Wednesday, 28 March, 1870

     Remembering my manners after a moment’s startled hesitation, I said politely, “Morning, Ma’am—uh, Mrs. Quinn.”

     She nodded graciously.  “Good Morning, Mr. Sully.”

    Without being aware I’d moved, instinctively I backed up a step or two and got out of her way.  She strolled regally into the room, looking every inch the queen of Boston society I figured her to be.  I watched her in fascination.  She was barely taller than my shoulder, yet she seemed to fill up the very space around her.  I’d never met a woman with such a forceful presence before.  Even Michaela—as beautiful as she was—didn’t have the power to bring all activity to a standstill, just by walking into a room.  Then again, I mused . . . Michaela was Elizabeth Quinn’s daughter.  Perhaps she hadn’t quite come into her full glory and power yet—but if she had anything of her ma’s fire in her (and it was clear she already possessed Elizabeth’s stubbornness in abundance)—she would be truly spectacular one
day . . .  I felt giddy just thinking about it.

     “Isn’t it a bit early for morning calls, Mr. Sully?” Mrs. Quinn asked, interrupting my pleasurable thoughts.  I cleared my throat to answer but Michaela beat me to it.

     “There’s nothing inappropriate about Sully’s visit, Mother,” she said.  “He simply came to check on me and bring me my breakfast.”

     “Which your daughter didn’t eat because she ain’t feeling well,” I told Mrs. Quinn impulsively.  Michaela’s eyes widened in dismay.  “Michaela didn’t want you to know because she didn’t want any fuss—but I think she’s worn herself out and needs to take it easy,” I added, throwing caution aside.

     Michaela shot a withering look my way.  “Traitor,” she mouthed.

     “What’s wrong, Dear?” Mrs. Quinn asked in concern.

     Michaela gave me another caustic stare, then turned to her ma.  “Nothing’s wrong, Mother,” she said clearly.  “I was simply a little—indisposed.  Sully worries far too much,” she added for my benefit.

     “’Sully’ is just trying to look out for your welfare, since you ain’t been doing too good a job of it yourself,” I said pointedly.

     Mrs. Quinn favored me with an unexpected look of approval.  “Thank you, Mr. Sully,” she said.  “I’ve always been concerned about Michaela’s penchant for overwork, and her compulsion to drive herself too hard.  Though I shouldn’t be surprised—her father was the same way,” she noted.  “However, I’m gratified to know that *someone* here is making sure she behaves sensibly—“

    Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” I spoke up hastily as I saw the thunderheads forming in Michaela’s eyes.  “I’d do anything for your daughter, and I’ll always be here if she needs me—but as for  telling her what to do or how to live—well, that ain’t my place, or my right.  Michaela’s her own woman—she makes her own decisions.

     “Besides,” I added slyly, “You of all people must know what a stubborn streak your daughter has.  If I tried to tell her what to do—do you really think she’d stand for it?”  I risked a slight smile.

     A touch of warmth thawed the chilly blue of Mrs. Quinn’s eyes, and I could tell I’d struck a chord.

     “She never has,” Mrs. Quinn observed, giving me a look of commiseration.

     “My point exactly,” I replied, trying to ignore the scathing looks that Michaela was sending me.  I knew I’d pay for this later—oh, how I’d pay!--but I was determined that Michaela was going to get the rest she needed whether she liked it or not.  She had been pushing herself to the breaking point for weeks because of me—but now it was my turn to take care of her, and I was bound to do it, come hell or high water.  If I could make her ma into my ally—well, all the better for Michaela.  And if I managed to impress Mrs. Quinn a little in the process, what would be the harm?

     Michaela finally got fed up with being talked about like she wasn’t in the room.

     “Sully,” she said, fixing me with a hard stare, “You were on your way to get my crutches?”  She glanced toward the door, eyebrows raised.

     “Right,” I said promptly, just as glad to postpone the lambasting I was expecting from her the moment she got the chance.  The legendary Mt. Vesuvius had nothing on the force of nature that was Michaela Quinn, when she got her dander up.  But if a few barbs from Michaela were the price I had to pay to make sure she took it easy—then far as I was concerned, it was a bargain.

     I slipped out of the room and went in search of the crutches.  When I returned with a pair a few minutes later, I heard Mrs. Quinn mentioning Brendan’s name.  I sighed as I was reminded of my promise to Michaela to take him over to the café.  For some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, I couldn’t work up much interest in getting to know the man better.  True, I had nothing solid to base my feelings on—he seemed agreeable enough.  Maybe it was just his connection to William Burke that bothered  me—and I surely couldn’t fault him for that.  After all, none of us got to pick our relatives.  I resolved to give him a fair chance, if only for Michaela’s sake.  I didn’t want to make things difficult or awkward for her, in front of her ma.

     “Do you know if Brendan is up and about yet, Ma’am?” I asked pleasantly as I entered the room.  “I thought I’d invite him over to Grace’s for breakfast—then maybe show him around town.”  Fleetingly I caught Michaela’s glance of gratitude and approval.  Perhaps she wouldn’t be so mad at me after all, I thought with relief.

     “Oh, but he isn’t here,” Mrs. Quinn replied.  “Before we retired last night, he told me not to expect him for breakfast.  He planned to rise at dawn, so that he could get an early start.  I imagine he’s been gone for hours,” she added.

     “Early start?” Michaela repeated, taking the words out of my mouth.  Our eyes met.

     “Yes—to go exploring,” her mother answered.

     “Why would Brendan be going exploring?” Michaela asked.

     Mrs. Quinn noted our blank expressions.  “Well it’s part of his work, of course,” she said.

    It was my turn.  "His work?"

