Tuesday, 27 March, 1870

Evening

     She settled back in my arms.  “It all started a year and a half ago, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, when I received a telegram from my oldest sister Rebecca stating that my mother was gravely ill,” she began.

     “I’m sorry, Michaela,” I said sympathetically.  “That must have been real upsetting for you.”

     “Upsetting, yes—and shocking,” she replied.  “My mother had always been so strong, so resilient.  I suppose I’d come to believe that she was invulnerable.  Hearing that she was ill—perhaps dying—well, I confess it turned my world upside down.”

     “I can understand that,” I said, thinking of Michaela’s ma—the society woman with the core of iron sheathed beneath a silken veneer.  I barely knew her, yet it was hard to imagine anything getting the best of that implacable will.

     “Naturally I made immediate plans to travel to Boston,” Michaela went on.

     “Of course,” I said.  “Did you take the kids?”

     “Oh yes,” she replied.  “Though Matthew, in particular, expressed reluctance to go.  Not that he didn’t care about Mother—he just didn’t want to leave Ingrid,” she explained.

     “I can sympathize with him there,” I commented.  “If it had been me, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave you, either.”

     “I sympathized with him as well, but I wanted my family to meet my children,” Michaela said.  “And—I needed the children with me—for emotional support.”

     “Sure you did,” I said softly, lifting her hand to my lips and kissing the palm.

    “The children were very concerned about Mother, as well,” she added.  “They had come to know and love her when she visited here shortly after the influenza epidemic.  In fact it was Matthew, fearing the worst, who had wired her when I became ill.  Of course by the time she arrived, I had long since recovered.”

     “I’m surely glad about that,” I said softly, kissing her temple.  She smiled up at me.

     “It was only thanks to you and Cloud Dancing that I *did* get well,” she said earnestly.

     “And it was thanks to you and Cloud Dancing that *I* got well,” I countered.  “Guess that makes us even.”

     “And we both owe a great debt to Cloud Dancing,” she said.

    I nodded in agreement, then added after a moment, “Go on with your story.”  She took up the thread again.

     “I confess Mother’s illness had shaken me, so I wasn’t thinking very clearly before we left,” she said.  “In fact, at one point, I broke down.  But that’s when you came to my rescue.”

     “Me?” I asked in surprise.  “What did I do?”  She gave me a loving smile.

     “You comforted me,” she said softly.  “You reminded me that I’d had the fortitude to come west all alone to forge a new life and build my own practice.  You seemed convinced that the same courage which had served me on that journey, would serve me again in facing my mother’s illness.”

     “And I bet I was right,” I said, gazing at her with admiration.  She blushed slightly.

     “I don’t know about that, but you have no idea how much your faith meant to me—how much it helped me,” she said.

     “Really?” I said, moved.

     “Really,” she repeated.  “And there was something else about our conversation that touched me as well.”

     “What’s that?” I asked, smiling down at her.

    “You told me about your past,” she said quietly.  “How you were born on board a ship bound from England to America . . .  And how you—lost your parents later, and came out west on your own while just a child . . .  I knew what a private person you were—that it wasn’t easy for you to talk about yourself.  So I felt even more honored that you were willing to share that part of yourself with me.”

    “I wasn’t able to open up to many people, that’s true,” I said.  “Especially after Abagail died.  I didn’t want to talk to people—I didn’t want to be with anyone.  Then Cloud Dancing and the Cheyenne took me in.  They managed to break through the wall I’d built up around myself.  They made me feel safe.  But they were the only people I trusted—till you came along.”  I looked at her meaningfully.

    “Do you remember our conversation before I left for Boston—or possibly something else about us?” she asked quickly.

    “I don’t recall that particular talk you’re describing,” I said.  “But the rest of it—you and me . . .”  My voice drifted off for a moment, but then I took a deep breath.

    “I got a confession to make, Michaela,” I said, feeling ashamed but forcing myself to look her in the eyes.  “When I first read the telegram, and realized that I was the man you loved, something happened.  I—saw something.  I ain’t sure if what I had was a vision—or whether it was actual memories of the two of us.  But I had the feeling that I was remembering times that we’d spent together.”

