Wednesday, 28 March, 1870

     Too restless to remain in bed, I rose early, dressing and making my way silently through the clinic to the examination room.  The building was quiet—both Michaela’s ma and Brendan apparently still asleep.  It didn’t surprise me—I figured society folks like that rarely—if ever—saw a sunrise; no doubt being used to laying in bed till half the day was gone.

     There was no sound from Michaela’s room either, but I was glad about that.  Hopefully she was getting the rest she needed.  A ghost of concern still lingered in my mind at how unwell she had looked the night before.  I wondered if possibly she was coming down with something, apart from her injured ankle or the cut on her knee.  Well, if that was the case, then she’d have her own devoted ‘nurse’ right here.  I would pamper her, spoil her, do whatever I could to make sure she knew how much she was loved and cherished.

     The first thing I intended to do was make sure she ate something nourishing, to build up her strength.  She’d barely touched her supper the previous evening, and I had no idea when she’d eaten last.  I would fetch breakfast for her from Grace’s, then watch her like a hawk to make certain she ate every bite.  I didn’t want to treat her like a child, but I had to be firm.  I might not have recovered all my memories of the past, but there was one thing about Michaela I knew all too well:  she would work her fingers to the bone taking care of her loved ones or her patients, but when it came to her own needs, more often that not, she would neglect herself.  But not this time, if I had anything to do with it.  She was going to take it easy, if I had to strap her to the bed to make sure she got her rest.

     Twenty minutes later I returned to the clinic with her breakfast tray.  I carried it to her door and raised my hand to knock, then thought better of it, not wanting to disturb her if she was still sleeping.  She needed the rest as much as she needed food.  Instead, I eased open the door and stepped inside.

     I caught sight of her—coppery hair scattered over the pillow, and her lashes thick and smoky against her pale cheeks—and all the breath seemed to go out of me.  Her beauty was enough to stop my heart.  She looked so delicate, so fragile—arousing all my most protective instincts.  I thought of all the hours and days she had tirelessly spent taking care of me without complaint, and I wanted to do the same for her.  I wanted to shower her with the same love and tenderness that she’d given me in such abundance—not just now, but for the rest of my life.  I just thanked God and the spirits that I would have the chance.

     I set the tray outside, then returned to the bed, hunching down so that my face was close to hers.  I reached out and gently stroked her hair.  My touch was enough to rouse her, and she stirred and yawned, finally opening those amazing green and amber eyes.  It took a moment for her vision to clear and focus; then she saw my face and smiled.

     “Sully,” she said softly, lifting her hand to caress my cheek.  I laced my fingers through hers.

     “Morning,” I said, returning her smile.  “How’s your ankle feel?”  With my other hand I reached down to gently caress her leg through the blanket.

     Experimentally she moved her foot beneath my hand, wincing just a little.  “It still aches, but it’s better, I think,” she said.

     “Good,” I replied.  “And I’m here to make sure you get plenty of rest, so it keeps on getting better.”

     “I’m really fine, Sully—you needn’t fuss,” she demurred, pulling herself up into a sitting position with my help.  I plumped up her pillows and tucked in the blanket around her.

     “You going to spoil my fun?” I asked indulgently. “Here I was looking forward to pampering you within an inch of your life.”

     She looked back at me impishly.  “Well, far be it from me to deprive you of that pleasure,” she said.

     “It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it,” I teased back.  I stood up, and went out in the hall to get her tray.  “I brought your breakfast,” I said as I carried it inside.  “Grace really outdid herself.  There’s eggs, sausage, hot biscuits with apply jelly, and coffee—or I can make you tea, if you’d rather,” I added.  I was about to lay the tray across her lap, but stopped when I saw her face.  The slight color had vanished from her cheeks, and her pallor had a greenish tinge to it.

     “What is it, Michaela?” I asked quickly.  She’d started sweating, and she averted her face from the tray as if the odor of the food bothered her.

     “I’m sorry, Sully,” she said faintly after a moment.  “I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.  Could—could you take it away, please?”  She was looking greener by the second and I hastily put the tray outside.  Quickly I went to the washstand and poured cool water from the ewer into the china basin, then brought the basin and a washcloth to Michaela’s bedside.   Dampening the cloth in the water, I knelt down beside her and gently sponged her face.