    “Surely Brendan mentioned his profession?” Mrs. Quinn said.  Michaela shook her head.

    “No, he didn’t,” she said.  “But I’m very curious to know.  Exactly what *does* Brendan do for a living?”

* * * * * * * * * *

     Well, she got her way—(had there ever been any doubt?)  Come evening, we were all gathered around the table in the homestead for the welcome dinner Michaela had promised Brendan and her ma.  Though I hadn’t been able to talk her out of entertaining company, at least I’d succeeded in persuading her to take it easy and let us do the work.  At my insistence, Michaela had spent the afternoon napping and resting her ankle.  Meanwhile, the boys and I had busied ourselves cleaning up the homestead while Colleen prepared a special supper.

     Once Michaela was awake, I was gratified to see that she looked much better.   Most of her color had come back, and the shadows had vanished from beneath her eyes.   She quickly got the hang of hobbling around on crutches as well, though she had a tendency to cheat and use only one whenever she thought we weren’t paying attention.

     As sunset gilded the mountain peaks, Matthew took the wagon into town to fetch Brendan and Mrs. Quinn.  They arrived before long, and minutes later Colleen announced that supper was ready.

     We took our seats, and Michaela asked Matthew to give the blessing.  As we all took hands and the others bowed their heads, I surreptitiously studied Brendan.

     He was imposing—his height outstripping mine by at least three inches.  He was broad-shouldered too, and well-muscled—with hands that were strong and calloused from performing some kind of physical labor—unlike the soft hands of his brother William, who’d probably never picked up anything heavier than a scalpel his entire life.  Not that I was disparaging William—doctoring was a noble profession, and Michaela had said he was a good one.  And I admit that I admired him for taking time from his regular practice to treat poor folks who couldn’t pay—Michaela had said it was something called “pro bono” work.  But despite all that, I could never forget, looking at William, that he came from quality.  With Brendan, it wasn’t so obvious.  Though one thing was clear about the youngest of the Burke brothers—with the contrast of his dark hair and startling clear blue eyes, Brendan Burke was striking—I suppose a woman might even say ‘handsome.’  And there was a definite magnetism or charm about him that I figured most women would find equally irresistible—I had to confess that even I felt it, to a degree.

     Like I said before, Brendan’s background wasn’t so clear.  Fact is, he was something of a puzzle.  The strapping build, rough hands, even the clothes he wore—none of it seemed to fit his status as the member of a rich, society family from the east.  Unlike his brother, who’d never worn anything but stylish, expensive suits any time I’d seen him, Brendan affected a much more casual—one could even say rougher—style of dress:  a bleached muslin shirt which he wore open at the throat, pants made of some kind of light-weight but sturdy looking fabric, and a belted coat of the same material.  A white scarf knotted around his neck and a tan, slouch-brimmed hat completed his costume.  I suddenly remembered that I’d seen clothing like that before—in a stereopticon picture taken by a famous photographer who’d come to Colorado Springs two years earlier.  In the picture, the man wearing the unusual outfit had been sitting astride an absurd-looking creature called a camel.  I recalled that Mr. Watkins, the photographer, said that he’d taken the picture in Egypt.  As I made the connection in my mind, it made me all the more curious about what line of work Brendan could be in.

     Michaela and I still didn’t know what Brendan’s occupation was, just as we didn’t know what he’d been looking for on his early morning expedition.  Though we’d asked Mrs. Quinn about Brendan’s job, we’d never had the chance to hear her answer.  Before she’d had a chance to reply, Colleen had come running in to tell us that Jake was in the clinic downstairs, bleeding from a gash in his hand.  A slip of the razor while he was barbering, no doubt.

    From Colleen’s description, Michaela figured that Jake would need stitches, so while her ma helped her to dress, Colleen prepared for the minor surgical procedure while I kept pressure on Jake’s wound to control the bleeding.  Once Michaela was ready to come down, Colleen took over for me with Jake, while I went upstairs to fetch Michaela.  She hadn’t had a chance yet to practice with the crutches, and I surely didn’t want her risking the stairs if her balance was shaky, so I carried her down to the clinic.  Once there, she was able to prop herself on the crutches and lean against the examination table to work on Jake, and she stitched up his hand with her usual skill.  But it was draining for her, and that’s when I had insisted on taking her back to the homestead where she could rest uninterrupted.  I knew that Michaela had been intending to speak to her ma about us—and about me—but under the circumstances, I felt that discussion could hold for a spell—and for once, she agreed with me.  But with the distraction of Jake’s injury, and then our departure for the homestead, we never did get back to the subject of Brendan’s background.

     And so, as Matthew finished reciting the blessing and we all started on the meal Colleen had prepared, Brendan’s story remained a mystery.  But I knew it wouldn’t be for long.  Like me, Michaela hadn’t forgotten her curiosity about Brendan, and almost immediately she was reminding him of his promise to tell us about himself.

     “Brendan, I must confess that you piqued my curiosity yesterday regarding your occupation,” she said.  “I hope you won’t think me too forward if I ask you again to enlighten us?”

     “Not at all,” Brendan said comfortably.  “Though I fear you’ll be disappointed by my answer.  The truth is that I suppose I’d have to characterize myself as a ‘jack of all trades, master of none.’”  He smiled easily.

     “Nonsense,” Mrs. Quinn said promptly.  “Brendan, you  mustn’t hide your light beneath a bushel.”  She turned to us.  “Brendan graduated with honors from Harvard, and holds a degree in Ancient Civilizations and Antiquities,” she noted.

     “Really?” said Michaela, regarding Brendan with undisguised admiration.

     “Not only that, but he recently published a book of photographs culled from his explorations and travels,” her mother added.

