Tuesday, 11 April, 1870

     We crossed out of Utah into Nevada yesterday.  Over halfway there, and yet it feels as if our destination is no closer than when we started.  The days blend together, one melting into the next, so that it seems as if we’ve been traveling forever.  But as much as I’m haunted by the fear that we’ll never get there—or that we won’t get there in time . . .  simultaneously I feel as if I’m sliding helplessly down this steep slope—like what happened when I was on my way to Wrightwood with Loren, and we were crossing the washout.  Only this time, there’s nothing for me to grab onto, nothing to break my fall—and it feels like I’m hurtling toward a destiny I can’t control.

     It’s been a strange pursuit, with no tracks to find, no trail to follow.  And it’s felt odd, having to step back and let Brendan take the lead as he’s guided us along the swiftest, surest route to this place I’ve never seen.  But that’s why he’s here, why I let him come along.  He knows this country—its mountains and deserts, and stark, stunning landscapes—having traveled way further south than I’ve ever been.  I need his help.  I need every advantage, to tip the scales back in my favor—to face and defeat my adversary.  I’ve got to be prepared, to figure out how the Indian’s mind works . . .

    I could make guesses about Bloody Knife’s methods—how he had stolen Michaela and then spirited her away—but that’s all they were, guesses.  I didn’t know whether they were riding horses, or traveling by wagon . . . whether they were alone, or the scout had allies.  Common sense told me that he would have escaped on horseback; or if he had used a wagon, that he would have abandoned it quickly.  A wagon would have been useless to him as he sought to conceal Michaela and himself in the woods and mountains.

    And instinct told me that he that he had acted alone.  His revenge was an intensely personal thing; something to be savored, and hoarded, like gold.  He wouldn’t want to share the pleasure of that with anyone else.

     But I couldn’t *know* all these things.  Not for sure.  And the idea of so many unknowns was nearly as frightening to me as the thought of what Michaela might be suffering at his hands.  The only thing I could be sure of was that I dared not weaken, or give in to the black despair that threatened to overwhelm me whenever I imagined the torment Michaela must be going through.  I had to keep my mind, and my resolve, razor sharp.  I had to maintain my edge—it was all that stood between me finding Michaela and bringing her back safe . . . or losing her forever.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “Time for my watch,” Matthew whispered as he crouched down beside me in the still hours of the night.  “Go on and get some sleep, Sully.”

     “That’s all right—I ain’t tired,” I replied, from where I sat on a log near the campfire, a rifle propped next to me within easy reach.  The sight of the weapon was repugnant to me, but at the same time reassuring.  Much as I abhorred the thought of using a gun, I needed every advantage, if I was going to defeat Bloody Knife.  It was his game, his rules—and I was forced to abide by them, for Michaela’s sake.

     A dismal thought struck me.  What if I had no hope of winning, because Bloody Knife was holding all the cards?  A gambler might win his share of pots—he might even ride a lucky streak all the way into a fortune.  But if he pressed his luck too long or too often, he was destined to lose.  Because in the end, he could never beat the house.

     Matthew joined me on the log.  Even in the shadows, I could see concern for me etched on his face.  “You can’t keep going like this,” he said.  “You think you been hiding it, but I know you ain’t slept more than two or three hours out of twenty-four since we started out, Sully.  You ain’t going to be any good to Dr. Mike if you collapse from exhaustion.”

     “I know—and you’re right,” I answered, reaching down for a tin cup at my feet and taking a swallow of the contents.  The coffee was cold and bitter, and I grimaced in disgust, then dumped the dregs out on the ground.  “I try to sleep, but I can’t.  I have these nightmares . . .”  I left the sentence unfinished, as vague, menacing remnants from my dreams crowded into my mind, sending a chill down my spine.

     “Yeah,” Matthew said quietly.  “I know what you mean.  I have bad dreams too, sometimes.  Even so, Sully, you got to try to get some rest.”  He sighed.  “If only we had Dr. Mike’s medical bag, maybe you could take something, help you sleep . . .”

     I shook my head in the darkness.  “No, Matthew. Even if we had the bag, I wouldn’t take nothing.  It might make me groggy or slow my reflexes, and I couldn’t risk that.  My mind needs to be sharp—I need to be ready, in case . . .”  Again I left the thought unspoken.

