Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

     The time spun out as I waited for her to speak.  I didn’t want to push her—we were on shaky enough ground as it was, and I knew if I pressured her any more it could all collapse from beneath us.  But finally I had to ask again.

     “So—do we still have a friendship, Michaela?” I ventured.

     Instead of answering, she stood up and moved away from the table, pacing restlessly across the room, her arms still clutched about her.  My eyes followed her, noting the grace of her movement, and the way the sun slanting through the windows lovingly played over the gleaming curtain of her hair.

     She stopped in front of the window, her back to me, staring out at the road leading away from the homestead.  I continued to wait, my unease increasing as the silence stretched between us.

     Inexorably the seconds ticked by, making me more and more certain I wasn’t going to get the ‘happy ending’ from her I’d hoped for.  A mantle of disappointment and despair descended to wrap itself around me.  The feeling reached inside, coming to settle like a lead ball in the pit of my stomach.

     I started to rise, preparing to leave her, like I figured she wanted.  I wondered if it would be for good.

     And then suddenly she turned, and spoke.

     “I’ve been both expecting—and dreading—this day for a long time now,” she said, catching me completely unawares with her unexpected statement.  Her voice was subdued, but her eyes were clear and forthright as they looked into mine.  “Contrary to what you may believe, Sully, I’ve been aware of your—interest—in me for quite a while.  I knew that it was only a matter of time before you decided to declare your feelings.”

     Slowly I sat again, my mind a bit stunned by what I’d heard.  But somehow, my heart wasn’t surprised.  I knew she’d felt that strange, exhilarating energy between us, just like I had.  Even now, my heart was racing and my skin prickled with the charged atmosphere in the room.  Still, I was shocked that she’d finally said it straight out, after all the times she’d seemed to shy away or put me off.

     “You knew?” I managed, my mouth suddenly dry even as sweat oiled my palms.

     “Yes,” she admitted.  After a moment she added, “You couldn’t tell?  Not even a little?”

     She’d read my mind again.  “Well, maybe I could, at that,” I allowed.  “A little.”

     I expected her to elaborate on what she’d just said, but instead she took off on a different tack.

     “I know you thought my anger at you stemmed from your violation of my privacy,” she said, bringing me back abruptly to the focus of our dispute.  “And much of it did,” she added.  “I feel compelled to be honest with you about that.  But there was another reason I was upset,” she went on, a note of apprehension creeping into her voice.  “I was afraid—that your desire to read the telegram meant that you were . . . getting too close.”

     She paused.  I stared at her, perplexed, my mind drawing a blank as to where this was headed.

     “Too close to what?  You’ve—you’ve lost me, Michaela,” was all I could say.

     “After I got over my initial anger, I began to realize that given your feelings for me, your curiosity about the telegram—even your taking it without my knowledge—was understandable—perhaps even defensible,” she said.  “It didn’t take that much effort for me to forgive you.”

     Stunned again, I managed to utter, “But then why—“

     “Didn’t I tell you?” she finished.

     I nodded.

     “Because as long as you thought I was angry, I could keep you at a distance,” she said, looking into my bewildered eyes.  “Because it wasn’t a question of me forgiving you—but rather, whether you could forgive me.”

     Totally at a loss, I could only watch as she turned and went to the nightstand by her bed.  She took something from a drawer, then returned to stand in front of me, holding out her hand.  I recognized the telegram, no longer crumpled, but lovingly smoothed and folded.

     “I want you to read this,” she said.  “Afterwards, if you’re still willing—we’ll talk.”

     “But Michaela—“

     “Read it,” she repeated.  “Please.”

     I glanced at her once more for confirmation, and her eyes were determined and steady.  Slowly I unfolded the paper, feeling a sense of deja vu wash over me.  Dropping my eyes to the page, I began to read.

     “Dear Michaela,

          I’m so sorry I had to be gone for Valentine’s Day, after we’d made all
       our plans.  But I thank you for understanding that this was important, and that
       I never would have left you if Cloud Dancing hadn’t asked me to be at this Indian
       conference.  I promise I’ll make it up to you.  As soon as I come home, we’ll have
       our picnic in the woods, and we’ll exchange our gifts of love for one another.