     “I was afraid maybe you were getting sick, when you wouldn’t eat last night,” I said softly.  I pressed my lips to her forehead, and was relieved to find it cool.  “No fever,” I said.  “Does anything else hurt you, or is it just an upset stomach?”

     She gave me a weak smile.  “No pain—just some nausea.  It’s already starting to go away.”

     “Good,” I said, kissing her cheek.

     “How did you know what was wrong with me?” she added after a moment.

     “Well,” I said, continuing to blot her face with the cloth.  “You couldn’t stand the smell of food, you’re white as a sheet, and  you’re sweating.  I’ve been on the other side of that green face—it ain’t hard to read the signs.”  I smiled at her sympathetically.

     “I really am all right—I don’t want you to worry,” Michaela tried to protest.

     “Michaela, it’s all right to admit you’re sick.  You don’t got to put on an act for my sake.  Don’t you know that all I want to do is take care of you?”

     She attempted to smile again, but her eyes were shadowed with guilt.  “Sully—you’re being so kind, but I truly don’t deserve it.”

     “What are you talking about?  Of course you deserve it,” I said.

     “No,” she insisted.  “I don’t.”

     “Michaela, will you *please* stop trying to be so brave?  I know you’re used to being the doctor, but you’re only human, just like the rest of us, and sometimes you get sick.  Let me take care of you for once.”

     “It’s not that,” she ventured, unconsciously wadding the edge of the sheet in her fingers.

     “Then what?” I asked.

     She looked down at her lap, as if embarrassed to meet my eyes.  “Sully I’m so ashamed,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible.

     “Michaela, I don’t understand.  What could you possibly have to be ashamed about?”

     She finally lifted her chin and looked at me.  “Remember last night, when you made your ‘confession’ to me?” she asked.

     “Yeah,” I said slowly, having no idea what she could be getting at.

     “Well, I have a confession to make too,” she admitted reluctantly.  “I’m not sick—at least not the way you think.  I—I’m—suffering what seem to be the lingering effects of—“  She looked away from me again.  “—a hangover.”

     “Beg your pardon?” I said, convinced I must not have heard her right.

     “I have a hangover—or what’s left of one,” she repeated, a flush of embarrassment putting some color back in her pale cheeks.  “The night before last, after I left you in the clinic, I ran into Hank.  He saw I was upset, and he persuaded me to go back to his room with him to talk.”

     “His room?” I repeated ominously.

     “It was entirely innocent,” she said hastily.  “Hank was just trying to make me feel better, and spare me the embarrassment of being seen in the saloon.  He was genuinely trying to help, Sully,” she added earnestly.  “Unfortunately, he thought the way to do that was to offer me whiskey.”

     “He got you drunk?!” I said sharply, anger uncoiling inside me.

     “Sully, please—don’t be angry at Hank,” she said anxiously.  “I was responsible.  It was my choice to drink.”

     “Maybe so, Michaela, but Hank took advantage.  He saw you were vulnerable and he used that,” I argued.  “I’m going to have it out with him right now.”  I started to get to my feet.

     “Sully, don’t!” she pleaded, putting out her hand to grasp my sleeve.  “It wasn’t like that.  Hank’s methods may have been misguided, but he meant well.  He was a gentleman.”

     “A ‘gentleman?’” I echoed cynically.  She dropped her eyes briefly, conceding the point.

     “Well—he did nothing inappropriate,” she modified her statement.  “Actually, he was very kind—for Hank,” she added.  “He didn’t pry, but he offered to listen if I wanted to talk.”

     “And what exactly did you tell him?” I asked.

     “Nothing specific, Sully—I promise you,” she answered.  “You know I’d never violate your confidence—even intoxicated as I was.  I simply said that you’d seen something you weren’t meant to, which nearly resulted in you learning something about your condition that I’d been keeping from you, out of concern for your health.

    “Actually, you may be interested to know that Hank spoke up on your behalf.” she added.  “More than that, he advised that I be honest with you.  It was partly due to Hank that I finally decided to have you read the telegram, so that you’d know the truth about us.”

     Though a small core of anger still smoldered inside me—I wasn’t completely convinced that Hank’s intentions had been on the up and up—I slowly began to relax.  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I could see how absurd it was.  My correct and proper Michaela, respected town doctor, hoisting drinks with the owner and proprietor of the local saloon and brothel!  The irony of Hank giving advice on love and relationships, also didn’t escape me.  My lips twitched as I tried to suppress a grin.

