A Trust Betrayed

Chapters 11-20

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.

Chapter 11

“Mother, I know you don’t want to move that man until Jarrod comes back,” Nick pleaded, “But, I think it’s a risk we’re going to have to take! I need to go check on Jarrod over in Coreyville, and I need to go today!”

“No, Nick,” Victoria Barkley said tiredly. “He is doing much better, and Howard said yesterday that he could safely make the trip to town, but those two men are still after him! The only place he can be truly safe is here.”

“Mother, I need to go, and we have to get him out of here. I just can’t leave the two of you and Silas here with Anders for a couple of days while I’m gone. What if Jarrod is wrong about him? What if he is a murderer?”

His hazel eyes searched hers, hearing the discouragement she gave him in words, but seeing the conflicting wish for him to take some action within her distraught eyes.

They were standing in the dining room, Nick with his hands on the back of Heath’s usual chair, with Victoria standing across the room from him. She looked down at the chair he was holding onto, the frustration causing him to manhandle its mahogany frame from side to side a bit as he spoke. Then, she swallowed hard, her eyes traveling up from the empty chair to give Nick a look filled with such pain that it almost broke his heart into tiny shards of splintered glass.

She quickly turned away from him and busied herself with arranging some roses on the buffet that dominated the wall.

Nick steadied the chair, then instantly strode to take her in his strong arms. The sob that tore out of her, cut through him, causing his already shattered heart to bleed.

“Sh-h-h, Mother,” he soothed quietly, his arms wrapping around her protectively. “Sh-h-h, now, it’s going to be alright. I’ll go find Jarrod. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. I’ll tell him his family needs him right now. Then, we’ll go find Heath together. We’ll make him come home with us, Mother, I promise. Wherever he’s gone, we’ll find him, and we’ll bring him home to you.”

Her tears fell on his rough, work-worn hands, scalding them with their salty heat. He turned her around, and pulled her face into his chest. As he stood stroking her back and kissing the top of her silver head, he got a glimpse of his sister’s face as she entered through the doorway from the kitchen.

Tears of empathy instantly appeared in Audra’s beautiful, blue eyes, and she walked to them, adding her slender arms to the huge hug he was already offering in comfort.

As her mother’s sobs lessened, Nick allowed Audra to turn the overwrought, diminutive woman toward her, and she led her mother to her chair at the table. Audra looked up at her kind, big brother and said, “Nick, there’s a deputy out at the barn that wants to speak to you. He says the two bounty hunters are in jail. Apparently, they’ve been arrested!”

“Stay here, Ladies! I’ll be right back!” he thundered. “This may be the answer we’ve been needing.”

Nick charged from the room, and after only a few minutes, true to his word, he was back. He walked over to Victoria, who was much more composed now, and bent down on one knee in front of her. “Mother,” he said, taking her cold hands in his large, warm ones, “Duke is coming in with some men to carry Anders out to the buggy. They’re going to take him in to Doc Merar’s. The sheriff will be holding those bounty hunters in jail for a couple of days. Apparently, they got drunk and shot up a couple of store fronts.”

Audra gasped, “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, no one, but someone could have been,” Nick glanced up at his sister and answered. Then, he looked back at Victoria and said, “Mother, I’m going up to pack some gear. I’ll be leaving in a little while to ride to Coreyville.”

Victoria’s eyes took in the handsome features of this dark-haired, middle son. She reached one hand over to push his errant hair up and off of his forehead. “Thank you, Nick. I’ll come up in a moment to make sure they are careful as they move him. And, we’ll get Silas started packing you some food for your trip.”

Just as her tall son stood again and prepared to leave the room, she reached out and grabbed his hand. She, too, stood. Then, she said quietly, “Be careful, Nick.”

Chapter 12

The afternoon sun in the center of his vision seemed to mock him. It was so brilliant, filling the sky with its brightness as it slowly headed toward the tops of the tree line, that he could not see anything else around him.

Then, blinking rapidly, he realized that it wasn’t just that the sun was too bright, it was that everything else was too dark. His vision was dim around the edges. But, trying to raise his head, to shake it to clear his vision, was a mistake. The pain crashed down on him and shoved away all thoughts of the sun in his eyes.

Darkness engulfed the afternoon sun and everything faded into blackness.

* * * * * * * *

When he roused again, he could tell from the position of the blinding sun, slowly dipping below the horizon, that several hours had passed. The pounding in his head filled his ears with a dull roar, almost as if the sun itself were really the headlamp from a thundering steam engine, a loaded train bearing down on him, waiting to crush him in its path.

He tried to move his left arm, to raise it enough to block the sun from his squinting eyes. Suddenly, his eyes flew open wide, and, though he clenched his teeth, a guttural moan escaped. He rolled away from the pain shooting across his back, down his legs, and from his shoulder all the way down his arm. Cradling the arm against him, he lay half on his side, arching his back in agony, trying to escape the red heat consuming him as if his back was the origin point of a brushfire that was fast making its way down his limbs.

Panting, he tried to will himself still, tried to press his tormented body into the dirt, tried to give himself time to face the pain head on. However, no matter how he struggled for control, he could not deny the fiery heat consuming him. Under the sun’s lingering rays, he could not summon any image cool enough to combat the fury of the blaze inside him.

There was only one glacial image he could recall, and it did nothing to assuage his pain.

As he saw again the chill of the midnight blue eyes inside his head, he whispered his brother’s name, . . .just before he passed out again, there in the dirt.

“Jarrod.”

* * * * * * * *

In the early evening darkness, Jamison growled at the figure lying on the ground outside Matt Coulter’s barn.

“Get up, Boy!”

Cursing under his breath, the huge man squatted next to the filthy blond and grabbed the back of Heath’s neck as he lay on his side, unmoving in the dirt. Then, he let go, stood, and nudged the blood-encrusted head with the toe of his dusty boot.

He turned away when he got no response.

“Is he dead?” Riles asked as he walked by to put up his horse.

The man shook his head and answered, “Nah, he’s not dead, just still out cold.”

He walked away and went looking for his boss, wondering what was taking him so long to eat one lousy meal.

Shortly after the man’s departure, Heath slowly roused. He moved his head a little and scuffed one leg up and down a few times in the dirt. A soft groan passed his lips, as he tried to lift himself up. Using muscles that protested with a vengeance, he struggled slowly to a kneeling position. Leaning forward, his head cradled in the one hand he could move without pain, he fought the agony, dizziness, and nausea that billowed through him like the remnants of acrid smoke following a blazing fire.

The blaze still struggled to rekindle in parts of his beaten body---his back, his side, his shoulder, and worst of all, now, his head. As he cracked open his eyes, he was grateful that the sun had already set, preventing him from having to adjust again to its glaring brightness.

Shaking his head slightly, he saw again the intense blue of his brother’s eyes just before they had closed. He saw the hurt and the sense of betrayal warring there with the shock and disbelief.

“Jarrod,” he whispered again, as he put his right hand in the dirt and struggled to bring one boot forward and under him. “Gotta find out what’s happened ta Jarrod,” he thought.

Staggering to his feet, he took three or four steps toward the nearby fence. Once there, he grabbed hold of one board with his hand and leaned forward to let the nausea rid him of a meal no longer remembered.

Then, he stumbled toward the pump and retrieved a cup of cool water, before he dropped to his knees beside the horse trough. Kneeling there in the dark, he first rinsed his mouth, spit, then, gulped the rest. Hooking the cup on the side of the trough, he removed his bandana with shaking fingers. He wet the soft cloth and carefully used it to touch the open gash across the side of his head. Holding it there, he attempted to clean the area, removing some of the dried blood he could feel that had dripped down his face. Last, he washed away the dirt smeared across his face and neck, letting the cool water trickle down under his torn shirt.

The simple actions helped him quench the fire blazing through his head, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the nausea remained at bay for the moment. He sat back on his heels and rested his head on the edge of the trough, the cool, wet bandana between his head and the slick, water-logged wood.

The images rolling around in his head reminded him that he needed to get up and find his brother, but he couldn’t move yet. He just needed a few more minutes to rest first.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the words being spoken from around the corner of the barn worked themselves inside his brain. Matt Coulter and the giant called Jamison were there, unseen, laughing and talking.

He thought he heard the word “lawyer.”

Listening harder, Heath tried to make sense of their words.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I finally found an appropriate way to thank the little wife, now that I know where she hid that fella today.” Matt said with a smile evident in his voice. “If she wanted to protect him, she sure wasn’t too smart in taking him to such an isolated place, now was she?” Then, with venom in his voice, Matt spat out, “I guess she wanted to take him back to the same place as the other one, so they could have their privacy!”

Jamison responded, no longer worried that Matt would take offense about anything said about his wife, “Maybe, Boss, but, it was right nice of her to take him to that school---real easy for us to get to him, even easier than in that hotel!”

Heath’s heart felt like Jamison had just hit him in the chest with an axe handle. He could hardly draw in enough air to fill his lungs. Was he too late? Had they already gotten to Jarrod again?

“What did she say when she came in the house tonight?” Jamison wanted to know. “I bet she was sure surprised when you were waiting on her.”

“Kind of reminded me of what happened a few weeks back with that schoolteacher. She had been out seeing him and didn’t know I’d gotten home first. When she saw me when she came in the door, and I questioned her, she pleaded for that man’s life so pretty before I knocked her to her knees. It was a few nights later that I caught them together, her half-dressed, and him all over. . ”

Matt stopped talking, or at least stopped talking loud enough for Heath to hear what else he said.

Then, he heard the other man ask, “That’s when you killed him right in front of her?”

Matt never hesitated as he said, almost with delight in his voice, “Yeah. And tonight, well, Amy just looked at me, knowing she’d been caught again. She started begging before I even said a word. First, she tried to convince me that nothing had happened between her and that lawyer fella, but, then, she told me right away what I wanted to know. It was even easier to get her to betray this one than it was with the schoolteacher. Then, she just begged me not to hit her like last time.”

Again, there was a brief moment before Heath could hear anything else being said. Then, Matt spoke up, “But, it don’t none of it matter. It won’t ever happen again. I fixed that little problem, . . . permanently.”

“So, . . .she’s dead?” Jamison asked this in a quiet voice that Heath could just barely make out.

Matt Coulter answered plainly. “Yeah, she’s dead. Good riddance. She won’t be running around on me anymore, not with no slick-talking schoolteacher or no fancy city lawyer. Not with nobody.”

Jamison responded, “Boss, did they catch that Anders fella yet? Having him around to blame the first one on, sure made it easy, didn’t it? Jamison inquired. “Too bad he got away, but I know those two bounty hunters. They won’t stop ‘til the man is dead.”

Matt answered, “Yeah, all we’ve gotta do is decide how we’re gonna kill this one. I could do it tonight, at the school, just like I did the teacher. Then, I could blame his death on somebody, just like before. Or, we could do it Uncle Ben’s way in the morning.”

Heath closed his eyes, sucked in the first good breath in several minutes, and let out a silent sigh of relief.

Then, he heard Jamison growl, “Don’t matter none to me how we kill him.”

Matt added, “My uncle wanted a freight wagon accident, but it don’t seem too smart to me to do something out in broad daylight like that. Too many people around to ask too many questions.”