           We may not have “Romeo and Juliet” to watch afterwards, but what do
       we need with Shakespeare, when our own love story is more romantic than any
       tale of love dreamed up by a writer hundreds of years in the past?

            I miss you more than I can put into words, and I’ll return to you as soon
       as I can.

                                                          All my love,

                                                                 S.”

     The room was unnaturally silent.  I kept staring down at the words, the characters blurring as I tried to make sense of what I’d read.  The truth was spelled out before me on the page, and in her eyes as she watched me anxiously—but I couldn’t seem to grasp it.  Slowly my eyes met hers.
 
 

     “Do you understand now?” she asked softly.  “There was no other man, Sully—at least not the way you think.  You weren’t competing with anyone else for my affection.

     “You’re the man I love, Sully.  You’re the reason I couldn’t marry David,” she said.

* * * * * * * * * *

     As she stopped speaking, a rush of images cascaded through my mind.  I saw her, clad in a fancy traveling dress, laying face-down in the mud of the main street of town . . . I saw the two of us together in the woods, her sitting on the ground, face streaked with dust, and me kneeling behind her, drawing a brush through the silky mass of her hair . . . I saw us sitting at a table in some elegant restaurant—her exquisitely beautiful in a gown of black and silver lace, me nearly unrecognizable in a stylish dark suit—our eyes locked together as we sipped wine from delicate, long-stemmed glasses . . . and I saw us huddled together in a teepee, her hands clasped in mine as I gazed at her, my whole heart and soul in my eyes.

     There were no words to go with the pictures, yet the feelings they evoked in me were so strong, I could almost hear our hearts speaking to one another.

     But as vivid as the images were, they went by so fast it was impossible to tell if they were actual memories, or just my mind playing tricks.  Instinctively, however, I suspected the former—and a giddy sort of excitement momentarily seized me.

     But then another set of images came on the heels of the first.  I saw all the times we’d been together since I woke up—all the chances she’d had to tell me the truth—but didn’t.  When she told me about the changes with the townspeople.  When she had to break the news to me about the Cheyenne at the Washita.  When I came right out and asked her if she’d ever been in love.  Hell, when I’d opened my eyes in the clinic for the first time!  So many opportunities, and she’d squandered them all.

     And what about me?  The truth had been right in front of me the whole time, and I had been too blind—too stupid—to see it.

     She had been watching me closely.  “You’ve remembered something haven’t you?” she asked.

     I looked at her, so confident and superior, so sure of her facts . . . knowing everything about me—about us—while she kept me in the dark.  Manipulating my reactions like I was some kind of puppet dangling from the strings she wielded.

     “No,” I said coldly.  Again she recoiled as if I’d struck her.  I suppose, in a way, I had.  The hateful part of me—the part that felt betrayed, took a cruel satisfaction in wounding her, the way I felt wounded.  Even as the rest of me flooded with shame at deliberately hurting her.  But at that moment, I couldn’t harness my anger.  The truth was, at my core, I didn’t want to.

     “I’m a fool,” I said, giving her a bitter smile.  I looked down at the telegram.  “’All my love, *S.*’,” I read aloud, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  “S!” I repeated.  “It was right under my nose, but I didn’t see it.”  I stared at her.  She was like a statue, white and still—but awash as I was in my anger, the sight of her vulnerable figure had no power to move me.  “You must have had some laugh at my expense,” I went on, not caring that each word I spoke to her was like a lash.  “You and everyone else in town.  Poor, pathetic Sully—too dumb to figure out that the woman doctor taking care of him is the woman who loves him.  No—the woman who’s been *lying* to him,” I added brutally.

     The moment the words were out of my mouth, part of me wanted to take them back.  But I couldn’t do it.  Instead I turned my face away from the sight of the pain in her eyes.  The pain I’d put there.

     As much as I’d hurt her, she still had the strength to face me.  “Please don’t say those things about yourself,” she implored softly.  “They’re not true.  I swear to you, Sully, that’s not how it was.”  She reached out a trembling hand toward me, but I pulled away.

