Remnants of Trust

Chapters 21-29

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 21

Walking down the hallway, his left hand wrapped around the ribs on his right side, Heath followed the sounds of tears being shed to a large, spacious room off of the foyer. The last few steps, however, were accomplished only by stopping first, placing his hands on his thighs, and hauling in a couple of deep breaths while he closed his eyes and willed away the pain squeezing his head.

When he could breathe past the pounding, he stood back up, used the wall to his right to help himself along, and made it to the open door. Then, he leaned against the doorframe, and he waited.

The young woman seated on the red settee in the center of the room glanced in his direction. Though she was crying openly, she flashed a winning smile at him through her tears. She quickly dabbed at her face with her lace handkerchief, and she patted the place next to her.

As she looked back up at him, however, she realized that his eyes were closed, and he was not looking at her. Concerned, she stood and ran lightly across the room, took him by the arm, and led him to the closest chair.

At her touch, he had opened his eyes, and when they reached the chair, he grasped its back and eased himself down into it with her help.

“Would you . . . close those?” he asked between gasps for air, as he squeezed his head between the fingers of his right hand and tried to make the pounding stop.

She moved quickly toward the large window at the other end of the room and pulled the dark green, gold-tasseled drapes over the white lace sheers. Then, she lit the oil lamp on her brother’s desk, keeping it turned down low.

When the room was darkened, she returned to Heath, pushing Jarrod’s leather desk chair on its squeaky wheels toward him.

“Boy Howdy, . . . that thing . . . needs some oil,” he said, without opening his eyes.

She giggled and gave it one last squeak as she sat down in it and took his left hand gently in hers.

They sat together for a few moments.

Audra watched him, and he continued his silent battle with the headache that seemed to plague his every waking moment, though worse at some times than others.

After a little while, she could tell that he was feeling some better. He had let his right hand drop and was just leaning back with his head resting against the top of the chair. Though his eyes were still closed, the line between his eyebrows was not as deep as it had been.

Quietly, she said, “Heath, I like hearing you use my name, but you usually only say it when you’re being very serious with me. You used to call me Sis or Little Sister.”

Without opening his eyes, he smiled lop-sidedly at her words. Then, he cracked open his eyes and said, “Kind’a figured it was something like that.”

Another few moments of companionable silence passed, before he asked, “What else did I do, that I don’t now?”

She thought about it for another moment, before she smiled and said, “You used to tap me on the nose, . . . but, when you lifted my chin with your hand-----in the parlour, a little while ago----that’s exactly what you’ve always done.”

He smiled again. Then, he asked, “What did we do together, the two of us?”

“We went riding together lots of times, worked with the yearlings, and when you had time, you would go with me to the orphanage to play games with the children and fix things around there.”

After another pause, he said hesitantly, “Fix things. . . I think I remember how ta do that, . . . but I don’t know about the games part. . . ‘Don’t think I remember any games.”

Audra laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Big Brother. If you need me to, I’ll teach you, just like I did before. But, I have a feeling it’ll come back to you when the children start tugging on you, begging you to play!”

He chuckled and said, “Maybe you’re right, Sis. Maybe you’re right.”

At his use of the simple nickname, the way it sounded so natural coming from him, her face lit up. She flew at him and hugged his neck. “Oh, Heath, I’ve missed you so much!”

Surprised, he reached up with one hand and hugged her back.

Then, like one of the children she had mentioned a few moments ago, she started tugging on his hand, pulling him from the chair. “Heath, do you feel like challenging me to a game of checkers? Surely, you remember how to play checkers!”

Chuckling again, he said, “Whoa, Audra. Let’s go slow, okay? . . . I think I’d better head upstairs before I. . . . before I have ta have old Nick ta carry me up.”

As he slowly stood up and glanced around the darkened room, his eyes fell on those of the Barkley patriarch. They were staring down at him from the portrait hanging in the place of honor above the room’s focal point, the mantle of the cold fireplace.

Heath’s eyes narrowed, and he froze.

Then, quickly, he reached out with his good hand and found the back of the chair he had just left. He held onto it for all he was worth as the floor of the room started to buck beneath him like an ornery old bronc.

Sensing his unsteadiness, Audra reached over to clasp her arm around his waist.

She smiled up at him, and she said, “Nick hates to lose at checkers, Heath. In a few days, when you’re feeling better, why don’t you challenge him. He always gives you a better game than I do, anyway.”

Without breaking his eyes away from the portrait, he whispered, gesturing toward it, “Audra. . . .That’s. . . that’s your father. . . . That’s Tom Barkley.”

She stopped talking at his words and clutched his arm tighter. Then, searching his eyes, she answered seriously, her chattering from moments before gone, “Yes, Heath. . . That’s my father, . . . and he’s your father, too.”

Heath stood there, leaning against her slightly, with the bulk of his weight on his right hand, supported by its death grip on the back of the chair.

He closed his eyes.

As if from right beside him, he could hear the crash of a bottle inside his head. He could see the angry eyes of the born-as-Barkley sons glaring at him as he had stood there, in this room on another occasion, staring up at that same picture.

It seemed to him that he heard their voices inside his head, echoes of words from two proud and protective men.

One told him angrily, “Keep your voice down!”

It was the same man that had tried to beat the truth out of him in the barn that night----when? Eight, nine months ago?

He could not rid his head of that voice, Nick’s voice, nor the one that had listened, who had forced Nick to listen, but, who had not believed either, as his words had made clear.

“You put together a very touching story------not convincing, but touching.”

Jarrod. It had been Jarrod’s voice.

Releasing the chair, he squeezed his eyes with his hand, trying to make the room stop spinning, to make his head stop pounding. Heath hauled in a ragged breath, and he took two steps away from the portrait, toward the door.

The blue eyes of the dark-headed brother whose presence he could feel, as if he stood beside him again, bored into him, and the voice inside his head continued, “However, considering who it might hurt, even though it is a lie, I’m willing to pay. What will you take, $300? $400?”

As he tried to take the third step, tried to place one foot in front of the other for the third time, and despite Audra’s best attempts to help him, he staggered to his knees. He knelt there, on the rug, both hands on his thighs, trying to keep from toppling over, trying to suck in air through his nose, his eyes still closed.

From somewhere, he heard her voice, “Heath. Heath?”

He shook his head slightly, felt her fingers touching his head, trying to help, trying to steady him, her other hand gripping his right arm fiercely, “Heath? Answer me!”

Her voice rose in fear, as she tried to pull him up, back to his feet. “Heath!”

Slowly, he reached up with his other hand, covering her hand with his. At his touch, she calmed down a bit, and she gave him a few quiet minutes to pull himself together.

In the silence, broken only by his own rough breathing, he heard the voice, Jarrod’s voice, say again, “Even though it is a lie, I’m willing to pay. What will you take, $300? $400?”

Into the quiet, he shook his head slightly, and whispered aloud, just as he had months ago, in this room, beneath that same portrait, “What I’m entitled to, . . . a name, . . . a heritage, . . . a part of it all, . . . what’s mine.”

Then he repeated, “. . . A name.”

As he reached up with one hand, trying to find the pain inside his head that threatened to push him all the way down, crashing to the floor, Audra clasped his searching hand in hers and held onto it. “Heath, Heath! It’s alright. You’re home with us. You are part of us. We love you, Heath, and you are entitled to part of it all. . . . Heath Barkley. It is your name.”

He cracked open his eyes and searched her face, the pounding inside making him feel like a thundering herd of horses was headed straight for them, and nothing, not even the walls of the house, were strong enough to keep them from trampling the two of them into the dirt.

Struggling to climb to his feet, he leaned on her and reached out almost blindly, stumbling backward as he felt for the chair behind him. Inside his head, the voices continued, echoes of the past, taking all his strength.

Together, they made it the two or three steps back to the chair, and she left him standing there, leaning on it, to pour a glass of water from the side table by the door and hurry back to him.

His hand shook as he tried to help her lift it to his lips.

He swallowed only one sip before pushing her hands and the glass gently away. He turned his head away from her, and his pale blue eyes saw again the eyes of his father looking down on them from above the fireplace.

Inside his head, he heard Nick’s voice as he had stuffed the wad of money in his shirt pocket that night, “Alright boy, now you listen to me, I want you out of this house, off this ranch, and out of this valley, and know this, if I ever lay eyes on you again, I’m gonna finish what I started here tonight.”

Heath closed his eyes and said, “Not . . . finished. . . yet, . . . Nick.”

Chapter 22

She watched helplessly as Heath stood restlessly beneath the mantle, the hand clasped above him on the polished wood, holding him up.

His hand, and the agitation that had been building inside him since he had noticed Tom Barkley’s portrait above the fireplace a little while ago, were the only things still keeping him on his feet. His face was like a storm cloud, with the fury of the thunder behind it and the flash of lightning in his eyes.

He had not said another word, but she knew he was somehow lost in the same anger that had radiated off of him in the first few months with them, whenever someone challenged his right to be there, to be part of their family, to be a Barkley son.

Not sure whether she should leave him to go find Nick and Jarrod or stay with him, she opted to wait him out, to try to talk to him calmly as he wore himself down.

“Heath,” she said softly, “Heath, all that is behind us. It was tough for a while, but you’re my brother, just like Nick, just like Jarrod. I love you, Heath. Please try to understand.”

He kept shaking his head in silence, and she found herself getting frustrated with him, with the whole situation, “Heath, it’s over. It’s finished.”

He rounded on her, staring at her with heat in his eyes for a few seconds, before he hauled in a deep breath and, eyes closed, let it back out again. More calmly than he felt, he said, “Audra, . . . Little Sis, I know what you’re tryin’ ta do. An’ I appreciate it. . . .It may have been over, but . . . .”

He broke off, fighting with himself to keep the flame of feelings the remembered words had sparked, like the flare of a match to dry tender, from consuming the trust he felt in his heart for her, for them all.

Slowly, he blinked and took in another couple of deep breaths.

As he stood there, weaving slightly and warring with himself, she got up and crossed the floor, easing her hand into his and squeezing his fingers gently. She reached up and placed her other hand on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart through the cotton fabric of his shirt, and she said, “Heath. I can’t imagine how it feels to only have pieces of your memories. You don’t know which ones to lean on and which ones to throw out. But, I want you to know that I love you, that I’m here for you, if you need to talk to me.”

She tugged him down toward her as she stretched up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. She looked into his eyes, so like the eyes of the father she remembered, and stated quietly, “Mother knew, from the first minute she saw you, that you were who you said you were. Nothing else that anyone could say ever made a difference after that. You are Heath Barkley, Tom Barkley’s son, and I’m proud to have you as my big brother.”

Slowly, he reached up with his left hand and touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. At her instant smile, he gave her a lop-sided grin, though it did not yet reach his eyes.

Then, feeling some of the tension drain away, only to be replaced with a tiredness so complete he could hardly hold his head up, he drawled quietly, “Thanks, Sis. . . . ‘Think you can help me . . . up those stairs?”

“Sure, Big Brother,” she smiled at him.

Together, they turned to head out of the room and begin what he was sure would be a difficult trek up that curved staircase toward the second floor.

This time, he did not look back at the portrait hanging on the wall behind him.

