Sully stirred and then groaned loudly. The stabbing pain in his head made his stomach turn over sickeningly and he clenched his teeth against the urge to gag. He tentatively felt his skull and encountered a tender lump the size of an acorn and copious amounts of dried blood matting his hair and trailing down his neck. He took a deep, settling breath and opened his eyes, only to encounter darkness. He quickly closed them again trying to ease the sharp pain shooting through his head. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He tried to stretch his legs and found that they were tightly bound with rope. Despite the seriousness of his situation he momentarily smiled at the stupidity of a man who would bind his captive’s legs and not his hands. Perhaps Walt had felt bad tying a man’s injured arm and hand. He reflexively opened out his hand still secured with Michaela’s petticoat bandaging. He smiled wryly. No, that couldn’t be it, because the madman had shown no compunction in swiping him across the back of the head with his rifle and knocking him out. Suddenly the pungent smell of musty, rotting matter filled his nostrils and the smile was wiped from his face as nausea once again threatened to overwhelm him.

The excited cries of birds in flight in the distance brought him back to the present and he listened carefully for sounds of Walt snoring or perhaps moving around the camp. It suddenly struck him that birds are rarely on the wing at night and he again hesitantly opened his eyes. It was still dark, but now he understood why. Thin, vertical stripes of filtered sunlight shone through the gaps between the boards of the rough hut in which he’d been imprisoned. At least he guessed he’d been imprisoned. Considering Walt Gate’s state of mind, anything was possible. On his hands and knees, he began to explore the perimeter of the small hut, feeling for weak spots in the wooden boards or for a doorway. At last he encountered a door and pushed against it but met stubborn resistance. He was sorely tempted to swear, but stopped short. Michaela wouldn’t like that. Michaela!? She and Hank would be waiting for him, wondering where he’d got to. He had no idea how long he’d been restrained in the hut. Perhaps it was afternoon and they were troubled that he hadn’t returned. He felt sick at the thought of Michaela yet again worrying as to his whereabouts and whether or not he was safe.

He shook himself. It was no use feeling guilty. He had to get out of here! He reached down and in the darkness fumbled with the ropes around his ankles. At last he located the knots and struggled to undo them, cursing Walt all the while. Finally the intricate knotting was undone and he flexed his legs before kneeling and then painfully hauling himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he leant against the timber wall, taking deep breaths of the fetid air. When his head had sufficiently cleared to allow him to move without feeling ill, he again experimented with the door, trying to force it open. Whatever Walt had used to bar it held firm. He was sure though that the rotting wood would give way under force. He sat down a yard back from the door, brought his knees up to his chest, took an almighty deep breath and thrust his booted feet forward against the boards. The wood splintered but did not fully give way. He paused, expecting to hear Walt stirring or even moving angrily towards the hut but there was only silence. He drew his legs back again and impelled them forward with all the force he could muster. The old boards gave way and a jagged hole about two feet square appeared in the doorway. The blinding sun made him squint and sharpened the pain in his head, but he raised himself to his knees and crawled out of his jail.

He cautiously surveyed the disorderly camp in the daylight. He was puzzled that Walt had not put in an angry appearance. He slowly got to his feet, swaying slightly when the light-headedness hit and then, as his head cleared, took stock of his situation. Walt was nowhere in sight. The campfire was cold and the crude corral empty, except for a rather malnourished mule. Even the flame under the still had been allowed to go out. Sully shook his head in puzzlement. Perhaps Walt had gone down to the stream to bathe, though his dishevelled appearance last night suggested that bathing was a rare occurrence. It looked very much as if he’d done a flit – taken off to avoid discovery. Sully had figured the man was not quite sane and this just verified it.

Now, without the hindrance of the demented Walt, Sully considered his options. He squinted up at the sky and was relieved to realise that it was only an hour or so after the dawn. That meant that Michaela and Hank would not yet be worried about him. Another burden lifted from his shoulders. He gazed ruefully across at the mule grazing on the bare, hard earth of the makeshift corral. Would using such an animal be quicker than taking off at a run again? Deciding that cajoling a stubborn mule was likely to be more trouble than it was worth, he made his way back down to the trail by the stream and headed towards Colorado Springs. His mind drifted to his wife, laying hurt out there in the woods. He hoped that Hank was behaving himself with her, though, if the truth be told, he wasn’t worried about Hank. They had their differences, but when it came to Michaela, he instinctively knew that Hank would protect her with his life. It was just one of those puzzling aspects of the barkeep’s nature.

About a hundred yards from the moonshiner’s camp, he paused and knelt down by the stream. He dipped his head into the icy water, wiping his face and then attempting to wash away some of the blood from the laceration. The cut stung with the icy water and he momentarily held his hand tenderly over the lump on the back of his head. He took a deep breath, stood and prepared to continue his long journey into Colorado Springs. His mind once again flew to Michaela. He hoped she hadn’t been too cold during the night and he guessed that both she and Hank would be very hungry by now (as was he). Well they were going to get a whole lot hungrier, seeing it was now likely to be late afternoon before he got back to them – thanks to Walt Gates! He stopped in his tracks. Where had the little man disappeared to? Suddenly an idea occurred to him that made his heart pound and his blood run cold. He wouldn’t have, would he? Sully turned back to face the way he’d come. The long trail wound back along the stream, a good eight to ten miles, back to where Michaela and Hank waited patiently for his return, unmindful of any possible danger. Of course it was only a theory, but it was a theory he couldn’t ignore. He took off at a run, back the way he’d already travelled, desperately hoping that this overwhelming dread which threatened to choke him would come to nothing.

********************************

"Whatcha thinkin’ Michaela?" asked Hank, watching her stare into the flickering fire. They were back sitting side by side, now a little further from the flames as the early morning summer sun began to make its presence felt. Hank had returned from his short sojourn in the thicket, his temper a little more under control. He’d said nothing when Michaela had then hobbled painfully away for a short while also.

She shrugged her shoulders. "About lots of things Hank," she replied dreamily. "The children …. and whether they’ve been worried about us … I miss them so … And Sully …. hoping he’s reached home safely and that his hand and arm aren’t worrying him ….. lots of things …."

"Never figured you for the motherly type when I first met ya," chuckled Hank. "Til I saw ya with Brian that is …."

"Having a family is the best thing I’ve done in my life Hank …. I might not have thought it at the time …. When Charlotte wanted me to take care of her children I was terrified …. But it *is* definitely the best thing I’ve ever done ….. though marrying Sully comes close." Michaela smiled shyly across at him. "There was a time when you wondered about me in that regard too … wasn’t there Hank?"

