Remnants of Trust

Chapters 49-57

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 49

Victoria had time to do no more than gasp, a sharp inhale of her breath that corresponded with the sickening thud, as a rifle butt made contact beneath Ogden’s jaw line. The white-haired old man was almost lifted out of his boots by the force, then he crumpled in a heap on the thick layer of straw, the weight of the heavy saddle covering his chest.

She moved quickly, struggling to use her voice to calm the skittish mare at the upsetting disturbance almost beneath her hooves. “Whoa, Girl. Easy, Misty,” Victoria cooed, though her heart was pounding in worry for Ogden.

Brushing hurriedly past the man in the nondescript, brown-plaid shirt who was leering at her, delighted with the results of his blow, she hauled the saddle off of Ogden and bent down to touch, first the already darkening laceration along his jaw, then, to feel for the pulse of blood in his neck. Assuring herself that he was still alive, she tried to lift his knees to drag him out of the stall and away from the horse’s hooves.

“Easy, Girl,” she continued to croon as she struggled with her burden. Glancing up at the unmoving man above her, she then demanded, “Help me move him. Now!”

The dark-headed man smiled widely at her and reached down. But, rather than grabbing one of Ogden’s legs, his grip closed on her arm. “Let’s go. There’s someone in the house looking fer you, Lady.”

With no regard for how much he was hurting her, the man proceeded to haul her out of the barn and toward the side door to the kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw no movement from Ogden, but was relieved to see that her horse had moved away and was standing against the far wall of the stall.

Maybe he would be all right.

Then, though she struggled to keep her feet under her, she felt a moment of great relief upon entering the quiet, empty kitchen.

Thank goodness both Audra and Silas had gone over to the Johnson’s earlier!

The moment, however, was short-lived as the man pulled her through the dining room and into the foyer of her magnificent home. While she noticed the person dressed in light-colored clothing descending the staircase, her eyes were immediately drawn to the redheaded man standing by the table of crystal decanters in the parlour. It was all she could do to stay silent, struggling with herself to keep from struggling with the man beside her.

She knew, at all costs, she must not show her fear.

“Hey, Mason,” the man beside her hollered happily, “Look-ee here what I found!”

As he turned, their eyes met, and she could not avoid the involuntary, internal shiver that began at the base of her spine and quickly made its way up her back, her skin crawling. The eyes staring at her were black, and though a smile slowly graced his face, she knew the man behind the grin had no conscience. There was nothing inside him except the cruelty that must have long ago replaced his heart.

Setting his drink down, he slowly walked toward the three of them and said, “Well, Aimes, you done good. You found the prize. Where was she?”

“In the barn, getting ready to ride out, looked like, Boss. Oh, and there’s an old man out there, but he won’t be going anywhere fer a while.”

Mason nodded, as he reached out, grabbed Victoria’s other arm, and hauled her close to his chest as Aimes released her. His alcohol-covered breath washed hotly over her as he leaned down into her face. The one she had just seen him consume was definitely not his first of the day.

“You thought you’d gotten away from me, didn’t you? ‘Thought you’d seen the last of me? Well, I’ve got news for you, Woman,” he snarled as he viciously backhanded her across the cheek, “We’re just getting started, you and me. And, this time, there’s no blue-eyed Jehus around to protect you, are there?”

Only the pressure of his fingers biting into her arm kept her from falling as the force of the slap whipped her head back. Slowly, she lifted her grey eyes, and she glared back into the polished onyx of his.

Then, willing herself not to flinch as he reached up and grabbed the back of her hair, she held perfectly still. He leaned down again and said ominously, “First, we’re gonna get ourselves far away from this fine house of yours. Then, after your family pays up, and I take my time killing that blond-headed bastard, you and I are gonna . . . .”

He suddenly stopped speaking. His almost lifeless eyes lit up, and he started laughing. Despite her best efforts to rein her emotions in, he had seen her eyes widen in instant guilt and worry when he had mentioned the blond.

With a smile twisting his sharp features into a sneer, he added, “We’ll have a long time together to quench my anger at the way you escaped from me that night----‘cause they’re never gonna see you alive again-----even after they pay!”

Then, still smiling at her, he hauled her by her arm over toward the side table near the cold, grey marble fireplace, and he picked up the framed family picture. Bringing it up to her eye level, he turned the faces of her family toward her and laughed again.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t figure it out, did you?

Slowly, Victoria raised her eyes to meet his. Quietly, with her voice hard and even, she replied, “Ride out. Now. All of you, while you still can. There will be no place for you to hide if you do this, Mason.”

He narrowed his eyes, the smirk gone, and glared down at her, the challenge of her words and the courage in her tone unmistakable. Then, he reached up and turned her face away from him, smiling again at the bruise beginning to form on her cheek.

“You know, I never could understand the two of you, that Stagecoach Charlie willing to die for you there in those rocks and, then, fighting me so hard when most would’ve just curled up and died there in that rain that night. And you, you kept on telling me to let you help him, that I could do what I wanted to with you afterwards. Yep, it was touching, very touching, Woman, but I just couldn’t understand it.”

Mason shook the picture in her face again, then said, “I thought you was just being one of those Good Samaritans people go on about. But, I found out up there at that lumber camp, heard them telling about how this bastard Heath got taken in by the Stockton Barkleys that owned the lumber operation. And, I heard Bentell and his wife cursing him, blaming him for all that had gone wrong.”

His dark eyes were wide, the words coming more rapidly as he continued, “Hearing his name got me to thinking, to remembering, and I started asking me some more questions, found out what he looked like, even found out about you.” He laughed again and said, “That woman up there was only too happy to share how much she despised you and him both. She tole me how you took him in, even call him son.”

The red-haired man laughed again, shaking her by the arm, and waving the picture around in the other hand.

“That Cynda Bentell hates you Barkleys, you know. Hates you and this blond-headed bastard, especially. She wants to see you both pay, near about as much as I wanna see him twisting on the end of a knife again and see your family forking over fists full of money for their dear mother’s safe return.”

He shook her again and spat out, “But, there won’t be any safe return! What d’ya have to say about that, Woman?”

Victoria glared at him as calmly as she could, willing her voice to remain even, its tone sharp enough to cut through the ice she felt leaching out of him through the grip of his cold fingers pressing through the dark brown fabric of her sleeve.

“Get out of my house, Mason.”

He stared at her then, before he raised the picture frame up as if contemplating bashing it into the side of her face.

Then, slowly, he lowered it, his eyes narrowing at her.

“You know, I think we’ll just leave this note right here with this picture.”

He abruptly pushed Victoria away and sent her careening into the grasp of Aimes behind her. Then, as she watched, Mason reached into the pocket of his black shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Opening it, he tucked two sides of it down into the corner of the picture frame, between the frame and the glass. Then, looking around, he quickly made up his mind and walked over to the round table standing in the middle of the foyer. He placed the picture frame so that it stood in front of the vase of blush-colored roses.

Then, not satisfied that the picture and ransom note would be easily seen there, he picked up the blue and white china vase and hollered to the third man standing at the base of the stairs, watching.

“Here! Catch!”

He tossed the heavy container, filled with roses and water, to the man, who was too far away and, despite his efforts, promptly felt it slide through his fingers. When it shattered, the blue and white pieces scattered in all directions, and the water splashed up to splatter the man’s light brown pants from the knees down.

“Son of a . . . ,” the man yelped, jumping back.

Mason laughed heartily, and, satisfied that someone would certainly notice the out-of-place frame now, he turned toward the side hallway and the study beyond. Yelling over his shoulder, he said, “Put her in a chair and watch her good, Aimes! We’ll be back.” As he started through the open doorway, he motioned for the other man to follow.

She heard him say as he disappeared through the doorway, “House this big’s gotta have a few more things I wanna see before we head out.”

“You,” Aimes said, as he tugged her by the arm toward the sleek grey settee. “Sit down over here and keep quiet. You best rest while you ken. He’s got a long ride planned fer all of us.”

Once she was seated, the man walked over to the table behind her and began plundering through its drawers. With one eye on him and the other on the double doors through which Mason had disappeared, she used her booted foot to dislodge a large shard of the porcelain vase that was stuck in the thick rug beneath the round table in front of her. Trying not to look down, or directly at what she was doing, she eased the piece toward her with the toe of her boot.

Furtively checking behind and in front of her again, she quickly leaned down and picked up the sharp piece and tucked it into the pocket of her riding skirt.

Previous experience with Mason had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about his brand of cruelty, and if she was sure of anything, it was that she never intended to let him make her feel entirely helpless, not ever again.

* * * * * * * *

“Dammit!”

The quiet, almost whispered curse cut the sweltering, thick air that remained behind, left in the wake of the drenching rainstorm.

Wasting no time, Heath expertly turned the horse into a wide arc, keeping the powerful animal on the same lead and balanced through the turn. Driving the bay forward with his legs, he guided his horse back toward the river, but he made sure to keep the low line of hills between him and the group he had just spotted riding in the same direction down below, and slightly behind him, on the river road.

The unmistakable sight of the small, silver-haired figure on the easily-recognizable palomino mare, the flash of Misty Girl’s white stockings and high-action visible even at this distance, had sent his heart plummeting to his boots, like a heavy stone falling through still water.

As he dug in his spurs, he felt his bay horse surge forward beneath him.

He had to get back to the bridge before they reached it.

It was the only chance she had.

Chapter 50

Victoria’s head was throbbing with the last blow Mason had landed on her face. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and she searched the dry, brown summer landscape for any sign of help.

Her worry for Ogden was weighing on her heavily. If he were not found until morning, would he be all right? Or, at his age, would his injuries prove too much for him to overcome?

When the men had hauled her back out to the barn to leave, the white-haired, older man had not moved. And, they had refused to let her check on him, with Aimes holding her tightly despite her demands to the contrary, as the other one had quickly saddled her horse for her.

Now, she was riding with her hands tied behind her, and the three men, who had been joined by a fourth that had apparently been stationed as a lookout, were spread out around her. Just grateful that none of their hired hands or her beloved family had ridden in and been ambushed by the guard, she had done her best to remain impassive when Mason had insisted on tying her this way, instead of allowing her hands to remain in front of her.

She had glared at him when he had slapped her that second time, as he had fumed, “No, Aimes, you idiot, I tole you what she did the last time we tied her hands to the saddle in front!”

Still, even at this, she was hopeful, because she had managed to palm the china shard from the vase, and she had closed her fingers around it, hiding it, before he had roughly tied her wrists together behind her back.

Now, as she scanned the area she knew so well, she half-hoped to see someone who could help her, and . . . . she half-hoped to see no one, knowing anyone who attempted to rescue her could be hurt or killed in the attempt.

As they turned and followed the path of the river, heading northeast against the rain-swollen current, she continued to wrack her brain to figure out a way she could get herself out of this. For a few moments, she watched the three men in front of her, trying to determine their level of alertness.

Her sharp, grey eyes didn’t miss the way the first man, the one she had not seen inside the house, continually surveyed the terrain on both sides of the river. But, in contrast to him, the second rider, the one whose light-colored clothing was still damp from the broken vase of water, seemed more concerned about not incurring the wrath of Mason, who rode directly behind him.

Mason was also the one leading her horse.

She immediately decided that this second rider was the member of the gang that Mason considered the weakest, the one he had singled out to intimidate, feeding on the lack of strength he perceived in his newest victim, like a vicious wolverine drawn to carrion by the pungent scent of blood.

Several times since leaving the ranch, Mason had intentionally run his horse up on top of the younger man’s mount from behind, dragging her own along with him. When the man’s horse had skittishly reacted at being bumped and jostled, it had almost unseated the younger man. Mason had laughed with glee and had taunted the dark-haired man in front of him.

“Hey, Aimes, look at him. He can’t even keep control of his horse on the road. What’s he think’s gonna happen when we cross that skinny, swinging bridge again? Reckon he’s gonna wind up having to swim across?”

Victoria immediately knew the look of fear the younger man flashed back over his shoulder was a mistake that would further goad Mason, and she could certainly commiserate with the victim. But, just as quickly, she started wondering if she could somehow make use of this situation between the two of them.

