Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

     The house sat on a gentle rise, the barn and corral slightly below, nearer the main road.  A board fence lined the drive, and my hand trailed along it as I approached the buildings.

     Even from a distance, I could tell that house was newly built, its chinked walls of knotty pine gleaming like spun gold in the noonday sun.  The foundation was of stone, as were the two chimneys, one stretching up the right side of the house, the other slightly to the left of the center of the roof.  Fronting the building was a wide timbered porch, cleaved in the center by steps leading to the entrance.  Casement windows bracketed the front door, matching twin dormer windows which accented the roof.  It was a simple design, but clean and pleasing to the eye in its symmetry.  The most remarkable feature was the front door, which boasted an oval window of beveled glass.  No doubt that window had cost the builder a pretty penny, but I couldn’t deny that it gave the house an elegant character all its own.

     Despite the fact that the construction was obviously new, the place had a deserted feel about it.  There were no horses in the corral, no chickens scratching in the dirt, no sign of a cow.  And though I didn’t bother to look in the barn, I instinctively knew that it, too, would be empty.

     The house appeared uninhabited as well.  I saw no smoke rising from the chimneys, no clothesline with washing hung out in the sunshine and fresh air to dry.  There was room for a garden at the side of the house, but one hadn’t been put in.

     As I approached the steps, I wondered what had caused the owner to neglect the property.  Maybe he’d run out of money before he could finish.  Or maybe he’d built it with the intention of selling it to somebody else.  Then again, perhaps the owners just weren’t ready to move in yet.

     I climbed the steps to the porch, and stretched out my hand to touch the panel of leaded glass, admiring its delicate beauty.  Someone had clearly put a great deal of loving care into the creation of this house.  I had a moment of envy for the family who would inhabit such a warm and handsome dwelling.

     Even though all my senses told me I was alone here—still, out of formality, I knocked on the door.  As I’d expected, there was no answer.  I knew that technically, I was trespassing.  But I couldn’t contain my curiosity.  The odd attraction that had drawn me here was still tugging on me—compelling me to go inside.

     I tried the door knob, and it turned easily.  The door swung inward, and tentatively, I took a step across the threshold.

* * * * * * * * * *

     I stopped short inside the doorway as a sudden and powerful wave of deja vu washed over me.  I had never been here before—as far as I knew anyway—yet before I even laid eyes on the interior of the house, I knew with absolute certainty exactly how it would look.  How was that possible?  Goose bumps erupted on my arms as I felt a sudden chill.

     Immediately I chided myself.  There was no “mystery” here. The obvious explanation was that I must have visited this place before, even though I had no conscious recollection of it, and that’s why it was familiar.  Besides, with the experience I’d had in building my own homestead, it wasn’t that much of a challenge for me to envision the inner layout of the house, given the design of the exterior. But even as I made sensible excuses to myself for my uncanny knowledge of my surroundings, something deep inside told me there was much more to it than that.    As I stood in the entryway, I realized that not only could I predict the features of the house and their arrangement—but that I *knew* them, right down to the smallest detail.

     The large room was empty of furniture or rugs, and my footsteps echoed as I moved further inside.  Bright bars of sunlight slanting through the windows striped the walls and floor, minute motes of dust captured in their depths.  I strolled through alternating bands of sun and shadow, the light caressing me as it did the honey gold of the walls, bringing them alive.

    Directly ahead and to the left, a large freestanding fireplace dominated the space before me, neatly dividing the kitchen on the left from what presumably would be the sitting room on the right.  The hearth of the fireplace faced the kitchen, providing a ready source of warmth, as well as an additional cooking area.  I gazed at it with approval, admiring its aesthetic, yet practical design.  The kitchen was bright and inviting, light pouring in from windows above the counter.  I lingered there briefly, picturing the cupboards filled with supplies, dishes on the shelves, and food cooking merrily on the stove that had yet to be installed.

    From there I circled the fireplace into the sitting room beyond, passing a staircase leading to the upper story.  The wall to the right of the front door boasted yet another fireplace.  As I moved closer, I saw that something dangled from the mantle.  I approached to get a better look, then froze in shock as I recognized the item—a delicate arrangement of white feathers that had adorned the lodge of Cloud Dancing and Snowbird.  My heart started to pound.  What was it doing here, of all places?  More importantly, what did it mean?  I reached out to touch it, then snatched my hand back, losing my nerve.