Instead, he made himself listen to her resumed chattering about checkers, trying to concentrate on her words instead of on the pounding that had begun again behind his eyes.

They had just reached the double doorway into the foyer, when Heath stopped dead in his tracks. Beyond them, from across the room, he had caught a scrap of a conversation, and in it, a name that stopped him cold.

Suddenly, oblivious to everything else, he focused on the two men across the room and on the name he had heard them say.

“Matt Bentell can’t possibly need that much money to finish the flume, Nick. It just doesn’t make sense,” Jarrod said.

“When we get a chance, both of us had better head up to that camp, Jarrod. We need to figure out what’s going on with Bentell. He’s got some explaining to do before we decide what to do next. I, for one, am looking forward to facing him down about a lot of things he’s done.”

Audra still had hold of Heath’s arm, and it was very evident to her that he was not all right. His eyes were narrowed, and he was staring at the two men, breathing hard, as they discussed the third with a business-like calm.

Without looking at her, Heath carefully extracted his arm from hers. Then, he walked across the foyer floor, taking long, purposeful strides. Only the lack of movement from his left arm, held tightly across his body, gave away the pain that he was in.

He walked around to stand by the marble table, just to Jarrod’s left, and he stared at them both, waiting for them to continue their discussion.

Not hearing the silent approach of his sock-footed brother, Nick turned back from staring down into the empty fireplace, just as Jarrod glanced up from staring into his drink. They both saw Heath standing there, waiting, watching, his eyes like cold, blue chips of solid ice. Both hands were clenched into fists, though his left arm was held tightly across his ribs.

Audra trailed him slowly into the room, and she stopped, terrified, just behind Jarrod’s chair. She watched the three of them, saw the shock on Nick’s and Jarrod’s faces, saw that they had apparently forgotten Heath was even downstairs when they had started this conversation.

The fear and agony in her blue eyes evident for them both to see, she silently shook her head, as the hurt she felt for her blond brother seemed to rise up to strangle her.

No one said a word.

Nick placed his drink on top of the low table that separated the three men. Then, he walked forward, toward his younger brother, trying to close the distance that had grown between them with his words. Similarly, Jarrod set down his drink and rose from his chair.

He stood just to Heath’s right, and he could feel the tension radiating off of the blond like lingering heat from a rock left close to a now cold fire.

Heath’s eyes waited, not glaring, but not welcoming either. He wanted an explanation, and he was willing to neither leave nor move, until he had gotten it.

However, at Audra’s gasp of worry, he broke eye contact with Nick and turned his attention to her, where she was still standing behind Jarrod’s chair.

“Please, Little Sis, . . . for me, . . . go upstairs.” His eyes, lighter in color than hers, asked her with a look so intensely for her alone, that she nodded back at him, swallowing hard.

Then, she glared at Nick, but spoke to Jarrod as well, as he slowly took his eyes off of Heath and turned to look at her. She said, “You have another chance, both of you! Don’t hurt him anymore!”

Jarrod reached out to touch her face, but she shoved his hand away and ran from the room. Heath waited until he saw her reach the top of the stairs and heard her footsteps carry her quickly out of sight.

Then, he rounded on Nick again, stepping forward, his eyes flashing, his words coming out in a soft, dangerous snarl.

“Tell me . . . about . . . Bentell.”

Part of the anger that was welling up from deep inside, he understood. Some of it was leftover from the memories he had struggled with in the other room, just a little while ago, without their knowledge.

And, part of it was all Carterson. . . .

His memories of that place were strong---he had no doubt of what had happened to him there, had happened to the hundreds of men with whom he had served, with whom he had nearly died.

But, the sharp edge of his anger, the burning, flaming tip of it, that seemed so directly aimed at his brothers, even took him by surprise as it flared up, scorching all three of them in its quiet, barely contained fury.

Suddenly, a more recent memory, just as strong, just as vile as his memory of Carterson, slammed into him, and he immediately knew the origin point of the blaze that threatened to consume him.

In the instant it takes for a match to flare up and catch fire, the memories flashed through him.

He closed his eyes, trying to hear the words inside his head, at the same time trying to shut them out. He could hear that voice, Bentell’s voice, here in this same room with his brothers standing there across from him.

He could see Jarrod gesturing, drawing him forward, and he could hear Jarrod’s voice saying, “Heath, come here a minute. There’s someone I want you to meet. . . Matt Toddman, my brother Heath.”

He could visualize the man’s face as he turned to greet him, the hand extended as if to shake his in its friendly grasp.

He saw his own hand, ready to reach forward in greeting, suddenly clenched into an avenging fist of anger, rising up in a furious right cross to hit the unsuspecting man squarely in the jaw.

He heard his own loud voice after his brothers had pulled him off of the man he had attacked, “That’s Matt Bentell! . . . Wirz of Andersonville an’ Matt Bentell of Carterson Prison were two of a kind. What that animal did ta us prisoners. . .I swore if I ever found him again, I‘d kill him!”

He blinked, and, though he was sure it had taken place in the room he had just left, he could clearly hear another voice. Whose? Jarrod’s? He could hear the voice telling him that he would have to accompany Bentell to the logging camp, and he heard his own outraged reply, echoing in his ears.

“The devil I will!”

Then, though he shook his head, trying to keep it away, trying to close his mind against it, he heard Mrs. Barkley’s voice, as she grabbed him by the arms and forced him to look at her. Her remembered words seared through him now, just as they had months ago, the first time they were spoken.

“You go with him, you eat with him, you work with him, you live with him, and you pray to God to rid yourself of the hate that’s inside you, because if you don’t, it will eventually destroy you.”

As he had tried to walk away from her, to walk away from them all without inflicting any more damage upon them from his anger, without taking any more shrapnel from the weapons of their words that wounded him, she had grabbed him by the arms, gripping him tightly.

She had demanded, “Heath, do you want to hate so? Do you want the memory of Carterson Prison to gnaw at you forever? What we’re asking you to do isn’t supposed to be easy. Show us what you inherited from your father. Show us some of Tom Barkley’s guts!”

He remembered how he had pulled away from her then, leaving her standing there, leaving all of them there in that room, standing there beneath the portrait of his father staring down at them.

At the memories that rapidly slammed into him, one after another, Heath staggered back a step, almost doubling over, as if he had been struck full force by numerous blows to the gut during a barroom brawl gone bad.

Quickly, both Jarrod and Nick rushed toward him, ready to grab him if he needed them.

But, just as quickly, Heath glanced toward them, and crouched defensively, both hands outstretched as if he were holding a knife or a broken bottle, a weapon only he could see.

He snarled, “Stay back, both of you.”

Heath’s eyes were deadly serious, and his tone left no room for anything less than their complete compliance.

“Heath,” Nick started, but a quick look from Jarrod silenced him.

But, then, their concern intensifying, they saw Heath raise one outstretched hand up toward his head and grip it between vise-like fingers.

He whispered, “Don’t touch me, either of you.”

Then, with great effort, Heath stood up straight, lowering his hand, and they could see his barely open eyes, the deep crease between his eyebrows, and the pallor of his face.

He spoke, then, the words coming as if from an age-old weariness, from a loss that ached deep inside, a festering wound laid open for them to see, and they both flinched at glimpsing that much raw hurt and disbelief in their brother’s words.

“I trusted you. . . . All of you. . . . How could. . . ?”

Heath stopped.

He shook his head.

Then, he seemed to gather himself again, and the tenor of the words, and the hurt behind them, changed.

Heath narrowed his eyes, glaring into Nick’s, his voice proud, confident, and demanding once more.

In the low, dangerous tone he had used before, he snarled again, “Tell me about Bentell. Tell me now, Nick.”

Chapter 23

The pain in Nick’s eyes, as he realized Heath had heard them talking about Matt Bentell, was visible only to Jarrod. Across from them, Heath struggled to stay on his feet, his eyes barely open as he fought with what appeared to Jarrod to be a crippling headache.

Nick watched Heath’s eyes, and he heard the hurt in his voice change to the dangerously low demand. The words reverberated in his ears.

“Tell me about Bentell. Tell me now, Nick.”

“Heath,” he started forward, “Please let us help you.” He extended his hand as he approached, but his brother’s continued growl stopped him in his tracks.

“Stay away from me. . . . Just tell me . . . about Matt Bentell.”

Nick stopped, and he looked at Jarrod helplessly, not knowing where to begin.

How could he explain what they had put Heath through months ago? How could he say the words and expect his brother to understand when he didn’t understand himself? Forgive, when he couldn’t forgive himself?

Through clenched teeth, Heath demanded again, “Tell me, Nick.”

“Heath,” Nick began, but he stopped.

Then, feeling sick, he gazed into the hard blue eyes, staring right through him, looking into his very soul. He remembered the brother that had stood by him, even in his absence for two months, taking on all of the family’s fears, concerns, and pleas as he had covered for him, keeping his secret about the wolf bite and the regrets that he had suffered.

He remembered the loyalty given, time and time again, without question, without flinching.

And, instantly, he remembered the conversation on the stage with Ogden in which the old man had challenged them to decide how they were going to handle the family’s dealings with Bentell, in view of Heath’s memory loss.

Ogden asked quietly, “And, if he doesn’t remember what happened? What you made him do?”

Jarrod looked at the old man sharply, as if the possibilities were just now dawning on him. He said, “Do you mean, if he doesn’t remember, will we tell him what we did to him? Or will we take advantage of his memory loss and just let him go on without knowing, just let him forget that way?”

They hadn’t answered Ogden on the stage, but, without a doubt in his mind, now that the moment had come, Nick knew neither he nor Jarrod would ever try to keep their betrayal a secret from Heath.

He took a deep breath, looking his blond brother directly in the eyes, and he told it as straight, and as quickly, as he could.

He spared himself nothing in the telling of it.

“Heath, Matt Toddman was our logging foreman. He came here to talk to us about building a log flume, and you recognized him as Matt Bentell, commander of the prison where you spent the last seven months of the war. We knew how angry you were, but we sent you to work with him anyway, during the early phases of the flume construction. . . .”

“We?” Heath demanded, his eyes shut tightly against the fresh hurt piled on old that was slowly pushing him under.

“Mother, Jarrod, and I. We thought you could protect him and, if you could just work with him, see what he was like as a person, instead of the prison commander you remembered, that. . . . ” Nick shook his head and said, “Hell, it was a bad idea. The worst idea. We had no understanding of what we were asking you to do----no, that’s not right, . . . we didn’t realize what it would cost you to carry out what we were telling you that you had to do.”

Heath cut him off, the confusion of trying to merge his own sketchy memories with this explanation overwhelming him, “Stop,” he said, shaking his head. “Just stop, Nick . . . You all knew how I felt?. . . And, you sent me with him anyway?”

His anguish mirrored in the midnight blue of his eyes, Jarrod tried to explain for them both, “Heath, in the last month or more, we’ve finally realized the price we exacted from you. We know we can never make it up to you, but please believe us, we’ve all tried to let you know how sorry we are for what we made you do.”

Staring at them both, Heath tried to take in their words and make sense of them, tried to shove all the pieces of sharp, jagged memories and bits of broken echoes all back inside and hold them there.

His head was pounding.

He felt the blackness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The encroaching blackness would soon steal his ability to remain on his feet, to continue facing them.