Last, in line was Aimes, bringing up the rear. While she did not believe that he possessed the cruelty of Mason, neither did she think Aimes had Mason’s intelligence.

Her glances back, over her shoulder to look at him, told her that, except for the times Mason called out to him, Aimes appeared to be staring out across the water, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

The only one behind her, he was not watching her at all.

Trying to ignore her throbbing cheekbone, she concentrated on thinking about what was ahead of them, hoping to come up with a way she could use her knowledge of the area, and what she knew of these men, to her advantage.

Not eager to stay in their company for any length of time, she acknowledged to herself that she was willing to take a few risks in order to have a chance of escaping from them.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully worked her raw, aching wrists against each other, trying to create some play in the ropes that bound them together behind her. It was difficult with the jogging motion of the horse beneath her, but she knew this gait gave her another advantage. As long as she was not too obvious about it, the movement of both her horse and his would make detecting what she was doing with her hands all that much harder for Aimes to notice from behind her, if he did happen to look.

Trying not to display her concentration on her face, just in case Mason looked back at her, she managed to twist her hands so that the palm of each was resting against the inner forearm of the other. Then, carefully, so she would not drop the porcelain shard, she turned her right hand slightly, fingers curled around the fragment, and she began to work it back and forth, sawing its sharp surface across the rope binding her left wrist to the right.

* * * * * * * *

As he and the galloping bay swept down the slope and the black hooves met the still wet, but smoother surface of the river road, Heath hazarded a look back over his left shoulder. There was enough bend along the river here that, with his line of sight broken by the rolling hills behind him, he could not see the five riders at all.

That also meant that they would not be able to see him, at least, not yet.

But, what about when he reached the bridge?

Would they be close enough by then to catch sight of him out in front of them?

He couldn’t let that happen.

Heath leaned down low over the horse’s lathered neck, asking for more speed from the tiring animal.

“C’mon, Boy, just a little further now. Just get us ta the bridge,” he said encouragingly into the black-tipped ear that flickered toward his voice.

The horse’s rhythmic blowing, the slightly muffled hoof beats on the damp earth, and the rushing of the water off to the left side, were the only sounds that made it past the throbbing behind his eyes, past his intense focus on his destination before him. The headache that had plagued him for hours seemed to merge with the pounding of the horse’s hooves beneath him, as the horse flattened out and barely skimmed the surface of the wide track.

He had to reach the bridge.

He had to make it across before the riders saw him.

He had to reach the other side and head up river, before they realized he was there.

He had to get into position before they saw him, or he would be unable to help her at all.

“C’mon, Horse. Just a little further.”

Suddenly, he saw it, the familiar curve of its shape as it spanned the river, beckoning him, giving him hope of finding a way out of this for her.

As he and the horse charged toward it, he scanned the bank on the other side of the water, both above and below the bridge. However, the setting sun, its intensity slashing through the minimal clouds that remained after the storm, was shining directly into his eyes, making it hard to see anything on the other side.

He narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the light that threatened to sear straight through him, intensifying the sharp headache that he couldn’t out ride.

However, his lop-sided smile lifted one corner of his mouth, as he realized that the very thing that added to his pain now, could, in just a little while, help increase the chances of survival for the woman he now thought of as his mother.

Yes, the sun setting directly to the west of this particular bend in the river was going to definitely give him a much-needed edge-----provided he could make it to the other side in time.

Within moments, Heath eased the big bay down smoothly into a walk, turning the animal onto the bridge and letting the horse pick his way gingerly across the wet boards.

For a few minutes, Heath kept his eyes on the rushing of the river below, gauging how fast the water was moving by watching pieces of floating debris. Then, he turned to gaze at the road back to his left, watching for any sign of the approaching riders.

If they caught him out in the open like this, she would have no one to help her.

Just a little further. . . .

Forcefully pushing out breath he wasn’t even aware he had been holding, he turned the horse up river to the right, as soon as all four hooves touched the rocky surface of the narrow trail on the other side.

Worried about the damage he was doing to the game horse under him, but driven by his concerns for the safety of the woman behind him, he immediately pushed the bay back into a gallop, despite the rough terrain. The going was made even more difficult by the irregular shadows cast across the trail by the slowly sinking sun.

And, just as he had known there wouldn’t be, there was no substantial cover anywhere.

“But,” he told himself firmly, still thinking hard about his plan, “This’ll just hav’ta do, ‘cause there was none on the other side either.”

Flanked on one side by the reddish-yellow of the rocky, clay wall rising up on his left and on the other by the reddish-brown of the steep bank sloping down to the rain-engorged river on his right, Heath had already figured his only option was to cross to this side and head a ways up the trail.

He had his eye on a darkened area, deep in the shadows, a slight depression in the rock wall that he had noticed from the other side. When he reached it, he would turn back toward the bridge, . . . and he would wait.

His plan to free his mother was not elaborate, but, borne of desperation and forced on them both by lack of time for more careful planning, it, too, would have to do.

With the rock wall beside him to keep his profile from standing out, and with the lengthening shadows created by the sun dropping to the west behind the deep cut, he was hopeful that, if he and the horse stood quietly, the men wouldn’t immediately notice them----at least not before he could take out two or three of them.

Bringing the obedient horse to a halt about one hundred yards above the bridge, Heath used his quiet hands and well-muscled legs to wheel the horse around and ask him to step sideways. This maneuver brought Heath’s right leg almost up against the rough surface of the rock wall. Satisfied that he had placed them in a good place to blend into the shadows cast out across the trail, he loosened the reins and turned his eyes back toward the bridge.

Feeling the hard blowing of the horse beneath him, he knew he could not yet do much to ease the animal’s exhaustion. The bay was too hot to offer him any water. But, since he didn’t know how long he had before his quarry appeared, Heath could not chance the time it would take to provide it anyway. He could not even dismount and loosen the cinch to better allow the horse to blow.

Instead, he offered the lathered animal the only comfort he could by digging the fingers of his right hand just under the edge of the saddle blanket and silently scratching the dark red, sweaty withers for a moment.

Then, letting his eyes settle on the road stretching toward the bend beyond the other side of the bridge, he took a deep breath, and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.

As he mentally prepared himself for what was to come, a fleeting doubt in the horse beneath him flickered across his features. Though the bay’s hard breathing had slowed some in the last moment or two, indicating the animal was recovering from this last exertion, Heath knew the horse was worn out.

And, he hated to ask for more from him.

Worse, he knew that what he was going to attempt was something that, if pushed, he would not think twice about asking of Gal, but, he didn’t know how the horse under him would respond when the moment came.

Just as quickly, however, he discarded his doubts. He admitted to himself that Gal would never have been able to stand up to the unrelenting pace of the last two days. Though he had not had as long to work with and build his trust in the bay as he had had with his little black Modoc, the large, willing animal beneath him now had not balked at anything he had asked of him so far, and he had asked plenty.

But, this?

Heath knew this request he planned could be the last he ever made, and the game horse could die with him, if horse and rider, for any reason, failed to perfectly execute the plan he had mapped out in his head.

For one thing, if the horse, either out of simple bad luck or sheer exhaustion, lost his footing on the wet surface of the rocky trail, it could result in a fall neither of them would ever recover from.

And, as for his mother if that happened . . . .

Heath shook his head. “No,” he whispered aloud, his eyes still searching the road as it emerged from around the curve beyond the bridge, “No need ta think on that. You’ll do just fine, Horse. That Ol’ Nick, he sure recognized your spirit an’ endurance when he found ‘em, huh, Boy?”

Taking another deep breath and releasing it, Heath admitted to himself there was another, even more unpredictable element to his plan---one that he had no control at all over. And, it was more than not knowing if she would be tied to the saddle horn during this encounter with Mason, as she had been before.

In fact, it came down to one question.

How would Victoria Barkley react to what was coming?

He had no way to warn her, no way to signal his intentions to her. He would just have to trust in her ability to keep her wits about her, and he would have to trust in her . . . to trust in him.

Refusing to allow the uneasiness he felt to find a fertile place to flourish, Heath closed his eyes for a brief second, and took another deep breath.

Then, he opened his eyes, and narrowed them immediately at his first sight of the riders on the other side of the river. The pale blue, afternoon sky of his eyes turned into the dark, torrential blue of an approaching storm, and his jaw clenched in a hard, tight line.

Now, in the next few minutes, all of the emotions and events of the months since he had arrived at the Barkley Ranch, all of the anger, all of the joy, all of the betrayal, and all of the love, would merge together like the tributary waters of the river beside him.

The feelings and decisions of the recent past would, like both calm, crystal-clear streams and wildly-turbulent, muddy rapids, pass under the bridge and flow together downstream in one single, solitary direction. All of it would come together here and now, like the rushing river beside him, racing toward one culminating conclusion----in which he and his mother would either both be swept away forever, . . . or they would both survive together.

For, in the next few minutes, all of the words, feelings, and actions that had been shared between the two of them over the last few months would be reduced to one thing and one thing only.

The success or failure of his plan would all come down to how much trust they had in each other.

Chapter 51

Long ago, Heath had learned the hard lesson of moving through the world quietly, picking the battles he chose to fight with care, so as to not attract the unwanted attention and cruel taunts of those older, larger, and meaner, with plenty of hurt they were willing to kick in his direction. He learned to tread softly, ignoring much of the insults, much of the barbs, rising up only when the fight was truly worth the pain that invariably followed.

It was a lesson that had stood him well in Strawberry. As a youngster, it had allowed him to know when to get out from underfoot when some miner or drifter, grouchy and vicious from more than enough liquor and card playing the night before, had entered the livery looking for a horse to rent and an excuse to lash out in any direction.

Later, the same lesson had made a difference in his daily survival during the war, whether he was moving silently through the thick woods and deep hollars of a Blue Ridge battlefield on reconnaissance, or blending into the vast, muddy wasteland that had been Carterson.

In either situation, during that particular period of his life, to be seen, to be noticed at all, was to die.

Now, as he waited patiently, sitting astride the still sweating bay, he again prepared to risk his life against that well-honed ability to blend quietly into the background. Soon, he would risk her life against it as well.

His reins were dallied once around his saddle horn, and his rifle was already in position, its stock butted up against his right shoulder and its sight aimed for the near side of the bridge. Though tough on his still stiff left shoulder to keep his arm extended and the rifle braced in place for so long, he knew he did not dare risk the movement of lifting it later.

Staying invisible without any cover meant staying still. He could afford no sudden movements, no unexpected reflection of light, that might draw their attention toward him.

Having figured that they would place his mother somewhere in the middle of the group to cross, all that was required now was to wait for them to form up to traverse the bridge---that and to make sure that she wasn’t tied to the saddle. If she was, she would be unable to do what he was going to ask of her, and the risk of trying to get her away from them then, may prove insurmountable for them both.

As he sat his horse, waiting, watching, Heath tried to ignore the relentless headache, aggravated by the sun’s rays glinting off of the water. Instead, he reflected on the choices he had made over the years, as well as the times when he’d had no choices, that had brought him to this moment.

As a child, he had belonged to his mama, and she to him. He had taken his responsibilities to her seriously, and just as she had protected him from the cruelty of the world as best she could, he had also protected her. He had learned to take care of himself, choosing his skirmishes consciously, when possible. He had learned to avoid trouble where he could, to keep from bringing it home to her.

As he had grown to understand more than any boy should have had to know, he had learned to judge the cut of a man by the look in his eye, and to recognize the motivations behind individual actions, whether honorable or not.

Even as little more than a boy in his early teens, he had learned to gentle a horse or shoot a gun better than most men ever did. And, he had learned to rely on himself, becoming fiercely independent, since it had never appeared that he would ever have any place to truly belong.

Now, though he had lost his mama along the way, he had finally found everything he had ever longed for, a place to belong, a family to protect----and one whom, he was slowly coming to believe, would do anything, give anything, to protect him as well.

Images of his beautiful, joyous younger sister and his calm, wise, and extremely honorable, oldest brother filled his heart as he waited, steadying him for what was to come.

