“Slow down, Dr. Mike!” Matthew called out to the slight figure ahead as she lengthened the distance between them.  Reluctantly she obeyed.  She turned to wait for him, her face a pale oval in the darkness.

     Michaela’s lungs were burning, and she took advantage of the pause to catch her breath.  “I can’t slow down,” she managed as Matthew caught up to her.  “I don’t dare.  We’ve already lost so much time—Sully’s condition could be growing more desperate as we speak.  And if the stagecoach should explode with Sully or other passengers trapped inside . . .  We have to reach him as soon as possible, Matthew!”

     “I know, I know,” he soothed her.  He raised the lantern to illuminate their faces.  “But the ground is uneven, and slick from the mud.  Not to mention that you can’t see more than a few feet in front of you.  You could still lose your footin’—turn an ankle or maybe worse.  That’s why we left the horses behind—we can’t risk one of ‘em goin’ lame.

    “Look,” he went on.  “We had a stroke of luck, findin’ a spot where we could get ourselves and the horses down to the bottom—“

    “Do you think they’ll still be there when we return?” Michaela interrupted.

    “They’ll be there,” he answered confidently.  “They’re fed, watered, tied up . . . no need to worry about them.  Right now we gotta concentrate on gettin’ to Sully.  After, when I know the lay of the land, I can go back and get the horses.

    “But even if luck’s been on our side so far, the danger ain’t over yet,” he cautioned, returning to his earlier point.  “Like I told you before, we won’t do Sully no good if one of us gets hurt.”

     “But if we don’t get to him soon, we may be unable to help him at all,” Michaela reminded her son gravely.  “We have to reach him, Matthew . . . before it’s too late.”

     Matthew slid his arm around her shoulders.  “Then we’d best get movin’,” he said.  Michaela expelled a shaky breath.  He saw relief in her face, mingled with the faintest spark of hope.  “Just—let me take the lead, all right?  And hold onto my hand.  Will you do that much for me?”

     Conceding the wisdom of his request, she nodded.  Wasting no further time in conversation, they locked hands and set off again.

* * * * * * * * * *

    He had to see to Hank.  Find a way to bandage that cut, and—instinctively he flinched at the memory of what he, too, had once endured—set the leg.  If the spirits were merciful, the barkeep would remain unconscious throughout  the whole ordeal.  Perhaps, that way, both of them could get through it.

    But there were other risks.  The conditions were filthy—the danger of infection high.  Hank might not even live to see Colorado Springs if gangrene set in.

    But what could he use to treat the man’s injuries?  There wasn’t a single stitch of his clothing that wasn’t covered by mud, and now ash.  And while there were plenty of broken tree branches around to double as splints, how could he cleanse the wounds?  There was no clean water—

    Sully’s face paled beneath its grimy mask. No water.  No drinkable water, and no way of knowing how far he’d have to travel to find a spring, or a homestead with a well . . .

    Pain wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed.  He bit off a groan, tears springing to his eyes with the effort.  How was he going to do any of this?  Where would he find the strength?  It seemed that he’d used up all he had just to save them from burning to death.  Now he feared there was nothing left . . .

    He’d been in trouble before . . . had nearly met his death on more than one occasion.  Almost drowning in the cave-in when he was a miner . . . that time he was shot in the back by army soldiers . . .  The fall from the cliff after Palmer Creek had brought him as close to joining the spirits as he could come without crossing over, he figured.  Yet somehow he’d always managed to survive.  But this time . . .

    If this was his destiny—to die, broken and beaten, at the bottom of a ravine—then he would have to accept the will of the spirits.  It broke his heart to think of leaving this life without saying good bye to the one person who had made it worth living again. . . who had filled his dark world with light and joy.  It hurt—desperately—to think of never again seeing the faces of his children . . . or of possibly creating more children out of the remarkable love he shared with Michaela.  But if his time had finally come . . . somehow, he must find he serenity to accept it.

    But he was not alone.  His wasn’t the only life in jeopardy.  Hank was helpless—most likely closer to dying than even he was himself.  He had a duty, an obligation, to do whatever he could to save Hank—or at least keep him alive until help arrived. If help arrived . . .

    But he was so tired.  So exhausted from struggling against the misty grayness that was bent on taking him
away  . . .  No! he thought desperately.  I’ve got to stay awake . . .

    I’m coming, my darling.  Just hold on, I’m coming . . .

    Vainly he clung to the lifeline of Michaela’s voice, real or imagined.  But the gray shadow spread its wings over him and carried him off.