Shaking his head to clear it, he demanded, “All that . . . must’ve been. . . months ago. . . Tell me . . . what you were . . . talkin’ about tonight!”

Though he struggled to breathe and spit out the words at the same time, he managed to continue, to ask the one question that was burning into him, branding him with its anger, “Even with . . . what ya’ say you realized, . . . with how sorry ya’ say . . . you felt, . . . Matt Bentell still works . . . for this family?”

Nick and Jarrod exchanged looks, and Jarrod tried again to explain, “Yes, Heath. He’s been demanding money. . . .”

Heath made a strange, strangled sound----half moan, half choke, and he turned, charging out through the open doorway behind him. He used his good arm to vault over the railing, and he landed just outside, on the landscaped lawn beyond the veranda.

By the time they could get to him, he was on his knees in the grass, the retching sounds cutting into them as they rushed to his side.

Nick tried to hold him up, but Heath shrugged out of his grasp. Then, he struggled to his feet and staggered a few feet away from them, before falling again and continuing to heave.

This time, they left him alone, but stood as close as he would let them.

Jarrod briefly held Nick’s shoulder in a fierce grip, and then, with a worried look back, ran to get some cloths and cold water from the house.

Nick stood bent in half, his hands on his knees and tears in his eyes, listening to his brother’s suffering, unable to help.

“Heath,” he pleaded, “Heath, let me help you. Please, Little Brother.”

But, Heath staggered up again, first to one foot, then to two, and made his way off into the dark. He stopped when he could go no further, leaning against a tree and continuing to choke and cough, dry heaving until he could do nothing, but slip slowly to the ground and lie there, on his side, coughing and gasping for air.

Nick didn’t move. He hung his head and listened to the sounds coming from out of the dark, his eyes closed tightly, his heart bursting in his chest.

Jarrod approached slowly, the sight of his dark-haired brother’s anguish almost more than he could bear. Then, as soon as the sound of his own footsteps died away, he could hear Heath’s struggle as well, though he could no longer see him in the dark.

He lay one hand on Nick’s shoulder again and squeezed.

Together, they waited until they could no longer hear Heath. Then, they cautiously approached the place from which they had heard him last.

He was lying on his side in the grass, his knees pulled up toward his chest, and he didn’t move at their approach.

Nick dropped down beside him, and lifted the blond head carefully, talking softly, “Heath, it’s okay, now. It’s okay, Little Brother. We know we’ve hurt you, but you’ve gotta believe that we want to make it right.”

Jarrod worked quickly to remove the soiled, sweaty shirt. Then, he wiped Heath’s hot face with a cool, wet cloth, and squeezed drops of water into his sweat-soaked hair.

Nick continuously ran his hand through Heath’s hair and kept talking to him, “Please believe us, Heath. We’re going to get rid of Bentell as soon as we can. We offered you the decision, but you wanted it to be decided as a family. So, we planned to go up there together, first. But, there just hasn’t been much of a chance before now. . . . We’ll handle it however you say, Heath. Please, Little Brother. Please believe that we didn’t want to hurt you.”

Heath stirred and cracked his eyes open, as he turned his head and tried unsuccessfully to focus on Nick’s face.

“Nick?”

“Yeah, Heath?” Nick replied, his heart trying to prepare itself for his brother to tell him to go to hell, or any other derogatory place that Heath cared to send him. But, he wasn’t prepared for the simplicity of the next words, the words that Heath hadn’t finished inside the house, the words that now tore at his very soul.

“Nick, I trusted you. . . How could ya’ send me . . . ta that camp with him? Didn’t ya’ know? . . . Didn’t ya’ know what he did ta me?”

At his words, both men remembered clearly the conversations that had taken place the day Heath had first identified Bentell.

Nick closed his eyes, and he reached out to grip Heath’s right shoulder. He vividly recalled Heath’s words as they had pulled him off of the man.

“That’s Matt Bentell! . . . Wirz of Andersonville and Matt Bentell of Carterson Prison were two of a kind. What that animal did ta us prisoners. . . .”

And, he remembered Heath’s pacing, punctuated by the words spoken afterwards that still haunted him now, “Seven months in Carterson Prison, you know that!” In his anger, desperate to make them understand, Heath had matter-of-factly referred to the food, the water, and the floggings, though he had never alluded to anything that had happened to him personally.

Then, Heath had added this, the most he had ever said about how close it had been for him, “. . . . Less than 100 walked out after the war was over.”

Worse still, Nick remembered his own words, as Heath had struggled to contain his blazing anger that day, “Maybe you don’t want to forget, Heath.”

What he wouldn’t give to take back those words now. If only he had listened, really listened to his brother, instead of thinking the whole thing through like another Barkley business deal.

Nick glanced up at Jarrod’s stricken face that stared back at him. He realized that Jarrod, too, was reliving his own memories of that day.

In his mind, Jarrod could see himself calling his brother in to meet Matt Toddman, the blond’s raging reaction to realizing who the man really was, and his own stance as he had focused on the legal and business issues behind Heath’s words, rather than the pain and fear that fueled the anger.

He recalled his own eagerness to reach an agreement with the foreman and the discussion that had followed-----before Heath had told them the truth about the man.

Privately, Jarrod had said, “Nick, if he can do what he says he can with that lumber camp, I think he’s entitled to a percentage.”

Later, Bentell had said calmly, “Give me enough time, money, and men, and I’ll give you a layout that will make you one of the biggest lumber producers in California.”

“What will it cost?”

“Oh, $50,000 or so.”

“What?” Nick had been incredulous over the casually stated amount.

“It’ll return that five times over in two years.”

Again, Nick had scoffed at the man’s bravado, “You think pretty big, Matt.”

“You’re the ones that’ve been asking for ways to increase production.”

And, worse, Jarrod remembered the conversation that had occurred between himself, Nick, Victoria, and Matt, after an angry Heath had left the house to look at breeding stock, and before they had told him, upon his return, that he had to accompany Matt Bentell to the logging camp.

Bentell’s confidence had been contagious, “I can finish it and have logs started down by the first snow.”

Jarrod had seen Nick’s skepticism and had responded, “Nick, it’s the only way we can get these upper timber stands to pay off.”

Ever practical, Nick had countered, “Considering everything, can we find enough men who will work for Matt Bentell?”

Bentell had replied, “That’ll be your problem.”

“Alright,” Jarrod had responded, “But, you’re going to need help.”

Nick had joined in with, “Heath will go with you.”

Jarrod drew in a deep breath and remembered Heath’s angry reply when he had told his brother of their decision later that night in the study.

Heath had launched himself from the settee and spat back at him, “The devil I will!”

His own reply had been, “You have to go.”

Watching Jarrod’s face now in the dark, as the memories surged through him, Nick finally managed to choke out a reply to the questions of a moment before, “Yes, Heath, I should have known. . . . You tried to tell us. But, I didn’t slow down to listen to you, and I. . . I never. . . I never asked you what exactly he had done to you. I’m sorry, Little Brother. You’re right. I let you down when you trusted me, when you needed me the most.”

Heath nodded slowly, his eyes sliding shut. “You weren’t there. . . You couldn’t know, . . if I didn’t tell ya’. . . . “

Then, he quietly repeated the same words that he had said to them all that afternoon as he had paced up and down between them in the study, hands stuffed into his pockets and trying to rein in his fury.

“No one could understand . . . that hadn’t lived through a place like . . . Carterson.”

Chapter 24

Nick swallowed hard. Then, he looked back at Jarrod, who nodded, before Nick said, “I want to know, Heath. We both do. Please tell us. We’ll listen real good, this time, and we’ll try to understand.”

Though he had silently agreed, Jarrod suddenly worried about how sick Heath had become, “Nick, maybe we should get him up off this ground, first, and back in the house.”

Hearing him, Heath responded brokenly, “No. . . . stay.. . . . I need ta. . . need ta tell it. . . ‘Can’t carry it. . . alone any more, . . . but, . . . ‘can’t tell it . . . inside.”

“Okay, Brother Heath.” Jarrod relented. “Whatever you want. We’re right here, and we’ll both listen to anything you want to tell us.”

The blue eyes opened, and Heath seemed to be looking for something over their heads. Nick turned and looked up as well. He could see a night sky full of stars winking down at them from overhead. He looked back down at Heath, who had his eyes fastened on the sky in a certain spot.

They waited for what seemed like long enough for the moon to cross the sky from one side to the other. Finally, they heard the quiet, familiar drawl.

“Heard stories’a slaves . . . followin’ the stars in that constellation. . . . ta freedom. . . . ‘Guess I thought I could too, . . . someday, . . . if I could just hang on . . . long enough ta get . . . outta that place, . . . away from that devil, . . . Bentell. . . .”

A silence followed, in which Heath closed his eyes and groaned softly, shifting his legs around in an attempt to offset the pounding in his head.

Then, he added, “But all . . . our tries . . . failed. . . one way or another. . . . ‘Came close ta . . . bein’ shot like . . . the others, . . . but he settled . . . with me dif’rently.”

Nick asked quietly, still running his fingers through Heath’s hair, “The tries failed? Do you mean escape attempts, Heath?”

“. . . . Yes.”

The hazel-eyed rancher clenched his jaw and clamped down on his anger, his worry and fear for events long past threatening to boil up and erupt. He held himself under a tight rein, however, knowing his reactions would do Heath no good at this particular moment.

Wanting to let Heath know they knew some of what had happened there, and to spare him having to push the words out beyond the pain he was obviously struggling with, Jarrod spoke up next.

“Heath, Ogden told us on the stage, that Bentell tried to break you, that you had become some kind of symbol for the other men, that they took courage from the fact that you were just a boy and you had survived for so long there.”

Heath’s eyes cracked open. He blinked and found Jarrod looking down at him.

“Don’t know ‘bout . . . any kind’a symbol, . . . just knew better than ta let him . . . snap me in two . . . like he did some’a the others. . .”

Heath paused again, shifting his eyes back to the stars and searching for the breath he needed to continue.

“‘Knew if I ever started beggin’ . . . like some’a the. . . . .” He stopped, and drew in another shaky breath before continuing. “Wouldn’t matter if I . . . if I ever got outta there, . . . he’d still have part’a my soul . . . no matter where I went.”

Nick closed his eyes and shivered. He could see so clearly the hatred with which Heath had attacked Bentell in their parlour that afternoon months ago, as well as the anger and betrayal Heath had flung back at them when they had told him he had to go with Bentell.

He silently shook his head, struggling to contain his own fury at himself. The man had already put Heath through so much. . . . The courage it must have taken, the choice Heath had made, the choice to keep his family no matter what . . . . It had cost more than any of them could have imagined.

As if he could read Nick’s mind, Heath added, “Came outta his nice house . . . on the edge’a that camp. . . just ta tell me reg’lar . . . that he was gonna break me. . . seemed ta’ take great pleasure. . . in tryin’ ta . . . make good on it.”

Nick squeezed Heath’s good shoulder again, but Heath looked at him curiously, the confusion evident in his eyes as he lay there, his head in Nick’s lap. Then, Heath closed his eyes and said tiredly, as if from a long way away, “No, . . . Nick, . . . not that shoulder. . . . The other one. . . . Always. . . the left one. . . .”

Suddenly, Ogden’s words from the stage trip came back to both of them.