Then, Heath heard a sound like one man slapping the other on the back.

“Tell you what,” Matt said, “I’m gonna go down to the saloon and enjoy me the company of a wild-blooded woman tonight. Why don’t you join me? That fella in the school’s not going anywhere. We’ll decide what to do when we’re done having us a good time.”

Jamison offered, “If you do decide to just kill him, you could always blame it on that blond-headed drifter, Thomson. Won’t nobody be looking for him; won’t nobody care if he hangs from a rope or not.”

Matt apparently pounded the tall man beside him on the back, before he said, “Jamison, I think you might have a right good idea there. C’mon, let’s go see if Rosie’s working tonight. I’m a free man, and I’m ready to celebrate!”

The two men walked around the corner of the barn and moved off into the deepening dark. Shortly afterward, Heath struggled to his feet by leaning heavily against the watering trough. Then, he walked slowly toward the barn.

When he entered the open double-doors, he leaned back against the closest wall. His head was pounding and the roaring in his ears was making it difficult to keep on his feet. His breath was coming in small, rapid rasps. But, the pain he was in was nothing compared to the worry that had started to burn through him.

Though Jarrod had never been mentioned by name by the two men, Heath was sure he knew who was holed up in the school just outside the edge of town, his fate now in the hands of Matt Coulter.

How was he going to get his brother out of there? And, how was he going to accomplish it before Matt Coulter and his men could stop them?

Chapter 13

It was growing dark outside, the last rays of the day’s sun lingering just a little longer outside the two, west-facing windows of the shadowy school room. The glow from the sunset created a dark silhouette from the large stand of trees bordering the hard-packed, earthen yard around the school.

But, Jarrod’s thoughts were not on the beauty of the late evening, the isolation of the building in which he had taken shelter, nor were they on his home a half-day’s ride to the west. Instead, his thoughts fluctuated between the last two people he remembered laying a hand on him. His thoughts were on Matt Coulter’s wife, Amy, who had saved him, and on his brother, Heath, who had attacked him.

Where her hand had touched his arm gently to guide him to safety, to ask him for help, Heath’s hands had lashed out at him in violence, in anger, and . . . in betrayal?

Jarrod thought back over all that he had realized about his youngest brother earlier this morning on the stage. Then, he saw again Heath’s cold, icy eyes in his hotel room this afternoon.

Why had Heath participated in the beating Matt Coulter ordered?

Did he just get caught up in doing a job once he was there?

Or, had Heath gone there to the hotel room already knowing who Matt was after?

If Heath had known what the plan was, why had he even gone with them to the room?

Had he actively sought out an opportunity to get back at Jarrod for his role in protecting Anders?

If he had not known, then why in the devil hadn’t he helped Jarrod get away from those men instead of assisting them?!

He kept seeing that steely set to Heath’s jaw, that hard look in his eyes, as he pulled his arm back to punch him. There had been no apology in his eyes. There had been no obvious anguish for what he was about to do.

More than the punches themselves, Jarrod realized, Heath’s eyes were what had hurt him the most.

Then, these unanswered questions carried him to related issues, to questions that probed the past few days preceding the beating he had taken.

Why had Heath come to Coreyville in the first place?

When had he joined up with Coulter?

. . . . .And why?

What was he after?

And, finally, the questions Jarrod most needed an answer to, were the ones that had the most potential for determining his relationship with his brother for the rest of their lives. Jarrod could not deny that he felt betrayed by Heath’s actions in that hotel room. But, were his feelings based on all the facts; were his feelings legitimate, or was there something he was missing, some understandable reason for what Heath had done to him?

He had to know.

Jarrod paused, the questions almost making his jaw start hurting again. “Think, Jarrod! Think with your head like a lawyer, but listen to your heart like a brother!” he admonished himself silently, remembering this time to pay attention to what Heath didn’t say.

Heath never took the easy road.

Jarrod had seen this time and again in the last seven months. If it came down to getting himself hurt or hurting someone else, Heath would always choose to help the other person, no matter the cost to himself.

If he had come to Coreyville, he must have had the same idea in mind that Jarrod had had----to try to find out the truth about Anders.

Yes, that was it.

That was it exactly.

He must have had a couple of days head start, had come here, and with his usual easy manner in any tough situation, he had blended in enough to get close to the man who knew the truth, Matt Coulter-----the man who knew the truth about the murder of the schoolteacher.

Jarrod wondered if Heath had uncovered the same information that he had, that Anders was apparently an innocent victim in all of this.

But, why participate in Jarrod’s beating at the direction of Matt Coulter? It made no sense that his brother would do that, . . . . except if. . .

Jarrod touched the muscles just above his belt, again. He had to think to remember exactly where those two punches had landed; he felt no pain at all from them now. Then, he touched his aching jaw. He remembered his surprise when he first came to in that hotel room, the surprise he had initially felt that they had left him no worse off than unconscious with a swollen jaw.

Suddenly, Jarrod remembered the fourth person in the room, the large man behind him who had grabbed his arms and held him so Heath could throw the punches.

There!

That was it!

He knew all about Heath’s infamous “poker face,” since he himself had fallen victim several times to his brother’s uncanny ability to appear emotionless in a tense game of cards. He had also witnessed his brother’s tough bravado, even in the face of overwhelming odds. He knew Heath could bluff his way through situations and appear completely at ease, though Jarrod and Nick sometimes knew differently, only because they were starting to know him well.

Standing at the window, looking out onto the last remaining glow from the reflected sunset, Jarrod also looked into the past. He thought back over the two month period, the sixty torturous days, when, reflecting on it later, he had marveled at Heath’s ability to seemingly set aside his emotions, not allowing them to interfere with what he had to do. The interminably long period in which Nick had disappeared from the ranch still made Jarrod a little angry with his dark-headed brother.

However, he now understood why Nick had left. And, he understood that, though Heath had known the reason and had kept it-----and his very real fear that Nick had developed rabies and died-----away from the rest of them, Heath had done so only because Nick had exacted an almost impossible promise from his new brother, a promise of silence.

Now, as Jarrod remembered again that particular instance, as well as several more examples, he was reminded again of Heath’s unfailing loyalty to his brother Nick, and to all of his new family.

Speaking aloud for the first time since Amy Coulter had asked for his help and had left almost an hour ago, Jarrod said, “And, even though you and I have not had a chance to test our relationship the way you and Nick have, I know you would demonstrate that same kind of loyalty to me.”

“You are not the kind of man who would betray me, are you?” Jarrod asked of his missing brother, asked aloud in the now dark room. “No matter if you were hurt by my part in making you go with Bentell, no matter if you were angry about my insistence that Anders remain at the house, you would not betray me like that. It is not in your nature to betray someone you care about, no matter what that person did to you.”

No! Heath would never react like that.

Jarrod chastised himself for even thinking that Heath was capable of returning the hurt and anger he might have felt by lashing out at Jarrod to hurt him in return.

Speaking aloud again, Jarrod said, “The facts, when I look at them objectively, illuminate both possibilities, Brother Heath, the possibility that you betrayed me by your actions in my hotel room and the possibility that there is something else going on here. Knowing you the way I have come to in the last seven months, I know that you may have actually been showing your loyalty to me today, though the reasons for your actions are not clear right now. In my heart, I know you must have had a good reason for what you did today. Just as I now know you did what you had to for Nick all those long days when I did not make it easy for you, I am sure that you did what you had to do today.”

He paced around the room twice before coming back to stand by the window, and he continued to think to himself, silently.

Maybe, because of the man standing behind Jarrod, Heath had not wanted to let his eyes give him away!

Maybe Heath had been wearing his “poker face” for a very good reason!

For whatever reason, once he was there in that hotel room, Heath had had to make it look good, had had to keep his emotions off of his face in order to look convincing, not just to Matt Coulter, but also to the man behind Jarrod who could see Heath’s eyes as well as Jarrod could! But, despite the close scrutiny of the other two men, he had not done any damage with his fists. In fact, the more Jarrod thought about it now, the more sure he was that Heath had probably saved him from a much worse beating, especially if that giant of a man holding his arms had been the one throwing the punches.

What had happened after he had been knocked out by his brother’s powerful, right upper-cut?

The questions in Jarrod’s brain, once begun again, tumbled like water from a cold mountain-fed stream, rushing over the smooth rocks further down the slope.

If Heath had only done what he had to do for some reason, if he hadn’t betrayed Jarrod the way it had looked, then, what had happened to him?

Where was he now?

. . . What dangerous game was Heath playing?

Jarrod had not seen him when he and Amy had left the hotel, he was sure of it.

Then, having thought of Amy Coulter, another question came to him.

But, . . . .if he had been wrong about his own brother. . . .

If he had been wrong about his own brother, a person whose character he knew so well, couldn’t he be wrong about her as well?

Could he have been wrong to trust Amy Coulter?

Again, he admonished himself to think, to think it through, to think it through like a lawyer, but to listen for the emotions underneath.

If this were a courtroom instead of a schoolroom, if this were a trial instead of an emotionally-charged situation, he would be better equipped to concentrate on the facts of the case. However, he knew, if he was going to win this one, he was going to have to think like a lawyer where this woman was concerned.

He had talked with her all of an hour. Could he really trust her with his very life?

It suddenly dawned on him that he had been basing everything, every understanding he had of the events in Coreyville, on her word alone. He had been basing everything on her unsubstantiated testimony. He had no evidence to back up any of her story.

Surely, her husband would not have walked into his hotel room and just gunned him down as she had implied. Surely, even in this town, there were limits to what one man, no matter his last name, could do? By trusting her, by coming with her here, to the school on the edge of town, had Jarrod just made Matt Coulter’s intent to get rid of him that much easier to accomplish?

As he began gathering his things, Jarrod decided he should be more careful of accepting her story at face value, that he should test the faith he had placed in her first. Fearing that, even if she had not led him deliberately into a trap, this schoolhouse would prove too vulnerable a position for him to defend, he decided to head outside and keep a watchful eye for the rest of the night.

If anyone came, they would expect him to be inside.

As he eased open the back door and slipped out into the darkness relieved only by the faint stars far above him, Jarrod suddenly recalled his own words about a test, spoken aloud in the silent schoolroom a short while ago. He remembered saying that he and Heath had not yet had a chance to test their relationship like Nick and Heath had.

As he ran from the corner of the building toward the thickest of the wooded area on the side of the building furthest from town, Jarrod recalled that the closest he and Heath had ever come was in voicing their support of each other during the trial of Korby Kiles, each understanding that the other was just doing what he had to do.

As he made himself comfortable beneath the thick trunk of a tree deep in the shadows, Jarrod was, all at once, not so sure that he was correct in this belief, this idea that they had never tested their relationship.

Suddenly, he realized his loyalty to Heath had already been tested twice----and tested severely.

As he checked his handgun and the ammunition held securely by the leather loops on the gun belt around his waist, he remembered the first test. He had encouraged the family to send Heath with Matt Bentell, despite Heath’s protests otherwise. How he wished now that he had never followed that course of action, the anger in the pale blue eyes hiding a hurt and, even a strong fear, that sliced through him all over again.