     “Lack of sleep slows your reflexes too,” Matthew pointed out.  “Sully, you got three able-bodied men with you.  We all got guns, and we’re ready to fight.  Let us help you—that’s why we’re here.”

     “I know,” I said.  “It’s just—we’re here because of me.  I’m the one Bloody Knife wants, and I feel like I got to be the one to do this.”

     “I understand,” Matthew replied.  “And nobody’s stopping you.  But we’re here to back you up, Sully.  You ain’t going into this alone—we won’t let you.”

     “That an order?” I asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

     Matthew gave me a crooked smile in return.  “If need be,” he said.

     “Well, you don’t got to go that far,” I told him.  “I’ll try to get some rest—you got my word.  But . . . not just yet, Matthew—all right?”

     He nodded, and the two of us sat without speaking for several minutes.  Presently he said, “You feel like talking—or would you rather I left you to yourself?”

     “No!” I said quickly.  Too quickly, I guess, because he shot me another look of concern.

     “It’s all right,” I added hastily, to prove to him I hadn’t gone completely round the bend.  At least—not yet.  “I, uh, I’m—obliged—for the company,” I went on more calmly.  “Being alone with myself too much . . . well, it takes my mind places I’m scared to go.”

     “We’re all scared for her, Sully,” Matthew said softly.

     I stared down at the ground.  There was a short, stout length of twig lying between my feet, and mechanically I picked it up, rubbing it back and forth between my palms.  “I hate this,” I muttered darkly.  “I hate that I did this to you—and to the kids, and Mrs. Quinn.  To Michaela . . .”  My fingers suddenly tightened around the stick, and with a crack like a muffled gunshot, it snapped in two.  Seeing the broken pieces in my hands reminded me eerily of Michaela’s shattered cane, and in revulsion, I threw the two halves away.

     “YOU didn’t do it, Sully!” Matthew exclaimed in a sharp whisper, forcing me to raise my eyes to him.  “Bloody Knife did it!  Custer did it!  It ain’t your fault.  You didn’t ask for any of this and you ain’t to blame.”

     Part of me registered and was grateful for what he was saying, but the rest of me . . .  I lifted my chin and stared ahead into the darkness, smug with its secrets.

     “I set all this in motion,” I said fatalistically.  “I stared Custer right in the face, and I told him I was headed up into the hills—to go hunting!”  I gave a short, bitter laugh.  “How could I have thought for even a second that he’d buy that?  That he wouldn’t know I was on my way to Cloud Dancing?

     “Cloud Dancing was a fugitive, Matthew,” I said hoarsely.  “He had a price on his head, and I all but marked out a trail for Custer and Bloody Knife to follow!  I lead them to Cloud Dancing—I caused this.”

     “Sully—“  Matthew attempted to interject.

    “Your ma begged me to wait,” I went on reproaching myself, oblivious to everything save my own guilt.  “She asked me to hold off leaving a day or two till Custer wasn’t watching so close.  But I refused.  I said Custer would be too suspicious if I stayed on in town.  I thought I knew it all.  If only I’d listened to her . . .”

    “Sully, you can’t keep blaming yourself for what’s over and done with,” Matthew reiterated.  After a moment he added, “What would Dr. Mike say if she could hear you now?”  Finally his words started to sink in.  Again I thought about Michaela telling me not to punish myself.  So easy to say, but so hard to do . . .

       I was silent for a time, but presently I began speaking again, almost without realizing I was talking aloud.

     “I never knew a woman like your ma,” I ruminated softly.  “I been around a lot in my life, seen my fair share of places—and women.  But never anybody like Michaela.  Beautiful, and elegant . . .  but at the same time, smart as a whip and full of fire.  So passionate about her work and her patients . . . so loving and tender—but with a healthy dose of stubborness thrown in just to keep things interesting.”  I smiled a little.  “You know, she looks so small and delicate, like a stiff breeze would blow her away.  But she’s got this amazing strength running through her—this will of iron.  I never knew a woman so strong, and so brave, but with such a gentle heart.”

     “That’s Dr. Mike,” Matthew agreed.

     “You know, I think she fell in love with me right off,” I confided, unable to keep just a trace of smugness out of my tone as I thought back to our beginnings together.  “Even if she couldn’t say it straight out till she came back from Boston.  But as for me . . . well, I pretended to myself that I didn’t feel anything, for a long time.  I tried to make myself believe that we were just friends, because I guess I couldn’t admit, even to myself, that I could love someone again after Abagail.  And we were so different, your ma and me.  I just couldn’t imagine that we could make a life together.