    Yet again Sully lost his tenuous hold on consciousness.

* * * * * * * * * *

    “Oh, no,” Michaela breathed as they came upon the body.  “Oh please, no—“

    “Let me look first, Dr. Mike,” Matthew said immediately, trying to block her view.  “If it’s—I mean, you don’t want to see . . .”

    But she was already pushing in front of him, closing the few yards that separated them from the still form lying on the ground.  Matthew followed, reaching her side as she announced in a choked voice, “Not Sully . . . thank God.”  She knelt by the body, feeling for a pulse out of habit, but knowing even before she touched him that the man was dead.  She gestured to Matthew for his help, and he hunched next to her and carefully turned the body.  Michaela couldn’t suppress a gasp as they saw that he’d been impaled by what appeared to be a fragment of a wooden pole.

    Matthew swallowed, his eyes dark in his chalky face.  “Looks like part of the riggin’.”

    “This was the driver, then,” Michaela said.  Fear, black and yawning, swept over her.  She looked up at Matthew.  Her expression tore at him.    “Oh, Matthew, if this was the driver’s fate . . . then what of Sully?”  Her eyes returned to the corpse lying before her.  “What of Sully?” she whispered.

    Matthew cleared his throat.  “Come on,” he said, grasping her hand.  “We’ll find Sully and make sure he’s all right.  Then later, we’ll come back and . . . I’ll dig a grave.”  Michaela nodded mutely, and allowed him to help her up.

    The vibration from the explosion reached them before the sound buffeted their ears.  They spun around, stunned, as the conflagration lit up the night, creating a false and terrifying dawn.

    “No!” Michaela cried out, darting from Matthew’s side and running in the direction of the blast.

    “Dr. Mike, wait!  It ain’t safe—!”  He gave chase and overtook her quickly, pinning his arms around her.

    “Let me go!” she shouted, struggling to break free.  “Sully’s in there!  I have to get to him!”

    “You gotta wait!” Matthew insisted, refusing to release her.  He didn’t dare to voice the devastating truth they both knew:  that if Sully had been inside the stage when it went up, there could be no hope.

    For several agonizing moments they stood watching the fiery remnants of the doomed coach streaking up to the sky and then raining down upon the landscape.  The sight bore an eerie resemblance to fireworks bursting in the darkness, and Michaela shivered violently from an inner chill.  Matthew’s arms tightened around her consolingly, but she stiffened, unable in that moment to accept comfort.  He dropped his arms, stepping back slightly.

    “It’s safe now,” she said.

* * * * * * * * * *

     He was adrift somewhere in that shadowy country between sleep and wakefulness; not entirely sure what was real, not especially concerned with finding out.  It was enough to be free of the pain for the moment . . . swaying, drifting, floating high above the pain, connected to it by only the slimmest of tethers.  He knew it would tug him back, probably soon.  But for now all was calm, serene—with no demands upon him, no expectations to meet, nobody counting on him for help.

     But no, that wasn’t right.  Hank was counting on him, and he had failed.  He’d passed out yet again, and because of his weakness Hank’s injuries remained untreated.  But worse, they still had no water—and without water, neither of them could hope to survive.

     The thought of water forced reality to intrude.  Overpowering thirst seized him, like claws raking the back of his throat.  His fevered mind conjured a picture of Michaela bending over him, one cool hand stroking his forehead, the other holding a cup to his lips—full of blessedly cold, clear water.  Eagerly he drank and then drank again, his need seemingly unquenchable.  The vision was so strong, so powerful, that for a moment he swore he could feel her gentle touch and hear her tender, whispered words.

    And then his heart contracted painfully.  It was pointless, he knew—self-destructive, really, to fantasize about Michaela.  To imagine her by his side.  Even to hope that if he found the strength to call out to her, that she would somehow answer.

     And yet instinctively, his lips formed the shape of her name, but whether he said it aloud or only in his mind, he didn’t know.  He was rapidly losing the power to distinguish the difference.  He thought he was probably sinking fast now.

 “Matthew, stop!  I think Sully is waking up!”

* * * * * * * * * *

    His heart began to pound.  Her voice again—even clearer this time and impossibly close.  He felt a cessation of movement, and then heard the sound of running steps.

    “You sure?  He still looks like he’s sleepin’.”

    Matthew’s voice now.  Equally astonishing, yet . . .

    “I thought so.  I could have sworn I heard him say my name, but . . . perhaps not.”  Michaela again, her tone dispirited.

    “Maybe he was dreamin’.  Or maybe he’s delirious, like when we found him after Palmer Creek.”