     “So I got Hank Lawson to thank for us getting back together?” I said, attempting to look severe, but not succeeding.

     Michaela raised her eyebrows at me.  “I think you know better than that,” she said.

     I leaned over and kissed her deeply.  “I guess I do,” I whispered, smiling at her gently as I drew away.  “So,” I added after a pause, feeling a little devilish.  “What was it like, knocking back a few with Hank?”

     “Oh, Sully, don’t tease me—I feel mortified enough as it is,” she implored.

     “No need,” I said, my eyes softening as I gazed at her.  “You been through so much, Michaela, because of me—no wonder you were looking for something to take away the pain.  I’m just sorry you had to turn to Hank because I upset you.”

     She reached out to stroke my cheek again, staring intently into my eyes.  “Sully, we said we were going to put all that behind us.  I don’t want you brooding about it anymore.”

     “I know what we said,” I acknowledged.  “But it’s because of me you’re lying here sick, it because of me you fell and sprained your ankle . . .”

     “Well?” she said.

     “Well, what?” I asked, caught off-guard.

     “Aren’t you going to take the blame for contracting pneumonia and getting shot, as well?” she said.  “Since you seem to be assuming the responsibility for everything that’s gone wrong since all of this began.”  Her tone was reproving, but there was more than a hint of humor and even mischief in her eyes.

     “You’re saying I’m being foolish,” I said sheepishly.

     “A bit,” she replied, toying with a lock of my hair.

     “Point taken,” I conceded.  “It’s just—I hate to see you hurting or sick, Michaela.”

     “I know,” she said softly.  “And I love you for it.  But I brought this on myself, Sully.  Suffering the unpleasant after-effects will be a potent reminder to me never to make the same mistake again.”

     “Maybe so,” I acknowledged.  “But you still wouldn’t be in this fix if I hadn’t—“

     “Sully,” she broke in, putting her fingers to my lips.  “Hush.”

     I took advantage of the opportunity to kiss her fingers.  “I can do that,” I said as she smiled at me.  But then I looked at her soberly.

     “There’s something else bothering me, though,” I said.  “I’m worried about you, Michaela.  You said you were drinking with Hank night before last, but you’re still feeling the effects.  A hangover shouldn’t last this long.  I’m afraid you might really be sick.  I wish we had another doctor in town who could take a look at you,” I added, my brow furrowed with worry.

     “Sully, it’s true that I’ve never had—this type of problem before,” she said.  “But I can assure you that nothing else is wrong with me.  I’m sure it’s just that I didn’t have the chance to rest and recover yesterday, so the effects have lingered.

     “I’ll be all right,” she repeated persuasively.  “After all, we have guests coming for dinner tonight.  I certainly expect to be recovered by then.”

     “Speaking of that,” I said as she reminded me.  “I don’t want you pushing yourself, Michaela.  I think it’s too soon for you to be entertaining people—even if one of them is your ma.  I’m sure she’d agree with me.  You need more rest, and you need to get something in your stomach.  I know it will be hard to keep it down,” I added as I saw her wary expression.  “But you got to eat, Sweetheart, if you’re going to get stronger and feel like yourself again.”

     “I’m so touched by how you worry about me, Sully,” she said, her eyes gentle.  “Very well.  I’ll do my best to eat a little—for you.  But something light to start with, please—such as tea and toast?”

     “Your wish is my command,” I said, giving her a kiss.

     “And then perhaps we can finish our conversation from last night?” she suggested.

     “It’s a deal,” I said, sealing it with another kiss.  “Back in a flash,” I promised, then headed out for my second trip to Grace’s.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sometime later, she was making fairly good progress with her tea, and accepting small bites of toast that I’d break off and feed to her.  I interspersed each morsel with a kiss or two, which slowed things down quite a bit, but neither of us minded.

     Finally she indicated that she didn’t want any more, and I was satisfied that she’d eaten enough, at least for now.  I cleared things away, adding her plate and cup to the dishes on the tray outside.  Then I returned and climbed into bed beside her.

