Michaela was dreaming of Washington.

      She stood on the platform at Union Station, with Sully and the children by her side, as they waited to board the train which would take them as far as St. Louis. From there, a stagecoach would convey them the rest of the way to Colorado Springs, and home.

     It had been an exciting and eventful trip:  meeting President and Mrs. Grant and their children and being their guests at the White House; testifying on behalf of the Cheyenne before the confirmation hearings through the intercession of President Grant and General Parker; attending the military ball at the White House and treating Senator Moses for his weak heart; and their sobering visit to the wretched pocket of poverty known as Murder Bay.

    Most importantly, also thanks to the influence of General Parker and the President, they had succeeded in accomplishing one of the primary missions of their visit—ensuring that Captain Borgnine was removed as a district Indian Agent for the Colorado Territory.

     Michaela had been flattered by President Grant's offer of a job in his administration—supervising medical care for all the Indian reservations.   She would be in charge of all the physicians hired by the government.   The position had been initially tempting, but later, she found herself agreeing with Sully:  Washington—and the politics that fueled it—was not the glamorous place it seemed on the surface.  As Sully had claimed, politics *was* a "dirty business," and one  which Michaela realized she wanted no part of.  She had seen enough—too much, perhaps.  She was ready to go home.

     Now, with just minutes to go before they boarded the train, Michaela found she could barely contain her impatience.   Something inside her was relentlessly urging that they leave—leave now, without delay.

     "Look!" Brian exclaimed suddenly.   "Soldiers!"

     Michaela stared in the direction Brian was pointing.  Sure enough, a small patrol of army soldiers was marching down the station platform toward them.  Steadily they approached, their visage implacable.  Clouds of steam from the adjacent locomotive billowed about them, distorting their appearance and lending them an air of ghostly menace.

     As she watched the soldiers come closer, Michaela was consumed by a sensation of dread. Instinctively she looked at Sully.  He was also staring at the approaching men, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

     The soldiers came to a halt in front of them.

     "Excuse me, Sir, but is your last name 'Sully?'" asked the captain in the lead.

     Sully stared at him apprehensively.  "Yes," he said after a moment.

     Like a snake, the dread coiled around Michaela's heart.  "What is going on?" she said tensely.

     "Is this your signature, Lieutenant?" the captain went on, ignoring her and holding out a sheet of paper.

     "Lieutenant?" Michaela repeated sharply.

     Sully glanced down at the paper and then back up at the captain.  "Yes," he admitted quietly.

     "I have a warrant for your arrest issued by the Department of War," the Captain stated, folding the paper and putting it away.

     "Arrest?  What for?" Michaela demanded.

     "Desertion," the Captain said flatly.  "From the United States Army."

     "Oh—there must be some mistake," Michaela said.

     The captain nodded to his men.

     "Sully was never IN the army!" Matthew protested as two of the soldiers stepped forward and seized Sully by the arms.

     "No—you can't do this!" Michaela cried out as they began to drag Sully away.   Desperately he fought them, but was overpowered.   She and the children tried to follow, but the remaining soldiers forcibly held them back, using their rifle barrels as a barrier.

     "Sully!" Michaela screamed frantically as he was pulled further and further away, until he and the soldiers vanished into the steamy mist.  "SULLY!"

     Michaela's eyes flew open.

     For a long  moment she lay rigid, unsure of where she was, the silence around her almost suffocating after the deafening clamor of the train station.

     Michaela's heart was thundering in her chest.  Her hand crept to her breast as she took several deep breaths, trying to quell the terror that had her in its grip.  The sight of Sully being dragged from her by the soldiers replayed itself in her mind.  But—where was Sully?  Where were the children?  What had happened to the station?

     What was she suddenly doing here, she thought in confusion.  And where was "here?"

     Michaela looked around her slowly, the realization that she was lying in a bed in the familiar surroundings of the clinic registering belatedly on her senses.   A dream, she thought dazedly, relief flooding in to displace her fear.  It was only a dream.

     But—why wasn't she in her bed at the homestead?  What was she doing in the clinic?   Had something happened to her?  Had she fallen ill?  She struggled to remember.

     An image of soldiers appeared again in her mind's eye.  Soldiers with guns.  Slowly, the image resolved itself into a picture of one man, roughly dressed and pointing a gun—but not at Sully.  At her.

     She remembered.  She and Dorothy, standing in the clearing, being held at gunpoint by the stranger.  Then—the explosion of the gunshot, reverberating in her ears.  She tried to recall what had happened after that, but it was a blank.

     Just then, like a vision—or perhaps in answer to her unspoken prayer—Sully appeared in the doorway.  For a moment he was motionless, as their eyes met.

     "Sully," she whispered, her voice sounding weak and raspy from disuse.  She tried to rise, and a bolt of pain, like the blow of a fist, drove her back against the pillows.  A sharp cry of distress escaped her.  In an instant Sully was by her side, gently restraining her.

     "Easy," he said softly.  "Don't try to move."

     "Sully," she tried again, the pain beginning to ebb.

     "Shh," he whispered.  "Don't try to talk—save your strength."  He stroked her hair gently.