     “But truth is, Matthew, I loved her her too—from the moment I first saw her fall flat on her face in the mud.”  I smiled again, the pleasure of the memory fleetingly blotting out the anguish of the present.  “I lost my heart to a woman with dirt on her face and mudstains all over her fancy Boston dress . . . and a yard of spunk.”  I took a ragged breath. “I thought we’d have all the time in the world—but now . . .”

     “You can’t give up, Sully,” Matthew said firmly.  “You’re just feeling low right now because you’re worn out, and it’s been a long trip, with a ways still to go.  After you get some rest, things will look different.

     “We’re going to make it, Sully.  We’re going to find Dr. Mike, and we’re going to bring her home.  Then the two of you will get married, just like you planned.  You got to believe, Sully, same as you been telling me.”  He laid a hand on my shoulder.  “Go on and get some sleep,” he urged again, his voice kind.

     Reluctantly I nodded, recognizing the wisdom of what he said.  I rose to my feet.

     “’Night, Matthew—see you in the morning,” I said quietly.

     “’Night, Sully,” he answered, looking up at me sympathetically.

     I moved around the fire to my bedroll, lowered myself to the ground, and stretched out.  Lacing my fingers  beneath my head, I stared up at the distant stars, wondering if Michaela was seeing them as well.  After a bit I closed my eyes, and reached out to her with my thoughts.

     I’m coming, Michaela, I promised her.  Hold on, Sweetheart—just a little longer.  I’m coming
. . .  Eventually, I slept.

* * * * * * * * * *
 
     I came awake suddenly, bolting up from my pallet, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like a shroud.

     Matthew was by my side in an instant.  Hunkering down next to me, he said, “Sully—you all right?”

     My mind was fogged with confusion.  Unable to tell where the dream left off and reality began, I didn’t immediately answer.

     “Sully!” Matthew repeated urgently.

     “Yeah—yeah, I’m all right,” I responded finally, the dissorientation slowly dissipating from my mind.

     “You have another nightmare?” Matthew persisted.

     “I—ain’t sure,” I said hesitantly, mentally trying to grasp the rapidly receding images.  A fragment suddenly came clear, and my eyes widened.  “No,” I amended after a pause.  “No, this dream wasn’t the same as the others.”

     “Want to talk about it?” Matthew encouraged.

     I shook my head, in uncertainty rather than refusal.  “I don’t remember much,” I responded slowly.  “Except—“  I shut my eyes tight, straining to bring the elusive memory into focus.  “I was dreaming of . . . of water,” I finished wonderingly, opening my eyes again and staring at Matthew.

     “Water?” he repeated.  “You mean, like water you drink?”

     I was silent, still pondering the curious recollection.

     “Well, that don’t seem so strange,” Matthew went on when I didn’t answer.  “We’re headed for the Mojave, after all.  Maybe you were dreaming you were stuck out in the desert without any water,” he suggested.

     “No, that ain’t it,” I replied,  the images becoming slightly clearer the longer I thought about them.  “It was water like . . . like in a lake, or a stream.  Or a waterfall.”

     “Well, at least that don’t sound so scary.”  Matthew’s tone was positive.

     “No, not scary,” I echoed.  “But I don’t know what it means—and I feel like I should,” I added, looking at him earnestly.

     “I wouldn’t worry yourself,” he said with confidence.  “I’m still wagering you were thinking about being in the desert before you fell asleep, so your mind conjured up pictures of lakes, and rivers and such.”

     “Maybe so,” I allowed, feeling more doubtful as the scraps of the dream continued to fade.  “But—for just a minute there, it was so clear, Matthew.  I was standing before a waterfall, watching it cascade down from this low mountaintop . . .  I could even hear it, splashing on the rocks below.  And I felt mist on my face . . .”

     “Maybe you were remembering somewhere you been in the past,” he suggested.  “You’re still getting your memories back, right?  Maybe you visited this place once, and it’s just now coming back to you.”

     But I was already shaking my head.  “No, I never been there,” I said emphatically.  “I’m sure of that.  And I pretty much recall everything from the past three years now.

     “No,” I repeated, sure about this much, if little else.  “No, this was something different.”

     “Well, you ain’t going to solve it now,” Matthew said reasonably.  “It’s just a couple hours till daylight.  We got another long day of riding ahead.  Take advantage of the time to get a little more shut-eye.”

