Dead Wrong

Part II / Chapters 11-22

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

Wishing he had borrowed a canteen from Randall back at the livery, Heath slowly dismounted. He held onto the saddle horn for a moment as the action sent bright flecks of light into his brain and sharp pain through his side. Gasping for breath, he finally released his hold and walked slowly toward the quiet stream, leading the horse. Beside the water, he knelt down in the deep shade, and, dropping the reins as the mare lowered her head beside him, he cupped his hands and lifted the cool liquid to his mouth to drink.

After the water had revived him a bit, he took a deep breath and used his wet hands to wipe at his sweating face and the back of his neck. Then, rising slowly, arm wrapped around his waist, he moved toward a large sapling and clung to its trunk with the other hand as he lowered himself to the ground again, leaning his back against it gratefully.

After a few moments of sitting there, eyes closed, he allowed his mind to drift a bit as the pain in his side began to ease.

Nick and Jarrod were going to think he’d left because he was angry.

And, in truth, Heath admitted to himself silently, he was. But, more than anything, he’d needed to get out of that place, its four walls closing in on him, and with the memories kicked up by the discussion of the opium trade, like the choking dust raised by a riled up herd of thirsty cows charging toward a distant river, making it hard to breathe, making it impossible to keep his focus on the business of the trial.

He shook his head slightly, trying unsuccessfully to keep the memories at bay. He heard the moans of the men all around him, felt the weight of his body’s heat holding him down on the sweat-soaked cot, and. . . .

Then, angrily, he reached up and covered his closed eyes with his hand.

He would not allow himself to get lost there, not now, not like this.

Squeezing the sides of his head together between thumb and fingers, he fought to let the physical pain push aside the memories, willing to let the one consume him if necessary, just to keep the other away.

Suddenly, one thought shoved its way in, both cutting off the memories from the past, and slicing through the pain.

“. . . Nick. . . ”

The whispered word was spoken involuntarily, like a groan or a gasp, escaping from his lips.

Grateful for the intrusion, he opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly, lowering his hand as he tried to keep focused on this more recent memory, on the thought of his brother’s face, smile gleaming and hazel eyes laughing. He felt the heat of his brother’s gloved hand gripping the back of his neck, and he smiled lop-sidedly at himself, at the way the memory felt, as it wrapped around him, infusing his heart with much needed warmth.

“Boy Howdy, that’s some brother ya’ got there, Heath,” he mumbled to himself, remembering the way Nick had jumped to his feet, in the middle of the courtroom silence, in loud, indignant defense of him.

Then, taking a deep, shaky breath, he pushed off from the ground and used his grip on the sapling’s trunk to push himself back to his feet. With the suddenly remembered worries, the ones they had discussed late into last night driving him, he knew he had to go back, to be there if Nick needed him.

Unsteadily, he made his way back to his horse, caught up her reins, and, with effort, bent down slightly to cross under her neck, as he made his way between her front hooves and the gently flowing stream.

Then, hearing galloping hoof beats, he paused there, beneath her neck, dropping back down to one knee. Unsure of what made him wary, he nevertheless trusted his instincts, and remained there, stayed low, watching from the deep shadows cast by the small stand of trees gathered around the stream.

It was the rhythm of the hooves that wasn’t right, as the horses created their own cloud of dust upon their approach. Something was off. Then, as he listened, he realized one horse was struggling, its unbalanced load heavier than the rest, its gait uneven.

Tensing, Heath heard a couple of shouts, and then, he saw the four riders clearly. One, the tallest of the four, turned his struggling horse toward the stream. Reaching up to stroke the nose of his borrowed mare, Heath watched as Alan Kyles trotted toward the trees, toward him. His eyes narrowed as he saw a dark-suited, dark-haired man, hurt and probably unconscious, lying across the neck of the lathered horse.

It was Jarrod.

Taking quiet, quick breaths, but reaching down to slowly extract his knife from inside his boot, Heath prepared to face his brother’s captor.

Then, he watched, unmoving, as Alan reached down, grabbed one of Jarrod’s legs hanging down from the other side of his horse and flung him unceremoniously, headfirst from the horse’s neck. The limp, unconscious body of his brother hit the ground, landing on his back, and the unfeeling, uncaring man still on the horse turned away, intent on joining his father and brothers on the road.

Korby’s brothers and father must have helped him escape from the courthouse by using Jarrod as a shield.

Heath gripped the knife and options flashed through his brain, warring for the best course of action. He was unarmed, except for the knife in his hand. If he chased the man’s horse on foot, he might be able to bring down Alan before he realized he was being followed. Then, he could hold the rest of them there, waiting for help, with the knife pressed against the tallest Kyles’ neck.

But, if Jarrod was hurt severely, Heath knew he would be unable to take care of him and hold off all four of the men.

His breath constricted in his throat as Nick’s name again inserted itself into his thoughts. He had failed Nick and Jarrod by not being there, at the courthouse.

What if something had happened to Nick, as well as Jarrod, to Mother or Audra?

Helping Jarrod and getting back to town----those were the only priorities.

Making his decision, but not happy at letting them go, Heath remained there, crouching under cover of the trees, and angry at his inability to do more than watch and listen.

Korby Kyles hollered loudly, “So long, . . . Jarrod!” and he and his family galloped away from Stockton.

Then, Heath sheathed his knife, stood awkwardly, and ran as best he could toward his brother.

“Jarrod. Jarrod, can ya’ hear me?”

Though he received no answer, Heath lifted the dark head to his chest as he lowered himself to the ground, breathing hard. He was instantly relieved to see the midnight blue eyes blink open and focus on him, and he smiled lop-sidedly down into his brother’s face.

“Thought ya’ hated . . . ta get your suits dirty, Jarrod,” Heath said softly, trying to chuckle to relieve the bewildered look.

“Heath?” Jarrod asked, reaching up to grasp the blue material of his brother’s shirt in his hand.

“Yeah, Jarrod.”

Then, he probed his brother’s head, gently, and he found the swollen lump on the side, just behind his ear. He breathed out a sigh of relief as his fingers came away clean, with no sticky blood covering them.

“D’ya’ think you can lie here quietly, . . . without tryin’ ta get up an’ make any fancy speeches, . . . if I leave you alone a minute?”

Jarrod’s eyes, focused on his face, but still a bit confused at Heath’s words, blinked. Then, he smiled slowly, and answered, his hand patting Heath’s chest above him, “Yeah, . . . and I’ll even take an oath . . . to stay put if you want me to.”

Laughing lightly, Heath said, “No need for all that, Counselor Barkley. . . . I’ll be right back.”

Lowering Jarrod to the ground, Heath pushed himself to his feet, biting into his lip as his ribs protested. Walking slowly to the stream, he pulled his shirttail from his jeans and began ripping off the bottom section. When he reached the water, he dropped carefully to his knees and soaked the cloth. Then, pushing off of one thigh, he staggered back to his feet and, catching the reins of the waiting horse just below the bit, returned to his brother, leading the mare.

Dropping down beside Jarrod, he lifted his brother’s head again.

“Here, suck on this. . . ‘Got no canteen, . . . not even a hat . . . . This’ll have ta do.”

Jarrod’s eyes took a minute to focus on his face, but he nodded and opened his mouth as Heath offered him one end of the soaked cloth. Sucking the refreshing water from it, he nodded after a moment, and reached up to remove it. Heath swatted his hand away and took the torn cloth, using the other end to wipe the pale face. Then, silently, he held it against the swelling on the side of Jarrod’s head.

Jarrod closed his eyes and sighed softly. The cold dampness felt so good against his throbbing head.

Heath, concerned at the closed eyes, reached out to tap Jarrod’s face with his other hand, “No, Jarrod. . . . Don’t you go ta sleep on me. . . . One of us takin’ naps in the middle’a the day is enough.”

Nodding slightly, Jarrod slowly opened his eyes again. “Heath? Why did you leave? Are you alright?” He swallowed hard, then tried to raise up.

Heath didn’t fight him. Instead, he assisted him, supported him, waiting to see if Jarrod was dizzy or if the headache he was sure his brother was suffering from became worse.

“Easy, Jarrod.”

Nodding again, Jarrod reached up to touch the side of his head, cradling it in his hand, and holding the cloth against the swelling on his own.

Heath held onto his shoulder and watched him closely for signs that his brother was feeling sick or lightheaded.

“How is it?”

“I’m okay,” Jarrod nodded, glad to see the ground remaining still, in one place, beneath him. He’d suffered a head injury a couple of times in his life and didn’t relish going through the instant nausea that had accompanied the one concussion he’d had. He still remembered the lingering effects that had occurred after a fall from a horse he’d let Nick goad him into trying to break.

“Better than the last time. You know, when. . . .”

After Jarrod trailed off, Heath spoke up, figuring there was a story under there some where, just not sure either of them was up for reminiscing right now.

“Last time?”

Jarrod glanced at Heath and shook his head, irritated with himself for saying that, for mentioning the past as if his new brother had been there and should have remembered it as well as he did.

Nodding, Heath brought the conversation back to their current situation and asked, “Jarrod, do ya’ think you can ride?”

“Yes. I think so.”

Heath looked up the road toward Stockton and, then, down toward the ranch. The ranch was a little closer, but if something had happened to the rest of the family back at that courthouse. . . .

Jarrod solved the dilemma for him, however.

He said, trying to push off of Heath’s shoulder to stand, “Back to town. We have to go back to Stockton, Heath. Mother’ll be worried sick, and the sheriff will need to get after those men.”

The words confirming what he had figured must have happened, Heath climbed to his feet and assisted Jarrod the rest of the way to his. Then, supporting his still unsteady brother, they walked over to the patiently waiting horse.

Jarrod reached out to grab hold of the saddle, leaning heavily against the mare and glanced at his brother, suddenly wondering what kind of shape Heath was in.

“C’mon. Let’s get it done,” Heath said firmly.

Jarrod closed his eyes a moment, gathering himself. Then, reaching up to grasp the horn and the cantle, he placed his left foot in the stirrup and raised himself up. Suddenly overcome with a fierce headache, his weight shifted heavily against the horse, as he tried to throw his other leg over, but failed. With a groan, he lost his momentum and dropped his head, sagging forward and holding onto the saddle with his eyes closed.

Concerned, Heath moved in, bracing Jarrod’s left leg in place against the saddle with his body, and he reached up with his left hand, pushing his brother’s other leg over the horse’s back. As Jarrod’s right leg crossed the mid-line of the horse’s back, he lost his balance and his other leg shifted unexpectedly, sending his boot, still in the left stirrup, abruptly back as he fell forward, over the horse’s neck. He caught himself only by his grip on the saddle horn.

However, the heel of his left boot had struck Heath hard.

Heath’s head went down with a sharp cry, and, though he managed to cling to Jarrod’s trouser leg with one hand, steadying him against the saddle, he began coughing and retching violently.

Above him, though now seated in the saddle, Jarrod leaned heavily over the horse’s neck and faced the ground on the other side, grasping the saddle horn with both hands. Fighting the severe headache and trying valiantly to stay in the saddle, he was only vaguely aware that Heath was still beside him on the ground.

After long moments of doubled-over agony, Heath raised his head. He blinked away the dark spots that threatened his vision and gasped for breath, leaning his head against Jarrod’s leg.

Heath knew that, unless they planned on waiting here, he had to get astride the horse as well. He wasn’t sure Jarrod could make it back without him, but, neither was he sure he could manage what the next part would require of him.

He took another deep breath, and, fighting to keep his vision clear, prepared to mount the horse behind his brother.

After gathering the trailing left rein, he carefully held onto Jarrod while removing his brother’s foot from the stirrup. He reached up to catch the top of the saddle much as Jarrod had with both hands, but, at this movement, he could not prevent the sharp cry that escaped at the renewed force of the pain lancing through his body. Dropping his right hand back to his ribs, he remained in that position, forehead pressed against Jarrod’s leg, fighting again for breath.

Feeling his brother’s hand close over his where it gripped the saddle horn tightly, Heath slowly lifted his head and looked up. Jarrod’s eyes were filled with pain, but he was sitting up straighter in the saddle.

“Heath?”

Shaking his head, Heath clenched his jaw and hauled himself up, one-handed, as he lifted his left boot, placed it in the stirrup, and struggled to pull his other leg over without toppling Jarrod to the ground.

Sighing with relief, he settled onto the mare’s sturdy back behind the saddle, and he pressed his forehead into the dirt-covered material of his brother’s dark suit for a moment, willing the pain away.

Then, eyes tightly closed, he dropped the stirrup and said quietly, “Jarrod. . . can ya’ pick up the stirrup?”

Feeling the nod through the material of the suit, he waited until he heard Jarrod’s strained voice.

“Got it. . . . Both of them.”

Then, Heath said, his eyes still closed, “Can ya’ reach her right rein?”

Heath released his hold on the saddle horn with his left hand, and he wrapped that same arm around Jarrod’s waist, trying to steady his somewhat groggy brother against him, as the dark-haired lawyer fought off the debilitating headache enough to lean forward, reaching out for the rein trailing straight down from the horse’s bit.

Heath, his eyes still closed, used his legs on the horse to help him. She had responded well earlier to his leg on her, but he hadn’t asked much. Now, urging the mare to step forward a bit, asking her to bend toward Jarrod, he was unsure of both her prior training and how responsive she would prove to be.

Jarrod’s triumphant gasp let him know the result as much as the movement beneath him did when the horse brought her nose in and gave around to the right slightly as she stepped forward, responding to the subtle leg pressure.

Opening his eyes and easing his right arm away from his own body to encircle Jarrod’s waist with it, Heath gathered the second rein Jarrod offered him, together with the first in his left hand. Then, turning the compliant horse all the way around toward the road, he urged her into a walk.

Steadying his brother’s body against his chest, Heath wasted no time in pushing the mare into a gentle, rocking lope, and they made their way back toward Stockton, together, riding double.

Chapter 12

The mare had stopped and was standing in the middle of the road, when Heath groaned and lifted his head from where it rested against the side of Jarrod’s dark hair. Unsure of which of them was holding up the other, he used his legs to ask the mare to walk forward, and she complied.

Heath carefully raised the hand clamped around his brother’s waist up to encircle Jarrod’s chest and checked to make sure he could feel his brother’s heart beating through his dark brown vest. Then, breathing out in a ragged, relieved sigh, Heath forced himself to focus on the landmarks on the side of the road.

They were getting close to Stockton, no more than a couple of miles away. But, how long had they been stopped, the horse standing still in the middle of the road? They needed to keep going, just a little further.

Blinking rapidly at the throbbing pain that was almost a constant part of him now, Heath fought to keep his eyes focused on their surroundings, anything to keep himself awake and alert. They had to keep moving. The intermittent blackness, not to mention the dark memories encroaching from the edges of his vision, was getting worse, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it off.

After a few moments, Jarrod moaned and tried to lift his head from where it leaned back, resting against the side of Heath’s face behind him.

“Easy, now, Jarrod,” Heath said, hoping his slightly taller brother wouldn’t start moving around too much. He wasn’t sure if he was up to keeping them both on top of the mare if he did.

Jarrod moaned again, and blinked his eyes open. He immediately began fighting to get rid of the arm crossed in front of his chest.

His last memory was not of Heath finding him and trying to get him up on the brown horse, but of Alan Kyles trying to drag him backwards from the courtroom, arm clamped around him savagely, cutting off his air. His dark blue eyes grew wide as he believed himself to still be in the grip of the man who had viciously hit him with the handle of his gun a short while before.

He began trying to force the arm away from him, trying to get away, and thrashing around with his body, purposefully making it difficult for his captor to hang on.

“Jarrod!” Heath said, through tightly clenched teeth. “No, . . . Jarrod!”

With no breath nor strength to fight him, Heath halted the horse and tried to just hang onto his brother with both arms wrapped around him, trying to pin down his struggling arms, and trying to get him to understand.

“No, Jarrod! . . . It’s okay,” Heath managed to say, before one of Jarrod’s wildly thrashing elbows caught him directly in the ribs on the right side.

Coughing violently, Heath lost his hold on his brother, and doubled over, leaning to the right side, his eyes closed. Each cough sent another spasm of pain surging through him, and he was blinded by the shooting pinpoints of white light that surged through his brain.

“Jar-rod,” he gasped, “Jar-rod, . . . please. . . .”

Slowly, he felt the spasms ease up.

Gratefully, he also dimly realized his tense brother had stopped fighting him. Using his hold on Jarrod as leverage, Heath slowly pulled himself almost upright, into a sitting position behind the saddle. Then, unable to speak, he leaned forward heavily against Jarrod’s back, gasping for breath.

From far away, he heard Jarrod’s deep, soothing voice questioning him, “Heath? Heath, what happened? Are you alright?”

