Tuesday, 13 March, 1870
 

     I feel kind of peculiar, doing this.  I never been much of a one for writing—or reading either, for that matter.  Too busy just living and surviving, I guess.  But  I used to read, back when I was young, before I left school for good—adventure yarns, tales about the sea, or stories of famous explorers, like Columbus, Magellan, and Lief Erickson.  I liked poetry too, though I didn’t understand half of it.  But the words and the rhythms pleased me—making pretty sounds that sang and whispered in my ear by turns.

     I liked the way books looked and felt, too.  The soft richness of the leather covers, the shiny gilt letters stamped onto the bindings, the texture of the pages—so crisp and crackling in the new volumes, like dry autumn leaves, with the print standing out boldly from the white of the background.  But so much more fragile in the older books, like the velvety softness of flower petals, the ink brown and faded with age.

    The books I got to read in those long ago days were very fine, indeed.  From as far back as I could remember, my ma had worked for a rich family, who owned a large house—my ma called it a “mansion”—in a fashionable part of New York City.  There was a library in that house—a real library!--filled floor to ceiling with books.  Shelf after shelf, row upon row, what seemed like thousands of books papered the walls in a colorful jumble.  To my child’s eyes they appeared to go on forever, the stacks stretching up so high they seemed to disappear into the shadows.  Even the grown-ups couldn’t reach the books nearest the top.  They had to use a peculiar sort of ladder on wheels, that hooked onto the bookcases and slid around the walls.  I got to admit, I liked climbing and sliding around on that ladder almost as much as I liked looking at the books.

     Sometimes, the folks my ma worked for would let her borrow a book, and she’d bring it home to share with my brother and me.  Tucked up in bed, the firelight flickering across our faces, we’d listen in rapt attention as my ma read to us from KING ARTHUR, OLIVER TWIST, or maybe ROBINSON CRUSOE.  As the soft rise and fall of my ma’s voice fell upon my ear—the lilt of her English accent giving the words their own special melody—I’d close my eyes and let my imagination soar. In my mind’s eye, I fought side by side with Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad—sunlight dazzling off our armor and swords clashing—as we battled fearsome enemies and rescued damsels in distress.  Happily I joined in as a ragtag band of boy thieves—led by a cocky young boy in a battered top hat—cleverly picked the pockets of London’s rich, and brought their booty home to a rascal named Fagin.  And images of being a castaway on a deserted island—the sands bright and hot under a fierce tropical sun, sea foam churning on the shore and blue-green water as far as the eye could see—would lull me to sleep.

     I loved those times with my ma, when her voice would carry me away to other worlds, times and places, and we left the crowded, dirty reality of New York far behind.  Just as pleasurable, though, were the days that I got to spend time in that wonderful library, while my ma was busy with her duties in the household.  The people she worked for were pretty kind, as rich folks go, and they never seemed to mind when I’d make a beeline for the library.  Just sitting in the enormous leather chairs, surrounded by all those books, was enough to fire my imagination, and set me to wondering if I’d be rich and own a fine house like this someday, with more books that I could ever read in a lifetime.

     Maybe it sounds like I envied those who had so much more than me, but I didn’t.  I had my ma and my brother, and the love we shared.  And I had my hopes and dreams for the future.  My ma had always told me I could do or be anything I wanted.  I admired her so much—her delicate beauty belying how strong she really was, supporting and raising my brother and me all on her own after my pa died.  Her lot in life was a hard one, but she faced it with gumption and spirit.  So when she told me to reach for the stars, and never give up, I put my faith and trust in what she said.  Never dreaming how, in the end, *she* would be the one to give up, and I would lose her—I would lose everything.

     But I guess I’ve gotten off-track.  To be honest, I can’t figure why I started thinking of my ma after all these years.  I lost  her a long time ago.  And though she was the first, she wasn’t the last.  I lost my wife too—and our daughter.  My only child . . .

      I’m straying off the subject again.  Got to stop that.  I was told to write down my memories—as much of them as I can recall, anyhow—in this journal.  But not of that far-off time of my childhood.  Or even of the time I was married.  The memories I’m supposed to be recalling in these pages are much more recent ones—of who and what I am now, and what my life was like before this thing happened that left such a big empty hole in my recollections.

    Truth be told,  I don’t really see how writing things down is going to help me remember.  But the pretty lady doctor with the sunlight in her long, copper hair—the one who keeps giving me these odd, kind of sad looks—suggested I try it anyway.  She thinks that the missing pieces of my past might come back to me more easily if I put it all down on paper.  I never knew a lady doctor before, but she’s smart, and gentle, and  she seems to know what she’s talking about.  And right now, I got nothing but time—and nothing to lose either, I guess.  Which is why I’m sitting here with this journal in my lap, trying my best to do what she said.