     “I think maybe its me who can’t talk to you no more,” I said, brushing by her as I headed to the door.  I looked back at her once.  She almost seemed to crumple, like the wilted petals of a dying flower.  A dart of guilt stabbed painfully inside me, but I ignored it.  Deliberately, I dropped the telegram to the floor.  Then, leaving her standing bereft and alone, I opened the door and stepped outside, closing it behind me.

* * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

     When Michaela returned to the clinic she found all three of her children waiting for her.

     “Sully?” she asked Colleen automatically the moment she came in the door.

     “Still sleepin’, Ma,” Colleen assured her.  Michaela nodded, then turned to her youngest son.

     “Brian!  What are you doing out of school?”

     “I stopped into the clinic after you left,” Matthew answered for his little brother.  “Colleen told me about Sully finally comin’ around, so I went over to the school to tell Brian.  The Reverend said that under the circumstances, Brian could leave for the day so that he could be with Sully.”

     “That was very generous of the Reverend,” Michaela began uncomfortably.  “But I’m afraid Sully isn’t ready to have visitors yet, Matthew—even family,” she added.

     “Why?” Matthew asked, the baffled look on his face mirrored in his brother’s and sister’s expressions.

     “Dr. Mike, we been helpin’ you tend to Sully ever since Cloud Dancin’ brought him to us,” Colleen chimed in.  “You asked me to stay with him after he fell asleep.  Why can’t we see him now?”

     “I know that what I said doesn’t make much sense to you, and that you all must be confused,” Michaela acknowledged.  “But there are important reasons why I can’t allow Sully to see anyone besides myself—at least for a few days.”

     “Don’t Sully want ta see us, Ma?” asked Brian, his usually cheerful face shadowed with disappointment.

     Michaela felt a pang of guilt.  Already it was obvious that the effects of Sully’s amnesia would reach beyond just their own relationship, to touch the lives of her children as well.  She sat down in the chair by her desk, and drew Brian to her.  “Of course he wants to see you, Sweetheart,” she said.  “At least he would, if he were able.  But I’m afraid that now that Sully’s regained consciousness, it’s become apparent that there’s another problem with his recovery—one that will require very special, and careful treatment.”

     “I thought somethin’ was wrong when you left for the café,” Colleen spoke up.  “You were so quiet.”

     “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything at the time, Colleen,” Michaela apologized to her daughter.  “I’m afraid I wasn’t quite ready then to discuss Sully’s condition.  And I wanted to explain it to all of you together.”

     “What’s wrong with Sully, Dr. Mike?” Matthew asked directly.

     Michaela’s eyes rested on the faces of each of her children in turn.  They were all regarding her with concerned and sober expressions.  “It appears that Sully has suffered some memory loss,” she said carefully.  “He’s missing a rather significant period of time—specifically, the past three years.”

     “He’s forgotten the last three years?” Matthew exclaimed.

     “Unfortunately, yes,” Michaela confirmed.

     “Did he forget about me, Ma?” Brian asked, looking bereft.  Michaela hugged him reassuringly.

     “No, Brian, he hasn’t forgotten you—or Matthew or Colleen.  He remembers everything and everyone he knew up until three years ago, but I’m afraid everything after that is a blank for him.  Which means—that he doesn’t remember me,” she added, the words still causing her pain.

     “Oh, Ma!” Colleen said softly.

     “But Dr. Mike—how could Sully forget you?  He loves you,” Matthew protested.

     “It’s very hard to understand, I know,” Michaela agreed.  “But we have to accept it, and find a way to deal with it.”

     “Was it his head injury, Ma?  Is that what caused it?” Colleen asked.

     “Possibly,” her mother replied.  “There may have been some undetected bleeding that applied pressure to that part of his brain.  Or it may have been the result of a concussion.  However, there is also a possibility that the cause of Sully’s amnesia is not physical, but psychological.”

     “Psych-psycho—“ Brian tried to say.

     “Psychological,” Michaela repeated.  “It means that Sully may have had some emotional problems that were so painful to him, that his mind sought to escape his troubles by blocking his memories of them.”

     “You mean like Washita?” Colleen said insightfully.