Ogden nodded at Nick’s comment about Heath being so young during his time at Carterson, and then, he swallowed hard, ruffling the blond’s hair again and continued talking.

“Yes, he was, Nick. Eventually, he came to Bentell’s attention simply because he had not died, because the others seemed to find strength for themselves in the fact that he was still alive. As if they believed, that if a young boy, the youngest there, could survive, then so could they.”

“Heath would not tell you or me these things, because he would never speak of the kind of example he was for the others. In truth, he may not even be aware of it. But, like I said, some’a those men have told me. And, they told me what Bentell did to him, how he tried to break your brother.”

Nick’s voice sounded raspy when he was able to speak to the old man, speak beyond the huge rock that he felt pressing down on his chest. He asked with certainty, “His arm? It was something to do with his arm, wasn’t it?”

Ogden looked at him and just nodded.

Then, closing his eyes, touching Heath’s face, Nick remembered how his brother had reacted to him when he had tried to remove the knife from his shoulder during the stage trip home.

Suddenly, Nick heard Heath’s teeth-clenched groans of pain change to words of hatred, and he faltered. Like a bayonet, Heath’s words sliced into him, cut his heart open and left him kneeling above the heaving chest, bleeding from a betrayal months ago that he wished he had had no part of.

“Cut me loose, Bentell! Untie my arm. Cut me down!”

Nick gasped, trying to regain his momentum, trying to keep his purchase on the handle, as his brother began fighting them again.

Heath’s eyes opened, and he was glaring at Nick with twin blue daggers.

Beside him, as he waited for Heath to continue speaking, Nick knew that Jarrod was reliving his own set of memories related to Heath’s arm and whatever it was that Bentell had done to him. Jarrod’s eyes were closed, and he had broken out in a cold sweat. Nick reached out to touch him with one hand, gripping Jarrod’s arm fiercely.

He thought he knew what Jarrod was probably remembering, since his older brother had shared it with him on the stage trip toward Stockton, as they had worried that Heath would not survive the journey.

Jarrod had told him of Heath’s words from that night in the rocks on the way out of Coreyville.

“Nick, he kept screaming at Bentell to quit hitting somebody. He kept saying over and over that Bentell was going to kill someone, telling me to make him stop hitting whoever it was. Then, he said those same words, telling Bentell to cut him loose, cut him down, and something about his arm.”

Jarrod shook his head, and added, “Finally, he seemed to come out of it. He started talking to me, called me by my name. He said to me . . . he said, ‘Jarrod, I did what you all told me I had to, and I still hate that devil of a man.’ Then he. . . “ Jarrod paused, looked at him, and quietly finished, “Then, he blacked out, and all I could do was hold him and whisper to him about how wrong and how sorry I was for what we did.”

As his brothers both dealt with their own guilt, their own demons from the past, Heath turned his eyes back to the stars in the inky sky above them, and again, he began to speak. The words were told matter-of-factly and without anger or elaboration, almost as if he could detach himself from feeling any of it, or as if it had happened so often it was nothing worth dwelling on any more.

“He dislocated it for me. . . more times than I could count. . . . ‘Had different ways’a doin’ it, . . . never let on . . . how it was comin’, . . . just that it was. . . Then, . . . always left me tied up by it, . . . hours, . . . days. . . . Every time I lost feelin’ in it, . . . every time I closed my eyes, . . . ‘always wondered if it’d be there . . . when I finally woke up.”

None of them moved for a time, one of them staring up at the sky, the other two looking down at the unwavering blue eyes.

Finally, Jarrod reached behind him for the cup and metal pitcher of water he had retrieved from the kitchen earlier. With fingers that trembled slightly, he offered Heath a swallow of water.

Heath choked on the first sip and managed to spit it out, but he got the next two down and held them there.

After a little while, Nick said quietly, “Heath, we were wrong to make you go with Bentell. I was wrong, and I’m so sorry. I wish. . . I wish I had known you back then, but knowing you now, it isn’t hard at all for me to imagine a skinny little, tow-headed kid with snarling, blue eyes giving Bentell what-for . . . every day for seven months. I’m sure I would’ve been as proud to have been by your side as your brother then, as I am to call you brother now.”

Heath lost his focus on the heavens and turned his eyes to gaze into Nick’s tear-stained face. Slowly, he reached up to gently touch Nick’s cheek once, before he slapped at it playfully. “. . . ‘S okay, Nick. . . If you’d been there, . . . he’d’a just used us . . . ‘gainst each other. . . .”

He stopped suddenly and closed his eyes tightly. Then, he said quietly, “Besides, a pet griz’ly bear, . . .” But, he stopped again. Then, he gasped as a searing pain cut through his head. Breathing hard, he finished with great difficulty, “. . . ‘n old bear. . . would’a. . . been. . . kind’a hard. . . ta . . . explain.”

Nick growled and wrapped his arms around Heath harder, pulling him close. He looked over at Jarrod, and he saw Heath’s hand grasping their older brother by the shirt.

“Heath! Heath, what can we do?” Jarrod asked, his hand covering Heath’s as the blond arched his back, his eyes still closed.

As the stabbing pain overwhelmed him, Heath gave a sharp cry, and completely collapsed in Nick’s arms.

Jarrod’s tortured eyes found Nick’s, before he searched frantically for a pulse at the base of Heath’s throat.

Hauling in a deep breath, as he located the soft beat of Heath’s blood through his veins, Jarrod nodded and breathed, “Dammit, Nick. . . I thought for a minute, . . . . “ He took a deep breath and finished, “I thought for a minute that we’d lost this warrior brother of ours. But, his heartbeat is strong, so I guess he’s just unconscious. Let’s get him back inside.”

Together, they wrestled the blond’s dead weight up, off the ground, and around to the front door. From there, they wordlessly agreed to carry him to the study, where they lay him on the red settee.

While Nick stayed with Heath, Jarrod headed upstairs to retrieve a couple of blankets.

As he entered his brother’s bedroom, he was struck for the first time by how sparse it seemed to him, in contrast to his and Nick’s rooms.

Then, almost drawn there by the chair still facing the open window, he crossed the room and leaned out. He looked up at the stars outside and smiled slightly when he could see the same constellation from here that Heath had stared at while lying outside in the grass a little while ago.

Jarrod had used the expression, ‘thank my lucky stars,’ before, but never had it meant as much to him as it did on this particular night, as he looked outside and thanked the heavens, and the brilliant stars, for the hope that they had brought his youngest brother so many years ago.

Chapter 25

He lay quietly, eyes closed, listening to the squeaking sounds coming from behind him, out of sight, somewhere to his left. It was a rhythmic noise, and somehow familiar, though for a few minutes, he could not attach a memory to it.

Just as he felt a slight panic begin to rise up into his throat, at the nameless fear that accompanied his confusion, he blinked open his eyes and recognized his surroundings. He drew in a deep breath and pushed it back out again, raggedly, through his nose, blinking rapidly.

He had a name, first and last, and he knew where he was.

The rest would come.

“Just give it time, Heath,” he told himself silently, echoing the remembered words of the doctor he could picture inside his head from recent encounters. “Just give it time.”

He lifted his right hand and touched it to his head, recalling the excruciating pain that had throbbed there, behind his eyes, . . . when? Yesterday? Last night? Forever?

Thankfully, there remained only a dull, lurking reminder now, a shadow of the dark thunder that had stormed through him earlier.

But, that noise. . . suddenly, he remembered the night before and the squeaking desk chair.

His eyes flew open wide, as he recalled his painful recollections of events in this room, and in the other, his own anger, and . . . and the words spoken in the dark, the words he had shared with his. . . with Jarrod and Nick.

He lowered his hand, scraping it across his now closed eyes, and rubbing it over his rough, unshaven face. Dropping it still lower, he tentatively touched his bare, left shoulder, felt the familiar, slightly depressed area next to it, and with careful fingers, explored the painful, open wound beside it.

Slowly, he closed his left hand, and then flexed his whole arm, lifting it a few inches from where it rested across the soft, dark green quilt that covered him. He grimaced at the movement, but was pleased that his arm was not as stiff as he had feared it would be.

Pushing himself, he raised the reluctant arm up to touch the highest point on the back of the red settee upon which he lay. Successful, but hurting, he let out his tightly held breath in a sharp hiss.

Abruptly, the rhythmic squeaking behind him ceased, and he barely heard the boots hit the floor through the sharp tingling that streaked through his arm, flashed up and down his neck, and ricocheted straight into his brain, re-awakening the dormant throbbing of his head.

He blinked rapidly, as his fingers closed convulsively on the dark wood of the settee’s frame, and he forced it to haul himself up and turn into a sitting position. A soft groan escaped his lips, and he braced his feet on the floor, trying to steady himself.

Immediately, he felt, rather than saw, the presence of someone beside him.

He opened his eyes, looked at the polished, black boots on the floor beside his sock-covered feet, and turned his head carefully to look into the concerned, dark blue eyes of the man he recognized as Jarrod Barkley.

“Heath.”

His name, spoken in a quiet tone and accompanied by the steadying hand on his shoulder, brought immense comfort to the blond. Somehow, that hand carried with it a welcoming feeling, a sense of acceptance and approval.

Heath shook his head briefly, trying to focus on the feeling, on something. . . something just out of reach, . . . a spark of a memory that refused to be fanned into flame.

So hard was he concentrating, searching for the familiar, yet illusive, thoughts, that his lowered eyes missed the look of hurt and rejection that crossed the handsome features of the older man beside him.

Taking a deep breath, Jarrod waited, struggling with his own feelings and the memories that had plagued him as he had sat rocking gently in the black leather chair that had belonged to his father, behind his father’s beautiful, oak desk.

He had been remembering his stage trip to Coreyville and the sudden realization that he had not been truly listening through Heath’s anger to hear the other feelings beneath, not either time when Heath had found first Bentell, then Anders, in their home.

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

They had forced him to choose.

They had left him no middle ground.

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

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

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

Jarrod’s eyes flew open at the suspicion.

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

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

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

Suddenly, it came to him.

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

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

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

. . . . . . Hadn’t heard him. . . . ?

Suddenly, wrapped in his memories, he had heard Heath’s sharp gasp, and he had realized his brother was awake.

Now, he silently watched Heath, the blond head bowed and shoulders hunched forward, until he finally realized his brother was in pain, and had not turned away from him deliberately. He was letting his own remembered guilt shade his perceptions of the here and now, of the brother that needed him.

“Heath,” he said again.

The blond head moved, as if to turn in his direction, but the eyes never lifted to really look at him again.

Heath was struggling, trying to fit the voice beside him with his memory of the man who had told him, in this very room, that his story was not convincing, that his story was merely touching, that it was a lie.

He recalled the offer of money, and though he tried to get past the memory, to focus on the assurance and trust he felt somewhere inside, he recoiled slightly from the hand still lying across his back.

Jarrod felt the movement, the slight rebuff in the tenseness of the muscles beneath his hand, and his face reflected the sharp dagger of pain that he felt touching his heart. He swallowed hard and gave Heath two firm taps with the palm of his hand on the closest shoulder, before he removed his hand completely.

Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Heath didn’t need. . .

