Sunday, 16 April, 1870

My Darling Michaela,

     If God and the spirits are merciful, you will never have to read this.  I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of that place—to finally end this unspeakable torment you’ve had to endure because of me.  But if something should go wrong . . . if I’m—not around—after all this is over . . . I can’t let us be parted forever without telling you how I feel—without letting you know what it’s meant to me to be a part of your life, and for you to be a part of mine.  I’m going to leave this journal with Matthew; and though I pray it won’t be necessary, I’m going to instruct him to give it to you if the worst happens.

     As I write this, we’ve taken cover behind a ridge overlooking the waterfall—the waterfall I’ve seen so often in my dreams—the waterfall you helped me to find by sending me a vision of where you were.  I know there’s a cave behind that wall of water, and that Bloody Knife is holding you prisoner inside.  I know that these past weeks must have been a nightmare for you; and I promise you that one way or the other, the end of the nightmare is finally at hand.  But what I don’t know—what I can’t predict—is how it will all turn out.  So now, while I’ve got the chance, there are things I need to say.

    Forgive me, Michaela.  Forgive me for failing you—for not being there for you when it counted most.  I thought I had the situation under control—I thought I was protecting you.  Instead I was a fool, overconfident and arrogant.  I misjudged Bloody Knife—I underestimated his determination and his cunning; and most of all, the extreme depth of his hatred and his need for revenge.  That knowledge is so bitter to me now, and I’ve punished myself over and over for my tragic mistake.

    I’m so desperately sorry for what he did to you, Michaela.  I’m so sorry that you had to be the one to suffer.  I pray to God and the spirits that he didn’t hurt you—that it wasn’t your blood we found on your broken cane.  I pray with all my heart that he hasn’t hurt you in—other ways—in the time that’s passed since he took you from me.

     I would have given my life to spare you this agony—and if my life is the price I need to pay now to save yours, then I’ll offer it up, without hesitation.  But if it comes to that—if death is the fate that awaits me—then I want you to know that being loved by you was the fufillment of a dream.  And that even our brief time together brought me more joy than most people know in a lifetime.

     It’s so difficult for me to write this because I know it will bring you more pain, and I’d rather cut off my hand than do that . . . but Michaela, I need you to know that if I have to die—that I died with no regrets; that I gladly gave my life for your sake.  The Cheyenne believe there is honor in a meaningful death; and what greater honor could there be than to die saving the lives of the ones you love?  Of the woman you love with a depth and a passion that is eternal—that will live forever?

     That’s how I love you, Michaela.  With every particle of my being; with my heart and with my soul.  The Cheyenne brought me back to life, but you made that life worth living.  You made every day an adventure, every moment a joy.  You gave me meaning, and purpose, but most of all, you gave me love—and made my life complete.  You *are* my heart, Michaela.  From the first time I saw you, every beat of my heart, every breath that I’ve drawn, has been measured to yours.

     I don’t want to draw my last breath if it means being parted from you.  But if that is my fate, then I pray that someday, a long, long time from now, you’ll join me on the hanging road and we’ll climb to our home in the stars, where we’ll live together forever.
 
     I could fill a page of this journal for every one of the miles I traveled to find you, and still it wouldn’t be enough to tell you how much you mean to me.  But time is short, and every minute that I spend writing is another one that you have to endure at the hands of your tormentor.  So soon I must bring this to a close.

     But before I do, I need to talk about the men who helped me to find you.  To tell you of their strength, and their courage.  I owe them so much, more than I can every repay—and to say “thank-you” doesn’t even begin to honor that debt.  But at least by writing down my feelings in these pages, I can offer this humble legacy—so that you and everyone else I leave behind will know that in my eyes, they were heroes.

     First and foremost, there’s Matthew.  What can I tell you about him, Michaela, that you don’t already know in your heart?  From the moment we discovered you were missing, and put the pieces together about what happened, he stuck by me; giving me support, and encouragement—and loyalty.  Even when they all had reason to doubt me—to think the strain of this ordeal had unbalanced my mind—Matthew never lost faith.  Only a short while ago, I’d been close to giving up.  I’d begun to doubt myself—to question whether I’d truly lost my senses and only imagined that you’d sent me a vision.  But Matthew never stopped trusting that you’d found a way to reach out to me; or that somehow, some way—I would find a way to reach you.