     “Yes, exactly,” Michaela replied.  “Sometimes, when people go through a terrible experience, or they’re very unhappy, their minds protect them from their sadness by erasing their memories of it.”

     “How do you fix it?” asked Matthew.

     “Well, unfortunately it’s not like treating a catarrh, or setting a broken bone—I can’t give Sully a special medicine that will magically cure him in a few days,” Michaela explained.  “Also, unfortunately, there’s very little in my medical texts or journals regarding the treatment of mental problems.  I intend to wire some of my father’s colleagues in Boston, who specialize in the treatment of brain maladies—hopefully they’ll be able to advise me.  But for now, there’s very little for me to do but wait and hope that Sully’s memories begin to come back on their own.”

     “But I still don’t get it, Ma,” Brian said.  “If Sully ain’t forgot about Matthew, Colleen and me, how come we can’t see him?”

     “I promise that you *will* be able to visit Sully very soon,” his mother said.  “But Sully experienced a great shock when he realized that he’d lost part of his memory.  It’s going to take time for him to adjust to that loss—as well as to adjust to everything that’s happened to him in the past three years.  I believe it’s best for Sully to learn about these things slowly, a little at a time, so that he won’t have to go through such a shock again.

     “The first, and most important thing, is for Sully to rest and regain his strength,” Michaela stressed.  “Then I’ll try to begin preparing him for all the changes he’s going to encounter when he recovers and leaves the clinic.  And that includes the changes in all of you.  You’ve all grown so much—you’re not the young children Sully remembers anymore.”

     “But if Sully knows he’s missin’ three years, then he must know we’re that much older,” Matthew pointed out.

     “That’s true, Matthew.  But knowing something intellectually, and being confronted by the reality of it, can often be two very different things,” Michaela said.  “As much as I can, I want to minimize the shock to Sully of the changes in his life—big and small,” she added.

     “So what do we do?” Matthew asked.  “How can we help you?”

     “Well, I suppose we’ll all need to—‘turn the clock back,’ so to speak, and pretend it’s three years ago,” Michaela replied.  “We need to avoid talking about currents events, or recent events in Sully’s life such as Washita—at least for a while, as we wait to see if Sully recalls these things on his own.  If Sully doesn’t recover his memories, of course he’ll need to be told eventually.  But we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

     There was a silence, as her children absorbed what they’d heard.  Michaela saw that Colleen, in particular, looked extremely thoughtful.  Presently Colleen looked up at her.

     “What about you and Sully, Ma?  Are you gonna tell him—‘bout the two of you courtin’ and gettin’ married?”

     “I don’t know, Colleen,” Michaela answered honestly.  “Sully’s feelings about our relationship are—complicated—and may even be connected to his loss of memory.  Again, all I can do is wait,  observe his progress, and hope that his reactions will tell me what I need to do.”

     “Waitin’ to see if Sully remembers ain’t gonna be easy on you,” Colleen said softly, echoing Dorothy.

     “That’s true,” Michaela admitted.  “But nothing worth having ever comes easily.  I’ll do whatever I must—no matter how difficult—to help restore Sully’s memories and bring him back to us.”

     “Is he gonna get well, Ma?” Brian asked quietly, suddenly looking much older than his ten years.

     Michaela hugged him to her.  “If it’s within my power, Brian,” she vowed softly.  “If it’s within my power.”

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sully’s head stirred on the pillow and he opened his eyes.  His vision was momentarily blurred, but after a few moments it cleared.  The first thing he was aware of was the lady doctor sitting beside him.  The second was the cool, gentle feel of her hand as she grasped his wrist.  In her other hand she held a pocket watch.  Her eyes followed the sweep of the second hand as she measured the rate of his pulse.  A few moments elapsed, then she slipped the watch back into her pocket.  Her eyes met his, and a warm expression lit her features as she realized he was awake.

     “Welcome back,” she said, giving him a kind smile.  “How are you feeling?”

     “Tired, but better,” he said after a brief pause.  “The headache’s gone back some.”

     “I’m glad to hear it,” Michaela said.  “Your voice is stronger, too.  Do you have any pain in your chest?” she asked.

     “Not really,” he responded.

     “That’s very encouraging,” she said.  “What about your throat?  Is it sore?”