     “You know, we never settled the question of supper tonight,” I reminded her, slipping my arm around her shoulders.  “I still believe that you need to give yourself another day of rest before you wear yourself out entertaining folks.  I’m sure your ma wouldn’t want you overdoing if you were feeling poorly.  And neither would Brendan, if he’s any kind of a gentlemen.”

     “He appears to be very much a gentleman,” Michaela commented.  “And you’re correct—Mother wouldn’t expect me to entertain if were ill.  But I’m feeling better now, Sully.  You’re were right—the tea and toast did help.

    “And I want to do this,” she added.  “For one thing, I need to have a long talk with Mother—about us and about the wedding.  But I also want to make Brendan feel welcome.  After all, he’s the brother of a dear friend, and he did my mother a great kindness by accompanying her on her journey out here.  He’s certainly entitled to our hospitality, Sully.”

    “Well, you know how you feel, and you know your own mind,” I said reluctantly.  “And I know that once that mind of yours is set, there ain’t no changing it.  But if I see you looking peaked again, or in pain, I’m going to end the evening and send everybody back to the clinic,” I added firmly.  “I ain’t giving in on that, Michaela.”

    “Agreed,” she said.  We lay quietly together for a bit, then she said, “Shall I resume where I left off about William?”

    “Yeah,” I replied.  “But first, Michaela, there’s something I got to know.”

    “Of course,” she said.

    “What does your ma have against me?” I asked.  “I mean, she didn’t come right out and say it, but I got a pretty clear feeling that she doesn’t have the highest opinion of me.  And that she would have  been a lot happier if you’d picked William.”

    I could see by her expression that she recognized what I was talking about, and felt bad about it.

    “I’m sorry, Sully—my mother is not the most tactful person,” she apologized.  “In fact, she’s always been quite outspoken about her opinions, and her preferences,” she added.  “It’s true—my mother was quite fond of William,” she admitted.  “In large measure, I’m sure, because he respected and supported me in my treatment of her illness.  And I suppose she also felt that since we were both physicians, and came from the same world, it would be a good match.”

    “A lot better match than tying yourself to somebody like me,” I said.

    “Only because she didn’t truly understand you,” Michaela hastened to say, anxious not to hurt me or make me feel inadequate.  “Your background, your way of life—it was alien to her.  She had nothing  in her experience with which to compare it.

    “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t like you,” she added.  “On the contrary, Sully—Mother recognized that you cared a great deal for me—you proved that to her by crossing the country to come after me.  She knows the countless things you’ve done for me, the times you’ve saved my life . . .  And she knows that you’ve always respected me—as a woman and as a doctor.”

    “She’d just prefer it if I wore a suit and went to work in an office every day,” I said drily.

    “Frankly, yes,” Michaela admitted.  “And it wouldn’t hurt if we chose to live in Boston, either.  But none of that makes any difference, Sully,” she added earnestly.  “I’m not my mother.  I don’t share her views, and I certainly don’t intend to follow any blueprint she may have drawn up for my life.

    “I love you, I love the children, and I love Colorado Springs,” she said passionately.  “You’re the man I’m going to marry, and this beautiful land is where we’re going to live and raise our children.  Mother will have to accept that.”

    “And if she doesn’t?” I asked.

    “Then it will be her loss,” Michaela whispered, kissing me tenderly.  “I’m not going anywhere.  You’re stuck with me, Mr. Sully, come what may.”

    “Thank God,” I said huskily, and took her into my arms.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

     Michaela ascended the porch of the mercantile and stepped through the entryway into the dimmer interior of the store.

     It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to her shadowy surroundings after the brightness outside, and in those fleeting seconds she nearly collided with Sully, who was headed out.  Stunned, Michaela stood rooted to the floor.  She had known it was highly likely that she would encounter Sully in town at some point; however, she hadn’t dreamed it would be so soon, or in this place.  For some reason, the last place she had expected to find Sully was in the mercantile.

     But why shouldn’t he be here, said a voice in her mind.  She herself had told Sully that he and Loren were friends now.  The news had obviously served to lessen or eliminate any awkwardness or discomfort Sully might have felt in encountering Loren again—thus explaining his presence.

     All these thoughts flitted through Michaela’s mind in a fraction of an instant, even as she was startled into speaking Sully’s name as she suddenly came face to face with him.

     Sully looked equally stupefied to see her, but he recovered himself quickly.