     And when I was feeling my lowest—when my despair was at its worst—it was Matthew who spotted the waterfall, and knew without my having to confirm it that this was the place I’d seen in my mind—and that we’d found you at last.

     He’s a fine young man, Michaela—decent, caring and honorable.  You raised him up right.  Charlotte may have given him the foundation, but you were the one who carried on, bringing him up straight and strong through your love.  I’m lucky to know him, and be a part of his life.

     But moving on . . .  Though my vision helped us to pinpoint the exact spot where you were—it wasn’t what brought us hundreds of miles from home to this canyon in the Nevada desert.  For that, we’ve got Brendan to thank.

     Yes, you read right.  Brendan was the only one who could identify the origins of a clue that Bloody Knife left behind—an ancient stone called a “petroglyph” that came from this particular spot in Nevada called Red Rock Canyon.  The petroglyph was all we had to go on—our only lead to where Bloody Knife had taken you—but we would never have understood its meaning or known where it came from, if it hadn’t been for Brendan’s archaeological skills.  And his willingness to help us . . . to help me.

     I know I did a lot of complaining about Brendan’s profession—and that was partly why I was so quick to judge him unfairly, without getting to know him as a person.  Not to mention the way I misjudged the feelings between the two of you, and went on being jealous of him even after you swore I had no reason to be.  I know I caused a lot of bad feelings and unhappiness among all three of us because of my stubbornness, and I truly regret that.  I’m even sorrier now than I was the last time you and I were together.  But even though you finally proved to me that I was a fool to be jealous—that my fears about losing you to him were groundless . . . it wasn’t till you were taken from us that Brendan really proved his mettle to me, and I really understood how wrong about him I’d been.

     It started with him helping us to put out the fire at the saloon—the fire Bloody Knife started, though we didn’t realize that till later.  Brendan didn’t have to risk his safety on our account.  He had no connection to this town, and no real reason to help us—especially after how I’d behaved.  Yet despite all that, he was out there with us, working as hard as everybody else to fight the fire.  Even getting overcome by the smoke didn’t stop him.

     I got to admit I was surprised.  More, I was impressed.  But the respect I had for him then turned out to be nothing compared to the way I felt later.

     Like I said before, he was the one who recognized this stone and was able to tell us, chapter and verse, all about its origins.  It turns out he’d explored this Red Rock Canyon in the past, so he knew all about the terrain, he had maps of the area, and he’d even taken pictures.  At the time, I wasn’t conscious of feeling anything save relief, that we had someone with the knowledge to help us and make this part of our pursuit so much easier.  But now, looking back . . . I can’t help but wonder if the spirits were watching over us, and sent him to Colorado Springs.  Despite what happened with your ma, maybe Brendan coming out here wasn’t about her reasons at all.  Maybe it was the spirits who brought him to us, because they knew we’d need him . . . that I’d need him.

     It probably sounds like I’m talking foolish—maybe I am.  I guess I’m feeling real sentimental about now, believing in miracles—or at least praying for them.  But I also ain’t willing to overlook the possibilities.  There’s no earthly explanation for how you were able to reach me and lead me to the waterfall.  And yet, here it is in front of us in all its glory, looking exactly as I saw it in my mind, yet totally, undeniably real.

     There was also no rational explanation for how we heard and felt each other when the dog soldiers took you—but we both know it happened.  And how could you have known about Bloody Knife attacking me in the mountains, before Cloud Dancing brought me home?  You couldn’t have—not in any way that makes sense.  And yet you did.

     Shakespeare said that there’s “more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy”—and I believe I finally understand what he meant.

     But coming back to Brendan.  It wasn’t just that he provided us with so much valuable information to aid us on our journey—that would have been more than enough.  But he went further than that.  He offered to come along and be our guide—no, he *insisted*—in spite of being fully aware of how dangerous it could be; that he might even be risking his life.  And it wasn’t out of some craving for glory or need to be a hero.  He simply wanted to do what he could—whatever he could—to help.

     And there’s more.  He’s been an ally.  Like Matthew, he’s supported me and given me the benefit of the doubt—even when my claims of “visions” and such would be enough to stretch most people’s belief to the limits.  Bottom line, is that he’s been a friend, when I needed one most.  I’ll always be grateful for that.  And I’ll never forget it.

