Zack stayed at the homestead that night, but the following morning, with Michaela’s blessing, he moved to the clinic to be close to his father.

     Hank’s recovery immediately took a big leap forward.  All too soon, he was as impatient and cantankerous as Michaela had originally anticipated.  She welcomed the change—for a while.

     A week later Zack and his father bid each other a reluctant farewell, and the boy  returned to Denver to complete his final term.  But two months later, Hank—free of the fracture box at last (to everyone’s relief)—sat proudly in the garden of the Wellman School, and witnessed his son graduate in a small but tasteful outdoor ceremony.

     Zack hadn’t won the Wellman Foundation prize.  His marks had been impressive, Miss Wellman told him, but not quite good enough to place him in one of the top two positions.  She seemed sincere, but Zack had a feeling that she might not be telling the whole truth, judging by the way she avoided his eyes during their short and awkward interview.  He suspected that Amelia’s parents had had more than a little to do with influencing the decision of the board.  But he didn’t make any protest.

     For one thing, there was no need to upset Hank by letting him know that his son might have been penalized for his lack of social position, rather than being judged on the merits of his talent.  But even more than that, Zack had come to the realization that he just wanted to put the episode behind him.  The memory of Amelia’s rejection still stung—still rankled in his heart.  But not as much as he might have expected, given the passion he’d felt for the young woman only months before.  It appeared that Hank had been right again—perhaps it hadn’t been true love after all.  But whatever he’d felt for Amelia, the interlude was over now and he’d made his peace with it—just as he’d made peace with his father—and now he wanted only to close this chapter of his life and move forward.  Even if he wasn’t quite certain where his next steps would take him.

     And yet he couldn’t help wondering if Hank was disappointed in him because he hadn’t won the prize.  Had he raised his father’s hopes, even in the midst of the angry words he’d hurled at him—only to let him down again when he’d failed to distinguish himself?

     He put the question to his father that evening, during a private moment at a party in his honor at Grace’s.  The saloon owner was sitting sideways at a corner table, his stiff leg propped on an adjacent chair, when Zack approached with a couple of glasses of punch.

     “I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, placing one of the glasses in front of Hank.  His father looked at the pink concoction without enthusiasm.  “Sorry—they didn’t have anything stronger,” Zack apologized.

     “Never fear—I always come prepared,” Hank told him.  He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a silver flask.  Unscrewing the cap, he poured a liberal measure into his glass—and then spontaneously poured a lesser amount into Zack’s glass as well.

     “Don’t tell Dr. Mike on me,” he said, giving Zack a conspiratorial wink.  “She’ll think I’m corruptin’ ya.  But I think a man’s got a right to take a drink to mark a special occasion in his life.

     “To you,” he said, tipping his glass to Zack’s and taking a healthy swig.  After a moment Zack followed suit with a more cautious sip.

     Even diluted, the liquor packed a wallop, and Hank waited tactfully while his son choked down the potent brew, his eyes watering.  “Havin’ a good time?” he asked a minute or two later, when Zack appeared to have recovered.

    Zack nodded.  “The best,” he said, his voice still mildly hoarse from the effect of the alcohol.  He gazed around him at the cluster of people gathered at the café on his behalf, his eyes filled with amazement.  “I can’t believe that everyone came out for me like this.”

    “Folks here love a party,” his father responded.  “’Sides, they’re proud o’ ya.  Ain’t every town that can claim they got a famous artist livin’ among ‘em.”

    “I’m not famous yet, Pa,” Zack said, embarrassed and yet pleased by the compliment.

    “Only a matter o’ time,” Hank stated confidently, swallowing the remainder of his punch in two quick gulps.  The flask reappeared, and he poured a couple of inches into his empty glass.

     “Well, without the recognition from the Wellman prize, it’s going to take me a lot longer to become established,” Zack commented.  He hesitated and then went on, “Are you disappointed in me, Pa—that I didn’t win?  I know I told you that my chances were good.  I suppose I’d even come to take it for granted that I would win.  I’m sorry if I raised your hopes for nothing.”

    “Ya didn’t,” Hank contradicted.  “I never put any stock in all that.  It was you that seemed ta think it was so important.  Far as I’m concerned, ya don’t gotta win no fancy awards ta prove ya got talent.”  He paused, and said more softly, “Or ta make me proud o’ ya.”