     “Dr. Mike,” he said politely, his eyes remote.

     Loren was making some remark to Michaela, but his words were muffled by the thick tension filling the air between Sully and herself.  She stared at him, mesmerized by the blue of his eyes—their color a deep and dramatic sapphire today, reminding her of the dark, white-capped sea off the coast of Maine.  A sea that was wild and untamed, much as she suspected Sully’s spirit to be—yearning to soar, unfettered by the trappings of civilization—or domestication.  Even if this terrible rift didn’t already exist between them, Michaela suddenly wondered if she had the right to clip Sully’s wings—to force him into the cage of a quiet, domestic life.  Perhaps that was part of the reason why he’d erased his memory of her—because he saw her as the “jailor” who would lock him into a life he didn’t want or couldn’t accept.

     Belatedly Michaela became aware that Loren was looking at her expectantly, awaiting a response to his comment.  With an effort, she replayed his words in her mind.

     (“Hey, Dr. Mike,” Loren had said.  “I was just telling Sully here how good he looks—you done a great job.”)

    The last thing Michaela wanted to hear was Loren flattering her about how well she’d taken care of Sully, since she had failed so dismally in her attempts to help him regain his past.  She looked away  uncomfortably.  She was sure that Loren’s words of praise for her sounded equally bitter to Sully’s ears.  Nonetheless, Loren—ignorant of the emotional turmoil between them—was expecting her to say something.  She managed to summon a facsimile of a smile.

    “That’s very kind, Loren.”  Her eyes were drawn back to Sully.  “But Sully is—very strong,” she added softly.  “That’s what really helped him to recover.”

    Loren said something else, but it was lost on Michaela.  She stared at Sully, every fiber of her being yearning to touch him—to be touched by him.  She wanted with all her heart to beg him to take her back—to tell him she had been wrong to return his ring, and that she would spend her entire life making it up to him if he would only give her another chance.

    But he had said he couldn’t trust her.  And without trust, love could not flourish, but only wither and die.  To make a commitment to one another and then see that relationship turn to ashes, would be worse than never having loved at all.  If that was the only future she and Sully could hope for, then truly, all was lost.

    Michaela could feel Sully’s discomfort as palpably as she could her own, and thus it was no surprise when he suddenly said good-bye to Loren.  He looked at her once more and she could see her pain reflected in his eyes.

    “Michaela,” he said quietly, softly brushing by her as he went out the door.

    Michaela’s crestfallen eyes followed his retreating figure as he crossed the porch.

    “What can I get you, Dr. Mike?” she dimly heard Loren ask.  She pulled her gaze from Sully, trying to recall what had brought her here, and was unsurprised to discover it had gone completely out of her head.

    (“DON’T LET SULLY BECOME A REGRET,”) Hank’s parting words echoed suddenly in her mind, refusing to be denied.  She hesitated for a fraction of an instant, then mumbled an excuse to Loren and ran outside just as Sully was stepping into the street.

    “Sully!  Don’t leave!” she said.

* * * * * * * * * *

     The adrenaline that had fueled her impulsive act drained out of her suddenly, and Michaela approached Sully much more slowly and hesitantly.  He was watching her, his face a neutral mask revealing nothing of what he was feeling.  For a moment her mind was a blank, and her lips felt numb, unable to form words.  She feared that she would make a fool of herself in front of him, in addition to everything else she’d done wrong.  But what did she have left to lose?

     “Are you all right?” she managed after a moment.

     “No,” he said frankly.  Instantly her eyes were alert, studying him for signs of illness.  But in the next breath he added, “No more ‘all right’ than you are.”  And she understood.  However his eyes and tone had softened slightly, and she realized that whatever else he might be feeling, at least he didn’t appear to be angry any more.

     Scraping up her courage, she said, “You didn’t return to the clinic.”  And she listened in resignation as she heard his answer.

     “I—couldn’t, Michaela.  Not after . . .”

     “I know.”  Her whispered assent told him she understood this as well.  However, in a slightly stronger voice she added, “Where are you staying?”

