Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

Evening

     Mr. Burke removed his hat, and started to extend his hand to Michaela, then hesitated, apparently unsure of the proper etiquette for shaking the hand of a woman being held in the arms of another man.  He finally solved the dilemma by nodding to us instead.  Michaela looked embarrassed.

     “Sully, you should put me down,” she hissed in my ear.

     “You can’t stand,” I protested.

     “I can lean on you,” she whispered back.  Mr. Burke stood by pleasantly, politely trying not to notice our conversation.

     “I’m going to take you inside,” I announced.  “That’s where you should be, anyway.”

     “An inspired suggestion,” Mrs. Quinn stated. “I’m sure we needn’t put on a display for the benefit of the townspeople, Michaela.”

     “Mother, we’re hardly—“ Michaela began irritably.

     “Let’s go inside,” I said hastily.  I carried her through the door, and sat her gently on the examination table.  Mrs. Quinn and Matthew followed us in, with Mr. Burke bringing up the rear.

     “Perhaps we can attempt these introductions again,” suggested Michaela, her cheeks slightly red.  “I apologize for my unorthodox arrival, Mr. Burke—as well as my disheveled appearance.  I’m afraid I turned my ankle when Sully and I were out in the woods—“

     “Please, think nothing of it,” Mr. Burke said quickly.  His smile was infectious.  “I’ve never been one to ‘stand’ on ceremony—if you’ll pardon an atrocious pun,” he added, his eyes twinkling.  Michaela smiled back at him, and I had to grin as well.

     “Well, Mr. Burke, as you’ve certainly gathered by now, I’m Michaela Quinn—and this is Mr. Byron Sully,” Michaela said.

     “Brendan Burke—pleasure,” he said, turning to me and shaking my hand.

     “Call me Sully,” I responded.

     “And please, call me Brendan,” he replied, glancing at Michaela to include her in his request.  “Dr. Quinn, it’s a privilege to meet you,” he addressed her, his eyes cordial.  “Mrs. Quinn has been singing your praises ever since we left Boston.”

     “That must have grown immensely tedious for you all those days crossing the prairie,” Michaela said wryly.  Brendan smiled again.

    “I managed to get through it,” he said.  “But now, having met you, I find I have a bone to pick with my brother.  In all his most lyrical and flattering descriptions of you, he never managed to do you justice.”

    “I think you must be of Irish descent, Mr.—‘Brendan,’” Michaela commented.  “You certainly seem well acquainted with the ‘Blarney stone’.”

    “Just what my mother always used to say,” he remarked.

    Just then Michaela’s eyes widened and she gaped at Brendan.  “Wait—your brother?” she repeated.  “Not—William Burke?”

    Brendan nodded, still smiling.  “One and the same,” he said.  “And I was given strict instructions to present his compliments to you, and give you his warmest regards.”

    “I can’t believe it!” Michaela marveled, her expression surprised and delighted.  “William once mentioned his family to me, but he never said anything about brothers and sisters.”

    “No sisters, unfortunately, but two more brothers—our middle brother, Hugh, and myself, the youngest of the family.”

    “How is William?” Michaela asked eagerly.

    “He’s doing very well—his practice is thriving, and he’s beginning to make quite a name for himself in Boston medical circles,” Brendan replied.

    “I’m so happy to hear it,” she said.  “Did—he ever take a partner?” she added, an odd note in her voice.

    Brendan’s eyes looked knowing.  “No, he never did,” he said after a moment.  “He always claimed that after you, no one else could measure up.”  Michaela blushed again.

    “William was always so generous,” she said, looking embarrassed.  “But I think our—friendship—made it difficult for him to be objective.”

    “That may be so, but one of his favorite stories to tell was the way you cured your mother’s illness with the application of an Indian remedy,” Brendan remarked.  “And I know first hand from your mother that you were responsible for saving her life.”  He glanced at Mrs. Quinn.

    “Absolutely true,” Mrs. Quinn said firmly.  “But if it weren’t for William defying Dr. Hansen, Michaela wouldn’t have been able to help me.  He’s the only man who believed in Michaela and respected her abilities,” she added.

    “The only man besides Sully, Mother,” Michaela pointed out clearly.

    Mrs. Quinn glanced at me.  “Oh—yes,” she said vaguely.  “Forgive me, Mr. Sully—I know you hold my daughter in high esteem.”