Hank responded to her candidness with his own smile, albeit a little sheepish. "You with ya proper Boston ways …. not lettin’ anyone git close …. Figured it was gonna be hard for ya …. an’ any man ya might let in …. that’s all …."

Michaela dropped her head. "Maybe it was …. at first ….," she murmured dreamily. Her head came up and she regarded him defiantly. "But not anymore."

Hank viewed her with admiration. She sat there before the fire, clad in a heavy jacket too large for her tiny frame, her hair untidy, her face dirt-smudged, her posture proud, her eyes ablaze. He chuckled and muttered under his breath, "Sometimes I almost envy Sully …"

"What was that?" inquired Michaela.

"Nothin’," Hank replied. "Just thinkin’ out loud I guess."

"What about you Hank? Have you ever thought of settling down …. marrying …. having children ….?" asked Michaela guilelessly.

Hank shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Too late for that Michaela," he scoffed.

"Oh … I don’t know …. If the right woman came along …."

"Well she aint come along yet …. An’ I figure she aint likely to now …. Besides don’ know if I’d have the time an’ patience to give to a woman …." He grinned cheekily at her. "Got plenty of women in my life …. they just aint the marryin’ kind ….."

"You don’t know that for sure Hank ….. and you’re not too old to fall in love and want to marry," she offered sincerely.

"Didn’ say I was too old Michaela …. But any time I’ve got close to a woman it aint worked out …. Figure I’ll be happier stayin’ like I am …," he explained.

"Like Clarice?"

His eyes flew to meet hers. "That was a long time ago Michaela …. An’ you weren’t here ….."

"I know …. I just got the feeling that you were very close to her ….. Why didn’t you ever take it any further?"

"Maybe I woulda …. I dunno ….. She went off to be a ma ta Zack …. I looked in on ‘em often enough …. There just seemed to be too many problems to overcome …. Then she got sick an’ died." He dropped his eyes to the ground. "Guess I’ll never know …."

"You loved her?" Michaela asked quietly.

"Maybe …. I dunno …. Liked bein’ with her …. She was good with Zack …. Seemed to like me bein’ around …. I just never ….."

"Let yourself get too close?"

Again his eyes flew to hers and held. He shrugged his shoulders. "Women can be more trouble than they’re worth." His gruff, scoffing tone had suddenly returned. "What’re we talkin’ ‘bout me for anyways? ….. Told ya I don’ like that …."

"Maybe because you don’t very often get the chance Hank …. I’m happy to listen when you need to talk," offered Michaela.

He regarded her in disbelief. "You an’ me come from different worlds Michaela …. You don’ approve of most of what I do …. Why would ya offer somethin’ like that," he demanded.

"Maybe because we’re more alike than we’d both ever want to acknowledge Hank," admitted Michaela, realising the truth of what she said only as the thought formed and emerged from her lips.

He regarded her in astonishment. "Alike!" he exclaimed. "We’re about as alike as …. as ….. Sully an’ me …. Hunger must be stoppin’ ya thinkin’ straight."

"Oh my thinking’s straight Hank ….," she asserted. "We’re both stubborn …. always thinking we’re right …. We have a need to right a perceived wrong …. Neither of us want to ….." She was halted in her ruminations by Hank’s suddenly alert attitude. He had swivelled to peer down the trail and his hand was creeping towards the gun on the ground beside him. "What is it?" she asked, also turning to look.

"Someone’s comin’," he hissed. "Stay still."

"Its probably Sully," she exclaimed excitedly.

"If it is he made real good time," replied Hank, his eyes not leaving the trail. "Its only a coupla hours since sunrise."

At last a rider came into view and it was immediately obvious to both of them that it wasn’t Sully. Michaela sighed in disappointment. The man was slumped over the saddle horn, his head occasionally nodding. As he drew closer they noted his dishevelled appearance and the earthenware jug which joggled against the horse’s belly as it moved. Hank hissed, "Turn round and stay quiet …. Maybe he won’ notice us …"

"But he might be able to help us get home," replied Michaela, puzzled.

"By the look of him …. He aint capable of helpin’ anyone," replied Hank, gripping his gun tightly.

*********************************

Hank observed the casual approach of the unknown rider apprehensively. There was something about him that made his hair stand on end and sent a chill up his spine. When the man sluggishly raised his balding head and swivelled from side to side as if seeking something, Hank drew in his breath sharply.

"What is it?" asked Michaela anxiously. "Who is it?" she demanded, aware that Hank had almost certainly recognised the rider.

"Think I know ‘im," whispered the barkeep. "An’ if its who I think it is then you keep your mouth shut alright! Follow my lead …."

Michaela regarded him quizzically.

"Just do it!" ordered Hank. "No time for explanations."

The stranger’s face broke into a wide lopsided smile when he spied Hank and Michaela seated by the campfire, near the stream. "Well howdy," he exclaimed, delightedly. "Thought I hadta come upon ya sooner or later." He drew his tired old horse to a halt and clumsily heaved himself from the saddle. In almost the same movement he had his rifle unsheathed and hanging loosely from his right hand. He sauntered over to the couple, a broad, yet oddly insincere smile fixed on his face.

Michaela recoiled in distaste. The man’s face and hands were so ingrained with grime it was difficult to tell what shade his complexion actually was. His leering smile exposed a number of rotten and missing teeth and his dirty and tattered clothes hung off him as if he’d lost an inordinate amount of weight. As he neared she became aware of his repugnant body odour and the steel in his hooded, hazel eyes.

"Fella said you two were out here," he informed them, disconcertingly fixing his eyes on Michaela.

"What fella was that?" asked Hank, trying to keep his voice even and the inquiry casual.

"Fella by the name of ….. of ……" The man’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased. "Don’ remember," he said frustratedly. "Had long hair ….. wore that injun buckskin stuff …." With the barrel of his rifle, he flicked the fringe on the jacket Michaela wore around her shoulders. "Like that," he added.

Michaela’s heart leapt. Without thinking she exclaimed, "Did he send you out here? …. Where is he now?" As soon as she heard Hank’s groan she knew she’d said and done the wrong thing.

The man’s mask-like grin reappeared and he stepped closer. "Said he hadta go into town little lady …. ta git help for ya. Thought I’d better come out here an’ see you was alright …."

"You lend him a horse so’s he could git inta town?" asked Hank.

The man shook his head. "Nah …. only got one." He turned to watch his bay grazing on the abundant grasses by the trail. "Thought he was lame …. aint though … Fella hadta walk …. Gonna take him a long time ….."

Michaela’s heart was pounding. The little man was rambling and he kept hesitating as if he was having difficulty ordering his thoughts to put them into words.

"Well we’re alright …. We’ll just wait then," stated Hank dismissively. "You can head back now."