    “What is the last thing you remember clearly?” she asked me this morning as she stood by my bedside, her face sort of pale and her eyes big and anxious.  I wondered what it could be that would put that odd sound in her voice, and make the slender fingers of her hands twist together like fluttery, frightened birds.  Some truth about me?  Something about my condition she was too afraid to tell?  But she said I was going to be fine.  And she don’t seem like the sort to lie.  It must be something else—something I’ve forgotten, that she needs me to remember.  I can’t think what it might be.  I’d like to ask her, but somehow, I just can’t seem to find the nerve.  So I just lay here, watching and wondering, and trying to figure her out—figure it all out.  It’s obvious she knows me—but for my part, when I opened my eyes a few days ago, I woke up to the face of a stranger.

    Yet—I sense there’s a connection between us.  I can see it—in her every look and gesture—in the things she says as well as the things she don’t.  And I can feel it—in the way my heart speeds up, and the tingling, almost pleasurable sensation I get in the pit of my stomach when she’s near.  I can’t explain, but I want to please her.  To give her what she seems to want or need from me.  If only I knew what that was . . .

    “What is the last thing you remember clearly, Sully?” Dr. Mike asked me.  A fair enough question, but I’m finding that the answer ain’t so easy.  I remember that the place I’m in used to be a boardinghouse, run by the local midwife and a good friend, named Charlotte Cooper.  But now the boardinghouse is a “clinic,” and Charlotte is gone . . .   And I remember that last I knew, the year was 1867.  But now, somehow, it’s 1870, and I’ve lost close to three whole years of my life.

    I don’t understand what’s happened, or why.  I only know that somewhere in that missing time is the key to what’s gone wrong in my mind.  Dr. Mike is right—I need to remember.  Just as important, I need to understand why I forgot—and why I get this paralyzing feeling of panic inside me every time I close my eyes and try to bring up the past.

    What *is* the last thing I remember?  What indeed . . .?

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER ONE

     Things were not going well, this morning.  Only a little past seven-thirty, and Michaela was already feeling put upon and harried.

     “Ma, tell Brian to stop pesterin’ me!” Colleen implored in exasperation, coming through the curtain which divided the children’s sleeping area from the main room of the homestead.  She gazed at her mother demandingly, hairbrush in hand, one booted foot tapping impatiently on  the floor.

         “Tell Colleen to stop hoggin’ the mirror!” Brian retorted in his turn, following her into the room.  “Other people got to get ready for school, too!”

     “Children, *must* you start bickering so early in the day?” Michaela responded wearily, making a half-hearted attempt to smooth and straighten the sheets and quilt on her bed.  Reflexively she brushed a strand of hair off her face, feeling a headache threatening at the edges of her temples.

     “I’m NOT hoggin’!” Colleen shot back. “I just got to brush out my hair and braid it—it takes time.”

     “Girls take a little longer to groom and dress, Brian,” Michaela began reasonably.  “And Colleen, since you’re using the wall mirror, perhaps you would let Brian have the use of the hand mirror Grandma Quinn gave you.”

     “I don’t want to use her fancy old mirror!” Brian said rudely.  “I’d feel like a sissy!”

     “Fine with me!” Colleen snapped.  “I wouldn’t let you even TOUCH my silver mirror for all the tea in China!”  She flounced out of the room.

     “CHILDREN—“ Michaela began warningly.

     “Aw—I don’t want ta brush my hair anyway,” Brian grumbled.  “I’m gonna go get my books.”  He disappeared through the curtain.

     “Brian, Colleen—come sit down and have your breakfast!” Michaela called after them.  “It’s nearly time to leave!”  There was no response.  Sighing, Michaela moved to the plank table across the room, setting out dishes, spoons and glasses.  She placed a large bowl of oatmeal in the center of the table, along with a pitcher of milk, and a small china bowl containing brown sugar.

     Brian burst back into the room.  “Ma!  I can’t find my essay!”

     Michaela sighed again and looked at her younger son.  “What essay is that, Brian?”

     “You know,” he said, his tone registering his amazement that she could have forgotten.  “My ESSAY.  The one I been workin’ on for two weeks, about how I built and flew my flyin’ machine.  The one I’m gonna be readin’  aloud this afternoon for Parent’s Day.”

     “Of course,” Michaela said apologetically.  “I’m sorry—I should have realized.  It’s just that it’s early yet, Brian, and I—“

     “But Ma, I can’t FIND it,” Brian repeated, cutting her off.  “Ya gotta help me!”