     “Yeah, guess I should try,” I conceded, relaxing slightly.  But my mind continued to hold onto the image, worrying at it, unable to let it go.  Instinctively I knew I’d get no more sleep this night.  But I didn’t want Matthew worrying about me, or watching me like he thought I’d take leave of my senses any moment.  I lay back down on the bedroll, and crossed my arms over my chest.  “Wake me at sunrise,” I requested, closing my eyes.

     “Sure,” he said, and I felt him stand up and move away.

     I lay in the predawn silence, visions of splashing water and frothy spray tumbling endlessly through my mind.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

     And so the days slipped past, the miles slowly and surely piling up behind them.  Sully realized that if the situation hadn’t been so desperate, he might have enjoyed such a trip—traveling someplace he’d never been, indulging the wanderlust that remained alive inside him, despite the commitment he’d made to Michaela and to himself to live a different sort of life.

     Brendan had said the spring was glorious in the Canyon and the desert, and the vistas which met Sully’s eyes constantly fulfilled the promise of the young archaeologist’s words.

     Though the ominous cloud of Michaela’s fate continuously hovered over him, Sully couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder as they left the familiar contours of the Rockies behind, and the slope of the land leveled out to vast, arid plains and endless sand dunes, as far as the eye could see.  Forests of blue spruce, Douglasfir and Rocky Mountain cedar gradually gave way to pinyon pines, juniper and willow, and the ubiquitous Mojave yuccas and Joshua trees.   The groundcovers of chokecherry, mountain mahogany and oregon grape holly soon disappeared; to be replaced by beaver tail, cholla and barrel cacti, and red barked manzanita shrubs.  Likewise, wild orchids, spiderflowers, and the beautiful yellow pond-lily so common to the mountain lakes and ponds in the higher elevations of the Rockies, eventually yielded to creosote bushes, goldenbrush, yellow-throat phacelia and white forget-me-nots dotting the desert floor.

     Yet Sully was gratified to see some familiar “friends” as well, such as prickly pear; and—unexpectedly—even glimpses of ponderosa pine, flourishing within the sheltered canyon walls of a peak Brendan told them was known as Bridge Mountain.

     There were delightful surprises, too—almost like “gifts” offered up by the desert and the canyons to explorers intrepid enough to find them—such as the fiery orange glow of globe mallow, which Brendan told them served as forage for the big horn sheep, while simultaneously adding a brilliant touch of color to the landscape; and the vivid reddish-purple flowers of a plant Brendan called redbud, enhancing the sandstone outcrops.

     The nearer they drew to their destination, the more their eyes were beguiled by the red, yellow and white-striped escarpments of sandstone on the horizon; their summits dwarfed in turn by the darker gray limestone of the Spring and La Madre Mountains rising behind them.  The dramatic formations shimmered tantalizingly in the distance, the unusually clear quality of the light making them appear deceptively close.  Etched starkly against the brilliant blue of the southern sky, the craggy mountain peaks and more softly rounded domes of the sandstone bluffs beckoned them onward.

    As they rode along, and often when they made camp for the night, Brendan made good on his promise to keep them entertained by regaling them with tales of his travels and archaeological exploits—talking of excavations in Egypt, France and Greece, as well as sharing vignettes of his other explorations in the southwest.  One evening, as the four of them sat grouped around the campfire, he told them of a journey he had undertaken to China, describing his awe when he first viewed the Great Wall, and relating curious experiences, such as being ferried through the narrow, teeming streets of Hong Kong in a chair on wheels called a “rickshaw;” or sailing in the harbor on a boat with four-cornered sails known as a “junk.”

     “Junk—that’s the word for it,” sneered Hank, with his characteristic prejudice toward anything or anyone Chinese.

     “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course Mr. Lawson,” Brendan noted politely.  “But while you’re being so smug, may I point out that the Chinese are descended from an ancient civilization whose sophisticated culture predates our own by thousands of years?”

    “Well, if their culture is so much better than ours, then they got no call to be comin’ over here, do they?” Hank contested scornfully.   “Let ‘em stay where they belong.”

     “Let’s not get started on this,” Matthew cautioned.

     “Just givin’ him my opinion,” Hank said, unfazed by Matthew’s warning.  “I never met a Chinaman yet that was good for nothin’,” he added for emphasis.