     Which brings me, finally, to Hank.  You might be surprised that he came along on this trip—then again, maybe not.  You’ve seen for yourself in the past how Hank’s come through for folks in a pinch—lots of times when they were least expecting it.  It was a decent thing for him to do, being willing to help us—especially given the fire in the saloon.  Then again, maybe Hank sees this as his chance to get his own revenge on Bloody Knife.  I suppose the reasons don’t matter, though—only the results.  But if truth be told, Michaela, I think Hank’s motives for being here have a lot more to do with how he cares for you, than anything else.

     Don’t worry—I ain’t mad, or jealous.  Fact is, it touches me.  I can hardly be angry with someone who’s willing to put his life on the line out of his respect and affection for you.

     But that ain’t to say it’s been easy.  Hank and me have had more than our share of dust-ups on this trip, which probably doesn’t surprise you either.  You can only imagine his reaction when I first talked about my “vision.”  But in the end, he came around and he’s stuck by me too—and I got to say, I’m grateful.

     I just wanted you to know how much everyone misses you and how hard they’ve been trying to get you back.  And that includes all our friends back in town:  Grace and Robert E., who offered to help your ma care for Colleen and Brian, and who provided us food, and a horse for Brendan to ride; Loren, who nearly emptied out his store loading me up with supplies, and who promised to look out for Brian and keep his spirits up; Dorothy, who was willing to take a message for me to Cloud Dancing, to let him know what happened; and the Reverend, who’s been praying with all his might for your safe return.

     They all did whatever they could to make my burden easier.  And they’re all praying for you, Michaela.  They’re praying for all of us.

     Last but not least, I want to tell you about the children.  I know how you much you miss them, and how you must be worrying about being apart from them for so long.  But I swear to you, Michaela, they’re all right.  They’re scared for you, of course, but they’re being incredibly brave.  You’d be so proud of them.

     You ma’s holding up too.  Being every bit as strong as I always knew she’d be.  I made her a solemn promise that I’d find you and get you back—and I intend to keep it, even if I might not be there to see your reunion.

     And now, it’s time to end this.  I pray that in a short while, I’ll see your precious face, and hold you in my arms.  And that no one will ever part us again.  But if I have to say good-bye . . .

     Never forget how deeply I love you; how much joy you brought into my life.  I’ll carry your song in my heart forever, no matter what destiny the spirits see fit to bestow upon me.

     I will be with you always, Michaela.  Always.

     All my love, in this life and beyond,

                                                                                                                                       Sully

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

     The shock finally began to wear off, and Sully made a move as if to spur his horse forward.  Immediately Hank’s hand shot out and he grabbed Sully’s arm, restraining him.

     “What are ya doin’?” the barkeep demanded in alarm.

     “What do you think?” Sully retorted sharply.  “I’m goin’ after Michaela!” He tried to twist out of Hank’s grasp, but the saloon keeper’s fingers tightened their grip.

     “Don’t be crazy!” he exhorted.  “Ya can’t just ride down there, half-cocked.”

     Sully’s eyes were grim.  “Michaela’s been goin’ through hell for weeks—I ain’t lettin’ her suffer one more minute of torture at his hands.”  He gave Hank a steely glance.  “Let me go,” he said ominously.

     “No,” Hank said flatly, the blue of his eyes turning to flint.  “Not till ya start makin’ sense.”

     “What are you talkin’ about?” Sully demanded, his body almost humming with tension.

     “Ya go runnin’ out there in the open without no protection—who knows what might happen?” Hank argued.

     “I *told* you—I don’t think Bloody Knife’s gonna finish me off that way,” Sully insisted.

     Hank rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, ya ‘told me,’” he repeated.  “Well, what if you’re wrong?  Ya claimed you were gonna be careful, but now you’re willin’ to throw away all your common sense.  Why’d ya let us come along at all if ya wasn’t gonna let us give ya back-up?”

     Sully tried to calm himself.  In a more reasonable tone he said, “Hank—I know you mean well, and I’m obliged that you wanna protect me, but I can take care of myself.  And I haven’t come all this way just to make Michaela wait now.”  Hank continued to regard him critically.  “Look, I absolve you of any responsibility,” Sully added.  “Whatever happens, it’ll be my choice and on my head.
 
     “Now let me GO,” he commanded.

     But Hank shook his head.  “Sorry.”