     “When did you see it last?” Michaela said patiently.

     Brian thought for a moment.  “Last night,” he said finally.  “I was layin’ on my bed, lookin’ it over ‘fore I went to sleep.  But when I went to get it just now, it was gone.”

     “Did you look all around your bed, including underneath?” suggested his mother.  “Perhaps after you were asleep, it fell on the floor and slid under your bed.”

     Brian didn’t bother to answer, but turned on his heel and ducked through the curtain.

     After barely a minute he was back, an embarrassed grin on his face.  In his hand was the elusive essay.  “You were right, Ma—thanks.”

     Michaela smiled back.  “I’m glad you found it,” she said.  “*Now* will you sit down and eat?”

     “Sure!” Brian said readily, his sunny nature apparently restored.  He went to his customary chair at the table and pulled it out, the legs making an unpleasant grating sound as they scraped across the floorboards.  Michaela flinched at the noise, and Brian gave her a brief look of apology.  “Sorry,” he said.  Seating himself, he took a large gulp of milk, then served himself a generous portion of oatmeal.  He reached eagerly for the brown sugar, dusting his cereal liberally.

     “Are ya comin’ today, Ma?” he asked between swallows, a milk mustache edging his upper lip.

     “Coming?” Michaela echoed distractedly, as she looked through the contents of her medical bag, making sure she had all the supplies and instruments she needed.  “Coming where?”

     “To SCHOOL,” Brian replied patiently, as if addressing a small child, or perhaps someone who was not very bright.  “To hear me read my essay.  All the parents are comin’.  You said you would, when I asked you last week.”

     “What time will you be presenting your essay?” Michaela asked, giving him her attention.

     “Sometime after lunch,” her son answered.  “I’m the last one on the program.”

     “Well, I have patients back-to-back till noon, but assuming there are no emergencies, I should be able to be there,” Michaela assured him.

     “What about Sully?” Brian asked.

     “What about him?” said Michaela, her attention drifting again.

     “Will he be comin’, too?  He said he’d try, when I told him about it.”

     “Well, I can’t speak for Sully, but if he told you he’d try to be there, then you know he’ll do his best to keep his word,” Michaela said.

     “Yeah—Sully always keeps his promises,” Brian replied contentedly, polishing off the last of his breakfast.

     “When he can, Brian,” Michaela hedged.  In fact, Sully had been rather scarce of late, sometimes letting two or three days pass without an appearance.  The children hadn’t commented on his absence; apparently they saw nothing unusual in the fact that Sully’s visits had become less frequent.  Michaela told herself that the children were the sensible ones.  All of them understood Sully’s love and kinship for the outdoors, and were accustomed to his recurring sojourns in the wilderness, hunting and trapping, or just sleeping out under the stars.  And of course there were his responsibilities as Indian Agent, which took up much of his time.  Last but not least were the extra hours he was putting in to complete the new homestead in time for the wedding.  Any one of these things was a valid reason for him to be gone.  Yet Michaela could not help wondering if there was something else keeping him away, besides the obvious.

     Unbidden, an image arose in her mind’s eye of the charred remains of Black Kettle’s camp by the banks of the Washita; the slaughter rivaling that of a charnel house, smoke still drifting from the skeletons of the teepees, and bloody, broken bodies scattered across the landscape.  But the memory was too painful, too raw—and instinctively she thrust it back down into the deepest recesses of her mind, before it could take shape and claim her thoughts.

    With a determined effort, Michaela focused on the present.  She seriously doubted that Sully would knowingly disappoint Brian, but she also knew that sometimes things happened which prevented him from doing what he meant to, despite his best intentions.   It wouldn’t hurt, she felt,  to prepare Brian for the possibility.  But then, resolving not to borrow trouble where none yet existed, she looked toward the curtain.  “Colleen, please come and eat something—it’s getting late!”

     Colleen appeared after a moment, schoolbooks in hand.  “Sorry, Ma, I was just gettin’ my things together.”  She slipped into her seat beside Brian.  As Colleen served herself a helping of oatmeal, her brother handed her the sugar bowl, their earlier tiff apparently forgotten.

     “So, Colleen, I presume you will be reading an essay today as well?” asked Michaela.

     “’Course she will,” Brian answered for his sister before Colleen could speak.  “She’s the star pupil in the class.”  Michaela studied her son briefly to see if his remark sprang from jealousy, but there appeared to be no rancor in Brian’s tone or expression.

     “Well in my eyes, both of you are star pupils,” she said.  Turning to her daughter, she inquired, “So what did you choose to write about, Colleen?”