    “I doubt it’s delirium—his fever’s not that high.  And there's no sign of head trauma.  Still . . .”

    He must be dreaming.  What else could explain all this?  His confused mind tried to sort it out, but his thought processes felt thick and muddled.

    “Watch over him a moment, while I check on Hank.”

    Hank.  So Hank was a part of this dream, too.  Except—more and more, it didn’t feel like a dream.  For one thing he realized he was no longer floating, no longer detached from himself.  The pain had pulled him back, coiling itself about him in suffocating bands.  But . . . it wasn’t so bad now.  And he was no longer as cold.  He was resting on something soft and yielding, wrapped in thick warmth.  Could Michaela and Matthew really have found them?  If he dared to open his eyes, would they actually be there?

    Or, more likely, would he discover that he was still hallucinating—spinning an elaborate fantasy out of a mind addled by fever?  Maybe he was the one who had sustained a concussion, instead of Hank, and he was imagining all this.  Perhaps he’d even hallucinated their escape from the coach, and even now they were still inside, flames inching closer by the second . . .  Panic shuddered through him, and he trembled uncontrollably.

    A faint scent of lilacs came to him, and he knew she’d returned.

    Close by his ear:  “Sully?  Sully, can you hear me?”

    Of their own volition his eyelids fluttered, and then he was looking up into her face.  “Michaela?”

    “Yes, I’m here,” she said softly.  “I’m with you now, and everything’s going to be all right.”

    “Michaela,” he repeated, a sense of peace flooding through him.  It didn’t matter if she was real or just a dream.  She was with him, and that was all that mattered.  He felt her hand close over his, and his fingers curled around it trustingly.  “You kept your promise,” he whispered, as the grayness engulfed him and carried him away once more.  “You kept your promise . . .”

* * * * * * * * *  *

    When he woke again, his mind had cleared enough to comprehend the reality of his surroundings.  At some point the softness of his previous bedding had been traded for the harder surface of a wagon, but he lay in relative comfort on a thick bed of quilts, swathed in blankets.  His head was pillowed in Michaela’s lap, and as he stirred she laid a hand on his chest, gently restraining him.

    “Michaela . . .?”

    “I’m right here.  Try not to move,” she said.

    He felt the warmth of her lap and the slight pressure of her hand.  He was conscious of the rough texture of the blanket against his skin, and he could smell the rain-washed freshness of the air, and feel its biting chill on his face.  But despite all the tangible evidence around him, he still didn’t trust his senses.

    “Are you . . . real?  I ain’t . . . imaginin’ you?”

    “Yes, I’m real.”  She smiled at him tremulously.  “We’re together, and you’re safe.  You’re safe, Sully.”  Her eyes glimmered faintly with tears and hastily she brushed them away.  She took a breath to compose herself, then said softly, “How do you feel?”

    “I’m . . . tired,” he managed after a moment.

    “Do you have much pain?”

    “When I cough,” he told her.  “And it was pretty bad when I . . . got us outta the coach.”  Her saw her brows knit in concern—what he called her “worry face”.  “But it ain’t so bad right now . . .  truly,” he added to reassure her.

    “I’m glad,” she said.  “And now that you’re awake and I’m satisfied that you don’t have a head injury, I can give you medication to ease the pain.”

    “But . . . how did you get here?” he asked, still confused as to how all this could be happening.  Sudden anxiety seized him.  “And what about Hank?  Did you find him?  Is . . . is he still alive?”

    “Shh,” she hushed him, her hand moving to stroke his hair.  “Yes, Hank's alive.  He's right here."  Sully turned his head and saw the saloon owner lying on the wagon bed next to him, eyes closed.  "But try not to excite yourself, Sully.  You have at least one broken rib, and the others are badly bruised.  I don’t want you to move or exert yourself until I can get you back to the clinic and give you a complete examination and proper treatment.”

    “But Hank—“

    “You mustn’t worry about Hank.”

    “Just . . . tell me if . . . Hank’s gonna make it.  I gotta know that, Michaela.”

    “Hank’s injuries are serious,” she gave in.  “However I believe he’ll recover.  But you must rest now, Sully.”

     “But . . . you still haven’t told me how you knew . . . how you found us . . .”

    “I promise I’ll tell you everything later, if you will promise to close your eyes and sleep,” she insisted with gentle firmness.

    Drowsiness was already overtaking him.  As usual, she knew best.  But he fought to stay awake a few more seconds.  Raising his arm with an effort, he touched her cheek.  “Thank you . . . for our lives.  I love you, Michaela.”  His eyes closed and his hand dropped away.  Within moments his even breathing told her he slept.

