Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

     I waited till I saw the kids leave the homestead—Colleen and Brian on their way to school and Matthew presumably off to tend the cattle Olive had left him—before I emerged from the concealment of the bushes and climbed the steps to the front porch.

     As my knuckles were poised to rap on the weathered surface of the door, I had second thoughts.  Dr. Mike had been powerfully angry with me when we parted.  Perhaps it was too soon for me to approach her again.  Maybe I needed to give her more time to cool off before I tried to ask for her forgiveness.  And when you got right down to it, what obligation did she have to forgive me at all?  From the stories she had told me, and the other clues I’d gleaned, it was clear that we had a friendship.  Maybe even a strong one.  But how did I know it was strong enough to withstand the shame of my deceit?  Truth is, I didn’t.  I had no way of knowing how deep her anger went, or how long she would carry that hurt and resentment around inside her.  Like Shakespeare had said, “Hell hath no
fury . . .”

     These thoughts going through my mind, I silently backed away from the door and turned to leave—but then I hesitated.  I knew I didn’t have the right to expect forgiveness—at least not right away—but I wanted her to know how sorry I was.  After all, someone had to make the first move, and as the one who had wronged her, that responsibility fell to me.  No amount of healing could take place—and we would never resolve our differences—if we didn’t start talking.  Besides, my coming to her so soon after our confrontation would convince her more completely of how I truly regretted what I’d done.  At least I hoped so.

     Taking a deep breath, I faced the door once again and this time I knocked decisively on the panel.  My heart was galloping in my chest, but I stood my ground.  After a long delay the door opened, and we were facing each other once again.

     She didn’t look surprised to see me—fact is, she didn’t look like anything at all.  Her face was devoid of expression.  It was not a state of affairs to inspire confidence, but I resolved not to lose my nerve.

     Agonizing seconds passed while we stared at one another.  Finally she broke the uncomfortable silence.

     “I said I’d see you in town,” she said neutrally.  “Unless there’s some physical problem you have, or some other emergency that’s brought you here?”  Her eyes, skeptical bordering on hostile as she observed how obviously healthy I was, showed how much credence she gave that notion.

     “As you can see, I’m fine,” I said quietly.  “And there ain’t no emergencies that I know of.  I came out here because I did something very wrong, and I wanted to apologize.  I invaded your privacy, and then lied about it.  I hurt you, and I damaged our relationship—maybe beyond repair, though I hope that won’t be the case.  I had no right to do what I did—especially after you’ve done so much for me and been so honest with me—the best you could be, anyway, considering my condition.”

     A strange look passed across her face at my last statement.  It was momentary, and gone in an instant—almost making me question whether I’d seen it at all.  Yet I had the strongest feeling that something more was going on between us than just my transgression against her.

     “I really don’t know what to say to you, Sully,” she responded briefly, her posture stiff and her eyes remote.

     “Don’t you?” I asked, growing a little braver.  “Come on, Dr. Mike—there’s a lot of anger inside you, and you need to get it out.  Yell at me—I know you want to.  Tell me what you think of me for prying like I did—it’s no less than I deserve.  You shouldn’t keep your feelings bottled up, Dr. Mike.  I confess it will be hard to hear, but at least we’ll be talking—and, maybe, that will lead to forgiveness—or at least understanding.  We can’t fix what’s wrong between us if we shut ourselves off from each other.”

     “What makes you think I want to fix it?” she said coldly.

     “If you really feel like that, I’ll go away, and never bother you again,” I promised, desperately afraid that she’d take me up on it.  “But—I don’t think that’s what you truly want.  I think that there was something special between us, and I don’t believe you’re ready to throw it away because of what I did—hurtful and thoughtless though it was.  I was hoping—“ I hesitated, then went on, “I’m hoping we can talk it through, and then find a way to move on.”  I hesitated again, looking at her earnestly, and then added, “Are you willing?”

     “You expect a great deal of me, Sully,” she demurred.  “Perhaps more than I’m able to give.”

     “Maybe so,” I replied.  “But then again—maybe not.”  I continued to watch her carefully.  It might have been wishful thinking on my part, but I sensed that she was beginning to weaken.  “Can I come in, at least?” I ventured.

     There was another long pause, but then she stood back from the door to allow me to enter.  Mentally giving thanks for this first—if minor—victory, I stepped inside.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “I presume you haven’t eaten,” she said as I entered the house.  “There are some eggs left over from breakfast—I can heat them up,” she added diffidently.

     “You don’t got to feed me,” I said.

     “You’re still recovering Sully.  You need proper nutrition,” she replied, unable to keep from being a doctor, even while she was angry with me.