     “What about the hundreds of Chinese that have been employed in constructing the railroads?” Brendan pointed out.  “Are you suggesting that they haven’t made a valuable contribution?”

     “Yeah—stealin’ jobs from honest, hard-workin’ men!” Hank shot back.

     “Hank!” Matthew said sharply.  The saloon keeper raised an eyebrow at the latter’s temerity in challenging him.  “Not everybody here feels like you do,” Matthew amended more quietly after a moment, striving to keep the situation from erupting into an argument.

     “Perhaps it *would* be best to change the subject,” Brendan conceded diplomatically, earning a grateful look from Matthew, but regarding Hank with disdain.

     “Hey, you brought it up,” Hank retorted.

     “Anybody want more coffee?” Matthew offered hastily, lifting the pot from the flame.  Without waiting for an answer, he busied himself refilling their cups.

     Sully had been sitting silently throughout this exchange, only half-listening to the mild bickering between the men.  Now that it appeared a potential quarrel had been averted, he stood up and strolled away from the group.  Matthew thoughtfully watched him leave, but didn’t attempt to follow.  Despite Sully’s aversion to being by himself some nights ago, Matthew recognized that this time, his friend was choosing solitude, needing time by himself to clear his head, or perhaps seek a small measure of serenity.  Privately Matthew was deeply grateful that they were near the end of their journey—not just for Dr. Mike’s sake, but for Sully’s.  Truthfully he didn’t know how much longer Sully could bear up under the strain of his worry and guilt.  Though their arrival at Red Rock would thrust them into danger, at least the situation would finally have some kind of resolution.  One way or the other, it would soon be over—and then, maybe, Sully might be able to find some peace.

     Sully kept walking until he’d left the distant murmur of their voices far behind him.  He had tried to put on a front for them, had tried to join in on their conversation.  But he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sit still.  Finally he had been forced to surrender to his restless need to be on his feet and off by himself.

     Irrational as it was, inwardly he had begrudged every moment sacrificed by stopping to make camp, or any other delay they’d encountered which slowed him from reaching Michaela.  He recognized that his impatience and unwillingness to rest were both unreasonable and unrealistic.  Periodic stops for rest and food were obviously necessary—for the horses, and certainly for their riders.

     And for himself, as well.  Sully knew that, without Matthew having to tell him.  But for days he’d had little or no appetite, and he’d continued to resist the thought of sleep—dreading the nightmares which he could never remember when he awoke, but which always left him with a residual feeling of panic. It was true that the dreams weren’t always bad.  His dream of the waterfall had also been recurring with more and more frequency.  But even that dream had been equally maddening in its way, because he had yet to figure out its meaning—if in fact, it had any meaning at all.

     Even more intense than his fear of the dreams, however, was the constant compulsion that had been driving him to keep pushing onward, to reach their destination as soon as possible.  They’d already been on the road better than two weeks; and as Matthew had observed before they left, in all that time anything could happen.  Over and over Sully found himself thinking of when Michaela had been abducted by the dog soldiers—of what she’d endured, and how close she had come to being violated by One-Eye.  Even now, a year later, it still chilled him to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been there to prevent it.

     But thanks to the spirits, it hadn’t come to that.  He *had* been there.  He’d rescued Michaela, and brought her back relatively unharmed, apart from the superficial wounds she’d suffered.  The other wounds—the ones she carried on the inside—had no doubt been slower to heal.  But she had survived the experience.  She’d gone through hell, and come out on the other side.

    He had thought neither of them would ever have to face such a trial again.  But he’d been wrong.  The nightmare was repeating itself.  Only this time, she was so much further away, so far beyond his reach.  The thought which struck terror into his heart was whether she was permanently beyond his reach.  Beyond saving.

    A great weariness suddenly descended on him, seeming to leech the strength from his limbs and the vitality from his spirit.  Directly ahead of him a tumbled collection of boulders crouched in the darkness, one broader and flatter than the rest; and with a deep sign, Sully made his way over to the weathered rock and sat down.

    He was doing it again—letting himself sink into despair, even though he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to let the emotion overtake him.  Even worse, he was indulging in self-pity.  It shamed him to admit it, but the truth was that as desperately as he’d been worrying about Michaela, he’d been feeling equally sorry for himself.  He’d persisted in playing the matyr, castigating himself over and over for his mistakes.  And while that might have provided him with a perverse sort of satisfaction, it had done nothing to help her.  On the contrary, he might have even harmed Michaela further, by allowing self-recrimination to steal his focus from the only thing that mattered:  getting her back.