    “Yes, I recall,” she said, her eyes kindling in recognition.  “I could see in your eyes that something had happened, and I asked you whether you’d remembered something—“

    “And I lied to you,” I finished.  “I’m sorry, Michaela.  That was wrong.  More than that, it was cruel.”

    “You were shocked, and you were angry,” she said quietly.  “I don’t hold you to blame for your reaction, Sully.  Besides, we’ve put all that behind us now.  Please don’t continue to punish yourself by dwelling on it.”

    “I’m grateful you’ve forgiven me,” I told her.  “But it’s going to take a little longer for me to forgive myself.”

    “As long as you know that as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to forgive,” she said, kissing me gently.

    I returned the kiss.  “Thank you,” I whispered.

    “Can you tell me exactly what it was you saw?” she asked, bringing me back to the memories that had flickered through my mind in the aftermath of her revelation.

    I closed my eyes, replaying the pictures in my mind.  The passage of several hours hadn’t dimmed my recollection of them—on the contrary, each image seemed to burst upon my consciousness with intense vividness and clarity.

    “First, I saw you,” I began slowly.  “It was kind of a funny sight, actually.  It looked like you were in the street outside, and you were wearing a fancy violet dress, but—you were laying face down in the mud, like maybe you took a spill—“  I broke off as I heard a soft chuckle escape her.  “What?” I said.

    “That was the first day I arrived in Colorado Springs—and the first time we ever saw one another,” she replied, half in embarrassment, half in delight.  “Well, actually, to be more precise, it was the first time you saw me.  The Reverend was in shock that I wasn’t a man, and I was busy trying to convince him that he shouldn’t ship me back to Boston on the first stagecoach going east, and—just as you said—I slipped in the mud and fell flat on my face!”

    “Did you get hurt?” I asked.  She smiled ruefully.

    “Only my dignity,” she answered.  “Unfortunately, though I didn’t know it at the time, you were watching me from the meadow, along with Black Kettle and several of the Cheyenne.  I can only imagine what you must have thought.”

    “That you were a ‘crazy white woman?’” I said.  She looked at me sharply.  “When we laid eyes on you that first time, I don’t believe Black Kettle knew what to think.  I suppose I wasn’t entirely sure myself—least at first.”  I grinned a little.  “Then the next day, Charlotte brought you to Loren’s store to post your notice  advertising for lodgings. When I offered to rent you the homestead, I learned you were the new doctor.  The following Sunday when you came into town for church, Black Kettle and me saw you again, and he asked me who you were.  I said you were a medicine woman from the east,” I went on, the recollection becoming clear in my mind even as I spoke.  “He said among the whites, only men made medicine—so that must mean you were a ‘crazy white woman.’

    “But I didn’t think you were crazy—I thought you were beautiful,” I added softly, staring deeply into her eyes.

    “Oh my God,” she whispered.  “You *do* remember, don’t you?”

    “I didn’t—at least not really—until you mentioned how Black Kettle and me were watching you,” I responded.  “Then I heard his voice in my mind, and—it all came back.”  I shrugged, as full of wonderment at this turn of events as she.

    “What about the rest—the other things you saw?” she asked eagerly.

    “Well . . . I saw us together, in some fancy place—a restaurant, I think,” I replied.  “Surely not a place I was accustomed to being in.  You were so lovely, so elegant.  You were wearing this delicate gown of silver and black lace, and there were feathers in your hair . . .  And I was wearing a fancy suit, of all things.  I don’t know where I got it—I never owned anything like that.  We were sipping wine—no, champagne—and we were looking into each other’s eyes . . .”  I shook my head.  “I must have imagined it,” I said.  “I know it don’t make no sense—there ain’t no place around here like that . . .”
“You didn’t imagine it, Sully,” Michaela told me.  Her voice was calm, but her eyes were brimming with suppressed excitement.  “We *did* share that evening together—in Boston.”