    "Yes, I do, Ma’am—Mrs. Quinn,” I spoke up, beginning to get the distinct impression that I was not Mrs. Quinn’s favorite person—at least when it came to my place in Michaela’s life.  But that wasn’t what was foremost on my mind as I listened to the conversation.  I was developing a powerful and ever increasing curiosity about the absent—but most definitely not forgotten—William Burke.

    “I’m so sorry about your injury, Dr. Quinn,” Brendan was saying, perhaps feeling that it would be politic to change the subject.  “I don’t wish to intrude on you now, when you must obviously need rest.  If you could direct me to the hotel in town, I’ll take my leave, and perhaps see you again tomorrow, when you’re more up to receiving visitors.”

    “I think that’s a good idea,” I spoke up again, earning another cool look from Michaela’s ma.  “Michaela took a bad spill—she needs to rest and elevate her ankle.  As far as a hotel, we ain’t got one—but there are rooms for rent at the saloon across the way, or I can take you over to the boardinghouse.”

    , I think we can do better than that, Sully,” Michaela contradicted me.  “There are no other patients staying here in the clinic right now, and I intend to have Mother stay here anyway.  Certainly we can extend our hospitality to include Mr. Burke.”

    “I really don’t wish to intrude,” Brendan said again, with a side-long glance at me.

    “Nonsense,” Mrs. Quinn said flatly.  “You did me the great favor of accompanying me all across the country, Brendan.  I’m hardly about to abandon you to your own devices now—and obviously Michaela concurs with me.  As I’m sure Mr. Sully does, as well?” she said pointedly, staring straight at me.

    “Sure,” I replied half-heartedly after a pause.  “Michaela and her ma are right.  There’s plenty of room here.”

    “Well, if you’re certain—then I accept with pleasure,” Brendan said.

    “I’m glad,” said Michaela.  “I regret that I’m unable to offer you the hospitality of a home-cooked meal this evening,” she went on.  “But our friend Grace, who runs the cafe behind the clinic, is a wonderful cook.  Mother and my children can join you there for dinner—Sully too,” she added.

    “I’m sure your ma and Brendan will understand that I want to stay here with you,” I said, directing my words to Michaela, but looking at Mrs. Quinn.  She seemed none too pleased, but—evidently deciding she couldn’t do anything about it—she remained silent.

    “Of course,” Brendan spoke up in her stead.  “Tell me, can we bring you anything?” he offered to Michaela.

    “Thanks—but I’ll see that Michaela gets what she needs,” I said smoothly.  A moment later, realizing that I’d no doubt sounded rude, I softened my remark by adding, “You must be tired and hungry.  That trip by stagecoach ain’t easy.”

    “I’ve had worse,” Brendan said briefly, not elaborating.  “But you’re right—a hot meal would be very welcome about now.”

    “That reminds me, Brendan—you never mentioned your occupation.  Are you a physician like your brother?” Michaela asked.

    He shook his head, his eyes rueful even as his mouth curved into a smile.  “I’m afraid I was never attracted to the medical arts,” he replied.  “Fortunately, in William my mother got the doctor in the family that she’d always wanted, and my brother Hugh made my father happy by following him into the family business.  Which left me free to be the ‘black sheep’ of the clan.”

    “That sounds quite intriguing,” Michaela commented.  “I’d love to hear more.”

    “Well, for what it’s worth, I’ll be happy to tell you—but I think that’s a conversation best left for another time,” said Brendan.

    “I’ll look forward to it—when you join us for dinner at the homestead tomorrow evening,” Michaela told him.  He looked as if he were about to protest, but before he could she added, “My ankle will be much improved by tomorrow, and my daughter Colleen is also a wonderful cook.  We insist—don’t we, Sully?  Mother?” she said, glancing at each of us.

    “Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Quinn, looking noticeably more pleased.

    “Whatever Michaela says,” I concurred after a pause.

    “Well, if you’re absolutely certain I’d be no trouble . . .” Brendan said slowly.  “Then I accept, with thanks.”

    “I’ll take you over to the café, and then go fetch Colleen and Brian,” Matthew offered.  After a few more parting words and then a flurry of good-byes,  the three of them finally left, and Michaela and I were alone again.

    “I’ll get you settled in bed, and then get your supper from Grace’s,” I said.

    “What’s wrong, Sully?” Michaela asked, fixing me with her eyes as if I were a butterfly stuck on the head on a pin.

    “Nothing’s wrong,” I said quickly, looking away.

    “Are we going to resume our engagement with a lie?” she said softly.