The man momentarily looked astonished and then redirected his discomfiting gaze back to Michaela. "Now that wouldn’ be neighbourly would it?" he rejoined, looking her up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts far longer than was appropriate. He stooped so that he was at eye level with her. "What’s your name pretty lady?" he asked, reaching out to run his dirty fingers through her coppery hair which trailed down over her shoulder to her waist.

She reddened and instinctively edged back against Hank, who sidled across to sit close beside her. "Michaela …… Michaela Quinn," she replied, trying to conceal the repulsion she felt.

He again reached out to touch her hair, holding a tendril between thumb and forefinger and then rubbing it between them, obviously appreciating its silky feel. "Pretty name for a pretty lady," he murmured distractedly. "Michaela," he repeated, accenting the last syllable. Hank was by now sitting shoulder to shoulder with her and she could feel his body tense. She knew he still held his gun in his hand, hidden between them, and was frightened he might use it. Instead he said ominously, "Better leave her be."

The man turned to face him, his eyes widening as if he was noticing the barkeep for the first time. His brow creased in bafflement, his bloodshot eyes raked Hank’s features and then he asked suspiciously, "Who are you?"

Hank hesitated and then replied, "H …. Hans ….. Hans Lausenstraum."

Michaela gulped and closed her eyes. If Hank was so determined to hide his identity from this strange man, then they were indeed in trouble.

The little man’s eyes narrowed. "You one of them immigrints?" he asked with a sneer.

"Nah …. Born right here in Colorado," replied Hank with bravado. "Pa just wanted some reminder of the old country ….."

"Good thing you aint …..," muttered the man. "Never took to ‘em …. Reckon ya can’t trust ‘em."

"I’ll agree with ya there," added Hank and chuckled, albeit not very convincingly. He regarded the man squatting beside him. "We introduced ourselves …. What about you?" he questioned without rancour.

The man stood and walked agitatedly back and forth in front of the fire. "Walt …" he replied at last. "Just Walt." He continued to pace. "You got coffee?" he suddenly asked, turning to face them again.

"Nah …. When our horses bolted they took everythin’ …. Fact is we aint eaten since lunch yesterday ….," replied Hank. "You bring food?"

"Got some jerky is all ….in my saddle-bag …. but not enough for three …." He made no move towards his horse.

"I told ya we’re alright if ya wanna head home," Hank suggested again. "Won’t be long an’ our friend’ll back for us."

Walt shook his head agitatedly and began to pace again. He occasionally glanced across at Michaela and his steely eyes would narrow, contrasting markedly with the reappearance of his lopsided grin. He abruptly halted in front of them. "Fella said you two was hurt," he said confusedly, as if he’d just remembered.

"We aint too bad now ….. but it woulda bin hard for us ta walk all the way to Colorado Springs," replied Hank, deliberately downplaying their injuries.

Walt stooped again and stared into Michaela’s frightened eyes. "Where ya hurt?" he demanded. He reached out and placed his grimy hand on Michaela’s skirt-covered knee. "Maybe I can help," he leered, roughly stroking her leg.

Michaela shivered. "I’ll …. I’ll be alright," she replied, drawing her knees up, an unintentional quaver in her voice.

"Fella said you was hurt," Walt repeated.

"I’ll …. I’ll be fine ….. really," Michaela reiterated, fighting to eliminate the quaver.

Hank was seething and his hand itched on the gun at his side. But he knew this man, and his capabilities, and although they may be impaired by drink and an unsound mind, he wasn’t going to take any chances. He decided distraction might be the better option. He indicated Walt’s horse with a nod of his head. "What’s in the jug?" he asked, attempting to sound eager. The change of subject worked. The grin reappeared and Walt replied proudly, "Best moonshine in the Colorado Territory." He rose, ambled across to the horse and untied the jug. Instead of coming straight back to them he sat himself on a fallen tree and uncorked the brew, before tilting it back and taking several deep swallows, wiping his mouth after each one with his dirty shirtsleeve.

Watching the man with increasing dread, Michaela whispered, "Who is he Hank?"

"Name’s Walt Gates," replied Hank, his voice low. "Worked up at Burnham’s same time me an’ Sully did …. Folks knew he was crazy ….. but couldn’ ever pin anythin’ on him. Don’ be fooled by his slow movements …. he can move like a cat when he hasta ….." Hank paused and edged forward so that he sat more in front of Michaela than beside her, her back protected by the trunk of the young oak. Hank continued warningly, "Had a reputation for bein’ … ah …. for not treatin’ the ladies very well ….. Had a young wife when he started at the mine ….. No-one knows what happened to her. Course she was about as crazy as he was …."

Michaela’s heart was pounding. "Do you think Sully’s safe?" she asked apprehensively. "Do you *really* think he continued on to Colorado Springs?"

Hank shrugged his shoulders. Keeping his eyes fixed on the little man, he murmured. "Dunno. Figure if anyone could git away from Walt it’d be Sully ….. but he sounds just a little too sure of himself …. an’ he aint in any hurry …."

Michaela gripped Hank’s arm. "What’re we going to do?" she asked. "What if Sully doesn’t come for us?"

Hank didn’t get an opportunity to reply. If the truth be known, and if he’d had time to consider it, he’d probably have been grateful. He really didn’t know *what* they were going to do. Walt was a lot smaller than he was, but the pain and swelling in his knee was going to hamper him in any hand to hand fighting. His finger stroked the trigger of the gun now concealed beneath the edge of Michaela’s full skirt. He could shoot of course, try to disable the madman, but three things caused him to hesitate. He could recall Walt’s amazing prowess with a weapon back in their mining camp days, and Michaela’s comments about not trusting him when he had a gun in his hand had disconcerted him. And lastly, no matter what people thought of him, shooting a man in cold blood didn’t sit right with him. If there was cause, he would shoot and live with the consequences but in this case? Worries about the man’s state of mind didn’t quite constitute a cause, well not yet anyway. His thoughts were brought up short as he observed Walt rise from the log, sway slightly and saunter back to the campfire.

He stopped and peered down at them, his brow creasing in puzzlement. He took a step to his left and fixed his eyes on Michaela, now, in the main, shielded by Hank’s comparatively large, strong body. His jaw clenched, he brought his rifle up to cradle it in his arms and squatted down so that he was eye to eye with Hank. He uttered menacingly, "I know what ya doin’ …… but she aint yours ….. she’s gonna be mine …. She wants to be with me …. I can see it in her beautiful eyes ….."