His breathing coming easier now, he nodded his head against Jarrod’s back and said quietly, “Yeah. . . fine. Just. . . just give me. . . a minute.”

He felt Jarrod’s hand come around and touch his hair. And, again, that deep, comforting voice said, “Just rest then, Heath.”

Again, Heath nodded, head down, face against his brother’s back, eyes closed.

After a moment, he blinked several times and raised his head. Then, one hand pushing off of Jarrod’s steady shoulder, he sat all the way up and took a deep breath.

Jarrod asked, “Better?”

“Yeah. . . . How’s your head?”

“Better,” Jarrod laughed slightly at their conversation.

Then, he asked, trying to turn slightly to see him, “Heath, I don’t remember much except being in the courtroom and one of the Kyles boys grabbing me from behind. But, . . . but, you were already gone. How did we get out here together?”

Gathering the reins, Heath asked the mare to walk forward, both of his arms still reaching around Jarrod. His left was outstretched, holding the reins in a relaxed position, as if drawing a straight line from his elbow to the bit in her mouth. His right arm was again protectively wrapped around his brother, steadying them both.

“’Don’t know what all happened in the courthouse, . . but, Alan Kyles dumped you in that stand’a trees by the stream afterwards . . . an’, I was there, gettin’ some water. . . They didn’t see me, . . . nor this fine, . . . brown-as-dirt little mare.”

Jarrod, sitting up on his own and noticing how close they were to Stockton, nodded his dark head. In truth, Heath was leaning more on him, now, than the other way around. He reached up and gingerly touched the place on the side of his head that still throbbed, though not as unmercifully as before.

“All four of them?”

Heath replied, “Yeah. Alan had you slung over his horse’s neck in front’a him.”

Jarrod shook his head slightly and said, “I can’t figure out where the posse is. The whole town should’ve seen them take off, and Nick should’ve been here spitting horseshoe nails, by now!”

Heath laughed softly at the thought and responded, “’Must’a told him they’d kill you if he followed. That’s the only thing that would’a kept big Nick Barkley off this road for this long!”

Immediately, he broke off, and narrowed his eyes. Then, a genuine smile breaking out on his bruised face, though Jarrod couldn’t see it, he said, “Speak’a the devil himself.”

Pushing the horse into her smooth lope, he and Jarrod rode forward at a faster pace to meet the men on horseback and the ladies in the rig coming toward them.

Immediately pleased that his mother was driving the buggy, Jarrod met her eyes, smiling at her in reassurance that he was all right, despite Nick’s bellowing demands for his attention.

Nick, mounted on a borrowed horse, rode up, facing the two of them. Knee-to-knee with Jarrod, he reached out and, with a huge smile, clasped his older brother on the arm in relief.

“Good to see you, Pappy. I should’ve known they couldn’t do much damage hitting you on your hard, lawyerly head.”

“I’m fine, Nick. They just dumped me among some trees a ways back, and Little Brother, here, found me.”

Nick’s hazel eyes bored into Heath’s, then swept over him, looking for any additional injuries. “Are you alright, Boy? The way you left that courtroom, I was worried. Then, when Joey Randall fretted over the way you went riding out, too. . . .”

Heath grinned lop-sidedly and said, “Nothin’ that soft bed’a mine can’t cure, Nick.”

His twinkling, blue eyes told Nick he was waiting on his expected reply, and Nick didn’t disappoint him.

“Boy, I swear! You and your naps! Don’t forget you live on a working ranch!”

The blond just nodded, as Nick pushed his horse closer and reached out to grasp Heath’s shoulder. He shook him slightly and said, “And, thanks, Heath, for rescuing Pappy from the dirt. He does hate to mess up those lily-white hands of his.”

Then, he growled, looking sideways at Jarrod, though his words were intended for them both, “He still has to answer for what he did in that courtroom today, and I did want him in one piece for that.”

Jarrod, hearing the note of seriousness layered beneath the brotherly banter, looked at Nick closely. When Nick turned from Heath to look him full in the face, his hazel eyes locking onto his, Jarrod knew it was not over, and that it wouldn’t be until Nick had had his say, . . . loudly.

Jarrod nodded in acknowledgement, knowing that, though it would be rough around the ranch for a while, Nick would get past it. He always did.

Then, he felt the quiet brother behind him shift slightly, and he turned his head trying to see his eyes. But, a sharp twinge from the side of his head reminded him that probably wasn’t the best course of action.

Instead, he said over his shoulder, “Heath, how about if I climb down from up here, and the two of us escort these two lovely ladies back to the ranch? It looks like Brother Nick has plans to chase down the Kyles men before nightfall.”

Not waiting for a response, he carefully swung his right leg over the neck of the brown mare, and he met Nick’s hard eyes, waiting for him to move his own mount out of the way.

Nick, still looking at Jarrod’s unyielding, midnight blue eyes, nodded in acknowledgement of the anticipated battle between them still to come. Then, he said to Heath, his smile back, “I’ll see you back at the house later, Boy. Just know that I expect that St. Louis bathtub to be clean and empty when I get there.”

He spun his horse around and, signaling to the waiting men milling around the impatiently waiting sheriff, the group surged around the buggy they had been protecting and the two brothers still sharing the same horse, before heading off down the road.

Heath, still silent, still not sure of what to make of the tension between his two older brothers, turned his head and watched them go, struggling not to cough in the swirling dust kicked up by the many galloping horses. He longed to go with them, but had to admit to himself that, though he wouldn’t at first, eventually he would only slow them down.

Suddenly, he felt a tentative hand on his knee, and he turned back around. Looking down, he saw the concerned grey eyes of Victoria Barkley, the woman he had only recently begun to call Mother, staring up at him.

“Heath, thank you for staying with us. I feel safer with both of you here,” she said, acknowledging the longing she saw in his light blue eyes, but emphasizing the alternate purpose to which she hoped he would apply himself instead because she realized he was not well.

He nodded at her, then, turned his attention to assisting Jarrod in sliding down from the saddle, both long legs now hanging over the left side of the horse. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, Heath leaned down to ease Jarrod to the ground, his left hand grasping his brother’s left arm.

When both of Jarrod’s boots were firmly on the ground, the dark-haired lawyer turned around to look up at Heath, who had already moved forward and was seated in the saddle Jarrod had just left.

He said, “Heath, why don’t you join us in the buggy? You can tie her to the back.”

Victoria, glancing at Jarrod, saw concern in his face that went deeper than his casual words. So, he too, was worried about Heath.

She immediately added her encouragement to his, “Yes, Heath. That’s a wonderful idea. Audra has been too quiet all afternoon. This has really shaken both of us, and, I’m sure she would love to have you seated next to her.”

She shaded her eyes to better see Heath’s face, as he looked over at the blonde sitting silently in the buggy, watching them, then down at his hands, the reins looped loosely through his fingers.

Without another word, she reached up and touched his leg again.

He glanced at her kind, knowing face, and nodded, offering her a small, tired smile.

As he walked the horse forward to tie her to the back, the two on the ground turned toward the buggy. Heath smiled as he heard Jarrod call after him, “Brother Heath, we won’t even tell Nick if you start your nap a little early.”

Dismounting awkwardly, he was glad they were not looking in his direction, as another sharp pain cut through him.

Blinking to clear his vision as he made it to the ground, he held onto the mare for an extra few seconds. Then, tying the reins to the back of the buggy and lifting the left stirrup, he moved to loosen the horse’s cinch.

Before he could do so, however, Jarrod was standing beside him, his hands on Heath’s, stopping him.

“I’ll do that, Heath.”

“No, thanks, I can do it.” Heath stood firmly in the way.

Jarrod placed both hands on Heath’s shoulders and said, “I’ve got a rotten headache, Heath, but there’s nothing wrong with my ribs. Please let me help.”

Nodding, Heath sighed and stepped aside, his eyes on the ground.

Quietly, giving him a moment, Jarrod expertly loosened the knotted cinch, enough to allow the horse some breathing room, but not so much as to allow the saddle to slip.

Heath said quietly, lifting his eyes to stare off into the distance across the horse’s back, “Thanks, Jarrod. . . . ‘Hard for me. . . ta accept that kind’a help. . .”

Jarrod nodded, hoping it was a good sign that he would even say the words out loud to him.

Heath continued, “‘Been known ta let my own stubborn pride get in the way.”

Jarrod nodded again, glad he had finally admitted it. This must be Heath’s way of apologizing about his refusal to admit he had been wrong in the courtroom, of apologizing for being stubborn about not giving in and changing his mind on the stand. He lowered the stirrup and placed his hand on Heath’s shoulder as he turned.

“Heath, I know stubborn pride is a Barkley trait, and I’d say you got as large a dose as Brother Nick, maybe more. But, Father always told us growing up, something you didn’t ever hear him say, that it takes a stronger, better man to admit when he’s let that stubbornness, that pride, push him too far. Thank you for admitting it now, even if you couldn’t earlier today.”

Leaving him standing there to contemplate his words, Jarrod walked back to the buggy, climbed slowly in next to his mother, and picked up the reins. Though his head was throbbing, he glanced at her face and nodded, pleased with his brief conversation with Heath.

Then, forearms propped tiredly across his thighs, he waited for the younger man to absorb what he had said, confident that his brother had understood the wisdom of his words, and he waited for him to climb up in the buggy seat beside Audra and join them.

Turning his head, Heath watched Jarrod walk away out of the corner of his eye. He reached up to grip the edges of the saddle with both hands, and dropping his head, he hauled in a deep breath.

What had all that been about?

Shoving the dull, throbbing pain down fiercely, he struggled to think through the conversation they had just had. He had been trying to thank Jarrod for helping him with the horse, then, Jarrod had used the words to. . . to what?

To tell him he’d been wrong in the courtroom today?

To tell him that Tom Barkley would’ve been disappointed in him for not admitting that he didn’t see what he knew he had?

Had Jarrod thought Heath was admitting now that he had been wrong today?

A sudden, scalding image of men dying all around him, men crying for release from life, men screaming for ease to their pain and suffering, stabbed through him. Where had Tom or Jarrod Barkley been when he had . . . .

No!

NO!

He would not bring those memories here!

Not now. Not like this.

Fighting with himself, with the anger his brother’s words rekindled, with his need for a little more time, Heath closed his eyes, trying to regain control.

Then, setting his jaw and blinking his eyes open rapidly, he stared out across the browns and greens of the valley floor and made up his mind.

Jarrod was dead wrong.

But, now wasn’t the time for Heath to try to argue with him. He had something else to deal with first.

As the dark, agonizing images flashed through his brain again, Heath knew he was running out of time. Having been through it all before, he knew it wouldn’t be long before it all crashed down on him, overwhelming him.

He only had two choices. He could deal with it all alone, or. . . .

Ignoring the fresh pain it caused him, Heath moved the stirrup aside, swiftly re-tightened the cinch on the saddle, reached out to untie the mare, and vaulted from the ground to the mare’s back in one fluid motion. Then, turning her, he charged past the front of the buggy, galloping down the road a short ways, before he stopped and waited for Jarrod to get the pair of chestnuts moving to follow him.

Keeping his distance from the three in the buggy, he wordlessly fulfilled his obligation to see them home safely.

Then, as soon as the buggy had entered the ornate gates surrounding the huge white house, he urged the mare around the corner to the closest barn, dismounted, stalked into the tack room, and took down the rifle hanging near the door. Checking it for ammunition and grabbing an additional box from a shelf, as well as a worn pair of saddle bags, a canteen, and spare bedroll from a corner, he returned to the ground-tied mare. Swiftly, he tied on the supplies, and, rifle tucked under one arm, vaulted back into the saddle. Then, he spurred her up the road, away from the house, and headed out to follow the posse.

He did not look back.

If he had, he would have seen Jarrod standing at the corner of the house, watching him with blue eyes that reflected an array of emotions, from worry to disappointment, from sadness to anger.

Chapter 13

It was cold.

The brisk autumn air of the afternoon had turned to chilling, bone-cutting breeziness as the sun had slowly edged behind the low hills far to the west. A swirl of leaves, picked up by the wind, skittered across the overgrown trace as it climbed toward the Sierras.

The brown horse snorted, lifting her head anxiously.

He reached down absently and scratched his fingers beneath the edge of the saddle blanket, her sweat causing his fingers to come away covered in clingy, short brown hair.

“Need a good brushin’, Little Girl,” he muttered.

He was lost in memories he didn’t want to recall. He struggled to keep his mind on what he was doing, on where he was, but slowly, gradually, he was losing the battle. Every movement, every view, every action seemed to only pull him backwards, further away, longer away, from the task he had set for himself.

Suddenly, his head came up, and he halted the mare without use of the reins. His eyes scanned the weed-encroached road before him where it divided into another, fainter track, one that meandered off to the left.

Dismounting slowly, reluctantly, the rifle still cradled in the crook of the arm held protectively against his ribs, he was breathing hard by the time both boots touched the ground.

He had been trying to watch for signs of a particular horse’s tracks for the last hour or so, whenever any of the tracks veered off on another route, as they did now. Though mingled with and covered over by multiple marks from other horses, the particular tracks he was looking for were fairly easy to spot.

However, he had no idea which tracks belonged to the Kyles, because so many other hoof prints had covered them over.

The posse in front of him, originally composed of some ten men, had split up when the Kyles family had apparently done so back on the main road above the ranch. Heath, wanting nothing more than to join up with the group Nick was in, had been watching for the atypical horseshoes used by whatever blacksmith the previous owner of Joey Randall’s large, blue roan had employed. Nick’s borrowed mount must have been a recent addition to Joey’s string, because no one in Stockton used that particular style horseshoe. The design, like the blue roan’s color, tended to stand out.

Heath had noticed the peculiar tracks out of life-long habit when he had helped Jarrod slide down from the saddle earlier in the day, in the middle of the road from Stockton.

Now he was glad he had.

Dropping down to one knee with a tired groan, and brushing his fingers lightly in the dirt on the edge of the converging roads, Heath stared at the ground for a moment. Then, he lifted his head and looked up the winding, slowly climbing trace stretched out before him, flanked on both sides by brush and small trees. The larger vegetation seemed to gather in strength as the track climbed higher, away from the good grazing land of the valley below.

Pushing himself wearily to his feet by leaning heavily on his raised knee, he kept his eyes trained on the distance.

Nick must have felt the Kyles had split up again, since it only looked like his brother and two more riders had gone this way. Must be that Nick thought one of those had been a Kyles. The others had continued on, following the wider, though equally disused, road.

But, something about all of this just wasn’t right. Heath narrowed his eyes, and shook his head, realizing that it wasn’t danger that he felt, but. . . but, just something out of place, something that didn’t quite made sense.

Exhaustion, however, was making it hard to think.

Keeping his arm against his side, the rifle tucked in close, he reached up for the saddle horn with his left hand and placed his left foot in the stirrup. Closing his eyes briefly against the almost constant pain that he knew would worsen with the exertion of the next few seconds, he set his jaw, pulled himself up to throw his right leg over the bedroll, and he closed his eyes as soon as he’d settled in the saddle.

Even behind his eyelids, the sharp sparks of light found him, as he leaned forward slightly, trying to outlast the stabbing agony. Mouth open, he concentrated on drawing in a few deep breaths.

Finally, sitting up slowly, he was able to turn the mare’s head to the left and set her on the new track.

As he rode, Heath was a little more alert, forcing himself to constantly scan the area. Several times, he visually checked the overgrown bushes crowding the trail, and smiled lop-sidedly whenever he spotted the short, black-grey and whitish hairs of the blue roan clinging to a branch.

“As narrow as this is,” Heath thought, “Nick’s probably cursed Joey Randall’s name all the way through here. That roan’s got no more sense than ta try ta get his next groomin’ by rubbin’ Nick up against every saplin’ in these hills.”

Aloud, he chuckled slightly and said, “Big Brother’ll have that habit busted, but good, by the time he returns the blue, I’ll wager.”

Scratching the withers of the willing brown mare, whose ears had swiveled around to catch his words, he wondered how much Joey wanted for her. Though she wasn’t special in outward appearance, he was really coming to appreciate her trail sense, light mouth, and responsiveness to his legs. He couldn’t imagine how wearing it would have been to be constantly hauling on an aggravating animal’s mouth all the time, especially the way he felt right now.

Over the next hour, the light began to fade as the clouds moved in, blocking out what little remained of the sun’s rays.

As they traversed the gently climbing hills, he felt himself starting to fade. He was having more and more trouble staying alert, and his thoughts were beginning to wander even more than they had been. The pain in his side had become a dull, constant ache, but one he could almost now ignore.

Heath shivered as another gust of wind lifted the brown mare’s mane, and he blinked hard, forcing himself to peer ahead into the growing gloom of the cloud-covered evening, trying to stay focused.

But, despite his best efforts, his thoughts continued to drift into the past, floating through various times and places, settling on a lonely stretch of road and a long ride on a brown horse, rifle tucked into his arm like it was now.