    I bit my lip, ashamed of the thread of jealousy I was feeling, but not quite able to let it go.  I looked her in the eyes.

    “Who’s William Burke?” I said finally.  “And what’s he got to do with you?”

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

     Michaela came outside, somehow having the presence of mind not to slam the door behind her, and then stumbled off the porch, blindly making her way to the wagon as hot tears welled in her eyes.  Shrouded in her misery and vision obscured, she didn’t notice the dark form which detached itself from the shadowy recesses of the saloon porch.  With a few long strides, the tall figure stepped into the street and moved to intercept her.  Michaela nearly collided with him as he emerged into the pool of light cast by the lanterns outside the clinic.

     “Trouble in paradise, Michaela?” Hank said, looking down at her impudently.

     Startled, Michaela swallowed hard and hastily brushed a hand across her eyes.  “It’s late, Hank and I’m tired.  I really don’t have the strength to deal with your barbs this evening,” she said, trying to step around him.  The cocky expression vanished from Hank’s face and he peered at her more closely.  Simultaneously he gripped her arm.

     “Hold on—not so fast,” he told her.  “What’s the matter?”

     “Please—just let me go,” Michaela protested, not meeting his eyes.

     “In the state you’re in?  I don’t think so,” the saloon-keeper replied.  “You’d probably run your wagon right off the road.”

     “I assure you I’m fine, and perfectly capable of making my way home—“ Michaela began haughtily, and then broke off as a fresh wave of tears scalded her eyes and slipped down her cheeks.  Hank gazed at her with something approaching sympathy.

     “Yeah, I can see that,” he said.  He released her arm, then untied the bandanna from around his neck and offered it to her.  She hesitated a moment, then accepted it and dabbed at her eyes.

     “Somethin’ happen with Sully?” he asked after a pause.

     “I really can’t go into it,” she resisted, trying to bring herself under control.

     “Come on, Michaela,” Hank countered.  “It’s obvious somethin’s botherin’ ya.  I saw you and Sully together a few minutes ago and he looked fine, so it must be somethin’ else.  You’ll feel better if ya talk about it.”

     “To you?” Michaela asked, regarding him with a jaundiced eye.

     Hank had the grace to look slightly abashed.  “All right, I know I ain’t your favorite person, and I been givin’ ya kind of a hard time lately about Sully.  But I can be a good listener, too.  Why don’t ya give me a try?”

     Despite her mood, Michaela was almost tempted to laugh at the thought of telling her troubles to Hank, of all people.  “Of the many ways our relationship could be characterized, Hank, being ‘confidantes’ is not the description I would pick,” she said flatly.

     “Maybe not, but I don’t see anyone else here,” Hank pointed out.  “Ya know what they say—any port in a storm.  Hey,” he added in a more gentle tone, peering into her face.  “Ya need to talk about it, Michaela.  Keepin’ it all inside don’t do ya no good.”  He reached out and took her arm again.  “Come on,” he said, starting to lead her across the street.

     “Hank!  What are you doing?” she protested, pulling back.
 “Just for once will ya go along without arguin’ or askin’ a whole lotta questions?” he said as they headed toward the saloon.

     “Hank, I have no intention of going into the saloon—“ Michaela tried again, but broke off as he guided her around the porch of the building and toward the rear.

     “Calm down,” he placated her.  “Nobody’s gonna see ya.”  He led her to a back entrance wreathed in shadows.  They entered, and Michaela found herself in a dimly lit hallway, with doors opening off to either side.  Hank opened one of the doors, and they stepped into a small room, sparsely furnished with an iron bedstead, a washstand, a bureau that had seen better days, and a single chair against the wall.  The only attempt at decoration was a pencil drawing of a beautiful, raven-haired woman that hung above the bed.  Michaela recognized it as the sketch Hank’s son Zack had drawn of his late mother Clarice.  With a start, she realized that she’d never been in Hank’s room before, and that she really knew very little of him beyond the sardonic mask he always presented to the world.  Only once had she seen behind the cockiness and the bluff—when he had reacted so violently to the idea of Myra marrying Horace, getting drunk and accosting Myra with a gun so that Sully had been forced to knock him out to prevent a possible tragedy.