Walt’s words chilled Michaela to the bone. If she’d had any doubts before about Walt’s state of mind, she didn’t now. She shrank down behind Hank’s shoulder, her heart pounding, her body shaking in trepidation. She felt rather than saw Hank move, his hand brushing her leg as he quickly raised his gun to Walt’s chest. But even *he* was not quick enough for the seemingly lightning reflexes of the madman. Before Hank had time to squeeze the trigger he was caught with a skull-cracking blow from Walt’s rifle butt, one which caused him to cry out in surprise and pain, before he slumped back against her chest, unconscious.

Michaela gasped in shock and she instinctively encircled Hank’s shoulders with her arms, as his weight knocked the breath out of her. Her wide, frightened eyes flew to Walt. With his rifle barrel he slid Hank’s gun towards himself, picked it up and tucked it into his belt. He grinned down at her. "I’m right aint I little lady?" he sneered crazily. "He was gittin’ in the way …." He waved his rifle towards the unconscious barkeep. "Reminds me of a fella I knew a long time ago …. used ta git in my way then too …." He stood upright and began to pace back and forth agitatedly. "Someone’s always gittin’ in the way …. always …," he muttered as he paced.

While Walt seemed to lose himself in his ruminations, Michaela turned her attention to Hank who had not stirred. She sat more upright and eased him down a little so that his head was cradled against her stomach. She gasped when she saw the deep, vertical, ragged laceration on the left side of his forehead, extending from eye socket to hairline. The cut was bleeding profusely, blood pouring into his eye and down his cheek to soak into his shirt. Afraid of provoking Walt by lifting her skirt to tear off yet another piece of her petticoat, Michaela began to dab at the cut with her sleeve. Her hands shook as she tried to stem the free flow of blood. There was no way of knowing whether the rifle butt had damaged his eye, though the fact that the eyelid was not cut was reassuring. With her other hand she clumsily untied the kerchief from around his neck and rapidly folded it into a thick wad which she applied to the wound. All she could do was apply pressure and hope that the blood would clot and slow to a manageable level.

Walt at last redirected his attention to her and screwed up his nose in distaste. "You’re all covered in blood ….," he mumbled. "Aint a pretty sight on a woman ….. Haveta clean ya up …"

"I …. I….. have to make sure Hank is alright," replied Michaela, uncertainly but defiantly. She swallowed and dropped her eyes to her hands when she realised she’d used the wrong name.

But Walt didn’t seem to notice. "Don’ matter ‘bout him," he said dismissively. "Nothin’ matters but you an’ me …" His sinister smile returned.

Michaela shuddered and unconsciously tightened her hold on Hank. She closed her eyes and said a silent, fervent prayer for help.

******************************

Michaela felt Hank’s muscles tense as he slowly regained consciousness. Feigning a closer look at his wound, she leant down and whispered against his ear, "Lay still …. Don’t let him know you’re conscious." He barely managed to suppress an anguished moan as the sharp pain in his head penetrated the daze he’d been in. "Shhh ….," she soothed. "There’s a bad cut on your forehead where he hit you with his rifle."

Hank’s eyelids flickered and then shut tight. "Can’t see …. left eye ….," he muttered, his hand momentarily lifting from the ground before he remembered Michaela’s instruction to remain still.

"I know …..," replied Michaela softly, her eyes fixed on Walt who was back sitting on the log near his horse, slaking his thirst with numerous swigs of moonshine. "Its badly swollen and coated with blood from the cut. I can’t do anything about it until I can wash the dried blood away .…"

"What’s he doin’?" Hank croaked, suddenly aware that he was cradled in Michaela’s arms and that he couldn’t hear Walt.

"He’s gone back to his drinking for the moment ….. He seems rather distracted …. But he’s just as likely to come back over here, lucid and threatening …..," she replied in a low tone. She shuddered and her hold on Hank unconsciously tightened.

"We’ll git outta this Michaela," Hank reassured her. "Somehow we will ….. just keep an eye on him …. Let me know when he heads back over here …."

Michaela squeezed his arm in response and then tentatively lifted the wad of bloody cloth from his brow. "It’ll have to be stitched," she murmured. "But the bleeding’s slowed. I have to keep the pressure on it to hold the cut together."

Hank gave her a barely perceptible nod. "He still drinkin’?"

"Uh huh ….."

"Could do with some of that myself …."

Despite their dire situation Michaela smiled in sympathy. She leant down and whispered, "I’d almost be tempted to join you …"

The corners of Hank’s mouth twitched. "Bin a long time since I had a drink with a beautiful woman .… I might hold ya to that …."

"I said *tempted* Hank," smiled Michaela. She suddenly tensed as Walt placed the jug back on the ground and stood.

"What’s happenin’?" whispered Hank.

"I …. I…. oh," murmured Michaela as she observed Walt stand and move uncertainly towards them before doubling back.

"What’s he doin’?" asked Hank again, responding to Michaela’s tensing.

"He’s ….. he’s ….."

"He’s what?!" the barkeep demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

"He’s …. he’s …. ah …. relieving himself ….," murmured Michaela, averting her eyes.

Hank chuckled. "Not surprised …. that moonshine’s pretty strong stuff …."

"Hank!" exclaimed Michaela.

"Wish I was up to rushin’ him …. It’d be the ideal time," the barkeep rued, a baleful smile on his face.

"Neither of us are up to that Hank," replied Michaela. "You especially." She paused to observe the sinister little man turn back to peer at his captives before once again seating himself on the fallen log. "Its almost as if he’s waiting for something," she mused.

"Probably reckons he’s got all the time in the world …. adds to the suspense ….. an’ the feelin’ of power over us," noted Hank in a rare moment of insight. He felt Michaela ease herself off her sore hip. "You want me to move a bit …. off ya?" he asked gently.

"Ah …. no …..," replied Michaela sheepishly. "I’m fine ….."

"An’?" he prompted, sensing that she wanted to add something else.

"And …. and ….. the truth is I feel a lot safer with you against me like this than I would if you were beside me. Walt would have difficulty getting to me while we’re like this," explained Michaela, reddening.

Hank chuckled softly. "Glad ta know I’m good for somethin’ at the moment," he smirked, and then his brow creased in pain and he groaned softly. "Not much good for anythin’ else," he muttered under his breath.

Michaela gently ran her fingertips over the creases in his forehead. "The pain will ease Hank," she promised him. "Just lay still." The barkeep took a deep, steadying breath.

There was a long silence during which Michaela never took her eyes off their assailant who sat passively by the trail, and Hank lost himself in his reveries, trying to forget the steady, throbbing pain in his head. At last he said softly, "You know you were wonderin’ what I was doin’ this week?"

Michaela regarded him quizzically. "Mmmm, but you said you didn’t want to talk about it….. You don’t ….."