Suddenly, Heath’s head came up, and he looked into Jarrod’s blue eyes. He could see the pain that darkened them to midnight, and the slight smile that tried to hide the pain, just like. . .

Heath closed his eyes again, and he felt the echoes of another time this man had touched him like that, saw the reflection of a previous encounter with that same pain-filled, yet vulnerable look in this man’s eyes.

All around him, he could smell the acrid odor of dissipating gunfire, the sharp smells of sweat, dust, and the fear of death. He could hear the strained sounds of men’s low voices, speaking in hushed tones over the high-pitched wails of a grieving woman.

He hauled in a deep breath, and he didn’t need to look again to know . . . .

But, he opened them anyway.

“Jarrod. . . . ?” Heath said, his voice shaky, like the hand that he used to slowly reach out, to lightly touch his brother’s face.

Dark blue eyes locked onto Heath’s face, and Jarrod searched the light blue ones that held him in their gaze.

Heath’s hand moved, reaching out again, pulling Jarrod forward, until he could firmly grasp the back of his brother’s neck.

“Jarrod. . . ,” Heath said again, trying to get to his feet.

Suddenly, the dark-haired man understood, and, quickly standing, he caught the faltering blond beneath both arms and helped lift him up, pulling him toward him.

Together, they stood, face to face.

“Jarrod, . . . you were the first to offer me . . . your hand. . . . that day.”

Heath held out his own right hand.

Staring into his brother’s eyes, Jarrod took the outstretched hand and held onto it, a handshake that lingered, . . . remained.

Then, the one offering the other his strength and support, the other offering his forgiveness, they wrapped each other into a brief, but fierce hug, a hug of brothers, a hug, . . . finally, . . . of shared memories and mutual relief.

After a moment, they released each other, and, though Jarrod held onto Heath’s shoulder to keep him steady, he stepped back slightly to look into his brother’s face. His own smile grew, as he saw the familiar lop-sided grin and sparkling eyes.

“It’s mighty good to see you again, Brother Heath, mighty good. Welcome home.”

Heath took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Though it’s a little early in the morn’, . . . if ya’ offered me one’a those fine smokes’a yours, Pappy, . . . I wouldn’t turn it down.”

His smile spreading and one eyebrow raised, as if in a toast, Jarrod reached into the pocket of his dark blue shirt and pulled out a cigar. As he offered it to Heath, he asked, “How about a drink while we’re at it?”

“Sounds about right, Big Brother, . . . . Make it a scotch,” Heath added, a definite twinkle in his eye.

Chapter 26

Ogden held open the door for the tiny, silver-haired woman, who smiled at him half-heartedly, inclining her head as she passed him and entered the kitchen.

He did not speak to her as she crossed the room, stood at the large sink, and immersed the cut ends of the slightly wilted, but still fragrant roses in the pitcher of water she had left there earlier for that purpose. She kept her back to him as he watched her careful, yet automatic movements.

Finally, she stood still, grasping the rim of the sink on either side of her and staring straight ahead out of the crystal clear window, neither seeing the activity outside nor the glorious sunshine that was so quickly warming the bright morning.

He waited.

Suddenly, she swung around and locked her glittering grey eyes on his compassionate blue ones.

Her voice, already broken before she ever allowed it to escape through her trembling lips, was thick with unshed tears as she cried, “Ogden! He was so young!”

He crossed to her and took the hand that had risen to cover her mouth, while her other still gripped the sink’s edge behind her for support.

“Yes, he was.”

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words to help her understand more than the bruising bits of Carterson he had just shared with her. “He was young, Mrs. Barkley, and what happened to him there should’a killed most men, let alone a boy. But, he survived. He’s here now, and I feel sure he needs nothing more than to know you all care about him, that you trust and respect him, and that you want him to remain here. As long as he knows that, and he believes he’s an important part’a this family, a man that matters, . . that he contributes to the very core of what it means to be . . . to be Barkley, contributes by his very presence, . . . I think he’ll be fine. The rest of it, the past, . . . well, . . . the past will be just that, the past. It made him into the man he is, like. . . like iron heated and hammered in a forge . . . With all’a you with him, he’ll be alright. ”

She stared into his eyes, and slowly, she blinked, pulling in a tortured lung full of air, the tears glittering and threatening to fall. She nodded, before reaching out to him, bestowing upon him a quick peck on the cheek and a tight hug.

Then, she gathered a pleat of the yellow cotton skirt of her dress in one hand, and she moved quickly across the room and up the back stairway.

Silently, and slightly embarrassed, Ogden moved to the sink and placed both of his hands on its sturdy edge, staring out of the window toward the barns and corrals beyond.

Though his eyes were on the men and animals moving across the well-maintained area in the purposeful rhythm of daily ranch activity, his thoughts were on the suffering of a mother’s love, as she struggled to come to terms with the distant past, and to right her own, more recent wrong, both done to her husband’s youngest son.

* * * * * * * *

“No, Heath!”

The tiny woman drew herself up, trying to fill the open doorframe and block his exit from his bedroom.

Briefly, she realized she would have stood a better chance if she had thought to close the door first and lean upon it. But no, she knew he would not touch her to physically move her. The closest he had come to touching her since they had brought him home was to tentatively lay the back of his hand against her cheek or to take her hand in his.

Instead, he used his eyes to move her. Those eyes so like her husband’s, those eyes that could be hard and glacier-like or soft and compassionate, were always of the palest blue intensity.

Right now, they were looking at her steadily, a quiet request multiplied by two

She tried to deflect his gaze by shaking her head and repeating, “No, Heath. You are absolutely not well enough to take Gal out for a ride, . . . not today, not even for a quick once around the barn!”

He was standing before her, hands in the pockets of his buckskin-colored jeans, the deep blue of his shirt making him look more fully-recovered than she knew him to be. He wore his light brown vest, had his boots on, and held his hat in his hand. He didn’t say a word, but she knew he would not give up.

She continued to shake her head. “No. Doctor Merar will be back tomorrow. You can ask him. If he says you’re okay to ride, then I will give my consent, but not a moment sooner. The answer is no.”

Outside the open doorway, from out in the hall, Victoria heard a soft chuckle.

She knew that laugh!

She turned quickly and saw Jarrod standing behind her, his merry, dark-blue eyes taking in the scene before him.

“Mother, why is it that you are standing here, blocking the door, shaking your head and telling Heath, ‘no’ at least four or five times over, when he hasn’t yet said a word?” Jarrod dared to laugh again, but only quietly.

She turned her body, but only enough to keep both of them in her sight. Heath wouldn’t touch her, but Jarrod might just find himself beguiled enough by his brother’s eyes to be silently persuaded to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder!

“Look at him, Jarrod! He doesn’t have to say anything. Don’t you hear the pleas all the way down the hall?”

When she joined them both in smiling at her words, she knew she was lost. Though never one to be soft on her children, to give in to things she knew were not good for them, she also knew she couldn’t keep Heath inside forever, and. . . deep down, she was so relieved that he was well enough to want to ride, she could almost give in this time . . . .

. . . . almost, but not quite.

True to form, Jarrod was the one who came up with the solution.

“Heath, if she doesn’t want to let you out of her sight yet, and she doesn’t want you out riding that wild and dangerous pony of yours, how about a compromise?”

The pale blue of Heath’s eyes lit up at the light jab at Gal’s small stature and sweet nature, as well as Jarrod’s understanding of his mother’s worry.

“Sounds good, Jarrod. What did ya’ have in mind?”

Smiling at the way Heath deliberately kept the eagerness out of his words, though it was visible in his eyes if he really looked, Jarrod said, “Well, how about taking this lovely lady on a buggy ride? She looks like she could use some fresh air to me!”

“Yep, she does look a bit peak-ed at that.”

Victoria’s eyes widened at their playfulness, but even more at the easy camaraderie that was so evident in both their voices. She searched Jarrod’s face for a moment, turned back to Heath, and noted both of their pleased expressions.

Something had changed between them, she was sure of it.

She stepped toward Heath, reached out and took his hand in hers, then reached her other hand back toward Jarrod. He grasped her hand and crossed the threshold to join them inside the room. Looking from one to the other, she could see the steady gazes and genuine smiles they shared.

There was a respect, a bond, here, between them. She could feel it.

Suddenly, she gasped and squeezed both of their hands, then turned into Heath’s broad chest and held onto him, her face buried in the blue of his shirt.

Carefully, as if he was afraid she would break, she felt both his arms come up to enfold her and hold her close, his cheek touching the top of her head.

When she could speak, she looked up at him before glancing back at her smiling oldest son behind her, and turning back to Heath with tears in her grey eyes, she said, “You remember, don’t you?”

Jarrod nodded slightly, encouraging his brother to answer, and she searched Heath’s face.

“Yes, Ma’am, at least a few pieces here an’ there. I remember Jarrod, an’ . . . an’ some other things, but, . . . “ Concern crossed his features when her face reacted to his use of ‘Ma’am’ with her again, and he trailed off.

“Heath, that’s wonderful! I’m so thankful.” She patted his now damp chest, trying to compose herself. Obviously, there were some things he didn’t yet recall, but it was a start.

She asked, a smile on her face now, “When did all this happen?”

“I think things have been coming back to him slowly, over the last day or so, right Heath?” Jarrod interjected, trying to save him the difficulty of having to go back through the conversation with the two men two nights ago, even to get to the more satisfying discussion between the two of them yesterday morning.

Surprised, she continued looking between them.

“Heath?” she asked.

The blond nodded, his eyes finding Jarrod and confirming his desire for assistance.

“Mother, let’s give him a little time, shall we?” Jarrod asked, taking her hand and tucking it around his arm, holding it there against his side. “Brother Heath, if you’ll allow me, I’ll drop this lovely lady off at her door so she can change, and then I’ll head out to the barn to ask Ciego to hook up a buggy and bring it around to the front door. Maybe I can even talk Silas into preparing a picnic for the two of you.”

Very aware of his efforts on his brother’s behalf, Victoria pushed down her natural curiosity and eagerness to know the details about Heath’s memories. She reached beside her with her free hand and squeezed his.

“Heath, if you’ll wait for me downstairs, I’ll just be a few minutes.”

He smiled at her and said, “Yes’m, . . . ” before her eyes betrayed her, and he stopped altogether.

She squeezed his hand again, and reached out to close his door as Jarrod escorted her from the room.

Silently making their way down the hallway, they both stopped outside her bedroom door. She lifted her thoughtful eyes from the floor and looked at Jarrod. Then, she reached up, touching his face, and said, “Thank you for rescuing him from me, Jarrod. I was just so excited to learn that he remembered you. . . . but, he’s still so . . . so lost and . . . and sort of far away.”

Then, she took a deep breath and added, “I spent a little time with Ogden this morning.” At Jarrod’s raised eyebrow, she explained, “I dropped by the depot yesterday when I was in town with Audra and mentioned that I wanted to talk with him sometime soon, and he rode out to see me.”

She turned and headed into her room, leading her oldest by the hand.

“How is Ogden, Mother? He seemed so eager to get back to his job, and it worked out perfectly that Mr. Matthews needed someone to run the depot here for him. I know it can’t be easy on a man of his years to winter up there in those mountains.”

Somewhat distractedly, she released her hold on his hand and moved over to stand by her window, where she could look down on her rose gardens. She nodded, “Yes, Jarrod. I think he’s going to be pleased with that position. He seems to like it already.”