     Hank’s head wound had been more serious than anyone realized, made worse by the fact that he had refused to allow Michaela to examine and treat him.  Instead, he had spewed harsh words at her, and she had responded in kind, disturbed to the core that somehow Hank had seen through her defenses to the insecurities within.  But it wasn’t till Hank had lapsed into a coma, and she had feared that he might die, that she had been able to be open with him and confess her failings--as well as admitting to him that there were things about his character which she admired, most notably his uncompromising honesty.  And when, defying the odds, Hank had awakened at last, Michaela had been shocked to discover that not only was she profoundly relieved, but that she actually felt a genuine affection for the rangy saloon owner.

      the aftermath of that incident, she and Hank had seemed to establish an understanding—if not precisely friendship, at least a mutual acceptance and respect for one another.

     As she stood in Hank’s room now, the sight of the drawing was both a testament and a reminder to her of the more vulnerable part of Hank’s nature, which he so skillfully concealed most of the time, but which he had revealed to her in those unguarded moments after his injury.  She found her attitude softening toward him, and she allowed herself to relax slightly.

     “Make yourself comfortable,” Hank said, gesturing toward the bed.  Michaela looked at him askance.  “I ain’t gonna accost ya, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” he said, noting her expression.  He shrugged.  “I just meant—take a load off.”

     “I know,” Michaela said.  “It’s just that—it’s not exactly proper.”

     Hank eyed her.  “Michaela, in ‘spite o’ all your fancy Boston ways and talk, the one thing you
*ain’t*--is ‘proper.’”  To his surprise, instead of looking offended, she appeared amused.

     “Strangely enough, I believe you mean that as a compliment, Hank,” she remarked.  “So I’ll take it as such.”  The corners of Hank’s eyes crinkled as he grinned.

     “See—we understand each other better than ya thought.”  Michaela allowed herself a small, answering smile, and then, a trifle self-consciously, she seated herself on the edge of the bed.

     “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Hank said.  He reached into a box sitting on a shelf above the washstand and withdrew a cigar, lighting it with a match from a smaller adjacent box.  Taking the chair from the wall, he turned it so it faced toward him.  He seated himself, wrapping his long legs around the legs of the chair and resting his arms on the backrest.  “So what’s the trouble?” he asked, looking at her disconcertingly, the cigar propped between his fingers.

     Michaela’s momentarily benign feeling promptly fled, as she was reminded of her confrontation with Sully.  Looking down at her lap, she suddenly realized that she still held the telegram crumpled in one hand, along with Hank’s soggy bandanna.  As she thought again of how Sully had taken the telegram from the homestead, and how close he had come to learning the truth, a shiver inadvertently escaped her.  Hank took it in.

     “Yer shakin’,” he said.

     “It’s—chilly in here,” Michaela said unconvincingly.

     “It ain’t that cold,” Hank stated.  He clenched the cigar between his teeth, then stood up and went to the bureau in the corner.  Sliding open the bottom drawer, he withdrew a bottle.  From the top of the chest he took a glass, giving it a cursory swipe with a washrag.  He set the glass down, then uncorked the bottle and upended it, filling the glass nearly to the rim.

     e walked over to her, holding out the double shot of whiskey.  “Drink it,” he said.

     “Hank—“ Michaela protested, shaking her head.

     “Go on,” he insisted.  “It’ll make ya feel better.”  Michaela eyed the amber liquid in the glass warily.  “Drink it,” Hank repeated more softly.  After a moment, she took the glass with her free hand, her nose wrinkling slightly at the pungent aroma.  Tentatively she took a sip, coughing and gasping a moment later as the potent liquor burned her throat.  She could see Hank grinning through the tears in her eyes.

     Drink all of it—down the hatch,” he said.  “Pretend it’s medicine.”  Michaela stared at him incredulously; then, without letting herself think, she took a deep breath and drained the glass.  A column of liquid fire slid down her throat, and for a moment she thought she was in danger of bringing it right back up.  Then, as the liquor slowly settled, she was conscious of a strong sensation of warmth spreading through her, starting in the pit of her stomach and flowing upward through her torso and then out along her limbs to the tips of her fingers and toes.  She felt the tension in her body ebb and her depression recede as she was bathed in a mild alcoholic haze.

     Hank watched Michaela visibly relax as the liquor took hold.  “Better?” he said after a moment.

     “I—can’t believe I’m saying this—but yes,” she admitted.

     “Not all cures come out of a pill bottle,” Hank observed.

     “So it would seem,” she answered, enjoying the fuzzy, disembodied feeling that had started to come over her.  “Is there any more of this?” she asked, holding out her glass.  Hank refilled it without comment, then puffed quietly on his cigar as she sipped the smoky liquid.

    “You feel like talkin’ now?” he asked finally.