"I was visitin’," he abruptly interjected.

"Visiting?! Who?" exclaimed Michaela before she could stop herself.

"Coupla families I knew from the days at Burnham’s. Try ta see ‘em at least once a year …. in the summer ….. Don’ like to go near where they live in the winter ….. Real hard up there," he murmured dreamily. "Don’ know how they stand it …"

"Where? Up in the mountains?" asked Michaela, mystified by Hank’s revelations.

"Yeah …. near the pass into the next valley ….."

Michaela was silent for a moment trying to remember why this sounded familiar. At last she hit upon it. "Sully said there were some Jewish families settled up there …. Are they who you visit?" she asked doubting it very much. She was amazed when he answered with an abashed, "Uh huh …. they’ve bin good to me. Got caught in a blizzard one winter …. woulda died if it weren’t for them takin’ me in …. Like ta make sure they’re doin’ alright." Again Hank’s brow creased in pain.

Michaela’s thoughts were racing. Would wonders never cease! If nothing else, this unexpected and unfortunate sojourn in the woods with the barkeep had given her some insights into his nature of which she’d been previously unaware. "I’m sure they appreciate that you take the time Hank," she offered, again stroking his forehead soothingly. "And *I* appreciate that you trusted me enough to tell me …" She leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes, again offering silent prayers for divine intervention into their situation.

******************************

Sully crept stealthily through the underbrush, circling around so that he’d approach the clearing in which he’d left Michaela and Hank from the opposite direction. He was still praying that his theory he’d find Walt Gates there with them would prove to be incorrect. Recognising the rock formations to the east, and utilising all the skills taught to him by Cloud Dancing and the Cheyenne, he moved silently over rock and dry undergrowth towards the tinkling sound of the stream.

The sound of a horse tearing hungrily at grasses by the trail drew his attention and his heart sank. As surely as if he’d seen him, he knew Walt was there before him. Crouching down behind a thick bush, he reached out and slowly parted the branches to peer into the clearing. His heart began to pound. Michaela was leaning back against the oak where he’d left her, however Hank was now leaning back cradled in her arms, apparently unconscious. Michaela was blood spattered and she too appeared unconscious, her eyes closed, one arm wrapped around Hank’s shoulders, the other holding a blood-soaked rag to his head. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched and a nerve pulsed in his cheek. If either of them was seriously hurt he’d kill Walt Gates with his bare hands! He knew he had it in him.

He spied the madman seated by the trail a few yards down, his back to the stream. He appeared to have not a care in the world. His rifle rested against his knee and his jug of moonshine was cradled in his arms. Occasionally he would spit into the dust and watch the spittle spread and puddle on the dry earth. Sully’s lip curled in disgust and he redirected his attention back to Michaela and Hank, desperately hoping that the situation was not as desperate as it first appeared. Suddenly Michaela straightened and she lifted the cloth and peered down at the wound on Hank’s forehead. He saw her whisper into the barkeep’s ear and the corners of Hank’s lips turn up in a half smile. Thank God! They were both alive and conscious.

He circled around so that he was closer to the pair and a little further away from Walt. He crouched down, staying hidden, and emitted the long, slow call of the dove which had become his signature since his days with the Cheyenne. Michaela’s head flew up and her eyes darted here and there, seeking him. He called again and she smiled. She knew he was there.

*****************************

Michaela caught the sound of the dove on the summer breeze and stilled. She peered into the brush, seeking a movement, another sign. Again the call came and she knew Sully was close. She smiled and the tension went out of her body. She leant down and whispered, "Sully’s here."

Hank was suddenly alert. "How do ya know?" he asked.

"I heard him …. He’s hiding in the brush."

"Probably some wild animal," rejoined Hank, unable to quite disguise the hopefulness in his voice.

"No ….. he’s here …. Believe me …. I know," returned Michaela quietly but with conviction.

Hank took a deep breath and then to mask his relief, quietly joked, "Hope he aint gonna take offence …. me layin’ here in your arms …."

Michaela leant down and whispered, "He won’t mind a bit …" As she straightened she was taken unawares by Walt who was advancing towards them across the clearing, albeit a little unsteadily. Her hold on Hank instinctively tightened. He immediately knew that something was about to happen.

Walt’s rifle was again hanging loosely from his right hand and the sinister grin had returned. He stepped so close that his foot nudged the apparently unconscious Hank, however he disregarded the barkeep as an insignificant hindrance to his real purpose. He fixed his gaze on Michaela. "Time me an’ you got goin’," he said matter-of-factly. If we wanna be home by dark …" Michaela’s brow creased in puzzlement and fear and she unconsciously shook her head, rejecting the little man’s innuendo. The grin disappeared from his face and a steely glint appeared in his bloodshot eyes. "Now don’ you be givin’ me any trouble little lady," he exhorted. "Don’ take kindly to folks …. especially women …. givin’ me trouble …" He edged closer, kicking at Hank’s swollen knee as if it were merely a small stone in his path. The barkeep stifled a moan and remained still in Michaela’s arms.

"But …. but …. what about Ha ….. Hans?" stammered Michaela. "He’s hurt."

"Aint hurt bad ….," retorted Walt dismissively. "Course …. if ya don’ come with me …. I can finish the job …."

Michaela gasped and shrank back against the tree trunk.

Walt’s temper suddenly boiled over. He bent and grasped Hank’s bloodied shirt-front, then heaved upwards in an attempt to haul him aside. Hank remained slack against Michaela and she tightened her hold on him. The madman’s face reddened in fury and he again grabbed the much larger man, this time edging even closer so that he straddled Hank’s legs. Hank opened his eyes a slit when Walt snorted in anger and exasperation. The madman hovered over him, silhouetted by the bright sun behind him. Sizing up the situation Hank promptly drew up his knees and slammed his legs into Walt’s stomach and groin with all the power he could muster before the pain in his head made him reel back with dizziness. Caught unawares, the madman tumbled backwards, his rifle flying from his hand into the dust several feet away. He landed on his back, growling deep in his throat, much as a wild animal does when hurt or threatened, but he was up again in a trice, and reached instantly for the gun tucked into his belt. He drew it and aimed at Hank. "That weren’t such a good idea," he growled, cocking the gun. Suddenly Sully’s tomahawk came whistling through the air, knocking the gun from Walt’s hand. He turned in fury, crouching, ready to pounce on the approaching mountain man.