As he looked out, then, at the surrounding darkness, at the darkness that robbed every object of depth and seemed to eerily flatten the landscape around him, he recalled the second test, just a few days ago. Again, he had failed to let his distraught brother know that they would work out a way to respect his wishes, that they would work out a way to get Gil Anders out of the house as soon as possible, that they would work it out together with the family Heath had placed his faith in.

As he took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, silently, he knew, just as he had realized it on the stage earlier today, that he had failed his tests of loyalty to Heath, that he had failed Heath miserably both times.

As he closed his eyes momentarily, the pain twisting his heart with its unmistakable truth, Jarrod knew----despite Heath’s actions in the hotel room today, it wasn’t his brother that had betrayed a trust.

Chapter 14

From the time he left the ranch, Nick knew he would never make it all the way into Coreyville tonight. It was easily a six-hour trip in the daylight, but only if he didn’t stop long to fix a meal along the way. To leave so late in the day, he knew would mean he would have to bed down along the way, that or find a place to sleep at one of the two towns he would come to first. Neither of them would be where he would need to stop for the night, however, not if he intended to reach Coreyville at first light in the morning. Both were too close to Stockton to be of any use to him, at least on this leg of the journey.

Keyed up and knowing the further he went this evening, the less time he would have to travel early tomorrow morning, he decided to press on as far as possible tonight.

The slender crescent moon, appearing faintly as it rose above the horizon, was going to be of barely any use to him. As he made his way through unfamiliar country with the sun’s glow only a memory in the western sky behind him, he knew better than to push too hard in almost non-existent light. It was a good thing he had a fine, well-tested horse under him, he thought with a smile, as he patted his Coco fondly on the neck.

Speaking aloud to the liver chestnut, he said, “I have every confidence in your ability to notice trouble before it occurs----and that’s not to mention my faith in your sure-footedness!”

With these words fresh in his mind, Nick suddenly remembered something Handsome Harry had said earlier in the day about his brother, Heath.

What exactly had Harry’s words been?

Oh, yeah---something about how he thought the world of Heath. . .

Thinking hard, Nick recalled that Harry had then said, “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.”

How many times had Nick seen Heath do that, take on that steely mask of nonchalance that had fooled many people in the months since Nick had been paying attention to the blond’s interactions with others?

Hell, Heath had used it on him, more times than he could count. He never knew when Heath was getting ready to play a practical joke on him, and that poker face always ensured that Nick not only never saw it coming, it usually took him a little while to figure out he’d been had!

Heath had also used it whenever they had exchanged blows back in the beginning. He had used it when he had told Nick he had fired Barrett, and Nick had told him he had hired him back. Nick had never thought about how this one action had hurt Heath, how he had-----how had Jarrod put it at the time?

Nick could hear Pappy’s voice telling him angrily, “Nick, you just cut him off at the knees!” And, as usual, Nick had had a come-back ready, one that had seemed perfectly justifiable to him at the time, something about the needs of the ranch, he was sure. Then, he remembered, he had offered Heath some weak apology about it later, never even finishing the words. Heath had seemed to accept it and just brushed it off.

As he rode along in the dark, he recalled another time when Heath must have used his poker face, only Nick hadn’t been there to see it. It had started on a night much like this, when the two of them had been together, returning home with some horses they had recently purchased. When Nick was attacked by the wolf, Heath had been there for him, acting quickly to cauterize the wound.

Aloud, with only the sliver of a moon and Coco to hear, he said, “Probably saved my life that night-----the doc said as much, didn’t he?”

Recalling that poker face, Nick knew Heath must have used it a thousand times during the days following the wolf bite, throughout those sixty days when Nick had gone off and left Heath to deal with the family while he searched for meaning for himself, for meaning at the prospect of dying. Before he had left, he had made Heath promise to not reveal the situation to their family.

“That was a pretty low thing to do to him, wasn’t it, Coco? I just expected him to handle everything, didn’t I? To handle the ranch, Jarrod’s questions, Audra’s curiosity, and Mother’s anguish.”

Thinking silently about how his mother had fared the last few days since Heath had left, about how upset she had been though trying to hide it, he knew he himself could have never held out against that for sixty days. “Between her worry over Jarrod and her misery over Heath, I’d do anything to free Mother from the kind of pain she’s in right now. Just look at all the promises I’ve made her, and he’s only been gone a few days. . . I did put him in a tough spot----I guess I didn’t realize how tough until just now.”

As a tall doe broke from cover and went crashing off into the trees to their right, Coco merely lifted his head and pricked his ears, his steady gait never wavering. “Good Boy, Coco, good Boy,” Nick said, stroking the lightly sweating neck. The horse never shied, never spooked.

And, like Nick’s trustworthy horse, his brother had never spooked either. Nick remembered the incident with the Irish immigrants, the ones he had thought were squatters. Heath had used his best poker face that time, after trying and trying to get Nick to see that the people were honest souls, not out to claim something that wasn’t theirs. They had had a disagreement about the appropriate treatment of the families, and where Heath had handled his beliefs with action to protect both Callahan’s people and even protect Nick from himself, Nick had typically handled his beliefs with his fists.

As he recalled, he had even threatened to hit Heath in the gunroom, trying to put him in his place right there in front of the other men being outfitted with rifles to run the squatters off. As long as he lived, he would never forget the way the blond new-comer had stood up to him, to him---the larger of the two, rifle-in-his-hand, big, bad, Nick Barkley-----stood up to him and said, “I wish you would, Nick. I wish you would!”

Nick shook his head in sorrow at his own actions toward his brother, the way he continually backed Heath into a corner, gave him no choice, refused to listen to him, . . . . and . . . .

Suddenly, Nick hauled on the reins and brought Coco to a sliding stop. He sat as still as stone, his eyes glued to the middle distance he really couldn’t see in the dark. He took in two or three deep gulps of air and fought down the nausea that threatened to make him physically sick.

“Heath!” he cried aloud, his head dropping, his chin resting on his chest.

When he brought his head back up, the faint light of the moon reflected momentarily on the moisture threatening to fill his eyes.

Nick used his gloved hand to hastily wipe at his eyes, and he dismounted shakily. Standing with one hand on his saddle horn, and the reins in the other, he stood looking up at the stars all around him.

“Heath. . . . What in the devil did I do to you, Boy?”

He walked Coco forward, lost in thought.

Each step took him deeper into his memories, the remembrances once started, that he could not now hold back. As honest a man as walks the earth, Nick Barkley could no sooner avoid the memories now than he could deny himself air.

He remembered the events vividly, sandwiched as they were between those he had just recalled. Right after returning to the ranch from his more than sixty-day absence, and just before the incident with Callahan, something else had occurred that he had thought little about in months.

Matt Bentell and his wife had been invited to the ranch to discuss expanding their logging operations, and Heath, well, Heath had gone from a quiet, supportive partner to a raging, angry warrior.

He could still see the pale blue eyes of his brother, pleading with them to understand, appealing to Jarrod, to Mother, to listen. Then, he could see the anger that covered what Nick now knew to be the depths of despair at their announcement that Heath would accompany Bentell back to the logging camp to protect the man.

“Our announcement. . . .Hell! It was my announcement!” Nick cursed himself. “I’m the one that told Bentell Heath would be accompanying him. And, I didn’t even ask Heath, none of us did.”

Nick kicked at a couple of rocks that lay in his path, booting them across the dusty road and into the coarse grass just beyond the other side.

“My own brother, and I never even asked him. We just told him what he had to do. Then, when he got so angry about it, when he came flying out of that chair in the study, pacing wildly, I never said anything. I guess I let him think it was all Mother and Jarrod. I never stopped to think that we might have been wrong to force him.”

“Oh, Heath. I should’ve put a stop to it right then and there. I should never have been part of pushing you. More than with anyone else, you had shared some of those stories about what that place was like for you, and that night, I never said a word.”

As he looked up at the stars above him, the stories shared around many an evening fire in the last seven months----the laughter and the sorrow that came out in the quiet----seemed to come flooding back to him. His brother’s laughter and his brother’s tears, shared under those same stars, now haunted him.

Nick swallowed hard. Heath had trusted him with those pieces of himself, those sharp, jagged, cutting memories shared so quietly that tore at Nick’s heart.

“I swore him to silence to protect my wishes for over two months, and I left him there to face the family and deal with his promise. Then, I returned home, never thanked him or acknowledged him for what he must have endured, and I immediately sent him back into the line of fire, expecting him to protect the man he hated with every fiber of his being.”

“Why? Why?”

Then, quietly, Nick asked aloud, his voice now a whisper that brought Coco’s dark ears swiveling around to catch his words, “Why did he let us do that to him? Why did he let me and not once turn his hurt back on me?”

Again, Nick heard the soft words full of pain, but stoked with resolve as Heath had stood in the gunroom facing down Nick’s threat in front of the other men, “I wish you would, Nick, I wish you would.”

Nick closed his eyes, and he stopped walking. Obediently, Coco stopped beside him.

Together, they stood, the still darkness all around them.

Chapter 15

What was it his mother had asked Heath to do the night they had told him, ordered him, to go with Bentell? The words came back to him now, as he whispered them into the dark:

“Show us some of Tom Barkley’s guts!”

His brother had more guts than any man Nick had ever known. He had shown them what he was made of by even stepping foot on the ranch in the first place, and he had shown them every day since. He had had more guts than most who had ever entered Carterson, and he had proved he had guts by surviving when the vast majority had not.

“You showed me your guts when you did what you had to do to help me survive that wolf attack. You showed me your guts when you stood up to me in the gunroom that day. And, you proved you had more guts than any of us had a right to expect when you did what we told you to with Bentell, came back home afterwards, and never said another word about it.”

“But, it’s been hell on you, hasn’t it, Little Brother?” Nick turned and mounted his patient horse, and he pushed him back into a long lope, as he continued to think through this last realization aloud. “You haven’t quite been the same since then, have you, Heath?” he asked the night sky and his memories of his brother’s sad eyes in the last few months. “No more stories around the fire, no more full, giddy, uncontrollable laughter.”

Another thought hit him, “Yes, after that, you risked your life for me on my birthday, didn’t you? You’ve remained loyal throughout.” Nick shook his head as he rode, saying, “But, if things had been normal between us, you’d have been with me at Red’s that day, wouldn’t you? You would have been with me; you wouldn’t have had to come after me when I got shanghaied.”

Nick felt like he was going to explode. His thoughts were racing now. And, he needed to get to his brother, to grab him and shake him. He needed to unleash his fury at Heath. He needed to tell his brother to stop—to stop this slow, torturous distancing that he was doing. He needed to tell Heath what he had finally figured out----that Heath had been slowly, probably unconsciously, pulling away from Nick, from all of them, for months-----he needed to tell Heath to just stop.

He needed to tell him to come home, really come home this time.

He needed to tell him to bring his heart back from wherever he had left it up there in the High Sierras at that logging camp-----from where he had left it behind and had never said a word about its loss to any of them!

Then, he realized that he could no more tell Heath to do that than he could ever give Heath another order around the ranch. “That was the trouble in the beginning, wasn’t it? I kept giving you orders to follow. I didn’t know I was doing it, but I was treating you like you were hired help, like you were not my brother, not my partner,” Nick said aloud as he rode.