     Michaela’s eyes grew more fascinated.  “How very impressive!  Then you’re a photographer?” she asked Brendan.

     “It’s part of my work, but it’s not my profession—nor am I that accomplished,” he replied modestly, clearly uncomfortable with the accolades being heaped on him by Michaela’s ma.  “I was required to learn about photography out of necessity, as a way of making a visual record of our surveys and discoveries.  A learned colleague taught me all I know, and provided invaluable assistance to me in the writing and publication of my book.”

     “Pardon me for asking, but if you say you ain’t a photographer—then what exactly is it that you do?” I spoke up at last.

     “Forgive me,” Brendan said immediately.  “I didn’t mean to be cryptic.  I’m what’s known as an ‘antiquarian,’” he said.

     “What’s that?” Brian asked, clearly confused by the term.  I had to confess to being in the dark about it myself.

     “An antiquarian is someone who studies written records and relics of the distant past to learn about the ages of man’s history upon the earth,” Brendan explained.  “In many cases, we have written or pictorial evidence to give us insights into the past.  But when we study societies that were pre-literate—that is, people who had no written language—we rely on other sources to give us the answers to our questions.  Sometimes we gain information through excavations of  burial sites, or sites where legendary cities were rumored to have once existed.  The artifacts that we find tell us a story about extinct civilizations or cultures.”

     “Artifacts?” repeated Brian.

     “The things people left behind,” Brendan rephrased.  “The buildings they created, the tombs they used to bury their dead—as well as objects they used in their daily life, like tools, cooking utensils or weapons.  Sometimes our clues come from human remains—fragments of skull or bone, or sometimes—if we’re very lucky—entire skeletons.  Some antiquarians have found paintings on cave walls, in which our ancient forbears depicted events in their lives, such as hunting for food, religious rituals or burial practices.  In Egypt, we’ve found extensive evidence of a sophisticated form of pictorial writing called hieroglyphics—in which the ancient Egyptians depicted every aspect of their lives.

     “All these things combine to give us a window into the past.  It’s rather like a mystery, and the antiquarian is the detective who must solve it, using all the clues at his disposal,” Brendan added, expressing his occupation in a way that Brian could understand.

     “Another term for someone in my profession would be ‘archaeologist,’” he added.

     “I know that word,” Brian said, his eyes lighting in recognition.

     “I’m sure you do,” Brendan replied, smiling at him.  “And now you know a little of what an archaeologist or antiquarian does.”

     “But ain’t it kind of—disrespectful—touching all those bones and skeletons?” Brian asked him, his eyes troubled. “I mean—ain’t it like digging up bodies in a cemetery?”

     “Brian!“ Michaela chided—but I understood what he meant.  Brendan himself had said that digging into tombs was part of his work.  It sounded to me like what he did wasn’t so different from the white homesteaders who’d been destroying Cheyenne burial sites as they rushed to buy up the Cheyenne land being sold off by the government since Washita.

     I glanced quickly at Brendan, wondering if he was uncomfortable or offended by Brian’s statement.  But he didn’t seem to be.  Instead, he was looking at Brian sympathetically.

     “I understand that’s how it might appear to you, Brian,” he said kindly.  “But I can assure you—we treat any remains that we find with the greatest care.  Our goal is to preserve, not destroy.”

     “Fact remains, though, that you’re still violating sacred burial sites, ain’t that right?” I spoke up.  “When these ancient people laid their dead to rest, I’m sure they weren’t planning for someone to come along later and dig them up.”

     “Sully—“ Michaela said warningly.

     Brendan raised his hand.  “No, that’s all right, Dr. Quinn,” he said mildly.  He paused, looking at me speculatively, then continued, “First of all, we don’t so much ‘dig up’ the artifacts we excavate, as ‘uncover’ them—through a long, pain-staking process,” he said.  “You must understand that over vast amounts of time, many of these ancient sites have been buried under sand or soil—even water.  Through very careful effort, we reveal the glories of the past that have been hidden from us for thousands of years.”

     “But what do you do with these artifacts and remains after you find them?” I challenged.

     “Those things that can be safely removed from the site are treated with the utmost reverence, carefully restored, then often put on display in museums for the education and enrichment of the public,” he said.

     “But no matter how careful or *reverent* you are, you’re still violating the sanctity of a burial ground—not to mention moving the earthly remains from their final resting place,” I maintained stubbornly.

     “Sully!” Michaela said uncomfortably.  She turned to Brendan.  “My mother may have told you of Sully’s—attachment—to the Cheyenne Indians,” she began carefully.  “Recently, the Cheyenne suffered a particularly brutal massacre at the hands of General Custer and the army.  Some very dear friends of Sully’s—and of mine—perished in the attack.”  She glanced at me briefly, her eyes soft with sympathy.  And yet, she still seemed to feel the need to apologize for my remarks.  The combination didn’t sit very well with me.  I leaned back, my eyes narrowing as I glanced from her to Brendan and back again.

     “That would be the attack at the Washita River?” Brendan asked.  “I read of it in the papers.  Tragic.”

     “Yeah,” I said shortly.

     Michaela flashed me another uneasy glance.  “It was very painful for all of us to bear,” she responded to Brendan.  “And to make matters worse, since then the army has been selling off the Cheyenne land to the public.  The people settling here have been destroying Cheyenne burial sites as they clear the land for homesteading.  Witnessing this has been very difficult for Sully.”

     “I understand,” said Brendan.  “My sympathies to you,” he added, looking at me.

     “Thanks,” I said, hard-put to keep the grudging tone out of my voice.