As Sully hurled himself upon their assailant and began to pummel him with his fists and heavy boots, Michaela scrambled out from under Hank and hastily picked up the discarded rifle. She edged painfully across and prodded the frenzied Walt in the back with the barrel. "That’s enough!" she exclaimed. "Stop!" she commanded, when he paid no heed. She again prodded him in the back, this time a little harder. With the strength of a lunatic, he thrust Sully to the ground, winding him, and whirled around to face her, his face red with rage, his fists balled, his muscles tensed, ready to spring. He suddenly laughed maniacally and began to advance menacingly on her. Through his mirth he sneered, "Joke’s on you MichaeLA," again emphasising the last syllable. "Rifle don’ work ….. aint worked for years ….."

"But this one does!" came a deep, angry voice to Walt’s right. He swung around to confront Hank, now once more in possession of his gun, which he had cocked and aimed squarely at Walt’s chest. "Move one more inch an’ I’ll shoot …. I swear I will …..," he warned. Fixing his eyes on the little man who stood motionless, stunned at this turn of events, he called, "Sully? You alright?"

"Uh huh," groaned Sully, hauling himself to his feet and then making his way over to a shaking Michaela. He took the rifle from her and threw it so that it spun through the air, glittering in the bright summer sunshine, and landed with a thump some forty yards away. He pulled her into his arms.

"Michaela?" called Hank.

"I’m …. I’m fine Hank," replied Michaela, obviously shaken by the terrifying last couple of minutes. She rested her head against Sully’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. He gently rubbed her back and then turned his attention back to Hank. "Better tie him up …. don’ want him goin’ crazy agin," he suggested. Walt growled deep in his throat and his muscles tensed.

His gun still unwaveringly pointed at Walt, Hank agreed, "Yeah …." He waved his gun at the madman. "On the ground," he ordered. "On ya stomach." Walt looked as if he was going to refuse and Hank waved the weapon again menacingly. "You heard me," he warned. The bravado suddenly went out of their antagonist and he sank to his knees in the dust. Hank did not relent. "On ya stomach I said." When Walt was at last laying full length in the dust Hank looked across at Sully, a hint of a smile on his face. "Ah …. what’re we gonna use to tie him up with?" There was a brief silence and then Sully hurriedly pulled off his shirt. Grasping a sleeve in each hand, he twisted the fabric until he had a crude rope and then hastily tied Walt’s hands securely behind his back. Tossing the gun to Sully, Hank quickly stripped off his vest and shirt and did the same thing, tying Walt’s feet together. The three of them surveyed their handiwork and then as one sank to the ground, overwhelmed with relief and, in the case of Michaela and Hank, pain.

After Michaela had stemmed the fresh flow of blood from Hank’s head wound and, with yet more strips from her petticoat, bound it tightly (to keep the edges of the wound together so she could stitch it later, she explained), she turned her attention to Sully and the dried blood she’d observed on his neck and back. Reassuring herself that there was little damage, she turned inquiring eyes on her husband. He briefly explained his strange encounter with Walt at his camp and his subsequent incarceration in the hut. "But when you escaped …. what made you come back here ….. instead of continuing on home?" she asked in puzzlement. "Did he lead you to believe he’d come after us?"

Sully shook his head. "No …. at the time I didn’ think he even registered what I was sayin’ …. But when I saw he’d let the fires go out …. even under his still …. Well figured somethin’ was up ….. Call it a hunch," he rationalised, self-consciously.

Hank, who had been silently nursing a very sore head, suddenly interjected, "Damn good hunch …." Sully shrugged his shoulders dismissively. Knowing the mountain man’s penchant for disliking attention, Hank decided to bring matters back to the present. "Well I guess we’re back where we started yesterday," he said wryly. "Cept I got a damn awful headache …. *an’* I’m a lot hungrier."

Sully chuckled. "Maybe things aint quite so bad," he said mysteriously. "I’ll be back in a minute." He stood and made his way down the trail. A few minutes later he returned leading a somewhat emaciated mule hitched to a small ramshackle wagon. Michaela and Hank regarded him in astonishment.

"Hey them’s mine," Walt suddenly exclaimed from the ground. "You stole ‘em …. I’ll have ya arrested," he bellowed.

Hank and Sully laughed out loud. "I *borrowed* ‘em," explained Sully. "Like we’re gonna *borrow* ya horse too." He turned to Hank and Michaela. "Found ‘em at his camp. That’s how I got back here in time. You ready to go?"

Hank eyed the conveyance dubiously. "I aint gonna be seen ridin’ inta town in that," he chuckled. "Never live it down."

"Well seein’ our homestead is closer than town we’ll head in there an’ we’ll lend ya a horse ta git ta town. How’s that sound?" smiled Sully.

"But not before I’ve stitched that wound," interjected Michaela authoritatively.

Both men smiled good-naturedly. "Yes maam," chortled Hank.

***********************************

Matthew heard the wagon first. He shot out of the armchair by the fireplace and hurried to the window. "They’re back!" he yelled to Brian, who was attempting to amuse an increasingly fretful Katie at the kitchen table. All three rushed to the door and scarpered down the front steps of the homestead. They were brought up short by the strange sight which met their eyes. There in the twilight sat a blood spattered Michaela on an unknown bay which looked as if it would collapse if it took another step, while Sully and of all people Hank Lawson, were seated in a disreputable wagon pulled by the mangiest mule they’d ever seen. Added to that was the fact that both Hank and Sully were shirtless and Hank bore a badly swollen eye and a rather impressive, white bandage around his head. Matthew hurried forward to assist his ma down from the horse. "You alright?" he asked anxiously. "Whole town’s bin out lookin’ for ya today …. after Flash an’ Sully’s horse turned up here without you yesterday afternoon."

"It’s a long story Matthew," replied Michaela wearily, leaning against him, favouring her sore right leg and hip. She clasped Brian to her lovingly as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "But yes … we’re alright …. though I’m going to have to stitch Hank’s forehead." She and the boys made their way over to the others.

"What about *my* horse Matthew?" asked Hank. "He turn up too?"

"’Fraid not Hank …. We didn’ even know you were with Sully an’ Dr Mike," answered Matthew.

"Damn horses," muttered Hank. "Told you ya can’t trust ‘em." He glanced across at a shy Katie nestled in against her father’s chest and had the good grace to look apologetic.

Brian, meanwhile was peering into the back of the wagon. "Ah pa ….. ma …. who’s this?" he asked, perplexed.

"Just someone who caused us a lotta trouble Brian," Sully replied. "Matthew? I wondered if you wouldn’ mind deliverin’ this fella into the sheriff in town …. an’ tell him I’ll be in tomorra ta lay charges …."

"Sure Sully …. What’d he do?"

Sully glanced at Brian and Katie. "Just tell the sheriff he’s real dangerous an’ should be watched …. He can move real fast when he wants."

