Katie slept peacefully on the large bed within, her bunny in the circle of her arm, pillowed against her cheek. Marjorie had placed additional pillows on either side of her, to keep the toddler from accidentally rolling off the bed in her sleep. Sully perched on the bed next to her, softly stroking her back.
On the nightstand sat a nearly untouched tray of food. When Grace had brought it to him earlier, she had insisted on remaining until she actually saw him eat a little. For her benefit, he had forced himself to choke down a few bites, but they had stuck in his throat. As soon as she left, he had put the tray aside.
Sully gazed at his daughter, his eyes devouring every precious detail of her features. He couldn't believe that she had outgrown the crib they kept for her here at the clinic—just more proof of how long he'd been gone and how much he had missed. Yet she looked so small and vulnerable in the big "grown-up" bed—so needing of his care and protection. Michaela had needed his protection too, he thought--yet where had he been?
Sully wondered if he would ever be able to count the cost in lives of his impetuous actions a few months before. Both Indians and army soldiers killed in the uprising—who knew how many; O'Conner dead, though not by Sully's hand; damage to the Gold Nugget and the town and a host of minor injuries sustained by its residents because of the renegade attacks; Indian women, children and old men being kept prisoner for no other crime than being who they were; and now, Dorothy beaten and Michaela shot—for the sin of being his wife.
He had promised Michaela and Rosalind that he would put his guilt and self-pity aside, and instead channel his energies into making things right—with the town, with his friends, and most of all, with his family. But how could he ever make it right with Michaela for causing her to come so close to death? Or with his children for letting this happen to their mother?
And what if Michaela-didn't make it? It was a horrible truth, but one that he had to face. Her spirit—and the faces of his motherless children—would haunt him forever . . .
He heard footsteps approaching--the heavy tread of a man's boots coupled with a lighter, softer step. The footsteps stopped outside the door and the second soldier assigned to guard him poked his head in.
"Someone to see ya," the soldier said brusquely and withdrew. Sully looked up to see Rosalind in the doorway. Her eyes, reddened from weeping, regarded him compassionately.
Wordlessly, she crossed the room and put her arms around him. They held each other for several silent moments, then Sully pulled back and looked up at her.
"What have I done, Rosalind?" he whispered hoarsely. "What have I done?"
* * * * * * * * * *
"You saved Michaela's life," Rosalind told him in a hushed but firm voice. "You found her and brought her to a doctor in time."
"How do I know that?" Sully whispered. "You didn't see her, Rosalind. She lost so much blood and she was so pale—“
"You must have faith," she answered, removing her hat and cloak and laying them at the foot of the bed.
Sully shook his head. "I think I'm runnin' out," he said wearily. "This mornin' I started to have faith—that somehow everythin' would work out and I'd be able to come home for good. But I should have known better. 'No good deed goes unpunished'—ain't that what they say? But what they don't tell you is that it's the *wrong* people who get punished."
Rosalind sat down on the bed beside him. "Byron, you've been through a terrible ordeal. It's only natural that you are feeling dispirited right now. But things will get better—I know they will! Michaela is strong—and so are you."
"I pray Michaela is strong enough to fight this," Sully said. "But as for me—I don't know. Everything that's happened—everything that's gone wrong—rests on my shoulders. And I'm afraid I ain't strong enough to bear it—not anymore."
"Yes you are!" Rosalind whispered sharply. Then unexpectedly she added, "You are not like your parents."
He looked at her, startled.
"Your father was a good man, but weak, and ultimately he was unable to withstand the strain of poverty, and trying to provide for his family," Rosalind told him. "And your mother . . . " She hesitated, then went on quietly, "Much as it pains me to say this—as much as I loved Katharine—she was weak, as well. She surrendered to adversity. She gave up."
"Maybe I should have done the same," Sully said in a tone of bleak resignation. "After Abagail and Hannah died. Before I came to know the kids and—got attached. Before I ever had the chance to meet Michaela. Then none of this would have happened."
Rosalind leaped up from the bed. She was livid.
"Don't EVER say such a thing again!" she whispered fiercely, her blue eyes--so like his own--almost seeming to shoot sparks. "Don't EVER suggest that your family would have been better off without you! You dishonor all of us who love you by such thoughts. Most of all, you dishonor yourself. You ARE strong, Byron. And I WILL NOT PERMIT YOU TO GIVE UP!"
Rosalind spoke in a whisper, but her words jolted Sully as surely as if she had dashed ice-cold water in his face. He had never seen Rosalind angry before, and it was a fearsome sight. But then, just as swiftly, her manner changed and she was again the gentle woman he recognized.
"Forgive me," she said abashed, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment. "I have a formidable temper and it often gets the better of me. Too often, I am ashamed to admit. I simply—could not bear the sight of you in such despair. It frightened me.
"You must not give in to despondency, my dear," she exhorted him. "Michaela needs you, your children need you." As she spoke, she leaned over Katie, gently caressing her silky hair.
"Would you leave this precious angel, as your mother left you?" Rosalind asked. "This beautiful child who is the product of the love you found with Michaela.? And Brian—would you have him grow up without the only *real* father he has ever known? What of Matthew and Colleen? Adult children need their parents too.
"You of all people should understand the pain of growing up without a mother and father to love you, Byron. I cannot believe that you would willingly repeat your mother's tragic mistake."
Sully was staring at the floor. Rosalind felt a twinge of fear. Perhaps she been too outspoken—presuming too much of a relationship that was only hours old. Byron was living with such a tremendous burden. She should be comforting him. And yet here she was, berating the person she loved most in all the world. Blast her temper—which always seemed to get her in such trouble! Would she never learn to hold her tongue? With trepidation she awaited his reaction.
Finally he looked up at her. To her astonishment, he was smiling—a slight smile, to be sure, but it was the first hopeful sign she had witnessed since she arrived.
"You and my ma are more alike than I ever imagined," he said, his tone faintly amused. "When—she was well—she never let me get away with anythin', either."
Rosalind smiled back in relief. "We were sisters, after all," she said.
"I'm sorry for what I said before," Sully apologized. "You're right—I'd never leave Michaela, or my kids. Not by choice, anyway. I just—feel so helpless. Michaela's downstairs, fightin' for her life, and I can't do anythin' for her. And even if she pulls through, I'm probably facin' a prison term."
"But you're not facing it alone," Rosalind said, putting her hand over his. "You may have had to grow up alone, Byron, but you have a family now—you will never be alone again."
Sully clasped her hand in both of his. "Thanks for remindin' me of that," he said softly.
"Sully," came a voice from the open doorway, causing Sully's heart to pound. Slowly he rose to his feet to face Andrew, who stood on the threshold wiping his blood-stained hands with a towel. Sully was vaguely aware of Rosalind coming to stand beside him. Quietly she slipped her hand into his.
"Andrew . . . ?" Sully managed, unable to voice the vital question.
"It's over," Andrew said. "Michaela's alive."