Monday, 26 March, 1870

     “That’s . . . a very personal question,” Dr. Mike said evasively.

     “I know—and maybe I don’t got the right to ask it,” I said boldly.  “But you seemed so sad just now, I couldn’t help thinking . . .

     “Well, it’s just that you know all these personal things about me—I guess I kind of feel at a disadvantage,” I added a little defensively.  “Still, I don’t mean to pry.”

     “I wouldn’t call it ‘prying,’” she said more reasonably.  “You’re understandably curious, Sully—not just about me, I’m sure, but about everything.  After all, you’ve lost a significant portion of your memory.  And it must seem a bit unfair that I know so much about you, but you know so little about me.  It’s simply that the facts of your life, and your memories—or lack of them—are what’s at issue right now.  As your doctor, those are the things I’ve had to focus on.”

     Her explanation made sense, but I couldn’t help noticing that she was still avoiding my question.  And being the stubborn type, I couldn’t let it drop.

     “So are you saying that you’d rather not tell me?” I pursued.

     She didn’t need to ask what I meant.  “Every question deserves an answer,” she conceded after a moment.  “Very well, since you want to know.  I was engaged while I lived in Boston.  His name was David Lewis.  He was a doctor.”

     My eyes went to the fourth finger of her left hand, but it was bare.

     She noticed me looking, and anticipated my next question.

     “He enlisted in the army,” she volunteered, her tone flat and unemotional.  “Later we were informed that he’d been killed in the war.”

     I immediately regretted my curiosity, intruding as it did on her bereavement.  “I’m sorry,” I apologized.  “I didn’t realize.”

     “Thank you, but there’s no need for apologies,” she said.  “As it turned out, he wasn’t killed after all—which I learned seven years later when he came here to Colorado Springs, very much alive.”

     I wasn’t expecting this turn of events, and I guess my expression betrayed my surprise.

     “At first I didn’t recognize him,” Dr. Mike went on.  “He’d sustained severe injuries, which required years of convalescence, and which drastically altered his appearance.  Even his voice was changed, because of a shrapnel wound to his throat.  He had taken a new name and occupation, and he maintained this deception when we met for fear of shocking me too greatly.  However, certain things about him—his mannerisms, things that he said—gave me clues as to his true identity, and eventually I realized the truth.”

     “But you still must have been shocked,” I ventured.

     “Yes—enormously.  But I was also thrilled and grateful that he had survived.”
 

     “Well . . . weren’t you happy then, being reunited?” I asked.  “I mean, you could just pick up from where you’d left off.”

     “It . . . wasn’t that easy,” Dr. Mike said reluctantly.  “Things were—complicated.”

     “Was there somebody else?” I asked.  “For him . . . or for you?”

     She shot a quick look at me, her face flushing, and I saw I’d touched a nerve.  Trouble was, I didn’t know which she was reacting to:  my suggestion that he’d found another woman—or that she had feelings for another man.

     From her expression, I got the feeling she wasn’t going to tell me, either—and I was right.

     “Suffice it to say that that things didn’t work out, but that we parted as friends,” she said briefly.

     “You don’t want to talk about it,” I stated.

     She shook her head.  “I’d rather not.”

     “I won’t press you,” I said respectfully.  I was intensely curious,  but I knew not to push her.

     “I appreciate that,” she said.  After a pause she added, “Shall we resume the poetry?”

     She was being polite, but the easy camaraderie of the past several minutes had passed, and we both knew it.

     “Maybe another time,” I responded.  She nodded, then stood, picking up our empty cups and taking them to the sink.  I stood as well, meaning to return the copy of Whitman to its place on the shelf.  But suddenly the book slid from my grasp and fell to the floor.  As it landed, a singly folded sheet of paper shot out from between the pages and slid under the table.  “Sorry!” I said quickly, when she reacted to the noise.  “Guess I got butterfingers today.”  She smiled, and went back to washing the cups.  She hadn’t noticed the paper, and impulsively I snatched it up and slipped it inside my shirt before she could see.

     I replaced the book on the shelf and then asked casually, “Mind if I step outside and get a breath of air?”

     She turned to me again.  “Of course not,” she replied.  “I’ll join you in a moment.”

     “Sounds good,” I said, and headed for the door.  Out on the porch, with just the two wolves for company, I hastily pulled the paper from my shirt.  Feeling like a thief, but compelled to look nonetheless, I opened it.  A quick glance told me it was a telegram, sent from Denver, dated February 12th.  There was no time then to read the contents, but my eyes automatically noted the salutation, “Dear Michaela.”

    And the signature—“All my love, S.”