     “There’s no excuse for that kind of heartless, willful destruction,” Brendan went on, “I agree—your anger is entirely justified.  But there’s a compelling difference between the callous razing of  burial sites that you describe, and the precautions that we take with the artifacts we find.  When we remove human remains or other relics from a site, we do so out of necessity.”

     “Necessity?” I repeated skeptically.

     “To guard them from the corrosive effects of the elements,” Brendan explained.  “In Egypt, for example, the sealed crypts and hot, arid climate naturally combined to preserve these remains, keeping them as pristine now as when they were interred thousands of years ago.

    “However, once these sealed rooms are open to the air, their contents immediately became vulnerable to deterioration,” he added.

     “Maybe you should just leave them alone, then,” I observed—rather obviously, I thought.

     “Perhaps,” Brendan said, “But then a significant portion of man’s history would be lost forever.  Knowledge of our past enlightens and shapes us,” he argued.  “Only by learning where we come from, can we know where we’re going,” he finished, sounding like he was quoting from a book.

     “I would love to hear about some of your expeditions,” Michaela spoke up suddenly, apparently deciding that the current thread of discussion could only lead to more friction between us.  Brendan turned his gaze to her with relief.

     “Well, most recently I participated in an excavation of the Valley of the Kings in Egypt,” he answered.  “Our goal was to locate the tomb of the legendary boy king Tutankhamen, but we had no success.  Even more frustrating, however, was the fact that of the  tombs we *did* uncover, all had been ransacked by grave robbers long before we got there.

     “Grave robbers?” Brian said excitedly, his eyes growing round.

     “Unfortunately yes,” Brendan confirmed.  He glanced at me.  “Contrary to your earlier assumption, Mr. Sully, the ancient Egyptian kings were well aware that their tombs—and all the riches interred within them—were at constant risk from grave robbers, which is why they built elaborate constructions like the pyramids, and secreted their burial vaults deep inside.  However, no matter how carefully they concealed the entrances to the pyramids, or with what complexity they designed the maze of passages and rooms within these structures, grave robbers continually managed to find their way inside and loot the crypts of every last bit of their contents.”

     “Well if everything’s gone, then why keep looking?” I asked.  “Seems to me you’d be smart enough to know when to give up.”  I knew my words bordered on rudeness—if I hadn’t crossed the line completely.  The expression in Michaela’s eyes was enough to tell me that.  But I couldn’t seem to help myself.

     Brendan shrugged.  “You may have a point,” he said neutrally.  “But just because we hadn’t been successful so far, didn’t mean that there wasn’t the promise of a great discovery in the offing.

    “More often than not, archaeologists must operate on faith,” he asserted.  “Despite the evidence to the contrary, we had to persist in believing that not every tomb had been violated.  Sooner or later, we reasoned, we were bound to find a tomb—perhaps more than one—that was still intact.

    “But our efforts continued to be fruitless,” he admitted.  “And I confess that after several months, I had become very discouraged.  I was seriously considering accepting an invitation by the noted antiquarian Heinrich Schliemann, to join him on an excavation he’s conducting off the coast of Asia Minor to locate the legendary city of Troy.”

     “How exciting!” Michaela commented.

     Brendan nodded.  “The prospect was certainly intriguing,” he agreed.  “However I was prevented from taking advantage of the opportunity when I—suffered an accident.”

     “Accident?” Michaela echoed, her doctor’s instincts instantly alerted.  “What happened?”

     “Oddly enough, I myself was the victim of a grave robber,” Brendan explained with a somewhat cynical smile.  “I surprised him lurking about our camp one night, and he shot at me.”

     “You were shot?” Michaela exclaimed.

     “By a great stroke of luck, the bullet missed,” Brendan answered.  “However in the act of diving for cover, I fell down a set of terraced steps leading to the bottom of the excavation and broke my leg—a rather bad break, I’m afraid.

     “We had no doctor on site,” he went on.  “Only a man who had done some battlefield nursing during the war.  Unfortunately, his skills were rudimentary at best, and he set my leg improperly.  Before long, infection set in.”

     “Gangrene?” questioned Michaela.

     Brendan nodded.  “I presume.  I developed a fever, and was out of my head for some time,” he said.  “I probably would have died, if not for the fact that one of my colleagues on the dig went to the nearest telegraph office in Cairo and wired my family as soon as I was injured.  The moment William learned of my condition, he traveled to Egypt as quickly as he was able.  By the time he reached me, I was close to death, but somehow he managed to stop the progress of the infection before it proved fatal.”

     “William is a skilled physician,” Michaela said.

     Brendan nodded again.  “I owe him my life,” he said.  “However even though I had the advantage of William’s superior medical skills, it was obvious that there was no question of my remaining in Egypt.  We traveled back to America together, and I embarked on a long convalescence at my brother’s home in Boston.”

 “You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,” Michaela observed.  “I didn’t even detect a limp.”

     Brendan smiled at her.  “It aches quite a bit when it rains, and I’m unable to get around as well,” he conceded.  “But when I consider the alternative . . .”  His eyebrows raised, and he and Michaela shared a look of commiseration.

     “Certainly a small price to pay,” she agreed.

     As I watched them together, it unexpectedly struck me how alike they were.  Not in looks, certainly, but in every other little way that counted.  The way they spoke, and carried themselves.  And the invisible air of breeding that surrounded them both, which had been bred into them from infancy.

     (“Like turns to like,”) spoke my mother’s voice suddenly from the dim recesses of my childhood.  She’d made that comment more than once when I was growing up.  I hadn’t understood it then, but I did now.  “Like turns to like,” my ma had said, but what she’d really meant was, “Class turns to class.”  She’d been saying that folks in the same station in life always knew one of their own.  The Cheyenne had another way of putting it:  that every man recognized a member of his own tribe.  But it all meant the same thing, in the end.