     “There’s nothing I can say,” she answered after a pause.  “I can’t discuss Sully’s condition.  It’s confidential—between doctor and patient.”  She took another swallow of the whiskey.  Hank’s face seemed to float in front of her eyes, his features slightly blurry.  She squinted to bring him into focus.

     “I don’t think it’s Sully’s ‘condition’ that’s got your knickers in a twist,” Hank commented.

     "Hank," she said reprovingly, mildly startled by his use of vernacular.

      “All I meant was, it ain’t Sully gettin’ shot and all that’s got ya so upset,” Hank explained. “It’s got somethin’ to do with that memory thing of his, don’t it?” he added.  “Somethin’ happened between the two o’ ya that’s eatin’ ya up inside.”

     Michaela tried to keep a clear head and resist Hank’s questions, but the glow of the alcohol was making it increasingly difficult.  With a concerted effort, she attempted to shake off the influence of the whiskey.

     “What happens between Sully and myself—should be private,” she said.

     “I ain’t askin’ ya to give away any secrets—I’m just offerin’ to listen if ya want to get somethin’ off your chest,” Hank told her.

     Michaela studied Hank through the liquor-induced haze that surrounded her.  He seemed sincere, but she retained just enough self-possession to recognize how easy it would be to let the alcohol loosen her tongue.  As shocked and angry as she was at Sully for what he’d done—and as apprehensive as she was that he was on the verge of learning the truth—still, she could not betray his confidence, even to gain a measure of consolation for herself.

     “Let’s just say—Sully did something that distressed me, and he came very close to learning something about his memory loss which I’d been keeping from him,” she said at last.

     “Ya mean you been lyin’ to him?” Hank asked.  He didn’t sound judgmental—only curious.

     “Not precisely,” Michaela answered, looking down at the crumpled telegram in her hand.  She set her glass aside, then slowly she pulled the paper open, laying it flat on her lap and smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could.  She folded it carefully, then looked up at the saloon keeper.  “Anything I’ve kept from Sully has been for his own good,” she went on, realizing that she was trying to convince herself as much as Hank.  “There are—certain things—that he’s just not ready to hear, for many reasons.  If—he learns these things too soon—I’m afraid it could do him damage.  I just can’t risk that, Hank.  And this—particular thing that he nearly found out—might do the worst damage of all.”

     Hank puffed in silence, a ribbon of blue smoke from his cigar spiraling lazily up to the ceiling.  Presently he said, “I’m guessin’ he read somethin’ he wasn’t ‘sposed to?”  He nodded toward the telegram.

     “He—found something he wasn’t supposed to see,” she clarified.  “He was tempted to read it, but at the last moment, his integrity wouldn’t allow him to violate my privacy, and he gave it back.”

     “Were ya mad that he took it?” Hank said perceptively.

     “Yes,” she admitted after a pause.  “I couldn’t understand what would possess him to do such a thing.”  She reached for her glass again, draining the contents.

     “’Spose I can see that,” Hank allowed.  “But—would ya have been as mad if it were just a shoppin’ list or somethin’—‘stead o’ somethin’ that could cause trouble?”

     “Well, stealing is never right,” Michaela declared.

     “That’s easy to say—but there are all kinds of reasons why people do the things they do,” Hank commented.  “Remember when Matthew helped that brother of Ingrid’s steal Olive’s cow?  We were ready to string the kid up, but you defended him.  Ya said he was desperate—that he stole to feed his family.  Ya didn’t think stealin’ was wrong then.”

     “That’s true,” Michaela acknowledged.  “But those were very different circumstances.”

     “Maybe—maybe not,” said Hank.  “Maybe Sully thought he had a good reason too, for doin’ what he did.  Or it could be that gettin’ shot did more than just affect his memory.  Maybe it shook him up in other ways, too, so he wasn’t thinkin’ clear when he took that paper from you.”

     Michaela had to acknowledge that there was merit in what Hank said.  Though she believed she had observed Sully long enough to conclude that his ordeal hadn’t altered his personality or his moral code, she couldn’t say with absolute certainty that it might not have affected his judgement—if only temporarily.