     Briefly he explained his intention to rebuild his lean-to, and his need for supplies to perform the task and set up camp, which had brought him to the general store.  Michaela thought about him being back out in the wilderness, sleeping in the cold again after having become accustomed to the warmth and comfort of the clinic.  She didn’t truly believe that exposure to the elements would be harmful to him at this stage of his recovery—nonetheless her oath as a doctor compelled her to say something, even if the chances of Sully suffering a relapse were infinitesimal.  She also recognized that it was a transparent attempt to keep him from leaving, but if it allowed her to talk to him a little longer, it was worth a try.  She started to caution him about his recent recovery from pneumonia, but he cut her off.

    “We both know I’m well now,” he said quietly, unfazed and unfooled by her attempt to waylay him.  “You—“  He hesitated.  “You take care of yourself—and the kids.  Good-bye, Michaela.”

    (“Don’t let Sully become a regret,”) Hank whispered in her ear.

    “Sully, please!” she said hastily.  “Please wait a moment.”

    Everything about him—his expression, the tension in his posture—told her of the torment she was inflicting on him by prolonging their encounter.  Though it wasn’t necessary for her to read his emotions—the same pain was coursing through her at the alienation between them.

    “Michaela—“ he ventured, his eyes almost pleading with her to release them both from this confrontation.  Part of her wanted to comply—to run away from the hurt that suffused her mind and heart.  But a greater, even stronger part of her was determined to try once more to reach Sully.  It might very well be too late, but she no longer cared about that.  Her pride had crumbled—there was nothing left to lose and nothing to stand in her way—except Sully himself.

    And suddenly she thought of a legitimate excuse she could offer to ask him to come with her to the clinic.

    “I know how—difficult this is . . . for both of us,” she ventured hesitantly.  “But I need to talk to you, Sully—it’s a medical reason.”

    She saw she had captured his attention, if only momentarily, and she went on to explain the necessity of removing his stitches.  “Once I’ve performed this final procedure, I won’t need to . . . trouble you again,” she added, to prove to him that she had no further designs on him—or expectations.  In response, Sully confided that he had intended to ask her for his weapon and tomahawk, and she readily offered to return them, sensing that he was weakening.  A moment later he reluctantly agreed to accompany her, and they made their way  to the clinic.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Michaela worked quietly and efficiently.  Before she knew it, she was extracting the last stitch and the simple medical procedure was completed.

     She had hoped to open some kind of dialogue with Sully as she tended to him, but inspiration hadn’t come.  Now he was about to leave again, with nothing more settled between them than when they had encountered each other at Loren’s.  Michaela felt a stab of desperation.  How did she begin to tell him what was in her heart?  Even more, how did she know that he would even be willing to listen?

     (“There’s gonna be bumps along the road your whole life long, Michaela . . .  But ya just gotta find a way to get over the hurdles, and keep your eyes on what really counts . . .”)

     Hank had been right.  It wasn’t the harsh words that had passed between them—or even the doubts about trust—that were important.  All that mattered, in the end, was the love.  If somehow she and Sully could find that love again, despite all the difficulties and complications from his loss of memory . . .  But clearly, it was up to her to take the first step.

     “Finished,” she said, coming around the examination table to face Sully.  “The wound looks excellent,” she added.  “Almost completely healed.  Once your hair grows out a little more, you’ll never know anything happened.”

     “Good—thanks,” he responded, regarding her politely.  “Can I have my weapons now?”
 “Of course,” she replied, moving to fetch them from her medicine cabinet, even as she frantically wondered what she could say to Sully to stall him a little longer.

     He accepted the knife and tomahawk from her.  “Feels good to have these back,” he said.  She watched as he sheathed the knife, then spun and caught the tomahawk with one practiced flick of his wrist.  The sight was so familiar to her—so quintessentially “Sully”—that she could almost forget for a moment that he wasn’t his old self; that they weren’t the same two people they’d been merely weeks ago.

     But she was reminded all too acutely of how much everything had changed by his next words.

     “Michaela—I know I owe you—for everything you done for me,” he said, the words plainly difficult for him.  “I’ve got some change comin’ from what I paid Loren for my supplies.  I don’t know if it will be enough to cover my debt to you, but I promise that when I get my next month’s salary, I’ll pay you in full.”  He had been looking away from her, unconsciously toying with the fringe of his buckskin coat, which he’d tossed across the examination table.  However as he finished speaking, he stole a glance at her face.  Guilt immediately shadowed his features as he saw the expression of hurt in her eyes.