The stiff gusts of wind had lifted his hair, much longer then, and the mane of the horse, just like it had hers moments before. He thought he heard a harmonica playing in the distance, the melody working its way through the trees toward him, like the aroma of wood smoke from the campfires also blowing in his direction.

No.

He shook himself, blinking hard.

There was no harmonica, no smoke.

It was only a fragment of a memory.

It meant nothing now.

Shaking his head, he blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to push away the similarities, trying to remain focused on the present, knowing his survival now, as he followed his brother, who may be tracking a desperate man, may depend on his focus as much as his survival had then.

“No!” he growled out loud. “Leave it there. Just . . . just leave it there a little longer.”

But, he knew he was failing.

Staying alert, staying focused was almost beyond him now.

Maybe it was the pain he couldn’t escape.

Maybe it was the toll the week before had taken on him, as he spent day after day hemmed in by the courtroom walls and no way to breathe the air of open spaces.

Maybe it was the way Korby Kyles reminded him of men he’d rather not remember.

Or, maybe it was the man’s testimony this afternoon. . .

Shaking his head angrily, as his eyes again lost their sharp focus and his mind drifted backwards, Heath knew he had to stop soon.

He wasn’t going to do Nick any good like this. In fact, if he wasn’t careful, he knew he could cause more harm to his brother, and the man riding with him, than good.

More harm.

That was the same phrase they had used.

He shivered.

Looking up at the sky, he slowly realized that a storm was brewing off to the west, that it would be on him soon.

He needed to stop.

And, he needed to find some shelter, someplace dry and warm.

. . . Before he did himself, his brother, or someone else, more harm.

More harm.

The words kept echoing in his head, as he trotted the mare forward, her smooth, rounded gait one that would have been a pleasure to ride any other day. Unable to stand the motion for any length of time, though, he quickly asked her for a more gentle lope, and he tried to settle into it, his side throbbing with every touch of her hooves to the rough, unlevel ground.

Ahead, he thought he spotted the low roof of a shack, nestled against a slope and sheltered among a small stand of trees off to the right.

His teeth clenched against the moan that threatened to escape as the wind swept through again, chilling him, he dropped her back into a trot and turned her head to the right.

After a moment, he brought her down into a walk, then stopped her altogether, as, shaking now with the cold, he sat there a moment, watching the tiny cabin and gathering his resistance to the agony of once more making his way to the ground.

As he felt his right boot touch the soft, leaf-strewn ground between the trees, he stopped still, leaning heavily against the horse, his left hand on the horn and his left boot still in the stirrup. Pressing his forehead against the warm leather of the saddle he’d just left, he panted for breath, struggling against the daggers lancing through him.

Then, slowly, he lowered his foot, and, turning sideways to the horse, he released his death grip on the saddle horn above him. His first two steps, however, ended with him staggering down to his knees, the rifle still caught in the crook of his arm against his body, but useless in his blinding agony.

He stayed there, head down, eyes closed, gasping for breath for long moments.

The first drops of rain, caressing his face, caused him to lift his head.

But, he couldn’t move. Not yet.

Finally, thoroughly soaked, he was able to push off of his thigh with his left hand. He struggled to his feet and led the horse unsteadily toward the lean-to on the side of the cabin. Tying her inside, beside two open hay bricks in a corner, he un-cinched her saddle and pulled it off to fall heavily to the ground. Then, pulling out some of the hay, he was relieved to find, though it wasn’t sweet and fresh, neither was it moldy or dusty.

Groaning with the effort, he picked up a bucket from a corner and, setting it both where she could reach it and the rain run-off from the roof could accumulate in it, he offered her a single pat on the shoulder in apology, and left her there.

The rain was now coming in fast-moving sheets, making it difficult to see much of anything in the surrounding area. Leaning over, he loosened the ties on the bedroll, the saddle bags, and the canteen. Then, gathering his supplies, including the discarded saddle blanket, he dragged the saddle over to the wall, left it leaning there, and walked unsteadily along the outside wall of the cabin to the door.

Pushing it open, he was relieved to see it was empty.

Leaving the door wide open to let in the fresh air he so desperately craved, he leaned heavily against the closest wall and let the supplies he’d brought slip out of his hands, one item at a time, until they were all lying on the dirt floor around him. Then, unable to take another step, he slid down the wall, his back against the rough-chinked logs of the interior, until he, too, was sitting on the floor.

Slowly, shrouded in events from his past, his pale blue eyes fixed on a point across the room that he didn’t really see. Then, his eyes still open, he let himself slump sideways, until he lay curled up on the floor, his back comfortingly resting against the solid, protective wall. When he began to shiver again, he reached out to pull the woolen padding of the folded saddle blanket up to his chest.

But, by then, the cabin had faded away, and he was again, far away, years in the past, lying on his side on a sweat-soaked cot, trying not to listen to the cries and moans of men dying all around him. The wind whipped through the cabin’s open door on the gentle slope between the San Joaquin Valley and the Sierra Nevadas, but it also shook the heavy canvas walls of a large army tent on a cold, rainy night in the Ohio River Valley at the northern edge of the Appalachians.

Chapter 14

It was just before the rains hit that Nick Barkley realized he had been had. It was not an easy thing for a man like him, proud, capable, and wise to the ways of others, to admit----not even to himself.

“ENOUGH!” he roared, bringing the roan up short. His right hand lifted to signal his intent to Jackson, trailing along behind him in the gloom.

He was fit to be tied, and most of his anger was directed at himself. Something about this just hadn’t seemed right from the start. Now, suddenly, he knew.

Turning, placing a gloved hand on the horse’s muscular rump, Nick glared at Jackson and said, “This jasper’s just leading us deeper and deeper into the hills for no other reason than to put us off his brother’s trail.”

Jackson, one of the boys from the Marvin place, had happened to be in town earlier in the day when the Kyles family had ridden out with Jarrod. He and Nick had played poker together over the last few years, and he had immediately offered to come along and help with the posse.

Now, he looked at Nick with wide eyes, admiration showing, though he couldn’t help asking the obvious questions, “How d’ya know, Nick? Couldn’t it just as easy be Korby himself up there, trying to get away?”

“No,” Nick shook his head emphatically, turning the blasted blue roan around. No matter what else he accomplished today, he was going to break this animal of trying to wander all over this trail!

“Whoever it is up there is just leading us on a chase. He wants us to follow. Look at how he stays just the same distance in front, taking that mangy horse of his through every soft spot available, like he wants to give us plenty of tracks to follow. And, tell me this. Why would someone who knows nothing about surviving in the mountains take to the high country? It’s just not right.”

He had known Korby Kyles since grade school, and the man was more attached to creature comforts than Victoria Barkley’s friends sitting in their parlours sipping hot tea in front of a blazing fire. Though he’d never had the means to indulge his preferences, Korby always was a slippery, conniving rascal, with no interest in making a living by working for it.

“At least the other two know how to work that farm and live off the land,” Nick said, “But, he hangs around the docks, the train depot, and the saloons. He wouldn’t last two days in these mountains, and he sure wouldn’t choose to hide up here.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“He probably doubled back on foot and hopped a train or a boat before we ever headed out of the valley.”

“You mean you think the posse’s been following three riders leading another horse, a fourth one, with no rider?”

Nodding, Nick snarled, “That’s exactly what I think. And, anyway, even if I’m wrong about that, I can tell you right now, whoever’s up ahead of us is not Korby Kyles.”

Shaking his head in amazement, Jackson said, “Nick, I’ve gotta give it to you. You’re good. I was prepared for us to trail him all the way to Carson City across these mountains, if that was Korby up there.”

Then, the greying, dark-haired ranch hand asked, “But, aren’t you just as interested in finding his brothers and his Daddy, after what they did to Jarrod?”

Nick growled in spite of himself, as he motioned for Jackson to turn his horse around so they could head back the way they had come.

“Sure, I’d like to nab them all, but it’s Korby we’ve got to find. One thing’s for sure, if he weren’t guilty, he wouldn’t be running. The others’ll turn up back at their farm sooner or later. There’s no point in trailing them. Let’s head back. The rain’s almost here, and somewhere dry sounds mighty good right now. We probably can’t make it before we get soaked, but there’s an old cabin about two miles back.”

Nodding, Jackson said, as he turned up his shirt collar and shivered, “This wet cold does tend to go right through a man up here. And, us with no bedrolls and slickers.”

As they rode, Nick thought about what he’d said to Jackson about Korby being guilty. If that were true, Heath must have been right all along.

But, how?

Now, none of it made any sense. If Jarrod had his facts straight, about the streetlamp, about the moon that night----and Nick had never known his older brother to miss something like that, then how could Heath also be right?

Growling again, as the blue took an extra step to the right and tried to rub Nick’s knee up against a small tree, Nick shook his head.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes later that the rains began, soaking them both to the skin.

* * * * * * * *

Shouting above the downpour, and barely able to see through the rain soaking his hair and dripping into his eyes, Nick hollered, “Left! Go left!”

He motioned with his arm and saw Jackson nodding up ahead, turning his horse to the left down the faint path. A few minutes later, Jackson stopped his bay and looked back at Nick uncertainly.

Then, the man motioned for Nick to dismount, drawing his gun as he threw his leg over his horse. Tying his mount, Jackson waited for Nick to do the same and then join him. Without a word, he ducked down to create less of a target and pointed to the cabin up ahead.

Nick narrowed his eyes at the rump of the unknown horse standing quietly beneath the lean-to attached to the side of the cabin. Glancing up at the chimney, he knew the lack of any smoke on a night like this was a very bad sign. It could only mean that whoever was in there hadn’t wanted to be noticed. Then, blinking back the water streaming down his face, he realized the door was standing wide open.

Quickly, he shoved Jackson down to the right, and he dove to the left, landing flat on the ground, his chest pressed into the wet brown leaves and pine needles.

But, having expected to be under fire by now, he continued to watch the cabin in confusion.

The door was still open.

Where was the muzzle of the gun he knew had to be aimed at them through it?

Motioning silently for Jackson to work his way around to the right, Nick crawled further into the trees on the left. Then, with the quiet darkness broken only by the thick, relentless sound of driving rain all around him, he pushed up from the ground, got his feet under him, and ducking low, ran in a wide half circle that brought him up to the back corner of the lean-to. Satisfied that there was no back window nor rear door, Nick saw Jackson, a flash of his pale yellow shirt in the dark, sidling up to the back corner opposite him.

Nodding, Nick worked his way around the lean-to, taking in the cared for brown mare. Stepping closer, he paused, feeling that she was somehow familiar. Then, his eyes widening, he left her there and made his way carefully, but a little less cautiously around the front corner of the shelter and toward the open door of the rough structure.

Watching Jackson’s approach from the other side of the door, Nick stood for a second, his back against the hewn logs. Taking a deep breath, his gun ready, he charged inside, again crouching low.

The cabin was empty.

Glancing around quickly in the near darkness, he stood slowly, motioning for Jackson to join him.

Seeing that the room was empty, Jackson holstered his gun, turned back to the open door, and said, “I’ll see to the horses.”

Nick stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Slowly, he took in the dim shapes of the unused furniture, the wood stacked next to the hearth, and the pile of supplies by the door. Stepping closer, he holstered his gun and dropped to one knee to sift through the pile in the dark.

Suddenly, his loud curse broke the silence, causing Jackson to come running back inside.

“Dammit!”

Jackson, his eyes wide, watched as Nick threw the saddle blanket aside and carefully gathered his unconscious, blond-haired brother into his arms. Struggling to his feet, he carried Heath to the rough wood-framed bed in the opposite corner.

“Nick?” Jackson asked worriedly, stepping quickly over to the table to light the old lantern.

“I don’t know,” Nick ground out, pulling off his gloves and going down on one knee next to the bed. “How about lighting that fire and seeing if that quilt there is dry.”

“Sure thing,” Jackson complied, shaking out the match he had used and bringing over the lit lantern. He hung it above Nick’s head on a nail that someone had pounded into the log interior, and he brought over a chair from the small table for Nick to use.

Then, he turned away from the raw pain he saw reflected on Nick Barkley’s face as he reached out and touched his brother’s hair.

Nick, allowing Jackson to take care of everything else, concentrated on Heath.

What had happened? Why was he here, . . . like this?

After a few minutes of checking for breathing he did find. . . and looking for blood he did not, his eyes widened as Heath, his clothes as soaked as Nick’s, began tossing his head and mumbling incoherently.

The words were not something he could understand, but it was clear that his brother was in pain and out of his head.

“Easy, Heath. Easy, Boy,” Nick soothed, relieved to feel no fever radiating out from Heath’s cold skin. “We’ll get you warm in a few minutes.”

Quickly, Nick stripped Heath of the sodden clothes and dried him a bit with the inside of the rough, wool saddle blanket. Then, after pausing only briefly, mute with a sudden pain that burned his throat with its instant intensity, he wrapped Heath in the soft, but tattered, blue and brown quilt somebody had thrown carelessly over the end of the bed.

By the light of the lantern and the flickering fire Jackson had gotten started, Nick had been dismayed to see how dark and angry the bruises left behind on his brother’s body had become in two days time.

But, he was absolutely enraged when, in checking him over and wrapping him in the dry quilt, he had found the faint traces of something much worse, criss-crossing his brother’s back----evidence of a purposeful, methodical, and brutal beating that must have occurred years ago.

He sat there unmoving, his hazel eyes staring at Heath’s bruised face, trying to imagine any circumstances, any reason, that could possibly explain what he had just seen.

Running his hands through his wet hair, he could only imagine what experiencing that kind of beating would have been like.

What kind of man could do that to another human being---to someone who would have had to have been less than twenty years old at the time?

Shaking with anger and about to launch himself from the chair to find something to hit with his clenched fists, he didn’t hear Jackson come back in.

“Nick,” the man said, placing his hand on his friend’s wet shoulder, startling him. “You’d better put this on. I had a dry shirt in my gear, but you don’t. This’ll have to do.”

Still dazed, Nick took the dry, brown shirt and looked down at it. Slowly, it dawned on him that it was his shirt. He unbuttoned the wet grey one he was wearing, removed it and his black leather vest, dried off with Heath’s saddle blanket, and pulled on the torn, but definitely dry, work shirt he’d forgotten about.

Then, he leaned over and rummaged through the saddlebags Jackson had dropped at his feet, relieved to recognize them. His eyebrow quirked in continued puzzlement, wondering how Heath, riding a borrowed horse, had come by his saddlebags.

Turning back to his unconscious younger brother, he touched the side of the bruised face and said, “You must’ve gone by the ranch first, grabbed up some supplies, and headed up here, huh, Boy?”

Nick shook his head, swiping his hand through his brother’s damp hair. “What was going on in that head of yours? You could’ve taken a late nap in Mother’s parlour if you didn’t want to go upstairs. You sure didn’t have to ride this far to find a place to take one up here!”

His concern and confusion growing, Nick watched Heath continue to toss his head back and forth, mumbling about trains and shadows, and he wondered where “here” was for Heath right now.

* * * * * * * *

The wind was blowing rain inside the dark tent, just enough to make it even wetter and damper inside. But, it wasn’t enough to worry about, not enough to make the hell he was in any different, one way or another.

He tried to close his eyes and his ears, tried to block out the sounds of the men around him, their cries and moans worse now than they’d been two days ago when the hundred or so remaining had been loaded, almost silently, into crowded train cars for the trip north.

Tossing his head, Heath mumbled something Nick didn’t understand, then said clearly, “Dark. . . train. . . ”

The whispered voices that surrounded him in the long, unbearable hours inside the cold tent where he lay spoke of their location just north of the Ohio River, a Union stronghold based around a critical ironworks. The constant noise outside the tent of metal on metal lent an air of reality, of certainty, to the whispered words.

But, nothing, nothing could change the fact that they were all still trapped, trapped like the animals they had become, in their own, living hell created by detainment for far too long in a place with no hope, no reprieve, from encroaching death.

And, most had already succumbed.

For them, the war was over, but, for the survivors, the men in this tent, their darkness, too, was complete. With no way to get out, no way to escape their own memories, their battles had just begun.

Fighting to get free of the sounds of dying men, the heat of his own body, the shivering chills that consumed him, Heath lay curled on his side gasping for breath. Some part of him knew better than to cry out, to add the sounds of his pain to the litany lifted from one cot after another all around him.

He’d seen it before, heard it before, and some part of him knew that the cure could be worse, could cause more harm, than what he had already endured. His silence was all the protection he had from that fate, a fate worse than death.

Nick leaned across his brother’s chest, trying to hold him close by the shoulders from his place in the chair beside the bed, trying in vain to warm him and stop the silent shivering.