     “I’m fine,” I told her firmly.  More softly I added, “I didn’t come here for you to wait on me, Dr. Mike.  Besides, I ain’t exactly an invited guest.”

     “Very well,” she agreed.  She stood stiffly in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself like a barricade.  I could see how uncomfortable I was making her, which hadn’t been my intention.  Then again, what else could I expect under the circumstances?

     “Maybe we could sit down?” I suggested after an uneasy pause.

     She nodded, and moved to the table.  I followed her, meaning to pull out her chair, but she walked around to the opposite side, putting the barrier of the table between us.  I understood that she needed to keep me distant from her—at least for now—and I waited respectfully till she sat down, then lowered myself into the chair across from her.

     “I really don’t know what you expect of me, Sully,” she said almost at once, echoing her statement to me out on the porch.

     “I don’t expect nothing from you,” I replied.  “Except, hopefully, to listen.  I’m the one who wronged you, and it’s up to me to try to put things right.”

     “If you think that my feelings have changed from last night, then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she said coolly.

     “I don’t think that,” I told her.  “I know you’re angry, and I know you’re hurt.  You got a right to be.  I don’t expect you to overlook what I did—only try to understand why I did it.”

     That look of betrayal came into her eyes again, but this time it was mixed with pain instead of anger.  “That’s precisely what I don’t understand!” she exclaimed.  “What would possess you to do such a thing?”

     I was silent for a long time.  I wanted to tell her the truth, but I knew the truth would sound like a lie.  Because I honestly didn’t know why I’d done it.  Whether or not she was engaged, whether she’d broken things off with her fiance because she had feelings for another man—none of that was any of my business.  She was my doctor—I was her patient.  And, from the conversations we’d had, I knew that we had also been friends.  But that didn’t give me the right to pry into her affairs.  Besides, why should I care so much?  Why was the hint of a mysterious man in her life driving me to distraction?  There was no logical reason.  Unless . . . unless there had been something between us.  Something more than friendship.

     “I don’t know why I did it,” I said honestly.  “It was an impulse—and after I’d given in to it, I regretted it.  But it was too late to take it back.”

     “So I’m expected to forgive you because you had a moment’s remorse?” she asked.

     “No,” I said patiently.  “I’m just trying to explain—“

     “Perhaps I’m missing something, but you just said you didn’t know why you did it.  How do you intend to explain things to me if you can’t explain them to yourself?”

     “I suppose I wasn’t very clear,” I conceded.  “I guess a better way of saying it is that I don’t understand the feelings I had that made me take the telegram.”

     “I’m afraid I still don’t know what you mean,” she said, regarding me disparagingly.

     I was silent again, wondering if I had the courage to be totally honest with her.  So much was riding on this moment.  I didn’t want to frighten her off, but at the same time, I knew that she would see through a lie.  More important, I knew she’d never forgive another deception on top of the first.

     “When we spoke yesterday, I got the feeling that this David wasn’t the only man in your life,” I said at last.  “It got me to wondering if there was someone else you cared for—someone who was important to you.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  And then, when I saw the telegram, something just told me to take it.  I guess deep in my mind there was this notion that reading it would give me a clue about who he was, or how you felt about him.”

     She was listening to me, pale and silent.  After a long, uncertain pause she replied, “Assuming there even *was* such a person, why would you possibly care?”

     I looked her in the eyes.  “Because I was jealous,” I said.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

     For what seemed like an eternal moment suspended in time, Michaela didn’t react.  Neither did Sully.  For her part, the glimpse of his crystal blue eyes—their hue reminiscent of the clear, luminous sky at dawn—was so welcome and familiar, that she could almost forget how she had been robbed of the sight of them for several agonizing days.  As far as Sully was concerned, however, there was no way to know what thoughts lay behind his eyes as he gazed back at her.

     It suddenly occurred to Michaela that perhaps he was not truly awake; that the opening of his eyes—like his squeezing of her hand—were merely reflexes without any significance.  The rush of joy that had infused her just seconds before was momentarily dashed, and she felt her heart constrict inside her.

     But then mentally she rebuked herself.  There was no way to be sure, one way or the other, of his condition until she examined him further.  She told herself not to rush to judgement, or draw any conclusions until she was absolutely certain.

     “Sully?” she said softly, almost fearfully.  She leaned closer to him and was instantly rewarded by the sight of his eyes tracking her movement.  “So you are awake!” she exclaimed in relief, muting her voice so as not to startle him.  He continued to watch her, but didn’t speak.

