They were in time but only barely, thanks to Hank’s insistence on ducking into a saloon along the way despite Sully’s protests.

     “There’s no time for me to wire Michaela, but there’s time for you to buy whiskey,” Sully accused as they jogged up to the coach marked “Overland Stage Lines” in chipped and faded gilt lettering.

     “Oh, quit yer belly-achin’!  We’re here, ain’t we?”

     No thanks to you, Sully thought, disgruntled, but he kept his opinion to himself and concentrated on catching his breath.  He followed Hank over to the tiny stage office, and the two men quickly entered and purchased their tickets.  As they emerged, the driver was climbing up onto his box.

     “’BOARD!” he announced in a ringing voice.

     Hank preceded Sully into the coach, his lofty frame crouching low to clear the lintel of the door.  Sully similarly ducked his head as he entered the small confines of the carriage, and seated himself opposite Hank.

     With a sigh—Sully might have said a grunt—Hank removed his hat and leaned back.  “No other passengers,” he announced.  “Good.”

     “What difference does that make?”

     “Room to spread out.” He adjusted his position till he was sprawled comfortably in a corner.  “And I won’t have ta to put up with a lotta foolish jabberin’."  He glared a warning.  “Leastways I better not.”

     “I ain’t no more eager to talk to you, than the other way around,” Sully said coolly.  “But since we’re gonna be stuck together for the night, we might as well make the best of it.”

     “Just what I mean to do,” Hank said, drawing the bottle of Kentucky bourbon from beneath his coat and biting down on the cork.  It came free with a hollow pop and he spat the plug away, then tipped his head back and took a generous swallow.  A flush rose in his cheeks as the liquid burned its way down his throat.  He drank again, droplets of perspiration beading his upper lip.  Catching Sully’s eye, he said, “Just takin’ the chill off.”

     Suddenly, with a sly look, he gave the mouth of the bottle a cursory swipe with his sleeve and thrust it toward Sully.  “Drink?” he offered.

     Sully eyed both Hank and the bottle with equal disdain, and didn’t answer.  But Hank merely grinned.  “Don’t know what yer missin’,” he said, tipping the bottle to his lips once again.

     “Yeah . . . I do.”  There was a barely perceptible edge to Sully’s voice.

     “Come ta think of it . . .” Hank murmured.  “So ya still remember.”  He eyed Sully provocatively.

     “’Course I remember,” Sully replied after a brief hesitation.  “But that was a long time ago.”

     “So it was,” Hank agreed.  “But ya saw the light and mended yer ways—ain’t that right?”

     “I thought you didn’t wanna talk,” Sully evaded.

     “Depends on the subject,” Hank said cunningly.  “This one’s kinda interestin’.”

     “Not to me.”

     “What’re ya afraid of?”

     “I ain’t afraid of nothin’.”  His temper was starting to rise.  “There just ain’t no point in dredgin’ up ancient history.”

     “But if yer such a model citizen, ya got nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

     “I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you, Hank,” Sully insisted, holding onto his composure by a sheer act of will.

     “Suit yourself,” Hank said blandly.  “Don’t make no nevermind to me.”

     “I think it does,” Sully contradicted.  “I think nothin’ gives you more pleasure than tearin’ me down, every chance you get.”

     “Get over yourself!  I got lots more important things on my mind than you and yer checkered past.”

     “Yeah?  Prove it.”

     Hank looked at him suspiciously.  “What’re ya talkin’ about?”

     “Back at the train station, you were about to tell me somethin’ when the conductor walked in and stopped you,” Sully reminded him.  “Whatever it was seemed to be weighin’ heavy on your mind.  I’m guessin’ it was about Zack.  But maybe—“ he broke off, scrutinizing Hank closely.  “Maybe it was about you, instead.  Maybe you’re in trouble, or you did somethin’ you shouldn’t.  You got the guts to tell me?”

     Hank’s expression was belligerent, but Sully was almost certain he detected guilt there as well.

     “Whatever’s goin’ on in my life ain’t none of your business, and I sure as hell don’t owe you no explanations!”

