“A woman?” Sully repeated.  He felt that disquieting chill tickle his spine again.  Odd that Hank should say the trouble was a woman, just when he’d been thinking about . . .  But no, that was foolish.  One thing had nothing to do with the other.  Besides, what woman could Hank mean?  Surely not one of his saloon girls.  Even Hank wouldn’t condone something like that with his own kid.

     But on second thought . . . perhaps the idea wasn’t so far off the mark, after all.  Zack must have had his first—experience—with a woman.  Most likely a saloon girl here in Denver.  And if that was the case, it followed that the boy would be scared of his pa finding out.  Maybe it was even more complicated than that.  Maybe this woman had taken advantage of Zack’s innocence, manipulating him into spending all his money on her.  Sully could understand how Zack may have cringed from having to face his pa with the truth about his mistakes.  But it wasn’t a tragedy—not nearly so serious, anyway, as Hank had led him to believe.  Father and son would recover from this.  Fact is, he concluded, it might be a blessing in disguise, if Zack learned a valuable lesson from it.  And knowing Hank, Sully wouldn’t put it past him to harbor a sneaking admiration for the boy’s accomplishment—his “passage into manhood,” as it were.

     “I know what yer thinkin’, and you’re wrong,” Hank read his thoughts.  “It wasn’t one o’ my girls.”

     “I wasn’t thinkin’ that,” Sully denied.  “Well . . . all right—the idea occurred to me.  But I ruled it out.  I know you’ve always kept that part of your life separate from Zack.”

     “I tried.”

     “’Course you did,” Sully said, moved to sympathy despite himself.  “Hank, whatever mistakes Zack might have made ain’t your fault.  You can’t help what he gets up to when you ain’t around.  ‘Sides, no matter how hard you tried to shield him from—well, the goins’ on at the saloon—it stands to reason he’d still be curious.  And that he’d be bound to satisfy that curiosity, sooner or later.

     “Is that what happened?” he asked.  “Did Zack get himself mixed up with a workin’ girl in Denver?”

     “No—it weren’t nothin’ like that,” Hank said, exploding Sully’s carefully crafted scenario.  “Wish to hell it had been.  That I could handle.  But this . . .”

     Disabused of his previous notions, Sully began to feel a tangible sense of alarm.  “Look, you’re really startin’ to scare me now.  What happened to Zack?  Who’s this woman, and how’d she get involved with him?”

    Hank took a swig of whiskey and wiped his lips once again.  “Just full o’ questions, ain’t ya?  Yer concern is real touchin’.”

     “How about you stop wastin’ your sarcasm on me and start thinkin’ about your son!” Sully burst out, fed up with Hank’s incessant barbs.  He couldn’t fathom it.  The man would rather nurse an old grudge than look out for his child—or so it seemed.  “When are you gonna figure out that I wanna help you—and help Zack, if I can?  Does a brick wall gotta fall on you for you to get it through your head?”

    “Byron Sully—everybody’s hero!” Hank drawled, his voice oozing sarcasm.  He waved the whiskey bottle around with a drunken flourish, splashing Sully’s coat in the process.  The sudden scent of whiskey fumes rising from his clothing brought an immediate and unpleasant association to Sully’s mind—but before it could begin to take shape, he thrust it away.

     Impulsively he leaned forward and snatched the bottle of liquor from Hank’s grasp, then tossed it out the window of the coach before the saloon keeper could react.  Briefly they heard the tinkle of breaking glass.

     “What the hell d’ya think yer doin’?!” Hank roared, recovering from his momentary shock.

     “You ain’t helpin’ yourself by gettin’ drunk, Hank.”

     “Who asked ya?”  The barkeep’s face was flushed from the whiskey, his words just shy of being slurred.

    “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from hurtin’ yourself any more than you already have!  Ain’t whatever’s goin’ on with Zack bad enough, without you makin’ it worse by drinkin’ yourself into a stupor?  It ain’t gonna fix things.  Your problems’ll still be there when you sober up.”

     “Blots out the pain,” Hank mumbled, sagging back into his seat.  “You oughta know ‘bout that.”  Hank’s half-finished stogie slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, rolling toward Sully’s boot.  Quickly Sully stamped down on the smoldering cigar, extinguishing it beneath his heel.

     “You oughta know’bout that.”  Again chilly fingers stroked the nape of Sully’s neck, making the fine hairs stand on end.  A shiver went through him, but he knew it didn’t come from the temperature outside.

