Sully stirred on the pillow.  As he moved his head, his eyes still closed, a pounding ache in his temples caused him to moan softly.  Instinctively he started to put his hand to his head, but something prevented him from raising his arm.  With an effort, he tried to open his eyes, but flinched as the light  pierced them painfully.  His eyes reflexively closed in protest.

     "He's wakin' up," said a voice, which sounded like Matthew's.

     "Easy, Sully—try not to move," said another voice.  (Andrew?)  Sully felt a firm hand gently pressing him down.
 
     Sully's mind was filled with a confused jumble of thoughts.  What was happening?  Why couldn't he move?  Was this a dream?  But no, the pain in his head was too strong, too relentless.  Whatever was going on, it was quite real.

     He tried to concentrate, to bring a semblance of order to the muddled landscape of his mind.  Slowly, his confusion began to clear.  Clarity returned.  He remembered.

     "Michaela!" he cried out.  His eyes snapped open and instinctively he tried to rise, causing another, deeper bolt of pain to erupt in his shoulder.  Groaning aloud, he fell back.

     "I'm here," said a familiar, gentle voice, as a cool, soft hand stroked his forehead.  "I'm right here, Sully—it's all right.  But you must be still now."

     He followed the sound of that beloved voice, and saw Michaela sitting beside him.  Her features were blurry at first, but gradually his vision cleared and he brought her into focus.  She was huddled close to him, smiling down at him lovingly.

     "Are you—all right?  Were you—were you shot?"  he whispered with difficulty, his shoulder still throbbing.  The ache was bone-deep, and seemed to suffuse his entire being.

     "I'm fine—I’m not hurt," she assured him.

     "I—I saw him fire at you  . . . I saw you fall," he said fearfully.

     "The bullet missed.  I simply fell because my legs were too shaky to hold me up," she told him soothingly.  "I'm all right Sully—truly."

     "What . . . happened?" he ventured.

     Understanding his meaning, she said, "You were shot.  You were very lucky—the bullet passed completely through your shoulder, and missed the lung.  Andrew sutured your wounds.  You're going to be fine."

     He became aware for the first time that he was shirtless.  Carefully he turned his head and saw the bandage on his shoulder, and the sling which held his right arm immobile.

     "What about—Flagg?" Sully asked.

     "Dead," said another familiar voice.  Sully followed the sound and saw Hank standing in the doorway.  McKay was next to him.

     "Hank killed him," said Matthew, from the foot of the bed.  Sully looked around the room slowly and realized that it was filled with people.  Rosalind, Marjorie, Colleen and Brian were clustered together in the corner.  Andrew stood over him, oppposite Michaela.  Everyone watched him with concern.
 
     "He's dead?" Sully repeated, hardly daring to believe it.

     "He's dead," McKay echoed.  "It's all over, Sully."

     "But what about—Bancroft?" Sully asked.

     "He's dead too," Matthew told him.  "Killed himself in his cell."

     Sully shook his head slightly, wincing as his headache flared.  He still felt disoriented.  The entire scene—the words people were speaking, everyone clustered around him like this—held a pronounced, dream-like quality for him.

     "None of this is—makin' any sense," he ventured again.  "How did Flagg get here?  And how could Bancroft be dead?  They were locked up in jail—weren't they?"

     "There's no need for you to worry about any of that now," Michaela told him.  "We'll have plenty of time to talk about it all when you're stronger.  Right now, you need rest."

     "That sounds like what I said to you," Sully replied, attempting a smile.  His words made him think suddenly of Michaela's injury.  How could he have forgotten?!

     "What are you doin', sittin' up like that?  You should be in bed," he protested weakly.

     "I tried to persuade her of that, but she wouldn't leave your side," Andrew said.  "She insisted we bring you in here so she could stay with you."

     It dawned on Sully that he was laying in Michaela's sickbed.  "Michaela, what are you thinkin'?  You  belong in this bed, not me."

     "Not at the moment," she told him calmly.  "Sully, I've slept on the cot many a time in the clinic.  I'll be perfectly comfortable.  Right now *you* are the one who needs to be ministered to."