She stood there, gazing out for a moment. Then, she continued, “Jarrod, Ogden told me some of what Bentell did to Heath. I know he left out a great deal, trying to spare me, and in deference to Heath’s feelings about me knowing, but it . . . it was enough.”

She shook her head.

Jarrod spoke up, “Heath told us the other night, Mother, . . . told us himself. Believe me,” he shook his head vehemently, “You don’t want to hear the details. Ogden was right not to tell you everything. And, . . . and I’m sure Heath didn’t tell us everything either.” He shivered and turned his own eyes out into the distance beyond her gardens.

She grasped Jarrod’s hand, and they stood there quietly for a few seconds.

Then, Jarrod said, “Yesterday morning, Heath seemed to be struggling with several memories. I was sitting beside him in the study, but it was like he hardly knew I was there for long minutes at a time. He was hurting, but it was more than that-----more like he was in some other place, . . . in some other time. Then, all of a sudden, he started saying my name, reaching out for me, and I knew. . . somehow, I knew he was really talking to me this time, to me, his brother. I can’t explain it, Mother, and I can’t describe the way it made me feel. . . .”

Smiling brightly at him, she reached out and hugged him close, cherishing the moment he shared with her, enjoying the joyous sound of his voice. He stroked her back lovingly, silently.

As she finally leaned back, away from him, she couldn’t help but tease him a bit about his faltering words from a moment ago, “Why, Jarrod, I do believe your quiet younger brother almost made you speechless!”

He smiled back at her, unshed tears shining in his eyes, and he whispered as he raised one eyebrow at her, “Mother, he called me Pappy.” Then, he pulled in a deep breath and added, “He called me Pappy, he asked for a cigar, and when I offered him a drink as well, he gave me that smile. . . I swear it was Father made over, . . . and he told me he wanted my usual----a scotch!”

Her smile growing wider, Victoria reached up on tip-toe to give her son a quick kiss on the cheek. As he squeezed her shoulders and turned to leave, she was so happy for him, for both of them, she couldn’t even bring herself to admonish her dark-haired, blue-eyed son for his uncharacteristic use of the word ‘swear’ in her presence.

Chapter 27

Her patience was wearing thin.

They had just about reached the destination that she had had in mind when they had left the house over an hour ago. Very little had been said between them, though the silence was not the problem.

No, that wasn’t it.

He was pushing himself too hard.

And, something was wrong.

Heath had insisted on driving, and his hands were light on the long reins, communicating quietly through the bit to the horse in front of them.

For a time, he had seemed fine, just happy to be outside, smiling slightly, and occasionally whistling a little as the horse’s hooves kept time.

She had smiled as well, her hand stealing up from her lap every once in a while to rest lightly on his arm. It was such a relief to see him up and about, doing something he enjoyed, that the constant worry of the last two weeks seemed only a dim, troubling memory.

Riding along, just the two of them, she suddenly remembered another buggy ride they had taken together, though neither of them had set out with that in mind at the time. They had been headed back from Strawberry, headed toward Stockton, and it had been right after she had talked to, first Hannah, then his Aunt Martha and Uncle Matt, trying to find out the truth about her husband and Heath’s mother.

She glanced over at him, and she noticed that he had that dark, closed look, that set to his eyes that telegraphed a warning to anyone who knew him that he was angry about something.

Then, she looked at him more closely.

No, she was wrong. He wasn’t exactly angry, maybe he was just very serious, terribly contemplative----or in pain, perhaps?

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized how much he looked like he had that day they had driven back from Strawberry. He had listened to her read his father’s letter, written to Leah years ago, and he had been trying to understand what it all meant.

She continued to watch him from the corner of her eye.

Yes, there was definitely something wrong.

Heath closed his eyes for a second and shook his head, trying to clear it. He was beginning to struggle, and he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to keep her from realizing it.

His shoulder was throbbing with a burning, pulsing monotony, and his head----well, it felt like the bucket that fell over into Gal’s stall the other morning must have. Audra had told him the little horse had kicked it clean across the barn and out of the open doorway. While the mare must have been reacting to not getting enough exercise, he was afraid he was having the opposite problem.

But, even more than that, there was something. . . something that kept trying to insinuate itself between him and his concentration on the road in front of them. There was a memory. . . tugging at him, begging him to notice, and he just couldn’t quite reach. . .

Suddenly, she reached up, wrapped both hands around his forearm, and she implored, “Heath. Heath, stop the buggy. Please!”

At first, he didn’t respond to her, his eyes locked onto the middle distance, part of him concentrating so hard on keeping the horse going despite the way he felt. Then, he blinked and drew in a sharp breath, breaking his stare and moving his eyes toward her in a slow glance.

“. . . Just’a . . . minute. . . ,” he ground out, his jaw clenched.

She held onto him and nodded, willing to give him an extra minute or two if it would help.

He steered the horse off the road and sought the semi-shade cast by a tall rock ledge to their right.

“Whoa,” he called softly to the bay, and he pulled back lightly on the reins.

As he did so, she saw the wince of pain the easy movement caused.

When the horse had halted, Heath held onto the reins, but leaned back in the seat, his eyes tightly closed.

For her part, she sat beside him, quietly, not wanting to do anything to disturb him as he sat there, trying to draw in a normal breath, and fighting to work through the pain he was obviously in.

Unwilling to say it aloud at this point, she knew now that this had been a bad idea. He was obviously not ready for this much . . . .

With his eyes closed, he asked quietly, “Could ya’ hand me that canteen . . . under the seat?”

“Of course, Sweetheart.”

She leaned down and retrieved the requested item, opening it as she returned to an upright position, and handed it to him.

Under his hat, pulled down low over his eyes, she saw the light blue movement beneath his barely cracked eyelids. He let her ease the reins that he had been holding loosely in his right hand from between his fingers, and he slowly took the canteen from her. She leaned across him and wrapped the long leather lines around the scrolled metal tether on the front corner of the buggy.

She waited, trying to be patient, to give him time, though she was growing concerned that he still had not taken a drink of the water.

Then, he slowly raised the container to his lips and took one small swallow, followed by another.

When he was finished, he sat there, leaning back against the padded leather seat, the weight of the container slowly lowering his arm toward his leg. Unable to help herself, she reached out and took the canteen from him

He made no response when she pulled it from his tight grasp.

Closing the canteen, she let it drop softly to the floor of the buggy and pushed it back with one foot.

Then, she sat facing him, waiting again, unsure about what to do. He was no longer breathing hard. In fact, she wondered if he had fallen asleep.

The shade cast from the rocks beside and above them offered a shield from the most direct sunlight, but it was still very warm. The silence of the hot air around them was broken only by the shrill cry of a hawk high above.

Just as she decided to retrieve the reins and turn the horse for home, he shifted on the seat and opened his eyes to look at her.

His soft drawl matched the quiet, lop-sided smile he gave her, as he said, “Reckon I wasn’t as ready for that ride around the barn as I thought.”

She closed her eyes a second and took a deep breath. Then, she opened them and smiled back at him, knowing how hard it was for him to admit to any pain, any illness. She reached out and covered his closest hand with hers. “Why don’t we just stay here and rest for a while. It’s so hot out, we don’t need to go all the way up to the lake to eat our lunch.”

He winked at her and said, “The bay is just too winded. . . ta go one step further, right?”

She joined him in gazing at the quiet animal, one hind hoof turned up, weight resting on the other three, not a fleck of lather anywhere, and she laughed lightly.

“That’s what I meant, Heath. The horse just can’t make it any further.”

Then, he stood with a half-crouched stance, crossed in front of her as she pulled her boots back out of his way, and he climbed down more carefully than she expected him to, protecting his left arm by keeping it tucked close to his body. He turned, smiled lop-sidedly up at her, and offered her his right hand. She smiled at him, then, grasped his hand, and made her way down from the buggy.

As she reached the ground, she saw his head come up suddenly, and he looked at her sharply, as if he were studying her, noticing something about her for the first time, then, he looked out toward the rolling land behind her. Giving him a few moments, she patted his arm before leaving him standing there and stepping to the back of the buggy. There, she removed the small basket of sandwiches Silas had prepared for them, as well as the red and black plaid carriage blanket, and she turned back to look for an appropriate place for their informal picnic.

Heath was still standing in the same place, his gaze fastened on the distance. She watched him for a second, then moved off a few feet behind him to spread out the blanket.

Suddenly, she stopped.

Then, slowly, cautiously, she began backing up.

It was curled up by the rocks, in a place where the sun broke through the overhanging ledge above.

Its large, triangular head was up, as was its rattle.

A surprised cry was ripped from her, as she tripped over something unseen behind her and fell to the ground, the contents of the basket and the blanket doing little to cushion her fall.

At the same instant, the large diamondback started shaking its rattle at her, the unmistakable, dry staccato sound practically ricocheting off of the rocks around them.

Suddenly, Heath was there beside her, between her and the snake, one leg tucked under him and the other outstretched for balance. Before her cry even ended, his pistol was in his hand, and he riddled the snake with repeated bullets, the multiple shots echoing off of the rocks.

Immediately, he turned to her, replacing his Colt in his holster.

“You alright?” he asked, his hand on her arm.

Shaken, but unhurt, she nodded at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, I think so.”

She glanced again at the snake, unsure of why he had continued to pelt its body with several shots, when the first from his gun had obviously killed it.

Then, as he helped her stand, she felt him tense when she placed her hands on his chest to regain her balance. Puzzled at this reaction, especially on top of the other that she did not understand, she looked up at him.

He was staring down at her with troubled blue eyes.

She felt his hand grasp her arm more firmly, and she thought she felt a tremor go through him. Really concerned now, she saw his eyes close, the deep crease between his eyebrows returning, as he suddenly seemed to cling to her, rather than the other way around.

“Heath? Heath, what is it? Did the snake. . . ?” She trailed off as he shook his head slightly, but did not open his eyes.

The relief was instantaneous. She had thought maybe, in the blink of an eye, the snake had bitten him or. . . .

Instead, she heard him whisper, the words seeming to steal the very breath from him, “. . . The . . . . . . letter. . . “

He hauled in a deep breath and, not seeing that she was shaking her head at him, not seeing that she didn’t understand, he kept repeating it, as if he were having difficulty saying any more than that.

“You read part’a the letter ta me. . . “

He opened his eyes and looked back down into her grey ones, watching her intently.

She continued to shake her head and said, “No, Heath, I don’t know what you. . . .”

But, he interrupted her, as if he hadn’t heard her negative response, “We were in the buggy, an’ you read me the letter . . . ”

Suddenly, she did know.

Her comprehension brought a lightness to her eyes, and she began nodding her head at him.

Interrupting him this time, she said excitedly, “Yes. Yes, Heath! We were in the buggy, coming back from Strawberry, and I read you part of the letter. Your father had written it to your mother years ago.”

He nodded, too, his eyes continuing to search hers. Then, he turned around to look at the rocks, at the dead snake, at the buggy, as if he wasn’t sure where, or even when, he was. She could see him trying to put the pieces together, trying to make it all fit.

She blinked her eyes several times, remembering that day and the events that had led up to him driving her back to Stockton in the same buggy they were using now. She recalled the way he had entered the hotel, not knowing for sure, but suspecting the danger she was in.