Understanding that Sully was reluctant to explain the man’s crime in front of the children, Matthew headed towards the barn to hitch up the wagon. "I’ll let everyone in town know ya alright," he said with relief. "They were headin’ out agin at first light ….. but not knowing what direction you’d taken made it hard to know where ta look." Both Michaela and Sully looked a little sheepish. Satisfied that he’d got his point across, Matthew called, "Hey Brian, wanna give me a hand?" His brother immediately nodded and followed him into the barn. Before the others could make their way into the homestead, Matthew reappeared at the barn door. "Hey Hank?" he called. "Want anythin’ from town?"

"Nah … I’ll be alright Matthew," returned the barkeep. "I’ll be home soon anyways."

Michaela stepped forward. "Um …. I’d like to keep an eye on you Hank …. just tonight … to make sure that wound is alright…. And I’d much rather do it here than at the clinic …. alright?" Hank opened his mouth to protest. "How does a hot meal sound …. with fresh, buttered biscuits?" she added temptingly.

Hank suddenly acquiesced. "Sounds good …. thanks," he replied. "Matthew?" he called. "I could do with a clean shirt."

*******************************

Michaela leaned over the newly stitched wound and examined it in minute detail, aided by the lamp she held as near as possible to the site. She then repositioned the bandage, sat back on the edge of the bed, carefully placed the lamp on the nightstand, and smiled. "It looks fine Hank. Any light-headedness? Nausea?"

Hank, sitting up in Brian’s comfortable bed, smiled self-consciously. "After that delicious hot meal I feel fine …. Maybe a little woozy in the head every now an’ then," he quietly replied. "Are you sure Brian don’ mind me sleepin’ here the night? Seems kinda mean ta throw him outta his room."

Brian doesn’t mind at all. In fact he’ll enjoy ‘camping’ downstairs. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince Katie she’d be more comfortable in her own bed than down there with him.

"But you convinced her … right?"

Michaela smiled. "Uh huh."

Hank chuckled.

There was a long silence during which Michaela was obviously trying to collect her thoughts. At last she said quietly, "Thank-you Hank."

"Thank-you?"

"Mmm …. for protecting me …. keeping me company …. I hate to think what Walt might’ve done if you hadn’t been there, or done what you did," she uttered sincerely.

"Weren’t nothin’," he murmured embarrassedly, his eyes roving to the framed picture of a sailing ship Brian had hung on the wall. He suddenly returned his gaze to Michaela. "I knew him ya see …. Knew what he could do ….. Can be real mean …. specially when it comes to women ….." He paused and then continued, "When I bought the saloon here I started hirin’ girls … for entertainin’." Michaela’s lip curled in distaste. "I know …. I know …. Ya don’ like that I do that ….. but I aint gonna change it just cos you don’ like it ……" Michaela shook her head ruefully but did not interrupt. "Anyways I took a coupla girls up to the saloon at Burnham’s ….. only once …. Walt Gates put a stop to it."

"What did he do?" asked Michaela, dreading his answer.

"You don’ wanna know Michaela …. Burnham fired him. Told him if he came near the mine agin he’d have him arrested. He disappeared. Aint seen him agin til today …." He paused and then added contritely, "Probably shoulda bin arrested back then …."

"Why didn’t you want him to recognise you?" asked Michaela, a little baffled.

"When he hurt Martha …. I kinda lost my temper ….." He grinned up at Michaela. "You’ve seen what happens when I do that ….. I beat him up pretty good …. Didn’t want him to remember."

"No, I can understand that," replied Michaela quietly. She reached out and tenderly fingered the bandaging on Hank’s forehead. "You got hurt protecting me," she said whimsically.

"Whether you believe it or not …. I wouldn’ stand by an’ let a fella hurt any woman Michaela," rejoined Hank. "An’ its just a scratch …. A few days from now it’ll be forgotten an’ we’ll be disagreein’ on somethin’ all over again …. Don’ fuss." His gruff voice was belied by the half smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eye.

"It’s a scratch which needed six stitches Hank," admonished Michaela mock sternly. "I tried to make them as small and neat as possible so there shouldn’t be too much of a mark."

"Ah …. the scars of battle Michaela ….. adds character don’ they say," joked Hank.

Michaela smiled. "You’ll have to come over to the clinic regularly for the next few days so that I can make sure no infection sets in …. especially as conditions out there were far from sanitary ….," she ordered.

"Yes maam," replied Hank, the twinkle in his eye intensifying. "Now how ‘bout ya let me sleep ….. need it after that hard ground last night."

Michaela nodded and stood. "Thanks again Hank," she said sincerely. "If you need anything during the night …. Well you know where everything is …. help yourself."

Hank chuckled. "That’s about the last thing I ever expected to hear you say Michaela. You get a good night’s sleep too alright?"

Michaela wandered across to the door. "Alright …. goodnight," she replied and pulled the door open, only to discover Sully on the landing, his hand on the doorknob. He smiled at her and entered Brian’s room as she brushed past and crossed the landing.

Sully sauntered across to the bedside. "Head alright?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Yeah …. bit sore but Michaela says it won’t be for long," replied the barkeep.

"Comfortable?" asked Sully, with his customary brevity.

"Uh huh."

"Ah Hank?"

The barkeep’s eyebrows rose.

"Just wanted ta thank you for what ya did," said Sully, at last directing his gaze at the barkeep.

"Michaela already did that," he replied, again fixing his eyes on the sailing ship painting.

"Yeah well ….. this one’s from me … thank-you."

Hank’s brow creased and he said gruffly, "Didn’ do it for you Sully …. Did it for her …"

Sully nodded. "I know that ….. but still wanted ya to know I’m grateful."

Hank shrugged his shoulders. "We’ve had our differences over the years Sully …. An’ I figure they aint gonna be miraculously ironed out by what happened out there …. But you’re married to a special lady ….. though don’ ever tell her I said that …." He winked.

Sully smiled. "I know she’s special Hank ….. I’ve known it from the first day I met her …."

"Yeah, well ….. you ever do anythin’ to hurt her an’ you’ll answer to me ….. alright?"

Sully nodded and with a similar twinkle in his eye held out his hand, "Alright."

The two men shook hands and Sully added, "Thanks agin," before heading out the bedroom door to leave Hank in peace.

*******************************

Sully slipped into their room and quietly closed the door. Michaela was standing over by the wash stand, her back to the door, slowly rubbing a damp cloth over her arms and shoulders. She had removed her blouse and camisole and her skin gleamed where the wet cloth had passed. Sully walked quietly across the room and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She jumped and squealed, spinning around to exclaim, "Sully!" Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking.

"I’m sorry Michaela," he murmured contritely. "I didn’ mean ta frighten ya."