     Sully stared at him, incredulous.  “You can’t stop me!”

     “Yeah I can—if I think you’re puttin’ yourself and the rest of us in danger,” Hank countered stubbornly.

     Sully’s anger erupted.  “Hank, I’m warnin’ you—“

     “He’s right, Sully,” Matthew spoke up suddenly.  His eyes were sober.  “We can’t just let you go runnin’ off.”

     Sully turned betrayed eyes on his stepson.  “I mighta expected this from Hank, Matthew—but you?”

     “We’re tellin’ you this for your own good,” Matthew maintained.  “We need a plan—“

     “I GOT a plan!” Sully exclaimed.  “And it consists of gettin’ Michaela out of that cave, and then gettin’ my hands around Bloody Knife’s neck and squeezin’ the life out of him.”  His eyes were lethal.

     Matthew’s expression was troubled, but he didn’t waver.  “Sully, that’s just your anger talkin’.  I know how you feel about Bloody Knife—I know you wanna punish him, make him suffer the way he made Dr. Mike suffer—“

     “And who’s got a better right?” Sully burst out.

     “Nobody,” Matthew agreed quietly.  “And nobody’s tryin’ to stop you from gettin’ the justice you deserve.  We’re just sayin’ there’s better and safer ways to go about it.”

     “Listen to reason, Sully,” Brendan advised.  “Matthew and Hank are making sense.”

     “So you’re betrayin’ me too?” Sully said to him coldly.  Brendan dropped his eyes and didn’t answer.

     “Sully, if the situation was turned around—if it was one of us proposin’ to just go into this blind—you’d never let him take that kinda risk,” Matthew insisted.  “It’s just your worry over Dr. Mike that’s keepin’ you from seein’ things clear.”  He looked at Sully earnestly.  “You brought us along so we could help you,” he added.  “That’s what we’re tryin’ to do.  We’re just askin’ you to let us.”

     Sully’s eyes were dark pools of anguish.  “Don’t you care about what your ma’s been through?” he said accusingly.  “What she’s *still* goin’ through?”

     “’Course I care,” Matthew said quickly, his tone injured.  “How can you even ask?  But I care about you too, Sully, and I don’t wanna see you run out and get yourself killed when we’re this close to rescuin’ Dr. Mike.”

     “I can’t let her suffer any more, Matthew,” Sully said more quietly, not quite able to disguise the tremor in his voice.  “’Sides, we gotta face the fact that I might get killed no matter what I do.”

     “Not if we can help it,” Matthew declared, his face determined.

     “Nor do we intend to let Dr. Mike suffer further,” Brendan spoke again.  “None of us wants that.  And we’re not trying to keep you from her.  We’re simply advocating that you approach with caution—for Dr. Mike’s sake certainly, but also for your own.”

     Silently Sully studied each of their faces.  Seconds ticked past.  Finally he glanced down at Hank’s fingers still closed around his arm.  “You can let go of me now,” he said dully.  “I ain’t gonna run off.”

     Hank eyed him warily, but after a moment he loosened his grip and withdrew his hand.  “’Bout time ya came to your senses.”

     “So what do you suggest we do?” Sully asked them, his tone flat and resigned.

     “For starters, find some cover,” Hank stated.  “While you been flyin’ off the handle, I been scoutin’ the terrain.  I think that ridge over yonder’s a good bet.”  He pointed to an area off to their right.  “There’s good visibility, it’s protected and it’s defensible.  I say we take cover up there, then figure out our next move.”

     “Fine with me,” Matthew said.  He glanced questioningly at Brendan.

     “Agreed,” Brendan said briefly.

    Matthew turned back to Sully.  “That just leaves you,” he said softly.  “How ‘bout it, Sully?  You with us?”

    After a long pause Sully nodded reluctantly.  “Time’s wastin’,” he observed.  “Let’s go.”

* * * * * * * * * *

    Hank moved over to where Matthew was crouched behind a boulder, loading his pistol.  “What’s he doin’?” he asked in a low voice, jerking his head toward where Sully hunched against the rockface nearby, huddled over something in his lap.  Matthew followed his gaze, his eyes dark and compassionate as they rested on his friend.

    “I ain’t sure,” he whispered back.  “But I think—he might be writin’ a letter to Dr. Mike.”

