grown to love.

Sometimes, he thought he’d never understand all the rules of daily living, all the values, all the beliefs that his new family members held themselves to. Compared to theirs, the rules and values he had learned from his mama had been far simpler, her unvoiced foundation for everyday action based on honesty, fairness, and a good dose of constant courage.

Growing up, he had learned these rules from observing her constantly, from listening to her courageous quiet in the face of townspeople who tried to make themselves bigger by belittling her. He had learned these lessons from watching her treat others with more fairness than she herself was afforded. He had learned her way of reacting with honesty, tempered by a deep compassion for others, no matter their circumstances, no matter the way they responded to her.

He had soaked up the calm honesty, the sense of fairness, and the constant courage that had characterized who she was. But, because of their circumstances, he had also learned the lessons of fighting for what he believed in, of fighting for what he thought was right, of fighting for her.

For as long as he could remember, while she had always forgiven others for their treatment of her, while she had always turned the other cheek, he had been her silent defender. Above all else, probably because of wanting to take care of her even when he had been too small to do so, and possibly because he had never known a father’s unfailing love, Heath had learned and developed an unerring sense of loyalty to those he loved and cared about, of loyalty to her.

He knew that she had wanted him to feel the same way she did about the man that had been his father. But, his tendency to fight for her, his very loyalty to her, had kept him from forgiving the man he did not know because of the man’s treatment of her.

Sometimes, loyalty and forgiveness were just too distantly different.

Now, as he rode through the heat, he thought about the silver-haired woman he had more recently come to revere, and of the lessons he was learning from his father’s wife, from Victoria Barkley, and from her family. He was absorbing their lessons and comparing these to those he had already learned in his life, comparing them whether his family intended him to or not.

Several times since his arrival in their home, the differences in the lessons had become painfully obvious. More than once, he had been surprised, and even angered, by what the other Barkleys thought he should do. And, for their part, they were more than shocked that he did not naturally hold himself to their beliefs.

Now that he was a little calmer than when he had left the house earlier this morning, he could finally put words to the way they had made him feel several times in the eight months since he had arrived.

In particular, the pain of this morning’s lessons collided dangerously with his still raw anguish over the specific demands they had made of him three months ago.

When he had first recognized their logging foreman, Matt Toddman, as the infamous Matt Bentell, they had insisted that Heath give up the past, give up the anger, and learn to work with the man. For the last three months, he had been trying unsuccessfully to set aside the lingering hurt caused by their demands to work with, to protect, and eventually, to forgive, Bentell for his treatment of Heath and the other prisoners at Carterson during the war.

Now, with today’s events fresh in his mind, he choked on the similarities between the two instances.

Both situations revolved around men from his past, his sometimes painful past, his history that his family did not share. Matt Bentell and Gil Anders had committed heinous crimes against their fellow man, and Heath had been both their witness and their victim. Both had crossed paths with Heath recently. In fact he had come face-to-face with each of them inside the Barkley home, as they were apparently trying to put their own actions behind them. And, neither of them had been punished by the courts for their acts, a fact that made seeing them again particularly unsettling for him.

Finally, in both cases, his family had listened to his side, but had made it unwaveringly clear that they expected him to put aside the actions of both men, to forgive, to forget, and to go on, while letting go of the anger he felt inside over what they had done to others and to him.

With Bentell, three months ago, he had finally and reluctantly complied, swallowing every memory that threatened to overwhelm him, burying every act he had witnessed deep inside once more, and he had accompanied the man to the logging camp as they had demanded. He had worked side-by-side with the man, even saving his life and having his own saved by Bentell in return. During that time, as he learned of the past treachery of some of his fellow Carterson prisoners, he had felt some of his anger at Bentell dissipate and die, like the gradual cooling of the forest fire that had left hundreds of acres of prime Barkley timber in ashes.

However, some of his anger had lingered, shoved down deep inside, and it had been left to resurface now, its embers stoked by his family’s rejection today of his feelings over Gil Anders and all that the man represented to him.

But, what he was just beginning to realize, as the easy lope of the animal beneath him helped him sort out his thoughts, was that the anger he still harbored was no longer only for Bentell and Anders. Some of it, he admitted with difficulty, was now aimed at Victoria Barkley for her unbending expectations, at Jarrod for his idealistic encouragement to do the right thing, and at Nick for his lack of support during both confrontations.

And, Audra? His mouth formed his characteristic lop-sided grin briefly, as he thought of her. “Little Sis is only guilty of wantin’ us all ta get along. ‘Can’t fault her for that,” he thought.

Struggling with himself as he rode, he continued to focus more on the pain his family’s actions were inflicting on him, than on his anger with either man from his past.

What hurt him the most was that his own sense of integrity, of the person he was inside, and of the priorities that drove him, were somehow not acceptable to them. Yet again, today, he was being asked to let go of his past and embrace what his family wanted him to become.

And, the truth was, each time it happened, it cost him some piece of himself in return.

“It isn’t that they think I’m dishonest or corrupt. No, that’s not it, at all,” he thought as he rode through the growing heat, “It’s more that. . . that my way’a dealin’ with situations is different from theirs---an’ that they believe theirs is the only correct way. It’s that they say they accept me, say they accept who I am. But then, when it comes right down to it, they don’t always understand the beliefs behind my actions. And, because’a that, they don’t accept some’a what I do.”

Shaking his head at the fresh anguish it caused him all over again whenever his values clashed with theirs, he said aloud, “And when it happens, I wind up feelin’ that they don’t accept me, don’t respect me for who an’ what I am.”

He desperately wanted to understand them, . . . and he wanted to be understood.

But, right now, his thoughts continued to twist and turn in turmoil. He was torn, once again, between loyalty to Victoria Barkley---to his new family, and loyalty to himself---to his own past.

His frustration and anger seemed to swarm in the heat, like the increased droning of a disturbed hive of angry bees. He shook his head and struggled with the complicated images of forgiveness he felt his new family members were shoving down his parched throat, demanding of him without giving him a choice, without really reaching out to hear him at all.

Aloud, causing his little black horse’s ears to swivel around to catch his words, he growled, “I can’t understand choosin’ the idea’a forgiveness over loyalty ta someone you care about. I don’t know why they think I should choose ta forgive Anders ‘stead’a remainin’ loyal ta Willie Martin, ‘specially after I explained ta them what Anders did!”

Then, after a few more minutes of riding, with his mind continuing to seethe like a forest fire out of control, he suddenly tensed every muscle in his body and stared straight ahead at nothing. As the well-trained Modoc came to an abrupt halt at the unconsciously telegraphed signal, he spat out loud, “I can’t understand them choosin’ loyalty ta Anders an’ not showin’ the same loyalty . . . .”

His chest heaving at the pain that accompanied the words he could not even finish, he finally started the mare forward again.

Then, spotting a shady area among the trees, he used his long legs to steer her towards temporary relief from the heat for both of them.

The shadows cast by the trees were a welcome relief, even if they did not help cool his growing anger, nor the overwhelming hurt he could not escape, no matter how far he rode. Easing down from the saddle, he removed his canteen and took a long swig, staring out at nothing memorable. He peeled his hat away from his sweat-soaked hair, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Then, as he was taking another swig, he suddenly stopped and almost choked.

A sharp, stabbing pain of memory, a slicing pain almost physical, spiked through his heart, and he fell to his knees in the dust by Gal’s hooves. Head hanging, eyes staring down at the canteen in his hand, he slowly rocked back and forth on his knees.

In his mind, he could see the dying boy, held firmly in his arms, as he tried again to shield Willie from the merciless heat of the sun. He could hear the soft moans, broken only by the rapid panting, as the boy struggled to breathe. Then, he felt the anger well up inside of him anew, the anger at that unnecessary death in the desert, the anger at the one man who could have prevented it. And he knew that he could never forgive that heartless decision, that incomprehensible panic, that single act of cowardice that had driven Gil Anders to steal the boy’s life away, as surely as he had stolen the water and the horse they could have shared.

Closing his eyes, Heath clasped the canteen to his chest, and he drew in a ragged breath. Then, he slowly pushed out the air, letting the hurt, the anger, and the loss that all threatened to overwhelm him ease just enough to give him room to breathe in again.

Lifting his chin from his chest, he opened his eyes.

One canteen.

One horse.

They would have been the difference between life and death for three men, and when they were stolen by one of them, the loss had spelled disaster for the youngest, Willie Martin, just a kid of 16, and it had meant unspeakable agony for Heath.

Nodding silently now that he could move again, he admitted to himself, that it had been his anger at Anders that had kept him alive long enough to stumble out of that desert and fight his way back to the living again. It had been his anger that had made it possible for him to survive.

And now, it was this same anger that was separating him from his family, the family he needed and loved with all that he had left.

Chapter 2

With sudden understanding, he wondered if any of his family had ever walked alone for twenty miles through the desert.

He thought about each one of them: Audra? Jarrod? Nick? Mother? He wondered if any of them had ever walked alone with no water, with nothing more than a dead body behind them buried in the sand, and with only the thought to push them on that no one would bury them if, in the end, the desert won.

No, he was sure they had not.

While he knew Jarrod and Nick had both fought in the war as he had, while he knew they had all dealt with death, and specifically, the death of someone they cared about, he wondered if any of them had held someone as he was dying. He wondered if any of them had held someone and had watched the life ebb away, all the while knowing that the death was senseless, needless, and completely preventable, save the deliberate actions of one cowardly act by someone once called friend.

He wondered if any of them had ever felt that kind of betrayal.

No, he was pretty sure they had not. If any of them had, he knew that family member would have been better able to understand the anger in his eyes today, the anger that had scared them, that had made them look at him as if he were once again a stranger among them.

Maybe the look in their eyes was right.

In many ways, he was still a stranger.

His life was not yet something they could understand.

Maybe it never would be.

The fights his family members usually took up were those of their own choosing. Their position and power often gave them the option to do battle or not, to get involved or not, and just the fact that they had options, made their lives so very different from his. He did not resent them their options, but he did realize that he would have grown up very differently had he had more choices.

Often in his life, his only options were between accepting death or fighting to survive, between giving up or struggling on. Whether a child of six doing a man’s job, or a boy of sixteen fighting a man’s war, those were terribly harsh options.

He had had no options with Bentell in Carterson Prison years ago, and Gil Anders had left him none in the desert either, none but to bury a young boy and to fight his own way toward survival.

Now, his family had left him no options where Bentell and Anders were concerned----and there he remained, trapped between their demands----trapped between fight and forget, between loyalty and forgiveness, between anger and love.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he could feel a little of his pain seep out as he realized they just could not see the world through his eyes.

Along with his bedroll and his weapons, there were many times in his life that a full canteen and his horse were all that stood between himself and disaster. Would they ever be able to understand that about him, understand about the memories that sometimes still haunted him?

That a man, a supposed friend, would steal these minimal necessities, leaving two others to die in the desert, was, to him an act so abhorrent that the mere thought of being asked to forgive and overlook it, especially by the ones he loved, made him feel physically sick.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes again, and tried to picture them. He could see each one, staring back at him this morning, when he had recognized Anders and told the doctor, “Let him die,” before storming from the room and down the stairs.