Finally, in ineffectual exasperation, he stood up, lifted Heath’s quilt-wrapped form from the bed, and carried him closer to the now crackling fire. Turning, he backed up against the end of the bed, and lowered them both to the ground, their legs stretching out in front of them. His own back supported by the end of the bed, he held Heath up against his chest and hoped the heat from the fire would stop the tremors he felt shaking his brother’s strong frame.

Heath continued to mumble occasionally, with only a word here or there that Nick could catch. He heard him talking about how dark it was, and something about shadows, moving shadows. Again, he heard the word train.

Then, suddenly, Heath grew even more agitated, speaking louder, angrily.

“No. No reason, . . . no reason ta lie,” he cried out, moving his head against Nick’s shoulder from side to side, “More harm. . . . It’ll cause more harm!. . . No, NO!”

Heath opened his unseeing eyes widely and reached up with one weary hand, searching.

Someone was there with him, holding him, speaking to him, and he struggled to break out of the past that threatened to overwhelm him, struggled to respond.

“Easy, now. I’ve got you, Heath.”

Nick placed a tight grip around the hand that his brother had raised, his other arm wrapped securely around Heath’s chest. Heath was breathing harshly, his chest heaving, and Nick could no longer tell if the tremors he felt shaking him were from cold or terror.

They sat like that, silently, for long minutes, Heath’s breathing gradually slowing, as Nick gripped him tightly. Nick could tell his brother’s eyes were open, and he could feel the shaking beginning to ease.

Never good at waiting, Nick fought with himself to stay quiet, trying to understand what he had heard, trying to understand what was happening inside the man that he had only recently learned was his younger brother.

Heath’s mumbled words about the train, the dark, the shadows, and that part about not having any reason to lie. . . Nick ground his jaw, muscles jumping out in his neck in anger as the answer suddenly came to him.

“It’s the trial!” he thought, keeping his irritation and his words to himself. “Jarrod! You caused this!” Nick clamped down hard on his growing anger, trying to keep the words inside, to keep them quiet.

But, he was unsuccessful, and the words spilled out, though in an anguished whisper, “He’s suffering over this trial, over what you put him through, Jarrod. How could you do this to him, now, . . . now, when he was finally starting to settle in like he was home?”

As Heath’s head moved again, restlessly, Nick lifted his voice and said, trying to soothe them both, “Easy now. Easy, Boy. It’s alright, now.”

Heath slowly began to relax, and he closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath through his nose, before opening his eyes again and blinking rapidly. Then, he looked down at the hand gripping his so fiercely, at the hand of the man that was holding him up, supporting him. As they sat there in front of the fire, and even before he turned his head slightly to see who was behind him, his heart knew that he had done the right thing in making his way here, the right thing in trying to find the one person that he had known would help him.

Smiling faintly, he whispered, “Thanks, Nick.”

Nick reached up with the arm that had been wrapped around Heath’s chest, and he swiped his fingers through the damp hair. “It’s okay, Heath.”

Then, pulling the quilt up an inch more, he patted his brother’s partially covered chest and pressed the side of his face against the top of Heath’s head, “I’ve got your back, Boy. It’s okay, now.”

Heath closed his eyes, and breathing deeply, he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 15

Nick sat up and roughly ran his hands through his dark hair, then, gave loud voice to his stretching. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and suddenly remembered the events of the night before.

Shaking off the blanket he’d been wrapped in, he stiffly rolled over to all fours and then up, sitting on his heels.

“One thing’s for sure,” he thought, letting an audible groan escape, “I’d take a night out in the open lying on some sweet-smelling leaves, over a blanket on this hard-packed dirt floor, any time.”

Rising to his feet, he noted that Jackson was still asleep over in one corner, rolled up in the other blanket. Heath’s abandoned quilt was lying neatly folded over the rail at the foot of the bed, but his brother was nowhere to be seen.

The smell of hot coffee filled the enclosed space, and Nick smiled to see the tin pot sitting on the hearth by the brightly burning blaze. He picked up a worn-looking metal mug from the table and, using the corner of his blanket, lifted the pot to pour some of the brew, grateful that some local rancher had thought to stock the cabin at some point.

He would have to see about sending up some more supplies and returning the favor in the next week.

Carrying his steaming cup, Nick walked to the closed cabin door and opened it, not surprised to see only the barest hint of color to the grey sky to the east. He walked outside, into the dim, early morning light, and stood still a moment, breathing in the fresh, damp air.

Then, a smile slowly forming as he guessed where he should look for his brother, he headed off through the trees to the right.

As he approached the tiny, gurgling stream he had remembered was there, he could begin to make out the light blue of his brother’s shirt through the trees. Smiling broadly, he walked up behind Heath, who sat on the only large rock, coffee cup in hand. One arm was resting across the knee Heath had pulled up close to his chest, and he nodded to Nick, only turning his face partway around to silently acknowledge him.

Placing his hand on Heath’s shoulder, Nick eased down to sit on the other half of the rock, facing the other way.

Though Nick Barkley and silence weren’t usually thought of in the same breath, at least not to hear his mother tell it, he somehow felt comfortable sitting there, quietly, contemplating the early morning sounds of the stream, the light breeze in the branches overhead, and the twittering of the small animals and birds off in the brush.

Neither one said a word for a good while, but Nick felt Heath’s tension just the same.

Finally, his brother’s soft voice broke the silence.

“Nick, thanks for what ya’ did for me, . . . last night,” Heath said. His eyes, though Nick couldn’t see them, were focused upstream on a tiny waterfall cascading over a low outcropping of small, weather-rounded rocks.

Nick half turned and gripped the back of Heath’s neck in his hand. “Wait ‘til Mother finds out how far you went to avoid another dose of her liniment. . . . But, . . .” he chuckled lightly, “Besides her, against anyone else, I’ll always have your back, Boy. You know that, don’t you?”

When Heath nodded silently, Nick released him and turned back around to gaze out across the gradual slope leading away from the cabin, back to his beloved valley. He heard Heath sigh, and felt him relax against him, allowing his back to lean lightly against Nick’s.

After a few moments, in which he could barely contain the warmth that engulfed his heart at this small gesture of trust from his quiet brother, Nick said, smiling broadly, “She’s something else, our mother.” Then, he asked, searching for an opening, “You haven’t come across her wooden spoon yet, have you, Boy?”

“Wooden spoon?” Heath asked, a slow, crooked smile forming behind the steaming coffee cup he held to his mouth.

“Yeah. See, she’s got a whole supply of them, tucked away in hiding, somewhere. Always has had. Growing up, every time I thought I’d found them all and had hidden them from her so she wouldn’t have one to tan my backside with, she’d prove me dead wrong.”

Heath laughed lightly, relaxing a bit more. “Did she find your hidin’ places, or just have more spoons of her own tucked away?”

Nick shook his head, bringing his arms up and crossing them as he leaned back against the blond behind him, “I don’t know. I never figured it out. Every time she took one to me, I’d always go back and check my hiding places, and they’d all be there.” He finished his coffee and, shaking his head slightly at the memory, placed the cup beside him on the rock.

Smiling at the image of a young Nick rubbing his backside and rooting around in the back of a kitchen drawer, while keeping one eye out for an angry Victoria Barkley, Heath said, “Maybe she was on ta you, an’ she just put it back after she used one on you, . . . before you got a chance ta check.”

Nodding, Nick said, “Maybe so, maybe so.”

Then, taking a deep breath, afraid of ruining the tentative trust that they had established lately, but feeling that his very private brother had a right to know what Nick had seen last night, he said, “Heath, you know, all those times, all the scrapes I got into growing up, all the times Father had to take me to the woodshed to set me straight, to take me to task over something I’d done, no one, . . . no one, . . . ever left a mark on me.”

When the words were spoken, the silence was so complete, despite the sounds around them, Nick felt that his own breathing was too loud.

He waited, trying to be patient, trying to give this new brother the space and time he needed, trying to let him have his silence.

He tried to concentrate on the flowing water beside them, on watching a fallen leaf from the highest point in the stream that he could see, following it with his eyes, until it passed out of sight down the gentle slope.

When he thought he could wait no more, thought he had pushed Heath too far too fast, he felt the blond take a deep breath behind him and lean forward slightly, distancing himself.

Then, he heard the soft drawl of Heath’s voice.

Over the last two months, Nick had learned that voice always said so much with so few words.

This time was no different.

“Carterson. . . . . . seven months.”

Suddenly unable to breathe, Nick felt the blow to his gut, the fist of the words, their power and their images slamming into him, and he closed his eyes, struggling for air, struggling to not react by doubling over and gasping raggedly for the next breath. He lowered his crossed arms, pressing them into his gut, struggling to keep from leaping to his feet and bellowing his disbelief.

His little brother, the mostly quiet, sometimes angry, Heath-----a prisoner in that hell hole of a place?!

He clenched his jaw and both of his hands where they rested, curled against his sides, his arms still crossed over his belt. He knit his dark eyebrows together, and his face, had anyone been standing in front of him to know, reflected the agony and horror those three words conjured up for him.

The questions followed next, assaulting his brain with the rapidity of a hammer being used to replace the last few shingles on a hot barn roof, one right after another.

Carterson? How did he get there?

How was it that Heath, who couldn’t have been old enough to even enlist, had been in the war to start with?

Seven months? How had he survived when so many grown men had not?

What had he suffered that the faint lines on his back did not begin to tell?

. . . But, drawing in another deep, painful breath, Nick knew he dared not bombard his brother with his questions in the same relentless way that they now assailed his own brain.

Instead, he fought for air and for time, taking a few more deep breaths, trying to keep his normally boisterous voice from destroying the gift of trust Heath was offering him. But, realizing he couldn’t do anything about the anger that welled up inside him, couldn’t do anything to prevent his brother from knowing how deeply those words were affecting him, he decided in the blink of an eye, that it would be wrong of him to try.

Nick turned around sideways and lashed out at the coffee cup with one hand, sending it sailing off the rock and crashing into a tree. Then, he grabbed Heath from behind by both arms, and asked without being able to see his brother’s face, his voice shaking with outrage, “Seven months in. . . in Carterson Prison? How did you survive? You had to’ve been just a kid, Heath, . . . and you were alone!”

His voice dropped, then, but he shook Heath’s arms between his hands, and he asked, more quietly this time, “You went through Hell . . . with no brothers, no Father, none of us to take care of you, . . . to look out for you?”

When Heath did not answer, Nick let go for just an instant, just long enough to immediately wrap his arms all the way around his silent brother from behind, gripping the material of Heath’s blue shirt front in each fist, all but tearing off the buttons he couldn’t see.

He lifted his head and looked up into the trees around them, looked up into the pink-tinged grey of the sky and silently, his eyes brimming, asked for strength to deal with his anguish at what he now knew about his blond-headed brother.

Then, with a groan, Nick lay his dark head against the side of Heath’s, and he said in his ear, his vehement anger turning each of his words into a teeth-clenched growl, “I couldn’t be there for you then, . . . but, I promise you this, Little Brother, . . . you will never be that alone again, not as long as I have breath in my body to say otherwise . . .”

He took another deep breath and, swallowing hard, added, “There’ll be time enough for the rest of the words, . . . the rest of the telling of it, anytime you’re ready, Boy. . . . But, and you have my word on this, . . . you will never have to carry it, or anything else, alone again.”

Then, pain that he could not stop welled up from inside him, and Nick Barkley, the loud, courageous, bigger-than-life rancher that chiseled the land and shaped the future with his own hands, with his own force of will every day of his life, lowered his dark head against his brother’s blue-clad shoulder, and let the tears of anguished outrage fall, dripping down to wet the material covering the faint scars that criss-crossed his brother’s back.

Heath, though he did not turn, let his own cup fall to the ground, and he raised both his hands, covering each of Nick’s fists where they still gripped the front of his shirt, and he clamped down on them until his knuckles were white.

He, too, hauled in a shaky, ragged breath, and let quiet tears trickle down his face.

Together, they sat there in the quiet morning, sitting on the same rock, facing in the same direction, each silently absorbing the strength, the trust, and the commitment offered by the other.

Chapter 16

As they rode in through the ornate gates that marked the entrance closest to the front door of the huge white house, Nick glanced over at Heath, who was riding beside him on his right.

“The boy hasn’t uttered a sound in the last five miles,” Nick thought.

He still looked as relaxed in the saddle as he always did, as at home on a horse as any man Nick had ever seen, but, Nick knew he was hurting.

Heath’s right arm was pushed tightly against his ribs, and he had a line of pain etched sharply between his eyebrows. His jaw was clenched tightly, set against whatever he was feeling, and he had kept his eyes firmly planted on the middle distance, not exactly on the road directly in front of him, not exactly on the furthest point he could see, most of the trip.

Nick’s attempts at conversation had gone unanswered.

They had not been rebuffed-----they had just not been acknowledged in any way. And, that, now that Nick thought about it, had been the case ever since the three of them had packed up and left the small cabin in the foothills behind.

The silence had been more noticeable, however, since Jackson had turned off five miles back to head, with a wave of his hand, toward the Marvin’s spread.

Now, as he halted the blue roan he had come to despise and dismounted, Nick looked up at Heath again. The blond remained in the saddle, unmoving, his eyes open, but not really seeing. Nick crossed under the horse’s neck, tied the roan, and walked quietly over to stand by his brother.

Reaching up, he wrapped his gloved hand around Heath’s calf and, shaking him slightly, said, “Heath. Heath, Boy. . . . We’re home, Heath.”

Slowly, Heath blinked once, then again a few times. He glanced down at Nick, and nodded. Then, with Nick reaching up to steady him, he dismounted without a sound, his right arm still pressed against his side, and his lips pressed together in an unsmiling straight line.

With Nick there by his side, but not assisting him, except to tie his horse and open the front door, Heath entered the house and walked slowly up the grand staircase, his left hand sliding smoothly along the banister with each step he made. He only halted once, his eyes closed, pulling in a deep breath through his nose, before he continued.

Then, when he reached the top, he turned and met Nick’s eyes very briefly over his right shoulder, and said quietly, the strain in his voice unmistakable, “Thanks, Nick. . . . I’ll be fine from here.”

Heath was breathing a little harder than Nick would like, but he nodded to him and clamped his hand down on the back of Heath’s neck. “I’ll go make sure all the spoons are hidden.”

Heath smiled lopsidedly and nodded, then, moved off across the landing toward his room.

Then, Nick saw him stop again and look over his shoulder at him, and he heard him say quietly, “Nick, I’d like ta talk ta Joey about. . . the brown mare. . . . Will ya’ ask Ciego ta take care of her for me? . . . But, . . . don’t return her just yet.”

Smiling back up at him, Nick said, “You’ve got it, Heath.”

Thundering back down the staircase, Nick was all but whistling in his relief.

Heath would be all right with rest, and he had just done something Nick had never heard him do, at least, not since the first night when he had come in here, breaking a bottle of Pappy’s best scotch and demanding a part of it all. He had asked Nick to do something for him. He had expressed a preference about something.

“It’s not much,” Nick thought. “But, it’s a start!” Continuing on down the stairs, he wondered to himself if the key to this younger brother might just be through the horses he cared about so much.

Stalking into the kitchen by way of the dining room, Nick ignored Silas’ raised eyebrow as he started rummaging for something to eat.

“Mr. Nick! I’ll do that!” Silas finally said in alarm, as Nick, brandishing a large knife, was about to cut into the roast he had just pulled out of the cooling oven.

Backing off graciously, Nick lay the knife on the table and said, “Well, thank you, Silas! Sandwiches for me and Heath would be greatly appreciated. By the way, where is everyone?”

Silas, muttering something about that being the easiest anyone had ever talked Mr. Nick out of a weapon, picked up the knife and, moving his body in between Nick and the roast protectively, he answered, “Mrs. Barkley and Miss Audra went out to talk to the Colonel’s widow, and Mr. Jarrod, he’s in the study.”

As Nick turned toward the study, his eyes suddenly flashing, Silas turned, looked him in the eye, and lay one hand on his arm. “Mr. Nick, is Mr. Heath alright? Mrs. Barkley, she’s been powerful worried.”

“He’ll be fine, Silas. He’s upstairs in his room. He just needs to rest some.”

Nick, suddenly intent on finding his older brother, headed back through the doorway to the dining room. Then, he stopped, thought of the two horses out front, and recalled the assurance he had just given Heath.

Pounding one hand into the other, he turned back the way he had come and stalked out the side door of the kitchen toward the barn.

* * * * * * * *

Jarrod was sitting by the fireplace in the study, contemplating the flames and nursing a scotch. He had lost track of how long he had been there, but he glanced up when the door opened to admit Silas.

“Mr. Jarrod,” Silas said, standing in the doorway, his eyes troubled. “I just thought you’d want to know, . . . the boys, they’re home.”

Standing abruptly, Jarrod nodded, “Thank you, Silas. Where are they?”