Then, with thoughts of Nick, his proud, gentle-warrior brother, swelling his heart, giving his tired body desperately needed strength, Heath lifted his chin slightly, and felt the hard ice of his narrowed gaze renew and intensify.

No matter what happened to him in the next few minutes, Heath knew that if he could manage to free his mother, the woman he loved and revered without limitation, it would be enough.

If he could focus all that he was and all that he had become over his life, if he could use what he had learned to help her to return to the safety of her family, their family, then, every lesson he had learned the hard way, every choice he had ever made that had, in the end, led him home to this family, each and every one of the lessons and choices would have finally been worth whatever price he had paid for them.

But, if he failed, as his heart clenched tightly in his chest at the thought, he knew, that even if he survived, he would never be able to go home.

While his brothers and sister would not blame him if he failed, of that he was quite certain, he knew he would never be able to look into their eyes again without seeing both his decision and his actions reflected back at him, reflected back from out of the origins of his own tormented gaze.

For, if he survived and she didn’t, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

Heath took in a deep breath, seeking the calm, still depths he had always drawn on from within himself.

And, he watched the first rider turn his horse . . . and start across the bridge.

Then, very quickly, he noticed the skittishness of the second horse, as well as its rider’s apprehension, both clearly evident, even from this distance. Almost heaving a sigh of relief that Misty was not directly following that jittery animal, Heath saw the red-headed Mason start across, third in line, leading his mother’s palomino. He pushed down the instant outrage he felt at seeing her with that man again, battling with himself to retain his hard-won calmness.

Slowly, then, his mouth lifting slightly at one corner, he saw that she did not appear to be tied to the saddle horn. That fact alone, improved their chances immensely.

Reluctantly leaving the sight of her proud, defiant posture, he let his eyes shift to the left, and he saw the hooves of the last horse step onto the bridge from the far side. Knowing it was time to act, he quickly swept his gaze to the right, across all five riders, moving back to his first target, the man leading the way.

Suddenly, Heath’s breath froze in his throat, and his eyes widened. Then, he narrowed his stormy gaze and squinted through the dark shade that enveloped him, staring back out into the bright sunlight highlighting all five figures on the bridge.

Something wasn’t right.

Frantically, his eyes sought what his brain had registered, searching for whatever it was . . . . that wasn’t as it should have been.

“No!” he whispered, the fear for his mother returning hard and fast, ramming into his gut with the force of a tree trunk hurtling along in the swollen waters of the flooding river.

She wasn’t leaning slightly forward, her hands tied together in front of her, unable to move with the horse properly because her hands were tied to the saddle horn, . . . but, neither was her left forearm slightly in front of her body, reins in hand, as it should be. Instead, he quickly realized that she was sitting bolt upright, too upright, too straight, in a slightly unnatural position, with her elbows pulled back.

And, it wasn’t just that he was seeing her usual regal carriage. . . . that ramrod straight posture that was uniquely hers. With his heart pounding in fear for her, he realized that her wrists were tied behind her.

“No!” he thought silently, a heavy stone resting on his chest, its overwhelming weight of responsibility returning to crush him.

There was no way he could expect her to . . . .

Heath closed his eyes, and swallowed hard, seeing what he had planned to ask of her unfold inside his head, watching it play out with this one detail rearranged. One of his worries had been that she would be tied to the saddle horn, and his relief had been great when he had realized she wasn’t.

But, with her hands tied behind her . . . .

How could he ask her to trust him that much?

What if she . . . . ?

Blinking rapidly, trying to fight down the agony he felt, he quickly realized neither of them had any choice.

There was no other way.

Steeling his heart, and trying not to think of the grief that would consume his brothers and sister, consume them all if he failed, he struggled to focus once more.

All five riders were slowly picking their way across the narrow bridge, now.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Her horse was close to the lowest point of the slope in the bridge. He had to act, now, before the first horse reached the end.

It was time.

Seconds before the lead rider’s horse reached the last few planks, Heath slowly eased his cheek down against the warm wood of the well-oiled stock and took aim, his body relaxing into the familiar feel of the rifle in his grasp, like a mother cradling her newborn child against her breast.

Slowing his breathing to nothing, and drawing a bead on the man leading the way across the bridge, he gently squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 52

A single syllable of sound was all the man in the lead uttered as he was flung from his horse by the force of the unexpected bullet and fell, crashing awkwardly over the ropes, to the river below.

The retort of the rifle was much louder, however, leaving no one on the bridge in any doubt as to what was happening.

Then, before any of the men could react, there was another shot, and Aimes, the one bringing up the rear, was toppled from his saddle as well.

Victoria ducked low on Misty’s neck and glanced back. She saw his wide-open eyes staring at nothing, as Aimes’ body lay unmoving on the planks of the bridge beside his horse. The horse behind her tried to turn, and with no room to maneuver, sidled nervously away from the body and the smell of its blood.

Then, turning her head the other way to determine where the shots had come from, she saw him.

Charging toward them was an image that would remain indelibly printed on her mind’s eye, like a tintype done in shades of tan and blue on a red-clay background. It was as if the face of the rocky, clay wall had come alive, melting into motion, merging into man and horse, galloping into battle.

“Heath!”

His name leapt from her lips, the joy of seeing him, warring fiercely with the fear that choked her, as the knowledge of what he was doing slammed into her.

The bridge was beginning to swing wildly as the frightened horses, all still on the bridge but the first one, began crashing into each other, trying to get away from the sounds of the firing and shouting, reverberating off of the rocks.

Heath was yelling something again and again as he charged toward the bridge, but, she could not make it out. She watched him intently, then looked around wildly to figure out what he would want her to do, trying desperately to understand.

The youngest of the gang, the man in the light-colored clothing, had lifted his gun to fire back at Heath, but another retort from her son’s rifle silenced this threat. Victoria saw the frantic horse rear up, dumping the now dead man behind it, as Mason’s panicked horse shied to avoid the body.

Heath was still coming toward them, not slowing, even for the other horse that veered out of the way, as he neared the end of the bridge. Then, in the blink of an eye, Victoria saw her son toss the rifle to the side and bring up his pistol from its holster, pointing it toward the only man still astride a horse.

In front of her, Mason threw his leg over his crazed mount, firing again and again at Heath with his revolver as he did so. Then, he ran back along the bridge, back toward her.

She heard Heath yell again, a single word, barely distinguishable over the sound of the panicked horses, the water rushing beneath her, the reports of the guns, and the pounding of her own blood in her ears.

Then, just as Mason grabbed Misty’s bridle and tried to push the horse’s shoulder toward the right side of the bridge, so he could get past on the left, she suddenly realized what Heath wanted her to do. She glanced down and fear clutched at her, fear of the man approaching on one side, trying to keep her palomino between himself and Heath’s line of fire, and fear of complying with Heath’s request on the other.

With a gasp, as Mason screamed harshly at the terrified palomino to move over, Victoria realized she had no choice. If she stayed where she was, she and Heath would both find themselves right back where they had been before, in the impossible position of Mason using one of them to control the other.

But, how could she? With her hands tied behind her, she knew she would never be able to swim in the strong, fast current of the river.

She would never make it to either bank.

If she did as he asked, she would never live out the day.

Then, just as quickly as they had come, her doubts and fears receded, leaving behind a determined calm that settled over her.

This son of her husband, the son she had not given birth to, was risking everything to save her from Mason, to save her from a fate worse than death.

He had told her to jump, and she had to trust him, had to place her faith in him to help her.

She made up her mind.

“Heath!” she yelled, her eyes catching his for a split second as his bay horse, never faltering in its dead run along the bank, swept past the entrance to the bridge and Heath brought him to a halt, spinning him around to face her, raising his revolver to fire.

Then, as he fired the first of another volley of shots, she kicked her left foot out of the stirrup, placed all her weight into the one on the right, and with her hands still tied behind her back, she summoned her courage and threw herself headlong over the rope railing that supported the slender suspension bridge above the river.

As the angry, muddy water closed over her head, she never heard the shots exchanged above her, the force of her impact with the roiling surface almost stealing her breath, as well as her senses.

Fighting her way to the surface by kicking her legs as hard as she could, she struggled to free her hands. With the rope cut partially through by the long gone porcelain shard, her frantic movements suddenly brought her relief. The rope parted abruptly, and she flailed with both arms, breaching the surface and trying valiantly to stay afloat in the wild river that had already swept her beneath the bridge and back in the direction from which she had just ridden.

* * * * * * * *

Heath felt the horse’s momentum slow slightly in exhaustion, just before they reached the entrance to the bridge. But, he fought to keep the bay moving, despite their near collision with the lead horse as it ran up the trail the other way. He spared only a fleeting moment of concern for the valiant animal beneath him, as he struggled to get off another shot at Mason.

While all of the men were down but one, he knew he only had seconds to deal with that single, merciless threat, or it would all be for nothing. Turning slightly in the saddle, he concentrated on keeping the horse headed in a straight line with his legs, while firing across his left shoulder again with his pistol.

Then, he saw the man dismount from his horse and turn toward his mother.

He could not let him reach her.

For a few moments, he lost sight of her as his galloping horse carried him past the entrance to the bridge and the press of horses there momentarily blocked his view. Then, when he glanced back again, he saw Mason trying to get to her, struggling with the frightened palomino as he shifted his position to keep the horse between himself and Heath’s bullets.

Again, Heath hollered at her, “Jump!”

But, knowing she probably could not hear him, he acknowledged too late that, even if she trusted him completely, even if she had understood his yelled command, he was asking too much of her. Realizing he had to go back to her, he shoved his horse down into a sliding halt and wheeled the bay back toward the bridge with his legs.

In that instant, as he struggled to find another clear shot, all the while knowing he was offering Mason an easy target, his blue eyes met her courageous grey, and hearing her call his name, he knew she finally understood. He took aim at Mason, and tried to provide her some cover as he saw her throw herself off of the golden horse and plunge headlong, toward the water below, her hands still tied behind her back.

Releasing the reins from the horn with his left hand, Heath took another shot at Mason with his right as he turned the horse back around and touched the heaving sides with his spurs. As they careened down the trail beside the river once more, he felt the sting of the bullet pass through his left arm, felt its force almost slam him from his saddle, but he righted himself and kept his eyes trained on the water, searching for the soaked silver hair of the woman he knew was there somewhere.

“Mother!” he yelled, suddenly catching sight of her.

Oblivious to the sound of another bullet, this time striking the rock wall beside him, Heath pushed the horse to get ahead of her. Then, with his attention riveted to the small form struggling to stay on the surface, he turned the horse to the left and leaned back sharply, trying to help the bay remain balanced.

Together, they plunged down the bank, and, with another touch of his spurs, the horse pushed off with his powerful hindquarters and leapt forward, out into the water.

Chapter 53

“Nick,” Jarrod said, uncharacteristic irritation creeping into his tired voice, “Sure, we could go the other way, but, think about it! This way is almost as fast, and it’s easier on the horses.”

“No, Jarrod,” Nick responded angrily, preparing to head down the fork to the right. “It’s taken us too long already. I’m telling you, we can’t waste any more time. I say we go to the right!”

“Nick, look at Coco. We haven’t wasted any time, as you so aptly put it,” Jarrod said exasperatedly, “We’ve pushed them to their limit, already. Now, are you going to honestly tell me that the roughest way is the best one right now? Both of these horses are exhausted.”

Nick hit one gloved fist against his saddle horn in frustration. Then, he quickly made up his mind and started his horse straight ahead along the wagon road Jarrod had recommended. But, unwilling to give in quietly, Nick growled as he did so, “Alright, Big Brother, but you’d better keep that nag of yours moving, ‘cause I don’t intend to let anything happen to Heath because of sitting here arguing with you!”

Relieved, Jarrod nodded, and he quietly followed Nick along the more convoluted, but flatter route.

They crossed the wide, wooden bridge a few minutes later, with both of them noticing how swollen and muddy the river beneath them was. Then, they turned right and followed the swiftly moving water, as it led them on its meandering route toward the ranch.