    Hank looked perplexed.  “What’s he doin’ writin’ her a letter when he’s gonna see her in just a little—“  He broke off, his expression altering, becoming sober.  “He’s sayin’ good-bye.”  It wasn’t a question.

    Pain touched Matthew’s eyes.  “Yeah . . . I think maybe he is,” he answered gravely.

    “What happened to all that confidence he had?” said Hank.  “He was so sure ‘bout everythin’—comin’ out here, that ‘vision’ thing . . .”  He leaned back against the boulder and lit a cigar.  “I hate to admit it, but he was right,” the barkeep went on.  He exhaled a stream of smoke and watched it drift away on the air.  “The waterfall was real.  We finally found it.  And now he’s givin’ up?”

    “No, “ Matthew said quietly.  “Sully’d never give up.  Not where Dr. Mike’s concerned.  But I think he feels like he’s gotta—prepare himself—in case . . .”  He didn’t finish the thought.

    After a pause Hank leaned closer to Matthew.  Pitching his voice even lower he said, “What if—somethin’ happens to Michaela?  What if somethin’s already happened?”  His eyes were solemn.

    “You mean . . . what if she’s—“  Matthew couldn’t utter the word.

    Hank stared at Matthew knowingly.  “Hey, I know it hurts, but somebody’s gotta say it.  What if she’s dead?”  His tone was blunt, but his expression was troubled.  “What’s that gonna do to—“  Again he inclined his head toward Sully.

    The pain in Matthew’s eyes deepened, but now it was colored by fear as well.  “I truly don’t know,” he answered finally.

    “Ya scared?” Hank said intuitively.

    “Yeah,” Matthew replied quietly.  “I am.”

    Sully closed the book in his lap and glanced toward them.  “Matthew—can I have a word with you?”

    “Sure,” Matthew said readily.  He rose and moved over to Sully, hunkering down beside him.  “What do you need?”
 
    Sully held out the leather-bound folder for Matthew to see.  The young man regarded it uneasily.

    “This is the journal Dr. Mike started me writin’ when I lost my memory,” Sully told him.

    “Yeah, I know,” Matthew said slowly.  He cleared his throat.  “What about it?”

    Sully looked regretful in his turn.  “This ain’t to easy talk about,” he began reluctantly.  “Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to.  But . . . we gotta face facts, Matthew.  I don’t know what’s gonna happen with Bloody Knife—how things are gonna turn out.  But it’s real possible that . . . I might not live out the day.  And if that happens—“

    “Sully, don’t talk crazy—!“ Matthew erupted, then stopped short, looking as if he wished he could bite off his tongue.   “I mean, nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he amended lamely after a moment.  Sully gave him a bittersweet smile.

    “You don’t gotta feel bad about usin’ the word,” he told his stepson kindly.  “Fact is, with the way Hank’s been tossin’ it around so much the past few days, I’m getting’ used to it.”  There was a faint spark of humor in his eyes.

    “Still, Sully, that’s not what I meant—“ Matthew attempted.

    “I know what you meant,” Sully said gently.  “And I’m obliged.  More than I could ever say.  And I’m sorry for how I treated you before.  I had no call to act that way.”

    Matthew shrugged.  “It’s all right.  I understood you were upset.”

    “We’re both upset,” Sully noted.  “Don’t mean my pain is any greater than yours, or that I got a right to take my feelin’s out on you.  Michaela ain’t just the woman I love—she’s your ma, too.  You got to be hurtin’ as much as me, Matthew.”

    “That’s why we came on this trip together, Sully,” Matthew pointed out.  “To help each other.”

    “Well, you surely helped me, in more ways than I can count,” Sully told him.

    “And I’m gonna keep on helpin’ you—we all are,” Matthew asserted.  “Which is why you got no call to worry that anythin’s gonna happen to you.”

    “I hope you’re right,” Sully responded.  “I ain’t afraid to join the spirits—but I gotta confess that it would be a bitter thing to leave you all now, when I’m just about to get the wife and family I always wanted.  Still, Matthew, I gotta prepare for the possibility that I won’t be around when all this is over.”  Matthew looked away, and Sully could see a tell-tale shimmer at the corner of his eye.  He reached out and touched the young man’s arm.  “Matthew,” he repeated softly.  “Look at me.”

    Matthew swallowed with an effort and faced him again.  His blue eyes were watery with unshed tears.