     "But the children—the renegades—“

     "Children are fine," he told her firmly.  "There ain't been any more renegade attacks.  Katie and Brian are with Grace, and Matthew's nearby.  Colleen came home too, soon as she knew you were hurt.  We're all safe."  Sully continued to stroke her hair, trying to keep her calm, but he could see the panic in her eyes.

     "Sully—you shouldn't be here in the clinic—it's too dangerous.  If anyone sees you—“ she broke off at the odd expression in his eyes.  "Oh my God," she choked.  "They know don't they? They know you're alive.  Oh Sully, what's going to happen to you now?"  Tears glimmered in her eyes, and slipped down her cheeks as weakly she began to weep.

     "Don't cry, Michaela, please don't cry," Sully implored her, anguished at her misery.   He cupped her face in his hands and covered her face with kisses, tasting the salt of her tears on his tongue.  He took her hand within both his own and kissed her fingers.

    "It's true—everyone knows about me now," he admitted.  "But it's all right.  See?  I'm right here with you in the clinic—I ain't in jail.  And I'm gonna stay with you—I ain't goin' anywhere.

    "None of the stuff with the army is important right now.  All that matters is you gettin' better. When you're stronger, we'll talk about everything.  But for right now, I want you to put it out of your mind, and just concentrate on gettin' well."

    Michaela's eyes were still clouded with worry, but his reassuring words seemed to calm her anxiety to some degree.  Either that, or her weakened and groggy condition prevented her from focusing too clearly on his situation.  Whatever the reason, Sully was grateful that she seemed willing to put the matter aside for the time being.

    She stirred restlessly, and Sully could see she was in discomfort.  "What is it?" he asked in concern.  "Is there somethin' you need—somethin' I can get for you?"

     "I'm—so thirsty," she managed, forcing the words out of a throat that felt arid as a desert.

     Immediately he reached for a pitcher that stood on the nightstand, and poured a small measure of water into a glass.  Carefully slipping his hand beneath the base of her skull, he gently elevated her head a few inches as he held the glass to her lips.

     Michaela sighed as a rivulet of cool water touched her parched lips and trickled into her mouth.  The finest ambrosia paled next to the sweetness of the spring water as it bathed her throat.  Eagerly she sipped from the glass, feeling she could never get enough.

     "Slowly, Michaela," Sully cautioned her.  "Slowly."   He allowed her a few more swallows, then took the glass away.  "Better?" he asked, gently lowering her head back against the pillows.

     "Yes—thank you," she answered, her voice slightly stronger.

     The image of the clearing flashed into her mind again.  "Sully—there was a man with a gun," she said.

     "I know," he said.   After a moment he added, "Did you know him, Michaela?  Did you ever see him before?"

     She shook her head slightly.  "No, I don't think so.  But—it was hard to see his face."

     Sully nodded.  "Dorothy said the same thing."

     Alarm assailed her again.  "Dorothy!" she exclaimed.

     "Easy," Sully repeated soothingly, taking her hand again and stroking it softly.  "Don't upset yourself."

     "But Dorothy!  Did  he—“

     "Dorothy's all right," he told her.  "She got roughed up a bit, but she's gonna be just fine."

     "He—didn't shoot her?" she asked him, unconvinced.

     "No, Sweetheart.  I swear to you, Dorothy wasn't shot," he vowed.

     "Thank God," Michaela breathed, her agitation subsiding somewhat.  After a moment, she looked at him wonderingly.

     "What?' he asked her.

     "You called me 'Sweetheart,'" she said, her expression surprised, but pleased.  "I don't think—you've ever called me that before."

     Sully smiled at her.  "Well, that ain't strictly true," he said.  "I've called you that once or twice—though maybe you didn't always hear it.  I called you that when you were layin' here unconscious, and I was sittin' here talkin' to you, tryin' to get you to wake up."

     "How . . . long?" she asked.

     "Have you been unconscious?" Sully finished for her, reading her mind in that special way married people seemed to have.  She nodded.

     Sully was reluctant to answer, fearing to upset her again by reminding her of the shooting.  But he knew she expected the truth from him, and wouldn't rest until she got it.

     "Since after—you were attacked," he said carefully.  "A little over two days."

     Her eyes widened in shock.  "Two days!"  She felt another stab of pain in her side, not as sharp as the first.   Nonetheless, she couldn't contain the slight groan that escaped her.

     "Michaela, are you all right?"  Sully said immediately.

     "Yes," she managed after a moment, the pain beginning to ease.

     "Do you need me to get Andrew—have him give you somethin' for the pain?"

     "No—it will pass," she answered him, still a little breathless.  "It's—it's better already."  She tried to smile.

      "You gotta stay quiet," Sully admonished her.  "Otherwise, I'm gonna ask Andrew to give you something to help you rest."

     "No," she said immediately.  "I don't want to sleep anymore.  I've been sleeping too long as it is.  Please, Sully, don't go away."

     "Just like I told you, I ain't goin' anywhere," he reminded her, and pressed his lips to her hand.  "But you gotta promise to lie still and stay calm."