Then, in an instant of understanding, she remembered the gunshot from the direction of the old mine, the man that had tried to kill them, and how Heath had pushed her from the buggy, pushed her down, to safety. He had protected her from the man’s rifle fire, then, just as he had protected her from the snake now. And, . . . and, he had put bullet after bullet into the man he could not quite see through the boarded up structure. . . .

. . . Just like he had the snake.

As Heath returned his gaze to her, she felt him falter, and heard the sharp intake of his breath as pain, either from his head or his shoulder, she wasn’t sure which, sliced through him.

“Come on, Heath. Let’s get you home,” she insisted. “I think we’ve both had enough for one day.”

He tried to smile at her, lop-sidedly, as he asked, “Think the horse. . . can make it?”

She laughed lightly, as he reached down to retrieve the basket, and she stooped to pick up the blanket. She was faster to stand than he was, and she quickly took the basket from him, stowing both items on the seat. As she placed one foot on the step, she felt his hand touch her back, and then move under her elbow, as he reached up to help her in the buggy before him.

When she was seated, she turned to face him again, watching as he continued to stand there, his face turned toward the ground. She could not see his eyes for his hat, but she saw the trembling hand that slowly reached up to cover them.

Just as she stood to climb back to the ground to assist him, he looked back up at her, tears in his eyes.

“Heath, Honey? Are you alright? What is it?” she asked worriedly, quickly climbing down from the buggy.

“Mother. . . .” he said, almost helplessly, his voice soft and tentative.

He looked back down, and she heard him say, “. . . . The boots. . . . I remember. . . the boots . . .”

When he raised his face again, his pale blue eyes reflected the sky, glistening like twin pools, and then, they turned to two, crystal-blue mountain streams, as his tears slid slowly down his cheeks.

“Mother,” he said, as he caught her to him in a fierce hug.

Standing there together, she felt the tension and the pain wash away with his quiet sobs.

Chapter 28

But, with his tears went the strength that had been holding him together for the last hour.

After a few moments, she eased him one step back toward the buggy, and got him turned around without a word, patting him a few times on the chest.

Then, he hauled in a deep, shaky breath and did his best to hand her up and into the buggy. From above him, she leaned down and grasped him under his good arm, as he climbed up beside her.

With no discussion, she slid over to make room for him. Then, she turned toward him, removed his hat, and pulled his head down against her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Sweetheart. Just rest a little.” She held him there and turned her face to kiss the top of his head.

When she felt him relax into her slightly, as he shifted in the seat and stretched one long leg out at an angle in front of him, she untied the reins and expertly turned them around, pointing the horse toward home.

Neither spoke as she drove, one deep in thought, the other buried in exhaustion.

She thought back over the early days of his arrival, of the anger with which her sons, especially Nick, had confronted him, and the anger with which he had responded. But, she also recalled his quiet sense of humor and the way he had tried to work through Nick’s reaction with pride and dignity, never complaining or even mentioning their animosity to the rest of the family.

She recalled his compassionate understanding for Audra and his relaxed appreciation for Jarrod. Then, she could not help a small, sad smile as she remembered the way he had seemed almost to tip-toe around her, as if, . . . as if, she realized now, he had been constantly concerned about hurting her with his very presence.

She thought over his words to her that morning in the bar of the hotel in Stockton, how she had found him, a glass in hand, and how his anger at Tom, at himself, had changed to gentleness as he had, with reluctance and great difficulty, responded to her request to tell her about his mother. Through it all, now, through his words, his actions, his emotions, she could clearly see, with the perspective of time, how much he had tried to avoid causing her any hurt, any discomfort or pain.

Then, she thought of the pivotal part she had played in forcing him to work with the man he hated, . . . Matt Bentell, and it was all she could do to not cry out at the memories of the pain she had made him endure. . . .

After the unaccustomed use, Heath’s shoulder throbbed unmercifully, and his head seemed to echo each beat of the horse’s hooves as they trotted toward the house.

But, despite his discomfort, he was content.

So much made sense now----the way she had treated him on the stage trip, the way she had taken care of him, worried over him. Slowly, he thought back over all that he had remembered in the last few days, especially his conversations with Jarrod and Nick. As a result of those highly-charged memories, he had also realized her role in sending him to work with Bentell, and all that her decision had cost him.

But, with his memories regained just a little while ago, he knew, . . . with no room for any more doubt, that the debt he owed to her, for her acceptance of him, for choosing to love him, was much bigger than whatever price her words and actions had exacted from him.

As if their thoughts had traveled two separate roads, only to meet up at the same destination, she broke the silence with a question that mirrored those he had just been resolving.

“Heath?” she asked, the hesitation clear in her voice. “. . . Can you ever forgive me for what I made you do? For trying to make you care about Gil Anders after what he did to you and Willie Martin? For making you go with. . . with Bentell . . . to the logging camp, in spite of what he did to you at Carterson?”

When she had first said his name, he had opened his eyes and sat up stiffly, with a low groan. Immediately, he had realized that they were within sight of the red barns near the house, the white fences stretching out like welcoming arms below them.

He closed his eyes for a second, swallowed hard, and then, opened them again, raising his chin and turning his head to look at her. He reached out, across his body with his right hand, and silently placed his hand over hers on the reins, asking her to stop the horse.

His eyes were hard, from his pain or his thoughts, she wasn’t sure. And, she realized, as the horse obediently halted, that she feared, more than anything, that he was going to tell her that she had done the unforgivable, that she had. . . .

But, then, he spoke to her, in a voice without reservation, clearly and with absolute certainty, as he gazed straight into her soul, his hand still covering hers.

“Mother, somehow you found room in your heart ta forgive my father for what he did ta you, for betrayin’ your marriage with. . . with my mama. . . I’ll always be grateful that you could forgive him enough, . . . that you could accept me inta your home an’ show me nothing but love each an’ every day.”

He took another breath and finished, “With your love leadin’ the way for me ta follow, how can I not have enough room in my heart ta forgive you? . . . Yes, Mother. . . I forgive you.”

She felt her tears welling up into her eyes.

She hardly ever remembered him putting so many words together for so long, except in anger.

And, she knew the cost of the gift he was giving her.

Then, he continued, his need to finish it, for her, for himself, to say it all just this once, his need to get it done overwhelming his usual quiet nature.

“I may never be able ta follow the example you’ve given me an’ forgive those two men for what they’ve done, but, I understand why you expected it of me, an’ I know it was because you believed it would be best for me. It’s just, . . . it’s just the way you did it, . . . tryin’ ta force me. . . .”

Heath shook his head a little, but even that was too much movement, and he closed his eyes tightly, before opening them again and continuing. “I remember now, tellin’ ya’ that same day ya’ went ta Strawberry, that all ya’ had ta do was ask me, an’ I’d wear those boots.”

She nodded and whispered, squeezing his hand, “Yes, Heath. Yes, you did.” She knew what was coming next, and she was ready. “You told me then, that you’d do anything for me.”

He nodded, ever-so-slightly, and sliding back down in the seat a bit, he said with a soft groan, “I meant it then. . . . I still do.”

Then, as if signaling that he had no more to say, he slowly brought his hand up to replace his hat on his head and pulled it down over his eyes. Beneath the hat, he covered his eyes with his hand, squeezing his temples hard.

Returning to her earlier mission to get him home as quickly as possible, she slapped the reins on the horse’s rump, After a few moments, though, she said to him, “You’re a man of your word, and you have done ‘anything’ for me, Heath Barkley, even without me asking you to. You’ve taken care of me when you didn’t even remember me, and you’ve kept me safe time and time again. You’ve been the kind of son to me that your brothers have always been, cherishing, protecting, and, always, . . . always loving.”

She kept her eyes on the road in front of them, but, even without looking at him, she knew he was listening to her words.

“Heath, I want you to know, that I am making you a promise, here and now, that I will never again force you to take an action that goes against what you believe. I will talk with you, voicing my opinion, as I’m prone to do, . . . ”

She paused, glancing at him, and seeing his slight nod beneath the hand still covering his eyes, continued, “And, I will discuss options, probably more than you’ll want me to, but, never again, will I overrule you and try to force my sense of right and wrong above yours. I was wrong to do that, and I am so sorry.”

Quietly, a few moments later, she added, as she guided the horse toward home, “I love you. I love you as Heath Barkley, my son. But, I also love you as the proud, determined Heath that first came to us, looking for a name, a heritage, a family. I promise you, I will never again forget the man you are, . . . the fine, distinctly special man that your mama raised as her son, as Heath Thomson.”

Very carefully, and worth every wince of pain, he reached around her shoulders with his left arm, and pulled her toward him. He sat back silently in the seat and, with her shoulder tucked under his arm, he again shut his eyes, enjoying just holding her close and, finally, remembering why she was so important to him.

* * * * * * * *

Nick was just coming out of the barn when he heard the buggy approaching the front of the house. He picked up his pace, lengthening his strides, and he took the low steps at the end of the veranda in one leap, as he approached the front door.

Surprised to see his mother driving, he quickly realized that Heath was not moving, even though she had now brought the horse to a stop.

“Mother? Is everything alright?” Nick hollered, his long legs launching him down the wide steps to stop beside the buggy.

“Yes, Son, we’re just glad to be home.”

Not satisfied, Nick noticed that her light tan blouse had dirt all over one arm, and that the side of her darker brown riding skirt was similarly marked, as she stood, crossed in front of the too-still Heath and took advantage of Nick’s assistance in climbing down.

Then, giving Nick a quick hug, she turned back to the buggy and, reaching out to touch the closest boot, spoke quietly, “Heath. Heath, Honey, we’re home. Come on, Sweetheart.”

As he groaned softly and turned in their direction, Heath clamped down on the back of the buggy seat with his right hand and tried to stand. They heard his breath catch in his throat, as he stopped all of a sudden, half standing, half sitting, and swayed slightly, his eyes closed.

“Heath, Nick’s here. Let us help you,” Victoria added.

Quickly, Nick stood up on the step of the buggy and reached out to steady his brother by grabbing his belt and carefully taking his left arm. “Whoa, there, Little Brother.”

With Nick’s help, Heath climbed down from above them, and it missed no one’s notice that he only used one hand in doing so.

When he was on the ground, Nick handed his mother his dark-colored hat and ducked his head under Heath’s good arm, pulling it across his broad shoulders, and holding onto Heath’s forearm.

Then, with Nick supporting most of Heath’s weight, the two of them followed Victoria into the house.

“Where to, Mother?” Nick asked, ignoring Heath’s halting, but defiant, words pelting his defenseless ear from point blank range, as they approached the steps.

“Nick, I can make it . . . just fine. . . . Let go’a me. . . .Nick!”

“Now hold on, Heath. Just, for once, let me help you BEFORE you’re already on the ground! You’re a sight easier to lift from here, than you will be from down on the floor.”

“Nick. . . . Let go,” Heath continued, though his words were more a matter of principle, than a reflection of his own confidence that he could really make it if Nick suddenly complied. He was so tired, he could hardly make one foot move in front of the other, and his head felt like a blacksmith had hold of it and was trying it out as an anvil.