He heard again Jarrod’s words as he followed him, his words about the notorious Judge Benjamin Coulter, who ran Coreyville, who had wanted Gil Anders back “dead or alive” for murder.

Jarrod’s position had been clearly stated from the start. His oldest brother denied having any options because of the bounty hunters who were there to kill Anders. Jarrod had said, “I don’t have any choice. I’d be an accomplice to murder if I let them take him without knowing the truth.”

As he looked at Jarrod’s dark-blue eyes staring back at him, Heath had responded, “Why don’t ya ask me; I’ll tell ya the truth.”

He could see her glinting grey eyes as he turned toward the three of them, Audra, Nick, and Mother, behind him on the stairs, and he could hear her steely, granite voice as she had stated, “I’m asking.”

Then, he could see their eyes staring back at him when he finished his story of the desert crossing, of Anders’ betrayal, and of Willie’s senseless death. He stared back at them as he said of Willie, “He believed what I told him, that Anders had just gone for help. He believed me right up until he died, when he made me swear, swear that if I ever found Anders, I’d kill him. . . . No matter what happened in Coreyville, he’s earned it ta die.”

Finally, his eyes had searched theirs looking for support---not support for a promise of a murder he had no intention of carrying out. But, he had looked for their support of him, support for his pain, support for the anguish the memories still caused him.

Their silence, however, had left him little hope.

Swallowing his pride, he had asked them, “An’ no one for me?”

When they had just stared back at him, it had cost him another piece of who he was, but he had offered them each an individual opportunity to say they understood.

“Mother?”

No response.

“Audra?”

Her eyes spoke of her torn sympathies, but she remained silent.

“Nick?”

His was the only reply, “I’d like to be.” While his hazel eyes seemed to reflect painful understanding, his words were not enough.

It had taken his self-reliant pride down a notch to ask them, each one of them, individually, but in front of the others, if he or she would support him. The words each one didn’t say were loud enough to crush him--another dagger through his heart, another rock along the road of differences that separated him from this new family of his, the family he had trusted and loved.

Victoria Barkley had spoken at that point, trying to explain, “Heath, listen to me.”

But, he had to let them know that he was not going to comply this time. He was not going to let them make more demands of him as they had before. He knew that last time, three months ago, those demands had required him to give up a measure of his own self-respect in order to help Bentell regain his, to help the man deal with the pain of his past, all at the expense of Heath being able to ever deal with the agony of his.

No. He wouldn’t give in to them again.

When she had asked him to listen this time he had responded, “I just did. An’ what you didn’t say, was loud an’ clear. You’re bringin’ it down ta him or me.”

Though she had protested and had replied, “No, to right or wrong, and that leaves us no choice,” he had shrugged off these two options, posed as if they were the only ones that now mattered.

It wasn’t about right and wrong. It was about the difference between listening and hearing. It was about the difference between making demands and creating choices. It was about the difference between rejecting and accepting.

And, it was about the difference between trust and betrayal.

All he had wanted was for them to say they heard his anguish and would get Anders out of the house as soon as he could travel. He didn’t care if they sent him back to Coreyville or not, just getting him as far as the local jail would have been fine with him.

But, they didn’t.

Worse, he knew they expected him to want the man to live, to care if the bounty hunters’ claim on him was legitimate or not.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

And, they didn’t have the right to force that on him.

No more than they had had the right before.

So, like before, when he had offered to leave town for a horse auction rather than stay in the same house as Bentell, this morning he had said he would leave. He had stated, “If you want me, I’ll be in town at the hotel. Just tell me when he’s left the house.”

This time, however, he had not been offering; he had gone. He would decide the correct option for himself. He would not be talked into any others, nor would he listen to their demands. The only thing he wanted to hear was of their willingness to listen, of their willingness to try to understand, of their willingness to offer their support for his pain.

While he had wanted to push his way past Jarrod and head straight out the front door, instead he had turned and walked up the stairs to gather some things from his room. As he had passed, Nick’s hand reached out for him, grabbing him by his arm. Heath had stopped, glaring down at the restraining hand until Nick had released him, quickly and with surprise at Heath’s glare, releasing his hold as if he had been suddenly scalded by the heat of Heath’s anger.

Then, he had continued up the stairs----and, when he had returned moments later, they were all standing in the same places, staring up at him once more. As he had walked past them, he had given Audra’s hand a slight squeeze, and had exited out the door without a word.

He had been relieved at their silence, glad he did not have to endure any more of her words about showing them Tom Barkley’s guts, as she had put it to him three months ago. But, at the same time, he was saddened by it. He felt that by heading upstairs and returning back down the same way, he had given them yet another opportunity to let him know they understood before he left, and again, they had not.

He had opened his heart to them through the telling of Willie Martin’s death, just as he had months before when he had struggled to remind them of what Bentell had done to him and to his comrades. But, they had not reached out to help him, to support him in carrying the crushing burden of his memories----not this time, and not before.

Now, he was alone again, struggling under the weight of the revived horrors, separated from his family, from his future with them, by his loyalty to people from his past---all because he had been forced to choose between the limited options they had determined for him.

He knew he was incapable of killing either Bentell or Anders; he had not sought out either man. But, neither would he take an active role in helping Anders survive, like he had been forced to with Bentell, not when the man had taken such an active role in ensuring Willie Martin’s death.

He believed that deciding to speak to Anders should be his choice; it was the denial of this right to choose, even more than the presence of the man in the house, that was forcing him away.

All that he knew of loyalty attached him firmly to the boy, not to Gil Anders. If his loyalty was connected to the past, at least it was with the memory of a living, breathing person who had died needlessly, not to the abstract idea of forgiveness expected of him by his family.

No.

He could not go to the man, not even when Victoria Barkley had come to him in the saloon in Stockton a few hours ago and tried again to plead Anders’ case. He could not go to Anders, not even when she had told him the doctor had said it might make a difference in the man’s recovery. And, he could not go to him and tell Anders that he was forgiven.

Just laying eyes on the man the first time had done nothing but heighten his anger toward him.

But, his family wouldn’t accept that; she wouldn’t accept it. Before she had left him in the saloon, she had told him, “Oh, I knew you could hate; I just didn’t know how much.”

Her words still cut into him, a blade heated in the forge of a trust betrayed. And, this time it wasn’t just the betrayal of his trust in Anders that hurt so much, it was the trust that he had placed in this woman, in this family, to stand by him as he continually battled the wrongs of his past.

He wondered if any of them had ever felt that kind of betrayal.

Head down and heart breaking, he struggled again with the growing anger he felt for her, for his family, because they were asking the impossible of him---asking him to give even more of himself than what he had already given up to Gil Anders back there in the desert several years before. It was just as painful now as it had been three months ago, when they had asked him to give more of himself to Bentell.

It had cost him a piece of himself then.

And, now, he had nothing more to give.

But, to lose them? To lose the part of himself that loved them, needed them?

He squeezed his eyes shut, saw their faces gathered together enjoying a meal, heard the laughter shared over some teasing story, and knew the love they offered that had often filled his heart with joy in those first five months.

Gasping, he opened his eyes, wiped at the wet pain streaming down his dirt-streaked face, and struggled to draw a complete breath. As he climbed unsteadily to his feet, he leaned his head against the little Modoc’s sweaty neck, burying his face in her dark mane.

Then, he wrapped the leather strap of the canteen back around the saddle horn where it belonged. And, he placed one foot in the stirrup, . . . . and paused.

No.

He would not give up on them, on his family.

Not yet.

He pushed off from the dusty ground, propelled his right leg over Gal’s back, and settled into her saddle.

He would try again to help them hear, to help them see, to help them know what he already knew.

He had owed nothing to Bentell three months ago.

And, he owed nothing to Anders now.

The only unsettled debts that mattered were in the amount of trust his family had in him, and the amount he still had in them.

The only place for him to go was toward that town, toward Coreyville, where the bounty hunters had said Anders was wanted for murder.

The only thing for him to do was to learn what he could about the situation there and prove to his family that Gil Anders was guilty of yet another murder for which he must pay.

Then, maybe by the time he returned to the valley, if Anders was dead of his wound, Heath could satisfy them that this had been the only fitting end for the man.

Maybe then, they would listen.

And, maybe, this time, they would hear.

Chapter 3

As Jarrod suffered through the growing heat of the late morning stage, he could not help thinking back over the last few days. Looking out of the small, square window at the low hills and scrub trees in the distance, he recalled the violent act that had started him on this quest for the truth.

When the intense man had met him at the gate looking for Heath, Jarrod had been eager to assist him because he thought that his brother would be pleased to see the man. Then, when the two bounty hunters had appeared and shot Gil Anders without warning, Jarrod admitted he had become instantly protective of the man. He had been incensed enough to try to run the hunters off the ranch, even without Nick’s fortuitous help, standing up to them, though he was clearly outgunned.

Their struggle to save the man, however, had quickly led to a struggle of another kind. When they had summoned Heath, they had not realized they were all heading toward an unforeseeable confrontation.

Jarrod’s legal training had flared up instantly, seeing Gil Anders in the role of Coreyville’s victim, especially when he realized Heath just wanted the man to die as well. He had been angry at the bull-headed blond, angry enough that Heath’s words seemed only to echo the cut-throat attitude demonstrated by the two belligerent bounty hunters.

All three of them had wanted the same thing, to see Anders dead.

“Hell,” he admitted to himself, “I’m still angry! I heard Heath describe what happened in the desert. Then, I looked into his eyes that morning and hated what I saw there. His coldness toward that man, the human being lying near death upstairs in our guest room, just didn’t seem that different from the response of those men a couple of hours earlier. . . . It still doesn’t, even now.”

He could not reconcile himself with the belief that Heath had wanted the man to die. He could not understand it when, though Heath had declined to commit outright murder, he had refused to heed the doctor’s advice and at least visit Anders. In fact, Jarrod could not find it in himself to understand Heath’s stubborn insistence about leaving the house when everyone had made it clear that they wanted him to stay and do whatever was necessary to give the man a reason to live.

Shaking his head, he tried to find an excuse for his brother’s actions.

Maybe the answer lay in the past. He knew there were many things that he did not know about his brother, about the life he had had before he came to the valley. Maybe Heath’s upbringing did not provide him the same opportunity they had enjoyed to see that all human life was precious, no matter what the person had done. Maybe his life had been so hard, he could not easily afford to trust others. Maybe he had learned not to trust people to do the right thing because he and his mother had been so often wronged by others for who they were. Maybe they were now asking the impossible of Heath to expect him to forgive another person; perhaps he had too often been the victim of the constant failure of others to forgive the heritage that was not his fault.

He envisioned a young Heath in his mind, being insulted and tormented by others his age because he did not have a father. He thought about how that must have felt time and time again. Jarrod knew that this kind of treatment, experienced over and over, could have taught Heath to see the worst in others, in fact, to always look first for the bad side of each individual he encountered. This kind of experience could have made it impossible for Heath to forgive the weakness of others, the weakness of a man like Anders who had run scared and left others to die.