    My goose bumps had returned.  Slowly I backed away, my consternation growing with every moment.  Almost fearfully, I approached and ascended the stairs.

    Four doors opened off the upper hallway.  Unerringly, my footsteps carried me to the door at the far end.  I turned the knob with a trembling hand, and stepped inside.

    And stopped dead on the threshold, the strength running out of my legs as I saw what the room contained.  Against the wall by the door stood a hand-hewn bedstead, with an intricately carved design of feathers decorating the headboard.  I stared at it in disbelief, unable for several moments to comprehend the implication of what I was seeing.  But there was no denying the evidence before me.  Like a person recognizing his own handwriting, I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the identity of the person who had crafted the bed, and built this house.  And the knowledge was shattering.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

     “Tell him to wait,” Michaela instructed calmly, her outward demeanor disguising the anxiety that had suddenly gripped her.  Matthew nodded, and strode down the hall toward the examination room.  Michaela paused for a moment outside Sully’s door, trying to arrange her features into as placid an expression as she could manage, even as perspiration beaded her palms and she wiped them on her apron.  When she thought she had herself under control, she opened the door and stepped back inside.

     Sully looked up at her entrance, a curious expression on his face.

     “I apologize for the interruption,” Michaela said.

     “No need.  Everythin’ all right?” he asked, detecting something in her manner, despite her casual tone.

     “Yes—everything’s fine,” Michaela lied, slightly unnerved by his perception.  “However—something has come up that requires my attention.  It shouldn’t take long, then I’ll return and change your dressing.  You can finish your breakfast in the meantime.”

     “Do what you gotta do,” Sully replied.  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he added with a slight smile.

     Michaela gave him a perfunctory smile in return.  She reached for the door handle, about to let herself out, when Sully spoke again.

     “It ain’t none of my business, but—are you sure you’re all right, Dr. Mike?” he asked, his eyes regarding her shrewdly.

     She faced him again.  “You’re very kind to inquire, but I assure you I’m quite well,” she answered, somewhat taken aback, but also touched by his concern.  “I—simply have a visitor I don’t particularly wish to see,” she explained.  Sully’s brows drew together at her statement.

     “Want me to send him packin’?” he offered.

     “That’s not necessary, Sully,” Michaela said quickly.  “You’re a patient here.  It’s not your responsibility to protect me—not to mention that you’re hardly in any physical condition to do so.”

     “I may not be a hundred percent, but if you need me, I can manage. ‘Sides, there’s nothin’ wrong with my voice,” Sully reminded her.

     “That’s very noble, but I’m afraid your doctor doesn’t think you’re quite up to confrontations just yet,” Michaela said.

     “I admire your gumption, Dr. Mike, but it’s clear this person makes you uncomfortable,” Sully argued.  He hesitated, then added, “Is he causin’ you some kinda trouble?”

     “Truly, Sully, I can handle the situation,” Michaela insisted, perhaps a little more strongly than she had intended.  But then her features softened.  “I *do* appreciate your concern.  But really, there’s no need to worry.

     “I’ll return shortly,” she added, then exited the room before Sully could prolong the conversation further.

    A few moments later she entered the examination room of the clinic.  Custer sat in the chair behind her desk as Matthew stood sentinel, watching him balefully.  At her appearance, the army officer rose with alacrity.

    “Dr. Quinn,” he greeted her with his customary unctuousness.  “A pleasure, as always.”  Michaela’s skin crawled with distaste.

    “I think not,” she said coolly.  The general’s expression was regretful.

    “Despite what you may believe, Doctor, I find this enmity between us truly distressing,” he claimed.  “Regardless of the state of affairs between Mr. Sully and myself, I genuinely bear you no ill will.  In fact, I have nothing but the highest respect for you.”

    “If that is truly the case, General, then you should know that my head will not be turned by empty flattery,” Michaela countered.  “The simple fact is that as long as you continue to bear hostile intentions toward Sully, this ‘enmity between us’—as you characterize it—will continue to exist.

    “And now, since I haven’t much time, I would appreciate it if you would get to the reason for your visit,” she said pointedly.  Custer’s expression altered slightly, his eyes taking on a pugnacious cast that revealed his true state of mind.