     There *had* been another man.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

     The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the clinic and Matthew quickly set the brake, then jumped to the ground.  He helped Colleen down from the bench.  Behind them, Brian rode up on Taffy and dismounted, then wound the reins around the hitching post.  Across the way, Hank and a handful of his customers looked on curiously.  Matthew caught the saloon-keeper’s eye.

     “Hank!” he called.  “I need a hand here!”  He circled around to the rear of the wagon, where Sully lay covered by a thick layer of quilts, his head pillowed in Michaela’s lap.  The tall barkeep, wavy blonde hair flying, closed the distance between them in a few long strides.

     “What happened!” he queried Matthew as the two men maneuvered Sully’s body carefully out of the wagon.

     “Got shot,” Matthew responded shortly, having insufficient breath for more detailed explanations at that moment.

     “Try not to jar him,” Michaela cautioned as she slipped down from the bed of the wagon.  Hank’s eyes registered the bandage around Sully’s head.

     “He gonna make it?” he said soberly to Michaela as he and Matthew gently carried Sully to the entrance of the clinic.  Michaela had gone ahead to open the door for them.  “I don’t know,” she said briefly over her shoulder.

     They entered the examination room.

     “Where do you want him, Dr. Mike?” Matthew asked.

     “Bring him in here,” Michaela instructed, opening the inner door giving on the hallway and crossing to the open door of the recovery room opposite.  She preceded them into the room, hastily turning down the covers of the bed and plumping the pillows in preparation for them to lay Sully down.  A few moments later she had him securely tucked into bed, and she was taking her stethoscope from her medical bag to check his vital signs.

     Matthew and Hank watched from the doorway.  “How’d he get hit?” Hank asked in a low voice.

     “Custer sent one of his Indian scouts—called Bloody Knife—after him,” Matthew whispered back.  “Bloody Knife attacked Sully with a rifle.  They struggled over the gun, and Sully got shot when it went off.”

     “I know that Injun,” Hank commented.  “Saw him in town with Custer the other day.  I hear tell he’s real brave.  Sully musta been up to somethin’ for Custer to send one of his best scouts after him like that.”  His eyes were cynical.

     “Sully wasn’t up to nothin’!” Matthew retorted hotly, forgetting himself and raising his voice.

     “He certainly wasn’t, Hank,” Michaela echoed as she performed her ministrations.  “In fact, Sully was desperately ill—he could barely stand up.  He was totally defenseless.”

     “Oh yeah?” said Hank.  “Well, where’s Bloody Knife now?”

     “Last we knew, out cold somewhere up in the mountains,” Matthew said.  He eyed Hank dourly.  “Sully didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

     Hank lounged against the doorframe, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.  “So Sully got shot in the head, *and* he was sick, but he still managed to knock out an Injun with twice his strength.  And all this happened in the mountains,” he said, his tone disdainful.  “How’d he get home then, on his own?  Some “good fairy’ pick him and carry him back to town?” he added contemptuously.

     “’Course not! “ Matthew snapped, afraid that he and Michaela had inadvertently betrayed too much of the circumstances of the shooting.  He knew that Sully would tell him to say whatever he had to—even lie, if necessary—to keep Cloud Dancing’s name out of it.

     “Sully couldn’t come to us—we went lookin’ for him,” Matthew went on.  “We found him night ‘fore last, and brought him home.  Since then Dr. Mike’s been carin’ for him at the homestead till the storm blew over and he was strong enough for the trip into town.”

     Hank continued to eye him derisively.  “Nice try, Matthew, but it don’t wash.  Truth is, Sully wasn’t out there alone, was he?  He had a friend to fight his battles for him, ain’t that right?  Maybe a certain *medicine man” wanted by Custer?”

     Matthew stared back at him and didn’t answer.  Heart hammering, Michaela rose from the bed and came over to the two men.  She looked penetratingly at Hank.

     “Hank, I can’t prevent you from thinking what you please,” she said quietly.  “But what purpose can be served by trying to implicate Cloud Dancing?  His wife and his chief are dead—his people gone, or scattered.  He’s no harm to anyone.  Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

     “He’s a leader, Michaela,” Hank responded flatly.  “And there’s plenty of dog soldiers still on the loose.  What’s to stop ‘em from rallyin’ to Cloud Dancin’ and startin’ up the raids all over again?”

     “That won’t happen,” she said strongly, then added more softly, “And what of Sully, Hank?  He’s fighting for his life.  Are you so hard-hearted that you’d rob him of his closest friend as well?

    “Hank, we’ve had our differences, but I don’t believe you’re a malicious person,” she continued.  “There’s no proof that Sully and Cloud Dancing were together—or even that Cloud Dancing was anywhere in the vicinity.  I’m asking you to let it drop.”  She stared at him intently.  “Will you?” she challenged.