But, somehow that just didn’t seem right either. Jarrod shook his head; he knew was missing something.

With a start, Jarrod felt fresh pain at his imagined vision of a young Heath, of this son of his father, of the son that Tom Barkley had never known. He envisioned a blue-eyed child looking out of an open doorway and onto a darkening street, the eyes of a child looking for a man who never came. He realized his brother must have been struggling to understand the actions of this man, his unknown father, for most of his 24 years.

Just the fact that he had fought so hard to become part of his new family, despite that life-long struggle, despite the treatment he had received at the hands of others for so many years because of Tom Barkley, proved that some part of Heath wanted to look beyond the actions of the man, look past them and forget, if not look past them and forgive.

He suddenly understood what he had not before. He understood that Heath was capable of forgiveness, of extensive forgiveness, or he would never have stayed all these months. Up until this had occurred with Anders, Heath had lived willingly in his father’s house, slowly beginning to deal with past hurts, past angers, and past transgressions inflicted upon him by the actions, though unwittingly, of the very man from whom Jarrod himself had learned the meaning of forgiveness.

His gaze, ignoring the two other passengers and fixed now on the empty seat directly across from him, Jarrod could remember vividly when he had learned that lesson of forgiveness by watching Tom Barkley. He could still picture his father talking with Bud Ackley, whom he had caught in the act of selling a horse stolen from the Barkley herd. By the time the confrontation had ended, his father was moving the Ackleys into the cottage near the barn and helping them get set up for winter.

When Jarrod, who had witnessed all of it, later asked his father why he did not press charges, his father had shrugged and said, “Sometimes, you have to forgive and forget in order to give the future a chance.” That simple statement, along with the events that created a loyal, top hand from a desperate thief trying to feed his family, had served Jarrod well throughout his legal career.

Not that he ever willingly allowed himself to be taken advantage of, but the effects of his father’s example had often led him to look beneath the facts to search for the human truths behind the situation. The example had led him to always search first for the good in people and, whenever he could, to give them the benefit of the doubt.

With a sharp intake of his breath, he realized that his brother, even without benefit of his father’s example, had done that same thing, unbidden, over and over in the months since he had been with them. He had given them all the benefit of the doubt, especially Nick, taking beating after beating, usually giving as good as he got, but always staying, always keeping his perspective, always starting over with each new day, always toughing it out without complaint.

Despite the early treatment many in the valley had given him, Heath had never held a grudge. Often, in fact, his quiet willingness to ignore the pain various individuals must have caused him, had actually led the transgressors around to Heath’s side eventually. Over and over, he had seen Heath demonstrating that same Tom Barkley philosophy that, “Sometimes, you have to forgive and forget in order to give the future a chance,” though Heath had never voiced it as such, and, to Jarrod’s knowledge, had never heard that particular story about his father.

In fact, now that he thought about it, as the stage hit a bump and sent him flying half a foot into the air, Jarrod realized that the only time Heath had ever been unforgiving, at least until Anders had arrived, was when he had encountered Matt Bentell in their home three months ago.

One hand clenching the side of the coach through the window to steady himself, Jarrod closed his eyes and saw again the seething blond attacking Bentell in the sitting room the moment he recognized the man.

Slowly, Jarrod let out a sigh. Then, he pictured Heath several mornings ago at the foot of the staircase, and admitted he saw the same anger and hurt resurfacing, the raw emotions backing them all up and away from him as if he were again a stranger entering their home for the first time.

This time, as he pictured the blazing blue eyes and the tenseness in the clenched jaw, as he heard the strangled voice almost willing them to all understand his pain, Jarrod realized he had been listening, just as he had before, only to Heath’s angry, stubborn words. Again, just as before, Jarrod had not listened closely to the human truths beneath, had not listened to hear and understand the feelings that had been underlying the angry words. And, he had certainly not given Heath the benefit of the doubt.

He thought back to the scene at Semple’s farm when Heath had shocked them all by joining in their potentially deadly fight, a fight that was not his. He remembered the quiet pride through which Heath had wordlessly suffered Nick’s refusal to support him with Barrett before the cattle drive. Then, he saw again, the anger with which Heath stood up for the miners at Barkley Sierra, even in the face of what he was sure would be the wrath of the family, all because he believed in the people left behind in Lonesome more than he believed in the broken promises of Father’s words.

With a start, Jarrod realized he had been selling Heath short.

Chapter 4

Now that Jarrod thought about it, he realized that Heath believed in people, in their worth, more than he believed in words and ideas. His brother definitely placed a very high value on human life. In fact he had shown Nick and Jarrod just how much he revered life in his halting, occasional stories about Carterson, recounted bit-by-bit over the months since Heath had arrived at the ranch.

The stories were always told quietly, and with painful difficulty. They were always told in disjointed pieces that seemed to only sneak out of him during special times of easy camaraderie shared between the brothers. The stories always reflected Heath’s obvious distress over the agony suffered by others, by both friends and those for whom he would never even know their names.

When Jarrod thought about it, even Heath’s story of trying to save the boy’s life in the desert when Anders had abandoned them, spoke simply and plainly of his brother’s agony at losing the boy to Anders’ actions.

In fact, Jarrod suddenly realized, the very reason his easy-going, introspective brother had retained so much anger at, first Bentell, then Anders, was because he had such high regard for the lives of others, such empathy for their suffering.

And, Jarrod now understood something else. Heath’s very refusal to forgive those two men, when he normally demonstrated a great capacity for continued faith in other people, including his bellowing, older brother, Nick, was a clear indication of the depths of what he had experienced at their hands, and of the depth of the feelings he still carried at the suffering both men had caused.

As the stage carried Jarrod further along the dusty road toward Coreyville, his thoughts circled like vultures spiraling high in the air over an idea that refused to die. “Both times, with Bentell and with Anders, we failed to hear the feelings lying just beneath the surface of Heath’s words. We failed to really listen to him, and we failed to let him know we would work with him to reach an acceptable solution. Instead, both times, we forced him to give, and to forgive, on our terms.”

They had forced him to choose.

They had left him no middle ground.

It had been their terms or no terms, with no other options.

With his heart reaching up to almost close his throat, Jarrod marveled now at the fact that his proud, fiercely honorable, blond brother had even found it within himself to comply with them when they had forced him to go with Bentell.

Closing his eyes, Jarrod could still picture Heath over three months ago, how he had sat on the edge of the settee in the study, glaring at them, listening to them, as they pronounced his sentence. He could see his brother’s reaction as they had told him he had to go with Bentell, the man he hated and . . . . and what?

Jarrod’s eyes flew open at the suspicion.

He could still hear Heath’s reply as he had launched himself to his feet and thundered, “The devil I will!” when they had stated their demand that he accompany the man to the logging camp for the building of the flume.

What was it he could hear now in that snarling voice, the tone beneath the words that he had missed before?

He could still see Heath’s eyes, those ice-blue eyes filled with anger, with pain, and. . . and something else Jarrod could not yet name. . . when they had forced him to accede.

Suddenly, it came to him.

What he had seen there three months ago was fear----pure, abject fear. Heath’s eyes had been lit with an angry fire from within, but what had flared beneath----clearly displayed to all of them, but noticed by no one----was fear, fear of having to go with the man he equated with hell on earth.

Jarrod now understood something else. In not giving Heath any choices, they had all forced him to relive his darkest nightmares, and he had never told them of what they had done.

. . . . . Or maybe he had, and they just hadn’t heard him.

. . . . . . Hadn’t heard him. . . . ?

Suddenly, another realization crashed into Jarrod, almost causing him to cry out.

Though there had been several opportunities for the three brothers to have quiet, personal conversations in the months since Heath had returned from the logging camp, Jarrod now remembered only hearing Nick’s stories and a few that he had told himself.

Yes, he was sure of it!

In the three months since the incident with Bentell, Heath had shared no more stories with them, not one more word about Carterson, not one more word about anything from his past.

Jarrod and Victoria had viewed Heath’s demeanor upon returning as a triumph. He had seemed less angry, less morose on many levels. But, was their interpretation correct? Now that Jarrod thought back about it, was what they viewed as the calm resulting from acceptance and healing, merely a surface stillness that covered a deeper disposition of. . . of distance and pain?

Had they forced Heath to comply with them, only to leave him questioning his faith and trust in them all? Had he felt that they had abandoned him to relive the horrors of his memories alone? Had he returned home only to rebuild the walls of his prison, designed to further distance himself from them?

Then, suddenly Jarrod felt raw fear of his own, fear and anguish so real that he had to fight an urge to open the door of the careening stage. He had to struggle with himself to avoid calling out to the driver, imploring him to return to Stockton, to return so he could search for his brother.

Trying to calm himself, knowing there was nothing he could do about his worries until he reached the telegraph office in Coreyville, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the corner of the barely padded stage seat. He knew Heath had said he was going to the hotel in town. He knew Victoria had talked to him later that morning in the saloon.

Maybe he was still there.

His mind continued to harangue him with unanswerable questions, questions that screamed at him in the dusty silence of the stage, “Where exactly is Heath now? Is he really at the hotel in Stockton as he said? Or, is he gone? Did we force him away from home for good this time? Did we force him away by repaying his trust with our refusal to offer him our full, unconditional support?”

Finally, Jarrod acknowledged the questions that he knew he had been avoiding for the last few hours, the ones he dreaded answering. Like great scavenging birds hovering impatiently for their chance to tear into scraps of carrion, the questions were silently stealing away his confidence in his previous actions toward his brother.

“I pride myself on being able to see all sides of an issue, on being able to listen to all possible ramifications, on being able to help find solutions where no one else has been able to. Why couldn’t I do that for my brother? Why did I fail to listen, to really hear? Why did I refuse to work with him to come up with an acceptable solution to our situation with Bentell months ago? And, why couldn’t I commit to him that we would find an acceptable solution to the dilemma about Anders days ago?”

Jarrod’s thoughts continued, as he wondered and worried. What if these two confrontations and their failure both times to hear beyond Heath’s angry words, cost them the very family member they had thought they were trying to save?

What if in their eagerness to protect two men who were not family members, they had traded Heath Barkley, the brother and son they had only just found, for Matt Bentell and Gil Anders?

They had forced him to choose.

They had forced him to choose between loyalty to himself and his past or loyalty to his newly-discovered family and his future.

But, to whom did they offer their loyalty in both situations?

Three months ago, they had placed their loyalty with Bentell and his attempts to get past the war. And, now? If they had looked, could they have found another way to protect Heath from the agony of Anders being under their roof, yet protect the man from questionable charges until they could determine the truth in Coreyville? Were they right both times to think there was only one way and that it required offering their loyalty to strangers at Heath’s expense?

And, what must Heath be feeling? Both times, wouldn’t he see it that they had chosen two men he hated over him? Wouldn’t he interpret their actions as showing loyalty to others, but not toward him? And, knowing the value Heath placed on loyalty, wouldn’t the pain of that realization be enough to push him even further away from them?