    “Boston?” I repeated.  “But I thought you said only you and the children went to Boston.”

    “That’s correct,” she replied.  “You didn’t accompany us on the journey—in fact, you offered to look after the homestead for us until we returned.  But roughly two weeks after we arrived, you suddenly turned up on my mother’s doorstep—just as my entire family was sitting down to a dinner party to celebrate Mother’s recovery.  You told me privately later that you came because you were worried—that we’d been gone so long, you feared something might have happened.  But I had the impression that there was more to it than that—“

    Her voice receded as I saw myself sitting by a campfire in the darkness, a cup cradled in my hands.  Cloud Dancing sat next to me.  We were sipping tea and looking at the stars.

    (“What troubles you, Sully?” asked Cloud Dancing.

      I took a breath.  “Dreams,” I answered.

      “Dreams are the spirits telling us of the past, or of the future,” my brother explained.

      “I dream that I’m in Boston,” I said quietly, staring off into the dark.

      “Where Dr. Mike is,” said Cloud Dancing.

      “Yeah,” I whispered.

      “You have never been there?”

      “Never.”

      “Then it is a dream of the future.”)

    “Next morning, I flagged down the stagecoach, got on board, and followed you east,” I said to Michaela, feeling a strange sense of peacefulness steal over me as the memory came back so clear it was as if I’d never lost it.

    “I can’t believe it!” Michaela said tremulously.  “Your memories—they’re returning, Sully!  This is it—I can feel it.”

    “I—think maybe you’re right,” I agreed.  “It’s just bits and pieces so far, but if you keep helping me—prompting me—I think maybe I’ll get it all back eventually.”

    “Of course I’ll help you!” she exclaimed joyously.  “And it *will* all come back to you—every moment you lost.  You’ve reached a turning point, Sully, and now you’re going to get well—truly, completely well.  Just as when your fever finally broke during your bout with pneumonia, and I knew you would recover.”

    “It’s hard to believe,” I ventured.  “After all these weeks of not being able to remember anything
 . . .  After feeling so—cut off—from everything and everyone around me . . .  I didn’t expect it to be like this—that the memories would come back so easy.  Makes me wonder why it took so long.”

    “I’m not precisely sure,” Michaela said.  “But I believe it’s because in your mind and your heart, you finally feel that it’s ‘safe” to remember.  In the beginning, you believed yourself to be alone, with no one to whom you could turn for comfort and support.  But now that you know we love each other—and that you can always rely upon that love—I think you’ve found the courage to confront your past.”

    “So it all goes back to us loving each other and looking out for one another,” I said.  “It’s like I said earlier, Michaela—as long as I can hold onto that, I can face anything.”  We embraced again.

    “Did you see anything else?” she asked after a few moments, eager to continue the revelations that were coming to me with ever-increasing frequency.

    “Yeah,” I said.  “I saw us in the woods.”  I gave her an impish grin.  “You were sitting on the ground, and you looked kind of dirty . . .  And your hair was tangled, falling down . . .  I was brushing it out.  And—“  I stared off into space, picturing it.  “you’d—you’d hurt yourself—kind of like what happened today.”

    She was nodding again.  “My wrist,” she confirmed.  “When people in town started getting sick from an unknown cause, we discovered that one of the gold mining operations on Willow Creek was contaminating the water supply by dumping mercury into the stream.  We asked the owner, Mr. Harding, to cease operations but he refused to cooperate.  So you and I went on an expedition to obtain samples of the tainted water to use as proof to shut him down.  You didn’t want me to go along on the trip because it was dangerous—“

    “And I thought you’d slow me down,” I finished.  Her smile was like a sudden, bright ray of sunshine.

    “That’s right.  Which made me all the more determined to show you that I could do whatever you could—“

    “But then you fell and broke your wrist!” I said triumphantly.  “You didn’t want me to take care of you, because you didn’t want to admit you needed help—and that’s when I told you to give up old habits.”