     He swallowed experimentally.  “No—but I am awful dry,” he confessed.

     “Of course,” Michaela replied, immediately reaching for the water pitcher.  She poured some into a glass.  “Would you like to try to sit up a little and drink this?” she suggested.

         “Yeah,” Sully said readily, already feeling uncomfortable at being an invalid.  He started to push himself up but Michaela stopped him.

     “Easy does it,” she cautioned.  “Let me help you.”

     “I can do it,” he protested.

     “Perhaps,” she said.  “But you’re weaker than you realize, Sully.  You need to take things slowly.”  She stood and slipped her arm under his back, supporting him as he pulled himself into more of a sitting position.  He felt a sudden wave of dizziness, but it dissipated quickly.  However Michaela’s sharp eyes noted his expression change as the vertigo touched him.

     “Are you dizzy?” she said quickly.

     “A little—but it’s already goin’ away,” he answered.

     “Are you sure?” Michaela persisted.  “Do you want to lay back down?”

     “No,” Sully said immediately.  “I’m all right.”

     Michaela studied him critically a moment longer, but then, satisfied that he was being truthful, she held the glass to his lips.

     Gratefully Sully drank, the cool water tasting indescribably delicious as it bathed his dry throat.  Michaela allowed him to drink his fill, cautioning him to go slowly.  Finally, he leaned back against his pillows.

     “Thanks,” he said, sighing. “That hit the spot.”

     Michaela smiled at him.  “You’re looking much better,” she told him.  “Your color’s coming back.  You vital signs are much improved as well. Both your pulse and heartbeat are strong and regular, and your lungs are much clearer.”

     “So I’m gonna live?” Sully asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.  Seeing a trace of his old familiar humor caused Michaela to feel a pang inside, but she tried to ignore it and focus on the moment.

     “Yes, I believe you’re going to pull through,” she answered lightly.

     “Well, you know what they say—only the good die young,” he said drily.

     Her expression was reproving.

     “Sorry,” he added.  “Bad joke, I guess.”

     “I’m glad that you’re feeling well enough to make jokes,” Michaela told him.  “But that particular saying is not one of my favorites.”

     “Guess not, in your line of work,” Sully said.  She raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

     “So—what exactly happened to me?” Sully asked her curiously.  “I don’t mean just losin’ my memory, but the rest of it.  How did I get shot?   And this sickness I have—it couldn’t have come from the gunshot wound, could it?”

     “Well, put simply, you were injured trying to protect Cloud Dancing, when both of you were attacked in the mountains,” Michaela replied.  “And your illness resulted from a respiratory infection that turned into pneumonia.  Unfortunately you became ill shortly before you were hurt.”

     “You know Cloud Dancin’?” Sully said, surprised.

     “Yes, I do,” said Michaela.  “It was Cloud Dancing who brought you to me.”

     “Who attacked us?” he asked.

     “According to Cloud Dancing, it was an Indian scout who worked for General Custer,” Michaela told him.

     “Custer,” Sully said thoughtfully.  “I’ve heard of him, but . . .”  His voice trailed off, and Michaela was reminded that Sully’s previous confrontations with Custer had all occurred after the point at which his memories stopped.  “Why would Custer be after us?” he added after a moment.

     Michaela debated whether she should go into involved explanations now.  But then, noting his drawn features, she decided against it.

     “Sully, I understand you have many questions, but I think the details of your experience can wait until you’re stronger,” Michaela advised.  “Right now, I want you to concentrate only on getting plenty of rest.  Everything else will come in time.”

     “I guess you’re right,” he conceded.  “Just sittin’ up is takin’ more out of me than I expected.  Truth is, I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

     “Sleep is the best medicine for you,” Michaela confirmed.  “Give yourself all the time you need to rest and recover.  I’ll be here when you awaken, and we’ll talk more.”

     Mollified for the moment, Sully nodded, then allowed his eyes to close.  Michaela watched as his breathing slowed and deepened, indicating that he slept.

     Michaela moved from the bed and seated herself in a chair nearby.  She leaned back wearily, and began to think about what she would say to Sully when he questioned her again.