Once these thoughts hit him, they continued their barrage, not letting up on Jarrod, just as he was now sure that similar thoughts had probably assailed his brother for the last few days, and possibly for the last few months.

Even if this had happened with any member of the family other than Heath, that person would have had a difficult time dealing with it, Jarrod admitted, his head nodding in silence.

But, how much more difficult this must have been for Heath, a Barkley for less than one year, to accept from them.

There had to have been another way to do their best by Anders, but to give Heath their understanding and support at the same time.

But, the truth was, though it hurt now to admit it, they just hadn’t looked hard enough to find another solution—not either time. They had let Heath walk out of the door, knowing they had once again chosen someone else’s needs over his, and probably causing him to doubt their commitment to him in the process.

“I said nothing to help him, and I did nothing to stop him,” Jarrod thought. “In my eagerness to do the right thing by Anders, and Bentell before him, I have done the wrong thing by my brother.”

Chapter 5

Victoria Barkley sat next to the window, looking out over the nearby barn roof and into the distance. She told herself she was just watching and hoping for a little breeze to waft through the leaves of the trees between the house and the corrals. But, in her heart, she knew she was waiting for a blond-headed figure to exit the barn, wash up at the nearby pump, and stride towards the house as he swiped his dusty hat across the leg of his tan pants.

When her will alone was not enough to conjure up the wished for sight, she sighed deeply. Then, she stood and stretched, turning her attention reluctantly toward the silent stranger lying in the bed. Touching his forehead and watching his breathing, she thought again about the impact this man had had on her family in the last few days.

Though he had only regained consciousness for short periods, each time asking only for Heath, he had still managed to tear her family apart. Heath had refused to talk to the man before he had stormed from the house.

She had tried to get him to listen to the reasons why they had to help the man, even if he didn’t want them to. Nick and Audra had backed her, their eyes asking Heath to understand.

Jarrod, well, Jarrod had been adamant that the man did not deserve the treatment he had gotten at the hands of the bounty hunters from Coreyville, even if Heath felt he was guilty of one murder and could have committed another.

At least Heath had not tried to carry out an old promise made in the desert years ago to kill Gil Anders, but he had been so angry!

In fact, as she stood and moved around the room, straightening items in the masculine guest room without conscious thought, she only remembered seeing her son that angry once before.

“Mother?” Audra queried, as she entered the room, interrupting Victoria’s thoughts.

“Yes, Dear?” she responded quietly, turning to embrace her beautiful blond daughter.

“Mother, I’ll sit with Mr. Anders awhile. You get some rest or go downstairs for something to eat; you’ve been cooped up in here for hours,” Audra kissed her mother’s cheek and sat down in the room’s only chair.

Patting the girl on the arm, she nodded, “Thank you, Audra. I am ready for a change of scenery. But, I’ll be nearby, so call me if you need me.”

Exiting the room, she walked down the hall, and turned, not toward her own bedroom at the end of the wing, but toward the boys’ rooms at the other end. She eased Heath’s door open and stepped inside. Standing just within the quiet space, she was immediately struck by the similarities of this room and the one she had just left. Neither room contained anything to declare the identity of its occupant; this room had no more personal paraphernalia than the other. There were no pictures, no collections, no mementos. There were no items displayed nor lying around to indicate that anyone lived here on a permanent basis.

Victoria found her heart was suddenly pounding in her chest. She walked quickly to the armoire in the corner, and she opened the mahogany doors. Only when she saw his clothes hanging neatly inside did she begin breathing normally again. She was worrying for nothing and silently scolded herself. He had only been carrying his saddlebags when he had left, and she had seen him herself later that same morning.

She walked to the window, the one she could clearly envision him sitting in front of, looking out at the night sky on the many occasions over the last eight months when she had walked by his open door. Standing there, she looked out at his room’s unique view of the corrals beyond the barn.

Then, she stepped backwards and to her right, sitting down in the wing-backed chair that faced the window. Sinking into its soft, wine-colored leather, and smiling to herself, she could picture his long legs and sock-covered feet stretched before him, propped up on the open windowsill. This was often the only part of him visible from the doorway, from her hallway view of him, looking from the outside in.

“Heath,” she sighed, as the smile faded. She closed her eyes, and pictured again the flashing blue eyes and heard the angry words as he had lashed out at Anders, even as he stood downstairs and far away from the man a few mornings ago. As she had recalled a little while before, she had only seen Heath that angry on one other occasion. Not even when he had returned from the mine in Lonesome and had confronted them about Tom Barkley’s broken promises to the miners there, had he been that angry.

Both with Matt Bentell months ago and, now, about Gil Anders, Heath had been angry enough to scare her. It was like seeing the ire of the young man who had first pronounced his heritage to them eight months ago all over again, only with these two men, his anger was more focused, much more deadly, and infinitely more frightening.

She shivered in the heat.

The young man she had grown to know in the last eight months had such a gentle side to him, a compassionate nature that often amazed her with its depths. She saw it when she observed him gentling a horse, laughing with Audra, or teasing Nick. She saw it when he took up time with Jubal Tanner’s grandson, Chad. She saw it in Stockton the day of Tom’s ceremony when he told her of his mother, despite the pain it caused him to satisfy her need to know of what he spoke. And, she saw it when he quietly found ways to help the immigrant families cheated of their money by a swindler in San Francisco. She saw it every day as he talked quietly with Silas, and she saw it when he noticed her watching him and bent down with a lop-sided smile to kiss her cheek.

Suddenly, she froze.

Searching her memory frantically, she touched the place on her cheek that she realized he had not kissed in a very long time. With her heart beating a little faster and her fingers remaining on the side of her face, she fought back the tiny cry that wanted to escape from her lips at the unexpected onslaught of concerns and questions.

When had he stopped demonstrating his affection?

What had changed?

It had taken a good while for him to become comfortable with her, but he had, she was sure of it. . . .

What had happened?

Then, she thought back to the other morning, and she saw and heard him all over again.

He could be so gentle. How could he also have this more angry, almost dangerous, side as well? She did not know who he was when he blazed up, like a match setting a forest on fire, burning out of control, scorching them all in the heat of his anger.

. . . . . . But, which man was he really? The kind, gentle blue-eyed one who spoke softly to colts and children. . . . . or the angry, icy-eyed warrior who seemed capable of murder?

Suddenly, she gasped aloud at the thought that struck her with full, unrelenting force, doubling her over as she sat in his chair. The thought sickened her, making tears leap to her eyes as self-doubts forced her to reconsider her recent words and actions.

“Heath,” she whispered again, visualizing the young man she desperately wanted to keep close to her heart as her son, “What have I done?”

Chapter 6

It all fell into place now.

She could see it so clearly.

The simplicity of it left her shaking, tears falling freely down her cheeks.

As soon as she asked herself who he really was, she knew.

It shone through him every day, like bright rays of sunshine working their way through a thin foliage of breeze-tossed leaves.

He was a good man, a compassionate man.

He was Tom Barkley’s son.

He was an old soul in a battle-scarred body. He had witnessed and fallen victim to too many acts of cruelty in his young life.

But, he had maintained his sense of kindness and caring

This man, his Mama’s son, now her son as well, had grown up in a heartless world not of his own choosing. And, where most men would have emerged beaten and bitter, he stood tall and proud, still believing in compassion, still able to love and to be loved.

Now, just as he had found his father’s family, had begun to settle in, had begun to share his love and trust with them, he was pushed beyond his own limits by the return of two men into his life, first, Bentell, and then, Anders.

How had he responded to finding them there, in his home?

Not with the compassion and reason they had come to expect from him, but with a fury that had frightened them.

But, despite his anger he had not resorted to murder, neither had he tried to take justice into his own hands, though he had spoken openly of the promises he had made to do just that.

Instead, he had listened to his family; he had listened to the voices of reason from those he was growing to trust.

Both times, he had offered to give the family the distance they needed to sort things out in his absence, accepting that they may have different priorities than he did where both men were concerned. He had offered to go to a horse auction and leave Bentell’s fate to them, and he had left to go to Stockton to allow the family to care for Anders until he was mended from his injuries.

But, in both cases, they had demanded more from him.

In both cases, she had demanded more.

And, with Bentell, she had known he would do as she asked. He had told her almost seven months ago, his father’s boots in his hands, that she had only to ask, that he would do anything for her. He did not say it lightly, and he wasn’t just talking about the soft, leather boots.

Strangling back a small cry, her knuckles pressed against her lips, she remembered how, three months ago, she had grabbed his arms downstairs in the study and demanded, “Show us some of Tom Barkley’s guts!” as she had commanded him to work with Bentell and rid himself of his anger.

She hadn’t asked.

She had demanded it of him.

Show them Tom Barkley’s guts?

Now, in the quiet room, she berated herself severely, “Why did I tell him that? He would have gone with Bentell if I had asked him to, but I didn’t ask. I demanded it of him! Then, I issued him an unnecessary challenge, as if he needed to prove something to all of us all over again! Why did I tell him to show us some of his father’s guts----as if he hadn’t been demonstrating that he had them all of his 24 years!”

Victoria closed her eyes and pictured the look on Heath’s face as she had grabbed him and turned him to look at her. She saw him recoil from her as if she had slapped him with no warning, for no reason.

She covered her face with her hands, trying to block out the image that suddenly haunted her.

The young man before her had survived one of the war’s greatest hellholes, survived as a mere boy, when very few grown men had. The young man before her had survived atrocities and witnessed actions that no man should ever have to face, all directly attributed to the man she had sent him to work with and protect, the man she had expected him to forgive.

Then, downstairs, two days ago, she had expected him to swallow his hatred of the man that had almost cost him his life in the desert. She had expected him to help the man who had left him alone to struggle for days with no water, who had forced him to watch a young boy die in his arms, who had left him helpless to prevent it.

She looked out across the scene below, the busy barn area hosting a variety of activities. But, her eyes were focused on the past and a desolate landscape dredged up from a distant memory.

She had once crossed the desert with her beloved Tom and a group of other settlers. The inhospitable nature of the land had both fascinated and frightened her.

She shuddered now to think that she or Tom would ever have had to walk through that same desert alone, with no water, with no horse, and with the knowledge that someone else’s actions had stolen the only chance of survival from a young boy behind them, along the way.

Suddenly, she had a clear vision of how it would have been for Tom if he had had to bury a young boy in the desert, with only his bare hands to dig the hole. As the tears continued to fall, the vision in her head shifted from her blue-eyed Tom to his son, to Heath. She could picture him down on his hands and knees, trying to carve out the final resting place of a young boy named Willie, a sixteen-year old boy that he had tried to save, in spite of Gil Anders.

No, Gil Anders did not deserve to die at Heath’s hands then, or now. Neither, as Jarrod had said, did he deserve to die at the hands of two ruthless bounty hunters without verification of his guilt or innocence in Coreyville.