“And, that’s still the trouble, isn’t it? Only it’s not just with me, it’s with all of us. We keep telling you what to do, we keep giving you orders, never asking you what you want, asking how we can help you? We keep making you earn your place in our hearts, don’t we-----even when we don’t, when I don’t, feel that doubt anymore. But, we just keep expecting you to put up with it, don’t we?”

“Oh, Heath. . . .” Nick just shook his head and hauled in an extra large breath, pushing it out loudly. “We kept telling, and you just kept complying, until. . . . “

Nick closed his eyes for a few seconds, as it finally hit him. Then, he opened them again, the pain already there now vying for an equal footing with the fear that had just reappeared.

He thumped Coco in the sides with his boots, and shouted, “No!” The large horse leapt forward, his pace increasing with the rising fear that was filling Nick Barkley’s throat.

Earlier this morning, when Harry had told him how Heath had sat there after Victoria had left the saloon days before, first looking hurt and crushed, then hard and angry, Nick had felt fear-----bold, undeniable fear. It had shaken him down to his boots. He had known at that moment that he wouldn’t find his brother anywhere in town. He had known that Heath had left Stockton.

And, just as quickly, he had known he had to find him. He had to find him and bring him home, where he belonged.

He wasn’t sure what his mother had said to him, there in that saloon several days ago, but whatever it was, Harry’s eyes had told him it had had a very bad effect on his brother. He didn’t blame his mother for anything she might have said, but, somehow, he thought she was certainly blaming herself. She was taking this very hard. She was more than just worried about both of her sons, both the one who was her own first-born and the one she had chosen to love as much as the others. She was almost in despair at Heath’s leaving.

For whatever reason, Nick had believed that Victoria Barkley felt she was to blame for his going, and he had been willing to bet it had something to do with what she had said to him in the saloon.

Somehow, he had known he had to convince Jarrod to come with him, convince him that they had to find Heath and that they had to make good on the promise Nick had made to her----the promise that together, they would find Heath and bring him home to her.

But, now, he believed it was more than that. It was more than one simple conversation that had caused Heath to leave. It was an accumulation of events over the last few months. It had probably started when Nick had used Heath as his shield between himself and the family, used Heath to give him the time he had needed to make peace with himself when he thought he was going to die.

Without a doubt in his mind, Nick now knew that they had all made it worse, much worse, by making Heath go with Bentell. Heath had trusted them to help him through his past, and they had betrayed him by sending him right back into the worst, most hellacious part of it, expecting him to overcome it all again in an attempt to . . . . to what? Make him get over it?

No, they had already been helping, had really been helping, every time they had listened to him share a small sliver of the painful past, every time he trusted them to hear his pain, and they had listened and understood. With each telling, his trust in them had grown.

Then, they had forced him away, back into the depths of his own hell, and he had complied. For them, he had gone. He had done what they demanded, and he had returned. But, sending him with Bentell had been exactly the wrong thing to do.

It was now evident to Nick, that Heath had no longer trusted them, any of them, quite the same way again. He had not brought back the part of his heart he had been learning to share with them. Had he buried it somewhere? Could any of them help him find it again? Or had he lost that part of himself forever?

The important thing was, though, that he had returned. He had given them another chance; he had trusted them enough, knew he needed them enough, to come back.

But, now? Once again, he had been confronted with pain from his past. He had asked them to understand, but not to understand that he had planned to kill the man upstairs. Nick knew better than that. He had just wanted them to understand his pain.

Nick could see the struggle in Heath, how he had been willing to sacrifice his pride, as he had asked them, “An’ no one for me?” He hadn’t wanted their permission to kill Anders, he had just wanted them to assure him that they were listening and that they were trying to understand that he needed something from them. And, how had they responded? How had Nick responded?

First, they had just stared back at him.

It must have cost him plenty, but then, he had offered them each an individual opportunity to say they understood his pain.

After being asked, neither Mother nor Audra had responded, so he had turned to him and asked, “Nick?”

His was the only reply, but what had he said?

“I’d like to be.”

“I’d like to be?” Nick roared aloud at himself, roared aloud at the night sky. “I told him I’d like to be on his side? I’d like to be there for him? I’d like to help him out? I told him I’d like to be? All those times when I started fights with him because I couldn’t deal with what Father had done, and he understood my pain, my pain that I was taking out on him. He didn’t say he’d like to be there for me, he just was, even when being there for me meant he was on the wrong side of my fists!”

“All those times when Jarrod must have asked him over and over to tell him where I was, what was wrong, and he didn’t just say he’d like to be on my side, but couldn’t be! No, he did as I’d asked, he just did it and kept silent, protecting my secret at great cost to himself, I’m sure.” Nick took a deep breath, able to see in his head now how difficult that must have been for his brother to withstand the questions and the beseeching looks from his new family.

“And, when I got shanghaied and neither the sheriff nor Jarrod could find me, Heath didn’t say I’d like to, but I can’t help him! No, in fact, Jarrod said Heath pleaded with him to let him go to Red’s, and Jarrod knew if he hadn’t agreed, Heath would have done it alone anyway.”

“Oh, Heath,” Nick asked the still night air, slowing the massive horse to a more steady pace, his anger at himself back under control, “What have we done to you? We’re your family, the ones who love you, and look at what we’ve done!”

Nick remembered his mother’s words, after he had responded with his “I’d like to be,” as she had tried to explain why they couldn’t give an affirmative response to him. She had said, “Heath, listen to me.”

He had complied with the promise Nick had extracted from him; he had complied with their demands over Bentell. But, he had let them know this time that he was not going to comply with their demands anymore. He had had enough.

When she had asked him to listen, 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.”

She had said, “No, to right or wrong.”

Rare a thing as it was, Nick knew his mother was wrong this time. And, she had been wrong about sending him to the logging camp with Bentell.

“But, none of us tried to stop her,” he said aloud. “Jarrod certainly didn’t try, and neither did I. None of us spoke up to protect him from her error, not either time.” Again, Nick’s honesty surfaced as he lashed out at himself with it, “I’m the one who told Bentell he would be going with him, and none of us had even asked him yet. We never asked him. We just told him what he was going to do, then----and we didn’t ask him what he needed from us the other day with Anders either. We just told him what we couldn’t do.”

His mother was incorrect.

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 Heath 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. All he had wanted was for them to sit down with him and talk about it, working through it together----the same way, months before, they had all told Nick he needed to work with Heath as an equal on the ranch. . .

But, once again, they didn’t say or do what he needed them to---what he had put his trust in them to say and do when the time came.

None of them did.

And, now, he was gone.

Nick spoke his own words aloud again, listening to how they sounded now, how they must have sounded to Heath at the time, . . . . “I’d like to be.”

As he continued to travel through the dark, the stars and his heart the only things guiding him now, he vowed, “No, this time I’m gonna be, Little Brother. There’s no more I’d like to be, except when I ask you to forgive me and ask you if you would still like to be my brother, because, sure as Hell, I’D LIKE TO BE yours!”

“Heath, if you’ll just keep believing in me. . . .but, even if you don’t----I’m gonna be there for you from now on. I’ll never betray your trust in me again.”

Chapter 16

“Jarrod.”

The single word, his brother’s name, circled relentlessly through Heath’s pounding head like the churning of a sandstorm as it roared through a hellaciously hot desert at high noon, beating down everything standing in its inescapable path.

He had to find him. He had to get to him before Matt Coulter and his vicious counterparts decided to show up at that school. He had to warn him. He had to get him out of there before they could carry out whatever plan they had in mind.

“Jarrod,” Heath whispered, as he struggled to saddle the second horse, the weight of the stock saddle almost more than his battered body could lift. With a silent apology to the borrowed horse for his clumsy efforts, he expelled the breath he had been holding as the saddle finally settled in place. Then, he gasped as the pain from his back shot down his legs. He leaned heavily against the stall, and he fought for breath. He shook his head to clear away the dizziness that continued to plague him. Finally, unable to hold off the inevitable, he leaned over and lost precious minutes to the dry heaves that shook him.

When he was able to stand straight again without holding to the wall, he turned back to the unfinished task and worked to complete the cinching. Steadying himself, his right arm resting over the grey’s poll and draped down between the wide-set eyes, he held the leather of the bridle firmly fixed between his fingers. He took a deep breath before raising his left hand high enough to coax the bit between the horse’s teeth.

Lowering his fiercely throbbing arm, he buckled the bridle in place with difficulty, using only his right hand and turned to check the saddle once more. Satisfied that it was firmly in place, he led the cooperative animal from the stall. He wrapped the grey’s reins twice around Gal’s saddle horn and stumbled toward the barn door to make sure he could see no one outside.

Returning to the two horses, he closed his eyes briefly and leaned against his quiet mount’s dark neck, as he dug deep within himself for the effort that was coming. He knew he would not make it very far on foot, so he opted to leave the barn on horseback. He hoped that the almost-lack of moon tonight would assist him in making a quiet, clean exit with no attention drawn to the fact that he was leaving, or that he was taking along an extra horse. From the conversation he had overheard, he knew that if Jamison or Coulter saw him, they would never let him leave without a fight.

Shrugging off the continued dizziness, he tossed Gal’s reins over her neck on both sides, reached up to place his right hand on the saddle horn, and awkwardly, without use of his left, hauled himself up and into the saddle. He leaned over and held on as the spasms seized his gut again, and he willed himself to stay in the saddle as he retched repeatedly.

Finally, he was able to sit up straight, gather Gal’s reins in his almost lifeless left hand, and pull his pistol from his holster with his right. Nudging her forward with his legs, they trotted from the barn and headed for the darkness of the trees.

When no one shouted nor shot to stop him, he breathed a little easier, and he pushed both horses into a steady lope as he headed away from the Coulter Ranch. About a mile out, he eased his pistol back into the holster and fastened it in place. The cooler temperature of the dark evening helped clear his head a bit, as he shifted the reins to his other hand and willed himself to think through his options.

He knew the schoolhouse was on the edge of town furthest from the road he was now on. Though it would take him longer, he had no choice but to skirt the town and come in behind the school, rather than just going through the middle of town. If he could just get to Jarrod before Coulter and Jamison decided to go that way, the two of them should be able to escape toward Stockton to the west before the other men figured out either of them had gone.

Suddenly, an unwelcome thought insinuated itself into Heath’s pounding head. What if Jarrod no longer trusted him enough to go with him? He could see again the wounded look in his brother’s dark blue eyes. He could see again his brother’s still form as he lay sprawled across the hotel room bed, unconscious from Heath’s blow. What if Jarrod didn’t believe him when he tried to convince him that he had only been trying to find out about Anders, then to protect Jarrod, when he had followed Matt Coulter’s orders to ”get on with it?”

He should have found another way. He should have done anything except to go along with beating Jarrod with his own fists. His brother did not deserve that from him, not for any reason. When he realized what they had in mind, he should have turned on Coulter and Jamison right then and there. Together, he and Jarrod, well, maybe they could have made a stand and . . . .

. . . . and what?

The anguish in his heart could not hide the raw impracticality of this plan. He knew that even if together he and Jarrod could have managed Coulter, and that massive Jamison, without shots that brought the whole town in on them, they would have never gotten past the men Coulter had posted outside the hotel.

But, would Jarrod ever believe him now? Would he be able to convince his brother to come with him, to get away from Coreyville before Coulter found a way to kill him?