    “Thank you . . . for fighting not to leave me,” she whispered, letting her tears finally come.  She bent her head and brushed his lips with hers.  “Oh, Sully—I love you, too.”

* * * * * * * * * *

     Still later he roused from a deep, dreamless sleep to find that they’d stopped.  With a stab of alarm he thought of Hank, and he turned his head sharply, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the barkeep still beside him, similarly bundled in blankets.  Hank remained unconscious and his face was still disturbingly pale; however his breathing, though shallow, was steady.  Michaela had bandaged the cut, and presumably set Hank’s leg as well, or at least administered as much aid to him as possible until they could get back to town.  Sully concluded that the saloon owner was all right for the moment, and he relaxed against his makeshift bed.

     The murmur of voices came to him, and he raised his head slightly, his eyes following the direction of the sound.  A short distance away a small fire spread a net of light in the pre-dawn darkness, and he could see the silhouettes of Michaela and Matthew sitting on a fallen log close by.  The rich aromas of coffee and biscuits drifted to him, and his stomach rumbled in response.  Feeling hungry—that must be a good sign, he figured.  But his need wasn’t urgent.  It was enough just to lie here, listening to the sound of those voices he’d thought never to hear again, and marvel at the miracle of simply being alive.

    “So is Sully really gonna be all right?”  Matthew handed her the steaming cup.  “Careful—it’s hot.”

     She accepted it gingerly but gratefully, letting its heat warm her icy palms.  Taking a bracing sip of the strong brew, she replied, “He should be, assuming he has no other internal injuries.  I don’t believe that he does, although I can’t be certain until I’m able to examine him fully in the clinic.  But even with his rib injuries, he’ll need to remain quiet for several days to allow his body to heal, and to regain his strength.  And presently, both Sully and Hank show symptoms of smoke inhalation, though they should recover.  Of course we have no way of knowing how long they were trapped inside the burning coach,” she added soberly.

     “What about Hank?” Matthew asked.  “He looks awful bad.  He gonna make it?”

     “I think so,” she said.  “His head injury will bear watching for a day or two; he sustained a nasty concussion.  But he shouldn't experience any lasting effects.  The damage to his leg is severe—“

     “Like what happened to Sully?”

     “Yes, very similar,” she acknowledged.

     “So you can stick his leg in one of them ‘fracture boxes’, just like you did with Sully, and Hank will heal as good as Sully did,” Matthew said.

     She spoke wryly.  “I don’t know how well Hank will take to being immobile for so long.  But I’m optimistic that the leg will heal with time.  Actually, Hank is fortunate.  I was able to treat him promptly—with luck, before infection had a chance to set in.  Sully was in far greater peril after he fell from the cliff—attempting to set his leg on his own, exposed to the elements for days before we found him . . .  If he hadn’t known to treat himself with the Cheyenne remedies, he surely would have died.”  Her hands trembled slightly, and coffee sloshed in the cup.  Matthew laid a steadying hand on her shoulder.

     “But he didn’t,” he said.

     She managed a watery smile.  “No, he didn’t.”  But then another shiver assailed her, and she set her cup on the ground.  “But he came so very close, Matthew.  Just like tonight.  Considering the circumstances of the accident, it’s a miracle that Sully and Hank are even alive.  Before he fell asleep earlier, Sully said something to me about getting them both out of the coach.  With the broken rib, the trauma of that alone could have killed him.  He could have punctured a lung—“

     “But he didn’t,” Matthew repeated.  “You got to him in time, Ma.  I don’t know how, but you knew Sully was in trouble.  You saved his life—and Hank’s in the bargain.”

     “I can’t explain it,” Michaela confessed.  “I’m just grateful we found them.”

    “Was Sully able to tell you anythin’ about the accident?” Matthew asked.

     Michaela shook her head.  “He was too weak to talk for more than a few moments, and far more concerned about Hank’s condition.  But I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us eventually.”

     “That’s a story I’d like to hear, when Sully’s up to it,” Matthew remarked.  But he saw that her attention had wandered, her eyes regarding Sully gravely.

     “So what do you figure Sully and Hank were doin’ together, anyway?” he said, trying to steer her away from dwelling on what could have been.  “I woulda thought Hank'd be the last person Sully’d be travelin’ with.”

     “I truly don’t know,” she answered, responding to the gambit as he’d hoped.  “But I have a strange feeling Matthew, that whatever drew Sully and Hank together may prove to be an even more remarkable story.”