     However, though she couldn’t say it aloud to Hank, deep inside she thought she already knew what Sully’s motivation had been.  With each successive time they were together, it was increasingly obvious to Michaela that Sully was developing stirrings of feelings for her.  It wasn’t anything to do with the way he conducted himself around her—in fact, his behavior had always been scrupulously polite and proper.  Yet the emotional connection between them left no doubt in Michaela’s mind that the attraction was there, and real.  In several unguarded moments, she had caught him looking at her in a way that was decidedly *not* casual.  And the conversation they’d had after reading poetry to one another had been even more of an indication of his feelings.  Sully had expressed great curiosity about David, and had even gone so far as to ask her if she’d ever been in love.  The strongest and most shocking proof, however, had been Sully’s words to her just before she’d fled.  Not only had he deduced that there had been another man in her life--but he’d managed to infer that she’d chosen this unknown man over David.  The only thing Sully had yet to realize was that *he* was the man.  And it was very clear to her now that he was on the cusp of learning the truth.

      Michaela also knew in her heart that it was just a matter of time before Sully was compelled to articulate his attraction for her.  She just didn’t know what she would do when that moment finally arrived.

     Hank was watching her.  "Maybe--ya ain't so much mad, as scared," he said unexpectedly, startling her with his insight.  "Maybe you’re afraid of how Sully’ll react if he finds out the truth, whatever it is—‘specially if he finds out some other way than from you.”

     “I—hate keeping things from Sully,” Michaela said slowly after a moment.  “You have no idea how hard it’s been, protecting him, pretending . . .”

     “That ya don’t love him?” Hank finished.

     Her head snapped up.

 “Relax,” Hank added hastily.  “I ain’t gonna give ya away.  But looks to me like you gotta make a decision—whether holdin’ back from Sully is really gonna help him in the long run—or whether it would be better to just tell him the truth—all of it—and go on from there.  Maybe you should just get it over with, Michaela.  It’s clear ya ain’t gonna be happy till ya work through this thing one way or the other.”

 “I—don’t know—I’m not sure . . .” she ventured, suddenly feeling very weary—and not entirely from the effects of the whiskey.

 “Well, you think about it,” Hank advised.  He dropped the butt of his cigar to the floor, pulverizing it beneath his heel.

 “Did you mean it?” Michaela asked suddenly, commanding his attention.

 “What?” he said, disconcerted by the intense expression in her eyes.

 “What you said at the meeting the other night—about Sully not being able to settle down?”

 Hank felt a rush of regret at taunting her the way he had.  “Michaela, I was just havin’ fun—I didn’t mean nothin’ by it . . .”

 “No, I think you were serious,” she persisted.  “And why not?  Sully’s been on his own for a long time.  Perhaps—it’s asking too much for him to give all that up and change his entire way of
life . . .”  Her voice drifted off, but then her eyes sought Hank’s again.

 “Did you mean it?” she repeated more softly.

 Hank stared at her for a moment, then shrugged.  “I don’t know, Michaela—and that’s the truth.  Maybe you’re right—maybe Sully ain’t the type to settle down no more.

“But I’ll say this,” he added.  “If there’s anyone Sully’d be willin’ to change his whole life around for—it’d be you.”

 “Thank you, Hank,” she said quietly.  “That was kind.”

 “Yeah, well, don’t let it get around that I’m such a ‘prince’ of a fella,” he said.  “Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

 “I’ll keep your secret—if you keep mine,” Michaela told him, smiling slightly.

 “Deal,” Hank agreed, cocking an eyebrow and regarding her approvingly.  “For now, though, guess I’d better be gettin’ ya home.”

 “You don’t have to do that,” Michaela protested.  “I can—make it back on my own.”  Her words were beginning to sound the slightest bit slurred.

 “Sure ya can,” Hank said knowingly.  “But I’m gonna drive ya anyway.”  He reached out his hand to her to help her up.

 “How will—you get home?” Michaela asked, blinking at him as he lifted her to her feet.  Had the light suddenly become much brighter in here, she thought vaguely.

 “I’ll walk back—ain’t far—“ Hank began, then grabbed her as she suddenly swayed.  She stumbled and fell against him.  “Whoa—easy does it!” he cautioned, holding her upright.  Michaela put a hand to her forehead.

 “My head is spinning,” she gasped.  Hank put his arm around her back, supporting her.

 “Yer all right,” he said mildly.  “Just take a few deep breaths.  You’ll feel better once ya get some fresh air.”  Moving slowly, Michaela clinging heavily to him, Hank guided them both out of the saloon.  They made their way to the wagon, and Hank lifted her up onto the bench.  He joined her on the driver’s box, taking the reins.

 “I have to be getting home—the children will be wondering . . .” Michaela murmured, then promptly passed out, her head on Hank’s shoulder.  He grinned into the darkness as they headed out of town.