    Zack’s heart warmed at his father’s words.  “Thank you for that, Pa.  It means a great deal to me.  But the money would have helped me to get started.  I’m going to need to look for work now, to support myself until I can earn an income from selling my paintings—if that day ever comes.”

    “It’ll come,” Hank said.  “And yer art is yer work—you should put all yer energy inta that.”

    “Nothing would make me happier.  But while being a ‘starving artist’ may be a romantic notion, it won’t pay room and board, or buy canvases and paint,” Zack replied.

    “There’s no need fer ya ta worry about money,” his father told him.  “I can give ya a hand till ya get on yer feet.  And as fer a place ta live, you can stay at the Gold Nugget.  It’s yer home too.”

    “I’m grateful for the offer—but you’ve supported me long enough, Pa.  I’m a man now—it’s time for me to strike out on my own.  Besides, though the Nugget is comfortable enough, I need a place that I can turn into a studio.”

    Hank cocked an eyebrow.  “Looks like there’s another way we’re alike.  Yer just as stubborn as I am.”

    Zack smiled.  “Well if that’s true, I certainly come by it naturally.”

    Hank returned the smile, but his expression was distracted, as if he were mulling  something over in his mind.  Zack noted his father’s preoccupation, and scrutinized him closely.

    “What are you thinking, Pa?  If you have any ideas about giving me a loan, or financing me in some other way, I’ve already told you that I can’t accept—“

    “I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout a loan,” Hank protested innocently.

    “Not in so many words, but I can tell when you get an idea in your head.”

    “Suspicious, ain’t ya?”

    “Like father, like son,” Zack said, a twinkle in his eye.

     “All right,” Hank allowed.  “Maybe I do have an idea fer how we could work this out.”

     “Pa—“

     “I’m yer father—I got a right ta take an interest.”

     “But I already said that I can’t accept your help any longer—“

     Hank raised a hand, silencing him.  “How ‘bout ya hear me out, ‘fore ya start thinkin’ o’ reasons ta turn me down?  Ya might be surprised.”

     Zack smiled indulgently.  “You simply won’t take no for an answer, will you?”

     “Just part o’ my charm,” Hank told him.  “Now listen ta me for a minute, and see what ya think o’ this . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

    A few days later Sully exited the clinic after bringing lunch to Michaela, and noticed Hank and Zack on the porch of the Gold Nugget.  Hank was comfortably tilted back in his favorite chair, smoke from his cigar drifting lazily above his head.  Zack perched on the railing, a large sketchbook balanced on his knees.  Diverting from his original destination of the mercantile, Sully strolled across the street and joined them.

    “Afternoon Hank, Zack,” he greeted them.  Hank nodded in response, and Zack’s pencil paused as he looked up in welcome.

    “Hello, Mr. Sully.”

    Sully glanced down to where an accomplished drawing of a woman was taking shape under Zack’s hands.  “That’s real good,” he remarked in admiration.  He stared at it a moment longer.  The sketch was still in its early stages, but the face had already assumed some depth and definition.  “She looks familiar.  Is that . . .?”

    The front legs of Hank’s chair landed on the porch with a thud.  He pitched the remains of his cigar away, then reached for the cane hooked on the back of his seat, using its support to stand.   Awkwardly he limped over to them, pausing behind Zack and looking over his shoulder.  “Yeah, it’s Clarice,” he confirmed, reading Sully’s mind.

    “It’s an amazin’ likeness—she looks just like I remember her,” Sully commented.  “You’re real talented, Zack.”

    “Thank you,” Zack said modestly.  “But this is just a preliminary sketch.”

    “For what?”

    “A painting,” Zack replied.

    “Not just any paintin’,” Hank spoke proudly.  “A portrait.”

    Sully looked duly impressed.  “You don’t say?”

    “When it’s finished, it’s gonna hang in the place of honor, right over the bar,” Hank boasted.

    “That’d certainly be a perfect place for it,” Sully agreed.  “But how did this all come about?” he added curiously.

    “It’s something that I always wanted to do, but I never had the opportunity with  my obligations at school,” Zack explained.  “But now that I’ve graduated, I finally have the time.”

    “And I got ta thinkin’ how Clarice was a part o’ this place, right from the beginnin’,” Hank chimed in.  “We started it together.  So it seemed like . . . havin’ her lookin’ down on  us . . . well, that it’d be a special way o’ keepin’ her close.”

    “I can’t think of a better tribute to her memory,” Sully said warmly.