“Okay, Heath. Sure. In fact, I’ll let you go in about ten more steps.”

By this time, having followed his mother’s pointed directions to take Heath up the staircase, Nick had him at the top, and they were close to his bedroom door.

As he turned Heath around and helped him ease down to sit on the edge of the bed, Heath said, his words slurring slightly, “See, I tole’ ya’ . . . I could make it.”

“Sure, Heath, that’s right, you did. Now, how about if I don’t help you with your boots either?”

“Right, . . . Nick,” Heath agreed, his upper body starting to weave a bit as he kept his left arm tight across his ribs and his right hand holding onto the shoulder of Nick’s white shirt. “Don’t need . . . no help. . . . ‘Can get ‘em, . . . jes’ fine.”

Removing the second boot, Nick smirked at his brother, but the tired, pale face had him worried. Determined not to give into his own, now familiar fears, however, he reached over with one hand and knocked Heath’s hat off, causing it to fly across the bed to land on the floor. “I won’t help you with your hat either, okay?”

“Good. . . . ‘Like ta sleep . . . with my hat on . . . sometimes. . . .‘Keeps the rain . . . outta my face.”

“Okay, Heath. You lie back right here, and I’ll pull your hat down over your face for you.” Nick smiled as he carefully grasped both Heath’s right shoulder and his left bicep, using his grip to ease his exhausted brother backwards, down onto the bed. Then, he lifted one leg at a time, placing each on the bed as well.

Groggily, Heath said, “Thanks, Nick.”

“For what, Little Brother? I thought you didn’t want any help?”

“Oh, yeah. . . . Well, . . . ‘glad you’re . . . listenin’ ta me so good.”

“Go to sleep, Heath. I’m going downstairs to see if you left any of Silas’ good roast beef sandwiches in that basket for me.”

“Nope, . . . ate ‘em all. . . .”

Quietly, Nick walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down in the wine-colored leather chair by the window. On his way, he paused to pick up Heath’s hat from the rug. Dusting it off a bit, he turned to sit cross-ways in the chair, one leg propped up across the arm, and, with the raised, booted foot bobbing up and down restlessly, he twirled Heath’s hat on one finger and watched his brother sleep.

* * * * * * * *

As she stared after the rider pulling away from the burned out area, her smile grew. The last dynamiting they had done had opened up a whole new vein, and the stones that had been brought out so far were as rich in color as the original ones they had found closer to the mouth of the old, worked out mine a few months back.

She clapped her hands together once in satisfied mirth, and then, she lifted the hem of her dark skirt as she quickly picked her way across the charred remains of the forest fire that had ravaged this section of timber.

Climbing carefully into the buggy, she arranged her skirt and lifted the reins, slapping them across the horse’s rump. She was eager to leave the blackened stand of trees and debris, the eerie quiet a reminder of all she hated about this part of the world.

As she drove down the road leading back toward the finished section of flume, she suddenly remembered another buggy ride, the one in which she had had to sit meekly by as her husband sparred with the blond Barkley bastard that had ruined her future. She narrowed her eyes and wished again, for the hundredth time, that Matt had never felt compelled to reveal his real name to anyone, that he had not agreed to take this job and to lay his past out, bare, for everyone to see.

But, then again, if it had never happened, if they had never returned here, if Barkley had never recognized Matt for who he was, the fire might not have occurred, and she would not have discovered her mine, . . . and all its treasures.

Maybe, if she ever saw him again, she would have to find a proper way to thank the bastard for all that he had put within her grasp.

Chapter 29

Moving slowly and more than a little worn with just the exertion of getting dressed and down the back stairs, Heath hesitated before entering the dining room. He paused just long enough to catch his breath and to see that the one person he most hoped would be there, wasn’t. He pushed his disappointment deeper down inside, covering it up, as if he were pulling a thick canvas over a wagonload of supplies to protect them from an onslaught of rain and wind.

His poker face giving nothing away, he continued on into the room. He leaned down to give Victoria a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “’Mornin’, Mother,” with a smile just for her.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” she returned, smiling up at him, and lifting her hand to touch his face briefly before he continued on around the table. He smiled at Audra and pulled out his chair to sit down beside her.

“’Mornin’, Audra, Jarrod.” Heath exchanged nods with the dark-headed man at the end of the table.

“Heath, how’re you feeling this morning?” Audra asked, sharing a dazzling smile with him.

Heath lifted his eyebrow, and smiled at her as he said, “Fine, Sis,” and reached over with one hand to take the bowl of grits that Jarrod was handing his way. Though Silas had told Heath he prepared the yellow corn concoction specifically for him, he had noticed that his older brother seemed to enjoy it as well, and he was happy to share.

From her end of the table, Victoria was watching Heath’s careful movements, noting his use of the sling for the first time and wondering about it in surprise.

As he returned the large spoon to the bowl, Heath could not help letting his gaze settle for a long moment on Nick’s empty chair across from him.

When he finally glanced away, the other three tried to return their attention to their food without letting him see that they had all noticed.

He glanced around at the three of them, then quickly picked up the serving spoon from the bowl of scrambled eggs that Audra had thoughtfully moved closer to his plate.

Quietly, he asked, “Nick already headed out?”

Holding his coffee cup in his hand, forearm leaning against the edge of the table, Jarrod caught Victoria’s eye before he turned his attention back to Heath. Audra was staring down at the napkin she was twisting in her lap, as he responded, “He said he had a couple of crews to get started with some fencing today, Heath, and he wouldn’t be in ‘til late.”

Heath nodded and began to push the eggs around the plate with his fork.

Victoria and Jarrod again shared a look, and she tried to change the topic of conversation, “Heath, I asked Silas to save a few apples out of his baking this morning, so you could take them out to Gal later if you like.”

He glanced over at her, giving her a small smile. “Thank you, Mother. I’m sure she’ll like that,” he said, before continuing to maneuver the fork without taking a bite.

Suddenly, he drew in a deep, quiet breath, his eyes closed, and he returned his fork and the napkin from his lap to the white tablecloth. Quietly, he pushed up from the table and said, “Excuse me. ‘Don’t feel much like breakfast.”

Audra turned in her chair to speak to him, saying, “Heath!”

But, it was too late. He was through the doorway, across the kitchen, and out the back door before she had finished saying his name.

She turned slowly back around and looked at Jarrod, who was standing by his chair at the surprise of Heath’s hasty exit, before staring at her mother. Tears welled in her eyes, and she asked them, “Why isn’t Nick here? Can’t the line crews work without him for a few more days?”

Searching Jarrod’s eyes again, she exclaimed, “Heath needs him!”

Sighing, Victoria said, placing her own napkin on the table beside her plate, “I’m afraid it’s my fault, Audra.”

Her confusion evident, Audra’s blue eyes searched her mother’s grey, before the matriarch explained, “I made the mistake of mentioning to Nick night-before-last that Heath’s memory had been returning, that he seemed to remember Jarrod. Then, I told him that Heath had remembered something that had happened with me months ago, on the dedication day of your father’s statue.”

Easing slowly back into his chair and nodding, Jarrod indicated that her words made sense to him.

He said, “Well, that explains it. Nick made a comment to me last night, after you two went upstairs, that he was glad for me. I was reading, and I didn’t pay much attention. When I asked what he meant, and he didn’t answer, I just thanked him and kept pouring over my book. He headed upstairs right after that, and I just shrugged it off. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I didn’t realize it, but he must have been referring to Heath remembering me. I guess his feelings were hurt over it.”

Audra looked down at her twisted napkin again, and spoke quietly, “No, Jarrod, I think it’s more than that. . . . Now, I think I understand. . .”

Both of them looked carefully at the sadness in her eyes as she glanced up, catching the eyes of first one, then the other.

“Audra?” Victoria asked quietly.

“Mother, I think they are both upset about something. I walked into the barn yesterday before lunch, and they were in there. I could tell they had had some words and both of them were breathing hard. They were staring at each other, and well. . . . They got very close to each other, almost in each other’s face as if they had been getting ready to take a punch at each other, or as if. . . as if they already had.”

She paused for breath, trying not to look at her mother, whose eyes had grown huge at this information.

“I take it from your description, that they were pretty angry at each other?” Jarrod asked.

She nodded, her eyes looking at his, asking him to do something, anything, to help her brothers.

“Audra, do you know what they were angry about?” Victoria spoke up from the other end of the table.

She shook her head this time, “No, Mother.” Then, she thought about it some more, and she bit her lip. They watched her, waiting to hear the rest of it.

Her words started slowly and built in momentum as she continued, “But, . . . just as I came in, I saw Heath jerk his arm away from Nick, and I heard him say something about no man sending him anywhere. Nick. . . well, Nick looked positively sick, and he staggered backwards a step, before he rushed back at Heath, as if he were going to hit him.”

Victoria gasped, and Jarrod asked, “He didn’t though?”

“No, not that I actually saw. They just stood there, glaring at each other for a few moments, breathing hard. Then, I deliberately made some noise with my hand on the door, and they seemed to just. . . just drift apart, trying to act like nothing was wrong, but keeping an eye on each other just the same.”

She covered her face in her hands and cried, her voice rising, “It was awful! I didn’t know what to do!”

Victoria looked at Jarrod worriedly, and he rose from his seat. He stepped around Heath’s now empty chair, and sat down in it sideways, facing Audra. He reached out for her hand and said, “Honey, it’s alright. Neither one has ever backed down from the other, and I don’t think it would be the same around here if they started now, do you?”

He tried to smile down at her, but she kept her face averted, so she didn’t see.

He tried again, “Audra, somehow, we’ll get through to both of them, remind them that whatever it is, the only way for them to get past it is together.”

She nodded, her face still turned downward, her eyes closed.

As he stood to leave, she said quietly, “Jarrod, I don’t think Nick’s feelings are hurt because Heath hasn’t remembered him.”

The tall, dark-headed man stopped and looked down at his sister as she spoke, remembering the last time how accurate her observations had been of her quiet brother. He had learned the hard way that when she spoke directly from the heart like this, she always had something to share worth his time to hear.

“I think Heath’s memories about Nick are coming back, . . . only . . . .only, I don’t think they’re very pleasant. He’s more comfortable with you and Mother now, and we’ve talked enough so that, even though he doesn’t really remember me yet, he’s comfortable with me.”

She stopped again, looking up into her mother’s worried grey eyes. She added, “But, . . . I think it’s tearing them both up that, with Nick, Heath can’t seem to remember anything, but . . . but the . . . the. . . “

“Battles?” Jarrod supplied.

“Yes, . . . that’s it exactly. All he remembers are the battles. . . ,“ she trailed off.

Jarrod returned, leaned over to kiss her blond hair, and he said quietly, “We all know there is much more to the two of them together than fighting and brawling. But, patience has never been Nick’s strong suit, and I’m afraid that’s the very thing Heath needs the most from him right now.”

He squeezed his sister’s shoulders and looked at his mother, as he said reassuringly, “I’m supposed to be at the office to meet with a client in an hour, but, I’ll come home at lunch and talk to Heath then.”

She nodded at him, and he added, “You two lovely ladies try to have a good morning. I’m sure it will all work out if we just give it a little more time.”

He picked up his hat from a damask-covered side chair and headed for the front door, where faithful Ciego already had his buggy waiting.

Continued…