     “There’s better ways, Hank,” he said, choosing to address Hank’s first statement and ignore the second.  “Like talkin’ about it, for one.  You started this.  You got me all worked up about Zack.  Now you gotta finish it.”

     “Talkin’ about it,” Hank sneered.  “Yeah, that’s Michaela’s cure for everythin’, ain’t it?  Just talk about your troubles, and like magic, they’ll go away!”  He said this last in a mincing imitation of Michaela, watching Sully daringly for his reaction.

     But Sully refused to give Hank the satisfaction.  “Just ‘cause you choose to solve your problems with your fists or a gun, don’t mean that everybody lives that way.”

     “Yeah?  Well maybe yer just gettin’ soft.  But hey, that ain’t no surprise.  Livin’ with Michaela all this time, her ways are bound to rub off on ya.”

     Sully was silent.

     But Hank couldn’t resist pushing a little harder.  “Yeah, she’s got ya under her thumb, all right.”

     “I ain’t under nobody’s thumb,” Sully said, his eyes stony.

     “No?  Well maybe that wasn’t you who hid out from the law for months while his wife ran around lyin’ to the whole town that he was dead!  Maybe it wasn’t your wife who talked the army into givin’ ya a full pardon, so that ya didn’t have ta spend one minute in jail payin’ for what ya done!”

     “I paid for months,” Sully said levelly.  “I paid every minute of every day I had to spend away from my family.”

     “Pardon me if I can’t work up any tears for ya.”

     “What’s stickin’ in your craw?” Sully snapped, reaching his limit.  “What have you got against me?  I’ve been tryin’ to help you—“

     “I don’t need no help!” Hank exploded.  “’Specially from the likes of you!  You just shoved yer way in, meddlin’ in my business!”

     “And I’m sorry I did!” Sully shot back, forgetting his resolution of just minutes before.  “I shoulda known that tryin’ to help you was just askin’ for grief!”

     “Well I got good news for ya—you don’t gotta help me no more!”

     “Suits me.”  Sully folded his arms across his chest, averting his eyes from the man opposite and staring out at the bleak afternoon darkening rapidly into night.

     Silence descended for a time, as Sully kept his gaze fixed on the view rolling past the window, and Hank moodily smoked his way through a third cigar.

      The minutes ticked past, and gradually Sully felt some stirrings of remorse for his loss of temper.  He was hard put to find any charity in his heart for Hank, but he realized that fighting with the irascible saloon owner would do nothing to help Zack.

    He was wondering if he dared to broach the subject of the boy with Hank one more time; when the saloon owner suddenly straightened in his seat and flicked the butt of his spent cigar out of the carriage.  He ran his fingers through his tangled blonde mane, restlessly pushing the hair off his forehead.  “Gettin’ hungry,” he announced brusquely.  “How long till we get to the first way station?”

     Sully studied the sky.  It was hard to judge the time with so much overcast, but he estimated they’d been riding for a little over an hour.  “Maybe another hour or so,” he allowed.  He debated with himself for a moment, then added, “You, uh—you didn’t bring nothin’ with you?  No supplies?”  He nodded toward Hank’s carpetbag.

     Hank looked at him askance.  “Ya mean food?”  Sully nodded again.  “No, I didn’t bring nothin’ with me,” the barkeep mimicked elaborately.  “I wasn’t exactly plannin’ on bein’ on the road all night.  Come nightfall, I expected to be tuckin’ inta a big slab o’ meatloaf at Grace’s . . . followed by enough whiskey ta make me ferget this whole sorry day ever happened."  He leaned forward to emphasize his point, his face just inches from Sully's.  Alcohol fumes bathed them both.  Sully managed not to recoil, and after a few seconds Hank withdrew.

     The saloon keeper glanced at Sully’s bulging knapsack on the seat opposite.  “I ‘spose you did.”

     “Did what?”

     “Brought food,” Hank answered.  “Ain’t that what them Injuns taught ya—be prepared?”

    The remark was obviously intended to be a gibe, but Sully thought he detected a note of hope in Hank’s voice.  “I was runnin’ late—and I wasn’t plannin’ on travelin’ all night either,” he confessed.

     “Figures.  The one time that Injun mumbo-jumbo o’ yours woulda come in handy . . .”  But for once, there was no rancor in Hank’s words.