     Sully regarded him witheringly.  “You beat all, you know that?  If you’d quit bein’ so defensive for a moment, you’d see that I’m only askin’ ‘cause I care.”

     “’Bout me?  Don’t make me laugh.”

     “Well about Zack, anyway,” Sully justified.  “And I figure whatever’s goin’ on with you involves him.”

     Hank didn’t answer, but his tell-tale eyes confirmed Sully’s suspicions.

     “Look, Hank,” Sully went on more moderately.  “There ain’t no love lost between us—we both know that.  We ain’t nothin’ alike—“

     “Not no more, anyway,” Hank cut in.

    Sully flushed, but ignored the barb.  “Point is, we may not be alike, but there’s one thing we got in common—we both got kids, and we both know the worries of raisin’ them up right.

     “I’m fond of Zack,” he continued.  “I wish the best for him and I wouldn’t want no harm to come to him—just like I figure you wouldn’t want no harm to come to my kids.”

     “True.”

     “Well thanks for that, at least.  Fact is, if somethin’s wrong, and there’s anythin’ I can do to help, I want to—for Zack’s sake,” he added, loathe to let on that his concern might actually extend to the prickly saloon keeper.

     “You can’t help,” Hank told him brusquely.

     “How can you know that lessen you tell me what’s wrong?”

     For a long time Hank was silent, and Sully finally concluded that his words had fallen on deaf ears.  Fine, he thought.  Let him stew.  I surely don’t need the aggravation—

     “You’re right—‘bout Zack,” Hank spoke suddenly.  “There is somethin’ goin’ on with him.”   Again the saloon owner’s manner altered.  His posture slumped and the surliness vanished from his face, leaving him looking defeated and infinitely older.  “Zack hates me,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “You’re jokin’,” Sully reacted before he could stop himself.  “Sorry—I didn’t mean no offense,” he apologized.  “I just—can’t believe that’s true.”

     “You think I’d lie ‘bout somethin’ like that?” Hank bristled.

    “No,  ‘course not.  I just think it’s more likely Zack said somethin’ in anger he didn’t mean.

     “We all say things in the heat of the moment that we regret later,” he went on.  “But hate?  That’s awful strong, Hank.  ‘Sides, it’s been a while, but I remember seein’ you and Zack together.  It was clear he loved and needed you.  That kind of love don’t go away.”

     “Things change,” Hank muttered.

     “Then help me to understand.”  Sully’s tone was unconsciously gentle.  “Start at the beginnin’, and tell me what happened.”

     There was a protracted silence, but finally Hank spoke, his voice a fraction unsteady.

     “I guess—I first suspected somethin’ was wrong ‘bout six months ago, when the letters stopped comin’.  Well, they didn’t stop all at once,” he amended.  “But Zack used ta write me once a week, regular as clockwork.  Then, with no explanation, the letters started slowin’ down.  At first he just missed a week here and there.  But soon two, maybe three weeks would go by without a word.  Finally his letters stopped comin’ altogether.”

     “Did you write him?” Sully asked.

     “’Course I wrote him!” Hank snapped, as if he felt he’d been judged and found wanting.  “My writin’ ain’t that good, and maybe I only sent letters once a month or so—but I wrote.”

     “I believe you.” Sully raised his hand in a benign gesture.  “I just thought that if you hadn’t been answerin’ his letters, that Zack mighta felt hurt and decided he didn’t want to keep writin’ to you.”

     “That’ll teach ya ta think.”

     “I know you’re hurtin’, Hank, but takin’ it out on me ain’t gonna help you fix things with Zack,” Sully pointed out.
Hank was silent, implying that his burst of anger had evaporated.  “So what happened next?"

     Hank took another swallow of whiskey, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “At first, I thought maybe Zack was havin’ trouble with his studies,” he answered.  “He’s real talented at drawin’ and paintin’, but he has trouble sometimes with other things like arithmetic.  So I wired Miss Wellman.”

     “And?”

     “And nothin’,” Hank said bluntly.  “Zack wasn’t havin’ no trouble.  He might not have been top of his class in arithmetic or science, but he was holdin’ his own.  Fact is, Miss Wellman wired back that he’d shown real improvement—that she was real pleased with his progress.”