But, neither did Heath Barkley deserve to be forced to relive the events from the desert several years ago. Nor did her son deserve to be told that his family expected him to forget what had happened and to forgive the man. Neither did he deserve to be told that his lack of action was unacceptable to his family because he was condemning the same man to death. Nor did Heath deserve to be told by his family, even through their lack of actions and lack of words, that he would not receive their loyalty because of his anger.

She had had no right to force those choices on him. Just as it should have been with Bentell, she should have respected his right to choose his own actions, and know that they would support him regardless.

She had been wrong to make him doubt their love and loyalty toward him.

Tears seeping through the fingers of the hands still covering her face, she recalled too vividly how she had gone to him later that same morning, finding him, not at the Cattleman’s Hotel, but in the saloon across the street. She remembered how he had rescued her from the unwanted advances of the man at the bar shortly after she had entered and asked for a whiskey.

He had stood up to the larger man and said, “The lady wants you to leave.”

When the man had replied, “The lady didn’t say so,” Heath had put his hand on the man’s shoulder gently, and smiled softly.

His calm, quiet voice gave the man a way to leave with only a shrug and a playful pat on Heath’s cheek, after Heath had said, “Well, then I’m saying so.”

As he had sat down across from her at the small table, however, he had taken up the challenge in her eyes, not backing down an inch from his position. He had said of her presence in the bar, whiskey in her hand, “I just hope you’ve got a good reason.”

And, instead of letting him know that she wanted him to come home, that she wanted to talk and find a solution together, she had ignored his gallantry, focused on his words again, and thrown them right back in his face, “Why? Are you the only member of the family privileged to make a fool of himself?”

Sitting alone in his room now, his lack of response that day echoed in her ears, the memory of his eyes as telling as if she had just reached across the table and grabbed him again, telling him once more to show some of Tom Barkley’s guts.

She had lived side-by-side with his father for years. She had known all the ways to calm him and all the ways to rankle him. She should have known this was not the way to try to open a conversation with the blue-eyed son that resembled him so much, inside and out.

Hadn’t she told Dr. Merar, not two hours before she had arrived at the saloon, that Heath was “like his father, just as strong and twice as stubborn,” when he had asked if Heath had returned to the house?

But, she had tried again to talk to him, to convince him of the difference he could make by going to the injured Anders’ bedside. She had tried again to do the talking, forcing him to do the listening, instead of the other way around.

“Heath, he’s alone. He may die; he may not live out the day.”

Those words. . . hadn’t they just reminded him again that Anders had left him alone to watch a young boy die, to bury him in the desert, a boy named Willie, who hadn’t lived out the day?

And, he had responded with anger that he believed to be justified, “Just let me know, and I’ll dig the hole.”

Yes, he had let her know he had not missed the similarities----he would dig the hole, dig the hole the way he had for Willie Martin? Who would have been there to dig the hole for Heath if he had died in the desert, abandoned by his friend, Gil Anders?

She had tried again, “Dr. Merar feels that if he came to and recognized you. . . .”

And, this time, he had cut her off, cut her off coldly, interrupting her words----a rude action that should have told her right then she had crossed the line, that should have told her he was in too much pain to think about solutions---because she had pushed him too far with her expectations.

“Look, I told you how it was. I wanna see him dead. A rope. A bullet. Anything. Just so he’s dead. And if I can, by not bein’ home, then I’ll take that as special satisfaction.” His anger and pain had been evident in the effort it had taken for him to pull the words forth from inside a chest that was heaving and from behind eyes that were full of hurt.

Hurt that she and Gil Anders had put there.

Hurt that was heaped on top of all that had transpired since Matt Bentell had entered their home.

Then, she rocked forward in the chair, sobbing at the words that she had spat back at him, damning his feelings in front of strangers, damning him for the anger that he was making her feel, words that she now knew would drive a wedge between them.

“Oh, I knew you could hate, but I didn’t know how much.”

Up until she had uttered those words, she thought it had been about Anders, but with their speaking, she knew Heath was right when he had said earlier in the day, “You’re bringing it down to him or me.”

Though she had tried to deny it by saying it was a choice between right and wrong, she knew now that he had been right, and she had been wrong.

She had brought it down to Bentell or them three months ago, and two days ago, she had done the same thing to him----her failure to speak of her support, her failure to listen, her failure to work with him to solve their dilemma showing him clearly that it was the Bentell situation all over again.

In both cases with both men, Bentell and Anders, Heath’s actions were very out-of-character for what she had come to know of him. If she had been truly listening to his feelings, the ones that were not even well hidden from view behind his words, she would have known that his intense anger was a measure of his pain.

But, she admitted as she stared out the window at his usual view, she had not been trying hard enough to see the two men from his perspective. She had not listened carefully enough to hear how much it cost him to find first, Bentell, and later, Anders, in the home in which he was finally becoming comfortable.

Nor had she listened to how much it hurt him to have his family defend either of them.

“Heath? Where are you, Son?” she asked into the room’s silence. “I am so sorry, Sweetheart. I realize now what you were trying to tell us, to tell me.”

Suddenly, unsure if she would ever have a chance to tell him, she stood shakily on her feet to go look for the one person who might be able to find him. She had to tell Heath, she had to look him in the eye, and convince him that she knew now that she had been wrong.

She should never have forced Heath to work with Bentell, almost as if it had somehow been a requirement of his acceptance into this family. She had put him through the hell of Carterson all over again, and she wondered if he could forgive her, any more than he had been able to forgive Bentell, for all that he had endured.

She should never have tried to force Heath to talk to Anders, to forgive him for all the pain that the man had inflicted. Instead, she should have let Heath know that she understood his anger, understood his dismay at finding out the man was in his home, and she should have told him that she would do everything in her power to remove the man as soon as he could travel.

If she had only stopped to think, she could have assured Heath that, once Anders was able, they could have had him transported to the Stockton jail where the bounty hunters could not harm him. Surely, Jarrod could have found a way for a local judge to keep the bounty hunters away long enough to order an investigation of the charges. Then, with more information, the law would know how to proceed.

Above all, in both situations, she should have talked to her son to let him know that his anger was justified and that, short of choosing to harm either man, he had her full support.

Now, she feared her understanding of what she had put him through both times was coming too late. But, if Nick could convince him to come home, maybe he would be willing to listen to her one more time.

As she headed for the door, then, she took a last look around the room, and her eyes rested on the small round table by the bed.

No!

Her heart almost stopped, as she reached out her trembling hand to the object she had missed upon her entry into the room some time ago.

On the table was a picture of the whole family, taken two months ago in the dining room downstairs. As she picked it up and stared at it, she traced Heath’s face with her finger. Why hadn’t she realized before now?

The realization of what she had not noticed during the three months since his return from the logging camp sliced through her like a sharpened knife.

The picture showed it clearly; his eyes were so sad, and he looked so distant. Clutching the picture to her heart, she again touched the fingers of her other hand to her cheek, his last soft kiss to her cheek over three months ago at breakfast now etched only into memory.

She turned to leave, crossing the floor in a daze.

Then, she stopped and slowly turned back. She looked again at the table.

It was gone. His mother’s picture, the small one in the simple wooden frame, was no longer there.

“Heath,” she breathed as the fresh anguish closed in on her. She glanced down again at the picture in her hands, the family picture that had been on the table by the bed. When she had finally noticed it moments before, it had been in its usual place. But, the significance of what he must have done before he left had not been lost on her.

Knowing he planned to be gone for an undetermined length of time, it didn’t bother her so much that he would want to take the only picture he had of his mama with him.

But, the picture of his family had been left behind.

And, he had left it lying on the table, turned face down.

“Oh, Heath, Honey. What have I done?”

Chapter 7

As Amy Coulter listened, she felt the fear and disgust that had been pushed deep inside begin to creep up to her flushed face all over again.

She was married to an animal!

Matt Coulter was no better than a coyote, running to his larger, wolf-like uncle whenever he had a problem, and then acting on whatever the old man told him, without regard for right or wrong, without thought for the rights of others.

Just as he had done three weeks ago upon finding her talking with the school teacher one evening, he was now reacting to the current situation with nothing more than an attitude of violence, seizing the opportunity to show someone else he was the more dangerous man.

Here they were, reacting to this recent news, the two of them, the uncle and the nephew, planning more trouble, not caring that she heard, not caring about anything except their own convenience.

Mr. Odom had come by their store a little while ago, to share some news with Matt. He had said, “Mr. Coulter, I just heard the Sheriff talking with some fancy lawyer over at the jail. The lawyer was asking all sorts of questions about that Anders fella!”

Matt stopped cleaning his rifle and looked up at the elderly man standing before him. “Well, go on, Ross, spit it out. What did he wanna know?

As he shifted nervously from foot to foot, Ross Odom suddenly broke into a grin from the memory and said, “First the sheriff asked him if he was peddling!”

Matt looked at Odom with disinterest.

“Then that lawyer, name’a Barkley, replied, ‘Just advice. I’m a lawyer.’ Then, . . . .”

Matt interrupted, “You’re trying my patience, Old Man! Get on with it!”

The man’s nervousness returned, and Amy felt suddenly sorry for him. “Yes, Sir, Mr. Coulter. He was asking about that Anders fella, and the sheriff told him he was a drunk who poked around doing odd jobs on occasion. That lawyer must’a knowed him or something, because he knew Anders was wanted. The sheriff told him about the arrest and the escape; then, the lawyer questioned the ‘dead or alive’ poster being issued without no witnesses.”

“What did our good sheriff say to that?”

“Well, he just told him that everybody knew he done it. Then, that fella wanted to know who Anders was supposed to have murdered, and the sheriff told him about the school teacher.” At that, Odom looked pointedly over at Amy Coulter, whose broom had stopped, her eyes staring at the cracks between the wooden planks on the floor at her feet.

“Told him what?” Matt demanded.

Odom started stammering, then twisting the brim of his hat in his hands, he too found himself staring at the dusty floor. He parroted, “Horace Ames sort of took care of Anders, handouts and such. ‘Story is Ames got tired of it, told Anders off, and Anders waited outside the schoolhouse for him one night. Then, he said, almost like he didn’t ‘spect Barkley to believe him, ‘Well, that’s how it came to me.’ You know, Mr. Coulter, I don’t think he did neither.”

Matt looked at Odom sharply, “Did what?”

“Believe him.”

Amy suddenly clutched at her throat and dropped the broom. She ran toward the back of the store, but Matt was just as quick. He jumped up from the crate and grabbed her, jerking her arm to make her stand still. He spat out at her, “You ain’t gonna go no where but to my uncle’s office. Now get!” Shoving the dark-haired woman toward the door, he smiled gleefully at the look of fear in her eyes. Turning to Ross Odom, he said, “Find out where that lawyer went.”

He proceeded to nudge Amy down the wooden walkway toward the office of Judge Benjamin Coulter, his uncle.

By the time Matt and Ben Coulter had begun their discussion of what to do regarding the lawyer, the sheriff was knocking at the door. Matt motioned with his head, and his wife opened it. Then, she quickly stepped aside.

“What is it Ollie?” the elder Coulter asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Ben, there’s a lawyer, came to see me, asking lots of questions. He was real suspicious of what happened with that Anders fella.” The sheriff started, as he stood before the judge’s desk, his hat in his hands.