     As I recalled my mother’s words, I realized how ironic it was that she had been the one to speak them.  She may have been called a governess, but truth was, my ma had been a servant in that mansion on Washington Square.  And yet in my eyes, she had been the equal—if not the superior—of anyone in that house.  In the soft and cultured way she spoke, her quiet but elegant demeanor . . .   Of course I’d only been a small boy, no doubt viewing her through the rose-colored glasses of my child’s adoration.  Still, as I watched Michaela, and thought of my ma as I remembered her, I couldn’t help but think that they would have understood one another, and been friends.

     “Was it during your convalescence that you came to know my mother?” Michaela was asking as I pulled myself back from my reverie with an effort and refocused on the conversation.

     Mrs. Quinn spoke before Brendan could answer.  “Precisely!  Having come to know William so well during my the course of my own illness, I confess that I enjoyed his society,” she went on.  “So much so, that even after you returned to Colorado Springs, Michaela, I continued to offer him my hospitality.  William was frequently at the house for tea, and attended several of my dinner parties.

    “William’s journey to Egypt when he learned of Brendan’s accident, and his subsequent treatment of Brendan’s injuries once they returned to the States, kept William occupied for a prolonged period of time,” she explained.  “But once Brendan was ambulatory, William often brought him along on his visits.  I found him to be just as charming as his brother,” she added, favoring Brendan with an approving smile.

     “Your mother was very gracious to me,” Brendan agreed, though once again he looked uncomfortable at Mrs. Quinn’s effusive praise.

    “And so you offered to accompany my mother on her trip to Colorado Springs as an—expression of your gratitude?” Michaela asked, trying to get a better sense of her ma’s and Brendan’s relationship.
 “That was certainly part of it,” Brendan confirmed.  “But I must confess that my motives were not entirely altruistic,” he added.

     “I find that hard to believe,” Michaela responded, regarding him admiringly

     Brendan colored slightly.  “I thank you for the compliment—but in truth, it was actually my work which brought me out here.  The fact that I was also able to do your mother a service was simply a happy coincidence.”

     “And what kind of work—exactly—did you come out here to do?” I asked somewhat pointedly.

     “Sully!” Michaela spoke again uncomfortably, cutting her eyes to Brendan and then back to me. “Your tone—it’s so challenging.  Surely it’s not your intention to put Brendan on the spot?”  She stared at me, silently pleading for me to be polite.

     I’d promised myself earlier I’d be nice to him, for her sake.  It occurred to me I hadn’t been doing a very good job of living up to my word.  “Sorry,” I said to him perfunctorily.  “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”  I directed my gaze back to Michaela.   “It’s just—Brendan’s been telling such—*colorful*—stories.  I was just curious, is all.”  Michaela looked at me coldly.  The slight hint of sarcasm that colored my statement hadn’t been lost on her.  Brendan either, it turned out.

     “I appreciate the ‘interest,’” he said politely, but I could detect the faint hostility behind his words.  His expression was cool as he looked at me.  A moment later, his eyes strayed back to Michaela, as if seeking his ally.  “To answer Mr. Sully’s question, I traveled west at the invitation of another friend and colleague, William Henry Jackson, a very gifted photographer.  He recently joined the Geographic Survey of the Territories being conducted by Ferdinand V. Hayden—an expedition to explore and map the terrain and natural wonders of the West.”

     “I’ve heard of Jackson—Hayden, too,” I noted.

     “So have I,” Michaela echoed.  “Didn’t Dr. Hayden recently complete a geographic survey of Nebraska?”

     Brendan nodded.  “That’s correct.  But now his survey has spread out to encompass Wyoming and Colorado.  In the next stage of his survey, Hayden intends to explore the Rocky Mountains, as well as to map the area of Wyoming known as ‘Yellowstone.’  William Jackson invited me to join the expedition.”

     “What a marvelous opportunity!” Michaela commented.   “But—Dr. Hayden is more of a naturalist and geologist than an archaeologist, is he not?”

     “That’s true,” Brendan confirmed.  “But in the course of outfitting the expedition in Denver, Jackson heard a tale about abandoned cliff houses in the canyon country of southwestern Colorado.  He was intrigued and traveled to the site to investigate the claims.

     “A few evenings later, Jackson and his group were camped in lower Mancos Canyon, in the area known as Mesa Verde.  Jackson was feeling quite discouraged, since their arduous travels hadn’t yet confirmed the story he’d heard.  Suddenly, one of his men looked up and spotted something that he said looked very much like a house.  The next day, they climbed up to the ruins, and Jackson made the first photograph of a Mesa Verde cliff dwelling.  He’s named the site, ‘Two Story Cliff Dwelling.’

     “Knowing how fascinated I’d be by such a find, he wrote to me and urged me to join him in his further explorations of the site.”

     “Mesa Verde—that’s Ute land,” I said coolly.

     “Yes, that’s correct,” Brendan confirmed, his eyes slightly wary at my tone.  “What of it?”

     “The Utes are enemies of the Cheyenne—enemies of other tribes, too,” I pointed out.  “Since the army’s forced so many different tribes to live together at Palmer Creek, it’s been all I can do to keep the Utes separate from the others, to stop them from fighting and maintain the peace.”  Michaela looked a little startled at my statement.  I guess she hadn’t realized my memories of my work as Indian Agent had started to come back to me.  Fact is, I was surprised myself.  Lots of memories had been creeping back into my mind almost without my being aware of it.

     “Sully is the Indian Agent for Palmer Creek Reservation,” Michaela explained to Brendan.