It was almost an hour later when, riding at an easy lope side by side, they heard the sound of a single shot, followed immediately by two more. Then, with a glance at each other, a glance that telegraphed their instant, pent up fear for their brother, they yelled to their horses and, as one, sent them both into a dead run.

As they headed toward the narrow, swinging bridge that they knew spanned the river just around the next curve, Jarrod tried to imagine what could be happening up ahead. Suddenly, he realized he may have been wrong in his assertions to Nick.

If Mason and his men had come down from the lumber camp, going toward Stockton, they would have taken the main road. And, to remain unnoticed, they probably would have asked around about a little used, back route to the ranch. Some unsavory character in town would have surely obliged them and pointed out the old river trail that used the narrow bridge just ahead of them, the one that he and Nick would have reached sooner if they had gone the way Nick wanted to a little while back.

“But,” Jarrod wondered to himself as he pushed Jingo to stay close to Coco, “If it is Mason and his men up ahead, who would they have encountered out here to shoot at?” Trying to calm himself, he thought, “Just because we hear gunfire, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s them, or if it is, that they’re shooting at Heath.”

Nick, for his part, was concentrating on listening to the sounds of the guns in front of them, trying to figure out what they were riding into. He was positive that the first shot they had heard moments before had been a rifle. It had been closely followed by another two, probably from the same gun. But, now, the sounds had changed, and it wasn’t just that he and Jarrod had begun moving swiftly in that direction.

“No,” Nick thought, “There is a real battle going on up there, and the last several shots came from a pistol.”

Then, as the two of them swept around the curve, their guns drawn, the first thing they both saw was their mother’s distinctive palomino mare, her golden color and shining white markings unmistakable, as she stood almost cross-ways, fidgeting nervously, in the middle of the narrow bridge.

“Mother!” Jarrod exclaimed.

At the same moment, he and Nick both realized that the woman on the horse, the woman they loved, was in serious and immediate danger. Her hands were tied behind her back and a man with no hat and bright red hair was advancing on her.

Nick searched the area, trying to figure out the rest of the situation. Why were four horses, three of them rider-less, on the bridge? And, who was shooting at whom?

Then, suddenly, as the man reaching out for Misty’s bridle turned and shot at someone on the far bank, on the other side of the bridge that Nick couldn’t see, he realized what was happening.

“Jarrod!” he cried, using his horse, already slightly in front of Jingo, to turn both galloping animals toward the left, away from the river. There was no cover here, except for the rolling hills off to their left, and if they kept riding at this pace, they would be beyond the bridge in a matter of seconds.

He did not recognize the red-headed man, and with his mother’s hands tied, it was a reasonable belief, though not a sure bet, that the man was her kidnapper, not just someone trying to help her. And, if the man on the bridge was the enemy, it was best to stay behind him.

Dismounting quickly, he turned Coco the other way and swatted the chocolate-colored rump, sending his horse back up the road the way they had just come.

As Jarrod followed suit with his chestnut, Nick lay down just off the edge of the road opposite from the river, using the low depression between the road and the slight rise behind him for concealment. With Jarrod quickly joining him, they both trained their pistols on the red-haired man, the only person they could see holding a gun.

The palomino was moving restlessly, as were the other horses, and the bridge was swinging wildly. Nick swore in exasperation as he lost sight of the red-haired man for a moment.

Then, Jarrod’s words in his ear caught his attention, “Nick, her hands are tied behind her. That man with the red hair, do you think it’s Carl Mason?”

“Yeah, I think it must be. . . . He’s firing at someone on the other side. Somebody over there’s got them all stopped on that bridge in a very vulnerable position.”

While they had been talking, they got another glimpse of Mason, who fired another shot off to his right. Then, they heard a shout, heard another shot, and saw their mother starting to move.

“That sounded like . . . ,” Jarrod started. Then, he gasped and got to his knees as if to reach out to her, as he heard more shots and saw Victoria Barkley plunge headlong over the rope railing of the bridge and fall into the water below.

“No!”

“What the . . .?” Nick cursed, trying to understand what had just happened. “Jarrod, can you see her?”

“No! I’m going after her!” Jarrod, staying low, turned and ran back up the road to retrieve his horse.

His mind was in a turmoil, fear for his mother granting his boots wings. If the shout they had heard had really been Heath, then why would he risk hitting her while shooting at Mason with her so close by? His brother’s bullet must have hit her, knocking their mother from her saddle and into the water!

With his heart in his throat, Jarrod grabbed up Jingo’s reins and mounted swiftly, turned the white-faced chestnut around, and lying low over the horse’s neck, took off back down the road, past Nick, and toward the bridge.

Anguished at what he had seen, Nick sucked in a heavy breath and fired off several shots at the man he thought must be Mason. Just before Jarrod flew past him on his horse, Nick’s bullet found his mark, hitting the redhead in the leg. Then, with the man down, Nick ran toward the bridge, following in his brother’s wake on foot.

As he approached the bridge, Nick saw the man raise himself to his knees on the bridge and get off another couple of shots in the other direction. He appeared to be more concerned about hitting someone on the other side than protecting his back.

Running forward, Nick puzzled over the man’s single-minded focus. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the man he had just shot wasn’t Carl Mason, wasn’t the person who was holding his mother. Maybe . . .

But, hadn’t that shout he had heard been his brother’s voice?

Unwilling to shoot again until he was more sure, Nick ran toward the bridge with both eyes on the red-haired man, whose back was fully exposed to him. Then, suddenly, he realized there was only one way to know for sure.

He came to a stop, breathing hard, his pistol in his hand down by his side, Nick yelled loudly, “Mason! Carl Mason!”

The man turned his head, looking back over his shoulder, and despite the bullet wound in his leg, he rose to his feet and turned to face Nick. No longer concerned now about his quarry on the other side of the bridge taking a shot up at him, Mason didn’t even bother keeping the palomino between himself and Heath.

He answered Nick’s call, with a loud snarl, “What if I am? Who wants to know?”

“Name’s Nick Barkley,” the dark-haired rancher returned, as he slowly advanced on the man, gun in hand, but held loosely down at his side.

He saw the fox-like features, the dark eyes narrowing as he approached.

Suddenly, the man dove toward the planking beneath his feet, firing at Nick. But, Nick was quicker, and the man’s bullets went wide, as Nick’s shots both found Mason’s side.

Breathing deeply, Nick stood slowly from his defensive crouch. Then, he advanced on the body of the man that had returned to torment his family.

* * * * * * * *

As Jarrod mounted and turned his horse downriver, his thoughts were on the woman he had seen break the surface of the water just under the bridge moments before. Though Jingo’s gallop was surefooted and strong, it seemed to Jarrod as if they were moving as slowly as the setting sun, its flaming circumference broken in half now as it continued to drop almost imperceptibly beneath the horizon to the west.

When he passed the entrance to the bridge, and his view of the river stretched, unimpeded, toward the wide curve ahead, his breath caught in his throat.

“Heath,” he whispered, both fear and relief surging through him at the sight.

* * * * * * * *

Nick hauled in a deep, worried breath, his fear for his mother triggering an epic battle inside his heart. More than anything, he wanted to pursue Jarrod and help him find the tiny woman who had fallen to the water moments before. But, his sense of duty and purpose asserted itself, forcing him to first be sure that Mason, and the rest of the men on the bridge, were no longer a threat.

The dark-haired rancher set his jaw in a hard line and started across the wet planking. Knowing the best way he could protect his family now was to make sure no one got off another shot from the bridge, he kept his eyes trained on the three bodies he could see stretched out before him. Talking quietly to the fidgeting horses, he quickly checked the first man and backed the horse standing above him off of the bridge, all the while keeping the remaining two bodies in his vigilant gaze. Then, he returned to the bridge, checked to be sure Mason was dead, and breathing a satisfied sigh of relief. He spoke quietly to Misty and the next two horses before stepping past them to view the bloodied body lying in front of the first one.

Then, and only then, he took his eyes off of the three dead men, and glanced downriver. As he gripped the rope beside him tightly, he saw Jarrod swimming his horse and leading Heath’s bay across the rapidly-moving water toward the right bank, toward their dripping blond-headed brother, who sat just above the waterline with their mother held securely in his arms.

Watching Jarrod’s progress for another moment, and satisfied that he would get to them before he could, Nick shoved his worry down deep. Then, he focused on clearing the bridge so they could cross it and take his mother back to the ranch as soon as possible.

Chapter 54

As he and Jingo plunged down the bank and into the cold, churning water, Jarrod immediately realized that his mother must be unconscious. Her head was barely above the surface of the water, and even as he watched, willing his horse to swim harder toward her, he saw the muddy, roiling current pull her under.

With a cry, Heath threw himself off the left side of his swimming horse, dove under the surface, and immediately came up with the woman who was no longer able to help herself.

Too far away to assist him any other way, Jarrod could only reach out and grab the reins of Heath’s bay as the two horses swam toward each other. He turned the soaked, thrusting head back around, guiding the tired animal toward the closest bank. Careful to keep the two horses clear of both sets of hooves striking out beneath the surface of the water, Jarrod watched his brother haul the still form of their mother up onto the muddy bank. Then, as he got closer, he saw Heath turn her body across his legs so her head was facing down the incline, working to dispel water from inside her lungs.

Finally, just downriver from the two of them, Jarrod felt Jingo’s strong strokes slow, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the chestnut’s forelegs met the slope of the bank. Leaning forward slightly in his saddle, he rode the powerful strides of his horse up the incline, while keeping a tight hold on the reins of the bay plunging up the bank behind him. When both horses stood, breathing hard on the trail a good fifteen feet above the river, Jarrod dismounted, tossed both sets of reins to the ground, and quickly loosened the cinches on both saddles.

Turning, he then plunged down the steep slope and back toward the water on foot, grabbing up Heath’s fallen hat as he went.

“Heath,” he called as he descended, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, as he watched his brother turn tired, worried eyes up toward him.

Lowering himself to the ground next to the two muddy, soaked figures, Jarrod placed one hand on Heath’s shoulder, and the other on his mother’s head, cradled now against Heath’s chest. While he felt the shuddering of Heath’s body as he shook with cold and exhaustion, both of them were so focused on the tiny woman in his arms, that neither took time to acknowledge it.

“Is she alive?” Jarrod asked gently, his voice strained with anxiety.

“Think so,” Heath said, his arms holding her tightly and his chest heaving, as he fought to draw in breath. But, then, slowly, he relaxed his arms enough to ease her away from his chest to let Jarrod look at her and check her over.

“Her pulse is rapid, but steady,” Jarrod affirmed, her left wrist held firmly in his hand. He looked closely at the raw rope burns on her wrists and then, moved to touch her head, gently pushing back her matted silver hair from her forehead. He added, “She’s unconscious, Heath, but, there doesn’t appear to be any swelling anywhere here that I can see.”

Heath nodded and added, “She coughed a coupl’a times.”

Then, as he glanced down at Heath’s face, with the gratitude he was at a loss to put into words battling against the fear he felt, Jarrod looked deeply into the light blue eyes of his father’s youngest son. Not wanting to add any more misery to the worry clearly etched across his brother’s features, but needing to know, Jarrod asked quietly, “Heath, where did the bullet hit her?”

Heath’s head came up, and his eyes took on a deeper shade of agony as he stared at Jarrod for a long minute. Then, shaking his head without understanding, Heath asked, “Bullet? She . . . she was shot?”

He continued to stare at his oldest brother, seeing the overwhelming sadness in the midnight blue eyes, and Heath wearily shook his head again before adding, “Jarrod, I didn’t . . . .”

Then, he stopped, looked down into the unconscious face again, and with an anguished cry, Heath pulled his mother’s limp form up close to his chest. He began rocking her against him slightly, as his eyes closed, and he whispered in a strangled voice, “No. . . . Mother, . . . . I’m so sorry. . . . What have I done?”

Jarrod placed one hand on his brother’s right arm, gripping him tightly. Then, he released Heath and carefully checked his mother’s now visible back and side. Though her blouse was torn and her back was scratched, probably from floating debris in the river, he still did not see any wound that could be attributed to a bullet.