     “Did she say if anythin’ else might be botherin’ him?”

     Hank shook his head.  “Just the opposite.  She said he’d never been doin’ better.”

     “Well that’s good, ain’t it?”

     “Yeah.  But it didn’t solve the mystery.”

     “How can you be so sure that Zack was even havin’ a problem then?” Sully reasoned.  “Maybe he just got so busy he didn’t have time to write.  I’ve seen what’s it’s been like for Colleen since she started college—it’s hard work.”

     “Yeah, yeah, I know all that,” Hank said impatiently.  “But there was still somethin’ else.  I felt it, in my gut.  Finally, I just had to find out, one way or the other.”

     “So you came here to Denver.”

     “Yeah.  Got in this mornin’ and went straight to the school.”

     “And you saw Zack.”

     “Yeah, I saw him.  Though I probably wouldn’t have if he’d known I was comin’.”

     “You think he was tryin’ to avoid you?” Sully asked curiously.

     Hank’s eyes were grim.  “I know it.  The moment he came into Miss Wellman’s office and saw me waitin’ for him, he started makin’ excuses about havin’ to leave ‘cause he had so much school work.”

     “Well, that coulda been true,” Sully offered helpfully, though he realized how lame the words sounded.

     “It wasn’t.”

     “How can you be sure?”

     “I could see it in his eyes when he walked in the room,” Hank said, his expression vulnerable.  “He was ashamed of me . . . ashamed I was his pa.”

     “Hank, you must be imaginin’ it.  I’ve never seen any sign that Zack feels that way about you.”

     “Yeah?  Well, you weren’t there.  ’Sides, ya said yourself you ain’t seen Zack for a long time.  He’s changed.  He ain’t the same kid I brought to that school six years ago.”

     “Well of course he ain’t.  He was a child then, without any schoolin’ or the benefit of a ma and pa to raise him.  I’m sure Miss Ruby tried her best, but she was gettin’ on in years and could only do so much.  But Hank, once Zack knew he had a pa who wanted him, all that changed.  Would he have drawn that picture of his ma for you if he didn’t want to please you?”

    Hank flinched as if someone had slapped him.   “I don’t wanna talk about Clarice,” he said, startling Sully with his vehemence.

     “I wasn’t!  I only meant—“

     “I said I don’t wanna talk about her!  I don’t even wanna hear ya speak her name!”

    Sully stared at him, shocked at the abrupt and unexpected direction the conversation had taken.  “What’d I say?”  He suddenly felt as if he were balanced on a high precipice, and that one false move would send him over the edge.

     “I don’t want you talkin’ ‘bout Clarice,” Hank repeated.

     Though he was now acutely aware of treacherous undercurrents to their conversation, Sully’s confusion began to be eclipsed by irritation rapidly swelling into resentment.  Here he was, trying to be supportive, trying to be a friend—yet every overture he’d made to Hank had either been rebuffed, or met with resistance and scorn.

     Why was he trying so hard anyway? he thought, nettled.  What had Hank ever done to deserve his sympathy or compassion?  The saloon keeper had opposed him over the Indians at every opportunity, calling him a bleeding heart, and a trouble maker, and any other slur he could think up.  Hank constantly criticized him, jeered him—he’d once tried to capture him and earn a bounty from the army, for God’s sake!  And that wasn’t the worst.  When he’d hidden from the army, pretending to be dead while Michaela tried to clear his name—Hank alone of all the townspeople had remained convinced that he was alive, and wouldn’t rest until he had proclaimed himself sheriff and tracked him down. Why did he owe Hank any kindness now, or even an ear to listen to his troubles?

     And the answer came to his mind, as swiftly as the anger Hank provoked in him so easily:  Zack.  Regardless of what he felt about Hank, Zack mattered.  And if there was something he could do for the boy—and even, spirits help him, his pa—he felt he had to try.

     As Hank’s hooded eyes bored into him, Sully was seized by a recollection.  It had no visible connection to what was happening now, yet it was incredibly vivid.  His brow furrowed as an image from nearly five years before washed through his mind . . .