    “Very well,” he said smoothly, casting aside his ingratiating manner as if it were a coat he could slip on or take off at will.  His eyes drilled into her.  “I was in the mercantile just now, and heard a most disturbing piece of news—namely, that Mr. Sully had been shot, and that you’re treating him here at the clinic.”

    “That’s true,” she confirmed briefly.

    “I would like to hear everything you can tell me about this incident,” he said..

    “I can tell you nothing,” Michaela replied.  “I was not present when Sully was injured.”

    “But surely Mr. Sully related the details of his experience to you,” the officer persisted.

    “No, he did not,” Michaela stated, boldly meeting the officer’s eyes.  Custer regarded her skeptically.

    “Come now, Doctor—I’m well aware of how close you are to Mr. Sully.  You’re to be married, after all.  In whom else would Mr. Sully confide, if not you?”

    “Nonetheless, General, I am being quite truthful with you.  There was no question of Sully confiding in me, because he was unconscious—suffering not only from a bullet wound, but from a severe case of pneumonia.  It nearly killed him.”

    “But I understand he survived the crisis and is awake now,” Custer noted.

    “Yes, I’m thankful to say that he did survive,” Michaela acknowledged.

    “Then if you cannot tell me what I wish to know, I would like to question him directly,” Custer said, causing her heart to skip a beat.

    “I’m afraid it would do you no good,” she said blandly.

    “And why not?”

    “Because he has no memory of the incident,” she replied.  “It’s quite common after suffering a severe trauma.”

    “I find that rather hard to believe,” Custer said derisively.

    “Believe what you choose,” Michaela said cuttingly.  “But the fact remains that it’s the truth.”

    “Very well,” said Custer.  “But certainly he can tell me what he was doing prior to the incident.  The details could  provide a clue as to how he was shot.”

    “Again, I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Michaela insisted.

    “And why is that?” he asked, a warning note of impatience creeping into his tone.

    “Because Sully’s memory loss is not confined solely to the circumstances of his injury,” she replied.  “Unfortunately, he has suffered a profound loss of memory.  Specifically, he is unable to recall the past three years of his life.”

    Custer stared at her.  For a few seconds there was silence.  Then without warning, he began to laugh.  Michaela stared back, astounded at his callousness.

    “Do you always take such pleasure in the misfortunes of others, Mr. Custer?” she asked coldly.

    The officer shook his head, a few chuckles continuing to escape him.  Finally, wiping his eyes, he brought himself under control.

    “My apologies, Madam,” he managed at last.  “I thought at first that you must be joking.  Now I see that you’re simply gullible or misguided.”

    “I beg your pardon!” Michaela snapped.  Her eyes were livid.

    “Please—do not take offense,” Custer exhorted.  “I’m sure that you have the best of intentions, Dr. Quinn.  I’m even willing to accept that you genuinely believe in this extraordinary claim of Mr. Sully’s.  But come now--*amnesia*?  How incredibly convenient.  Not only can Mr. Sully lie with impunity, but there is absolutely no way to prove whether he’s telling the truth.”

    “Your cynicism does not surprise me, Mr. Custer.  It’s no more than I would expect, given your animosity toward Sully,” she said flatly.  “However, Sully doesn’t need to prove anything,  And I do not need to justify my diagnosis.  I have examined him, and I am completely satisfied that his memory loss is genuine.”

    Custer’s expression grew sinister.  “Well I am not,” he said.  “I wish to speak to Mr. Sully now.”

    “No,” she said.

    “Dr. Quinn, I am not in the habit of being rude to the ‘fairer sex’—but you are sorely trying my patience,” he said ominously.  Michaela’s hands curled into fist at her sides, but somehow she managed to hold onto the shreds of her self-control.

“Your ‘manners’—or lack of them—are not at issue here,” she said icily.  “My only concern is the good of my patient, and I will not have you upsetting him or jeopardizing his recovery.”

“I don’t need your permission!” Custer retorted, raising his voice.

“On the contrary,” she said.  “Sully is my patient, and if it’s my determination that your questions will do him harm, I am completely within my purview to forbid you to see him.”

“And if *I* determine that the information Mr. Sully can provide is vital to a military investigation, I have the right to override your authority,” Custer responded.