“Mr. Nick went out, to the barn, I suppose. And, he said Mr. Heath is upstairs in his room.”

“Have you looked in on him?”

“No, Sir, Mr. Jarrod. I thought you might want to.

“Quite right, Silas. Thank you.”

Striding to the door, he placed his glass on the sideboard and followed the quiet, much shorter man from the room.

Quickly climbing the front stairs, Jarrod walked toward Heath’s door and reached out to quietly tap on it. Hearing no answer, he slowly opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he was worried to see Heath lying face down on his bed, fully dressed.

Walking over to the bed, he pulled up the leather chair from the window and, sitting down, reached out to carefully remove his brother’s boots. As he set them down on the floor by the bed, his eye caught a glimpse of something inside one of them. Looking more closely, he lifted one eyebrow at the wide, but slender knife handle protruding from the sheath sewn into the boot. Judging from the length of the sheath, the blade had to be a good four inches long.

No wonder the new boots his mother had bought Heath were still in the bottom of the armoire in the corner.

Then, shaking his head at thoughts of the constant struggle for survival that must have prompted Heath to carry a weapon in that manner, Jarrod stood up. He leaned down to touch Heath’s hair and face, and he was immediately relieved to feel that the blond only had a slightly higher temperature than he should. He picked up the blanket lying across the end of the bed and spread it out over his unresponsive youngest brother, then returned to the comfortable chair to watch him sleep.

In the quiet, Jarrod turned and looked out at the early autumn afternoon and the grounds below, noting with a smile that Heath had a better view of the barn and corrals than any of the rest of them.

“I guess that explains why he keeps this chair turned around facing the window all the time,” Jarrod thought, his smile growing. “Though I don’t understand why he always wants the window open, even in a rain storm.”

His eyes moving back over to the bed, Jarrod thought that as much as both of his brothers were alike in their desire to be outside working and in their irritating, stubbornness, they were very different in other ways.

“Heath even sleeps quietly,” Jarrod chuckled to himself.

Then, his eyes grew serious as he thought again about how angry he had been with Heath, . . . still was, if pushed to admit it to himself, for being too stubborn to say he had been wrong about Korby Kyles.

“And, what happened yesterday by the buggy,” he shook his head as the thoughts pushed their way into his head, “That was definitely more Nick-like than what I’ve come to see in Heath most days.”

Leaning his head back against the high wing of the burgundy chair, Jarrod closed his eyes, remembering the way Heath had responded to his words yesterday behind the buggy. He admitted to himself that his brother’s angry reaction troubled him almost as much as the blond’s refusal to change his stance in the courtroom earlier that same day.

Sighing, eyes closed, Jarrod tried to ignore the renewal of the headache building again behind his eyes. He needed to be downstairs concentrating on paperwork, not up here with his eyes closed. But, his head had been hurting off and on since Alan Kyles had . . .

Suddenly, the silence, and the chance to rest, were interrupted by Nick’s noisy spurs.

Before he could even force his eyes all the way open and sit up straight in the chair, Nick had grabbed him by the front of his white shirt, and was hauling him up to stand in front of him, around by the foot of Heath’s bed.

Angered beyond words at this attack, Jarrod instinctively brought both his arms up in a fast, furious maneuver that broke Nick’s grip on him.

Forgetting the sleeping blond lying across the bed, Jarrod stared angrily and spat out loudly, “Nick, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Jarrod!” Nick growled, reaching out and shaking his gloved fist in his brother’s furious face, “You were wrong yesterday, dead wrong, to treat a member of your family that way on the stand, and I. . . .”

“Nick. Back off!” Jarrod snarled dangerously, outraged at the physical display. Then, he shoved Nick backwards with both hands. “I’ll discuss it with you, but not like this.”

Nick took a step closer, his hazel eyes glaring into the dark blue eyes, again taking hold of Jarrod’s shirt and pulling his fist back.

Then, before either of them realized what had happened, Heath was there, separating them, pushing Nick back and stepping between them, his back to Jarrod. His eyes mirrored his weariness, but had a hard edge to them that dared Nick to move back in on him.

“Nick!”

Heath said the single syllable like a quiet command, one that left no room for argument. His left arm was wrapped tightly against his ribs, but his right hand was up in that same gesture he had used with Jake Kyles downstairs in the dining room days ago, ready to start pounding on Nick’s chest if further provoked.

Worry for the injured blond warring with his anger, . . . and winning, Nick brought his hands up, palms open, and he nodded to show Heath that he would comply.

Jarrod immediately brought his hand up and placed it on Heath’s shoulder from behind, and he said, much calmer now, “Thank you for intervening, Brother Heath. But, I can. . .“

Not letting him finish, Heath whirled on him, shrugging out of his grip and sharing the same icy glare with him as the one he had just used on Nick.

“Don’t. . . . Just don’t, Jarrod. . . ”

Jarrod’s eyes grew huge at seeing the seething fury behind his brother’s eyes, at the struggle obviously going on inside of him. He took a step back, and stood there watching Heath, who sucked in several deep breaths through his nose, eyes closing.

Totally bewildered, Jarrod watched as Nick stepped in and took Heath by the arms, as the blond seemed to curl in on himself slightly, leaning heavily on Nick, who led Heath, his blue eyes still closed, back to the bed and eased him down to sit on it.

“Okay?” Nick asked quietly.

Heath nodded, then reached out to the side, touching the bed and pulling slightly on the blanket Jarrod had placed over him a little while before. Quickly, Nick reached up and pulled back the green quilt and the clean, white sheets before helping Heath stretch out on his left side beneath them.

Nick glanced at Jarrod, who was still standing in the middle of the floor watching them. “Get some water, Jarrod,” Nick commanded, sitting down on the side of the bed.

Stepping around to the other side of the bed, Jarrod poured a half glass of water from the pale yellow pitcher on the highboy against the wall, and he handed it across the bed to Nick.

Carefully, Nick lifted Heath’s head, eyes still closed, and said quietly, “Here, Boy, drink a little of this.”

Two swallows later, Nick eased his brother’s head back down to the pillows. Gripping the back of Heath’s neck once, he leaned down and said in Heath’s ear. “Get some sleep, Heath.”

The blond didn’t open his eyes, but he nodded once, then, said in a weary voice, barely above a whisper, as he reached up to wrap his fingers around Nick’s wrist, “He’s . . . already hurtin’, . . . Nick.”

Nick glanced up at Jarrod’s worried face, his dark blue eyes watching them from the other side of the bed. Then, knowing exactly what Heath meant, he said, “Alright. You’ve saved him from my fists for today, Little Brother. But, that’s one promise I won’t make for tomorrow.”

Nick touched Heath’s hair again, and eased his way back up and off of the bed. Looking again at Jarrod, his hazel eyes still smoldering, he pointed soundlessly toward the bedroom door and the hallway beyond.

Chapter 17

When Victoria Barkley entered her home accompanied by her unusually quiet daughter, she had no trouble knowing that her middle son had indeed returned.

Though the loud words were indistinguishable, they pointed to his presence in the study, down the hallway and to the right of the front door.

Nick was terribly worked up about something.

She turned to Audra and said, “Sweetheart, why don’t you go freshen up for dinner. I’ll go see what has your brother so rankled that he can’t even . . . “

They both jumped at a sudden crash of glass, and, looking at each other, they lifted the hems of their skirts and dashed through the double doors, toward the study beyond.

Entering the doors first, Victoria placed one hand over her mouth at the sight of the two of them, and she held Audra back with the other. Dimly, she sensed Silas’ presence behind them.

Nick had followed Jarrod into the study as they had silently, both still seething, made their way downstairs after being in Heath’s room. Jarrod had poured them both drinks, but had left Nick’s lying on the sideboard, while he walked over and stood, leaning with one arm against the mantle, staring down into the fire.

After several moments of standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed, watching Jarrod, Nick had ignored the poured glass of whiskey and traversed the room to pilfer through his brother’s humidor for a cigar.

“Help yourself, Nick,” Jarrod had said dryly, turning only his eyes to his brother.

Nodding, still dangerously silent, Nick had bit off the end of the cigar, spat it out the open French doors to the bushes beyond, and turned back to eye Jarrod across the room.

Then, he had held out the cigar between two fingers of his right hand.

“You know, Jarrod,” Nick had said with irony, “You were the first to offer him one of these and your hand in acceptance. But, in that courtroom, when he needed you to believe in him the most, you turned against him, accepting the word of a sneaking, thieving weasel of a man, instead.”

Eyes flashing, Jarrod had gestured with his glass and had taken one step toward Nick, before he stopped.

“You have absolutely no right to criticize me, Nick, because, you’re exactly correct in your recollections. I was the first of the two of us to listen to Heath, to be willing to open up this family, this ranch, and certainly, this heart of mine to him! If it had been up to you, as I recall, he would have been out of this house, off this ranch, and out of this valley.”

With a growl, Nick had taken several steps forward, knocked the almost empty glass from Jarrod’s hand, and had shouted, “You may have opened up your heart to him, Jarrod, but, . . . . Dammit! You have not opened up your eyes! He’s hurting right now, and for most of it, you’re the cause!”

Now, as the ladies entered, Nick and Jarrod were standing in front of the blazing fireplace, face to angry face, and Nick had his finger in Jarrod’s chest, punctuating his words with it.

As she swept toward them, grey eyes flashing, she heard Nick snarl, “Jarrod, I made a promise to Heath for today that I wouldn’t hit you, but tomorrow, you and I are gonna settle this, one way or the other.”

“Why wait? Go ahead and throw that infamous Nick Barkley fist of yours. I believe I can. . . “

“Jarrod!” she cried, “Nicholas!”

Her middle son turned to her at once, almost relieved to have her intervene so he could keep his word without so much difficulty. Jarrod, however, kept his angry eyes glued to Nick’s face.

Victoria glided across the room and grabbed them each by one arm. She shook Jarrod until he slowly turned and looked down at her.

“What is the meaning of this? Words, even yelling, Nick,” she said, “Are one thing, but threats? Fists? . . . Stop it! Both of you.”

Jarrod took in a deep breath and nodded, the fire in his gaze slowly cooling. Nick, a small smile starting on his face, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and said, “I’m glad to see you, Mother.”

She reached up and touched the side of Nick’s face, but gazed back without a smile, nor a word for him. Then, as he stepped away to stand by the tall wooden mantle, his boots crunching on the broken crystal glass and one hand gripping the ledge beneath his father’s portrait above him, she turned back to face Jarrod. She could feel the tension in him still, and was amazed at how he had managed to let himself get to the point of almost goading his younger brother into exchanging blows.

After living with Nick for twenty-eight years, she thought Jarrod had learned those lessons the hard way, long ago. In fact, she knew that he had honed his knack for negotiation and reconciliation on this same younger brother throughout their formative years, probably becoming a much more formidable lawyer as a result.

Eyes on Jarrod, she asked without turning her head, “Nick, did I understand you to say that Heath made you promise him something? Am I correct in assuming that he is here somewhere, that he is alright?”

“Yes, Mother. At least, yes to all, except the last. That boy is worn slap out. He’s upstairs in his room. I’ve never seen him quite so exhausted.”

He turned angry hazel eyes back to Jarrod. “And, Pappy here hasn’t helped any with his callous treatment of him yesterday.”

“Nicholas!” She warned, grey eyes flashing furious fire as she turned, with one restraining hand on Jarrod’s arm, to look at him. “That will be quite enough!”

Turning to the two standing in the doorway, she said, “Silas, would you let us all know when dinner is ready?”

At his silent nod, she turned back to her dark-headed sons. “Nicholas, I want you to accompany me back upstairs. You need to get cleaned up before dinner. Jarrod, please remain here and rest. You look tired. Audra, please come with us so you can freshen up.”

Her eyes warned her blond-headed daughter not to start in on Jarrod when he was already obviously upset.

Audra had been vocal about her views about yesterday’s trial with him last night, and she was quite sure that Jarrod had had enough of having his sister’s hurt and anger heaped on him, especially knowing that the same issue had probably sparked Nick’s temper sometime in the last little while.

Taking Audra’s elbow and shepherding her toward the open doorway, she glanced back to see Nick and Jarrod facing one another, glaring again, though Nick’s arms were crossed over his chest and Jarrod’s were rigidly down at his sides, fists clenched.

Exasperated, she said, “Nicholas, we are going to all sleep on things tonight, just as Heath asked. No one is to take any further action on this until tomorrow.”

Not used to being disobeyed nor ignored, she waited a full second, watching in vain for any sign of compliance with her previous dictates, before she commanded, “Boys! I said!”

Slowly, both of them moved toward their respective tasks, like two boxers relegated between rounds to their separate corners of a temporary prizefight ring set up inside an old barn.

Nick glared at his brother, but walked around the chair and towards the door, while Jarrod sat down heavily, leaning forward, his forearms draped over his knees and eyes staring at the floor.

As she and Audra, arm in arm, climbed the stairs, she kept her eyes facing forward. But, her ears were tuned to Nick coming up behind them. She could hear him growling to himself as he climbed, his spurs jingling loudly in the now quiet house.

Finally, a few steps across the landing at the top, she squeezed Audra’s hand, released her to head on to her room, and turned back to face Nick, reaching one hand out to touch him on the arm of his torn brown shirt. She fingered the ripped fabric of the shirt she did not remember seeing him wear for weeks.

Wondering about it, she said, “Nick, Sweetheart, tell me how you are. And, tell me about Heath.”

Sighing deeply, he let a panged expression cross his handsome, though tired and dirty face, for just an instant. Then, taking her arm, he led her in the direction of Heath’s bedroom door.

“Mother,” he said, “We didn’t catch up to any of the Kyles’, but, we got soaked in a storm and spent the night in a cabin up in the hills.” As he opened the door quietly, he stopped speaking, though he was aware he had not completely answered her questions. Some of it, he had no intention of telling her, not ever.

Leading her toward the bed, he stood over her as she eased down to sit on the edge and watched Heath’s troubled sleep, reaching out to touch him on the side of his bruised face.

However, Heath quickly moved his head away from her touch and continued moving his left leg up and down restlessly on the bed. Having left him covered and lying on his side, it was apparent to Nick that he had been tossing around on the bed, though not as severely as he had struggled the previous night.

Again, Victoria reached out to touch Heath’s face. She was relieved to find that his skin was only a little warmer than normal, though slightly damp with sweat.

“Nick,” she said quietly, “Open that window a little more. It may help him rest to have a bit more fresh air in here.”

Then, when she was satisfied, she nodded her thanks and added, “I’ll stay with him, Sweetheart. Why don’t you go clean up for dinner, and I’ll join you downstairs in a little while.”

Looking at Heath, the image of last night’s intermittent battles on his mind, he kissed her on top of her silver head and said, “I will, Mother. But, I’ll be right back to check on you both. Call me if he gets to thrashing around too much.”

Something in his voice as he said the words, gave her an immediate sense of unease.

As he turned to leave, she reached up to take his hand and said, “Nick? Have you seen him like this before?”

Nick nodded, his eyes moving from her, back to Heath’s face. “Yes, Mother, worse. . . . Last night was rough for both of us.”

Her head lifting slightly, she looked into his concerned eyes.

She knew this son of hers so well. In his voice, she heard the concern that told her, without a doubt, of the love Nick Barkley felt for the blond young man tossing restlessly on the bed. What had begun with begrudging respect following a cattle drive, had grown deeper through two months of working together day after day, until it had been displayed recently as fiercely protective acceptance after a shooting incident involving Evan Miles, a neighbor’s son.

Now, it was absolutely apparent to her that he had taken this blond stranger into his heart and, somehow, despite all the doubts that Heath’s assertions had raised about the father Nick adored, despite all that it meant he must now share, he had created room in his heart for another brother, this brother.

She stated, almost in a whisper, “And, you believe his agitation has to do with Jarrod.”

Silently, he took in a deep breath and nodded, his eyes full of a combination of anger and concern. Then, he squeezed the hand still in his, and, releasing her, he walked toward the door.

Remaining in her place on the side of the bed, Victoria turned back to look worriedly at the restlessly sleeping son she felt she barely knew.

* * * * * * * *

The figure was in the shadows, but he was there, recognizable, despite the ravages of time and turmoil. He moved forward haltingly, searching for something, calling out for it, reaching out for it, whining for it, grasping at anyone who could be moved to find it for him. His attempts to shuffle forward were hindered by his total dependency on a rough wooden crutch, and a white bandage, wrapped around his thigh and marking the end of a limb that was no longer whole, stood out in the shadowy darkness. His hands reached out, grasping, begging.

Nick stood in the doorway for a second, still buttoning his pants, unsure of what he was hearing. Then, he took several long strides into his brother’s dark room. Grabbing the blond, who was tossing his head back and forth against the white of the pillows, he heard Heath mumbling something about shadows and darkness.