    “Yes!” she exclaimed.  “But not before I saved you from the rattlesnake with—“

     mirror,” I said, grinning broadly.  “’A handy little piece of junk’ is what I believe you called it.”

    “Oh, Sully!” she burst out rapturously, wrapping her arms around my neck.  I hugged her close.  As she drew back she said, “I’m so full of joy right now I don’t know if I could hold another drop—but is there anything else that you remember?”

    “One more thing,” I said.  “And it’s something you don’t got to tell me about.”  I cupped her face in my hands.  “I remember you and me, in the sweat lodge.  I remember asking you to marry me.  I remember you saying ‘yes’—the most beautiful word in the whole English language, after the word ‘love.’  And I had them both—I *have* them both,” I amended.  “I’ve got your love, and I’ve got your promise to marry me—which makes me the richest man in the world.”  Tears were running down her cheeks and I kissed them away.  “I love you Michaela,” I whispered.

    “I love you,” she whispered back, and then there was silence between us for a long while.

    Finally we parted, but then a dart of worry stabbed at me as I noted how tired and pinched her face looked.  Her cheeks were still pale and there were lines of pain in her forehead.

    “Michaela,” I reproached her gently.  “You were hurting and you didn’t tell me.”

    “I’m all right—it’s not that bad,” she said quickly.  “I’d much rather keep talking.  It’s so exciting, all the memories that you’re recalling—“

    “Yeah, it’s exciting, but you’re more important right now,” I broke in.  “You’re in pain, and you’re worn out.  You, your ankle *and* your knee—“  I bent to kiss it again.  “all need to rest.”  I smiled at her.  “We got time for the rest of it—sharing more memories, talking about William . . .

    “Michaela, we got all the time in the world.”

* * * * * * * * * *

     I just checked on her—she’s still sleeping, looking as peaceful as an angel.  Me, I can’t sleep.  Too much has happened—too much is still happening.  My mind feels like somebody primed the pump and now the thoughts, the memories are flooding out.

     Maybe this journal is helping me after all.  But it’s not what saved me.

     Michaela did that.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER THIRTY

     Shock rooted Michaela to the spot as the door closed behind Sully.  She felt numb all over—unable to move, to speak—even to think.  A small part of her was dimly grateful that her senses were deadened; she knew that when the numbness wore off, bitter pain would flood in to take its place.

     After what seemed an eternity, she forced herself to move.  She took a few steps forward and bent down to pick up the telegram Sully had callously cast to the floor.  As she held it in her trembling hand, tears slipping down her cheeks fell on the page, blurring and nearly obliterating Sully’s message.  The smears of ink reproached her, seeming like a chilling metaphor of their relationship.  Just as her tears had washed away the written evidence of Sully’s love for her, it seemed that her decision to allow Sully to learn the truth had completely erased the bond between them.

     Michaela had known it wouldn’t be easy to have this conversation with Sully—to admit that she’d been holding things back from him.  She had resolved to wait until conditions seemed more favorable to tell him the truth, and she had intended to stick to that resolution.  But when Sully confessed his attraction to her—when he admitted that the thought of another man competing for her affection had made him realize that he loved her—Michaela’s determination to remain silent had crumbled.  She didn’t have the heart to keep the truth from Sully any longer.  More, she didn’t think she could go through another day of pretending.  She wanted—she needed—Sully to know about their love, as much as she believed he deserved to know.  Hank’s advice to make a clean breast of things also kept echoing in her mind, seeming to gain more validity the more she thought about it.  And so, finally, she had given the telegram to Sully—insisting that he read it, and praying that he would understand that her actions had been in his best interest, and not an attempt to deceive him.