     The saloon-keeper was silent for several moments.  “I got no reason to go around spreadin’ tales ‘bout what happened,” he acknowledged finally.  “But if the army asks me any questions—“

     “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens,” Michaela told him.

     Hank shrugged, and took a match from his pocket.  He struck it on the sole of his boot, and casually lit his cigar, then shook out the flame.  He puffed silently for a few moments, as a wreath of aromatic blue smoke encircled their heads.  Finally he removed the cigar from his mouth, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

    “You won’t get any trouble from me—least for the time bein’,” he said, turning to leave.  He hesitated for a moment, sparing a final glance for Sully.  “Hope he makes it,” he allowed.

    “Thank you,” Michaela said, then she and Matthew watched as the barkeep retraced his steps across the hall and exited through the examination room.

    Michaela bit her lip and gazed soberly at her son.  “We were careless, Matthew,” she said.

    Matthew nodded.  “We shoulda had some story prepared,” he agreed.  “But with all the worry over Sully . . .”

    His mother sighed.  “Well, the damage is done.  All we can hope is that Hank has a spark of compassion and keeps his word not to reveal any knowledge of Cloud Dancing.”

    Matthew looked skeptical.  “Dr. Mike, we’re talkin’ ‘bout *Hank*, here.  The same fella who joined in with Jake and went on and on ‘bout what a hero Custer was after Washita—just to mock you.  What makes you think he’s suddenly gonna protect any Indian—even Cloud Dancin’?”

    “Because I need to have hope,” she said simply.  “For Sully—and for Cloud Dancing, as well.”  In unison, they turned to look at Sully’s still form, as he continued his slumber, far beyond their reach.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Michaela entered the examination room where Colleen and Brian waited.

     “How is he, Ma?” asked Colleen.  “Any sign that—“

     ut Michaela was already shaking her head.  “He’s resting comfortably,” she replied.  “But no, there’s no indication that he’s regaining consciousness.”

     “Why ain’t Sully wakin’ up, Ma?” Brian said, his face solemn.

     His mother approached him and laid her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.  “I’m not quite sure, Brian,” she said gently, but honestly.  “I think perhaps it’s nature’s way of helping him heal from his wound and fight off his illness.  When he’s strong enough, I’m sure Sully will awaken.”  Impulsively she drew Brian to her in a hug.  Her son clung to her.

     As they drew apart, Michaela summoned a smile.  “Cloud Dancing said that we need to be with Sully and talk to him—let him know that we’re here,” she said.  “He believes that Sully can hear us and feel our presence, even though he appears to be asleep.  I think it would be an excellent idea if you were to sit with Sully for a while.  Perhaps you could read him a story.  There are one or two books on the shelf in his room.  Would you like to do that?” she asked.

     “I’ll do anything to help Sully, Ma,” Brian said gravely.

             “Your love is the best medicine he could receive,” his mother assured him.  She hugged him again, then Brian disappeared through the door leading to Sully’s room.

     “Do you really think that will work, Ma?” Colleen asked doubtfully.  “I know you wanted to keep Brian’s spirits up,
but . . .”  Her words trailed off.

     “Cloud Dancing believes that there are things troubling Sully—melancholy over Washita, as well as other sorrows—which are causing him to resist waking,” Michaela explained.  “He feels that Sully needs to feel our love and reassurance, so that he’ll have the courage to come back to us.

     “I’ve always been able to trust Cloud Dancing’s wisdom,” she told her daughter.  “If he recommends that this is what we      do, then I feel safe in following his instincts.”  She squeezed Colleen’s hand.

     As they had been speaking, Michaela had become aware of several voices outside.  The outer door opened suddenly, and Matthew entered, followed by Dorothy.  Beyond them, Michaela could see a knot of townspeople gathered on the porch.  Through the window she spotted still more people clustered in the street.

     “What’s going on?” she asked Matthew quickly.

     “Word about Sully bein’ hurt got around pretty fast,” he answered.  “Everyone’s hangin’ around, waitin’ to see how he is.”

     “Michaela,” Dorothy said sympathetically, crossing to her friend and gathering Michaela into her arms.  “I’m so sorry about Sully—is he gonna be all right?”  Her blue eyes were compassionate.

     Michaela clung to Dorothy for a moment, drawing comfort from her friend.  “I hope so,” she said softly.

     “How could this have happened?” Dorothy asked in dismay.

     Michaela stared levelly into her friend’s eyes.  “Dorothy, can I trust you?” she asked.  “If I confide in you, can I count on you keeping this just between us?”