After a moment, Heath opened his eyes, looking down intently into her face, and, without a word, he staggered shakily to his feet.

Turning, he started up the bank, the burden of her dead weight light compared to the crushing burden of stone that now sat inside his chest, filling the place with dread where his heart had once been. Struggling in the debris-strewn mud, he slipped once, but made no sound, as Jarrod caught him under his right elbow and steadied him.

Once their water-logged boots were on the firmer soil of the hard-packed trail, Jarrod hurried over to his chestnut, tightened the saddle’s cinch and quickly mounted. Leaning down from above them, he said, “Let me take her, Heath.”

Though he saw his brother’s stricken face and the responding nod of agreement, Jarrod felt the hesitation as Heath reluctantly unfurled his arms from around her and paused before reaching out to offer his unmoving mother up to him.

The dark-haired man added, “Please, Brother Heath.”

Easing her from his brother’s grasp, Jarrod concentrated completely on settling her in front of him securely, with her head resting against his left shoulder. Then, looking back down at his too-quiet brother, who was standing with his head down, half turned away, Jarrod asked, “Will you be alright, Heath?”

Nodding, Heath started walking downriver toward his horse, and said firmly over his shoulder, “Take her home, Jarrod.”

Having noticed the bright red blood staining the sleeve of her soaked, muddy brown blouse, Jarrod quickly nodded back at him in a silent reply Heath did not see and anxiously turned Jingo toward the bridge. As the horse walked forward, he shifted her slightly in order to remove his handkerchief from his pocket, and he placed the cloth against the area of her arm, out of sight now, where he had noticed the blood.

When he reached the bridge, which was now clear of men and horses, Jarrod noted that Nick was on the other side, walking up the road to retrieve Coco, two rifles in his hand. Carefully, he guided Jingo across the bridge, keeping one eye on his mother’s mud-encrusted face. Then, reaching the other side, he glanced back across the river and saw Heath bending down by his horse, checking the bay’s legs.

His heart twisted in his chest, remembering Heath’s stricken look and strangled voice at the mention of the bullet wound. Hauling in a deep breath, Jarrod halted his horse and waited for Nick to reach him.

“Jarrod! How is she?” Nick hollered as he galloped toward him a moment later.

“She’s still breathing, Nick. How about you check on Heath, then, ride into town for the doctor? It’ll be quicker if you head out from here.”

Nodding, Nick swallowed hard, then, moved his gaze from his mother’s face to the blood on the cloth he could see Jarrod holding against her arm. Then, tearing his eyes away, he looked at Jarrod’s sorrowful face. Quietly, he asked, “How’s my brother, Pappy?”

“Hurting, Nick. . . . He didn’t realize he had shot her.”

Nick closed his eyes briefly, sucked in a deep breath through his nose, and then pushed it out again, as he blinked rapidly. His hazel eyes, full of pain, looked briefly into Jarrod’s. In an anguished voice, he said, “I’ll see to him, Jarrod. You just get her home.”

Then, as Jarrod lifted the chestnut into a purposeful lope, Nick turned his own horse toward the bridge, to face the man now mounted and watching them from the other side of the river.

Keeping his gaze steady, Nick locked eyes with his blond-headed brother. Each of them waited on opposite banks, waited to see what the other would do.

Nick wanted nothing more than to cross quickly and wrap the younger man, his eyes full of pain visible even from this distance, in a tight bear hug, crushing him to his chest.

For his part, Heath, wanted only to turn away from the sympathy he could read in Nick’s green eyes, his dark eyebrows slightly raised in the center, speaking of his willingness to understand what Heath must be feeling.

But, he couldn’t turn away.

Heath knew that, first, he had to face Nick, then, he had to face both Jarrod and Audra, followed by his mother. He had to make sure she was going to be all right. He had to apologize to them all for what he had done.

Then, . . . . well, . . . then would come soon enough.

Nick, the man across from him on the other side of the bridge, the man he had hoped to work beside for the rest of his life, the man he had finally remembered with utmost clarity and joy in his heart, would be the hardest of them all to face.

As an icy shiver shook him, Heath pushed aside the hot lightheadedness he could feel beginning to overtake him, and urged his horse forward onto the bridge.

Nick, seeing Heath move toward him, remained in place, watching intently. Then, as if he were being pulled forward by a force he could not name, he started Coco onto the bridge as well.

As he approached his brother, he took in more than the blue eyes that remained locked on his face, those eyes that spoke louder to him than words ever could, those eyes that cried out to him now like a knife twisting into his heart. Swallowing hard, Nick noticed the exhaustion evident in both man and horse, the bone-tired weariness that made his brother sway slightly in the saddle with more than just the motion of the bridge and the horse beneath him.

Then, narrowing his eyes slightly, Nick noticed something else. . . something that made him start to wonder again about what he and Jarrod had seen. He noticed, . . . though all the ramifications were not immediately clear to him.

As they met each other in the center of the bridge, Nick saw Heath’s head lift slightly and the lines around the blue eyes deepen as he stared at him. He also saw that familiar, lop-sided grin, quirking up one side of Heath’s mouth, but he realized quickly that the slight smile did not touch his brother’s eyes.

Nick’s hazel eyes narrowed even more, as he suddenly remembered the last time the two of them had sat their horses like this, staring at each other across the water-filled chasm, each of them world’s apart in experience, . . . but mirror-images of each other in pride and self-reliance.

With his heart pounding in his chest, he wondered if, after all that had happened, Heath would remember that day. For a few moments, Nick’s worry over his mother faded into the background while he concentrated on what he needed to say to this man, to this brother whose heart was melded to his, as he waited there, silently, before him.

Then, suddenly, Nick’s words seem to well up, unbidden, from deep inside himself, and he spoke aloud.

“Afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” Heath responded slowly, staring at him.

“That’s quite a horse you’ve got there.”

“Yeah, he sure is something,” Heath said, as his wary smile became more noticeable.

Nick felt the tension between them relax just a little.

“Stamina?” He asked.

“An’ spirit,” Heath drawled with a slight nod.

“Raise him yourself?”

“No. . . . ‘Gift from my brother.”

“Well, that must be some brother.”

“Yeah, . . . ‘cept for one thing,” Heath replied, his left eyebrow lifting, taunting Nick.

“What’s that?”

“They don’t know how ta back up.”

“Which one? The horse or the brother?”

“Neither one.”

“That a fact?”

“Yeah,” Heath answered. “So, if you’ll just pull that chocolate horse off’a this bridge. . . .”

“Well, I’d gladly do that for you, Boy, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“This one’s not backing up, yet, either.”

With his small, lop-sided smile widening, Heath slowly removed his hat without breaking eye contact with Nick, revealing soaked blond hair. Fanning himself with it for a second, he started the conversation this time.

“Hot ain’t it?”

“Yeah, . . . you can really work up a sweat this time of year. . . . “

Then, Heath glanced down at Nick’s legs, and seeing his own, familiar rifle propped across them, remembered Nick’s words from that day months ago and spoke them aloud.

“That’s a fine lookin’ blow pipe you’ve got there.”

“Mexican,” Nick responded, smiling widely now at their reversed roles.

“That a fact?”

“Got the bite to blow the head off a grizzly,” Nick added, his huge smile sharing his joy at Heath’s obvious memories of their first encounter.

“That is, if ya’ get to it. . . in time, . . . ” Heath’s voice trailed off, and for the first time, he looked away from Nick, his eyes staring upriver.

“Don’t need to.” Nick continued, trying to bring Heath’s attention back to him, a sudden realization hitting him, even as he spoke the remembered words, “Belongs to my little brother. All he has to do is just think it. Eyeball or button he wants to pop, and pow.”

The guilt that had scorched Heath’s heart at Jarrod’s words a little while before, rekindled again at Nick’s words now, and he dismounted without looking back up into the warm, worried hazel eyes watching him. Then, Heath stood facing upriver, holding onto the rope with one hand, staring down into the water, and trying to see each of his shots again in his head.

Though he never looked up, Heath started shaking his head slightly when Nick spoke again.

“Core an apple at half a mile, my little brother can,” Nick said quietly, watching Heath closely.

“On a tree or fallin’?” asked Heath, after a moment, his head coming back up, though his eyes remained on the river below. His voice was almost a whisper, his right hand gripping the rope of the bridge tightly, his injured left hanging down beside him, the reins entwined in his fingers.

In the silence that followed, Nick dismounted and led Coco toward his brother.

When he reached his side, Nick clamped his gloved hand down on Heath’s neck and said forcefully, shaking Heath slightly, “Horseback, in a hurricane.”

Heath turned his head, and, with unshed tears in his searching blue eyes, he looked at his brother and asked in a strangled whisper, “Nick. . . ?”

Turning his brother’s upper body toward him with his other hand, Nick reached out for the tormented younger man and crushed him to his chest.

“Heath,” he said into the closest ear, holding his brother close, “Heath, Boy, it’s gonna be alright.”

As a sob tore out of Heath’s tightly compressed lips, Nick, letting his own tears come, hugged him harder, and whispered brokenly, “Easy, Boy, I’m here. I know you remember me, and if you do, you best remember you don’t have to carry any of it alone anymore.”

Chapter 55

Nick pulled back slightly and looked down at the side of his brother’s face. Heath’s eyes were closed, and his face was now turned toward his boots, toward the open board flooring of the bridge, and the water visible between each plank.

“Heath, I know you remember me. I could see it in your eyes and hear it in your words a little while ago. And, now that you do, Little Brother, you’ve gotta trust me.”

The blond looked up, staring into Nick’s eyes with such a lost, agonized look, that Nick almost cried out.

Then, Heath looked away.

With a worried growl, Nick grabbed him by the back of the neck again and shook him, his gloved fingers digging into the mud-streaked skin above Heath’s collar. “Dammit, Heath, look at me!” He saw Heath’s jaw muscle working, but his brother didn’t turn back toward him.

Quietly, Heath said brokenly, the stone inside his chest making it hard for him to breathe, “Jarrod said. . . . she was. . . . Nick, . . . I must’a . . . shot her.”

“No, Heath!” Nick responded instantly. “No, you didn’t, Little Brother!”

Not at all sure he was getting through, Nick took a deep breath and tried again. The empty look in his brother’s eyes was really starting to scare him. He shook Heath again, using both hands this time. “Do you hear me, Heath? Jarrod and I were wrong in what we thought. I’m sure now that you didn’t shoot her. . . . Heath, I think she jumped.”

At Nick’s words, Heath turned his head and looked back into Nick’s pleading eyes. He asked quietly, not sure what to believe, “Jumped?”

“Yeah, Little Brother, jumped,” Nick said, turning Heath’s left arm so he could better see the blood he had noticed a few moments ago. He carefully examined the wound, front and back, satisfied that the bullet had passed clean through. Then, he released his brother, worked his own dark blue bandana loose from around his neck, and eased it around Heath’s arm.

Expecting a wounded curse from Heath that never came, he wrapped the muscular arm tightly to keep the pressure on it. Nick was particularly worried about the way blood continued to seep from the exit wound, but he tied it off using both hands, before he looked back into Heath’s eyes.

Heath continued to stand quietly, watching Nick’s face, ignoring the ministrations of the hands on his arm.

“Jarrod and I rode up in time to hear someone holler, Heath. We both thought it might be you, then, we heard some shots that we didn’t see Mason fire, and we saw her go over the side of the bridge. We thought it must have been one of your bullets that knocked her from the saddle, but it wasn’t.”

Nick continued to look at the blue eyes in front of him. Heath was listening, but his eyes were darker than usual and turned inward, looking at something, remembering events Nick couldn’t see. Again, he shook Heath by the back of the neck and said, “It couldn’t have been your bullet, Heath. You were shooting, but you were just providing cover for her, weren’t you? If you had been aiming at Mason, you would have hit him.”

In response to Heath’s shaking of his head at this last statement, Nick added, “I know, Heath, because, I know you, and my little brother hits what he aims at.”