     “I wrote about the trip we made to Washington,” Colleen said.

     A slightly troubled look came into Michaela’s eyes.  “Really?” she said, after a pause.

     Colleen noted the expression on her mother’s face.  “Don’t worry, Ma,” she said intuitively.  “I didn’t write about Sully gettin’ arrested or bein’ sent to prison.  Just about how we visited the White House, and met President Grant, and how I made friends with Nellie, and we attended the military ball.”

     Michaela relaxed.  “I think that’s wise, Colleen.  What happened to Sully was very frightening and painful for him, and no doubt brought up sad memories of his first wife.  I don’t know if he’d want to be reminded of those things, or have the people of the town knowing the details of his experience.”

     Colleen nodded sympathetically.  “I understand, Ma.”

     “I don’t,” Brian spoke up.  “Sully was a hero!  He saved President Grant’s life, and the President honored him for it.”

     “That’s true, Brian,” Michaela acknowledged.  “Sully was very brave, and President Grant showed his gratitude by dropping the charges of desertion against Sully and giving him an honorable discharge from the army.  But if Sully wanted the details of what happened to be made public, then I believe it would be his story to tell, not ours.  Can you understand?”

     “Yeah, I guess,” Brian answered.  “I wouldn’t want Sully to feel bad.”

     “I know you wouldn’t.” replied his mother.

     "Well, gotta go,” Brian announced suddenly, shoving his chair back with another scrape and jumping to his feet.  “Come on, Colleen, we’ll be late if we don’t start walkin’ now.”

     “Hold on, I’m comin’!” Colleen said, taking a last swallow of milk.  Just then the side door of the homestead opened and Matthew poked his head in.

     “You all ready to leave?” he asked.  “I gotta take the wagon into town and pick up some supplies.  I can drive you.”

     “I’m not quite ready to leave yet, Matthew, but I’d appreciate it if you would take Colleen and Brian and make sure they get to school on time,” Michaela said.   “But don’t you want something to eat first, before you go?” she added.

     “I’ll get somethin’ at Grace’s,” Matthew assured her.  He glanced toward his brother and sister.  “Let’s go,” he urged.  “Time’s wastin’.”  Brian and Colleen hurriedly shrugged into their coats and snatched up their books.

     “’Bye, Ma,” said Colleen and kissed her on the cheek.  Brian was right behind her.

     “See ya later, Ma!” he said, giving her a quick buss on the forehead.  “Be sure to tell Sully!”

     “As soon as I see him,” Michaela called after Brian as he followed Colleen and Matthew out the door.  It slammed behind him and Michaela shook her head, smiling ruefully.  After a moment, she stood up and began to gather the breakfast dishes.  She had just placed the bowls in a basin of soapy water, and was turning to go back to the table, when her foot struck something soft and yielding on the floor and she tripped.  Her hand shot out to grab the edge of the sink, narrowly preventing her from falling, as a yelp erupted from the vicinity of her feet.

     “Pup!” she exclaimed, reflexively putting a hand to her chest and feeling the pounding of her heart.  The young wolf jumped up from where he had been lying and trotted over to a corner of the room where he sat on his haunches, looking at her reproachfully.

     “I’m sorry,” Michaela said apologetically, her racing pulse beginning to slow.  “But you were right in my way.”  She moved to the table and sank into a chair, gazing critically around the room.  When had the homestead gotten so small?  She and the children had been living here together for nearly three years, and had always managed to make do with the limited space.  But lately, it seemed as if they were all getting in each other’s way, living in each other’s pockets.

     Perhaps it was the contrast of the new homestead Sully was building for them, that made this house now seem so small and confining.  She thought longingly of the spaciousness of their future home, the reddish gold of its timbered walls glowing in the sunlight which streamed in from its many windows, its large parlor and dining area separated from the kitchen by a handsome free-standing fireplace, and a room for everyone in the family.  Capping it all, like the star atop a Christmas tree, was the beautiful oval window of beveled glass ornamenting the front door.

    Sometimes, she was so impatient to be married and begin their lives in their handsome new home, that she could barely endure it.  Yet at other times, the prospect of marriage to Sully, sharing a home with him—sharing a bed—filled her with panic.  She wanted to be with him, longed to be, in fact—so much so that she hardly dared admit it to herself—but she was riddled with self-doubt.  What kind of wife—what kind of—partner—would she be?  Would she be able to satisfy Sully?  To give him what he expected and needed from her?  Would she be able to perform the “wifely duties” about which her mother had warned so darkly?  Elizabeth Quinn had apparently never overcome her aversion to this aspect of married life.  Would her youngest daughter follow in her footsteps?