     “I see,” he said.  “Well, the fighting between the Utes and other tribes is unfortunate, I agree—but I really don’t see what that has to do with my interest in exploring Mesa Verde.”

     “There ain’t no connection, I guess,” I conceded reluctantly, not quite sure why the idea bothered me so much.  Maybe I was just thinking of Cloud Dancing, and what he’d suffered at the hands of the army, and the trouble he’d surely encounter from the Utes if he wound up living at Palmer Creek.  That is, if Custer didn’t find him first . . .  I felt a brief, but icy chill.  “I suppose—it’s a good opportunity for you,” I allowed after a moment.  “How soon do you leave?”

     Michaela’s eyes as she looked into mine were dark with anger.  I knew I’d completely blotted my copybook as far as she was concerned, and it pained me that the intimacy we’d shared such a short time ago, was at risk now because of my behavior.  But I couldn’t help it.  As much as I tried to tell myself that our relationship was strong—that we were together now for good—still I couldn’t stop feeling that Brendan was somehow a threat.  The ugly truth was that I was jealous—again.

     “Well I, for one, certainly hope that Brendan needn’t leave right away,” Michaela said clearly, staring at me challengingly.  Then her expression and demeanor softened as she turned to Brendan.  “I would very much like the opportunity to spend more time with you and hear of your other explorations,” she added to him, smiling.

     “That’s very gracious of you,” he replied, returning her smile and rather obviously ignoring me.  “Actually, there’s no rush for me to go—Jackson and his group will be there for quite some time.  There are numerous dwellings they haven’t yet begun to explore.  And quite truthfully, I had hoped to investigate some of the Cheyenne burial sites I’d heard about, since I’m in this vicinity.”

     “Weren’t you listening before?  It’s too late for that,” I said darkly.

     “Possibly,” he acknowledged.  “But I sincerely hope not.”

     "Was that the reason for your early morning excursion?” Michaela interjected hastily.

     He nodded.  “Though I was unsuccessful in locating any,” he admitted.

     “Just like I been saying,” I spoke again, unable to resist saying ‘I told you so.’  “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time.  I think you’ll have lots better luck sticking to your original plan.”

     “The most important element in my line of work is patience,” Brendan commented.  “It can take months—sometimes years—to make a find.

    “And it is, after all, *my* time to waste,” he added, regarding me levelly.

     “I should get these dishes cleared,” Colleen spoke up suddenly, trying to diffuse the tension between us.

     “I’ll help you,” Matthew offered quickly.

     “Me too,” said Brian, equally aware of the discord in the room, young as he was.

     Belatedly I saw that Mrs. Quinn was staring at Michaela.  “You’re quite pale, my dear—are you all right?” she asked in concern.

     I looked at Michaela sharply.  Her ma was right—she’d grown paler, and I could detect faint lines of pain in her face.  I’d been so wrapped up in my resentment of the brilliant and talented Brendan Burke, that I hadn’t even noticed.  Regret and guilt washed through me.  Quickly I stood and came over to her chair.  Kneeling beside her, I took one of her hands in mine, and lifted my other hand to her cheek, stroking it gently.

     “I’m sorry,” I whispered.  Her eyes softened slightly.  More loudly I said, “Your ankle’s paining you again, isn’t it?”  To her credit, she didn’t try to deny it.

     “Yes, a bit,” she conceded.

     “How about your stomach—that bothering you too?” I asked a little softer.  She shook her head.

     “No, only my ankle,” she replied quietly.

     I got to my feet.  “Evening’s over, folks,” I announced.  “I made Michaela promise that if she started feeling poorly, we’d bring the festivities to an end.”

    "Of course,” Brendan said readily, also rising to his feet.  “I hope my presence here hasn’t been too great a strain on you, Dr. Quinn,” he added solicitously.

     “Not at all,” Michaela answered, looking up at him.  “And please, Brendan—won’t you call me ‘Michaela’—or perhaps ‘Dr. Mike,’ which is what the majority of the townspeople call me?”

     Brendan glanced quickly at me.  My gaze was steely as I regarded them both.

     “’Dr. Mike’—how charming,” he answered, turning back to her again after a moment.  “I’ll—call you that, if I may.”

     “Of course,” Michaela said.

     Matthew went out to get the wagon ready to take Mrs. Quinn and Brendan back to town, and then there was the usual slew of good-byes.  Eventually, after about ten minutes or so, they took their leave.  Colleen and Brian finished cleaning up hastily, eager to remove themselves from the tense silence between Michaela and me, which seemed even louder than words.

     Finally, we were alone.  Michaela’s eyes were like stilettos as they stabbed into me.

     “Just what,” she began icily, “did you think you were doing?”

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

     Well, *this* is awkward, Michaela thought, as she registered the astonishment rapidly turning to disapproval in her mother’s expression, and then the polite but hesitant mien of the tall, attractive man standing before her.  Mr. Burke had removed his hat, and it dangled from one hand as he started to reach out his other hand toward her in greeting.  Suddenly he froze, and Michaela saw him glance swiftly at Sully, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.  She felt a flash of empathy for the dark-haired stranger.  As far as she knew, there were no rules of etiquette for how a gentleman should behave when he was attempting to shake the hand of a woman being carried in another man’s arms.  The absurdity of the situation impressed itself on her, and Michaela felt an embarrassed blush stain her cheeks.  She inclined her head toward Sully’s, her lips close to his ear.

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

     “You can’t stand,” Sully said promptly in a normal tone of voice, effectively spoiling her attempt to be subtle.

     “I can lean on you,” she whispered back, acutely conscious of Mr. Burke standing by, pretending he couldn’t hear their conversation.

     “I’m gonna take you inside,” Sully replied, apparently unfazed by her discomfort.  “That’s where you should be, anyway.”

