Michaela heard Dorothy scream.

    Somehow, for one long moment, she remained standing.  There was no pain—(How is that possible? she asked herself, her dazed mind trying to make sense out of what was happening )—but a puzzling numbness seemed to be radiating outward from the center of her body.  Slowly she looked down to see that a flower of blood was rapidly blooming under her left breast.  Shakily she brought her hand to the spot and stared uncomprehendingly at her bloody fingers.

 "My blood," she thought dimly.  "I've got--to stop-the bleeding . . . "  She tried to stem the flow of blood from her abdomen by applying pressure to the wound, but there was no strength in her hand.   She watched helplessly as  blood pooled out from beneath her rapidly numbing fingers.

    Pain, white-hot and crushing, assailed her without warning, driving her to her knees.  She gasped for breath, bringing on a second throbbing wave of agony.

    Blackness began to encroach on her vision, swallowing up her surroundings.  From far away she heard Dorothy cry her name.

     Michaela toppled over on her side.  But before the darkness mercifully claimed her, she heard Sully's voice:  I'll find you, Michaela.  I'll find you . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

     "What's happened to Michaela?" Rosalind asked urgently.

     Beads of sweat stood out on Sully's forehead.  The pain had vanished as inexplicably as it had come, but he felt a residue of dizziness and nausea in its wake.

     "She's been hurt," he said faintly.  "I think—maybe she's been shot."

     "Oh my God," Rosalind whispered.  "How do you know?"
 
     "I heard her," he said slowly.  "She called out to me.  And then—I felt this pain . . . Oh my God."  He buried his face in his hands.  If that shattering pain was what Michaela was feeling—if that's what she was going through . . .   He took several deep breaths, and slowly the dizziness receded.  Wiping the sweat from his face, he shakily rose to his feet.

     "Rosalind," he said abruptly.  "In the pantry on the top shelf you'll find a pile of bandages—Michaela keeps extra medical supplies here at the homestead for emergencies."  He took a worn deerskin bag—a gift from Cloud Dancing—from a hook by the front door and handed it to her.  "Fill this with bandages—as many as you can fit.  I'll need other things too—“  He gave her a short list of items, ending with willow bark tea.

     Rosalind moved quickly to fulfill his request.  She wasted no time questioning his claim about what had happened to Michaela, trusting absolutely in his belief.  While she gathered the medical supplies, Sully pumped water into the sink and filled his canteen.

     She brought him the bag, bulging with the items he'd requested.

     "Thanks," he said briefly.  He no longer had his fringed leather belt, but he took a single-bladed ax from a peg on the wall and tucked it into the waist of his buckskins.  From a drawer of the sideboard he withdrew a knife—small but wickedly sharp—which he slipped into the top of his boot.   He shrugged on his heavy leather coat and slung the straps of the bag and the canteen over his shoulder.

     "Do you know where she is?" Rosalind asked him.

     "No," Sully admitted.  "I couldn't see.  But I got the feelin' it was somewhere in the woods.  It shouldn't be hard to track them.  Somethin' took them away from the main road.  I'll just follow the road, look for signs, see what turns up.

     "I'm leavin' Wolf here with you," he added, glancing out the window to where Wolf lay curled on the porch, napping in the mid-morning sun.  "I don't need him with me—ground's soft, so tracks will be clear and easy to follow.  And I want him here, protectin' you."

     "Promise me *you* will be careful?" Rosalind pleaded, placing her hand on his arm.

     "I will," he assured her.  "But Michaela's all that matters now.  I'll do whatever I have to do to keep her alive—you understand what that means?" he added, looking at her soberly.

     She nodded.

     "She's waitin' for me, Rosalind," he added softly.  "But—she can't wait much longer . . . "  Choking over the words, unable to say more, he kissed her quickly and reached for the doorknob.

     "Byron!  Wait!"  Quickly she removed the cameo from her collar and pressed it into his palm.  Closing his fingers over it she whispered, "Perhaps, it will help to protect you and bring you luck."

     He clutched it tightly.  It felt warm and reassuring in his hand.  Carefully he slipped it back inside his shirt. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as he looked down at her.

     "Thank you," he whispered, and laid his hand against her cheek.  A moment later, he was gone.

     Rosalind pressed her hands to her heart.  "Godspeed, my dearest child," she prayed silently.