As he concentrated again on staying in the saddle as the lightheadedness returned, he said out loud into the dark, “No. Jarrod’ll believe me. He’ll have figured it all out. He’ll come with me. He has to.”

The questions and doubts began to slow, fading into the background as the pain stabbing through his head, the agony arcing through his side and back, began to overwhelm him again.

Despite the easy, steady pace, despite the coolness of the night air, Heath was beginning to sweat. His breathing was coming faster and sounded raspy in his own ears. He was so lightheaded, only the pain was keeping him grounded and able to stay alert enough to remain in the saddle.

Suddenly, afraid he would pass out and wind up lying on the road with no hope of getting to Jarrod, he brought Gal to a stop.

His right hand holding tightly to his saddle horn, he leaned forward slightly and closed his eyes, fighting for air, fighting for clear vision. When the dizziness eased slightly, he peeled his fingers from around the leather horn and reached up to squeeze his temples between his fingers. The pain was almost too much; he wanted so badly to give into it and slide from the saddle. He wanted only to lie back down on the ground, to be able to lie still and watch the stars with his head resting on unmoving dirt.

Instead, he shook his head again and wiped at his eyes, trying to clear them, trying to dispel the dizziness. Looking down at his numb left hand, he worked the fingers, clenching and unclenching them as best he could, causing stabs of pain to travel hotly down from his shoulder. Then, he looked out toward the dark horizon, toward his destination, and pushed himself and the two horses on.

Somehow, he would convince Jarrod, and they would get out of this----they would make it home together.

And then?

Shaking his head again, he knew he couldn’t think about that right now.

* * * * * * * *

“Jamison! C’mon!” Matt Coulter kicked his hired man’s leg as he walked by. “Get your sorry carcass outta that chair and out the door. I ain’t paying you to sit around and get drunk!”

“What? Where’re we going, Boss?” Jamison looked up in confusion from his bottle-induced stupor.

“Out the door, Jamison! We’re going out to take care of that one, remaining problem.”

“Now, Boss?”

“NOW! Get on your horse, and let’s go!” Matt emphasized, as he shoved the taller man’s hat into his chest and headed for the swinging doors of the saloon.

Following, Jamison thought to himself, that it must not have gone Matt’s way upstairs with Rosie, or they’d never be leaving so soon.

* * * * * * * *

Sitting among the trees in the dark, a noise brought Jarrod swiftly to his feet. His eyes were well-adjusted to the lack of light by now, and he could just make out the shape of two horses moving around restlessly in the trees near the front of the schoolhouse.

But, where were the riders?

He could not see anyone moving around, no one standing near the trees that shielded the horses, no one standing at the door, or walking on this side of the building.

Suddenly, he caught sight of movement by the back of the school. He edged forward and positioned himself against a large trunk, down on one knee, his gun hand already holding the pistol in preparation.

Who was it?

A thought flashed through his brain that it could be Amy Coulter, coming back for some reason. But, why two horses? No, he thought it more likely that it was her husband, Matt Coulter, and some hired help here to finish what they had started in the hotel.

He could now see someone moving around in the school, though no light had been lit. Torn between going in to confront whomever it was and waiting here for them to search for him, he eyed the half-hidden horses to see if he would have a chance if he were to take one and ride toward Stockton. Then, he thought of Amy Coulter and her plea to him to help her leave. He thought of his brother, and he knew he needed to talk to him.

The only way he was going to be able to do either of those things would be if he stayed here.

Ducking low, he made his way around the clearing towards the front door, staying well inside the trees. When he was as close as he could get without leaving the cover they afforded him, he broke toward the steps and crouched behind them.

Just as he thought he was going to be able to climb them without being seen, the door opened, and a lone figure emerged. Jarrod knew for sure it was not Amy Coulter, but he had no idea where the other rider was, or even who this man was, in the nearly complete darkness.

Before the man reached the bottom step, he seemed to falter. When he reached out for the handrail on his right, Jarrod eased up behind him from his left. He struck the man on the side of the neck, just above the collarbone, with his pistol.

With a pain-filled cry, the tall figure missed the last step, went down on both knees, and crumpled, to lie unmoving at Jarrod’s feet.

Cautiously, Jarrod ordered, “Get up. Get back up those stairs and inside.”

The man did not acknowledge him.

Worried about the location of the other rider, Jarrod prodded the unmoving man in the side with his boot and said more emphatically, “Get up!”

The man moaned at the pressure to his side, then, struggled to make it back up to his knees. Puzzled at the reaction, Jarrod reached down and grabbed the man’s arm to hurry him along. A muffled curse caused him to freeze.

Quickly, he knocked the man’s hat from his head and grabbed his chin to turn his face toward him.

“Heath!”

His eyes wide, Jarrod holstered his gun, grabbed his ailing brother under the arms, and helped raise him enough to sit on the step behind him.

“Jarrod?” Heath asked groggily. The pain in his shoulder and his head was making it very difficult to keep his eyes open, and he blinked rapidly to bring Jarrod’s face into focus in the dark.

“Heath, what happened to you?”

Heath shook his head slightly, and reached with his right arm to push away one of the hands now holding him in place. “Jarrod, . . .we. . . gotta go, . . . gotta get outta here.”

“No, Heath. You’re hurt. Let me look at you.”

Though he could not move his left arm, Heath continued to struggle with Jarrod with his other. “Jarrod. . . listen ta me,” he pleaded. “Coulter. . . . his men. . . . they’re gonna kill you. . . gotta go. . . now.”

“Heath, you can’t ride like this.” Jarrod leaned over and picked up Heath’s hat. He said, “We need to. . .”

But, with a groan, his blond brother suddenly stood up and backed Jarrod up with his good arm. “Jarrod,” he said more forcefully, “I can ride. . . Let’s go.” He grabbed his hat, placed it on his head, and turned toward the trees.

Open-mouthed and unmoving, Jarrod watched Heath stagger slightly as he walked to the horses and hauled himself up into his saddle, using only his right hand. Turning his horse, Heath said, “Let’s go home, Pappy!”

“Wait, Heath.” Jarrod responded, through the beginnings of a smile at his brother’s words, as he followed. “I can’t just leave. There’s a woman, . . . Matt Coulter’s wife. She’s afraid he’ll kill her, and she asked me for help getting away from him. I can’t just leave without her.”

“Jarrod,” Heath said, his eyes barely visible under his hat in the dark, “Jarrod, it’s too late. . . she’s dead. . . . Coulter killed her.”

Jarrod stared at Heath for a few seconds, before he caught up the offered reins, mounted the lighter-colored horse, and followed as Heath led them at a blistering pace, toward the west, toward home.

Chapter 17

The thin sliver of a silvery moon did not offer much to see by, but the harder surface of the worn road reflected more light than did the dry vegetation on either side. For a while, they galloped steadily in silence, the rhythm of their horses’ hooves like a balm for the shock Jarrod felt as he reviewed what had happened since he had disembarked from the stage earlier in the day.

He remembered the fear in the eyes of the townspeople, their reluctance to talk to him. He recalled the events that had occurred in his room, first being knocked unconscious by the brother he had not known was even in Coreyville, and then, seeing the fear in the eyes of Matt Coulter’s wife as she tried to lead him out of the hotel. Ignoring the questions that immediately surfaced about her actions, he concentrated on the surprise he had felt upon finding that the man looking for him at the school was his brother.

Heath.

Jarrod glanced over at the figure riding slightly in front of him, but on his left. He could tell that Heath was hurting. His normally easy motion in the saddle appeared forced, and he was using his right hand, not his left, on the reins. Looking more closely, Jarrod was shocked to see what appeared to be a dark stain on Heath’s right shoulder. Had he been shot?

Suddenly, he saw Gal’s rhythm change, as Heath’s head dipped. The mare seemed to sense something was wrong and dropped from a lope to a jog, then quickly to a walk. As Jarrod reined in the grey, he saw his brother’s horse come to a complete halt. Circling back to them, Jarrod rode up beside Heath, facing him.

“Heath!” he said, as he reached out to touch his brother’s left arm.

The blond head came up instantly. The pain and confusion was evident, even in the dark. “Jarrod?”

“Come on, Heath. Let’s get you down from there, before you hit the dirt.”

“No, Jarrod.” Heath shook his head slightly and said, “Gotta keep goin’. They’ll be comin’ after you.”

“Heath. . .”

But, his words were lost as Heath nudged Gal back into a ground-eating gallop, and Jarrod had to turn and chase them hard to catch up.

After several more miles, Jarrod could feel his horse tiring beneath him. He visually checked his brother’s slightly smaller horse, and realized she could probably still go a ways before she started to tire. Then, he watched his brother, seeing the shiny sweat soaking his face and his light-colored shirt as it reflected the minimal light. Heath’s horse could keep going, but his brother could not.

“We’ve gotta rest these horses, Heath!” Jarrod said over the pounding of the hooves. “Heath!” He called when he received no response. “Heath, my grey’s got to have some rest. Heath!”

Finally, Heath glanced to his right at Jarrod and nodded slightly. He slowed Gal, then, glanced off to the left toward the large rock formations on the steep rise ahead of them. Angling the mare toward the rocks, Heath continued to slow her pace. Jarrod followed.

When they reached the rocks, he slid from his horse, and ducked under Gal’s neck to help Heath. As he approached, however, Heath leaned over away from him and began coughing. Reaching up to reinforce the hold Heath had on the saddle horn with one hand and to grab Heath’s belt with the other, Jarrod held him steady while the coughs turned into dry heaves. When the retching gave way to ragged panting, Jarrod started trying to pull Heath down toward him.

Eyes full of pain turned toward him slowly. Then, Heath put his weight on his right hand and slowly swung his right leg over Gal’s back. As he lowered his boot to the ground, he clung to the saddle horn and remained there, leaning against the horse, his head pressed into the saddle, his left foot still in the stirrup. When he lowered his other foot, Jarrod stepped up to try to pull Heath’s left arm up and across his own shoulder.

The ragged cry that escaped from Heath’s lips, stopped him cold. Carefully, he lowered the arm and stepped around Heath to lift his right arm instead.

As he helped his brother walk slowly up and between the huge boulders, Jarrod wondered again about what had happened to him. He had not looked injured at all in the hotel room, and he. . .

Suddenly, Jarrod’s head came up and a suspicion started in his mind.

Easing Heath to the ground, he removed his brother’s hat, propped him against a rock, and ran back to get a canteen and Heath’s bedroll. Returning, he knelt beside the blond and said, “Heath, drink this.”

The pale eyes came open just a slit, and Heath reached up slowly with his right arm to take the canteen. Together, he and Jarrod got several mouthfuls down him, before he moved his head away and to the side.

Jarrod gasped at the gash across the side of Heath’s head that his hat had been covering. While it was no longer oozing blood now, it had been bleeding profusely at some point. It was over three inches long and slightly jagged. Turning Heath’s head in his attempt to better see the damage, he easily batted away the right hand that came up to push at him.

“Be still, Heath. Let me see your head.”

“I’m fine, Jarrod. Leave it.”

“Heath, this is a nasty gash. What happened?” Jarrod queried. He wet his handkerchief, since Heath was no longer wearing a bandana, and touched at the gash gingerly, trying to clean it.

Heath didn’t answer, just sat there in front of him with his eyes closed.

