By tacit agreement, Sully and Rosalind had decided to postpone their discussion of Katharine for another time.  Rosalind could see that Sully was preoccupied with thoughts of Michaela.  She didn't blame him; she was worried as well.  From what Michaela had told her of her own and Sully's history, Rosalind knew that the two had faced many dangers in the past, and that they had saved each other's lives on numerous occasions.  On the face of it, this latest crisis with the town and the Indians would seem to be just another in a long list of obstacles they had confronted.

     But there was something different here.  Sully's demeanor and movements spoke volumes about his state of mind.  He was not simply showing the normal concern of a husband whose wife had undertaken a possibly hazardous journey.  There was genuine fear in his eyes—and knowledge—as if he knew with absolute certainty that something was terribly wrong.

     Sully hadn't allowed a word of what he was thinking to pass his lips.  Rosalind  instinctively knew that it was because he was trying to protect her.  They'd known each other so briefly, yet Rosalind realized that already she was learning to "read" his emotions.  The bonds of family—or perhaps it was just love—were even stronger than she had imagined.  She also knew—without understanding why she could be so certain—that she could completely trust Sully's instincts.  Which made his agitation over Michaela even more ominous, and made Rosalind fear equally for Michaela's safety.

     She watched as Sully haunted the window, despite his awareness that it might be hours before Michaela returned, or before he was able to get any information about what was happening in town.  She wondered if it would help him to talk about his fears, but she hesitated—thinking that it might be too soon in their fledgling relationship for her to press him to reveal his feelings.  Perhaps just being here with him—letting him know that she was here if he needed her—was the best way she could help him.

     Sully paced the length of the room, like a magnificent gold lion restlessly prowling the limited confines of its cage.  He felt very much like a trapped animal, forced to cower in this house instead of being at Michaela's side where he belonged--where he *needed* to be.  But there was more going on here than just his frustration at not being able to travel freely, so that he could protect his wife.  He was experiencing an actual feeling of claustrophobia—as if the walls of the homestead were gradually closing in on him, smothering him in their embrace.  There didn't seem to be enough air in the room; his throat felt as it if were closing up with fear.

     He recognized the sensation.  Years ago as a miner, when he had been trapped in the cave-in, he had known claustrophobia—terror so choking that he thought he would die of it, long before—or if—they ever dug him out.   For twenty-two days he and the other trapped miners had languished in that fetid, wet and cloying blackness, till rescue had finally come.  Some of the men didn't make it out alive.  Some were never able to go back.  Some survived, but as mere shadows of who they had been, their will and spirit broken.

     Again, like so many times in his life, he had been lucky.  He had made it out, both, physically and emotionally.  Again, he owed Cloud Dancing for helping to renew his spirit; for teaching him to embrace Mother Earth, and not to fear Her.  Never again had he experienced the suffocating panic he had known in the hell-hole of the cave--until now.

     But as acutely as he felt the sensation, it seemed to be coming from outside himself—as if he were tapping into the reactions of someone else.  He didn't want to believe it was Michaela—he desperately wanted to deny to himself that she could be going through something terrible enough to provoke this smothering fear.  But it was no good.  In his gut he knew that his wife was in peril.  She needed him—and again, he wasn't there.

     He found himself back at the window, staring out at the yard of the homestead with unseeing eyes.  In his head he was trying to visualize another landscape.  He pictured Michaela in his mind—her luminous eyes, shining hair and slender figure—and he willed her to communicate to  him where she was.  Tell me, he begged to her silently.  I'll find you . . .

     Rosalind appeared at his side.  She touched his shoulder gently.  "I brought you some coffee," she said.  "Please, my dear, sit down and have some.  You'll exhaust yourself with pacing back and forth."

     Sully accepted the cup she offered, and tried to smile.  "Michaela would be scoldin' me if she was here," he said.  "She'd be tellin' me to wait on you."

     "We'll keep it our little secret then," Rosalind said lightly.  She coaxed him over to one of the wing chairs, and sat opposite him.  She had resolved not to press him, but it was obvious that the time had come for plain-speaking.

     "Michaela is in danger, isn't she?"  Rosalind asked without preamble.

     Sully admired her directness, and  his respect for her intuitiveness and  common sense went up another notch.

     "I think so, yes."

     "What can I do?" Rosalind asked quietly.

     "Tell me I'm crazy for worryin' like this—that I'm just lettin' my imagination run away with me," he implored her, but with no real hope that she could make his fear go away.

     "I would be glad to tell you those things, my dear, but I think we both know it would be a lie, don't we?" she said gently.

     He nodded, rubbing his eyes.  Fatigue, both physical and mental, was catching up with him.

       The sensation of foreboding pressed in on him again.  To counter his distress, he picked up his coffee cup from the adjacent table and took a bracing swallow of the strong brew.

     "You want to look for her," Rosalind stated.  "I think you should."

     He looked at her, startled.  "I figured you'd tell me to stay here—that I'd be riskin' capture if I go after her."

     "Part of me fears that very much," Rosalind admitted.  "But a much greater part of me knows that your safety would mean nothing to you without Michaela."

     Tears of gratitude for her understanding stung Sully's eyes.  "I'm—that is, Michaela and I—are real lucky you came here," he said huskily.

     Rosalind smiled at him luminously.  "I am the lucky one," she said simply.  Then, assuming a brisk air, she added, "Now don't waste another minute talking with me.  Go find your wife—and give her my love."

     Sully managed a smile.  "Thank you," he said.   "I will—“

     ("SULLY!  I LOVE—“)

     Sully bolted up from his chair, the china cup falling from his nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor as the words exploded on his consciousness—followed seconds later by a searing pain in his abdomen that doubled him over with its intensity.  Then—nothing.  Gasping, he fell back in his chair.

     "Byron!  What is it?"  Rosalind said frantically.

     His eyes were haunted.  "It's Michaela," he said.