“Heath,” he whispered, trying to wake his brother from whatever dream had him in his grip.

Was he reliving the night he had found Colonel Ashby in the shadows of the alley? Or was he reliving the trial, with its discussion of shadows and degree of darkness, among all the rest that had occurred there?

“Heath!” Nick said, more loudly and forcefully than before, shaking him by the shoulders.

“No, no!” Heath mumbled, his hand coming up as if to push or shove something away.

The figure was coming closer, pitifully begging now, imploring Heath to help him, to save him from his pain, from his own weakness. The shadows prevented a clear view of the distraught figure’s face, but Heath knew who it was, knew what the man wanted. And, he knew he wouldn’t have any part of giving it to him.

“NO!” Heath yelled, then said clearly, though quietly, “It’ll do more harm, . . . . Stop!. . . Dark, too dark.”

Nick, worried about how rapid his brother’s breathing had become, shook him again. “Heath!”

Suddenly, the blue eyes opened wide, and Heath hauled in two deep breaths, then blinked and looked at Nick. He turned his head away, closing his eyes, and said, “No. . . not again. . . . Sorry, Nick.”

“Heath!” Nick said, “Heath, it’s alright, Little Brother.”

With a groan, Heath turned over on his side, away from Nick, and lay there with his eyes closed, his heart beating wildly, and his breathing ragged, but beginning to slow.

Nick squeezed his shoulder and said again, “It’s alright, Boy. I’m here, and I won’t leave you alone.”

“You’ve gotta . . . get some sleep, Nick. . . ,” Heath said. Then attempting to adopt a playful tone, he added, turning his head slightly, “It’s a workin’ ranch, . . . an’ we both need ta. . . get back ta workin’ it tomorrow.”

Nick shook his head, though Heath, with his back to him, couldn’t see. “No, Heath. You’ve got to rest tomorrow. Then, after that we’ll see.”

Heath turned his head just enough to look at his brother out of one eye. His voice was again serious as he said, “Nick, if I don’t work, . . . there’s no way I’ll be able ta sleep. . . at all tomorrow.”

Then, he closed his eyes again, and they both remained quiet for a good while. Nick moved to the burgundy leather chair by the window, pulled the green blanket over his sock feet, and propped his legs up on the sill.

He never saw the moon rise above the tops of the trees near the barn, but the soft breeze coming in through the window ruffled his dark hair as he dozed.

Chapter 18

Jarrod stood outside the open French doors to the study, watching his blond-headed brother outside by the white fence adjacent to the barn. Heath was cleaning a saddle, using small, circular motions, a buff-colored cloth, and saddle soap. Jarrod could get a whiff of the distinctive, but pleasant odor of the soap every once in a while, drifting his way on the light morning breeze.

Heath had been at it, with one saddle after another, for going on two hours.

Watching him, Jarrod reflected on how many evenings Heath had spent in the last two months, polishing some bit or bridle as the family sat gathered in this room together after dinner. While the rest of them usually played checkers, chess, or cards; read a book; or the ladies sewed, Heath was forever cleaning, polishing, or mending some piece of tack or firearm. Occasionally, Nick or Audra would talk him into playing a game of checkers, but usually, he declined. He seemed content to watch them, just being in the same room with all of them, but separate somehow.

Shaking his head, Jarrod realized he had thought of them all as beginning to come together as a family, but now, viewing things from the perspective of the last two weeks, he saw more differences between them than he had previously noticed.

Heath was still an enigma to him, with the quiet distance he maintained and his past that Jarrod still could not decipher. Was it just the fact that Heath had grown up so differently from he, Nick, and Audra? Was it the difference in education and experiences?

Shaking his head, Jarrod admonished himself. He was sure he was making too much of his differences with his new brother, the differences magnified to huge proportion during the recent trial.

How could Heath have remained so adamant about his story, in view of the irrefutable facts that Jarrod had presented in that courtroom?

How could he get Heath to see that he was wrong?

It was just a matter of time before the sheriff and his deputies found Korby Kyles. Then, the trial would resume and the verdict would be decided.

Wasn’t it important to their whole family to have things resolved, an understanding reached, before then?

Taking a deep breath, Jarrod made up his mind.

He stepped down from the verandah and crossed over toward the red barn, its white trim dazzling in the early morning sun. Heath glanced up from his work and nodded once. Jarrod noticed immediately that his brother was wearing his gun belt, and he instantly recalled the threats the Kyles men had made, in the jail, in the smithy, and in the courtroom two days ago.

“Jarrod,” Heath said, his voice and expression neutral. After the brief glance up, he had looked back down, focusing on his task.

Except for their trip back to town riding double and their brief exchange beside the buggy, they really had not had any conversation since their words in the courtroom on Monday. He didn’t count his brief encounter with his brother and his blazing, furious eyes as Heath had separated he and Nick yesterday.

Deciding on a light tone to start with, Jarrod asked, “Heath, is Nick punishing you for all the work you’ve missed lately?”

Heath smiled slightly, then answered, “No, it was my idea, sort of a compromise reached at breakfast between Mother an’ me.”

Jarrod nodded from his side of the fence, arms folded across the top rail. “She was very worried about you when you took off Monday afternoon.”

Heath paused in his motions, and looked over at Jarrod. His eyes held no challenge, nor did they offer any apology for what he had done. Then, after waiting for a split second, he looked back down and continued rubbing the saddle.

Jarrod held the light blue gaze for that brief moment. Then, when Heath looked back down, he chose his words carefully and said what he came outside to say.

“Heath, for the life of me, I can’t understand how you could continue to stick to your story on that witness stand. The facts obviously allow for plenty of room for there to be more than a shadow of a doubt about Korby’s role in Colonel Ashby’s murder.”

Warming up to his topic, he added, “You absolutely could not have seen him stab the Colonel, and there could not have been any shadows. It was just too dark for either to have been true.”

Heath narrowed his eyes, and, pausing with his work again, looked Jarrod dead in the eye. After a moment of silence, he said carefully, “Well, Counselor, like I stated on the stand, it comes down ta my word against your client’s word . . . an’ your facts. . . . An’, since I didn’t lie about what I said I saw, maybe, . . . if you’re really lookin’ for the truth, you’d better check both again.”

Even knowing his brother Nick as he did, Jarrod was unable to comprehend this level of obstinacy in the face of evidence offered to the contrary about an issue, in the face of facts that couldn’t be ignored.

This was beyond stubborn.

Taking a deep breath, Jarrod was reminded of how irritated he had gotten with Korby Kyles last week in the jail.

Suddenly, Jarrod glanced away from Heath’s steady gaze, remembering Korby’s words, spoken that day.

“You wouldn’t know the truth if you run over it in the street.”

Looking back at his brother, he saw that Heath had returned his attention to the saddle he was cleaning.

“Heath,” he said quietly. “When they find Korby, they’re going to reconvene that jury, finish up with the last witness, and I believe they’ll find him innocent of killing Colonel Ashby. You’ll have done yourself a lot more harm around here by having stuck to a story that everyone present in that courtroom knows now was flawed.”

For a second, Heath was again reminded of that phrase that had haunted him for two days, the phrase “more harm,” the phrase that was costing him sleep he could ill afford, and he gazed off into the distance.

Then, after a long, silent pause, he began speaking, just barely above a whisper.

Jarrod blinked at the soft, even tone that carried Heath’s reply and at the light blue eyes that his brother slowly turned to stare into his own. While the voice was far away, those eyes seemed to convey equal measures of blue steel strength and what appeared to be an unfathomable depth of pain and hurt.

“And, what would ya’ have me do, Jarrod? Change my words ta suit the facts you uncovered, even though I know what I saw? I may not’ve been born here, an’ I may’ve only worn the Barkley name a short while, but I didn’t come late ta the ideas of integrity an’ honesty. Neither is this the first time. . . “

“Heath,” Jarrod began, interrupting him, unable to stand what his brother’s eyes were doing to him. “I’m not saying you were lying, only that you were mistaken, that it was your imagination that created the set of circumstances in which you believed what you saw.”

Unable to hold the gaze any longer, Jarrod turned away and focused his own eyes on the rolling hills in the distance, the piercing midnight blue searching for resolution that was not in the making.

While his attention was diverted, Heath reached out and lifted up the finished saddle, wincing at the weight and the pull across his ribs. As he recovered and took two steps away toward the barn, he stopped walking and finished over his shoulder, his words picking up from where he had left off when Jarrod had interrupted him.

“Neither is this the first time someone tried ta talk me inta forsakin’ both’a those ideas, the things that make me who I am, Jarrod, . . . but it is the first time I’ve been asked ta do so by a brother.”

Then, he walked on toward the barn.

Just before Heath stepped through the doorway and disappeared inside to return the heavy saddle to the tack room, the morning sun caught and held, reflecting from the brightly polished silver trim of the saddle that enhanced both its worth and its weight.

Hearing the quiet words, Jarrod turned abruptly and looked after Heath, his own blood rising at the reluctant, but clear challenge he heard there.

He stood there long enough to see his brother exit the barn from another doorway a few minutes later. Heath was carrying a different saddle and bridle, and he walked over to the nearby corral, tacked up his little black mare, climbed slowly into the saddle, and rode off.

Too late, Jarrod realized the beautifully repaired saddle Heath had been so painstakingly polishing had been his-----the same saddle the Kyles boys had defaced by cutting off its silver conches that day over a week ago at their farm.

Like Korby in the jail cell last week, his two brothers, Emmet and Alan, had loudly argued their innocence that day as well. But, instead of listening to them, instead of believing them, Jarrod had reached out and located the conches hidden inside one of their hats. Vindicated that day in his belief that they were guilty, Jarrod suddenly experienced a slight doubt for the first time about the stand he had taken with regard to the trial, the one based on Korby’s loudly proclaimed innocence----that sounded so much like that of his brothers.

Though he still believed he was on the right side of truth, for a fleeting second as he watched Heath’s dust settle in the road, he wondered if he wasn’t on the dead wrong side of right.

Chapter 19

When Nick entered the front door, still swiping dust from his pants with the side of his hat, Victoria immediately spoke up, “Nick, please finish that outside!”

Grinning at her across the room, he apologized, “Uhh, sorry, Mother. I was just so eager to talk to that very loud, fast talking, younger brother of mine. . . “

He trailed off at the look exchanged between Audra and Victoria, and the way Jarrod kept his back turned toward him while standing at the fireplace, drink in hand.

Immediately, Nick felt the evidence of their concern trace coldly down his spine. He tossed his hat onto the round, lace-covered foyer table and crossed to stand before them, his hands on his hips and his hazel eyes bellowing his instant worry.

Quietly, he growled, “What’s happened? Where is he?”

Victoria spoke up as she stood to stand in front of him, reaching out to touch his arm, “Nick, I’m sure he’s fine. He rode out this morning, though, and, since we haven’t seen him all day, we assumed he had found you.”

Shaking his head, Nick said, “No, he didn’t find me, and he knew where I would be all day.”

Turning his eyes to Jarrod, he saw the look of guilt and regret on his older brother’s face immediately.

Proving that the dark haired lawyer wasn’t the only one in the family who could ask tough, straight-to-the-heart-of-the-matter questions, Nick demanded, “Jarrod, what do you know about this?”

Jarrod turned slowly around to face him and said, “I tried to talk to him about the trial this morning, about his refusal to back down and admit that he was wrong in the face of the facts. And, he. . . “

Nick’s bellow made them all jump, as it seemed to reverberate off of the ceiling high above them and bounce back to lift them, as one, from the floor.

“You what? It wasn’t enough for you, Jarrod, that you lit into him in front of half the town up there on that stand, so you had to go head to head with him here in the one place where he’s finally comfortable enough to start acting like he belongs?”

By now, Nick was standing in front of his brother, gesturing wildly with his hands. Once started, he could not stop, not even to placate his mother who was hovering nearby.

“Jarrod, I might not have known Heath for very long, and I don’t have the fancy degrees that you do, but even I can see what’s right in front of my face! It should be evident to anyone willing to look and listen that the one thing that boy has always relied on, has lived by with every ounce of pride he’s been able to muster, is the kind of man he is inside! And, he looks up to you, Jarrod, respects you! How could you continue to tell him he’s dead wrong when he knows what he saw, . . . when he believes he is right? His honor and integrity are everything to him!”

Jarrod spoke softly, watching Nick’s face, but seeing the remembered hurt in Heath’s eyes at the same time, “Nick, I know what he believes, but I want to know what you believe. Do you think he’s right?”

“No, Jarrod, I don’t think he is. I know he’s right. I’ve known it from the beginning, though I’ll admit, that for a few minutes, you even had me doubting him in that courtroom. But, Korby Kyles proved it himself, didn’t he, when he and his family were willing to make fugitives out of all of them by grabbing you and escaping? Why would they take that risk if Korby was innocent?”

He took a deep breath, and glanced over towards his mother standing there. Over her shoulder, he saw a very tired, dusty blond standing in the doorway, watching them. Then, keeping his eyes on Heath, Nick added, “I don’t know what accounts for the difference between your facts, Jarrod, and Heath’s, but I know that if Heath says he saw Korby stab Colonel Ashby, then that is exactly what happened.”

As one, everyone followed Nick’s eyes and saw Heath.

Then, his blue eyes slowly leaving Nick’s face, Heath winked and tossed them all a small, lopsided smile, before he crossed the foyer and slowly headed up the staircase toward his room.

Victoria whirled back around, just in time to see Jarrod’s wounded eyes return to the flames dancing inside the fireplace at his feet. Placing her hand on Jarrod’s arm, she squeezed it and said, “Why don’t you all head in to dinner. I’ll check on Heath to make sure he joins us when he can.”

Turning her eyes to Nick, she nodded to let him know he could relax now, that he had done his job of big brother well, and that she would now take up the reins of responsibility for a while where his younger brother was concerned-----at least until Jarrod could step back in to assist him.

* * * * * * * *

“Heath?” she called softly, as she tapped on the door lightly. “Sweetheart, please answer me.”

The door opened slowly, and she saw him standing there, shrugging quickly into a clean shirt, one hand on the doorknob. With her eyes scanning first him, then the room, she noted the dirty wrappings around his ribcage, visible between the unbuttoned edges of the blue shirt, as well as the basin of water and the soft white towel, folded neatly across the top of the desk chair. Heath’s face was much cleaner now, though his hair was damp.

Entering the room and closing the door behind her, she took his hand, stilling it from completing the task of buttoning his shirt.

“Heath, are you alright? We were worried about you.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything, so she hastily added before he could resume buttoning his shirt, “Heath, sit down over here, and wait for me. I’ll go get some clean bandages. These,” she said, placing her hand gently against his right side, “Are filthy and need changing.”

Again, he nodded, though reluctantly, and moved slowly over to pull the desk chair across the room, placing it in front of the more comfortable leather chair.

It immediately alarmed her that he had not even tried to lift it, but she remained silent and left the room.

When she returned a few moments later, he was sitting in the straight-backed chair, his head supported in his hands, still wearing his shirt. She touched the collar to help him remove it, but he immediately sat up and balked at accepting her help.

“No, Mother,” he said quietly, “We’ll have ta do it this way or wait ‘til Nick comes up.”

“Oh, Heath,” she smiled down at him, laughing lightly, “Don’t you think I’ve seen my other sons without their shirts before?”

With a sigh when he neither answered nor gave in, she sat down across from him, and carefully untied the knot in the ends of the dirty wrapping around his ribs. Then, she used both hands to unwrap from left to right, passing the cloth behind him, beneath the shirt still covering his back.

Then, despite his attempts to shield her from the worst of it with his hands, she gasped when she reached the last layer and saw the livid bruises and swelling where the wraps had been.

“Heath,” she breathed, “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad? You should’ve been up here in bed all day, not down there cleaning saddles or off riding who knows where!”

With her heart pounding, she gently probed the area, wincing for him at the terrible, dark purple, red, and black bruises that covered his lower chest and abdomen. It was a wonder he could even move without gasping in pain.

“You’re worn out, aren’t you?” she asked quietly, trying to regain her calm.

He kept his eyes on her face, though she could tell, as she often could, that he was not completely at ease around her, and he didn’t answer. It was as if he looked at her and was immediately contrite that his arrival here had caused her great unrest.

She could see the pain in his eyes, but also how intensely uncomfortable she was making him.

“Sweetheart, why don’t I go run the tub for you, so you can finish cleaning up? Then, I’ll come back and wrap your ribs for you again.”

He shook his head and answered quietly, “Please, Mother, just give me a minute ta clean up in here.”

Reluctantly, she nodded, sure that he was just about asleep on his feet, even as he stood. “I’ll be right back, then.” Standing and touching his arm, she added with a smile, “Heath, don’t you dare lie down until I get your ribs wrapped up again.”