    As much as Michaela had hoped for Sully’s understanding and forgiveness, realistically she  expected that he might be shocked, or even resentful,to learn that she’d been hiding the truth from him about their love.  Still, she hadn’t been prepared for the extremity of his anger, the venom of his response.  Over and over, his words replayed themselves in her mind, clanging and echoing like a gong reverberating atonally through her skull:  “I’m a fool . . .  You must have had some laugh at my expense . . . Poor, pathetic Sully—too dumb to figure out that the woman doctor takin’ care of him is the woman who loves him.  No—the woman who’s been lyin’ to him . . . I’m a fool . . .  You must have had some laugh . . .the woman who’s been lyin’ to him . . . lyin’ to him . . . lyin’ to him . . .”  Relentlessly the words repeated, drilling into her mind and heart with a pain that totally eclipsed the throb of her headache and the queasiness in her stomach.  For a brief moment, she had an intense desire for the anesthesia of  whiskey once again—anything to blot out the torment she was feeling.  And on the heels of that thought was relief—that there was no liquor in the house, and thus no way that she could give in to such a destructive impulse a second time.

     Michaela sank down at the table, burying her face in her hands.  What was she to do now?  How did she go about mending the terrible rift between Sully and herself?  She would jump on Flash and go in search of Sully in a heartbeat, throwing herself on his mercy if that’s what it took—if she thought he would be willing to listen.  But his words had been ominously clear as he’d left her:  “I think maybe it’s me who can’t talk to you no more,” he’d said, the expression in his eyes as frigid, as wintry, as the snowstorm that had raged the day Cloud Dancing brought him back here to the homestead.

     She realized it was possible that Sully’s anger and resentment had been just his immediate response—a gut reaction to the shock of her revelation.  Given time, hopefully his temper would cool and he would be more receptive to working out their conflict.  At least, he might be willing for her to approach him again to talk about their problems.

    After all, Sully had been hurt and angry before--such as when he'd overheard William Burke propose to her in Boston and demanded to know whether she intended to accept—but she had refused to tell him, claiming it was “none of his business.”  Sully had stalked away from her then, going straight back to her mother’s house to pack his things and then head to the train to return to Colorado Springs.  She had been forced to go after him, finding him in his berth just as the train was about to depart.  They’d had it out, in a sharp exchange of words—but then miraculously, their confrontation had resulted in Sully admitting, for the first time, that he loved her.  She hadn’t been able to respond because the train started to leave and she’d had to hastily disembark.  But later, upon her arrival in Colorado Springs, all their previous discord had been forgotten as she’d run into his waiting arms, declaring that she loved him, too.

     Sully also had reacted negatively when her former fiance David had returned, and Michaela had been put in the agonizing position of being forced to choose between two men she loved.  In the year that had passed, Michaela knew that she had convinced Sully that her heart belonged solely to him.  But at the time, the anger and betrayal he’d felt when she’d asked David not to leave, had been very real indeed.  Yet somehow, she and Sully had managed to work through this conflict as well.  Because in the end, Sully had wanted her to be happy—even if that meant her finding happiness with someone else.  Sully’s willingness to sacrifice his happiness for her sake, had convinced Michaela that their love was genuine and true, and not the pale echo of a former affection, which was all that remained of her past with David.

     The rancor that had existed between Sully and herself during each of these occasions had been acutely painful to them both.  And Michaela had spent more than one sleepless night in each case wondering whether she and Sully would be able to work out their differences.  But even when she’d been at her lowest point, she had never had the sense, as she ominously had now, of things falling so completely apart—slipping through her fingers like sand drizzling through an hour-glass, each grain a moment of time escaping, never to be recaptured.

     She had always been able to go to Sully before—to express her feelings and opinions, even when she thought he would disagree.  And he had always been willing to listen.  But this time . . .  Michaela didn’t know if she could find the words, or even the courage, to try to fix what was wrong between them.  Perhaps Sully’s ordeal had harmed more than this mind—perhaps it had also damaged their relationship too severely for it to ever be rebuilt.  But if that was true, how would she endure it?  How would she keep going on, getting up every day and putting one foot in front of the other?  Somehow, for the children’s sake, she would have to find a way.  But it would mean learning to live without a heart, because hers would be crushed beyond repair.

     Michaela stood up suddenly, flinching as her headache flared from the sharp movement. She needed fresh air—she needed to get away from this place, where the memory of her bitter exchange with Sully was still so immediate and piercing.