    Zack didn’t answer, but his face reddened with pleasure.

    “Once the portrait’s done, will you be going back to Denver to start your career?” Sully asked the young man.  “Your pa told me a while back that you’d probably have lots of art work lined up when your schoolin’ was finished.”

    Zack closed the cover of the sketchbook, the pencil inserted inside to mark his place, then slid down from the railing.  He tucked the sketchbook under his arm.  “Actually, I won’t be going back,” he replied after a brief hesitation.  “Things at school didn’t . . . work out exactly as I’d planned, so I guess I’ll be starting out here in Colorado Springs.”  He smiled, but his eyes were shadowed, as if he felt he hadn’t lived up to everyone’s expectations.

    “Nothin’ wrong with that,” Sully said promptly.  “You can paint here just as well as in Denver.  And you couldn’t ask for better inspiration,” he added, nodding toward the summit of Pike’s Peak in the distance.

    “Just what I told him,” Hank spoke up again.

    “You gonna be stayin’ with your pa?” Sully asked.

    “Not exactly,” Zack began.  He was interrupted as the clock on the bank tolled one o’clock.  “I’m sorry—I’m supposed to meet Brian for lunch,” he said.  “Miss Grace is making up a basket for us, and we’re going to have a picnic in the meadow with his friend Sarah.”

    “Yeah, he told me,” Sully answered.  “Have a good time.”

    “I’ll see you for supper later?” Zack added to his father.

    “Five o’clock at Grace’s,” Hank confirmed, and Zack gave them both a quicksilver smile and headed in the direction of the café.

    The men’s eyes followed him till he was out of sight, and then Hank laboriously made his way back to his chair, lowering himself into it with relief.

    Sully watched his progress, leaning casually against the rail with his arms folded.  “You’re lookin’ good,” he remarked.  “How’re you comin’ along?”

    “Michaela says I’ll be back ta normal in a few weeks—o’ course that’s assumin’ this daily torture in the clinic don’t kill me first.  Michaela calls it ‘therapy’.  You don’t wanna know what I call it.”

    Sully chuckled.  “Yeah, I remember how that was.  But it’s really for your own good, Hank.  Michaela says you got to exercise the leg to keep the muscles strong.  Otherwise you’ll never—“

    “—‘regain the mobility’,” Hank quoted, doing a dead-on—if not entirely flattering—imitation of Michaela.  “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.  I only heard it about five hundred times.”

    “C’mon, Hank, it ain’t that bad,” Sully chided mildly.  “And it’ll be worth it later.  I went through it twice—when them buffalo skinners beat me, and then when I fell from the cliff.  But look at me.  I wouldn’t be walkin’ today if it weren’t for Michaela knowin’ what to do—with Cloud Dancin’s help.  And what about Loren?  He coulda died—or spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.  But to look at him now, you’d never know anythin’ ever happened to him.”

    Hank conceded the point with a slight shrug.

    The sound of familiar laughter reached Sully’s ears, and he looked across the street to see Zack, Brian and Sarah emerging from the alley between the clinic and the Gazette.  Zack was bringing up the rear, one of Grace’s picnic baskets--his sketchbook poking out from under the lid--dangling from one hand.  He caught Sully’s eye and waved.  Brian and Sarah noticed and did the same.  Sully raised a hand in return, and then watched as the three animated young people started out across the meadow, their figures diminishing steadily in the distance.

    He turned back to the saloon owner.  “That’s quite a boy you got there, Hank.  I don’t gotta ask if you’re proud.”

    Hank allowed himself a small smile.  “Yeah, he’s pretty special.”

    “And it appears like . . . things are real good between the two of you,” Sully ventured further.

    “Yeah.”  Hank was holding a fresh, unlit cigar, and now he toyed with it, rolling it back and forth from one palm to the other.  Sully observed the barkeep’s restless hands and wondered what he was thinking.

    “Somethin’ on your mind?” he asked.

     Hank continued to fidget with the cigar, but finally he looked up at Sully.  “Yeah,” he admitted.  “I, uh . . . I never thanked ya—fer talkin’ ta Zack like ya done.  Seems like ya—straightened him out on some things . . . maybe even helped ta change his opinion of me.  Just wanted ya ta know—I’m obliged.”