     “I swear,” Dorothy vowed.  “I know you had reason to doubt me before Washita, the way I criticized you for defendin’ the dog soldiers, and for not wantin’ to attend General Custer’s dinner.  But after he attacked and killed the Indians, and I saw what it did to you . . . and then when you came to me that night and told me about Black Kettle and the Cheyenne
Nation . . .  “  Her eyes were heartfelt as she gazed at Michaela.  “Well, you made me see the truth,” she finished.  “I promise, Michaela—whatever you tell me won’t go any farther.”

     “I believe you,” Michaela said, satisfied.  She proceeded to tell Dorothy an abbreviated version of the past days’ events, minimizing the role of her “vision”—if that’s what it had been--in her description of what had happened.  Nonetheless, Dorothy’s eyes widened in shock as she listened.

     “Poor Sully!” she exclaimed softly as she learned of what he’d been through.  And then unexpectedly she added, “Thank the Almighty Cloud Dancin’ was there to take care of him.”

     “Yes,” Michaela agreed.  “I’m certain that Sully wouldn’t—“  Her voice caught for a moment.  “That he wouldn’t have survived, without him.”  Dorothy reached out and squeezed her hand.

    “You’ll get him through this Michaela,” she avowed.  “I’m sure of it.”

     Michaela gave her a grateful look.  “Thank you, Dorothy.  But Sully can still use all your prayers.”

     “He has them,” Dorothy declared.  “You both do.”  She hugged Michaela again.  They parted, and Dorothy gazed at her earnestly.  “Now, tell me what I can do to help,” she said.  “All of us are here for you Michaela—Loren, Grace, Robert E., the Reverend . . .  Just tell us what you need.”

     Michaela looked back at the face of her friend, and felt a tiny blossom of hope begin to unfurl inside her.  Perhaps, with the love and support of all their family and friends, they would get through this, after all.

* * * * * * * * * *

     A clock in the examination room of the clinic struck midnight.  Still wide-awake, Michaela dimly heard the chimes from her chair by Sully’s bed.  She knew she should be resting—as she had noted to Colleen back at the homestead, a doctor who was exhausted was a doctor who could make mistakes.  But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Sully’s side.  Not just because of Cloud Dancing’s advice to be with Sully and talk to him as much as possible.  Not even because she was compelled to keep watching for any change in Sully’s condition, no matter how subtle.  But because she needed to be with him, for her own sake.  She needed to see his face and hold his hand.  To watch his chest rise and fall as he breathed.  To be as physically close to him as she was able, and reassure herself that he was still alive.  Because deep in her heart, she didn’t know how much longer she would have the chance.  She hadn’t voiced her secret fear to her children, or to Cloud Dancing.  But the painful truth was that Sully could still leave them—could leave her—at any time.  And if somehow her presence by his side could forestall or prevent that tragedy, she would go without sleep forever, if that’s what it took.

     She held Sully’s hand between both her own, gently stroking his skin over and over.  After a moment, she pressed his hand to her cheek and closed her eyes.

     “Please,” she prayed aloud.  “Please, Sully, please wake up.  I understand now what’s been troubling you so deeply.  I understand the torment in your heart and your soul.  But I swear that you won’t lose me, as you lost the Cheyenne and so many others that you loved . . . as you lost Abagail.  I swear that nothing will happen to part us if we marry.  Please don’t be afraid to waken—to come back to me.  I know how badly you’ve suffered—how you’re still suffering.  But I promise that you’ll get through the pain—that we both will, together.  I’ll help you through it, and so will Cloud Dancing.  You have all my love, and the love of Cloud Dancing and the children.  And you have the affection and friendship of so many friends and neighbors.  Please let this love—let MY love!--give you the courage to face the future again.  I’m begging you—don’t give up on yourself, or on us.  We’ve been through so much together.  We’ve faced so many challenges and dangers—and we’ve suffered more than our share of heartbreak.  But somehow, we’ve always survived.  Because we love each other!  And because together, we’re stronger than each of us is alone.

     “Don’t let this defeat you!” she implored, opening her eyes and gazing at him yearningly.  “Don’t give up now—not now, when we’re so close to having the happiness we’ve looked forward to for so long.  I love you so much!  And I need you—more desperately than I could ever put into words . . .”  Her voice faltered.  She lay his hand back down on the coverlet, then leaned over his sleeping form, cradling him in her arms and laying her head on his chest.  Her tears came in a flood, soaking the cloth of his nightshirt.  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, her voice aching as grief poured out of her like a dam breaking.  “Please, please don’t leave me. What will I do without you?”  She clung to him, as if the strength of her arms alone could keep him from slipping into that long dark night that had no end.

     Eventually, exhausted by her vigil and her tears, she slept.