     Sully turned to Andrew.  "You ain't goin' along with this, are you?  Andrew, talk some sense into her," he prevailed on the young doctor.

     "I understand your concern, Sully," Andew replied.  "But, quite frankly, I think being forced to be parted from you would do Michaela greater harm than a night of sleeping on a cot.  You should be up and around by tomorrow.  Until then, let Michaela choose for herself what she wants to do."

     "But—“

     "No more arguments," Michaela hushed him, effectively putting an end to the discussion.  "We're going to give you some bark tea, and then you're going to sleep."

     Rosalind left the children’s side and came over to the bed.  "Listen to Michaela, Byron.  She and Dr.Cook know what's best.  Let them take care of you, so that you can heal from your wounds and recover your strength."

     "Seems—I don't got much choice," he conceded reluctantly.

     Rosalind smiled at him.  "No, you don't," she said.  "Your bossy old aunt is giving you orders, again."

    "It's all right," he said, returning the smile with a weak, but impish grin of his own.  "You can be a little bossy—I’m used to it.” He glanced at Michaela roguishly.

     Rosalind's eyes twinkled, and she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead.  "Sleep well, my dear," she said aloud, then whispered in his ear, “Thank God you and Michaela are safe.”  She gazed at him a moment longer, filling her eyes with his precious image, then moved away from the bed.

     "I think it would be a good idea if everyone cleared the room now so Sully can get some rest," Andrew advised.

     "Thank you, Andrew," said Michaela.

     Marjorie and his children approached the bed to say their good-nights.

     "I"m so glad you're going to be all right, Sully," Marjorie told him.

     "Thanks," he said.

     "I'll be here in the clinic to help Andrew take care of you and Ma," Colleen said.  "Call me if you need anything, Sully."

     "I appreciate that, Colleen," he said gratefully.  She bent down and kissed him gently on the cheek.  "I love you, Pa," she added softly.

     "Love you, too," he whispered back.

     "If you want, I'll be glad to read to ya, when you're feelin' better, Pa," said Brian.

     Sully smiled at his youngest son.  "I'll look forward to it, Brian."

     "Take it easy, Sully," said Matthew quietly.  He looked slightly pale, his expression strangely vulnerable.

     "You all right?" Sully asked him, his eyes concerned.

     Matthew shrugged and attempted a smile.  "Yeah.  You just—had me a little, scared, is all," he said.

     Sully looked back at him reassuringly.  "I'll be all right," he said.  "Like Hank said about your ma—a little bullet ain't gonna stop me."

     Matthew swallowed.  "Yeah, sure," he said, an odd tone in his voice.  After a second he added,  "'Night, Sully."

     "'Night, Matthew."

     The four of them filed out of the room, Hank and McKay standing back to let them pass.

     "Hank," Sully said, looking at the saloon-owner.  "I owe you another debt, for stoppin' Flagg.  I'm grateful—for Michaela's sake—and mine, too."

     "I was just there at the right time," Hank answered.

     "Dr. Cook—could I remain a moment?" asked McKay.  He came further into the room.  Sully noted the smudges of dirt on his face, and more dirt streaking his uniform jacket.

     "I really feel that any further discussion of tonight's—events—should wait until tomorrow," Andrew warned.

     "Yes, of course—I understand," McKay replied.  "I simply—wanted to express my gratitude to Sully, for—“  He stared into Sully's eyes.  "For saving my life," he finished.  "If it hadn't been for you pushing me out of the way, I might very likely be dead now," he said.

     "We all did what we had to," Sully answered.  "We're all alive, and safe.  That's what counts."

     "Of course—you're quite right," McKay agreed.  "Take care, Sully.  Dr. Quinn," he added, nodding to her.

     "Good night Sergeant," Michaela replied.

     McKay followed Hank out of the room, leaving only Andrew remaining with Sully and Michaela.

     "Andrew, would you hand me that cup?" Michaela asked, indicating a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand.

     Andrew complied, and Michaela held the cup to Sully's lips.  "I want you to drink some of this, and then close your eyes," she instructed softly, slipping her hand behind his head and helping him sip from the cup.