Jarrod tried again, “What happened, Heath? Where else are you hurt?”

“Pappy. . . ,“ he growled. But, he couldn’t stop Jarrod from unbuttoning his shirt and looking sharply at the bruises sprawling across his side and chest. Leaning Heath forward over his shoulder, he pulled up his shirttail in the back and gasped at the dark, frightening bruise that centered just above his belt.

“Heath, who did this? And what in the devil did they hit you with?”

“Coulter,” was all the response Heath could give. His head was spinning again, the pain overtaking him quickly, pushing him down.

Easing his brother back against the rock, Jarrod stood and pulled out his own white shirttail, ripping a section all the way across. He pulled the blond head forward slightly and began to wrap the make-shift bandage around it to cover the worrisome gash. Then, he gently lowered the head and shoulders sideways and to the ground, and tugged Heath’s legs toward the rock so that he was lying stretched out on his back.

“I’ll be right back, Heath,” Jarrod said. “I’ve gotta get our gear and see to the horses. We’re not moving from this spot until we’ve all had some rest.”

Heath’s right hand shot upward, catching Jarrod on the arm as he started to rise. Looking down, Jarrod saw the fully open eyes, and the familiar lop-sided grin. “Didn’t think you’d come with me. . . .‘Was afraid ya’ didn’t. . . didn’t trust me anymore.”

Jarrod placed his own hand over the one that had a tight hold on him. “Heath, we’re brothers, you and me. I knew you’d never betray me. I figured you must have had a good reason for what you did in that hotel room.”

Jarrod stared into the depths of the pale blue eyes and winked as he said, “Besides, I had to come with you, if I was going to have a chance to make my apologies.”

Then, as the question slowly formed in the eyes that were fighting to stay open, Jarrod said again, “I’ll be right back,” and removed his brother’s hand from his arm, squeezing it strongly as he lay it across Heath’s chest.

“Jarrod,” Heath said, needing to say it, “Go, Jarrod. Ride on, please!”

When Jarrod stopped and stared at him, then went down on one knee again beside his injured brother, Heath struggled to continue. “Jarrod, they’ll kill you. . . .They don’t know we’re brothers. . . They won’t bother me again . . . .”

Jarrod started shaking his head, and he said emphatically, “No, Heath.”

“Please. Just go. . . .I can’t ride. . . any further. . . Take Gal. . .Go!”

“No, Heath. I won’t leave.” Jarrod ran his fingers through Heath’s dirt-matted hair. “You’re my brother, and I’m not leaving you.”

Heath closed his eyes.

Jarrod patted the filthy face, and stood up. He looked back once at the now quiet figure on the ground, and he shook his head, as he whispered, “Heath.” Then, he turned toward the horses.

He had untied the saddlebag and was standing by the mare, removing Heath’s rifle from the scabbard, when the bullet caught him in the arm and knocked him to the ground.

Chapter 18

“Where is he?” Matt railed at Jamison. The door to the empty schoolhouse behind his irate boss had been nearly torn off its hinges, as Matt had thundered through it in his ire at not finding the Stockton lawyer inside.

Sitting on the steps below him, the somewhat inebriated Jamison climbed carefully to his feet and looked up at the angry man above.

“Don’t know, Boss. Maybe he left.”

“Of course, he left, you Idiot!” Coulter hollered, as he descended the steps and grabbed his horse’s reins from the other man’s hands. “She said he’d be here; he’s not, so that means he left! The only question now is where did he go?”

Jamison stumbled around in the dark, trying to help find the answer that would calm his boss back down. Suddenly, he stopped, and bent over.

“Here, Matt.”

“Two of them?” Matt Coulter queried, clearly puzzled at the two sets of hoof prints in the softer earth beneath the trees, the tracks that clearly headed west. “But, who would be helping him?”

Then, looking at Jamison’s pleased smile, he said, “I’m going after them. But, we might need some help. You go back to the saloon and drag Riles, Bryant, and whoever else you can find, outta there. Check the town for the lawyer, in case he slipped back that way. But, if you don’t find him, bring them down the west road outta town, and make sure they’re ready for action.”

As Jamison turned to mount his horse, Matt added, “Tell them I want him dead before morning, and there’s a bonus to all of you when that happens.”

Both men mounted up; one went west, and one headed east and back to town.

* * * * * * * *

The sound of the single shot echoed against the rocks, reverberating from one boulder to another, magnifying the percussion.

In the silence that followed, Heath struggled to his knees, and released his pistol. He tried to quiet his breathing so he could hear any other sounds, and he listened hard for his brother’s return.

Jarrod.

Where was he?

Heath closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to remember where Jarrod had gone, trying to focus on what his next steps needed to be. He glanced up at the stars, and saw the thin sliver of the moon beginning to set.

Not much light, but enough to cause a problem.

Using his right hand, he gathered some dark dirt from the ground beneath him to smear over the buckles of both his belts. Then, he reached up and touched the bandage Jarrod had placed around his head not long before. Even without seeing it, he knew it was as pristine white as Jarrod’s shirt had been and, like the shiny belt buckles, would reflect the small amount of light like a beacon. Working one finger underneath the edge of the bandage, he ripped it from around his head and tossed it aside.

Then, he lurched to his feet and staggered toward the horses, hoping he would find his brother alive.

Jarrod.

Where was he?

As he reached the end of the larger rocks, Heath slumped down behind the slightly smaller one between his position and the two horses. Knowing anyone watching would expect a higher target, he eased his body all the way to the ground and began edging around the side of the rock, keeping his head near the dirt.

There.

Jarrod!

His brother lay on his side about 15 feet away, a saddlebag beside him. Heath could not see any movement, but it was hard to tell in the dark with the two horses between them. He could also see the rifle lying on the ground just on this side of his brother.

Then, he looked around to determine likely positions from which the gunman could have taken that shot, likely places he could be hiding. Of course, he could be behind them, hidden in the rocks above----but if he were, Heath would already be dead. Shaking his head slightly to clear it, he realized the most natural place would be the trees just on the other side of the road below them.

Speaking softly, Heath talked to the two horses, “Whoa, there. Ho now. Whoa, Gal.” Neither one reacted to him; they did not change position suddenly to alert anyone watching. Satisfied that they were aware of him, and gambling that the shooter would not see him if he stayed behind the horses, he struggled to his feet and walked as quickly as he could to his mare.

He placed his good hand on her withers to keep his balance and began pushing on her shoulder with his body, asking her to move sideways slowly, asking her to step away from him and toward his brother, “Ov-er, ov-er. Good Girl. Ov-er.” As she moved, Heath matched her movements step for step.

His head was ablaze with a hot, searing pain. He was having trouble staying on his feet, but he knew if he could hold onto her, he could get to Jarrod. Slowly, slowly, the two moved together as if this were a well-practiced maneuver, the mare holding him up and providing him cover, the man’s eyes almost closed in pain, but the command in his voice steadily reassuring.

The grey moved aside as the Modoc worked her way down the slope. But, the other animal remained close, his larger body providing additional cover for the pair working in tandem, both horses, and the darkness, screening the intent of the advance from any watchful eyes.

They passed the rifle lying in the dirt. He dared not pick it up, not yet. Its shiny surface had probably given away his brother, and he could not afford for that to occur a second time. No, he would wait and use his pistol, covering as much of it with his hand and body as possible to cut down on reflection. The trees were well within its range----if that’s where the shooter was.

He was now even with Jarrod. He could see the blood oozing from his brother’s arm; he could see Jarrod beginning to stir. Grabbing Gal’s mane to steady himself, he reached out with the toe of one boot and nudged his groggy brother. “Jarrod,” he whispered, “Jarrod, stay down, stay still.”

“Heath?” Jarrod asked quietly, his pain and confusion evident.

“Quiet, Jarrod. Stay still.”

He saw Jarrod nod once, so he asked, “Can you walk?”

He saw Jarrod nod again, his face still turned away from Heath.

“Get your feet under you, . . .get ready to move up the hill,. . . up the hill to the rocks. Understand?”

Again, Jarrod nodded, as Heath saw him slowly pull his knees up, gathering himself.

“Bring the saddlebag. . . if you can. . . . I’m gonna spook the horses,” Heath was panting for breath, shaking his head to clear the ringing out of his ears. He managed to add, “When I yell, you run. . . Okay?”

“Yes,” came the whispered response.

“Ready?” Heath threw up his right hand, then slapped Gal on the neck sharply, yelling at them both wildly, “Hiya, Hi!” Both surprised horses bolted, running away from the screaming threat the quiet man had suddenly become.

Heath pulled his pistol and started shooting toward the trees by the road below them, backing up the hill as he did so. He reached down and managed to snag the rifle with two fingers of his left hand, dragging it with him as he struggled to follow Jarrod up the hill.

As soon as Jarrod reached the rocks, he provided Heath with enough covering fire for him to stagger the rest of the way without having to continue shooting as well. Several bullets ricocheted off the rocks around them, but both men grinned at each other as they struggled to breathe, grateful they had both made it to this much safer position unscathed.

Then, Jarrod eased himself down behind the rock, and he concentrated on keeping Heath supplied with ammunition for the two pistols. He quickly dug into the saddle bag to make sure there was more ammunition for the Winchester in case it was needed. Working together, though each suffered from a bad arm, they were pleased that the return fire was not moving closer.

After a few moments, they paused to listen to be sure.

Heath’s eyes were glued to the trees below them, from which he was pretty sure a lone figure was firing. He asked quietly, “Jarrod, your arm. . . Can you tear off. . . another bandage. . .waste some more’a that fancy lawyer shirt?”

Glancing up at his brother, Jarrod responded, “Yeah. All right. Here, take your rifle. It’s loaded, and I have plenty more here in your bags.”

Heath leaned heavily against the rock, and reached across to take the offered weapon. He rested it against the boulder while he holstered his pistol. Then, while Jarrod was holding one piece of cloth and constant pressure on his own arm, Heath rested the Winchester across the top of the rock and sighted along its length. From the flash of muzzle fire, he had pretty much determined where the shooter was. He just didn’t understand why the man was making this so easy by staying in one place. He was fairly sure that there was only the one horse that he could see, so he hoped this would end it right here.

As another bullet pinged off the rocks just over their heads and behind them, Heath took two deep breaths. Then, as he breathed out the second time, he squeezed the trigger. The familiar retort of the rifle echoed in the night.

No other shots were fired.

All remained silent.

Heath glanced down at Jarrod, who had slumped to the side and was leaning against Heath’s leg. The blond turned the rifle and let it rest between his chest and the rock in front of him. Then, keeping his eyes on the trees below them, he reached down with his good hand and raked his fingers through his brother’s dark hair.

The simple gesture calmed him by giving him strength to stay on his feet, helping him ignore the pounding in his head, and letting him focus his thoughts back on his family for a few minutes.

“We’re gonna get you home, Big Brother.”

Then, he continued to watch, making sure that there were no additional threats within shooting distance.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, Jarrod stirred again. “Heath?” he asked quietly.

“Right here, Jarrod,” came the instant reply.

Jarrod breathed out a sigh of relief. He had been afraid, well, afraid that the situation was real, but that he had only dreamed his brother’s presence standing beside him.