     “We’ll get to the first stop soon enough,” Sully remarked.  He eyed the saloon owner speculatively and then added, “Hank—about Zack—“

     “Did Colleen ever bring somebody home ya didn’t like?” Hank interrupted, his unexpected question startling Sully into silence.  “I mean, ‘fore Andrew.  Somebody you and Michaela didn’t—approve of . . .  Somebody . . . ya thought wasn’t good enough.”  Hank’s eyes probed his, demanding an answer.

     Sully hesitated.  “Well, that’s Colleen’s business,” he hedged, stalling for time as he tried to figure out what could have prompted Hank’s unlikely query.  “I shouldn’t be talkin’ about her without her knowin’.”

     “I ain’t pryin’,” Hank said irritably.  “I just . . . I wondered what ya did about it—if ya didn’t like one of her fellas, that is.”

     “Well, I’ve never felt it’s my place to tell Colleen what to do—leastways when it comes to courtin’,” Sully answered carefully.  “I figure folks gotta make their own choices about things like that.  I mean—I’d never sit back and let a man hurt her.  If somebody ever tried, they’d answer to me.  But as far as tryin’ to influence Colleen’s feelin’s—I don’t believe I got the right to do that.”

     “That’s fair, I guess,” Hank said.  “But I bet that ain’t the way Michaela sees it.  She ain’t about to keep from meddlin’ in Colleen’s life.  Not with the way she sticks her nose in everybody’s business.”

     “Michaela ain’t shy about givin’ her opinion—that’s true,” Sully acknowledged mildly.  “But if she ‘meddles,’ like you put it, it’s only ‘cause she cares.  And where the kids are concerned, she’s always gonna do everythin’ she can to protect them.  Even if it means tellin’ them somethin’ they don’t wanna hear.”

     “Like what?” Hank leaned forward, sensing a story behind Sully’s equivocation.

     Again Sully debated inwardly.  Hank’s instincts were correct.  He did have such a memory in mind—a time when Michaela had actively interfered in Colleen’s life and tried to influence her against a young man.  Of course Michaela had been right.  This young fella—Jesse, that was his name—had been slick and sharp.  Young and innocent, Colleen had been no match for him.  Jesse had turned her head with his oily charms, ultimately breaking her heart when he reverted back to the snake that he was.  But regardless of Michaela’s good intentions, her interference had backfired in predictable fashion, just pushing Colleen closer to Jesse instead of driving the two young people apart as Michaela had intended.  And in the end Colleen had still been hurt, despite everything Michaela had done to prevent it.

     But that was in the past, over and done with.  Colleen was with Andrew now.  It was clear she cared for the young doctor.  No, it was more than that.  She was in love with him—probably had been ever since the first time she’d set eyes on him, when Michaela’s ma brought him to Colorado Springs to deliver Katie.  Of course that hadn’t turned out the way they’d planned it either, he recalled wryly.  But the point was, Colleen was happy with Andrew, and it was obvious he felt the same way.  No doubt they’d marry eventually—perhaps they’d even talked about it already.  Sully doubted that Colleen even thought of Jesse anymore.

     So would it be so wrong to tell Hank a little of what had happened in the past, since it had no bearing on the present—except that the telling of it might help the saloon owner in some way?  Sully couldn’t read what was in Hank’s mind, but he did accept that the feisty barkeep had a legitimate reason for his curiosity—even if the reason eluded him for the moment.

     “I’ll tell you,” he said abruptly, “’Cause I believe you got a good reason for askin’.  But this is just between us,” he stressed, his eyes fixed sternly on Hank’s.  “No blabbin’ about it to anybody else, and for sure—no tellin’ Colleen that I ever spoke to you about it.  I don’t know that it would bother her after all this time, but I ain’t takin’ no chances.  Do I make myself clear?”

     “Yeah, I hear ya.  I got no interest in spreadin’ tales ‘bout Colleen.  I just . . . wanna know what happened . . . how Michaela handled it.”

     “You better be tellin’ me the truth,” Sully warned, his cobalt eyes grilling Hank up and down.

      “I said I’d keep my mouth shut and I will,” Hank insisted, struggling manfully to hold onto his fragile patience.  “Just get on with it already.”

     “All right,” Sully allowed at last.  He gave Hank a final glare for good measure, then began, “There was this one time, a few years back, when Colleen got herself involved with this young fella who appeared to be up to no good . . .  You recall when Olive died and left Matthew her cattle—and how we had to drive ‘em back to Colorado Springs?”  Hank nodded, then settled into his seat to listen.