     “An inspired suggestion,” her mother remarked coolly.  “I’m sure we needn’t put on a display for the benefit of the townspeople, Michaela.”

     Michaela felt a surge of the old, familiar resentment her mother could so easily evoke in her.  “Mother, we’re hardly—“ she began heatedly, but Sully cut her off.

     “Let’s go inside,” he said quickly, then strode past their unexpected visitors, bearing her into the clinic.  Sully set her down carefully on the examination table, as the others followed them inside.  Michaela brushed self-consciously at her tangled hair.  She could only imagine how dirty and disheveled she must look.  But there was no help for it.  All she could do was try to make the best of a preposterous situation.

     “Perhaps we can attempt these introductions again,” she said lightly, aware that she was still blushing, but hoping Mr. Burke wouldn’t notice.  “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 swiftly.  He smiled at her warmly, putting her at her ease.  “I’ve never been one to ‘stand’ on ceremony—if you’ll pardon an atrocious pun,” he added.  Spontaneously Michaela smiled back at him, as much in gratitude for his kindness as in response to his mild jest.  Sully looked amused as well.

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

     “Brendan Burke—pleasure,” their visitor said, shaking Sully’s hand.

     “Call me Sully,” Sully responded.

     "And please, call me Brendan,” Mr. Burke urged them both.  “Dr. Quinn, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he went on.  “Mrs. Quinn has been singing your praises ever since we left Boston.”
 Michaela groaned inwardly.  What had her mother been telling this poor man?  Had Elizabeth managed to embarrass her without her even knowing it?  In response to Brendan’s compliment she said self-deprecatingly, “That must have grown immensely tedious for you all those days crossing the prairie.”

     The corners of Brendan’s eyes crinkled as he grinned.  “I managed to get through it,” he asserted, then added unexpectedly, “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.”

     Somewhat blinded as she was by the force of Brendan’s charm, the inference of his statement didn’t immediately register in Michaela’s mind.  “I think you must be of Irish descent, Mr.—‘Brendan’,” she amended.  “You certainly seem well acquainted with the ‘Blarney stone.’”

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

     And then it struck her.  Brendan’s last name was Burke, and he’d mentioned a brother—one whom she allegedly knew . . .  She stared at him, stunned.  “Wait—your brother?” she said rapidly.  “Not—William Burke?”

     “One and the same,” Brendan confirmed.  “And I was given strict instructions to present his compliments to you, and give you his warmest regards.”

     Michaela was shaking her head in amazement.  “I can’t believe it,” she marveled.  “William once mentioned his family to me, but he never said anything about brothers and sisters.”

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

     Michaela couldn’t deny her pleasure at receiving news of the kind and gentle physician she remembered with such fondness.  “How is William?” she asked.

     “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 told her.

     “I’m so happy to hear it,” Michaela said with genuine warmth.  She hesitated a moment, somewhat nervous about asking the question, then added tentatively, “Did—he ever take a partner?”

     Brendan’s clear eyes, fraught with knowledge, looked steadily into hers.  “No, he never did,” he responded mildly after a pause.  “He always claimed that after you, no one else could measure up.”

     The annoying, almost school-girl blush that had bloomed on Michaela’s cheeks since their arrival, now returned with a vengeance—heating her face and neck and turning her skin a fiery crimson.

     “William was always so generous,” she managed after a moment, her words sounding awkward and clumsy to her ears.  “But I think our—friendship—made it difficult for him to be objective.”

     Beside her, Michaela felt Sully stiffen.  Slightly appalled, she belatedly realized that for a few brief moments, she had forgotten his presence.  She gazed side-long at him, wondering if he knew.  The sudden tension in his posture certainly seemed to indicate that he detected something.  Suddenly he turned and their eyes met.  She saw him note the tell-tale blush on her face, then a mask slipped smoothly over his features.  His eyes became neutral, revealing nothing.

     Brendan was responding to her remark, and with an effort Michaela tried to pick up the thread of what he was saying.

     “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 stated.  “And I know first hand from your mother that you were responsible for saving her life.”  He looked toward Elizabeth.

     Michaela cringed inwardly.  She hardly felt in a condition at the moment to accept Brendan’s praise for her medical skills, and she strongly suspected that Sully was less than pleased to hear glowing allusions to a man who had once been his rival—whether or not he remembered him.  She wanted to change the subject, but her mind felt fuzzy, as if her head had been stuffed with cotton, and she couldn’t immediately summon the words.

     “Absolutely true,” her mother agreed with Brendan before Michaela could speak, increasing her discomfiture still more.  Would this embarrassing and ludicrous interview never end? she wondered.  She sighed deeply as she heard her mother continue, “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,” her mother said emphatically.

     Michaela stole another glance at Sully.  He was watching her mother now, his features quiet but remote.  While she couldn’t read his thoughts, Michaela couldn’t help but think that he must be hurt, or at least offended, by her mother’s tactless remark.  In her mind, she heaped curses on Elizabeth for her insensitivity.

     “The only man besides Sully, Mother,” Michaela said in a ringing tone.  Clearly unrepentant, her mother glanced perfunctorily at Sully.

     “Oh—yes,” Elizabeth said after a moment, deigning to notice his existence—or at least, that’s how it seemed to her daughter.  “Forgive me, Mr. Sully.  I—know you hold my daughter in high esteem.”

     “Yes I do, Ma’am—Mrs. Quinn,” Sully spoke finally, his tone polite but cool.

     “I’m so sorry about your injury, Dr. Quinn,” Brendan said hastily on the heels of Sully’s comment.  “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.”