As she walked toward the open door, stepped out into the hallway, and closed the door, leaning against the nearby wall deep in thought, she had a sudden flash of insight.

Was he somehow aware of how many nights she sat there in her room wishing things had been different, that she had done something differently years ago?

Lately, she found herself constantly re-hashing her own actions from the time when he must have been born, re-thinking her own words that might have prevented her husband from returning to Strawberry to make sure he and Leah Thomson had not created a child from their union. Her own guilt in the matter had caused her many sleepless nights recently as she had gotten to know this son of her husband’s, as she worried at the impact their actions, and especially her long ago words, had had on him.

A few minutes later, he eased open the door. She noticed the deep crease of pain between his eyebrows and the way he avoided her eyes. He was still wearing his unbuttoned shirt, though it was sticking to his chest damply this time. Together, they returned to the chairs.

As she wound the clean strips of cloth around him, reaching around behind his back, under his slightly wet shirt, to pass the roll from one hand to the other, she thought about one particular conversation she and Tom had had.

She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever returned to Strawberry, she would never forgive him for what he had admitted to her that he had done.

Then, pausing in the act of passing the roll of bandage behind him, she barely restrained herself from bringing a hand up to gasp. She suddenly realized that Heath might truly think that he had hurt her terribly by coming here, by making her question her love for her husband.

The two of them had openly discussed the history that joined them over a month and a half ago, on that early evening they had returned to Stockton from Strawberry together in the buggy, too late for the dedication of Tom Barkley’s statue. But, they had not spoken of it since then.

Feeling his warm blue gaze on her, she smiled up at him with a nod and resumed her efforts to finish rewrapping his injuries.

Now that she better understood the way Heath tended to analyze things, looking for his own possible blame in any situation before noticing that of anyone else, she realized that maybe she needed to bring it up again and make sure he did not blame himself for her pain.

For the pain she felt was not related to him, nor even to Tom. It was only for her own role in stopping her husband from further contact that could have so easily prevented the years of Heath’s life spent not knowing who his father was and many of the obstacles he must have faced as a result.

As she tied off the ends of the bandage, she spoke softly, hiding her internal struggle, “Heath, we will get through this. I know it seems to be especially tough right now, but we’ll be all right as a family.”

Looking at him, she continued, “At first, on Monday afternoon, Jarrod and I were both upset that you left to join the posse when we knew you weren’t well, but I know that none of this has been easy on you. Just do what you have to do, Sweetheart, short of something foolish that injures you, and we will all understand, . . . even Jarrod, eventually. . . “

Then, she added, “And, Heath, know that we. . . that all of us. . . love you and care about you, Son.”

Her smile, with the feelings of concern and caring showing in her glittering grey eyes, reached out to him, just as her hand on his arm touched him.

As he buttoned his shirt, he offered her a small, lop-sided smile in return.

What he had no way of knowing was how that simple look affected her, of how much it reminded her of looking into his father’s face on many occasions, years ago.

Together, they both stood. Then, she took a deep breath, reached up and patted his blue-clothed chest. Abruptly, she turned away, her back to him, trying to keep the tears from coming.

However, at the sob she could not choke back, he stepped up behind her in concern, and gently placed his strong hands on her arms, much as Nick had done for him the day before.

“Mother,” he asked, quietly, “Are you alright? What is it?”

“Forgive me, please, Heath,” she said, pulling herself together. “This has affected us all, Son, and . . . and you just, . . . you just reminded me so much of your father at that moment . . . .”

He held her close, rubbing her arms. Then, he turned her around in his arms, and allowed her to cry against him, to cling to him, her tears adding to the dampness of his shirt. Slowly, she released her hold on him and pushed against his chest to lean back and look at him.

“Heath, your father would have been so proud of you, of the man you have become, and so am I.”

Then, leaving him standing there looking after her, she swept out of the room and down the hall to her room.

Chapter 20

Unable to sit at the same table as his brother and eat, Nick entered the kitchen instead of the dining room. He grabbed up fixings for a thick roast beef sandwich and a glass of milk. Then, heading out to the bunkhouse, he planned to settle himself into a game of cards with some of the hands.

However, after eating his sandwich, he walked restlessly back out to the porch of the crews’ quarters and leaned against one of the white posts supporting the roof.

After a few moments, he was joined by Duke McCall, who was puffing on a hand-rolled cheroot. They stood companionably, looking out across the corrals, taking in the last red glow of the setting sun to the west.

Then, Nick spoke, “Duke, you knew my father as well as any man alive. What would he have thought of my younger brother, Heath?”

Glancing at him, Duke blew smoke into the evening air, and he thought for a few moments. Then, his deep voice soft, he said, “He’d have been mighty proud of him, Nick, you know that. That boy has more grit and growl about him than a grizzly bear, but he’s about as compassionate and gentle as your little sister when it comes right down to it. You already know how he is with the horses, and the men are coming around to appreciate the quiet way he has about him. The more you give him chances to lead them, the more it shows how easy it is for him to get their best out of them, sometimes without them even being aware of it.”

Taking a deep breath, he added, “I’d say Tom would’ve been so puffed up, he’d have been tough to live with, knowing he had two such strong sons working side by side to run this fine spread.”

His smile growing, Nick seemed to relax for the first time in what felt like days. He could well imagine his father’s pride if he could have seen the two of them working together.

Then, thinking of what Heath had told him, of when he had gotten the scars on his back, his smile faded again. Pushing off from the railing, Nick paced up and down the small, enclosed porch, his spurs keeping a rhythm going, trailing around behind him. Finally, hitting his fist of one hand into the palm of the other, he stalked off down the steps.

Before he had gone two strides, however, Duke’s voice stopped him.

“Nick, where’re you going, now? Here I thought I’d helped you some with whatever’s eating you, and you go stomping off.”

Glancing back, Nick growled, “You helped me enough that I feel the need to help my older brother reach the same understanding. Thanks, Duke!”

* * * * * * * *

Jarrod was restless.

He had eaten very little and had eagerly waited for Audra to finish her meal. Then, confident his silent sister would go upstairs to check on their mother, he had made a quick exit after she left the table without looking at or speaking to him.

Stepping out on the front verandah, he stood with his hands on his hips, breathing deeply as he watched one early star after another make its appearance over the low hills to the east.

Though he and Nick had had episodes of disagreement from time to time, usually about some business decision or whether to handle a given situation delicately or forcefully, it was most unusual for he and Audra to be at odds with each other. He shook his head, wondering how long she was going to treat him this way and trying to figure out what he could do about it in the meantime.

Suddenly, he felt a split second of renewed anger, directed at Heath, the newest member of the Barkley family, for his role in the whole thing.

Whether it was their physical resemblance, their similarity in ages, their mutual propensity for quiet compassion, or their common interest in doing something positive for the children at the orphanage, Jarrod was aware of how the two of them had been drawn to each other from the beginning. In fact, as Audra had told him recently, their almost instant rapport had started shortly after the first few moments of Heath’s arrival in the valley, when she had found him kneeling over their father’s grave----after she had first lost her temper with him.

Looking at it analytically, as he stood staring out at the clear night, his eyes widened as he realized that what he was feeling was a bit too close to jealousy. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the cool air. Letting it out again with a sigh, he berated himself silently for letting such a negative, unproductive emotion taint his feelings for his youngest brother and only sister.

His thoughts in a whirl, Jarrod’s strong sense of right and wrong asserted itself immediately, and he turned his anger inward, toward himself.

Heath had never had the benefit of having siblings, had never had a family to belong to, and here he was, begrudging the younger man the gaining of it now!

Shaking his head again, Jarrod wished he had not discovered this uncompassionate side of himself, not now, not ever.

Turning on his heel, his mind made up about letting go of this unreasonable anger toward Heath, he started walking toward the closest door. Despite the way he felt about his brother’s stubbornness on the stand, Jarrod realized he could offer Heath the same guidance and help that he had provided to his other two siblings in the past, and perhaps, in doing so, could have a hand in shaping Heath’s stubborn pride in a more productive direction from here on out.

He had often been able to help Nick and Audra in exactly this way in the years since their father had died.

And, in offering his assistance, he would also renew his offer to Heath of his hand in friendship and support, just as he had that day at Sample’s farm, as Heath continued to struggle to figure out his place in the family.

Perhaps, as a result, Heath would forgive him his feelings of jealousy, and he would, in turn, help Jarrod better understand the enigmas and contradictions he saw in his younger brother.

Nodding now, he was determined to find his new brother and have a much overdue conversation with him, a conversation that would be very different from the last three times they had spoken-----including this morning’s.

His hand on the door, he heard Nick’s spurs coming from the other direction along the verandah before he saw him.

Quickly, he prepared himself mentally for the idea of a battle to come, and he turned back to face his brother.

Not one for preliminaries, Nick walked right up on the low steps, approached Jarrod with a glint in his eye, and reared back with one fist. Jarrod ducked below the first punch, but Nick quickly followed with one to the jaw that sent Jarrod staggering backward, falling against the solid, white brick column behind him.

Quietly, menacingly, Nick snarled, “That’s for Heath, who respects you too much to defend himself against your words.”

Waiting, Nick watched, arms crossed, as Jarrod got to his feet, and came back at him, fists flying. Jarrod caught Nick in the gut, and almost knocked him off the porch, before Nick grabbed the corner of a column and righted himself.

Grinning enthusiastically, he came back at Jarrod with another punch to the face. But, this time, his able brother blocked and side-stepped in time.

Then, before either of them could throw another punch, Duke was there, grabbing hold of Nick from behind, while Silas stepped in front of a seething Jarrod and placed his calming hands on his charge’s arms.

“Nick!” Duke said loudly in the struggling rancher’s ear, “Tom wouldn’t have been proud of either of you fighting, and you’ll only hurt Heath if you keep it up.”

Nodding repetitively, Silas silently echoed the same sentiment to Jarrod, staring him down. With a sigh, he saw the oldest brother back up a step and reach for the pillar behind him to lean against.

Silas’ eyes grew wide with concern, wondering what damage Mr. Nick’s fists had done to Mr. Jarrod, only just recovered from being hit on the head by a gun butt by one of those Kyles boys.

Then, shaking his head, the quiet, older man left to retrieve two cool, wet cloths, hoping their effect would be to cool the tempers of Mrs. Barkley’s dark-haired sons.

He glanced toward the parlour as he entered the house, his dark brown eyes relieved to not see her standing there, watching him. He knew he would be unable to hide the problem from her.

However, a few minutes later when he returned carrying the cloths, he immediately stopped in concern as he glanced to his left and saw someone else sitting at the foot of the gold-carpeted staircase watching him.

“Mr. Heath,” Silas said, stopping abruptly, “You gave me a fright.”

“Not as much’a one as those two outside did, though, right, Silas?” Heath asked quietly.

“That’s a fact, Mr. Heath,” he responded, nodding his head. “That’s a fact. I don’t know when I’ve ever seen the two’a them tear into each other the way they’re’a doing these days! Neither Mrs. Barkley upstairs, nor Mr. Tom in his grave, would approve’a what’s happening between them boys, no matter if they’re grown men or not.”

Nodding at him without another word, Heath stood up awkwardly and turned, his hand on the banister, to go back upstairs as Silas quickly exited the front door, still shaking his head.

Chapter 21

Silas watched Nick grump and grouse around the kitchen very early the next morning, bumping into chairs and generally getting in the way. He tried to smooth the ill-tempered man’s irritation while putting some breakfast in front of him.

“Mr. Nick, if you’ll just sit right here at the table,” Silas entreated, trying to pass Nick, who was standing between the stove and the table, hands on his hips, staring out the window beyond. “I’ll have you a nice plate’a hot cakes fixed in just one minute.”

“Never mind, Silas,” Nick growled, “I’ll get something in a little while.”

Slamming his hand down on the corner of the table as he passed, Nick threw open the door and stalked outside, leaving a wide-eyed Silas in his wake. Nick had just spotted a lantern being lit inside the barn, and he had a feeling he knew exactly who it was out there.

All the way to the barn, he kept up a running dialogue in his head, sometimes with particular words escaping aloud as he stalked purposefully in that direction. He had not had a good night’s sleep since Saturday, and last night had been no exception.

As a result, his irritation seemed to know no bounds.

Halfway through the night, he had heard Heath calling out in his sleep again. He had grabbed his pillow and blanket and had bedded down on his brother’s floor for the remainder of the night.

If Jarrod didn’t back off of their younger brother, Nick didn’t think either of them would ever have a full night of sleep again.

Obstinate lawyer!

Couldn’t he see what he was doing to Heath?

Didn’t he know that Heath would just take it as long as he could, before he lashed out in return?

Didn’t he know the sleepless nights were probably a result of Jarrod’s words eating Heath up from the inside?

The boy was hurting enough from the blows he had endured, the blows he was too stubborn to let heal, without Jarrod’s lectures on top of it all.

And, what did Heath think he was doing out here anyway? Working himself into the ground now, before daybreak, so he could sleep for a few hours tonight?

When Nick entered the barn, he was as hot as one of Cookie Marsom’s infamous dutch ovens full of hot, spicy chili simmering over an open fire at branding time. He glanced around, looking for Heath in the barely lit dimness of early morning.

Then, his eyes flaring widely at the boy’s audacity, he heard Heath moving around up and over his head, high in the loft, tossing bags of feed into one corner.

“HEATH!” Nick yelled, startling several horses enough for them to lift their heads, snorting loudly, and moving away from the feed Heath must have already placed there for them.

He walked to the foot of the ladder and looked up. After a moment, he saw Heath appear above him.

“What do you think you’re doing with those bags? Boy, you get down here!”

Giving him a level, unblinking gaze, Heath slowly broke eye contact, turned around, and made his way down the ladder. Then, when he was standing in front of Nick, the older of the two almost stepped back a pace. The look in Heath’s eyes reminded him at once of that first night they had lit into each other, here in this same barn, over two months ago.

Nick held up both hands, trying to relieve the instant tension he felt in his younger brother.

“Heath, I just don’t want you doing yourself more harm up there, Boy! You need. . . “

He trailed off as he saw Heath close his eyes for a few seconds, blink rapidly, and slowly return to focus on him. He stepped closer and put his hand on Heath’s arm in concern, “What is it, Heath?” Shaking him, he repeated when he received no answer, “What’s wrong?”

Wrenching his arm out of Nick’s grasp, Heath turned away and moved over to stand at the end of one stall, his hand reaching out to steady himself. He had started out angry at Nick’s barked orders, but had gotten terribly dizzy coming down that ladder. Then, his anger dissipating rapidly, he had fought to keep Nick in focus standing in front of him at the bottom.

Then, that phrase again, Nick’s use of the words “more harm,” had made him feel that he had been punched in the gut yet another time.

Now, he stood there, his back to Nick, fighting for control.

Coming up behind him, Nick placed his hand on Heath’s shoulder and said calmly, “Heath, you need to go back to bed. Doc Merar should be back today, and you know he’s gonna insist that you take it easy and give yourself a chance to heal up.”

After a few seconds, Heath responded, “. . . Can’t Nick. . . . If I don’t work through it, . . . neither of us’ll get a bit’a sleep.”

Hand still on his shoulder, Nick stepped around the blond, whose head was down.

“Heath, you have to. . . “

But, uncharacteristically, Heath interrupted him abruptly, lifting his head and eyes to meet his brother’s, “No, Nick. This is what I have ta do.”

Then, pulling away, Heath headed out the door.

Nick followed him, almost reacting by reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him around by the arm as he had that first night when Heath had turned away from his demands. Holding himself back at the last instant, Nick walked behind him.

Somehow, he had the feeling that the words Heath had just spoken to him had nothing to do with moving feedbags across the loft.

Outside, he followed Heath to the fence, where the blond stood with his hands on the top rail, staring out at the sunrise just beginning to show over the highest hills to the east.

Nick fought a battle with himself, with the instant anger that had kindled at Heath’s defiance, anger at his hardheaded refusal to stop working and get the rest he needed---HELL!---the rest they both needed him to have!

He wanted to be patient, but. . .

Suddenly, he had an unbidden flash of understanding about Jarrod’s recent frustrations with Heath, about how Heath had refused to back down, even in the face of the facts Jarrod had proposed. Even believing in Heath as he did, that instant commiseration with Jarrod cascaded into a momentary doubt about whether Heath was really right about Korby Kyles or not. Maybe Heath was just being overly stubborn about it----and, Nick knew first hand how stubborn he could be.

But, no. In this case, where Kyles was concerned, Heath was right, and Jarrod was wrong. That was all there was to it.

Speaking with wry humor, Nick tried to ease the turmoil seizing his insides at this tangled up load of rusty barbed wire. They had better get it buried soon to keep from twisting up anybody else in its trap.