     “Fact is, I didn’t know whether you’d wanna thank me—or take a swing at me,” Sully confessed in his turn.  “I know it was interferin’.  But I couldn’t just stand by and watch you hurtin’, knowin’ what was eatin’ at you inside—without tryin’ to do something to fix it.”

     “Well, you were right—I was fit ta be tied when Zack told me you’d been ta see him,” Hank said bluntly.  “Truth is, I didn’t trust ya not ta tell him . . . well, you know.”  Sully nodded.  “But after Zack told me what was said, I understood you were just tryin’ ta help.  But more important—that you’d kept yer promise.”

     Despite his cautionary words to Zack about discussing Clarice with Hank, Sully felt compelled to be honest with the saloon keeper.  “Hank—I don’t know if Zack told you this—I kinda warned him it might be a painful subject—but I did talk to him little about Clarice.  I told him that I’d known her, and that she’d shown me kindness and friendship.  And I even told him that I coulda had feelin’s for her, with the right encouragement.  But I only told him those things so that I could go on to give him the truth:  that I never had a chance, ‘cause you were the only man she wanted.  And that you and Clarice loved each other, and that both of you loved Zack.”  He waited somewhat nervously for Hank’s reaction—but when he looked at the barkeep, there was no rancor in his eyes.

     “No, he didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout that," Hank replied.  "I ‘spose it’s like ya said—he was just tryin’ ta spare my feelin’s.  But whatever ya told him, he got the message.  I admit it—I was angry at first that he seemed more willin’ ta believe you, than me.  But I think I figured it out later:  that lots o’ times, folks that are the closest to each other have the hardest time talkin’.  And sometimes, it takes somebody from outside to bring things out in the open.”

     “That’s true,” Sully agreed.  “But I’m relieved that you don’t hold it against me for takin’ the situation into my own hands.”

     “Ya helped me get my son back,” Hank said.  “And that’s all that matters.”  He took this opportunity to light his cigar, leaving Sully briefly alone with his thoughts.  Perhaps the time had come to finally resolve what had taken place between them so many weeks ago.

     Tentatively he said, “Hank—as long as we’re talkin’ . . . we never got the chance to finish our—well, I guess you’d call it our conversation, for lack of a better word.”  He smiled ironically.  “I asked you if you were willin’ to put the past behind us and make peace—for Zack’s sake, and Clarice’s.  But you never gave me your answer.  What do you say?  Can we bury the hatchet once and for all?”

     “I ‘spose it’s about time,” Hank agreed after a pause.  A grin tugged at his mouth.  “Guess nineteen years is long enough ta hold a grudge.”

     Sully was gratified by Hank's response, but he was determined to lay all his cards on the table.  And there was one issueremaining--the most important one of all--that they hadn’t yet settled.

     “What about the rest of it?  Do you finally accept what I was tellin' you?  Do you finally believe that Zack is yours?”

     “Yeah, I believe it,” Hank said simply.  “But it turns out, it weren’t you that convinced me.  Zack proved it to me himself.  When he told me how his ma used ta say we were alike, and that the girls in the saloon said the same—and then he mentioned that even you had noticed the likeness . . . well, it all finally came clear.  It was almost like I was lookin’ at him fer the first time.

    “Don’t know why I couldn’t see it before,” he mused after a pause—but then a moment later he took it back.  “No, that ain’t true.  I know why.  ‘Cause I was nursin’ so much bitterness from the past.  I’d been angry so long, I didn’t know how ta be nothin’ else.  But when Zack talked to me, it was like the blinders finally came off and I could see the truth.”

    “I’m glad,” Sully said sincerely.  “For you and Zack.  He’s a man now, but he still needs his pa—he always will.”

    “Well, I’m gonna be there fer him,” Hank asserted.  “Leastways as much as he’ll let me.  He’s bound and determined to be independent.  Boy’s got a real stubborn streak,” the barkeep added.  His eyes gleamed with pride.

    Sully grinned.  “Can’t figure where he got that from.”  But after a moment he added, “So what are Zack’s plans?  He didn’t get the chance to say ‘fore he had to leave.”

    “Ya know the empty store ‘round the corner?” Hank asked, gesturing with his thumb.  Sully nodded.  “Well, I bought it.  Signed the papers yesterday.”

    “You gonna expand the Gold Nugget?” Sully asked, momentarily confused by Hank’s apparent change of subject.