    She would ride to the new homestead.  Sully didn’t know of its existence; therefore it would be a place of refuge for her.  Another thread of disquiet went through her, as she was reminded that she had yet to tell Sully of their engagement, or that he had built a new home for them.  At some point, she would have to tell him all of it.

    But for now, her overtaxed mind couldn’t take on the burden of worrying about his reaction to the rest of the truth.  She needed comfort and solitude to rest and to think.  The new homestead would provide that for her.  Its spaciousness and beauty lifted her spirits, and gave her a sense of peace.  Standing inside the house was like being embraced in Sully’s arms, since he had put so much of himself—his entire heart and soul—into its creation.  It had never been just a place to live, but a testament to their love, and a promise for their future.  That promise was in jeopardy now, but Michaela hoped that she could still recapture a shred of the serenity that had always been the homestead’s gift to her.

    Perhaps the ride would help to clear her head.  And being at the homestead might even give her  inspiration for a way to reach Sully, and win his forgiveness.

    Resolved, Michaela made ready to leave.

* * * * * * * * * *

     She found herself outside without quite knowing how she’d got there.  All she could see in her mind’s eye was the glimmer of her engagement ring as she’d slipped it off the chain and thrust it at Sully, insisting that he take it.  And his stunned and ashen expression as he’d resisted her gesture, stammering that he didn’t want it back.  She’d come very close in that moment to confessing how she truly felt—that it was breaking her heart to end the engagement—that she would do anything rather than leave him.

    But she was haunted by the words he’d flung at her shortly after he’d shocked and surprised her at the homestead—that he didn’t know if he could ever trust her again.  And despite his apparent remorse after she’d finally given vent to all the misery that had been building up inside her for so long—still, Michaela couldn’t accept that he was sincere.  Sully had raised the issue of doubt.  He had questioned her veracity, and her motives.  And once he’d expressed those feelings, she could not dismiss them—even though he appeared to regret his words afterward, looking as if he wished he could take them back.

    For so long Michaela had lived with the fear that it would be Sully’s inability to remember their relationship which would finally lead to its collapse.  But she had never expected—never even considered—that it would be her own reluctance to commit to Sully, for fear of taking advantage of his condition, which would ultimately be their undoing.

    She had won the battle, but lost the war.  She had succeeded in making Sully physically well, but her attempts to heal his damaged memory had been a disaster.  And both of them had been the losers.

    Michaela untied Flash’s reins from the hitching post and boosted herself into the saddle.  Slowly she guided the spirited little horse down the drive away from the homestead, her eyes blind to the scenery around her; her mind and ears filled solely with the sight and sound of Sully’s face and voice as he’d hurled rancorous words toward her.

    (“I don’t get it, Michaela . . .How could you claim to love me—how could you agree to share my life and let me build a home for us—and then be willin’ to hurt me this way? . . .  You must have loved David too . . .  Or are you in the habit of gettin’ engaged to men and then turnin’ around and betrayin’ them? . . .  Did you throw over some other man when you took up with David? . . .  Lies are cruel, Michaela.  They hurt people.   And sometimes they destroy their lives . . .Seems like the only person you been worried about protectin’ is yourself . . .”)

    Nothing she’d tried to say in her own defense had made any difference.  She had committed the unpardonable sin—she had breached his trust.  A trust that was still new and fragile—at least from Sully’s  perspective.  But a trust that was no less valid simply because it was a product of their altered friendship.  Michaela knew that to Sully, the virtues of honor, integrity and honesty mattered above all else.  He tried to live his life according to these precepts, and he had always respected her for attempting to do the same.  But she had disappointed him.  She had tarnished the image he had of her, and she wondered if she would ever be able to return to her original shining brightness in his eyes.

    Michaela’s headache suddenly throbbed with a vengeance, and simultaneously her stomach lurched.  She had just enough time to dismount and stumble into the bushes beside the road before bringing up the remains of the willow bark tea which had rested so fitfully inside her.  Almost immediately her stomach was empty, but she continued to retch, as if her body were punishing her as much as her mind.  Finally, exhausted, she crawled over to the base of a tree and braced herself against it, blotting at the sweat on her face and neck with the hem of her skirt.