“Boy, you’re gonna be in even worse shape when Mother finds out what you’ve been doing this morning. She told me last night not to let you lift anything heavier than one of Silas’ sandwiches today.”

Heath smiled lop-sidedly, but kept his eyes on the distance, the pinks and greys mingling in the cloud-filled sky. He had let Nick’s words and actions inside the barn trigger irritation and defensiveness that he had thought he had gotten past where Nick was concerned, and he was determined not to allow it to happen again.

Then, glancing over at Nick, he knew it was time to approach the one subject he most needed to discuss with his brother. It was, in fact, the only reason he was out here this morning, wanting to talk to him, needing to talk to him, and trying to stay busy while he waited.

“Nick,” he said, starting slowly, “I don’t usually interfere in your business, . . . an’ I know I’m new at understandin’ how things work in a family. But, . . . I’m askin’ ya’ ta let your anger with Jarrod go.”

Immediately, Nick reacted, hitting his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“Dammit, Heath! I don’t need you telling me what to do where Jarrod’s concerned.”

Heath remained quiet for a moment or two, then turned his head to look at his angry brother, reaching out to put one hand on Nick’s arm.

Quietly, but seriously, he said, “I know I have no right ta ask ya’, Nick, but he has his own beliefs that he follows, an’ even if I don’t think he’s right in this, I don’t want him ta change because’a me.”

The response was intensely hot and furiously fiery. Nick swung around and shoved Heath’s hand away.

“No, Heath! Jarrod always puts his legal battles before anything else, and by gosh, Boy, sometimes he just needs to back off! This is one of those times. He’s crossed the line by choosing to defend someone else over taking the word of a family member, over your word, Heath!”

Nick was pacing now, his anger rising from just thinking about the way his older brother had involved them all in this mess with the Kyles family. The madder he got, the faster he walked, back and forth behind Heath, who was still standing at the fence. Every few strides, he slammed his fist into his palm, and when he turned, he hit his open hand against the white fence without flinching.

Heath watched him, his own worry and despair growing.

He was running out of time.

The last thing he wanted was to be the reason for this much animosity between the two brothers he so respected and admired. It seemed that the tension was getting worse, even though they had both had opportunities to let off steam. Shaking his head as he watched Nick, he knew he had very little chance of convincing this brother to let it go, but he had to try again anyway.

He knew, though Nick did not, that things were about to change one way or the other, and, though part of his hope was that the tension, that the whole matter, would be quickly resolved, he had to acknowledge that the repercussions to come might make things between his brothers worse.

He was out of time, and he had to press Nick, despite the voice inside that screamed at him to leave it alone, despite the almost certain knowledge that if he pushed Nick, his clearly irate brother would just dig the heels of his boots into the ground, spurs and all, and push back.

But, feeling he had no choice, he spoke aloud.

“Nick.” Then, he repeated again, “Nick! Slow down a minute, will ya’?”

When his brother just ignored him, continuing his angry pacing, Heath turned to face him and moved to stand resolutely in his brother’s path.

“Nick!”

He reached out to grab his brother’s arm as he passed by and said, “Please, Nick. I won’t be the cause’a the two’a you stayin’ at each other’s throats the way you’re doin’ now.”

The tension of the last few days, the lack of sleep, and his anger at Jarrod, combined together to create a Nick Barkley that was completely worked up and suddenly beyond reason. By the time Heath tried to stop him from going by, tried to turn him around to face him, to look at him, Nick had had enough.

He reached out with both hands and shoved Heath away, then followed closely with the force of his whole body, slamming the blond against a white fence post in one quick stride.

Growling into Heath’s ear from behind as he pinned him there angrily, he snarled, “You’re not listening to me, Boy! I told you to stay out of it! Jarrod and I are capable of solving our problems all by ourselves. We’ve always managed in the past!”

Immediately, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Nick’s eyes grew wide as he realized what he had just implied to Heath. He hauled in a deep breath and stepped back, pulling Heath with him, away from the fence.

“Heath,” Nick practically stumbled through the words, “Heath, I’m so sorry, Little Brother. . . I didn’t think, . . . I didn’t, . . . “ He shook the blond by both arms and added, “Heath, please forgive me! I shouldn’t have said that.”

Heath nodded, holding himself taunt and still. He said quietly, “’S okay, Nick. . . ‘My fault. . . ‘Shouldn’t’a kept on.”

Nick clamped him on the shoulder for an instant, his hurt hazel eyes meeting Heath’s sad, pale blue. Then, he turned and stormed away, heading out toward a distant spot on the other side of the corrals where he could be alone to think and pull himself back together.

As soon as Nick’s back was turned, Heath reached one shaky hand out to grip the top rail of the fence. Then, clinging to it, he doubled over as a wave of pain surged through him, fighting for breath. After a few moments, he turned and staggered his way through the gate, breathing hard, and toward the side of the house in the grey dark.

By the time he could reach out and touch the white wood of the large, imposing structure, his eyes were almost closed. He leaned over, one shoulder pressed up against a trellis of late, yellow roses, and, holding on to both thighs, he continued to struggle for breath.

Then, without warning, he began coughing and retching into the dirt at his feet.

With one hand, he held onto the trellis and remained there for what seemed like ages.

Then, when he knew he had to keep walking or fall to the ground, he staggered toward the side door of the kitchen. Opening it, he was relieved to find the room empty, though the warmth from the oven told him that Silas had been there and would surely be returning soon.

Slowly, he climbed the back stairs, entered his room, and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor, both arms wrapped around his waist.

After almost thirty minutes of sitting there, his eyes staring at nothing as he tried to contain the pain threatening to overwhelm him, he stirred again. Clinging to the side of the highboy dresser in the corner, he splashed some water on his face and rinsed out his mouth. He picked up an envelope he had left on top of the dresser when he went down earlier, and he reached under his brown leather vest to push it inside his shirt pocket.

Then, he opened his door and closed it behind him without looking back, making his way slowly down the stairs to the kitchen. He walked up behind Silas, who was removing some fresh biscuits from the oven.

“Silas, can you . . . spare a few’a those?”

“Why sure, Mr. Heath, and I have some of that jam you like so much to go on them with your breakfast.”

“No, Silas, I won’t be havin’ breakfast, . . . just something ta take with me, . . . if you don’t mind. . . .” He paused a minute, wanting to make sure of something. Then, he asked, “Was that Jarrod I heard ride out last night?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Heath. Somebody brought him a message last night, and he rode into Stockton to stay, said he had a full day planned.”

As Heath wasted no time in moving toward the door, his hat in hand, Silas looked at him worriedly. “Mrs. Barkley, she’s not going to be happy at you going riding. She wanted you to rest today.”

Heath glanced up at the stairs, and looked back at the older gentleman with sorrow in his eyes.

Handing Heath a wrapped packet of hot biscuits, Silas responded to the look, “Do you want me to tell her something for you, Mr. Heath?”

He took the offered bundle of biscuits and turned toward the door, as he said over his shoulder on his way out, “No, Silas. Thank you. . . .”

After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Thank you for everything.”

Then, before another word could be shared, Heath exited out of the door and was gone.

Saddling the rented brown mare, Heath was mounted up and out the front gate before anyone else saw him leave.

Chapter 22

The mercantile opened earlier than most other businesses in Stockton, its wares catering equally to early rising farmers and ranchers, as well as to genteel ladies who would stroll by later in the day, at a more suitable hour. As it was, Heath entered early and stocked up on a few supplies that he had not wanted to request of Silas before his departure from the ranch almost two hours ago. He had brought some gear with him, such as the bedroll and saddlebags that he had stashed in the tack room yesterday, but food items were harder to come by any other way.

With one eye on the front of Jarrod’s office, watching for his brother to arrive, he paid for his goods, stowed them in the saddlebags, and headed down the street, leading the brown horse.

At precisely 8:00, he entered the doors of the First Bank of Stockton as their first customer of the day. And, by 8:15, he was walking down the street, still leading the mare as he headed toward Jarrod’s office. All he knew was that Jarrod had spent the night in town, and Heath was unsure of where to look, except for his office, to find him. He knew his older brother was not customarily an early riser, but he was hoping that since Jarrod rode in last night to be in town for a reason, he would arrive at work early today.

However, when he climbed the few steps and entered slowly, after first catching his breath outside the closed door, he quickly realized Jarrod’s secretary was the only one there.

“Good morning . . . ,” the matronly woman responded, hesitating briefly as she looked up and saw Heath standing in the doorway. She had only seen him once before and, her curiosity at his arrival held in check by formal politeness, she eyed him somewhat warily as he approached her, unsure of what to call him.

“Mornin’,” he said, removing his hat. “It’s Mrs. Johnson, correct?”

She nodded, and he added, “Please, call me Heath.”

“Well, all right, . . . Heath . . . . What can I do for you?”

“I was lookin’ for Jarrod. Is he in yet?”

“No, he had an early appointment this morning to ride out to see a client. I believe he’s meeting with one of the local farmers.”

“Do you know who it was or in which direction?”

Hesitating, she added, “All I can tell you is that the farm was south of here and the appointment was at 8:00.”

Heath looked around the well-appointed space, trying to decide how best to proceed. He had wanted to say what needed saying face to face, but, waiting for Jarrod would make him late. Besides, it would give time for someone, possibly Nick, to come after him.

And, that was a chance he could not take.

Instead, he made a request of the crisply dressed woman, who was clutching her cameo brooch pinned at the high neck of the dark blue, overly frilly blouse, as she looked at him.

“Mrs. Johnson, may I sit in Jarrod’s office an’ write him a note? I’ll only be a moment.”

“Why, . . . yes, . . . I suppose that would be acceptable, but you know, I could give him any message you would like to dictate to me.”

“My thanks, Ma’am, but, I’d prefer ta write it out for him myself.”

Nodding, she stood and showed Heath inside Jarrod’s office, where she pointed out pen, ink, and stationery. Not comfortable sitting behind his brother’s desk, Heath carried the supplies to a small table and chair near a bookshelf.

He glanced over at the formidable Mrs. Johnson, standing, arms crossed, in the doorway watching him. Obviously, she was uncomfortable leaving him in his brother’s office alone, without her guardianship. Fleetingly, he wondered if she thought he was going to steal something, or if she was more worried he’d damage some of Jarrod’s property.

Unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, he poured himself a half glass of water from a crystal pitcher on a side table, and drank it down. Then, suddenly, he reached out to clutch the back of the chair as he began to cough. Eyes closed, he fought to stay on his feet as a wave of dizziness passed over him. When he could lift his head enough to ease down into the chair, he glanced at the dark-headed woman and back at the blank paper before him.

He had seen a look of fear cross her face as she stepped back two paces, and he wondered from what dread disease she thought he must be suffering.

Then, turning his attention to the note he needed to write, trying to concentrate in spite of her, he completed it quickly, added to it the letter from inside his vest, sealed the larger envelope with both inside, and, wrote Jarrod’s name on the outside of it.

Slowly, he stood and crossed the floor, handing it to her.

“Mrs. Johnson, . . . would you please give this ta Jarrod for me . . . when you see him? It’s very important.”

Her eyes studying him closely, though she nodded and held out her hand to take it from him, seemed to be judging him.

She was inwardly puzzled and outwardly focused, as she tried to decide what it was about him that kept her from summarily dismissing him as unworthy of belonging to the same family as the employer she adored.

There was something about him. . . .

Not waiting for more of a reply from her, Heath said, “Thank you, Ma’am,” stepping by her and replacing his hat as he headed for the outside door.

But, she stopped him suddenly, following him and placing one hand lightly on his arm. Her words held no malice, only concern, and that seemed to surprise even her, “Wait, Heath. You’re sick. I can tell. . . .There’s something going around. That’s why I’ve been out of work a few days myself . . . Have you seen the doctor? I think he’s back.”

Shaking his head, he said, offering her a faint, lop-sided grin, “No, Ma’am. I’ve not seen Doc Merar, . . . but I’m not sick. Thank you for your concern, . . . but there’s no need for it.”

As he opened the door and descended the steps, she watched from the doorway, amazed at the protectiveness that welled up inside her for this quiet, well-mannered young man she had been prepared to dislike, but found that she could not.

* * * * * * * *

Entering the livery was like stepping back in time to a comforting place, a place full of good memories. The sweet smell of freshly-cut hay, the soft sounds of murmurings and crunchings as the horses finished their feed, even the sight of dust motes dancing in the shafts of early morning sunlight entering the space from cracks in the walls high above, all merged into one relaxed, welcoming feeling.

Heath led the brown mare inside and paused, letting his eyes adjust as he leaned heavily against the wall of the closest stall. Hearing Joey’s quiet conversings with a horse down at the other end of the barn, he smiled slightly.

However, the lop-sided smile ended abruptly as a sharp pain sliced through him from right to left, causing him to fight for breath, clutching his ribs. He was just able to stand completely upright again as Joey exited the distant stall and turned in his direction.

“Morning, Heath! How’d you like her?”

Heath nodded, and after another moment, he answered, “’Liked her, Joey. . . ‘Wondered if ya’d sell her to me?”

Joey Randall’s face clouded as he took in the pale cowboy’s strained voice and obvious pain. But, he nodded, “Sure, Heath. She’s fast and solid, but not much to look at. . . . I’d be happy with forty dollars.”

Heath nodded, handing Joey the fifty-five he’d already counted out.

Pleased, Joey stammered, holding up his hand, “Thanks, Heath. I’ll . . . Let me. . . Be right back. You sit down there, and. . . and I’ll just write you out a bill of sale.”

Taking the money and turning back to his office, Joey was instantly relieved to see Doc Merar entering the double doors of the barn from the far end. Walking down toward him quickly and grabbing the doctor’s hand to shake it, Joey said, “Hello, Doc! I’m glad you’re back. Penny’ll sure be happy to see you,” nodding toward the dark bay in the next-to-the-last stall. Then, he added, “Don’t go away, now, alright? There’s something I need you to help me with. I’ll be right back.”

Standing still, looking after the normally shy, wordless livery owner, Howard Merar removed his hat and scratched his head.

Then, as his eyes adjusted to the darker confines of the barn, the doc looked around, trying to identify the source of the uncomfortably familiar noises he was suddenly hearing, understanding immediately what Joey had wanted of him.

Walking quickly toward the tortured sounds, Howard’s eyes grew large as he recognized the blond, clad in a blue shirt and tan jeans, leaning over against the far stall, his hand gripping the top of the half wall.

Running forward, he called, “Heath! Are you alright?”

His hand on the shoulder of the coughing, retching, doubled-over young man, the doctor was dismayed to see Heath wipe away a trace of blood from the side of his mouth as he stood, turned slightly, and blinked his eyes to focus on him.

Breathing hard, Heath nodded. “Yeah, Doc. I’ll be alright. . . . Glad ta see . . . you’re back.”

Turning away, Heath gathered the reins of the mare in his hand where he had dropped them, and began leading her toward the exit.

“Heath!” Howard said, hurrying to catch the blond by the arm. “Heath, I want you to go over to my office to wait for me. Let me tell Joey where I’m going. Then, I’ll be right over. I want to have a look at you before you head back out to the ranch.”

As he turned and walked back toward Joey’s office, from which the livery owner was just emerging at the other end of the barn, Howard Merar stopped and looked back. He saw Heath climbing slowly into the saddle outside the barn. Watching his movements carefully, he realized too late, that the blond riding away from the livery in the opposite direction had never responded to his instructions about meeting him at his office.

“Joey,” Howard said to the man standing silently beside him, “I have a very bad feeling that that boy isn’t well, and neither is he headed over to let me check him out as I requested.”

Shaking his head, Joey agreed, “There’s no doubt about it, Doc. He’s hurting, and he has been for several days.”

Looking at him sharply, the doctor raised his eyebrows.

Joey Randall added, “You’ve missed a lot of excitement around here in the last two weeks, Doc, and Heath’s been right in the middle of it. I know for a fact he’s been feeling poorly since Monday morning when he came in to leave their buggy and the pair of matched chestnuts during the trial that morning.”

Nodding absently, Howard Merar gazed back out into the busy Stockton street, and he wondered what it was going to take to get that stubborn boy seen about.

* * * * * * * *

The train depot was a much more active place now than it had been when he first rode by earlier this morning. Tying the brown mare to a hitching rail, he dismounted slowly and climbed the steps to the ticket office.

Heath was grateful for the preoccupied nature of the young, red-haired clerk he did not recognize, as he quietly purchased a ticket for himself and passage for his horse for the 9:45 train heading south toward Bakersfield and, then, as far east as Flagstaff. Then, heading back down the steps, he led his horse behind the building, away from the noise of the steam engine preparing to pull out.

Mounting up, his eyes closing momentarily with the effort, he paused to swallow a drink of water from his canteen, tied it back down, and turned the mare west.

By 9:45, he was headed out of Stockton on horseback.

Continued…