    “Nope.  It’s an investment—in Zack’s future.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “It’s gonna be his new studio,” Hank explained.  “There’s a big room upstairs, with lots o’ windows, so he’ll have plenty o’ light fer his paintin’.  And it’s got a good view of the mountains, ta give him inspiration.  He can set up his easel and all his supplies, and still have room left over fer a bed--and even a table and a coupla chairs.  He can even give art lessons if he wants.”

    “What about the downstairs?  You gonna rent it out?”

    “No—that’s gonna be his gallery.”

    “His gallery?”

    “A place for him ta hang and sell his paintin’s.  It’ll be just like his own little museum, where folks can come ta look at his work.  But he’s hopin’ that someday, he can turn it inta a real museum, with paintin’s by other artists, ‘sides him.”

    “Sounds like a fine plan,” Sully said.  “With the way the town’s growin’, it’s time we had a real museum.”

    “Yeah—not like that fake we tried to palm off on them fellas from the railroad a few years back,” Hank smirked.

    The memory elicited a smile from Sully.  But then he remarked, “It must make you feel good that Zack agreed to let you help him.”

    Hank nodded.  “Took a whole lotta convincin’, but I think I finally made him see that there’s no shame in acceptin’ a helpin’ hand—‘specially when his future has so much promise.”

    “It’s an admirable thing you’re doin’, Hank.”

    “Yeah, well—I’m doin’ it fer me, as much as him.  It’s a chance to try ta make up fer some o’ my past mistakes.  And maybe, havin’ him back now after all these years, we can finally get to know each other . . . and be a real father and son.”

    “I’d say you’re off to a good start,” Sully told him.  “And you can count on us bein’ the first visitors when Zack’s ready to open his gallery.”

    “That’ll mean a lot to him,” Hank acknowledged.  “To me, too,” he added more quietly, and Sully thought that he’d never known the barkeep to be so completely open and sincere.  A companionable silence fell between them, but after a time Hank spoke again.  “There’s somethin’ else I been wonderin’ ‘bout the night o’ the accident, but never got around ta askin’ ya.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Did ya ever find out what became o’ the coach driver?”

    Sully’s expression sobered.  “Yeah.  Michaela and Matthew came across the body ‘fore they found us, and Matthew buried him.  But after we got back to town, he wired the stage office in Denver to report the death, and find out the driver’s name and whether he had any family.”

    “Did he?” Hank asked, looking similarly subdued.

    “A wife and two kids.”

    “Rough.”

    “Yeah.  But we tried to do what we could for them.  Matthew worked with the authorities to have the body transported back to Denver, and then he attended the funeral a couple days later.  And Michaela and me sent some money along with him to give the driver’s widow.  Wasn’t much, but we wanted to ease her burden a little, if we could.”

    “Good o' you and Michaela,” Hank commented.  “I’d—like to send a little somethin’ too, if ya think that’d be all right.”

    Sully was impressed once again.  “I’m sure it would be fine—every little bit would help,” he said.  “I’ll give you her name and address.”

    “Obliged.”

    Sully glanced at the sun overhead and realized that time was passing.  But an idea had occurred to him that he thought might appeal to the barkeep.  “’Spose I should be gettin’ on my way,” he announced.  “I gotta stop at Loren’s ‘fore I head back to the homestead.  But before I go . . . you got any sarsaparilla behind the bar?”

    Hank raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question.  “Yeah . . .  I always keep a case or two on hand fer Ladies’ Night—and the occasional teetotaler like Horace.  Why?”

    Sully smiled.  “I just thought . . . maybe you and me could go inside and raise a glass to Zack—drink a toast to his success.  What do you say?”

    Hank looked surprised, but pleased.  “I’d like that.”

    “Good,” Sully said.  He stretched out a hand to the barkeep, and Hank accepted it, allowing Sully to help him to his feet.  Sully gave him the cane, and the two men entered the darker interior of the saloon.  Hank made his way back behind the bar and busied himself pouring their drinks while Sully waited, gazing at the spot on the wall that would soon be graced by Clarice’s portrait.

    Hank placed a shot glass of sarsaparilla in front of Sully, and reached for his own glass, which he’d filled with a generous portion of his “private stock”.  “To Zack,” he saluted, holding his glass aloft.

    Sully raised his glass as well.  “And to his pa."

     “Thanks,” Hank said softly.  Their glasses clinked, and the two men drank to the future.
 

                                                                                          THE END
 
 

                                                                                                                                                March, 2000 - August, 2001