     It occurred to Michaela that Brendan was equally aware of the tension in the room, and she regretted anew the unfortunate and uncomfortable circumstances of their initial meeting—not to mention what must seem like her appalling lack of hospitality.  Just then Sully startled her by responding to Brendan’s statement.

     “I think that’s a good idea,” he said clearly.  Elizabeth gave him a baleful glance and Michaela’s cheeks burned again.  “Michaela took a bad spill—she needs to rest and elevate her ankle,” Sully went on, either oblivious to Michaela’s embarrassment, or choosing to disregard it.  His eyes were fixed on Brendan.  “As far as a hotel, we ain’t got one,” he said bluntly.  “But there are rooms for rent at the saloon across the way, or I can take you over to the boardin’ house.”

     Michaela wondered if there was any way to rescue the situation at this point; but gamely, she decided all she could do was try.

     “Oh, I think we can do better than that, Sully,” she said carefully, causing him to look at her sharply.  She knew she must have shocked or at least offended Sully by contradicting him, but she silently pleaded with him to understand that she was only doing what was appropriate under the circumstances.  “There are no other patients staying here at the clinic right now,” she continued after a pause.  “And I intend to have Mother stay here anyway.  Certainly we can extend  our hospitality to include Mr. Burke.”

     “I don’t wish to intrude,” Brendan reiterated, casting a wary glance at Sully.

     “Nonsense,” Elizabeth said firmly, quashing his weak objection.  “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,” she stated confidently.  “As I’m sure Mr. Sully does, as well?” she added slyly, effectively putting Sully on the spot.

     Again Michaela fumed inwardly at her mother’s gall.  Rude or not, however, her mother’s words had the desired effect.  A moment later she heard Sully reluctantly answer in the affirmative.

     “Sure,” he said quietly.  “Michaela and her ma are right.  There’s plenty of room here.”

     There was another hesitation on Brendan’s part, then he finally agreed.  “Well, if you’re certain—then I accept with pleasure.”

     “I’m glad,” Michaela said, grateful that she had succeeded somewhat in smoothing things over with Brendan, and desperately hoping she could do the same with Sully the moment they were alone.  “I regret that I’m unable to offer you the hospitality of a home-cooked meal this evening,” she continued politely to Brendan.  “ But our friend Grace, who runs the café behind the clinic, is a wonderful cook.  Mother and my children can join you there for dinner—Sully too,” she added, even as she knew he would object.  He didn’t disappoint her.

     “I’m sure your ma and Brendan will understand that I want to stay here with you.”  Sully’s voice carried through the clinic, his tone brooking no contradiction.  To Michaela’s surprise, even her mother—for once—was silent.

     Instead, Brendan spoke.  “Of course,” he said.  His eyes fleetingly acknowledged Sully.  “Tell me,” he added to Michaela.  “Can we bring you anything?”

     Again Sully’s voice overrode any possible reply from Michaela.  His eyes were the color of flint, and his tone and manner clearly possessive.  “Thanks—but I’ll see Michaela gets what she needs,” he said flatly.  Michaela sensed Brendan retreat, but then a moment later Sully seemed to regret his harshness, and he added more mildly, “You must be tired and hungry.  That trip by stagecoach ain’t easy.”

     “I’ve had worse,” Brendan said shortly, piquing Michaela’s curiosity.  But he didn’t elaborate.  Instead he added, “But you’re right.  A hot meal would be very welcome about now.”

     Her curiosity about Brendan now fully aroused, Michaela couldn’t resist asking him a final question.  “That reminds me Brendan—you never mentioned your occupation.  Are you a physician like your brother?” she queried.

     For the first time in several minutes he seemed to relax.  His mouth curved into an amused smile as he shook his head.  “I’m afraid I was never attracted to the medical arts,” he told her.  “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.”

     His turn of phrase disarmed her.  “That sounds quite intriguing,” Michaela remarked.  “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,” Brendan said.

     Michaela conceded the logic of this, but then rather neatly put him on the spot with her next statement.  “I’ll look forward to it—when you join us for dinner at the homestead tomorrow evening,” she said adroitly.  “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 added, knowing her mother would agree and hoping Sully would support her as well.

     “Yes, indeed,” said Elizabeth, giving her expected response.

     “Whatever Michaela says,” Sully answered after a moment.  While his manner was not as warm as it could be, at least he was being civil.  She accepted that she had to be content with that.

     Brendan still looked as if he felt he should protest; but ensnared as he’d been in Michaela’s gentle web, and buoyed by Elizabeth’s reaction—and to a lesser extent Sully’s lukewarm but positive response—finally he submitted.

     “Well, if you’re absolutely certain I’d be no trouble—then I accept, with thanks,” he said.

     “I’ll take you over to the café, and then go fetch Colleen and Brian,” Matthew offered helpfully.  The next few minutes were taken up with words of parting and exhortations to Michaela to rest.  Finally, the others departed, and she and Sully were alone.

     Both the distance, and the silence between them were palpable.  Sully stood in front of her awkwardly, his eyes not meeting hers.  In her heart Michaela knew what was bothering him and she was eager to allay his concerns, but instinctively she felt that he wasn’t going to tell her voluntarily.  She needed to persuade him to open his heart to her.  More, she felt it was necessary for Sully to give voice to the feelings that were troubling him, for his own sake.

     “What’s wrong, Sully?” she said directly, her eyes focused intently on his.

     “Nothin’s wrong,” he denied, his own tell-tale blush appearing to belie his words.

     She regarded him benignly.  “Are we going to resume our engagement with a lie?” she said gently after a moment.

     She could see Sully struggling with the need to free his mind, conflicting with his equally strong desire not to upset her.  Finally he reached some sort of resolution, and raised his eyes to hers.

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