Heath remained silent, but he turned his head away from the hazel stare.

“No, Heath, no buts,” Nick said, responding forcefully to what he knew Heath was thinking, though he had not spoken. “You didn’t shoot her. The blood I saw on her shirt when Jarrod carried her across the bridge wasn’t hers. It was yours.”

Heath stared out across the river, his mind remembering, his eyes seeing again the sequence of events that had preceded his dash into the water to find her.

Quietly, Nick asked, “That was your voice we heard, wasn’t it? You were hollering at her to jump, weren’t you?”

Slowly, Heath nodded his head, and he said quietly, his words coming in hesitant phrases as he saw it all again inside his head, “Her arms were tied behind her back. . . . It was too much. . . . I asked too much of her. . . . But, . . . but, I thought she finally understood me. . . .”

Then, Nick saw the moment when the realization hit his brother, saw the beginnings of that brilliant inner light flicker and return to Heath’s pale blue eyes.

He placed both forearms on Heath’s shoulders and leaned in close, placing the side of his face against Heath’s, facing him.

“Tell me, Boy,” Nick demanded softly. “I wanna hear.”

Then, relieved, he caught his brother’s quiet voice over the rushing of the rapids below them.

“I saw her eyes, Nick. . . . I saw her eyes, heard her call my name, and . . . and I knew she understood.”

Nick nodded, and he reached up with both hands to pull his exhausted brother’s head down against his shoulder. He said into the closest ear, holding him tightly, “I don’t know all that happened, Heath, but I know this. You didn’t shoot her, and she trusted you enough to throw herself into that water, even with her hands tied behind her. . . because she knew you’d get her out.”

As his hand reached up to touch the wet, sandy-blond hair, Nick added, “She trusts you and loves you as her son, Heath Barkley, . . . and she’s not alone in how she feels about you.”

Nick felt Heath sag against him, then.

Quickly reacting, Nick staggered a step back as he struggled to support the added weight.

“C’mon, Little Brother, . . . ” Nick said, breathing hard with the released emotions and sudden exertion, “Let’s get you . . . in the saddle . . . and headed for home. . . ‘Cause no matter what happens, . . . that’s where you belong.”

He gently pulled Heath’s good arm up and across his broad shoulders, and he turned the younger man around. Then, reaching for the trailing reins of the tired bay horse, Nick gathered those of his own horse just behind the bit in the same hand, and encouraged softly, “Back up, Coc. Back. . . .Good Boy.”

Using a give and take motion with Coco’s reins in the one hand, Nick supported part of his weary brother’s weight with the other, and he started the liver chestnut moving backwards in front of them, clucking his tongue in encouragement. The bay followed willingly behind them.

It was slow going at first, but part-way across the bridge, Heath lifted his head and offered some defiant resistance that let Nick know immediately that he was going to be all right.

“Nick, . . . let go’a me.”

“Easy there, Boy. Where’re you going?” Nick asked, a smile on his face, while letting go of Heath’s flailing arm, but keeping his other hand latched tightly around Heath’s waist.

“Thought ya’ said . . . your horse doesn’t . . . back?” Heath responded tiredly, as he struggled to keep moving forward beside Nick. He was too exhausted to push away the arm that kept a tight hold on him.

Grinning and pleased with their progress, Nick answered, “Must’ve been Jarrod’s doing somewhere along the way. Him being so good at compromise and all.”

Smiling lopsidedly, Heath responded haltingly, the blood loss making him more lightheaded than he wanted to admit, “Should’a known . . . that lawyer’d find . . . an easier way ta cross a bridge. . . than you an’ I did . . . last time out.” He shivered violently, then, and gasped for breath as he grabbed Nick’s powerful shoulder with his right hand.

Nodding in agreement at Heath’s words, but worried about his condition, Nick tightened his grip around his brother’s belt, digging his gloved fingers into the blue material of the still soaked shirt.

Together, they gutted out the last fifteen feet, with Nick practically carrying Heath, and the two horses keeping pace, one moving forward and the other stepping backwards, with perfect precision.

When they finally reached the solid footing of the road, Nick slapped his obedient horse’s shoulder lightly, as he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good Boy, Coc.”

Then, he turned his attention to Heath, who had pulled away abruptly and was headed slowly toward the bay. Nick quickly stepped in and assisted the blond as he hauled himself awkwardly into the saddle with his right hand.

Looking up into the pain-filled blue eyes, Nick gripped Heath’s leg tightly with one hand, and said, “Can you make it back? It’ll be a shorter ride for you to go on alone, but you could go with me. . . .”

Heath nodded, and said, despite his heavy breathing, “Go on, Nick, . . . bring the doc . . . It’s the quickest way. . . I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?” Nick queried again, his worry for his mother fighting with his unease at letting Heath head toward the ranch alone.

In answer, Heath smiled crookedly, turned the bay’s head toward the ranch with his right hand on the reins, and lifted the dark red horse into a gentle lope.

Nick hollered after him, “If I don’t see your sorry butt by the time I get there, I’m gonna come after you to drag you home! You hear me, Boy?”

Heath’s words drifted back to him faintly, “Not deaf, . . . yet, . . . Big . . . Brother.”

Grinning, but definitely worried, Nick mounted his horse and headed back across the bridge, the same bridge where it had all begun for them both, months ago.

When he reached the other side, he halted the liver chestnut and watched his brother until the tired, but steady, strides of the bay carried him around the bend in the road above the river and out of sight through the growing dark.

Then, breathing in and pushing the air back out forcefully, noisily, Nick swallowed hard and turned his horse toward Stockton.

Chapter 56

Urging the fresh mount he had obtained at the livery down the main road out of Stockton at a controlled lope, Nick was glad of the low moon rising over the horizon to the east. Its light illuminated the well-used road enough to make him comfortable that he was not risking Earl Hoskin’s large dun at this pace.

He looked back over his shoulder to assure himself that he could see the motion of Doc Merar’s lantern, swinging from the front corner of the buggy, before he turned back to concentrate on his own progress. Nick had stayed long enough to hitch the buggy for the doctor and to ask the sheriff to send a deputy or two out to the bridge to retrieve the horses and bodies left there, and now, he was too anxious to get home to ride sedately alongside the doctor for long.

Lifting his hand in a last, probably not visible, wave to the doc, he asked for a little more speed from the animal beneath him and left the town, and the smooth trotting carriage horse, behind.

* * * * * * * *

Nick’s spurs resounded throughout the house as he charged up the gold-carpeted, sweeping staircase, the slam of the front door still echoing through the foyer below him. He had brought the dun to a sliding halt by the front of the house only seconds before, his anxiousness barely contained as he had quickly loosened the cinch and tied the horse to the hitch, before leaping up the wide veranda steps.

Now, his long strides carried him swiftly down the upper hallway, having decided on a left turn toward his mother’s room instead of a right toward Heath’s.

But, with no sounds beckoning him from within, he barely stopped himself from flinging open her oaken door, having almost decided he must have come the wrong way. Instead, he restrained his anxiousness, quietly easing her door open, and he stepped inside.

The dark blue of his older brother’s eyes and the paler, worried blue of his sister’s, however, brought him to a stop as soon as he entered the predominately powder blue of his mother’s private domain.

Doing his best to silence his footsteps, Nick walked slowly forward, fingers of fear clutching at his heart.

As he approached, he saw her.

Seeing his mother lying there at all was an unusual occurrence for any of her children. She was very rarely ill, and she was, like her middle son, usually in constant, energetic motion.

Shocked at the way she looked now, Nick caught his breath at her closed eyes, the bruises on her face standing out in sharp contrast to the silver of her hair against the pristine pillows and the pallor of her still face.

With a fleeting, quickly silenced thought that maybe Jarrod had been right about the bullet after all, Nick’s worry, nevertheless, tightened another notch.

Audra held out her hand to him, but she did not rise from the edge of the bed where she sat. Her eyes barely held her concern in check, the bright glistening of her unshed tears reflecting the light of the dimly lit oil lamp by the bed.

“Nick,” she asked, her voice soft, but hesitant. “Nick, is the doctor here?”

“No, Honey,” he responded quietly, trying to moderate the deep edge to his voice that his worry had magnified, “He’s on his way.” Standing beside his sister, her hand engulfed in his, he continued to stare down at his mother.

Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Jarrod’s.

“She’s been unconscious the whole time, Nick,” Jarrod spoke up, answering the desperate, but silent, questions in the hazel eyes across the bed from him. “Her breathing’s a little raspy, and she has some swelling on the back of her head.”

Nick nodded, returning his eyes to his mother. Removing one glove, he bent down and stroked the un-bruised side of her face, then, kissed her forehead gently.

“Mother?” he asked quietly, hoping to see her stir, to see her open her eyes and smile up at him.

But, she didn’t acknowledge him.

Standing, he squeezed Audra’s shoulder, then looked back at Jarrod. He asked more gruffly than he had intended, his worry creeping back into his voice, “Did you figure out that she wasn’t shot back there, Pappy?”

Jarrod glanced up and looked at Nick. He shook his dark head and said, clearly puzzled, “The blood on her arm wasn’t hers, Nick. But, . . . how did you know that?”

Nick shook his head impatiently, “Heath didn’t tell you? Back on the bridge, we . . . .”

Suddenly, Nick trailed off, his eyes widening, as realization hit him, stunning him like a surprise blow to his chest from a barroom brawl. If Heath were here, . . . one of them, either Audra or Jarrod, would have been down the hall, sitting with him until the doc arrived.

His eyes searching Nick’s, Jarrod immediately rose from the chair beside the bed, the fear rising up from inside making it suddenly impossible for him to keep his seat. At Audra’s gasp, Jarrod spoke the thought that had occurred to all three of them at the same time, “Heath’s not here, Nick. Isn’t he with you?”

His voice rising slightly, Nick asserted, his hands punctuating his loud statement, “No, Jarrod! I sent him straight back here a couple of hours ago.”

With another look at his mother’s still face, Nick sucked in a deep breath and turned toward the door. Jarrod, following, caught his arm before he could make his exit, however, spinning Nick around, and demanding, his worry running rampant, “For the love of . . . . Nick! He was in no shape to be left alone!”

With a low growl, Nick jerked his arm out of Jarrod’s grasp, and he said vehemently, “Don’t you think I know that, Jarrod? But, what choice did I have? What choice did any of us have?”

He turned away and stalked toward the back stairway, noticing Silas as the man reached the top of the stairs, saw him, then turned and headed back down to the kitchen below.

Again, Jarrod followed him, practically sprinting down the hall to grab Nick by the shoulder just before he followed Silas. Breathing hard, his fear and concern threatening to close his throat, Jarrod said, “Nick, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

At Nick’s terse nod, the hurt plain in his hazel eyes, Jarrod added, “You just did what you had to do by going after the doctor. He has to be somewhere between here and the bridge. Audra and Silas can look after Mother, Nick. Give me a minute, and we’ll go find our brother.”

“No, Jarrod,” Nick said immediately. “You stay here. Audra’ll need you if the doc’s news isn’t good when he checks Mother. I’ll find Heath and bring him home.”

Jarrod froze, his hand still on Nick’s shoulder. He took a deep breath, torn between the truth of what Nick had said and the desire to join him in the search. Slowly, he nodded at Nick and tightened his grip.

Then, without another word spoken between them, Nick nodded once at Jarrod, headed down the stairs, and stalked toward the outside door of the kitchen.

As he passed Silas, the older gentleman handed him a cup of coffee.

Nick nodded at him in thanks on his way through the side door, steaming cup in hand.

But, Silas spoke up quietly, stopping him, “Mr. Nick, when the doctor arrives, I’ll be having him to check over Mr. Haverty as well.” At Nick’s puzzled gaze, Silas added, pointing to his own jaw in illustration, “Those men that took Mrs. Barkley, they left him a few remembrances of their visit. But, he’s upstairs in the guest room asleep now. You tell Mr. Heath, his friend’ll be just fine by the morning.”

“Thank you, Silas,” Nick said, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll tell Heath when I find him. And, Silas, the doc should be here shortly.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Nick. I’ll sure keep an eye out for him.”