     "I promise," Michaela answered, feeling eerily like they had had this conversation before.  Then it came to her.  Sully had made her promise she wouldn't take any chances when she and Dorothy left the homestead to go to town—more than forty-eight hours ago.

     Michaela's free hand strayed to the source of her pain, and encountered the bulk of a bandage.

     "What happened—after?" she asked.

     "After—you were shot, I found you and Dorothy in the woods," he told her.

     "Did he hurt you?" Michaela asked quickly.

     "No—he was gone by the time I got there," Sully reassured her hastily.  "But—you were losin' a lot of blood.  I tried to stop the bleedin' and bandaged the wound.  Then Cloud Dancin' found all of us, and helped me get you and Dorothy to Andrew.  He operated on you."

     "How bad?' she said.

     "The bullet missed the vital organs, but Andrew said it nicked an artery—that's why you were bleedin' so heavy."

     Michaela looked down at the location of the wound.  "It—must have been the splenic artery," she surmised.

     "Yeah—I think that's what Andrew said."

     "But how did you know where to find us?" she asked.

     Sully threaded his fingers through hers.  "You told me," he said softly.  "Do you remember?"

     "I—I'm not sure," she said hesitantly.  She seemed to have a vague memory of Sully being by her side, but that was impossible--wasn't it?   "I—I seem to remember you talking to me—telling me not to be afraid—just before it happened," she went on slowly.  "But how can that be?"

     "Do you remember callin' out to me?" Sully asked quietly.

     His question triggered another recollection.  She was facing the gunman, certain she was about to die, and she was crying out to Sully in her mind.  She stared into the brilliant blue of his eyes.  "I told you—I loved you," she whispered.

     Sully nodded, giving her his beautiful smile.  "That's right—you did," he said.  "I heard you say it—clear as a bell.  And then—“ he hesitated, not wanting her to know how his vision of her had affected him. "And then I knew you were in trouble.

     "I tracked you as far as the woods, then—somethin' just told me where to go," he went on.  "A few minutes later, I found you in the clearin'."

     "And Cloud Dancing?'" she said.

     Sully smiled again.  "The spirits told him," he said.  "He had a vision of a hawk fallin' from the sky, with its mate hoverin' above.  And he knew."

     Michaela thought how odd and even nonsensical  their conversation would sound to anyone listening.  There had been a time when she, too, found it difficult to believe in spirits, and visions.  But this was not the first time she and Sully had been linked by such a spiritual bond—impossible to explain, but vivid and real, nonetheless.  It had helped her to find Sully and save his life after he fell from the cliff.  And now, for the second time, it had enabled him to find and save her as well.

      The same was true of Cloud Dancing.  Many times he had displayed an uncanny knowledge of events in their lives, or given them predictions of the future that invariably came true—a gift, he claimed, from the spirits.  Michaela knew not to question the unexplainable, but merely accept and be grateful for its existence.

    "Cloud Dancing—put himself in danger--for me?" she asked.

    "He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him," Sully told her.  "I knew you wouldn't want him riskin' his freedom on our account—anymore than I wanted him to.  He came with us as far as the edge of town, but then he turned back, to go out to the homestead and tell Rosalind what had happened to you.  He's still hidin' somewhere in the woods.  Nobody knows he's come back from the Northern Cheyenne Territory."

     “Good," Michaela sighed.  "It—must be such a comfort for Dorothy to—know he's still safe. And Rosalind—how is she?  All of this—must be so upsetting for her."

    "Rosalind is fine," Sully told her.  "And a lot stronger than you would believe.  She's been here in the clinic since your operation,  prayin' for you, keepin' my spirits up—and then today, she gave us both a wonderful gift."

    “What do you mean?" Michaela asked drowsily, feeling a great weariness begin to descend upon her, despite her best efforts to stay awake.

    Sully gazed at Michaela's pale, drawn face, and realized how much their conversation had tired her.  As eager as he was to tell her of Rosalind's loving and generous act, he knew that the news could wait till later, when Michaela had had a chance to recover some of her strength.

    "It can wait," he told her, as Michaela's eyes began to close.  "You rest now, and when you wake up again, I'll tell you all about it."

    "All right," Michaela murmured, unable to resist the pull of sleep any longer.  "Tell—the children—I love them.  And Marjorie and Rosalind . . . "

    "You can tell them yourself, 'cause they'll be here when you wake up." Sully promised.  Michaela's breathing became deep and even, and he knew she had drifted off again.  But this time he was glad and grateful to see it, because he knew it was a healing sleep.

    "Rest easy, my love," he whispered, kissing her lips once more.  Then quietly, he rose from his chair by her bedside and soundlessly left her room.

    As the guards watched from the end of the hall, Sully looked for someplace to go where he could  give vent to the powerful emotion which was swirling around inside him.  Finding a deserted recovery room, he went inside and closed the door behind him.

    Alone at last, he sank to his knees on the braided rug which covered the floor, and began to weep.  The sobs tore themselves from his throat and shook his frame, as all the fear and anguish of the past two days—and now the overwhelming relief that Michaela would recover—poured out of him.

    One thought kept repeating over and over in his mind:  She was going to live—she was going to live.  His precious Michaela, his beloved heartsong—was going to live . . .