     “So,” Michaela said coldly as he followed her out of the barn.  “Now Katharine’s staying with you.”

     He looked at her uncertainly.  “I don’t know anythin’ about that.”

     Micheala paused by the rear of the wagon.  “I suppose you didn’t give her your necklace either.”

     Sully’s fingers went instinctively to the string of beads around his neck. “She gave me one,” he answered.  “The Cheyenne believe you return a gift with a gift.”

     Michaela looked back at him, spreading her hands slightly.  “Well, if it’s all right with the Cheyenne, then who am I to argue?” Her sarcasm stung him.

     Sully ducked his head and peered into her eyes.  “She was just bein’ grateful, that’s all.”

     “And kissing you?” Michaela lashed out at him softly.  “Was that gratitude as well?”

       Guilt stabbed him as he recoiled from her.  “I never meant for that to happen.”

     “In front of the children?” she rushed on as if he hadn’t spoken.  “How could you?”

     “I didn’t know Brian was there!”

     “That woman’s in love with you!” Michaela accused.  “She didn’t even know about us!  Why didn’t you tell her?”

     His guilt began to give way to anger.  “Why didn’t you?”

     Her eyes widened in resentment.  “Now you’re turning it around,” she sputtered.  “I’m the one who—“

     “You are the one who never has time to spend with me—who’s always too nervous to be alone with me—to kiss me!”

     “If you want to be with another woman, then admit it,” she said petulantly.

     He groaned in frustration.  “I never said that!”

     “But you find her attractive.”

     He sighed.  “Any man would . . .”

     Her eyes were suddenly vulnerable.  “Are you in love with her?”

     “’Course not!” He gaped at her, astonished at the notion.

     “But you care for her.”

     He rolled his eyes, a sigh nearly like a growl escaping him.  “Yes, I care—“

     “Then you have feelings for her!” she  announced, sounding almost triumphant.

     He finally lost his temper.  “STOP puttin’ words in my mouth!”  Unconsciously his finger jabbed at his chest.  “Stop assumin’ things!”  The words exploded out of him, each one biting like the crack of a whip in the stillness.

     Michaela’s eyes glittered with a faint hint of tears, though whether they were more from anger or betrayal, he couldn’t say.  Most likely both.

    “My only problem is assuming I’m the only one,” she said coldly.  A demanding note crept into her voice.  “Tell me, Sully.  How many others have there been before me?”

     He stared at her in disbelief.  “Why are you askin’ me that now?”

     “I want to know.  Have you been with another woman since Abagail died?”  She paused, then forged ahead.  “I want the truth.”

     Sully’s eyes turned chilly and remote. “No you don’t.”  He turned on his heel and walked away. . .

     Sully roused from his momentary trance, his frown deepening.  Why would he be thinking of this now, of all times?  It was an old misunderstanding, long since forgiven and—he hoped in Michaela’s case—forgotten.  It bore no relationship to his present situation; and yet . . . as the echoes of the argument lingered in his mind, he felt a subtle chill steal over him.  He gave himself a mental shake, trying to cast off his unease.

     The hiss of a match brought him fully back to the present.  Hank glowered at him as he lit another cigar, his eyes sinister.  Sully resolved not to antagonize the man further.  It served no purpose, and could only result in making their time together even worse.

     Instead, he picked up the thread of the conversation.  “Why don’t you just tell me what happened next?  Did Zack say what was troublin’ him?”

    Hank extinguished the match and then flicked it out the window.  Expelling a cloud of blue smoke, he muttered, “Yeah—he told me.”

    The stagecoach began to cross a stretch of rough terrain, wheels rumbling and springs jouncing beneath them.  The contents of the bottle propped between Hank’s legs sloshed wildly.  A dollop of liquid splashed his thigh, but he didn’t appear to notice.

    “It was a woman,” he said, taking Sully unawares.  His mouth curved into a bitter smile at Sully’s startled
expression.

    “Yeah, ya heard right,” the barkeep confirmed.  “The whole thing was over a woman.”  He leaned forward, pinning Sully in his sights.  “Ain’t it always?”