     “Can you hear me?” Michaela asked him gently.  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”  There was a long pause, and then he moved his head on the pillow in a slight nod.  Thank God! she exulted in her mind.  “You must be so thirsty,” she spoke again, compassionately noting how badly his lips had been parched by fever.  “Would you like some water?”

     Again he nodded, a bit more strongly this time.  Michaela rose from the bed and moved to the pitcher on the nightstand.  She picked it up and poured water into a glass with hands that shook slightly, then returned to her position on the bed.  Carefully she slipped her hand under his head to elevate it while she held the glass to his lips.  She allowed him a few swallows, admonishing him to drink slowly, then lowered his head to the pillow again.

     “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but you’re going to be all right,” she said softly, her eyes tender and nuturing as she gazed at him.  “How do you feel?”  There was another pause, as he attempted to utter his first sound since he’d been wounded.

     “My head,” he finally managed, his voice nearly a croak from disuse, and the infection of his vocal chords.  “Hurts.”

     Michaela nodded in understanding.  “Your head was grazed by a bullet, but thankfully the wound appears to have been superficial,” she told him.  “However it’s quite natural that you should have a headache.  Now that you’re awake, I can give you something for the pain.  Does anything else hurt you?”

     He shook his head slightly.

     “Do you remember what happened to you—how you were injured?” she added.

     After another hesitation, his eyes somewhat confused, he shook his head again.

     “That’s normal as well, after such a trauma,” Michaela assured him.  “It may or may not come back to you, but it’s nothing to be concerned about.  Mercifully, you’ve come through the worst of your ordeal.  After some time to rest and regain your strength, I believe you’ll be as good as new,” she added, her voice cheerful and her expression optimistic as her own confidence began to be restored.

     Sully started to speak again, the effort costing him, and she put her hand over his.  “There’s no need for you to try to talk now,” she said.  “There will be plenty of time for conversation later, when you’re stronger.”  But plainly her advice was unsatisfactory to him, as relentlessly he tried again.

     “Why—“  He stopped, then made another attempt.  “Why . . . am I in—the boardin' house?” he asked.

     Startled by his question, Michaela’s eyes regarded him sharply.  However a moment later she relaxed, realizing that any trauma to the skull, regardless of how minor, was bound to result in a certain amount of confusion.  When the element of the high fever he had suffered was added into the equation, Sully’s disorientation made even more sense.

     “This isn’t the boardinghouse, Sully,” she told him kindly.  “You’re in one of the recovery rooms of the clinic.”

     “Clinic?” he repeated doubtfully.  Carefully he moved his head, his eyes slowly traveling around the room, taking in the features of his surroundings.

     “Yes, the clinic,” Michaela said.  “We kept you at the homestead at first, until your condition improved enough that I thought it was safe for you to travel.  Then we brought you here.”

     Her explanation didn’t seem to enlighten him, however.  His eyes, as they fastened on hers, continued to look confused and uncertain.

     “What is it?” Michaela asked him gently, sensing that something still troubled him.

     Sully gazed around the walls of the room again, then his eyes returned to her face.  He swallowed with difficulty, and Michaela hastened to offer him another sip of water.  Gratefully he drank, then his head fell back on the pillow.  He took a breath, then spoke again.

     “I’m sorry—have we met?” he asked hoarsely.  “I—I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

* * * * * * * * * *

     Stunned, Michaela stared at him, momentarily doubting the evidence of her senses.  After a long and painful pause she said haltingly, “I beg your pardon?”

     “I’m sorry,” he repeated.  “But—I don’t remember you.”

     Michaela could barely hear him for the thundering of her heart.  Her thoughts were panicked and chaotic.  A certain amount of memory loss was understandable, given the severity of his illness and the fact of his head wound.  Many people who suffered traumatic injuries had no recollection of them afterward, just as she had explained to Sully moments before.  But the extent of amnesia his first words had revealed was something very different, and potentially far more serious.  If he truly didn’t recognize her—if he honestly had no recollection of their relationship, or even their acquaintance—then that meant he had lost as much as three of the past years of his life.

     She was trembling all over, but knew that somehow she must conceal her shock and anxiety from him.  And she owed him an answer to his question.

     “My name is Dr. Michaela Quinn,” she told him carefully.  “Most people here in Colorado Springs call me ‘Dr. Mike.’”

     “A—lady doctor?” he asked, his eyes disbelieving.  “But—there ain’t no doctor in town.  Just Jake, the barber.  And Charlotte Cooper, the midwife.”

     “That’s true—Jake and Charlotte took care of the people in town before I came,” Michaela acknowledged, her heart sinking still further as the extent of his mental deficit became more evident.  “However, people in need of medical treatment come to me now.”