The judge just stared at him, and raised both of his bushy white eyebrows.

The sheriff opened his mouth once to speak, closed it, then, tried again, “Ben, I took Matt’s word that Anders did it. I don’t want no trouble.”

“You go on back over to your jail, Sheriff. ‘Won’t be any trouble. . . . . for you.” Then, he turned away as if to get something out of his desk, muttering almost to himself, “Someday, I’m gonna find me a sheriff with enough backbone to not come running to me whenever there’s a little problem needing a solution!”

As the sheriff reached for the brass handle on the inside of the large oaken door to the judge’s office, he turned back to look at the smiling, heavy-set man behind the desk. “What’re you gonna do, Ben?”

“Why, not a thing, Ollie. He’s a guest, he gets to make the first move.”

When Ollie Sanders had made good his exit, Ben Coulter stood and walked toward his waiting nephew. “Those two bounty hunters, Hoover and Wade, they’re over in California, in Stockton. ‘Sent me a telegram, and it seems that they shot Anders. But, now some family’s got that criminal holed up in their big house. They can’t get to him yet, but from the telegram, it seems likely that he’s gonna die in the meantime.”

Amy watched with wide eyes, as they discussed the death of another man with so little regard for human life----as if Gil Anders, like Horace Ames had been, was just some tiny detail that had gotten in their way. ‘Like they were going to wipe out the problem like the way she had been sweeping the dust under her feet out into the street a little while ago.

Then, the judge turned to Amy, “Woman, you sure have caused me a lotta trouble! Now, I’ve got a lawyer snooping around here trying to find out more than he needs to know.” Looking back at Matt, he added, “The family guarding Anders is Barkley.”

Matt’s hard, glinty eyes narrowed, “But, that’s the name of that lawyer! Wait a minute, the Stockton Barkleys? Why do they care, and what’s he up to?”

“I don’t know, Nephew, but if he asks too many questions around town, somebody’s bound to let it slip.” He glared back at Amy, who was now standing stock still against the door, waiting on her chance to flee.

“Nah, Uncle Ben, nobody’s gonna say anything. Everybody in this town knows which side their bread is buttered on.”

Glaring pointedly back at Matt, the judge stated, “Well, Barkley might not know.”

A cruel smile curled up the corners of Matt Coulter’s mouth. “I’ve got me some boys that’ve just been waiting for a little action. If Mr. Barkley don’t know whose town he’s in now, maybe somebody ought’a see that he figures it out-----and soon.”

Chapter 8

As he carried his bags up to his hotel room at the top of the stairs, Jarrod shook his head at the unmistakably tight hold Judge Benjamin Coulter obviously had on this whole town.

First, there was the sheriff. He had been uncomfortable about discussing Anders, and his reluctant delivery had left no room for misunderstanding that the lawman was indeed covering for his own vague investigation of the facts.

Then, he had tried to send a promised telegram to his family, but the telegraph operator had been shaking so hard at the mention of the name Anders, that Jarrod had realized he should ask to see it sent immediately. However, no amount of offered money, nor endless quoting of legal code, had been enough to entice the scared rabbit-of-a-man into sending the telegram while he waited.

As a result, he had no doubt that the telegram would be placed in the judge’s hands the moment Jarrod left the little office. His fear was that his family would never know he had arrived safely in Coreyville and that their worry over him would double. He could just see Nick’s reaction, almost hearing the concern emanating off of his intense brother in loud, rolling waves all the way from Stockton.

Finally, there had been the clerk downstairs. The man had not wanted to give him a room, and Jarrod had had to cite the law regarding hotel service in order to make him comply. As he strapped on his gun, he thought through the options he had about how to attain information. Perhaps he could strike up a conversation with some men in the local saloon, or perhaps he could buy the answers he needed.

Remembering his mother’s face as he had left earlier in the day, he knew that somehow, he needed to get answers to his questions, get them quickly, and return home with all possible haste before his brothers came after him.

Suddenly, his hand on the knob of the door, he shivered. It hit him again, that only one brother would be coming after him. Somehow, he couldn’t see Nick being able to coax Heath into joining him in some ill-conceived journey to Coreyville just to check up on Pappy, even if he was still in residence in the local saloon.

And, what if Heath wasn’t there to start with? What if his youngest brother had finally given up on all of them and had left the area?

Swallowing hard, Jarrod exited and closed the door firmly. He struggled to leave all thoughts of his blond-headed brother there in that nondescript room behind him, as he trudged heavily down the stairs to seek the information he so desperately needed.

* * * * * * * *

Entering the saloon, Jarrod walked resolutely to the bar. “Give me a bottle of the good whiskey. . . and a clean glass.”

The tiny, balding man behind the bar, who had been hearing conversation about this lawyer all afternoon, looked the distinguished gentleman up and down. Then, he handed over the requested items without any response, except to raise the price as he did so.

“That’ll be two dollars.”

Jarrod’s eyebrows raised accordingly, but he smiled and placed three on the counter and said, “Keep the change.”

Then, he turned and surveyed the room, his elbows braced on the smooth, oak bar behind him. Nodding again to the barkeep, he strode toward a table with four other men playing cards. Watching attentively for a few minutes, he leaned down between hands and placed the full bottle on the table. Reaching back to pull up a chair, he caught the eye of a mustached man with dark eyes, and asked, “Room for one more?”

The man looked around the table and, not seeing any disagreement from the others, one of whom was already reaching over for the bottle to refill his glass, shrugged, and said, “Sure, why not.”

After almost thirty minutes of intense play, the man to his left was eyeing Jarrod closely as he prepared his response. Then, he said, “Call.”

Jarrod responded with a smile, “Deadman’s hand, aces and eights.”

The puzzled dark eyes searched Jarrod’s, before he said, “Three big men,” as he reached forward and raked the pot toward him. Then, he added, “Mister, you sure like giving that green stuff away.”

“Well, it’s only money, Gentlemen,” Jarrod answered, the smile still in place.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to give it away like it was peanut shells. Those are some pretty wild bets you’ve been making.”

Jarrod looked at the man for a second, then took in the other three with his eyes. He leaned forward and said, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make another one. One hundred U. S. dollars, cash, that no one at this table can tell me why Gil Anders killed the school teacher.”

No one responded, but two of the men shook their heads, their eyes suddenly wide. All four scraped their chair legs backwards across the barroom floor to stand, and two made fast exits. The mustached man and the freckled younger man beside him grabbed the remaining bottle and headed for the bar together.

To their backs, and in a quiet voice with his hopes for answers now flagging, Jarrod said, “Well, Gentlemen, thanks for the hospitality.”

Seeing the barkeep, who sauntered over, a towel across his shoulder and a full glass of whiskey in his hand, Jarrod smiled up at the man.

The bartender spoke evenly, “I think I owe you this one.” Setting the full glass on the table, the man asked quietly, “You on the level about that one hundred bucks?

Jarrod responded, “I am.”

Glancing quickly around the room, the man removed the towel from his shoulder and began using it to wipe the table. He said quietly, “If you’re gonna pay me, drop it on the table.”

Then, he said a little more loudly for the benefit of any ears listening in, “The next drinks are two bits each; you can have the whole bottle for a dollar.”

Then, he surreptitiously slid the rag over the two bills Jarrod lay on the table, and he leaned in and whispered, “All I can say is, ask Amy Coulter.”

* * * * * * * *

As Jarrod walked slowly back towards the hotel, he wondered how he was going to find an opportunity to approach Amy Coulter. So far, no one in this town, except the skittish bartender would even look him in the eye. He had no idea how to find the woman, or even what her relationship was to the judge. As scared as the men in the saloon had been when he started asking questions, he had no doubt that finding her would be very difficult and that talking to her would be next to impossible.

Knowing the inhospitable nature of the hotel clerk already, he had little hope as he approached the desk for his key, but he decided it would be worth trying. He said, “My key.” Holding out his hand, he then smiled and said, “Oh, by the way, can you tell me where I can find Amy Coulter?” as the man placed the requested item in his palm.

The stone-faced clerk froze. For a split second, Jarrod saw him glance up at the top of the stairs, then back down to meet his gaze. The man said quietly, “Mister, why don’t you stay out of it? Stop asking before you get hurt.”

Jarrod smiled at the man and moved away, pondering the words. He turned to climb the stairs, still thinking about what the man behind him had said. He wondered, “Was that a threat? Or was it a warning?” Glancing up ahead at the stair landing above him, he continued the ascent towards his room. Then, as he fit the key into the lock of room number 16, he checked behind him to see if he was being approached from either side down the corridor. Sighing with relief, he pushed open his door.

However, the instant he entered and his eyes adjusted to the dimness of his room, he realized he had seriously underestimated Benjamin Coulter.

Someone was seated comfortably on his bed, leaning against the brass rungs of the metal frame, his boots sprawled across the bright patchwork quilt as if he owned the place. The sandy-haired man wore no hat, but a satisfied smirk covered his face.

Suddenly, the door he had just unlocked slammed behind him, and he sensed someone to the left. Then, he saw a second man, a giant, burly man, approaching out of the corner of his right eye.

The man before him on the bed, the one with the smile, began to speak in an ingratiatingly, sticky-sweet tone. “The name is Matt Coulter. The Judge is my uncle. ‘Thought you’d want to think on that when you ride out.”

“Maybe I will. . .when I ride out.”

“You’ve got a horse in the alley, all saddled and waiting. ‘Just happens, he’s pointed toward Stockton,” Matt Coulter added.

“Well now, that’s very generous of you.” Jarrod tossed the key on the bed, quickly reviewing his options. He knew he probably could not get out of whatever they had in mind, but maybe he could get some answers before it occurred. “I’ll be happy to borrow him.”

“Now.”

“When I finish my business here in your fair city. I want to know about Gil Anders.”

Jarrod watched the man in front of him as the smiling eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Then, the man nodded, his eyes shifting first to the right and then to the left.

Jarrod felt the approach of the two others and knew what was getting ready to happen. As he reached for his gun, he felt its deft removal from his holster by the man on his right, as his elbows were grabbed roughly by the same man, who was now growling into his ear from behind. Jarrod struggled to free himself from the determined grip, first trying to elbow the man in the chest, then trying to dig the heel of his boot into the man’s instep. The huge man behind him just chuckled at his futile attempts.

Matt Coulter stood up and glared at Jarrod. Then, he reached out toward the silent man near the wall, motioning this second man into action. “Get on with it!” Matt snarled.

Suddenly, Jarrod glanced away from Matt. He saw the slow approach from the man on his left.

With a sharp intake of breath, Jarrod froze. Fear clutched at his chest, a fear so strong that it seemed to squeeze the blood from his heart. His body seemed to abruptly take a freezing plunge in temperature, leaving him abandoned in a blizzard of pelting sleet, leaving him stranded in a blinding storm of swirling snow.

Thoughts of his family, the ones to whom he had not yet successfully sent the promised telegram, crashed through his mind.