She shook her head. "I … I …. was daydreaming I suppose …." She dropped her head and began to rub at her hands and arms again. "I still feel dirty," she murmured. "The dust …. and blood ….."

Sully took the cloth from her. "Here, let me," he offered. He dipped the cloth in the wash bowl, squeezed it out and began to run it soothingly over her skin, down her neck, across her shoulders, down her arms and then upwards again. "Tomorra mornin’ I’ll fix ya a bath," he murmured, as he worked. "But its too late now an’ you’re too tired …"

Michaela closed her eyes and arched her neck, savouring his loving, undivided attention. He left her for a moment to rinse out the cloth again and then returned, gently washing her chest, then her breasts, lingering to cup them lovingly in his hands and to place a trail of kisses over the dampness left by the wash cloth. He then moved down to her torso and when he spied the beginnings of deep blue bruises on her side above her waistband he leant down and kissed them lovingly. "Sore?" he asked softly. "Uh huh," she replied. Suddenly he pulled her in against himself to hold her close. Her arms automatically came up to embrace him and she clung to him, resting her cheek against his shirt-covered chest. They stood like that for a long time, each aware of the other’s heart pounding in rhythm with their own. Then into the silence Michaela murmured plaintively, "I was so frightened Sully."

"I know you were," he returned. "So was I?"

She stepped back to peer up into his blue eyes, "You were?" she whispered.

"Uh huh ….. all the time I was hurryin’ back to ya I was afraid I’d be too late …." He kissed her temple and ran his fingers through her hair.

"I …. I …. thought Walt might’ve done something to you …. That you might be ….."

"Shhh," he murmured against her hair. "Its all over …. we’re both alright ….," he reassured her. "With a little help from Hank," he added.

Michaela nodded. "He’s ….. he’s ….. different ….. when he’s on his own ….. kinder somehow …. Though he’s still quick to take offence …. or to argue a point," she mused.

"I know …. He’s one of those fellas who can be one thing one minute an’ completely different the next aint he?" Sully pondered. "So you two gonna be best friends now?" he asked with a chuckle.

Michaela smiled. "I doubt it," she returned, taking Sully’s comment seriously. "There are too many things we disagree on … always will I would think …. But strangely I probably would consider him a friend …." Sully’s hands were moving sensuously down her bare back, causing her to shiver, but not because she was cold. She leant back so she could look into his face. "He told me you worked together at the mine," she informed him softly, watching to gauge his reaction.

He continued to caress her back, moving down to slip his fingers into the waistband of her skirt. "He did huh?" His face remained passive.

"Mmmm …. He said you and he used to do things together," she murmured, wriggling back against his arousing hands. "Hunting ….. working in the saloon …. Somehow I can’t imagine you pouring whisky."

"Long time ago Michaela," he responded softly, undoing the buttons at the back of her skirt. "Did a lotta thin’s I aint too proud of now …."

"Oh? Like what?" she asked boldly, her hands moving up to unbutton his shirt.

He paused and his eyes suddenly darkened in remorse. He said quietly, almost shamefully, "I …. I knew Burnham didn’ care much about his workers’ safety ….. but I didn’ really do anythin’ about it ….. even though my job included diggin’ graves ….. way too many for my likin’. Tried a couple of times to get ‘em to listen but …… *Now* I’d really do somethin’ about it ….. but back then ……….." He suddenly buried his face in her hair.

"Oh Sully," she soothed. "You were young …… in love …… and needed a job ….. You’ve grown a lot since then." The sorrow in his eyes did not diminish, so she continued, "One young man against a company and its owners …. Sometimes the odds are too great ….."

"*You* woulda done somethin’ about it…. Got ‘em to change their ways ….," he suddenly insisted.

Michaela had reached the last button and was tugging his shirt free of his buckskins. She paused. "We don’t know that," she rejoined quietly. "We don’t know how anyone will react in a given situation until we actually experience it …. do we? We all grow and learn as we get older. I’m sure everyone has some things they did when they were young that they look back on and rue. Its enough for me to know that the man I love more than anyone or anything else in this world *would* do something about it now ….. I’m certain of it …." He suddenly lifted her up off the floor, his eyes locking with hers filled with such adoration she was overwhelmed. "That’s been worrying you hasn’t it Sully? That’s why you’ve refused to talk much of your mining days…." she posed wonderingly. "For how long?"

"Years," he replied, before claiming her lips with his in a lingering, passionate, grateful kiss.

At last he placed her back on the floor and completed the task of removing her skirt and undergarments. "Time for bed," he whispered. He turned to quickly discard his buckskins and when he turned back found Michaela already in bed and, to his surprise, without her night shift. She beckoned to him and he climbed into bed to lay on his side facing her. She edged closer. "Hold me Sully," she implored softly. "I need you to hold me close." He wrapped his arms around her so that they touched from knee to chest. She buried her face in his neck and lovingly caressed his back and buttocks. For a long while nothing was said. Each savoured the loving touch of the other in the peace and safety of their own private haven. Gradually the caresses became more intimate, more sensual. Mouths met, skin warmed, breathing quickened, hearts pounded and the air was filled with ecstatic sighs and enduring words of love.

***************************

Hank shifted onto his side to face the window and once again fluffed up his pillow. He gazed out into the clear summer’s night, at the millions of stars in the heavens above and cursed the quietness of the homestead and surrounding countryside in comparison to the noise and bustle of the saloon in town. He didn’t understand how Michaela and Sully could possibly prefer the solitude; he found the silence so profound as to be unsettling. He had to admit though that he’d enjoyed the family meal he’d shared and surprisingly the games and laughter of the children afterwards. He smiled. Maybe he was going soft as he grew older.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to lull himself into sleep. Suddenly, from across the landing came faint but very familiar sounds and he smiled. Rhythmic movement and soft sighs and murmurings floated on the air and his mind turned to Michaela. Sometimes he really *did* envy Sully. She had such fire, such passion and courage. Few women in his experience had those particular qualities. He recalled many years ago, in a moment of rage, telling her she was frozen inside. How wrong he’d been! And he vaguely remembered that when he’d been sick and she was caring for him she’d admitted she was frightened of men. But Sully seemed to have changed all that. Their devotion to each other amazed and, at the same time, baffled him. As the sounds from their room increased a little in intensity he was suddenly overwhelmed with envy. Perhaps, one day, as Michaela had suggested, the right woman would come along …. he needed a woman with fire, someone like Michaela or her sister Marjorie. Someone who would be a challenge …. who would send his senses soaring. Perhaps ….

He turned over to face the wall, pulled the blankets up and, as silence once again descended on the homestead, closed his eyes and drifted off into a dream-filled sleep.

THE END