     “I don’t—don’t recall you comin’ to town,” he said, his eyes growing more frightened.  “I don’t understand.  What’s—what’s wrong with me?”

     Michaela’s need to assuage his anxiety overcame her own shock and worry.  “Try to stay calm,” she told him soothingly.

     “But—“

     “Please, Sully, try not to upset yourself,” she repeated.  “Your confusion may simply be the result of your injury, as I told you before.  I’m going to ask you a few questions, so that I can get a clearer idea of what’s troubling you.  Just try to relax and answer my questions as well as you’re able.”

     Her calm and professional manner seemed to reassure him somewhat, and he waited patiently for her to put her questions.

     “Do you know who the President is?” she asked.

     “Johnson,” he replied, causing her heart to skip a beat.

     “And the year?” she added, attempting to keep the nervous quaver out of her voice.

     “Eight—eighteen-sixty-seven,” he said.

     His words gave her the confirmation she was dreading.  Hard as it was to believe, or accept, apparently his memories of the past three years—as well as his memories of her—had been wiped clean.  So this was how his mind and heart had resolved the emotional dilemma that had been tormenting him—by completely obliterating all recollection of his suffering.

     Though it cost nearly all her effort, somehow she managed to maintain a placid expression.  Blandly she continued, “You mentioned Jake and Charlotte.  Can you tell me the names of some other friends or townspeople you remember?”

     “Yeah,” he said slowly after a moment.  “There’s . . . Charlotte’s kids—Matthew, Colleen and little Brian.  And Loren Bray, who owns the general store.  Hank Lawson, who runs the saloon, and Robert E.—he owns the livery.  And the Cheyenne—Chief Black Kettle, and my blood brother Cloud Dancin’.”

     “That’s very good,” Michaela said, with a brightness she didn’t feel.  “So it’s not your memory of people that’s been affected, as much as your recollection of time.”

     “What—do you mean?” he asked.

     Michaela gazed at him with as reassuring an expression as she could muster.  “Your answers to my questions seem to indicate that you’ve lost some time,” she said carefully.  “Johnson is no longer in office—Ulysses S. Grant is President now.  And—I’m afraid that the year is not 1867.  It’s—“ she hesitated, concerned about the effect it might have on him, but obligated to tell him the truth.  “It’s 1870, Sully,” she finished gently.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “That can’t be!” he exclaimed in panic, rising up from the bed in his agitation, then groaning as the pain in his head and accompanying dizziness drove him back against the pillow.

     “Sully, please!  You must lie still!” Michaela cautioned him strongly, pressing her hand on his chest to immobilize him.

     “But—this is crazy!” he persisted, his face ashen and pain-wracked, his eyes stricken.  “You’re sayin’—I  forgot three whole years?!  How could that happen?”

     Pain lanced Michaela’s heart as she watched the new and wrenching torment in his face.  How desperately she wanted to take him in her arms and hold him close, lovingly whispering words of comfort and reassurance in his ear.  But the reality of his amnesia stood between them—an insurmountable gulf which she wondered if she would ever be able to cross.  And in the meantime, somehow she must sit back and pretend to be objective—pretend to be a stranger—as his amnesia rendered the memories of their relationship sterile and void.

     But her heartbreak was not the issue now.  Only Sully’s needs were important.  She knew she had to put her pain aside, as if laying it on a shelf, not to be taken down and examined until she had the privacy, and the luxury, of surrendering to her feelings.

     “I know how upsetting this must be for you, Sully,” she said compassionately now, her hands tightly covering his.  “But you must try to stay quiet.  You’re still very weak, you must give yourself time to heal.”

     “How—do you expect me to do that—after what you told me?” he said, breath rapid and heart still pounding from shock and exertion.

     “I’ll help you,” Michaela pledged, a slight quiver in her voice betraying her depth of emotion.  “I’m going to take good care of you Sully—I promise.”

     “Please—“ he implored, clutching at her hand, the desperation in his eyes nearly tearing her heart from her chest.  “You gotta fix this.  Please, Dr. Mike—you gotta help me remember.”

     “I’m going to do everything I can,” she promised him again, wondering how she could reassure him when she could barely hold the threads of her own self-control together.  “Starting with giving you something to ease your pain, and help you rest.  Things will look more positive when you’re stronger, Sully.”

     “I’m afraid,” he whispered.

     “Afraid of what?” she asked gently, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

     “I’m afraid—to sleep,” he confessed, his voice low and harsh.  “What if—I lose more time?”

     “That won’t happen,” she told him softly.

     “How—do you know?” he asked, not daring to trust her words.

     “Because—I won’t let it.”