     "I'll leave you for now, but I'll be back shortly to check on Sully and help you into bed," Andrew told her.

     Michaela nodded.

     "Thanks, Andrew," Sully said, as Andrew went out to the hall.

     "Try to take a little more," Michaela urged him.

     Sully managed another swallow.   He looked thoughtful.  "Did Matthew seem a little strange to you?" he asked.

     Michaela considered the question.  "He *has* been a bit—subdued," she acknowledged after a moment.  "But it's been a difficult night for everyone.  I imagine he's just reacting to the strain."

    "Yeah . . . yeah, I 'spose that's it," Sully said, but his eyes still looked preoccupied.  After a moment, however, he  reached out his free hand to touch her face.  "Are you sure *you're* all right?" he asked worriedly.  "You went through so much tonight—“

     "You're alive—how could I feel anything but wonderful?" she said softly, and pressed her lips softly to his.  "Now—no more talking," she added more firmly.  "Sleep.  I'll be here when you awaken."

     Sully sighed, and let his eyes drift shut.  "I love you," he murmured.

     "I love you," she whispered, her words echoing in his mind as the healing balm of sleep claimed him.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Hank was dipping yet again into his "private stock" when the rap came on the panels of the door.
The hour was very late, but it didn't really surprise him than someone else might be having a hard time sleeping tonight.

     He came out from behind the bar, and went to the door.  Through the glass panes he saw Matthew standing outside.  After a brief hesitation, Hank unlocked  the door and opened it.

     "I saw your light," said Matthew.

     Hank gestured toward the empty room behind him.  "We're closed, Matthew."

     Matthew just looked at him.  Hank studied the young man, absently stroking the stubble of beard on his chin.  After a moment, he said, "What the hell—come on in.  I wasn't sleepin', anyway."  He stepped back to allow Matthew to enter, then closed the door after him.

     Matthew followed Hank over to the bar.  "Can I have some of that?" he asked, indicating the whiskey.

     "Yeah."  Hank took a clean glass from under the bar and poured a shot.  Matthew picked it up and swiftly drained the contents.  He plunked the glass back down on the bar.  "Again," he said.

     Hank raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.  He refilled the glass, and Matthew emptied it a second time, his face looking strained and driven.  Without asking, he picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink.  He didn't immediately reach for the glass this time, but stood moodily staring into its amber contents.

     Hank pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it, watching Matthew thoughtfully.  After a minute or two, he said, "Ya know, a man drinks like that—he's usually got a problem."

     "I don't feel like talkin'," Matthew said.

     "I think ya do," said Hank.  "I think ya need to—a lot more than ya need this."  He picked up Matthew's glass and put it aside.  Coming out from behind the bar, he went over to a nearby table and sat down.  "Have a seat," he invited.

     Matthew hesitated, then slowly walked over and sat down opposite the saloon-keeper.

     "This about what happened tonight?" Hank said.  There was a long silence.

     "Yeah," Matthew finally said in a low voice.

     "What' botherin' ya?" Hank asked.  "I woulda thought you'd be feelin' pretty good about now—what with Flagg finally gettin' what he deserved and Sully and Michaela bein' safe.  I know Sully got hurt, but ya heard Andrew—he's gonna be all right."

     "No thanks to me," Matthew muttered.  He was hunched over the table staring at his folded hands, his fingers laced together so tightly the knuckles were white.

     "How do ya figure?" asked Hank, his cigar propped between his fingers.  A thin wisp of smoke drifted lazily upwards to hang above their heads.

     "I wasn't there," Matthew said bitterly.  He unlocked his fingers and curled his right hand into a fist.  "The one time when Dr. Mike and Sully needed me most, I wasn't there!"  He slammed his fist on the table.  Hank's demeanor was casual as he listened to the frustrated young man, but in reality he was studying Matthew closely.

     "Ya ain't a mind-reader," he commented mildly.  "Ya couldn't know Flagg was gonna show up like  he did."

     "But that's just it—I DID know!" Matthew said sharply.  "Just today, I went to McKay and asked him what he was doin' about this.  He told me about his search parties, and puttin' on extra men in town, but I knew it wasn't gonna be that easy.  I asked him what would happen if Flagg got by all the soldiers anyway and made it into town."