    Something told her that this time, her nausea hadn’t been the result of her foolish consumption of whiskey.  This time, she knew, her illness resulted from a much sadder cause.  She was sick with grief.  And desolately, she wondered if she would ever recover.

* * * * * * * * *

     Michaela fell into an uneasy doze, but the shadows passing over her face as the sun moved across the sky soon roused her.  It was already early afternoon; somehow she had to pull herself together and go to the clinic.  Perhaps if she could throw herself into work, she could manage to put her heartbreak over Sully out of her mind temporarily.  At the very least, maybe she could improve the quality of someone else’s life, even if her own was in tatters.

     She wondered if Sully had returned to the clinic—instinctively she doubted that he would.  Or that if he did, it would only be to collect his few belongings and then be on his way—to where, or what, she had no idea.  For her part, she didn’t know how she was going to face him again.  And she suspected that he felt the same.

     Yet Michaela had to acknowledge that they were bound to run into each other frequently.  It was a small town.  Avoiding one another would be difficult, if not impossible.  Somehow they would have to find a way to live with each other’s existence, and their inevitable periodic encounters.  However as Michaela pictured the days and weeks to come, the thought of the two of them treating each other like strangers—or at best, polite acquaintances—was even more depressing to contemplate than the prospect of not seeing him at all.

     But huddling against a tree and brooding, served no purpose and solved nothing.  She needed to get to work, where perhaps she had a hope of accomplishing something worthwhile.

     Gingerly Michaela rose to her feet, her hand against the tree trunk, fully expecting to be seized by another attack of nausea.  Apparently, however, it had run its course.  She felt weak and wrung-out, but her stomach was quiet, and the relentless pain in her head had subsided to a dull, intermittent throb.  She went to Flash, who waited patiently, and pulled herself up into the saddle.  Nudging her heels into the horse’s sides, she began walking the animal down the road.  After a few moments, she tentatively increased the pace, risking a sedate trot.   Trying to empty her mind of everything but work, Michaela made her way to town.

* * * * * * * * * *

     She was coiling the reins around the rail outside the clinic when Hank came up to her.

     “Afternoon,” he said.

     “Hank!” she said, startled.  After a moment she added, “I—I want to thank you for seeing that I got home last night.  I’m afraid I don’t remember much about the ride to the homestead . . .”

     “Yeah, you were pretty much out cold,” Hank confirmed.  “No thanks necessary—all I did was drive ya out there, then I carried ya inside, laid ya on the bed and covered ya with a quilt.  Ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout anybody seein’ ya—everybody was asleep,” he added.  Michaela breathed a sigh of relief.  She had managed to avoid seeing Matthew and Brian this morning by crawling back into bed and pretending to be asleep. It was bad enough that Colleen had learned of her foolishness—she would have been totally chagrined for Brian or Matthew to find out as well.  Hank studied her.

     “So—gettin’ kind of a late start today, ain’t ya?” he asked, his expression amused, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

     Michaela turned flint-colored eyes on him.  “Thanks to you,” she responded tartly, then her tone softened.  “No—thanks to myself,” she corrected, shamefaced.  “Hank, what on earth did you give me?”

    "Just a taste of my private stock," he said innocently.  "I oly share it with--special friends," he added, her eyes regarding her suggestively.

     “While I’m quite sure that it’s an honor to be included in such ‘elite’ company, I’d rather you had left me out,” Michaela commented drily.

     “Trouble holdin’ your liquor, Michaela?” Hank asked, unable to resist one more gentle barb.  She gave him a baleful stare.  He returned her gaze, noting the unmistakable signs of a hangover in her pale cheeks, and the tiny beads of sweat that dotted her hairline.  “Not feelin’ too good?” he spoke again, his tone and expression more sympathetic this time.

     “Only terrible,” she said.