     Michaela felt as if he’d struck her.  How could he, she thought.  How could he suggest paying her, as if they were strangers to one another—as if what was between them amounted to nothing more than a business arrangement?  Surely he must know how much that hurt her.  Perhaps it *was* too late for them after all, she concluded dully.  Hank had also talked about the “writing on the wall . . .”  Perhaps Sully was telling her that the time had come to accept the inevitable.

     She turned pained eyes on him.  “Sully, I could never accept money from you,” she said, her heart constricting as she spoke the words.  “It would be like—like charging my own children!”  She took a breath.  “Sully—everything I did for you, I did out of love.”

     His eyes darkened still more with remorse.  “I understand that,” he said quietly.  “But—the way things stand between us now . . . well, it just don’t seem right for me to take advantage . . .”

     STOP! she wanted to scream at him.  Stop talking about us as if we don’t matter to one another—as if we don’t love each other!  I can’t bear it . . .  But aloud, all she could manage was, “I can’t accept money.  I can’t.  Please—don’t ask me.”

     “All right,” he said after a long hesitation.  “I don’t want to be the cause of makin’ you feel worse.  I know I hurt you enough as it is.”

     Pain flooded through her again at his answer.  She was silent.

     “Guess I’d better be on my way—Loren probably has my order ready by now,” Sully added awkwardly after a moment, looking desperate to bring this painful interview to a close.  Dashed by their exchange over money, Michaela was inclined to agree that perhaps it was best if he did leave, after all.  Prolonging this discussion could do no good—all they would acomplish would be to hurt each other more.

     But even as she started to concede defeat, a stubborn voice inside her shouted, NO!  You can’t give up! Not yet.  Not if you love him . . .

     She thought again of Sully out in the wilderness, sleeping under the coldly flickering stars.  She saw him lying alone in his bedroll, and thought of how she would never know what it felt like to be “loved”  by him—soul *and* body . . . that they would never experience the ultimate joy that came of consummating their union.   Never would they share a bed, a life . . .

    Without even knowing where the thought had come from, Michaela said suddenly, “Sully—why don’t you stay at the new homestead?”

    He looked sober.  “Michaela—“

    “It’s a perfect solution,” she spoke again, before he could continue.  “It’s yours, Sully.  It belongs to you.”  If they couldn’t be together, at least she would know that he was warm, and safe.

    “It belonged to us,” he said quietly.

    A dart of pain lanced her anew.  This time she had been the one guilty of unconsciously hurting him.  After a long hesitation she said, “Sully, you built a beautiful house.  You deserve to reap the benefits of all your hard labor.”

    He had been looking down, but now he lifted his head.  His face wore an expression of infinite sorrow.  “We both know I don’t remember buildin’ the house,” he said slowly.  “But one thing I *do* know—I didn’t build it to live there alone.”  Michaela looked into the depths of his eyes and caught a shimmer of tears, even as she was barely able to refrain from weeping herself.  “I’m sorry, Michaela—I just can’t stay there.  It would be . . . too hard,” he added.

    She swallowed over the lump in her throat.  “I—respect your feelings,” she managed.

    He took a deep breath.   “I really should be going now,” he repeated.  He drew on his coat, but then remained standing by the examination table, as if there was something he’d left unfinished.  A weak ray of hope blossomed in Michaela’s heart.  Perhaps he wasn’t quite ready to give up on them either.  If they just had a little more time together, perhaps Sully would open his heart to her, and allow her to express her feelings of love for him . . .

    “If you feel you need to return to the woods, I won’t try to stop you,” she said, recklessly taking one more chance, one more gamble.  “But would you at least let me help you transport your supplies out there?  We can take the wagon.”

    She saw his apprehension.  “That ain’t such a good idea, Michaela—“

    “You’ll get there much sooner than if you tried to go on foot,” she rushed to point out.  “You said time is of the essence . . .”

    “That’s true,” he admitted.

    “Please,” she insisted, daring to push a little harder.  “We needn’t see each other afterwards.  But—it would make me feel better—to know you reached the campsite safely.”

    Even before Sully agreed, she sensed that she had persuaded him.

    “It *would* be quicker than walking,” he conceded.  “All right,” he gave in.  “I’m grateful for your help.”

    Michaela breathed an inward sigh of relief.  “I’ll get the wagon from the livery and meet you at Loren’s,” she said.