     But then, as always happened when she contemplated her future marital relationship and reached this point in her ruminations, her mind rebelled.   She was not her mother.  She did not share Elizabeth’s philosophy of life, ideas about the proper roles of women, or distaste for the physical intimacy between a husband and wife.  How could she, when Sully’s touch, his kisses—his very proximity—could elicit such a thrill of desire in her?  Sully’s love had awakened a depth of passion within her that she could never have dreamed existed.  Like Snow White in the fairy tale, destined to remain sleeping until her lover awakened her with a kiss, the sensual part of Michaela’s nature had lain dormant, until Sully’s ardor had ignited it and made it burn.

     And Sully had made it plain that he found their kisses and embraces as pleasurable and intoxicating as she.  The only problem in their relationship, if one could be said to exist, was the shyness and reserve that continued to plague Michaela during many of their physical encounters.   Elizabeth had succeeded in instilling at least some of her values into her daughter during the latter’s young womanhood; most specifically the beliefs that a woman did not kiss or touch a man in public—or allow him to touch her—unless or until they were engaged; that a woman never allowed a man who was not her husband to see her in any state of undress; and that a married woman did not initiate intimacy with her husband, but waited for him to take the lead, and then “submitted” to him.

     Michaela smiled wryly as she thought of how shocked her mother would be to know how often—at Sully’s instigation—she had broken the first rule of this code of conduct, and how utterly scandalized Elizabeth would be if she knew that her daughter had violated the second rule as well—not once, or even twice, but at least three times.  In each case, the act of disrobing had been a necessity, not a choice, and never as a precursor to intimacy:  when she and Sully went to Harding’s Mill to collect water samples to test for mercury poisoning, and had been forced to escape from the men pursuing them by swimming fully-clothed across the river; when Black Kettle’s camp was infected by typhus and it was necessary that she and Sully shed their contaminated clothing and don Indian garb; and of course, when the dog soldiers abducted her and Sully was finally able to rescue her by spiriting her away across the river—as well as later, when the only thing they could do to avoid being shot by the dog soldiers, was to jump from a cliff into the river below.

     It was Sully’s deliverance of her from the dog soldiers and its aftermath, however, that lingered most in Michaela’s memory, causing her heart to race and bringing a hot blush to her cheeks.

    The morning after Sully had rescued her from the hostile One-Eye and his band, she had awakened on a bed of evergreen boughs, clad in nothing more than her camisole and pantaloons.  Just a few feet away, Sully had stood at the edge of a cliff, wearing only his buckskin trousers.  Despite being in a situation that at any other time would have been acutely embarrassing to her, Michaela’s only thought upon awakening and recalling the nightmare of her captivity, had been to reach out for Sully.   Immediately he had been at her side—embracing her, kissing her, giving her comfort and tenderly assuaging her lingering fear with his love.  Stripped of not only their clothing, but also all their defenses and inhibitions, in that moment Michaela’s and Sully’s hearts and souls had truly been opened to one another.

     The experience had helped Michaela to recognize the foolishness and artificiality of many of the social conventions with which she’d been raised.  And yet, the influence of her upbringing lingered, causing her to continue to feel uncomfortable when Sully wanted to touch or kiss in front of the children, or their friends or neighbors.  And it made her wonder how she would react when the time came for her to give herself up to Sully totally—mind *and* body.

     Pup suddenly lifted his head from his paws and whined deep in his throat.  Seconds later a light tap on the door startled Michaela out of her reverie.  Simultaneously with the knock, the door swung inward, revealing Sully, Wolf at his heels, framed in the entrance.  The older wolf trotted inside and joined his offspring, the two animals nosing each other in greeting.  Meanwhile, the sight of Sully made Michaela flush again, embarrassed by the erotic thoughts that had been going through her mind.  Sully was so perceptive at reading her emotions; she wondered if he would notice the scarlet blush that stained her face and neck, and guess what had put it there.

     “’Mornin’,” he greeted her with an easy smile.

     “Good morning!” she answered brightly, returning the smile with what she hoped was a casual one of her own.

     He strode across the room and ducked his head to press his lips to hers.  His long, sun-streaked hair had the fresh, clean scent of the outdoors, and his cheek as it brushed hers was cold from the outside chill.  He drew back from her, still smiling, but then hesitated, peering at her closely.  “What is it?” he asked.

     Michaela cleared her throat.  “What’s what?” she said innocently.

     His eyes were warm, but puzzled.  “I don’t know.  You got a strange look on your face.  Nervous, kinda—or maybe excited.  Is somethin’ goin’ on?”