Thoughts of his family, and all that he had left unsaid, all that his journey here had convinced him needed to be corrected, flashed through his head.

Jarrod felt a despair grip him that he had never known, an anguish so deep that his body tensed in agony even before the first blow from the iron fist reached his gut.

He stared into the icy eyes of the man before him, waiting for the inevitable, only wanting it to be over.

Then, as the man’s arm drew back to deliver the anticipated blow, Jarrod’s eyes closed.

He could no longer look into the hard blue eyes of his younger brother, as the first punch found him.

Chapter 9

Mercifully, it was over quickly.

After only two, surprisingly light, punches to his stomach, two blows that had barely registered in Jarrod’s tortured brain, Heath landed an uppercut to his jaw that sent Jarrod into unconsciousness.

Surprised, as he felt the well-dressed lawyer suddenly go limp, the burly man holding Jarrod’s arms stared down angrily at the newly-hired blond. With a shove, he pushed the still form of the lawyer toward the bed.

Now out of the way, the unconscious man lay across the patchwork quilt-----lay without motion, lay without a sound.

Matt Coulter had stopped smiling the instant the new man had hit the lawyer in the jaw, ending the game too soon.

Rabid with such a quick loss of his fun, Matt grabbed Heath by the shoulders and spun him around to face his furious reprimand. “Boy! What in the devil are you doing? I wanted him to remember this beating for a long time to come!”

His narrowed eyes stared at the calm, unblinking blue of the younger man’s eyes in front of him. “Thomson, maybe you need a lesson in how it’s supposed to be done!” Heath stood his ground as Matt nodded to Jamison behind him. The towering figure tossed the lawyer’s gun on the bed beside the unconscious man and turned back rapidly.

Having expected Matt to come at him first from in front, Heath never saw the two punches Jamison launched into his lower back with powerful fists. He staggered forward with a strangled gasp at the scorching-hot poker of pain stabbing through him.

Matt caught Heath by the shoulders and pushed him back toward Jamison. Then, grinning broadly, he punched Heath three times, while Jamison’s hands held him up from behind.

Dimly, the thought flashed through Heath’s brain that he dared not try to strike out at Matt. From somewhere inside his head, as the blows crashed into his weakening side, he realized to do so was to lose the position he needed to get at the truth about Anders.

Then, as Jamison pushed him toward Matt and landed two more blows to his unprotected back, Heath also realized that to do so now, was to lose his advantage in protecting his brother.

Instead, Heath managed to turn and block several of Jamison’s punches.

Suddenly, as a vicious laugh rang out behind him, he was abruptly knocked to his knees by Matt’s two-handed blow to his left shoulder. At Matt’s nod, Jamison quickly hauled Heath back to his feet, and propelled him roughly through the door and to the landing outside.

By this time, Matt was thoroughly enjoying himself and had forgotten the original victim of his lesson. He laughed wildly as he grabbed the bruised shoulder and spun his battered, newly-hired hand around, punching him one last time. The fist caught Heath on the side of the head and, as he lost consciousness, he tumbled down the stairs in a heap.

Laughing, the two men followed him down. Standing over Heath, Matt motioned for Jamison to move in and pick up the blond. He shook his head and laughed again, “I think he got the idea. Maybe next time, he won’t go so easy on somebody I want taught a lesson.” He kicked Heath’s unprotected back once before he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

The larger of his two hired men then hoisted the weight of the other to one shoulder and followed his boss without a word.

As they crossed the floor, Matt turned back and tossed a gold coin toward the wide-eyed desk clerk and winked.

* * * * * * * *

All the way home, he worried about how his mother was going to react. It had already been a rough few days, and he hated to have to give her more bad news.

As the outer gate to the ranch came into view, Nick slowed his pace. With Coco’s slow, smooth jog providing a steady rhythm for his growing concern, he narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

First Heath, then Jarrod.

When he had ridden into Stockton earlier, he had gone straight to Harry’s, the bar they always frequented in the center of town.

Shaking his head again, he recalled his confident entrance to the saloon, expecting to see his stubborn, blond-headed brother embroiled in a fierce game of cards. At the remembered smirks of those watching him, he realized he must have looked pretty silly stopping dead in the middle of the bar room floor and looking around with his mouth wide open.

Harry, the bartender and owner, had taken pity on him. He had hollered, “Hey, Nick! C’mon over here.” Then, asking the obvious, he had shaken Nick from his uncharacteristic silence, “You looking for somebody?”

Slowly walking over to the bar, Nick had stood as still as his father’s statue that occupied the square just beyond the Cattlemen’s Hotel. His confidence had momentarily escaped him; he had been so sure his brother would be there.

All the way into town, he had pictured Heath sitting right there at his favorite table near the soothing green of the far wall. He had even planned how he would spoil Heath’s hand and get the younger man riled up, before asking him to return home with him.

Where else would he be in the middle of the day? Nick knew Heath would never stay cooped up in his hotel room. Unlikely possibilities of other places flashed through Nick’s head as he had stared straight ahead, sipping the beer Harry had thoughtfully placed in front of him at some point in the last few minutes.

Finally, Nick had realized “Handsome” Harry Hanson might know where his wayward brother had gone.

Nick had reached out and snagged Harry by the arm on one of his passes behind the bar. The older man had looked into Nick’s puzzled eyes and waited, not reacting to the gloved hand that had a strong grip on his forearm.

“Harry, I’m looking for Heath.”

The rising of the bushy eyebrows and the shaking of Hanson’s head had sent Nick’s heart plummeting to his boots. “Sorry, Nick. I haven’t seen Heath since your mother was in here the other day.”

The man behind the bar winced at the volume of the instant retort.

“But, that was days ago!” Then, struggling with the questions cascading through his mind, Nick grabbed hold of a few he thought Harry could help with, “Did he say anything? How did he act? Do you know where he went?”

With his free hand, Harry wiped at the gleaming surface of the wooden bar for a moment and thought about how to phrase his reply for the distraught man in front of him. He had watched Heath after Victoria Barkley had left; he had been concerned about the young man after the exchange, the last line of which he could not help overhearing----and remembering.

Heath had looked like she had slapped him as she had said, “Oh, I knew you could hate, but I just didn’t know how much!” and stormed out of the double, swinging doors with her skirts swirling around her.

“Harry . . . ?” Nick had shifted restlessly, his grip tightening.

“Nick, you know I think the world of your brother. He’s special, and not to mention, one of the best poker players in these parts. . . . He has a way of keeping his eyes and his face from giving him away to the others around the table, even the ones that have gotten to know him pretty well.”

The man had paused to take a deep breath, the memory strong, though the words were tough to say.

“But, I have to tell you, the other day, as he just kind of sat there, staring after her for a long while, the emotions were too easy to read. For a long time, whenever I glanced over at him, he just looked crushed. Then, his eyes took on this hard, flinty look of anger that almost scared me. He sat like that a while.”

Harry had watched the fleeting emotion of fear flash across the face of the tall, dark rancher who still had hold of his arm.

Finally, Nick had focused on Harry’s face again, coming back from recalling those same emotions so evident all over Heath the day he realized Anders had been brought into their home.

Nick had asked, “And then. . . ?”

Harry had not backed down from the question, answering, “. . . Then, all of a sudden, he stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over in the process, and he left without looking back.”

The bartender had paused again. Then, he added quietly, “I’m sorry, Nick, I don’t know where he went, but it was pretty clear he was hurt and very angry when he left here.”

Almost frantic in his search following Harry’s words, Nick had gone by the hotel and found that his brother had never checked in. Then, he had gone to the livery and both the train and stage depots, all of which further convinced him that if his brother had left it was by horseback. He had also asked at the bank and discovered that Heath had not been in since making a deposit for the ranch over ten days ago.

Finally, his brain burdened by a combination of concentrated worry and irrational anger, Nick had remembered his other errand----to pick up the expected telegram from Jarrod. To his surprise, and even after asking Mr. Hailey to wire Coreyville and verify it, there was no message.

Apparently, Jarrod had either forgotten to wire them upon arrival as promised, or something had happened.

Now Nick had to share with his mother both pieces of unsettling news----that Heath had left Stockton and that Jarrod had not sent them any word about his situation.

Somewhere along in his reverie, he had nudged Coco back into his ground-eating lope, but now he brought the liver chestnut to a halt as the main house came into view. Sitting stock still in the middle of the dusty road, he struggled to push aside the anger he felt at Heath for leaving, knowing he could not share that with his mother right now.

Instead he focused on his worries, for both of his brothers, for his family, and for his mother in particular.

She had been so distant for the last day or two. It was like she was constantly distracted, but was struggling to hide it from all of them. He had walked in on her yesterday just before lunch. She had been standing at the large, open glass doors in the study, just staring out at the barn and the corrals beyond, not moving, not even responding to his usual loud entrance, nor turning at the distinctive sound of his spurs.

When he had approached and called out to her for the second time, he could have sworn he had seen her wipe away a tear before she had turned to him. She had quickly buried her face in his chest in the guise of giving him a fierce hug, but he had felt her trembling slightly and knew it was much more than that.

Though he had tried to hold her, she had moved away from him quickly, saying in a cheerful voice that had sounded a little too forced that she would go get him some lunch. Before he could stop her or ask if she was alright, she was out of the room and gone.

Now, he knew he had to get his worries under control before he could share the upsetting news with her, or he was afraid she would withdraw from them even more.

As he approached the house, he resolved anew to get that Anders fella out of there as soon as possible. He knew he couldn’t go off for days and leave his sister and mother in the house with a possible murderer, even one who had been so close to death. But, he had to find a way to resolve this matter so he could go check on Jarrod.

Then, they could go together to find their younger brother, no matter where he had gone…

…No matter how angry thoughts of Heath’s leaving made him feel right now.

Chapter 10

Listening to Matt go on and on, Judge Benjamin Coulter glanced over at his nephew’s pretty wife and flashed her an appraising smile that put her instantly on her guard.

Then, he lit a cigar and puffed on it.

Matt’s obvious irritation and whiny words about the lawyer continued to fill the oak-paneled room. “He wouldn’t scare, Uncle Ben! He’s real stubborn-like. He wouldn’t listen to reason!”

“Did you figure out another way to handle him, yet?”

“We roughed him up some a little while ago, but I was waiting on you for that.”

Listening to the words exchanged between the two of them, the sheriff felt unable to stop the long sigh that escaped his lips. He too, glanced over at the frightened woman, who was almost cowering by the closed door.

Knowing the response he was about to invoke, he never-the-less felt compelled to speak up, “Now hold on! If something happens, I’ll be the one blamed for it. Ben, I’m the law in this town…”

“…When I say you’re the law!”

Portly, white-headed Ben Coulter turned back to Matt and said matter-of-factly, “He could have an accident.”

Matt’s response was instantaneous and incredulous, “You ain’t worried none he’s a Barkley?”

“In Stockton, maybe; but here, he’s nothing.”

The sheriff tried again to break through, “Don’t do it, Ben. I’m asking you.”

“If you’ve got no stomach for it, get out!”