     "What did he say?" asked Hank.

     "He said I wasn't givin' his men enough credit," Matthew answered.

     "Well then, seems to me ya did everythin' ya could, short of trackin' down Flagg yourself—and I told ya that would be a dangerous mistake."

     "I should have stayed in town," Matthew persisted relentlessly.  "I knew Flagg would find a way—‘spite of whatever McKay did to stop him.  But instead I went out to the homestead, to take care of the livestock."

     "Ya were doin' your job—takin' care of business," Hank said.  "Sully and Michaela needed ya to look out for the homestead, keep things goin' till they could come back."

     "The homestead coulda waited a few hours," Matthew said, refusing to be placated.  "Instead, by the time I got back, it was too late."

     "Ya don't know that ya bein' there woulda made any difference," Hank pointed out  "'Cept that maybe ya  mighta been the one that got shot—maybe killed.  How do ya think Sully and your ma woulda felt then?"

     "You don't get it," Matthew said darkly..  "I'd been criticizin' McKay, more than once. Gave you a hard time, too.  Actin' like such a big man—thinkin' I knew it all.  But when it counted, you and McKay were the ones that had to save Sully and Dr. Mike."

     "McKay tried, but in the end he couldn't do nothin'," Hank reminded him.  "Sully saved *his* life—not the other way around."

     "And you saved Sully's," Matthew said.

     "I'm the sheriff, Matthew—I was just doin' my job."

     "And I used to be sheriff!" Matthew said angrily.  "Maybe if I still was—If I hadn't given up my badge—“

     "Talkin' about what mighta been—beatin' yourself up over it—don't solve nothin'," Hank said quietly.  Matthew propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.  He didn't answer.

     "This is about more than not bein' here tonight, ain' it?" Hank said intuitively.  "What's really eatin' at ya?"

     Matthew lifted his head and looked at Hank.  His eyes were bloodshot and full of guilt.

     "I lied to Sully," he spoke in a low voice, the admission clearly costing him pain.  "And my lie almost got him killed—Dr. Mike, too."

     "We all lied," said Hank.  "That don't make ya any different from the rest of us.  'Sides—it wasn't exactly lyin'.  Just holdin' back the truth for awhile."

     "You can try to 'pretty it up' all you want but it don't change nothin'," Matthew said woodenly.

     "It's what McKay ordered ya to do," Hank persisted.

     "That don't mean I had to listen!" Matthew burst out.  "Lyin' to Sully—it felt wrong, right from the start.  But McKay said it was the only way to make sure Sully didn't do nothin' crazy, and I let myself believe it—I went along—even though everythin' inside told me it was a mistake.

    "How do I explain that to Sully?" he went on miserably.  "How do I tell him I betrayed him—and that I almost got him and Dr, Mike killed—‘cause I was followin' orders—from McKay of all people?"  Matthew's face was naked with anguish, and Hank felt the cynical veneer he'd cultivated for so long begin to crack as his heart twisted with pity for him.

     "Seems like you're the one who ain't givin' Sully enough credit," he said quietly.  "Sully knows how ya feel about him—how ya feel about your ma.  You'd do anythin' for 'em—even risk your life.  I know that about ya, so you can bet Sully and Michaela know it too.  Sully ain't gonna condemn ya for tryin' to do what ya thought was best—for tryin' to protect him."

     "Maybe not for himself.  But Dr. Mike nearly died tonight—and I mighta stopped it.  I don't know that Sully can ever forgive that.  If I was him, I don't think I ever could," Matthew added, a look of hopelessness in his eyes.   He rose from his chair and shuffled dejectedly toward the door.  Turning the handle, he let himself out into the night.

     Hank watched him go, with eyes that were dark and troubled.  He wondered how he would have felt, what he would have done, if it had been his own son Zach sitting there in such torment.  Of course, he had never been much of a 'pa' to Zach—at least not while he was young.  Not like Sully had been to Matthew.  But maybe he could make up a little for denying Zach the father he'd deserved, by reaching out a hand to help Matthew.  It was worth a
try . . .