“What ‘investigation?’” Michaela challenged.  “Sully is an innocent victim.  He is not under arrest, nor has he been accused of any crime.”

“Mr. Sully’s alleged ‘innocence’ is broadly open to question,” the officer said flatly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Michaela maintained.  “I will simply remind you, Mr. Custer, that this is my property, and I can choose to have you removed if I deem it necessary.”

“And precisely who will remove me?” Custer asked.  “There is no sheriff or other legal authority in this town.”

“I will,” said Matthew sharply.  Custer glanced at him deprecatingly, his expression indicating what he thought of that notion.  His gaze returned to Michaela.

“I intend to get to the bottom of this incident, and I will do whatever I must toward that end,” he threatened.  Michaela finally lost patience.

“Mr. Custer, the only way you will get to Sully is to arrest me and drag me away!” she said hotly.  She stared at him, challenging him to do his worst.

“That’s an interesting idea,” he said.  “Perhaps I’ll do precisely that.”

“Not without cause, you won’t,” Matthew spoke up again, stepping between his mother and the army officer.  “And if you try it, I’ll contact your superiors, and tell them how you intimidated and imprisoned an innocent and defenseless woman.  Not only that, but I’ll make sure the story reaches every newspaper in the country.  We’ll see what’s left of your ‘reputation’ after that,” he finished mockingly.

The silence spun out as Matthew and Custer glared at one another.  But finally, Custer dropped his eyes, and Michaela and Matthew knew that they had won—this round, at least.

“This is not over,” Custer told them after a moment.  “I have reason to believe that Sully was with the Indian, Cloud Dancing—who is a wanted man.  Not only that, but one of my best scouts is missing.  He was last known to have been in the same vicinity as Mr. Sully a few days ago.  If I learn that Sully and his Indian friend had something to do with his disappearance—“

“We don’t know nothin’ about that,” Matthew interrupted.  “And now, far as I can see, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”  He cut his eyes to the door.  “There’s the way out,” he added.

“You may have won this battle—but the war is far from over,” Custer said chillingly, his eyes boring into them both.  Turning on his heel, he left the clinic.

Michaela let out her breath.  “Thank you, Matthew,” she said gratefully.  “For a moment, I thought Custer might actually arrest me.”

“He was just blowin’ smoke,” Matthew answered.  “He knows he ain’t got no proof that Sully did anythin’—and he sure as heck knows he’s got no legal cause to arrest you.  ‘Sides, if he tries to accuse Sully or Cloud Dancin’ of doin’ somethin’ to Bloody Knife, then he’s gotta explain what his scout was doin’ there in the first place.  Custer ain’t about to admit that he ordered Bloody Knife to commit murder.”

“I know you’re trying to put a positive face on things, but I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Matthew,” Michaela said soberly.  “Unfortunately, Cloud Dancing *is* a wanted man.  Custer could always claim that he sent his scout on a legitimate mission to search out and apprehend a fugitive from justice.  Sully’s amnesia prevents him from testifying otherwise.  Cloud Dancing can’t dispute Custer’s claim for fear of being arrested.  And even if Cloud Dancing chose to risk arrest by coming forward, Custer would only say that it’s Cloud Dancing’s word against his.  Not that he’d probably give any credence to what Cloud Dancing says anyway, given his bias toward Indians.”

“But it ain’t like Sully or Cloud Dancin’ killed Bloody Knife,” Matthew objected.  “All Cloud Dancin’ did was knock him out in self-defense.”

“I’m afraid we don’t even know that to be the case,” Michaela pointed out reluctantly.  “It’s true, when Cloud Dancing last saw Bloody Knife, he was merely unconscious.  But Bloody Knife would have been exposed to the elements for an unknown period of time.  We have no way of being sure that the cold didn’t ultimately kill him.  And if he did survive, he could return and claim that Sully and Cloud Dancing attempted to kill him.  He could testify that it was *he* who acted in self-defense.  And how could we prove otherwise?”  She sighed heavily.  “The long and the short of it, is that Custer’s extremely dangerous, Matthew.  We dare not underestimate him.”

“I admit things look bad right now, Ma, but it’ll all work out somehow,” Matthew asserted.  “Custer ain’t gonna get to Sully—or Cloud Dancin’.  We won’t let him.  Just have faith.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear  . . .” said Michaela softly.