    Sully recalled something he’d heard once—a proverb from the Bible, he thought—about not making a graven image of one’s mistakes.  But that was precisely what he’d been doing—what had, in fact, initiated this entire nightmare.  He hadn’t been able to live with his memories of the past, and so he had let it affect his present.  He’d been so desperate to escape his guilt and grief that he’d blocked them out altogether—and in so doing, he’d not only seriously harmed himself, but also hurt all the people he loved most.  And now, he was letting his emotions impede his ability to find and rescue the woman he loved.

    It was affecting him in other ways, as well.  Matthew had been watching him more and more closely of late, clearly questioning his state of mind.  And Sully had to admit there was good reason.  Many times recently, in the privacy of his thoughts, he himself had questioned his ability to get through this ordeal without cracking under the strain.  After all, he’d only just recovered from another kind of mental breakdown—wasn’t it only natural that Matthew and perhaps the others would wonder about his sanity now?  Still another and even more dismal question occurred to him:  Could he even be sure he *had* recovered?  Or was this malaise of fear and guilt just another symptom of the illness which had nearly destroyed his relationship with Michaela?

    Nervous adrenaline shot through him, and again Sully rose and paced restlessly.  If only he knew more about the circumstances of Michaela’s abduction . . . if only he knew more about Bloody Knife’s intentions, what he was capable of.  Then perhaps he wouldn’t feel so helpless.  At least when Michaela had been taken by the dog soldiers, he had been able to track them, and later, keep them in sight.  It had been only a matter of time before he’d found an opportunity to act.

    But this time, it was like Michaela had vanished off the face of the earth.  They had good reason to believe that Bloody Knife had taken her to Red Rock, but even that was a supposition.  The fact of the matter was that this entire expedition had been mounted on the basis of a hunch.  But what if he’d misread the signs?  What if he’d been wrong?  Would Michaela pay for his mistake with her life?

    Michaela, he thought to her in his mind.  Speak to me—tell me where you are.  You helped me find you once before.  Help me now.  I don’t think I can do this all alone . . .

    Send me a sign, he implored.  Let me hear your voice or feel your thoughts.  I need to feel you, Michaela.  I need to feel that you’re alive—that I haven’t lost you.  You’re my heart, you’re my soul . . .  I can’t lose you.

    Can you hear me, Michaela? he thought.  Are you there?

    He stood very still, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, clearing his mind and listening for the voice that he ached to hear.  For a long time all was silent; yet a subtle sense of expectation began to steal over him, like a portent of something coming.  Calmly he waited.  Slowly, an image began to appear in his mind’s eye.  Ghostly at first, it gradually solidified, and he saw the waterfall again.  In front of him was the sheet of cascading water, its muted thunder filling his ears as it boomed on the rocks.  He felt the spray bathing his skin, the sensation so real he unconsciously raised his hand to his face to feel if it was wet.

    But his hand froze in midair as the vision shifted.  Suddenly he was there—actually there!—climbing over the rocks which descended to the pool at the base of the waterfall, carefully negotiating their slippery surface as he gingerly worked his way down the slope to the bottom of the gorge.  The massive barricade of water plunged relentlessly downward, crashing on the boulders and sending up huge gouts of spray that soaked his skin and clothing. The roar was nearly deafening as he skirted the pool and waterfall, and edged his way into a hollow between the rushing cascade of water and a dark opening in the face of the cliff.  A cave . . .

    He could feel the pounding of his heart as he stared at the hidden cavern.  Involuntarily he began to tremble; then, taking a shuddering breath, he ducked his head to go through the entrance—

    The vision was gone.  He was standing in the aridness of the desert once again, alone under a vast blanket of remote, indifferent stars.

    But there was a dampness on his cheeks.  Sweat, no doubt.  Perhaps even tears.  Or could it be, possibly, droplets of mist . . .?

    Sully’s shocked eyes stared into the darkness.  “Oh, my God,” he muttered aloud.  Why hadn’t he seen it sooner?  How could it have taken him so long to understand?

    He looked up into the night sky.  “I heard you, Michaela,” he whispered.  “Loud and clear.  I’ll find you.  Hold on just a little longer.  I promise I’ll find you . . .”

    He took off for camp at a run.