     Hank couldn’t hold back another grin, but his eyes were kind.  “Sorry,” he said.  “It can be kinda rough, first time out.  I didn’t mean no harm—I just thought ya needed somethin’ to relax ya and take away your worries for a little while.”

     “I know you meant well,” Michaela said, recognizing his sincerity.  “The truth is, I can’t blame you for my own indiscretion.  I chose to drink, and now I’m paying the price.”

    "I got a cure, if you're interested," Hank offered.

    “Are you teasing me again?” she asked skeptically.

    “No—I mean it,” he answered.

     She sighed again.  “Well I’ve tried willow bark tea, and paregoric—nothing seems to help very much.”

     “Aw, those ain’t no good,” he said dismissively.  “What you need is a touch of the ‘hair of the dog.’”

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “You need to take a little of what got ya this way in the first place,” Hank explained.  “Only thing guaranteed to make ya feel like yourself again.”

     Michaela’s brief hope for a ‘miracle’ cure promptly vanished.  “Well, if that’s my only choice, I’m afraid I’m destined to feel this way until the effects finally wear off,” she told him.  “I won’t make the mistake of drinking again, Hank.”

     “Ya shouldn’t rule it out so quick, Michaela,” he countered.  “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the only sure-fire cure for a hangover.  If you’re scared that you’re gonna turn into a drunk or somethin’—“

     “Hardly,” she said acidly.

     “My point exactly,” Hank said smoothly.  “Just like I said last night, you should think of it like medicine.”

     “There’s such a thing as the wrong medicine,” Michaela said.  “Thank you, Hank, but I’ll get through this on my own.”

     Hank shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”  He brushed a lock of his long, wavy hair back behind his ear.  “So how ya doin’ otherwise?” he asked after a pause.  “You and Sully work things out?”

     Though the sun was shining, the light seemed to go out of the day as Hank reminded her again about Sully.  “We spoke,” she said quietly.  “Actually—we fought.”

     “Ya told him,” Hank guessed.

     She nodded.  “And—it’s over,” she said simply.  Hank’s expression was startled.

     “Sully broke things off with ya?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

     “No,” she said.  “I ended it.  I gave him back his ring.”

     “’Cause he took a piece o’ paper from ya?” Hank said disbelievingly.  “You’re gonna throw away a whole life together over that?”

     “Of course not,” she said.

    “Then what coulda possessed ya?” Hank persisted, clearly stymied at her behavior.

    “The situation is very complicated, Hank,” Michaela told him.  “There’s far more to it than I told you.”

    “Do ya love him?” he said suddenly, apparently unimpressed by her justification.  The question startled and disturbed her, and she was silent for several moments before answering.

    “Yes,” she whispered finally.

    “Then don’t let what happened between ya ruin it,” he advised soberly.  “Sully and me got our differences, but one thing I know for sure is that he loves ya.  The two o’ ya belong together.  There’s gonna be bumps along the road your whole life long, Michaela—some of ‘em might even seem like mountains.  But ya just gotta find a way to get over the hurdles, and keep your eyes on what really counts.”  He looked deeply into her eyes.  “Don’t let Sully become a regret,” he added softly.

    He cocked an eyebrow at her, then turned and strolled away, leaving her staring after him.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Hank’s words seemed to linger in the air as he walked away from her.  Certainly, he had given her food for thought.  The saloon keeper could be blunt—even coarse—but he also seemed to possess a generous measure of common sense.  Perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss his advice earlier.  It was true that being honest with Sully had not yielded the outcome that Hank had predicted, or that she had prayed for.  But perhaps the saloon owner had a clearer view of the situation than Michaela herself, even though she had only shared a small fraction of it with him.  Perhaps he was right—that she was giving up too soon, abandoning a future that might still be possible.

     She needed more time to think.  But it would certainly help if she could finally rid herself of this persistent headache.  Some chamomile tea might help—it was soothing to the stomach and relaxing for the nerves.  Unfortunately, she didn’t have any in the clinic.

     She would get some at Loren’s, Michaela decided.  Still thinking about what Hank had said, she headed toward the mercantile.