“Now, look, Ben!”

“I said, get out!”

The sheriff stalked to the door, his hat in his hand. He nodded once, trying to catch the eye of Amy Coulter, to encourage her to leave too. However, the dark-headed woman was staring off into space and did not acknowledge him. A quick second look assured the sheriff that she appeared to have an air of resolve about her that had not been there before.

Matt asked, “What kind of an accident did you have in mind?”

Judge Coulter paused and blew some smoke into the air of his silent office. Then, a small smile formed on his face, as he brainstormed aloud, “Freight lane, four-up like that, somebody gets run over.”

He sat down heavily in his plush, leather chair, its springs squeaking in protest from his abundant weight. The smile was still on his face as he envisioned a team of four horses getting the bit in their teeth and a frantic driver trying to slow them. In his mind, he could see them rounding a corner while charging into town, the freight wagon behind them careening from side to side. And, clearly, he could see an unsuspecting Stockton Barkley finding his way into the street at just the right moment. . .

Then, aloud, he added, “He ain’t gonna ask many more questions.”

Gathering her courage, Amy Coulter came forward from her place by the oak-paneled wall, “Oh, no, Uncle Ben, you can’t. I feel guilty enough about the other. Please let him go! He’ll never find out.”

As the feral eyes looked her up and down, enjoying the sight of her pleasant curves, Amy felt her skin crawl. She broke contact with his eyes, and began backing up.

Oblivious to the nuances of his uncle’s glances at his wife, Matt spoke up quickly, appalled that she would dare approach the great man, and grabbed her roughly by the arm, “Amy, you’d better go home.”

As she turned to the door without another word, she was, for once, eager to comply with her husband’s demands. Matt looked back at his uncle and nodded once before following her.

* * * * * * * *

As he struggled toward consciousness, he groaned aloud.

He was lying across the bed, with the toes of his boots just barely scraping the rug on the wooden floor behind him. He could see the expanse of brightly-colored squares on the quilt beneath him, even in the half-light of the descending darkness outside his window. He could feel the rough-smooth combination of textures beneath his face, as he began to move his pounding head.

Finding purchase on the shifting rug beneath his boots, his legs managed to offer some leverage as his hands above his head gathered the material of the quilt in a strong grip, and he slowly push himself up. Resting on his side, on one elbow, he stared out the window and tried to remember what time it was, what day it was, and what had happened.

Gingerly, he raised up further and gained a more stable position, turning so he could sit on the edge of the bed. He leaned heavily against the brass rails at the corner of the bed closest to the door.

Then, he used one hand and probed his stomach, relieved to find that the dull ache there did not worsen with his touch. Next, he reached up to grasp his throbbing jaw, feeling the slight swelling on the outside that, from the inside of his mouth, felt as huge as if he had a soft, down-filled pillow stuffed within.

His puzzled eyes searched the room for other clues as to what had happened. Nothing appeared missing. Here beside him on the quilt was his handgun, and his bags in the corner seemed untouched.

Wait.

His eyes moved back to the head of the bed, and an image of a man’s sarcastic smile and gratingly whiny voice came back to him.

Suddenly, his hand flew back to his jaw. He stood shakily to his feet and staggered to the small, yellow pine dresser by the wall near the window. Checking his jaw once more, he stopped and stared.

His eyes.

He remembered the blue eyes.

Reflected in the darker blue of his own, he could now see the paler, icier blue eyes of his youngest brother, just before the first punch landed.

“No!” Jarrod whispered into the quiet room. “No!”

As he took three steps backwards and sat heavily on the side of the bed away from where they had all stood hours before, he slowly shook his head. The scene played out again behind his closed eyes, and he leaned forward to place his face in his hands at the memory.

“Heath!” He moaned.

He remembered the shock of seeing his brother in his room about to beat him to a pulp, while the other man held him. “Why, Heath? Did we hurt you so badly?”

His throbbing jaw brought his head up, and he stood once more. Walking back to the mirror, he unbuttoned his shirt with shaky fingers. Then, he traced the twin, barely visible, red marks left by his brother’s fists on his muscled stomach. He wondered silently, “Where are the other marks? Is this all he did?”

Truly puzzled, he questioned himself again, “What does it mean?”

“Heath!” he said again, as he leaned forward on hands braced against the surface of the pine low-boy, and searched his reflection for other reminders of his brother’s face.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at his door. Turning, Jarrod winced at the shooting pain from his jaw, as he grabbed for the pistol lying on the bed.

Before he could get to the door, he heard a female voice ask, “Mr. Barkley? Can I come in? I need to talk to you?”

Jarrod opened the door and saw a woman with anguished brown eyes looking up at him, sad eyes that were pleading with him. He stepped back and allowed her to rush into the room.

She began talking very quickly, too fast for his still-groggy brain to process easily, “Mr. Barkley, you’ll be killed if you stay here! Look!” She grabbed him by the hand without the gun, and pulled him toward the window.

Below, he saw several men standing around the front of the hotel, laughing and leaning against the hitching posts. Across the way, he saw two more, sitting on wooden boxes outside the freight station.

“Come on, Mr. Barkley! I can’t be caught in here with you; they’ll kill us both! We have to hurry!”

Jarrod blinked down at her and shook his head to clear it. She misinterpreted the move as a negative response, and she tightened her grip on his hand. “You have no choice. Please trust me!”

Finally, the normally eloquent gentleman found his voice, and asked with puzzlement, “Who are you?”

She glanced away from the window and up at him in disbelief, then rapidly realized that though surely someone had spoken her name to him since he had arrived, he couldn’t know what she looked like. She replied, “Why, I’m Amy Coulter!”

Jarrod stared hard at the small, finely-boned woman in front of him. She had clearly risked everything to come looking for him. Suddenly, he felt more hope than he had since he had climbed down from the stage earlier in the day, more certainly than he had since he had realized his brother had a hand in the violence permeating this place.

Her words, spoken with increasing panic, brought him out of his thoughts and into action.

“Please, Mr. Barkley! We have to go, now!”

“But, where will we go that they won’t think to look?”

Don’t worry,” she replied, “I know a place. You’ll be safe there. The stage leaves at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

He nodded and quickly gathered the few belongings he had brought and pushed his pistol back into his holster. Ignoring the shooting pain in his jaw, he concentrated on his preparations.

A man who always preferred to debate rather than fight, he was aware now that the solid feel of the handgun, its familiar weight next to his leg, gave him additional hope, hope for a safe outcome, hope for answers to his questions.

But, it offered him absolutely no hope regarding the brother whose actions he did not understand.

He eased open the door to the room, and gazed around at the empty balcony and then, down at the empty lobby. Knowing the desk clerk had a convenient view of his doorway, he watched for the man’s back to be turned.

Jarrod heard her whisper behind him, “To the right, there’s a back stairway.”

Then, taking Amy Coulter gently by the arm, he brought her out of the room and toward the stairs that marked their only escape route.

The stairs were descended without incident, but Jarrod began to worry when he eased the back door open and saw an obviously posted guard pacing back and forth along the boardwalk along the street at the end of the alley, just within sight.

He leaned back toward her and asked, “Which way? Where are we going?”

She answered in a whisper, “To the school. We need to get to the school.”

“Did you come in the front door?”

“No, I came in this door.”

Sighing, Jarrod marveled again at the courage this woman had displayed in trying to rescue him. He had hoped to send her back through the front and get her out of the middle of this. But, if she hadn’t come in that way, his idea would only make things worse.

“There are so many of them, they may see us. Tell me how to get there, then you wait here for a while before you come out.”

The look of fear clouded her eyes instantly. “No, Mr. Barkley!” she said quickly, “I’m safer with you now than out there alone. My husband is an evil man. If he catches me coming out of here, with or without you, he won’t ask questions. He will assume the worst. In fact, even now, I’m afraid his uncle is only going to leave me one hope of survival in this town, if I don’t leave here with you tomorrow on that stage, and that is an option I can’t contemplate, not ever!”

Jarrod stared into her pleading brown eyes, and took her by the hand. Then, he eased open the door again, and called on some of that famous Barkley luck his brother Nick, was always talking about. Not seeing anyone, he stepped out into the darkening alley, pulling Amy Coulter behind him.

Both were breathing hard by the time they stumbled in the back door of the little schoolhouse in the grove of trees just past the end of the street.

He turned to look at her, wanting to ask so many questions, but he gave her a chance to catch her breath first. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Coulter. It was very brave of you to . . . “

She waved him off, hand on the door to leave before he had even finished speaking. She said, “You’ll be safe here for the night.”

“Wait!” Jarrod said, “You knew the school teacher, didn’t you? I want you to tell me what happened. I need to know.”

She shook her head.

But, Jarrod insisted, “I’m not leaving tomorrow until you tell me what happened.”

“About the school teacher?” she asked.

When he nodded, it was all the signal she needed. The words gushed forth like rushing water, suddenly freed from its banks. “There was nothing in any way that could be considered improper. It wasn’t like that. You see, I came out here from Ohio to teach. Immediately, I hated this town, the loneliness, not having anyone to talk to. When I married Matt I saw it as a way to have some connections with someone, but the loneliness didn’t get any better. It got worse. I was even more isolated than before. Then, with me married, Horace Ames came to take over the school.”

She paused with the remembering, and then continued, almost as if she were talking to herself, but as if she needed to tell someone, “Horace was just bursting with knowledge. We started up a conversation, and before long we started up a friendship, talking when we could, mostly about all the books he had read. Whenever we talked, it was always in the daytime, always with the children around. . . . Except once. I came to return a book; it was after the children had gone, after dark. He was still working here, and I, well, I just wanted to talk about the book! But, suddenly, Matt was there. He said vile, horrible things to Horace.”

Again, she paused, recalling events she had thought she would have preferred to leave buried with the man. Then, she added, “Horace stood up to Matt; Matt killed him.”

Jarrod shook his head, not quite understanding, “And you’d have let Anders die for that? You’d have let him hang or be killed by those bounty hunters knowing Matt killed the school teacher?”

Amy Coulter turned quickly toward the door, “I don’t know, Mr. Barkley. I don’t know. I was frightened. Matt said he’d kill me too!”

Jarrod asked quietly, “And now?”

“Now? Now, I’m too scared of his uncle to stay, and I can’t sit back and know that Matt will kill again, that he will kill you.”

She turned away again, then looked back, searching his eyes. “I have to get home. Matt always comes in just after 7:00, and I must have his meal prepared when he arrives.”

Just as she reached to close the door behind her, she added, “I’ll be back before the children come tomorrow. If I buy two stage tickets, will you help me get away from this town? I just want to go home to Ohio!”

Nodding, Jarrod replied, “Yes, I’ll help you.”

It was Jarrod’s turn to be fearful, afraid suddenly for her. “Will he try to hurt you in any way tonight? Maybe I should go with you to make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

“No, Mr. Barkley. If you leave here, he’ll find you and kill you. I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve done enough to help me, just by coming here. You’ve given me both courage and hope.”

She smiled softly and added, “Thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, she was gone.

To be continued…