    “Well, there was this one cowhand on the drive, name of Jesse—and right from the start, it seemed like he’d set his cap for Colleen.  He kept hangin’ around her, flatterin’ her with compliments and recitin’ poetry . . .  Colleen was only 15 at the time, innocent and way too trustin’.  Weren’t no time at all ‘fore she was sweet on him.”

     “What’d Michaela think of all this?”

     “It worried her.  She was suspicious of him from the start.  She told me later she confided to Grace that he reminded her of Ethan Cooper, Colleen’s pa.”

    Hank raised an eyebrow, implying that he understood the comparison implicit in Sully’s reference.  “So what’d she do about it?”

     “Well, she made a stab at keepin’ them apart.  Like insistin’ Colleen ride in the wagon, ‘stead of on horseback along with Jesse.  But that only worked when we were travelin’.  When we made camp, and they were left to their own devices . . .”  He didn’t bother to elaborate.  “And even though Grace warned Michaela not to let on to Colleen that she didn’t like Jesse, ‘cause then Colleen would just want him all the more—“

     “Michaela didn’t listen.”

     “Nope, she didn’t.  She told Colleen she didn’t want her spendin’ so much time with Jesse—that she didn’t know nothin’ about him.  She just didn’t want Colleen gettin’ hurt,” he added earnestly.

     “Maybe so, but I’m guessin’ that didn’t go over real big.”

     “No, it sure didn’t,” Sully agreed.  “Colleen got her back up—told her ma that she didn’t even know him—then flounced off.”

     “So did Michaela give up?”

     It was Sully’s turn to raise an eyebrow.  “This is Michaela we’re talkin’ about,” he said dryly.

     Hank’s lips twitched.  “Right.  What was I thinkin’?”  A soft chuckle escaped him, and Sully was surprised to feel a twinge of satisfaction that he’d lightened the other man’s mood.  “So go on,” Hank urged.

     “Well, Michaela didn’t dare say it to Colleen—but truth was, she wanted Jesse gone altogether . . .”

     “Jesse said the Apache were on the warpath,” Michaela told him, referring to the body of the slain cowboy they’d found, felled by an arrow in the back.

     “We don’t know that for sure,” Sully answered.  “Jesse likes to talk.”

     “I wish he wasn’t on this drive,” Michaela fretted.  “You think you could persuade him to leave?” she added hopefully.

     His expression was distant.  “Why would I do that?”

     Michaela looked uncertain.  “Well, what do you think of him?”

     Sully squinted into the sun.  His golden brown hair billowed about his face in the stiff breeze coming off the prairie.  “I think he’s young, and cock-sure—and nobody can tell him what to do.  But he can ride, and he can handle cattle.”

     “Is that all that matters?”

     “We need every hand we got right now,” Sully said bluntly.  He turned away from her, preparing to mount his horse.

     But she was unable to let it go.  “Sully, don’t you see—“

     “Just leave him be,” he told her, his tone brooking no contradiction.  He put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle, then turned the horse’s head away from camp and cantered toward a distant rise—

 “So did ya?” Hank’s voice intruded, and Sully realized he’d been woolgathering again.

    “Did I what?”

    “Send him packin’.”

     Sully shook his head.  “Couldn’t.  We needed every able-bodied man and woman to get that herd back to town.  Whether Michaela approved of Jesse or not, he was good at drivin’ cattle, and we couldn’t afford to lose him.”

     “Sounds like Michaela didn’t have no options left,” the saloon owner observed.

     Sully looked at him oddly.  “The way things turned out, it didn’t matter,” he said, thinking of how the unscrupulous cowhand and his friend had gone missing after the cattle stampede—along with everybody’s money and valuables.

     “What d’ya mean?”

     “Michaela didn’t have to do nothin’.  Jesse did it to himself . . .”

     The three men converged on the camp and reined their horses to a stop.

     “How many did you find?” Matthew asked him.

     The gusting wind whipped the hair back from Sully’s face.  He grimaced as grit stung his skin.  “Twenty-two.”

     Matthew glanced down at Michaela standing before them.  “That makes—“

     Michaela dropped her eyes to the list in her hand and checked the total, then looked back up at him.  “A hundred and seventy-one.”

     “Remember we counted nine—“  Robert E.  stopped to catch his breath, “—got trampled.”

     “So we’re still twenty short!” Matthew exclaimed.

     Robert E. waved his arm to encompass the surrounding landscape.  “We done covered the whole countryside for miles around . . .”