He reached up and found Heath’s extended hand. “Thanks, Heath,” he said in a voice full of feeling.

“We’re not outta this yet, Jarrod. . . .There’ll be others.”

“Heath,” Jarrod said, licking his dry lips. “Are you doing okay?”

“Fine, Jarrod.” Squeezing his brother’s hand, Heath let go and walked slowly past him to get the canteen. Returning with both the bedroll and canteen, he knelt down beside the injured man. Handing Jarrod the open canteen, he struggled to unroll the blankets over Jarrod’s outstretched legs with his good hand and said, “Let me see your arm.”

Quickly determining that it was a flesh wound with the bullet having passed cleanly through, he took a newly torn strip of cloth out of Jarrod’s hand and began wrapping the wound. Jarrod had already slowed the bleeding tremendously with pressure from his right hand, but Heath, after sinking down to sit beside him, held it for a while longer with his.

Satisfied, the blond took the offered canteen and drank a swallow.

Then, he chuckled softly.

Jarrod looked at him quizzically, and Heath said, “I was just thinkin’. . . ‘bout what Nick would say about us, . . . prob’ly call us a pair’a sorry, . . . one-handed, scoundrels that. . . that aren’t much use for anything.”

“You’re probably right, Brother Heath,” Jarrod added, with a laugh. “He’d probably say something about not having enough good hands between us. . . to cut up a prime Barkley steak for supper, . . . let alone brand a steer.”

Glancing over at his brother, whose blond head was now leaning wearily against the rock, Jarrod could see the pain behind the narrowed eyes that were staring straight ahead at nothing. Though the chuckle had left a lingering shadow of a smile on his face, Heath was rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, and he was both sweating and beginning to breathe even more rapidly.

Suddenly, Heath moaned and rocked forward, his head clamped between the vise-like grip of the fingers of his right hand. He said through a tightly clenched jaw, “We need ta keep goin’. . . But, I don’t think. . . either of us can ride. . . . More’ll be comin’.”

Jarrod reached across his body to grasp Heath’s right shoulder with his right hand. “Rest, Heath. Just rest. . . . We’ll take turns watching for them.”

“The horses. . . I need ta. . . move. . . .” He tried to struggle to his feet, but Jarrod’s hand easily pushed him back. Then, with another moan, Heath slumped forward to the ground, and he curled up around the throbbing left arm that he cradled close to his body.

Unable to do much to help him, Jarrod reached over and ran his fingers through the soaked blond hair. He worked the blankets of the bedroll over both of them and spoke quietly, “Let go, Heath. Just rest. I’ll watch for a while.” He pulled his pistol over close by.

After a few minutes, Heath stopped scuffing his legs in the dirt in agony, and he lay still.

Jarrod leaned back against the rock, willing himself to stay awake.

With difficulty, he tore off another strip of his now mangled shirt. He lifted Heath’s head from the dirt and slid to his left slightly, resting Heath’s head on his legs. Then, he held the cloth to Heath’s re-opened, oozing head wound.

He said softly, “Hang on, Heath. Just hang on. We’re gonna get out of this and get home, Little Brother.”

Chapter 19

In the darkness, the unexpected words shook Jarrod to his very core.

Heath, his feverish eyes wide open, stared up at the stars, but Jarrod was sure he was not seeing anything except a face from the past as he spat out, “Bentell, you pig, get your hands off him! No! No, don’t hit him anymore! Stop! You’re killin’ him! No!”

Heath’s fear for the unnamed comrade from the past cut into Jarrod, a bayonet twisting through his heart, a lance of loyalty laced with somebody’s blood.

Then, the voice became softer, as if he knew no one would hear him, no one would listen, “No, please, . . . don’t hit him anymore.”

Jarrod reached for the canteen and, wetting the corner of one blanket, he wiped the fire of fever from Heath’s face. Pale blue eyes beseeched Jarrod, as Heath’s right hand came up and caught his wrist, “Please, don’t let Bentell hit him anymore. He’s gonna kill him.”

“It’s okay, Heath. He won’t hurt him, now. It’s over.”

“No, . . . it’s never over,” Heath mumbled, as he turned his head from side to side, trying to escape the heat, “My arm! Cut me loose, Bentell! Cut me down!” His voice was rising again, as the restless motion of Heath’s legs was suddenly joined by a fever-induced effort to rise to his feet.

“No, Heath. Lie down, just rest,” Jarrod pleaded, as he struggled to one knee, knowing too well the strength it would take to subdue Heath, strength that he knew he didn’t have.

But, it didn’t last long. Heath only made it to a semi-crouching position, looking around wildly as if many men were advancing on him, as if he were in a corner with no where to run, a place with no choices. It was clear he planned to take down as many as possible of the men only he could see, before they caught him.

Suddenly, his eyes cleared for a few seconds before he reached for his head and dropped to one knee.

“Jarrod, . . ., “ he whispered as he cradled his head in his right hand, his left hanging down by his side, and he knelt in the dirt. He leaned forward as if trying to burrow his head, and his pain, in the dust beneath him, rocking back and forth on his heels. Then, he spoke again, little louder than a whisper, “Jarrod, . . .I did what you. . . what you all told me I had to, . . . an’ I still. . . I still hate that devil of a man.”

Unable to stand, his own pain and the cold lightheadedness sweeping through him like a freezing wind, Jarrod reached across the short distance to his brother. As Heath knelt there, Jarrod pulled him back toward his chest. He leaned against the rock behind him and held his pain-wracked brother, his tears falling on the blood-smeared face.

As Heath lost consciousness in his arms, Jarrod whispered, “I know, Heath. I know, and we were wrong. . . . I was wrong, and I’m so sorry.”

* * * * * * * *

When Heath stirred a little while later, he knew something was wrong. He lay there, feeling the heavy throbbing of his head, trying to find the sound that had reached him through the pain.

“Horses,” he whispered. Then, he said, “Jarrod, wake up.” Shaking the slumped form beside him, Heath struggled up, using his legs and his one good arm.

With no response from his brother, Heath hauled the saddlebag with ammunition out from under Jarrod’s knee, and he crawled the foot or so to a crevice where a smaller boulder almost butted up against a larger one. Using his rifle and the face of the rock to leverage himself up, he managed to get to a standing position. From this vantage point, he could see the dark shapes of several horses just entering the trees by the road.

Looking for his own mare, he was relieved to see that Gal and the grey had moved off below them and to the far left. Then, he glanced over at Jarrod, hoping to see him stir. Instead, he was alarmed to see the faint, dark traces of blood dotting the white bandage around Jarrod’s upper arm.

Jarrod didn’t move.

“Barkley!” someone from below yelled.

“Jamison,” Heath muttered under his breath.

“Barkley, you come on outta there, and no one else will have to die!”

No one else?

So, the man down in the trees had died of his wound. Heath’s thoughts started to swirl around him, pieces of the remembered beating floating back to him, merging with the man’s voice below, and the memory of other beatings far in the past.

The pounding in his head increased.

“Hey, Barkley. We can do this the hard way if that’s what you want. We outnumber you, and we can wait.”

Jamison’s comments were meaningless, as Heath immediately made out two men breaking from cover, one on each side of the trees.

Heath aimed the rifle and, with two quick shots, both men dropped.

Pieces of rock rained down on him, spraying the air with dusty debris as the bullets from below could only find the backdrop of boulders above.

Shaking his head to clear his vision----

as the dimness threatened the edges----

Heath heard the retort of gunfire-----

turn to a thunderous roaring-----

that continually filled his ears-----

and made the earth shift beneath him.

Glancing at Jarrod, off to the side and still unconscious in the dirt, he knew he had to stop the men below before he passed out again.

A sudden cascade of rocks from above, apparently loosened by the steady assault of bullets at their base, surprised him. Heath dove out of the way, but not before the men below got off a few shots at their momentarily exposed target. Hauling himself back to the cover of the rocks closer to Jarrod, Heath was unaware of the bullet that had grazed his left shoulder. The sting was lost in the constant throbbing he endured, as the feeling slowly, painfully returned to his arm. The blows his arm had taken, followed by the fall down the hotel stairs afterward, had first left it numb, but now he was in agony. He had been for hours.

“Thomson?” Jamison hollered, as he thought he recognized the light-colored clothing of the man Matt had recently hired. “Thomson? What’re you doing? We want that Barkley fella! Send him out!”

Shots rang out again, the spark from the guns helping him to pinpoint their positions among the dark trees. Groggy now, Heath shook his head, and waited for them to fire again to be sure.

“Jarrod,” he called. “Jarrod, can you hear me?”

No sound, no movement indicated that his brother was aware of their current predicament.

Heath leaned his head forward against the rock, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Panting heavily, his attempts to draw in enough air to keep away the blackness closing in on him, suddenly turned to coughing, then to empty retching. Heath dropped to his knees in the dirt beside his brother, sucking in air, and fighting to stay conscious.

The sound of hooves again brought his head up. The horse was moving away. His thoughts fought to make sense of it.

Were they leaving?

No, they wouldn’t leave without finishing the job.

It was just one horse, wasn’t it?

Where was the rider going?

Was he trying to circle around behind them, or . . . . or was he going for more guns, more men?

Again, Jamison hollered, taking Heath’s attention away from the rider, “You killed Matt Coulter. The Judge ain’t gonna be too happy, Thomson, when he finds out you shot his nephew and killed him!”

As Heath struggled back to a standing position, Jarrod began to stir beside him. Blinking hard, the bleeding man looked up, and saw Heath stand, raise his gun, and take aim down the hill.

Dimly, Jarrod heard Jamison hollering. Then, he heard the man yell, “Thomson? Send that lawyer out, and maybe we’ll let you go. He’s nothing to you. Send him out!”

This time, Heath responded, his loud, clear words aimed at getting Jamison to call out one more time, “It’s Barkley, Jamison. . . . My name’s Heath Barkley, and you’re wrong! . . . That lawyer means a lot to me. He’s my brother!”

Jamison was slow to reply, his consternation evident when he did, “Barkley? You’re a Barkley? Well, there’s a rope waiting for you, too, for both of you.” The words were followed by a flash of muzzle fire and a bullet that ricocheted off the rocks above them.

Heath’s rifle responded quickly, as he used the voice and the flash to pinpoint the man’s position, to silence him.

Breathing heavily, he leaned on the rock and used the rifle to help him kneel beside his brother. Jarrod was staring up at him, smiling.

“What. . .what’re ya. . . grinning for, . . . Jarrod?” Heath asked between gulps of air.

“You, Brother Heath.” Jarrod struggled to sit up, and Heath held him down, one good arm clasped on one good arm. When their hands released each other, Heath grabbed one of the discarded blankets and wadded it up, stuffing it under Jarrod’s head.

“Just stay put. . . . You’re still losing blood.”

“Where’re you going? . . . You can hardly stand. . . . Heath!” Jarrod called, as he took the offered canteen and watched Heath move away. The ache in Jarrod’s arm was almost unbearable, and his head felt like it was going to float off into the stars above him.

Blinking, he saw Heath take aim at something below from his position at the other end of the small boulder.

“Heath, what’s going on? Who’re you shooting at?” Jarrod knew he couldn’t get up to assist, but he wanted answers.

As if in response, another spray of rock rained down on them from above, as the bullets came in from two sides of the treeline. Jarrod threw his right arm up to protect his face.