* * * * * * * *

Starting toward the barn, Nick immediately growled at himself as he reversed directions and headed around the side of the house. He had forgotten Coco was in town at the livery and that he had left the dun tied out front.

When he reached the front, however, he was further irritated to find that the creature had apparently broken loose and was standing innocently looking at him from down near the other corner of the house, where she was chewing on his mother’s roses. Cursing, Nick tossed out the rest of his coffee and stalked toward the horse, mentally daring the dun to startle or turn and deliberately head away from him.

Reaching her, he quickly tightened the cinch, and determining that one of the broken reins was irreparable, he led the horse back around the side of the house, toward the barn and tack room beyond, grumbling the whole way.

“Just wait ‘til I see that Earl again. Sticking me with a rogue mare that refuses to stand tied and eats flowers for dinner, of all things. As for you, Horse, don’t you know the thorns on those roses are supposed to keep critters like you from indulging in bad habits?”

With the errant horse in tow, Nick entered the barn, tied her by the longest remaining rein, and headed to the tack room for another without bothering to light a lantern.

Still grumbling, spare leather in hand, he was half way back to the horse when, his eyes better adjusted now, he caught a movement from a nearby stall----one that should have been unoccupied.

Narrowing his eyes, Nick walked slowly toward the stall where the large bay horse stood, calmly pulling a mouthful of hay from his rack.

Looking down, he quickly nudged the animal until the muscular hindquarters moved over, to the far right of the dark, enclosed space.

Then, dropping down on one knee, Nick quickly removed both gloves, stuffed them in his hip pocket, and reached out to touch his silent brother’s face and chest.

“Heath,” he breathed.

Feeling the warmth of the rising fever with one hand and the wheezing of Heath’s breathing with the other, Nick reached up and tapped the unshaven face of the blond, who was sitting in the straw bedding, slumped against the wall.

“Heath! Heath!” Nick called, trying to revive his brother.

Relieved to feel the slight movement of Heath’s head and to see the hand come up, trying to push him away, Nick continued calling to him, “C’mon, Heath. Wake up, Boy!”

“Ni-i-i-ck?” Heath said, his confusion evident. After another moment, he responded, “Quit, Nick. . . . ‘Done told ya’. . . ‘m not deaf. . . yet.”

“Alright, Heath, get to your feet, Boy. This is a working ranch, and you’re doing too much resting in the wrong places!”

Though his tone was gruff, Nick’s strong, supportive arms were reaching out, trying to assist Heath as he shakily struggled up from the ground.

Reaching out to grasp the half-wall beside them, Nick realized that, at some point in the last couple of hours, his brother must have gotten the bay completely un-tacked before collapsing on the floor of the stall. His saddle was there, resting across the sturdy boards, the bridle looped around the saddle horn.

How long had he been here?

With one arm holding onto his brother, he reached out to touch the contented horse with the other hand. Immediately, he noticed that the bay’s coat was crusted with dried sweat, and that the animal was cool to the touch.

Shaking his head as he turned his brother toward the house and ducked under his right arm to assist him, he figured Heath, whose clothes were damp with sweat, had been sitting out there in the barn for a good while.

Silas came quickly when Nick kicked at the side door with his boot, opening the door and letting them in.

Taking one look at the silent pair, Silas grabbed a pitcher and filled it with hot water from the stove. He obtained some clean cloths and a bottle of liniment from the pantry. Then, he followed their slow, but decidedly noisy, progress up the backstairs.

The older man could not keep the wide smile from forming as he listened to them, watching Nick practically haul his irritated brother from one step up to the next.

“Ni-ick,” Heath groaned, his breathing labored, “Not drunk. . . can climb . . . the stairs. . . just fine . . . without. . . you crashin’. . . me inta the walls.”

“Sure, Heath,” Nick replied. “I know, I know. You’re fine, and you don’t want any help. But, . . . .uh, . . . sorry. . . .”

“Dammit, . . . ” Heath said, his injured shoulder banging into the wall as Nick struggled to keep the solid mass of well-muscled, but very weak, brother beside him, from overbalancing him at every step. “Let go! . . . Nick, . . . can make it . . . from here. . . “

Silas could hear Heath’s ragged breathing, but smiled at the blond’s tenacity, sure that he would be alright if he still had that much fight left in him.

But, Nick wouldn’t be deterred, and Silas continued to follow their slow progress down the hall when they had reached the top, smiling at Heath’s irate, but halting words.

“Nick, . . . remind me. . . never ta let . . . ya’ teach me . . . any new . . dance steps. . . Two left feet . . . an’ a pair’a. . . sharp, shiny spurs!”

“Heath Barkley, I’ll have you know, . . . “ Nick continued, his words punctuated by a loud cry, “Watch it! . . . Oh, . . . sorry, Heath,” as they ran into the occasional chair in the hallway.

“Boy . . . Howdy, . . . Nick, . . . think I'd rather . . . even that Hester . . . teach me . . . than you, . . . Big Brother.”

“Oh, so you remember Hester, do you? Well, I don’t think. . . “

Immediately, Silas heard a change in Heath’s voice, as he interrupted Nick’s words about the woman that had caused them both so much grief months ago. The tone of brotherly banter was suddenly gone.

“No, Nick, . . .” Heath balked in earnest when Nick tried to turn him into his bedroom. His right hand shot out beyond Nick’s strong shoulder, catching the doorframe in a fierce grip. “No, not here!. . . I need ta see her, Nick.”

“Hester?” Nick asked, only half joking.

“No, dammit . . . , “ Heath protested, “Mother. . . I need ta see her.”

“Of all the, . . . Heath, let go of the doorway, so I can get you to your bed! The doc’ll be here any minute to check you out. You can see Mother tomorrow.”

“No, Nick!”

Heath fought his way out of Nick’s grasp, and almost lost his balance as he took two steps down the hall toward the room at the far end. Surprised at his brother’s sudden strength, Nick quickly recovered and closed the gap between them, grabbing Heath’s right arm and steadying him.

“Whoa, there, Little Brother.” Again, he tried to turn Heath back toward his room, anxious to spare Heath the disturbing sight of their mother lying in her room, still unconscious from her ordeal.

“Nick!” Heath roared, wrenching his arm from the firm grasp once more. He turned on his hazel-eyed brother and stood his ground, the pain that was squeezing his head in a vice forgotten for the moment. “I’m goin’ . . . ta see her, Nick!. . . Now, either lend me . . . a hand, . . . or so-help me, . . . ya’d best get . . . outta my way!”

Staring at the steely blue eyes and the rigid stance of the young man in front of him, the sweat streaking Heath’s face, Nick slowly shook his head. Then, with a frustrated growl, he stepped forward and grabbed Heath’s right arm again.

Turning with him and feeling the relieved sagging of Heath’s weight against him, Nick said quietly in his brother’s ear as he supported his slow, but determined walk down the hallway, “Boy, the next time some low life says something about you not being a true Barkley, I’m not gonna punch him out. I’m just gonna fall down on the floor, rolling at his feet holding my sides laughing at him, until he walks away in disgust. If you don’t have Tom Barkley’s stubborn, ornery blood in your veins, I don’t know which of us does.”

Then, stopping outside his mother’s closed door, Nick tried to prepare Heath for what he would see on the other side.

“Hang on a minute, Heath,” he said, halting his brother’s progress. With Heath’s pain-filled eyes on his face, Nick said, “She’s still unconscious, but, trust me. It’s just as I told you, Heath. You didn’t shoot her.”

Then, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as his younger brother, Nick added, “She’s going to be okay. . . . The doc’ll be here soon.”

Nodding, Heath met Nick’s worried gaze.

Then, nodding once in return, Nick reached out with one hand and pushed open the door.

Chapter 57

Dawn was only a hint of grey over the hills to the east, when Heath eased open the bedroom door for the second time and entered the quiet, dimly lit bedroom down the hall from his own. His sock feet made no noise on the thick rugs and polished wood flooring of her room, as he walked silently around her bed and stood by the open window. Suppressing a groan, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, smoothing her silver hair back gently with his fingertips. Then, he stood again before backing up a step or two to ease down on the blue-upholstery of her window seat, holding his left arm firmly against his waist as he did so.

Once he was seated, he relaxed slightly, pulling one foot and bent knee up on the cushioned bench while resting his head and back against the frame of her window. He glanced across the room at the sleeping form of his oldest brother in the chair pulled up by the other side of the bed. Jarrod had his head propped up in the palm of one hand, his elbow lodged against the padded armrest of the soft, blue chair. His feet, also covered only in socks, were lying across the end of their mother’s bed.

Heath smiled slightly, thinking of how he had found Nick sleeping similarly, sitting up in the wine-colored chair in his room, when he had first awakened a little while ago.

Shaking his head at his two brothers and their never-ending, vast reserves of love and caring for their family, Heath turned his face back toward the lightening of the sky, its grey toward the east the color of his mother’s still-closed eyes.

Then, he swallowed hard, remembering the doctor’s words from a few hours ago.

He had refused to leave his mother’s room last night, even when Doc Merar had threatened to have Nick and Jarrod remove him if he didn’t go lie down and wait for the physician to come examine him. He had stood up to them all silently, daring them to try, with only his blue eyes blazing his challenge.

Finally, Audra had prevailed on him sweetly, telling him, as well as his brothers, that the doctor needed to check over their mother thoroughly----that for this, her mother needed her privacy, and that she would stay with the tiny woman, calling them if she needed them.

The three men had left together, then, with Nick and Jarrod assisting Heath, at his insistence, to check on the still sleeping Ogden, with whom Silas was sitting. Then, despite his resistance, they had helped him to his room. While he had refused to lie down, it hadn’t taken his brothers long to convince him to sit in his leather chair instead of, as Nick had put it, a gleam in his eye suggesting it was really the other way around, standing there, “holding up the wall” by the open window.

And, while he didn’t remember much of what had happened after that, he did recall the doctor coming in and assuring them that she had no broken bones, no gunshot wounds, nor any marks on her, except for the bruises to her face and the slight bump on the back of her head. Doc had further explained to the three of them, however, that there was little more he could tell them about their mother’s condition until she woke.

He did remember that Jarrod had leaned down to him silently, clamping his hand on his uninjured shoulder with his eyes full of unmistakable gratitude, when the doctor had also told them that she was fortunate to have no water in her lungs, nor any worse, more visible effects, from her ordeal.

Vaguely, Heath recalled Nick helping him, despite his protests, to remove his shirt for the doctor to examine him then, but the rest of it was a blur of commands to cough hard, breathe out, flex his arm, or just sit still.

Somewhere along the way, his eyes must have closed and his brothers must have pulled off his boots and moved him to his bed, because that’s where he had awakened a little while ago, just before dawn. Once awake, he had quietly, and with aggravating difficulty, dressed in the clean, dry shirt someone had left lying within easy reach over the foot of the bed, wincing at the pull of his bandaged arm. Then, leaving the shirt mostly unbuttoned, he had walked unsteadily down the hall again to see the woman he called mother.

Now, as he sat by her window, listening to the twittering of the birds in the trees beyond the house and watching the coming dawn, he didn’t turn as his oldest brother moved to stand over him.

“Good morning, Brother Heath,” Jarrod said, placing his hand on Heath’s right shoulder.

“Mornin’, Jarrod.”

“You didn’t sleep long, Heath. Why don’t you go back to bed?” Seeing the slight shake of the blond head, Jarrod hastily added, “How about if I promise to come wake you immediately when she comes around?”

“No. I’m stayin’.”

With a sigh, Jarrod said quietly, the deep conviction in his voice reaching out to his exhausted brother, “Heath, she’s going to be alright. And, when she wakes up, you know she’s going to be worried, and angry, that you aren’t taking care of yourself.”

“I’m stayin’, Jarrod.”