     Matthew’s eyes suddenly narrowed.  He looked at Sully.  “Where’s Jesse?”

     Sully armed sweat off his brow, then gestured vaguely behind him.  “His friend Ned’s missin’ too.”

     Matthew’s eyes darted around the camp.  “Anybody seen him?”

     “Not since before the stampede,” Michaela offered.

     Loren emerged from the lean-to behind her.  “My money pouch is missing,” he announced solemnly.

     “All right—everybody check your things!” Sully directed.  The others scattered, but almost immediately returned.

     “My money’s gone too!” Michaela reported.

     “So’s mine!” echoed Grace.

     “We been robbed,” Loren said, resigned.

     “It was Jesse!” Matthew spat.  “He’s probably got the cattle too—probably started the stampede!”

     “No, that can’t be!” Colleen denied.

     Matthew eyes bored into her.  “Where’s your watch?”

     Colleen’s hand went to the pocket where she’d secreted the antique gold watch—her precious legacy from Olive.  A look of confusion, then panic swept her face as her questing fingers found nothing.  “I must—musta lost it—“ she faltered.

     “Ya didn’t lose it—that young fella run off with it,” Loren said dourly, folding his arms across his chest.

     Robert E. gave her a piercing stare.  “Cows just got watered.  They ain’t had no cause to stampede.”

     “You’re wrong!” Colleen protested.  “Jesse could never do such a thing!  He was probably trying to stop the cattle—maybe he’s hurt!”

     “He ain’t hurt!” Matthew snapped. “Probably planned this from the start!”

     “How can you think that?” Colleen accused.  “He’s fine, and—and brave—“  She looked searchingly from one stony, unreceptive face to another.  “He said he loves me . . .  He asked me to marry  him . . .”  Again her eyes petitioned someone—anyone—for understanding, but to no avail.  A few yards away, Michaela regarded her achingly.  Her face crumpling, Colleen gathered her skirts and fled . . .

     “Rough for Colleen,” Hank spoke up, his tone surprisingly gentle.

     “Yeah, it was,” Sully replied, marveling that Colleen’s dilemma had touched the cynical man opposite.  “She just couldn’t bring herself to accept that Jesse could betray her—betray all of us—that way.”

     “Was it him for sure?”

     “Yeah, it was him all right,” Sully said grimly.  “Him and his pal both.  The cattle, the money—they took everythin’.”

     “Did ya catch up to ‘em?”

     “Matthew did.  He was bound and determined to get justice, even though we told him it was too dangerous.  And then Brian snuck off after him.  None of us knew—not even Matthew.  But somehow, the two of them got the drop on Jesse and his accomplice, and they got everythin’ back.”

     “Includin’ . . .?”

     Sully met the saloon owner’s gaze.  “Yeah.”

     Matthew finished returning the stolen money to its rightful owners, and then approached Colleen.  “I also—found this,” he said.  Deliberately he drew the watch from his vest pocket and held it out to her.  It dangled from his gloved hand, dazzling shards of sunlight glinting off its polished gold surface.  Colleen accepted the watch into her cupped palms and stared down at the irrefutable evidence of Jesse’s duplicity, the devastation in her eyes cutting them all to the quick.  Suddenly she thrust the timepiece at Matthew and bolted, fleeing blindly across the prairie as tears coursed down her cheeks . . .

     “Michaela went after her,” Sully went on.  “She never told me what passed between them, though I figure she said all the right things, ‘cause Colleen was better afterwards.  But I don’t think she got over it for a long time.

     “And that’s about all there was to it,” he concluded.  He studied the other man thoughtfully.  “I gotta tell you, Hank—I can’t figure why you care about this.  I mean—I was able to tell you what happened with Michaela and Colleen, but not what Michaela said to Colleen later to make it right.  So I don’t see how hearin’ about it could be any use to you.”

     “Maybe I wanted ta know what not to do,” Hank said archly.

     Sully felt a stab of resentment that the saloon owner was reverting to type once again, but he suppressed it.  He was determined that this time, he was going to keep his temper—but he was also going to get some answers.  “Look, I was straight with you,” he said levelly.  “I told you what you wanted to know.  It’s time for you to do the same.”

    The barkeep didn’t answer, but Sully thought he detected a crack in his ordinarily tough facade.  “C’mon Hank—the truth,” he demanded.  “I wanna know what all this has got to do with you and Zack, if anythin’.  I wanna know about that woman you spoke of, and how she fits into it.  I wanna know now.  What’s goin’ on?”