Heath responded shakily, “At least. . . two more. . . down there. . . .Can’t let’em. . .up this hill.”

Again, Heath’s aim found its target to the right, and he then shifted to locate the man on the left.

But, another barrage of bullets made him duck down on one knee, seeking temporary cover behind the rock. He leaned his throbbing head against the boulder and let its rough surface, still warm from the heat of the day, take away some of the chill shaking him deep inside.

He was caught in a torrential storm of wind and blinding, stinging ice. He gasped for air and, pushing away from the rock, tried in vain to struggle back to his feet.

He could no longer stand, but he knew he couldn’t let down his guard, not yet. He was sure he had not gotten them all.

Going down to the trees himself was the only way to be sure it was over, and he knew he didn’t have the strength to make it down and then, back up the rocky hillside.

If there were any left, he knew they would eventually come up the slope. He would just have to stay alert.

Leaning against the rock for support, he waited, trying to stay awake.

He thought about his family, about the years of searching for a place to belong. He knew he needed them. He wasn’t willing to give them up. Somehow, he had to make them understand. He needed to. He had to.

He knew he couldn’t lose himself in them---he couldn’t lose the man he knew himself to be, the man who had always made his own choices, trusting his own sense of right and wrong. But, somehow, he had to make them see that he desperately needed to come back from that mountain, from the exile to that logging camp, where they had sent him months ago. He needed to come home.

The sleet was pounding into his eyes, running down his face, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. The chills gripped him fiercely, turning his blood to ice. He started to shake.

This disagreement about Anders----it was another way for him to have to surrender all his choices to them. He just couldn’t do it again. He had balked this time. He knew that his anger had scared them again, but, he needed. . . , he wanted. . . ,

He mumbled the names again that he had spoken the day he had left, whispering his questions in his heart, “Mother? . . . Audra?. . . Nick?. . .”

He felt himself fall sideways heavily, his back against the rock. He pulled his knees up against his chest, and lay there shaking, numb with cold, the sweat pouring off of him.

Blinking hard to clear the stinging sleet from his vision, he could see Jarrod lying on his side, his dark eyes shining in the meager light.

“Jar-rod,” he said, through chattering teeth. “Your . . . . pistol?”

“Right here, . . . Heath.” Jarrod struggled to push himself up, but dropped back down to the dry dust. He weakly lifted the pistol’s muzzle out of the dirt.

Heath closed his eyes, his body shaken again by a spasm of chills. Then, he opened them, looked at the two feet or so of ground separating him from a vantage point above the trees below. He began edging forward toward the opening in the rocks.

Mumbling and panting with exertion, he repeated the name from before, “Nick?”

Then, he asked of Jarrod as he edged away, “Whaddya. . . think. . . Nick’d say. . . . now?”

Hearing him, Jarrod smiled and said, through teeth clenched in pain, “. . . . Like two fish . . . . .flopping around in . . . .in hot grease. . . . for sure.”

Heath nodded, as he continued to push himself forward with his boots and pull with his good elbow in the dirt, the rifle caught firmly between the crook of his right arm and his fist.

With a groan as he paused for breath, the ice cutting through his head and slicing down his back, he pushed his face into the dirt to rest. Then, with another shove of his legs, he raised his head enough to make out the difference between the darkness of the trees and the reflection of light on the hard-packed road below. As he watched for movement or the flash of gunfire, he struggled to bring the rifle up and into position.

“Jar-rod,” he said quietly, the chills gripping him making it difficult to talk, “Anders. . . he didn’t. . . kill, . . . didn’t kill . . . that man.”

His brother’s reply came back quietly in the dark, “I know Heath. . . . Matt Coulter. . . . killed the schoolteacher.”

As he struggled to stay focused, Heath nodded, though he knew Jarrod couldn’t see him in the dark, and said, “I was. . . wrong. . . that part. . . ‘bout him.”

Jarrod, his eyes closed, heard his brother, but had trouble formulating a reply. He was so tired. He could no longer raise his head from the dirt and feared that if the men below came up the hill, he would not even be able to raise the pistol to help Heath defend them.

He took a deep breath and said slowly, “No, Heath-h-h-h. . . . I was. . . wrong. . . Anders.. . . over . . . over my . . . .broth-er. . . I. . . .never should’ve. . . sent you to . . . Bentell. . .”

Jarrod’s words trailed off, as he passed out, the pistol still in his hand.

Heath had no time to think about what Jarrod had been trying to say, as he hugged the ground in response to a new volley of rifle fire from below.

He responded almost blindly with several shots from his Winchester. Then, as the weapons below responded again, he lay back down in the dirt, and curled up around the chills that shook him. Moaning, he let go of the rifle whose aim he could no longer hold steady. His hand on his pistol, he pulled it from his holster and hugged it to his chest.

After several minutes, he raised his head. “Jarrod? Jarrod?” he called quietly. Then, hearing no reply, he searched the stars above for the strength to reach his brother.

He could see Victoria Barkley in his mind, her smile, her hand on the side of his face, the love in her grey eyes as she offered her arm to him going in to dinner. He knew he could not let this woman, this woman who had chosen to accept and love him when she clearly had had a choice, this woman he loved fiercely in return, suffer the loss of her firstborn son.

He could not let his brothers down. He could not let Nick Barkley, the man he revered above all others, lose his older brother, his Pappy that he depended upon. He would not let Jarrod die here in this place, all because he was trying to right a wrong that Heath’s past had brought to his door.

He no longer knew or cared why he wasn’t home. All he could think about were the people who loved him, the family that he loved with all of his heart.

As he crawled back toward his brother, he only knew Jarrod was unconscious, and that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt him again.

Chapter 20

His anguish was keeping him awake. Until he found both of his brothers, he didn’t think he would ever sleep again. Only stopping when necessary to rest his horse, Nick continued to push himself toward his immediate destination, toward some kind of resolution.

He had figured that he had only another hour or so until he made Coreyville, when suddenly, he heard gunfire. Pulling on his reins, he sat his horse and strained to hear, to make sense out of the sounds. Then, spurring Coco into a gallop, Nick used the intermittent reports of the guns to gauge how close he could get before he needed to find cover for himself.

Slowing his horse, he slid into a stop, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, and hit Coco on the rump to send him back and out of danger. In the near-darkness, he could make out a rock-strewn hill and a stand of trees, with a couple of horses milling around nearby. He edged toward the base of the rocks, near two of the horses, and waited, watching and listening, for more information to decide how to proceed.

He heard a horse’s whinny from just below and behind him.

Nick was momentarily distracted from the barrage of bullets being fired from the trees and toward the rocks above, as he saw Coco change direction and trot toward the smaller, dark horse below.

More than curious, Nick eased away from the rocks and picked his way back down toward his horse.

He stopped in dismay, when he immediately recognized the mare beside Coco as his brother’s Modoc.

“Heath,” he breathed, not understanding why his brother would be here. Looking back toward the rocks above him and the trees in front of him, he tried to figure out which way to go.

Where was his brother?

Climbing back to his vantage point among the boulders at the base of the hill, he watched and listened, not for gunfire this time, but for the movement of additional horses.

It made the most sense that if Heath’s horse was here, at the base of the hill, that he would be behind the rocks above. Anyone taking cover in the trees would be more likely to keep their horses with them. But, were there any horses over there near the road?

There, there they were. Nick could just make out several horses tied at the far edge of the trees opposite the road. He turned toward the slope, accompanied only by his troubled thoughts, and he began to climb.

What was Heath doing here? What was going on? Why was he being shot at?

Nick pulled himself up quickly, but carefully, picking his way over and around the rock outcroppings. Grateful for his leather gloves, he wished fervently for a leather strap for his rifle so he could climb more quickly without hugging the gun to his body, without completely encumbering one of his hands.

His concentration was momentarily disturbed by a barrage of fire from below, followed by several shots from above him.

Climbing faster, Nick’s anxiousness to reach his brother drove him on. But, suddenly, the quiet permeated the night. Nick paused to listen, and felt the return of his earlier fears. He couldn’t have found his brother only to reach him too late!

“No! Hang on, Heath,” Nick breathed, as he started climbing again. “Hang on. This time I’ll be there for you, Little Brother.”

* * * * * * * *

The light of the moon, so low in the sky, barely sliced through the darkness closing in on him. The blinding, driving snow of the blistering cold was making it hard for him to see.

He was so cold.

His stage had been attacked, and he was barely holding off the men that were trying to get at the two strongboxes on top of it. He was hurt; he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer against the three of them, especially with the poor visibility making it hard to tell where they were.

He sat on his heels, one knee on the ground, to offer as much cover to the injured driver behind him as he could; he silently promised the unconscious man that he would protect him until they brought him down.

Shivering, he tried to remember where the last shots had come from. But, somehow, he knew it wouldn’t matter much longer. When they figured out he couldn’t move around to keep them pinned down below him, they would be coming up the rocks from three different directions.

The cold permeating his bones made him shiver again, as he tried to steady his gun hand with his almost useless left.

The only thing he could do was to be ready for them when they appeared.

* * * * * * * *

Nick worked his way around a larger rock, and the relief flooded through him as he spotted a likely path that should take him closer to the position he figured his brother was firing from. The shots a while back had seemed to come from his left and just above him.

Nick placed the rifle in the crook of his left arm and drew his handgun, as the path no longer required him to use his hands to climb. He was unsure of what he was walking into. Was Heath a prisoner and caught up in some angry crossfire? If so, Nick needed to be ready for trouble up there at close range. Or was Heath trapped among the rocks and only needed Nick by his side to help him get out of the situation he had found himself in?

Either way, Nick renewed his promise to himself of several hours before. No matter the situation, no matter the reason he was up there, Heath was his brother.

Nothing else mattered.

No matter what, this time, Nick would be there for him.

* * * * * * * *

Heath’s head came up, and he forced open his eyes.

Where was he? The sweat was pouring off of him, stinging his eyes, blinding him.

There it was again.

That sound.

Someone was moving around in the rocks to his left.

He gritted his teeth and forced his left hand slowly backwards, to touch the form behind him.

Yes, his unconscious brother was still there.

“Jarrod,” he whispered, as he rested his hand lightly on his brother’s back.

He dimly remembered the bite of a snowstorm and the shoot-out beside a stage in the mountains, but . . . .

He shook his head in confusion.

Where was this place?

It was rocky, but it wasn’t in the snow-covered mountains.

It was so hot.

He couldn’t breathe.

Were they in the desert? Had Gil Anders left them both here to die?

He felt the rise and fall of his brother’s body as he breathed in and out.

No, Jarrod wasn’t dead; he was not dead like Willie Martin had been.

“Jarrod,” he whispered as the pain blazed across his head and down his back, making it hard to catch his breath.

Then, he heard another noise and brought the gun up. He struggled to force his left hand back up in front of him, to place it under his right hand, to use it to steady the pistol.

He remembered Matt Coulter’s sneering eyes. He remembered Jamison’s fists pounding into him.

They wanted his brother dead.

He had to stay alert. He couldn’t let them shoot Jarrod again.

Squinting his eyes in the dark, he tried to make out any movement among the rocks.

He knew he had to shoot first, or it would all be over.

To be continued…