Thinking to himself that arguing with Nick was easier, because he at least said enough so that various points he made could be disagreed with, Jarrod rolled his eyes in exasperation. Then, smiling at himself for even thinking he could convince this determined brother, Jarrod patted Heath’s good shoulder, and said, “Alright, Heath, but please trust me when I say that none of this is your fault. You prevented them from taking her away and quite probably killing her. It was those men, the situation they caused, that did this to her, not you. She’s going to be fine, Brother Heath.”

He turned to walk to the doorway, and still having heard no response from the quiet man facing the window, he added, “I’ll be back in a little while with some food for both of us. I’ll expect you to eat your share.”

Heath, his eyes still gazing out of the window, smiled slightly at his brother’s last words, though, otherwise, he gave no acknowledgment that he had heard.

His thoughts were already back riding the rolling hills above the river, bending low over the bay horse’s neck to prevent being seen from the road below, making a dash for the narrow bridge in broad daylight, planning on taking a stand in the shadows.

As he reviewed the events of the day before, as he focused on the decisions he had made, as he watched again, inside his head, the five riders crossing the narrow bridge, he berated himself for the choices he had made. . . even as he acknowledged that he had done the best he could with the little time he had had.

But, if he had known Nick and Jarrod were so close, if he had just waited to follow the men to their destination, if he had done something, anything, different than choosing the bridge upon which to decide her fate, . . . maybe she wouldn’t be lying in that bed, looking so pale and drawn, with her family in fear for her future.

He was practical enough to know that the view looking back was generally clearer than the view looking forward, and he had learned long ago that wishing a thing to be different never made it so.

Yesterday, he had acted out of desperation. He had been searching for a way to ensure her survival.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the bed, and he forced himself to look at what he had done to her, at what he had caused by his decisions, by his actions, yesterday.

Today, it was too easy to sit here, with nothing but time and his knowledge of yesterday’s outcome, trying to think of other options.

But, even sure he would make the same choices again if he had yesterday to do over again without benefit of today’s knowledge, he knew himself well enough to be sure he wouldn’t find forgiveness easily from the heaviness inside that used to be his heart.

Then, with the relentless, almost unbearable weight of the stone pressing down on his chest, he turned anguished blue eyes back to the open window. But, this time, he didn’t see the tinges of color streaking the sky, didn’t notice the dawn’s finery as the sun greeted the day.

All he could see now was the fear in her grey eyes as she had realized what he had wanted her to do yesterday, followed quickly by the resolve of courage that graced her face in that split second in which he had recognized her intent to do as he had demanded with his single word command, “Jump!”

Sucking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and heard her call his name, knowing now that the trust she had given him yesterday had been sorely misplaced.

Suddenly, Heath’s eyes flew open.

Her calling of his name was not just in his mind, not just a remnant of yesterday’s memory.

Victoria Barkley, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing, was screaming his name, tears streaming down her face, and trying to draw in breath as if she were drowning for want of it.

“HEATH!”

He bolted up from the window seat and grabbed for her shoulders before she could hurt herself in the blind panic from which she had just awakened.

“Heath! Heath!”

“Easy, Mother,” he soothed, holding her close to his chest with his right arm, and rubbing her back with limited movements of his left. “Easy, now. It’s alright. You’re home, an’ you’re safe. It’s over.”

“Heath. Oh, Heath,” she cried, her screams having faded to quiet sobs, as she clung to him, her face buried against his neck.

Slowly, she began to relax, letting him just hold her, rocking her slightly back and forth, until only her ragged breathing and her death-grip on the fabric of his blue shirt continued to signal her lingering fears and agitation.

Heath glanced up, removing his cheek from the top of her silver hair, to nod once at Jarrod, who had come running into the room, fear in his eyes. The dark-headed lawyer, seeing his brother’s silent reassurance, quietly crossed the room and sank down into the chair on the other side of the bed, watching them both with relief.

“It’s alright, Mother. They can’t hurt you any more. We’re all here with you, an’ you’re safe now,” Heath continued murmuring to her quietly, not caring that he was repeating himself, knowing that, just like soothing a wild, frightened filly under saddle for the first time, it was not so much what he said, but how he said it, that would make a difference right now.

He felt her begin to stir again, and he paused in his monologue, giving her a chance to take it all in, letting her choose what happened next.

“Heath?” she asked quietly, her head lifting slightly to look up at him. “Heath, what happened? How did I get here?”

Not sure what she remembered and not wanting to push her into more than what she was ready for, he supplied only the ending.

“Jarrod brought you home, Mother.” He raised his head again, beckoning Jarrod to move closer to her with his eyes.

Swiftly, Jarrod moved in from the other side of the bed to ease down beside her, and she lifted her head from Heath’s chest to smile over at him. Tentatively, she then reached out to her oldest son with one hand, and she touched his face.

“Jarrod?” she asked, “You’re alright, Sweetheart? You and Nick?” Then, before he could answer, she quickly asked, her worry rising again sharply, “What about Ogden? Did you find him in the barn?”

“Yes, Mother. Mr. Haverty’s alright. He’s down the hall asleep, and we’re fine.” Jarrod responded, “But, we’ve been worried about you. How do you feel?”

She dropped her hand to find his, and holding onto him, she closed her eyes and returned her face to Heath’s chest. Quietly, she murmured, “Safe, Jarrod. I feel safe.”

Jarrod found Heath’s eyes, and they exchanged small smiles for a second.

Then, she said in a quiet voice, but leaving no doubt that it was a statement, not a question, “Heath, you pulled me from the river.”

Heath looked back at Jarrod for guidance, unsure of what she needed him to say. When Jarrod nodded, his dark blue eyes sparkling, Heath said simply, “Yes.”

“Mason and his men?” she asked next.

This time, Jarrod spoke up. He and Nick had talked late last night with the deputy the sheriff had sent out to check on them. “They’re all dead, Mother. You don’t have anything to fear from any of them, not ever again.”

In a small voice with only a slight tremor, she asked, “Dead? All of them?”

Squeezing her hand, Jarrod looked back into Heath’s eyes over her head and nodded with assurance she could only hear, “Yes, Mother. All of them.”

After taking a moment to absorb this, she lifted her head slightly and, still gripping Heath’s shirt, she tugged at him just a bit, while looking up into his sky blue eyes.

She said, “Heath, I was so frightened, . . . so terrified of that man, of what I knew he was capable of. And, I was so scared when I saw you, worried that you would be killed with what you were trying to do, with trying to help me!”

She shook the material of his shirt again, and stared up at him, anguish in her eyes, “Tell me the truth, Sweetheart. Did they hurt you? Did they hurt you while you were trying to save me from them?”

Unable to respond to the love and concern billowing up from out of the depths of her grey eyes, from out of her overflowing heart, Heath only shook his head at her and said, “I’m fine, Mother.”

Jarrod spoke up again, supplying the rest, knowing she would not necessarily believe this simple statement. She had put Heath in the difficult position of not wanting to hurt her with the truth of the details she would want to know. Besides, knowing him like he did, Jarrod was sure that Heath probably felt he wasn’t truly injured enough to dwell on.

“Mother, he has a flesh wound, but Doc says he really is fine, or he will be with lots of rest and loving care from two beautiful Barkley women.”

“Heath?” she asked, still searching his eyes. She could see, now that she really looked at him, the weariness etched into his face, the paleness and the beads of sweat that stood out against his forehead, though the temperature in the room was early-morning cool. His exhaustion and pain was all too evident, now, to her questing eyes.

Again, he answered, “It’s okay, Mother. Just enough ta let me avoid a few more days’a diggin’ fence posts with Nick.”

Tentatively, she smiled up at him and ran her fingers carefully down the arm he was not using to hold her tightly, until she felt the bandage beneath the shirtsleeve. She said in greater concern, now, “The left arm again, Heath?”

He smiled down at her, lopsidedly, and said, “At least I’ll still be able ta write telegrams for you, if the need arises.”

With laughter in her eyes now, she said, “I’m sure poor Duke McCall wishes you wouldn’t.”

Then, sobering, she sat up, grasped Heath’s right hand, and, with his and Jarrod’s help, leaned back into the pillows behind her. Still holding onto both of their hands, she stared at Heath for a long moment, her heart full.

Finally, she started speaking.

“I had already decided that I would have to do something to get myself away from them, Heath, even before I saw you. And, I had thought seriously about jumping into the water once we reached the bridge. But, I hadn’t yet been able to get my hands free, . . . though I was working on it.”

This last was said with a gleam in her eye, and her boys exchanged a look. Both of them had separately wondered how it was that her hands had no longer been tied when they had gotten to her, but each had assumed the river had swollen the ropes, and she had pulled out of them.

Noticing the questions in her eyes, she added, “I had picked up a piece of the vase from downstairs that Mason broke before they took me from the house, and I thought I had almost cut through the ropes by the time we reached the bridge. But, I couldn’t be sure, and I knew I was running out of time.”

She took a deep breath, and squeezed Heath’s hand.

“From the moment I saw you yesterday, Sweetheart, I knew it was going to be okay. Just knowing that you were there gave me more courage, more hope, than I’d had up ‘til then. But, I was so scared that you’d be killed, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to face your brothers and sister if anything happened to you while you were trying to help me.”

She shook her head at him, trying to smile, though the tears welling up in her eyes were threatening to fall.

“Seeing you, and finally understanding what you were yelling, well, you gave me the courage to do what I knew I had to. But, I was almost too slow, wasn’t I? You timed your ride so you could get to me downriver, below the bridge, . . . and I was almost too scared to jump.”

Her tears were flowing freely now, and she added, pleading with him to understand, “I almost let my fears destroy us both.”

Then, in a small voice, she added, turning to her other son, “Jarrod, you may know this, and Tom did, but I’m not sure anyone else knows.” She returned her eyes to Heath’s face, “You see, Heath, I have never learned to swim.”

Heath raised his eyes that had been fixed on her hand gripping his, and he looked into her grey eyes, then Jarrod’s dark blue ones. Suddenly, with her words, it all made so much more sense to him now. What he had asked of her hadn’t been too much because of her lack of trust. . . .

Then, as if she could see inside his soul, she said quietly, “I trusted you, Heath. I knew you would be there to pull me from the water, but I still couldn’t do it at first. But, when I saw you stop your horse and turn back, I knew my hesitation had put you in terrible danger.”

She released Jarrod’s hand and gripped Heath’s with all of the strength she had in both, before she added, her voice breaking half-way through, “When you turned back, I could see the vulnerable position I had put you in. I was so afraid Mason was going to shoot you, Heath! And, I knew I was going to be the cause of it.”

She sat back up, leaned forward, and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face against him while trying to avoid his injured arm. She needed to be sure that he was real, that he was truly all right, and that he forgave her for putting his life in such jeopardy.

“Please forgive me Heath! I am so sorry. Because of my fear, I almost cost you your life.”

As he kissed the top of her head and stroked her back with his free hand, he felt the weight that had been crushing him start to dissolve, like a patch of snow in the afternoon sun on a western slope of the High Sierras in late spring.

In its wake, he found his heart again, as well as the words he needed to say to her.

“Mother, it doesn’t matter. You reined in your fear, an’ you did what ya’ had ta do. An’, we’re both okay, now, because’a the courage you found in your love for me, for this family. Mason can’t hurt any of us ever again, an’ all of us, . . . you, me, Jarrod, Nick, we trusted in each other. It’s over, because we defeated him together. . . “

He hugged her close again, and he smiled at Jarrod through his own tears, as he whispered to her, “I love you, Mother.”

Then, suddenly, he felt that familiar, tough grip of his brother’s hand on the back of his neck from behind him, and he knew that what he had just said was more true than he could explain to her. He, too, was home, safe in his remembered love for his family, safe in the knowledge of the trust they all shared together.

“Yes,” she nodded, sitting up and glancing at Nick, who was standing behind Heath, one hand on his brother’s neck, one on her shoulder.

Then, she turned and looked behind her at Jarrod and reached out to him again, squeezing his hand in hers. “You’re exactly right, Heath. The love and trust that we share as a family brought us all safely back together. And, no matter what guilt, betrayal, and misunderstandings may plague us from time to time, the love and the trust are the essence of all that binds us together as a family.”

THE END