    Sully placed the journal in Matthew’s hands, then laid his own hand over the young man’s.  “If I don’t make it, I want you to give this to Dr. Mike,” he instructed calmly.  “There’s a letter for her, at the end.  Some important things I needed to say, in case I don’t get another chance.”

    “Please, Sully, don’t make me do this,” Matthew entreated, his face miserable.

    “Who else can I ask?” Sully persisted gently.  “We’re family, Matthew.  I need you to do this for me.  I need your  promise.  Will you?”  His eyes regarded the young man pleadingly.
After a long hesitation, Matthew nodded mutely.

    Sully looked satisfied.  “Good,” he said, squeezing Matthew’s hand briefly.  “I feel better now.”

    Matthew was silent for several moments longer, marshaling the courage for what he had to say next.  Finally he took a breath, and spoke.  “Sully—as long as we’re talkin’ about facin’ things that might happen . . . well, there’s somethin’ else I think we need to consider.”

    Sully nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue.

    “I’d give anythin’ not to say this,” Matthew went on haltingly.  “I don’t even wanna think it.  But Sully—it’s been a long time since Dr. Mike was taken.  And we know how hot-headed—how dangerous—Bloody Knife is.  What if—“  He swallowed again.  “What if—he did somethin’ to Dr. Mike?  What if she’s—“

    Sully’s eyes turned the color of storm clouds and his expression became closed and hard. “No,” he said.

    “But—“

    “NO,” Sully repeated, his tone implacable.  “She ain’t dead.”  He drew his knife from its sheath and mechanically began to polish it with a soft rag he pulled from his pocket.

    “I don’t wanna believe it either,” Matthew tried again.  “But Sully, you just said we gotta face the possibilities, and . . .”

    “She ain’t dead,” Sully insisted levelly.  He stopped rubbing the blade of the knife and looked intently into Matthew’s eyes.  “Don’t you understand, Matthew?  I’d know it if Michaela was dead.  I’d *feel* it.

    “She’s scared,” he went on.  “And hurt—maybe even hurt bad.  But she ain’t dead.  I know it, in my gut.”  He laid his hand on his stepson’s shoulder.  “Trust me on this, Matthew.”

    Hank approached them at that moment, his tall figure blocking out the lowering rays of the sun as he stood over them.  “Couldn’t help but overhear,” he ventured somewhat awkwardly, as they looked up.  “And if you’re positive she’s alive, I got no reason to dispute ya.  But we still ain’t come up with a plan for rescuin’ her—“

    Sully rose to his feet, followed by Matthew.  “I got a plan,” he announced, his eyes steely and determined.  “The only one there is.  I’m goin’ down there right now and get her out.”

    “But Sully—“ Matthew started to protest, however a look from the other man hushed him.

    “I know it’s dangerous, and I know you’re worried,” Sully told him.  “I let you talk me outta goin’ to your ma before ‘cause you were right—I was bein’ foolhardy and reckless.  But I ain’t gonna let you talk me out of it this time.  I swear I’ll be cautious,” he promised.  “But your ma needs me, Matthew.  She waitin’ for me and I’m goin’ to her—now.

    “You all can keep watch and cover me from here,” he added, resheathing his knife and preparing to climb down from their hiding place.  He glanced around at their faces; Matthew and Hank beside him and Brendan a few feet away.  “Any arguments?”

    Matthew and Brendan looked sober, but didn’t protest.  Hank drew his pistol and cocked it.

    “Stay low,” he advised.  “Get outta the open soon as ya can and keep to the rocks till ya can get close.  We’ll be coverin’ ya.”

    “Good,” Sully said.  “I’m countin’ on it.”  He looked at Hank and Brendan.  “Thanks,” he said simply.  “For everythin’ you done.  Whatever happens, I owe you.”  Hank raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, and Brendan tried to look optimistic.

    “Good luck,” he said.

    Sully nodded, then turned to his stepson.  “You’ve been a good friend, Matthew,” he said quietly.  “A good . . . son.”  He started to shake Matthew’s hand, then pulled him into a brief, hard embrace instead.  “Watch out for yourself,” he whispered.  “Watch out for your ma.”   Matthew clung to him for a moment, unable to speak.

    Gently Sully drew away, and managed to favor them all with a smile.  “I’ll be back with Michaela ‘fore you got time to miss me,” he said cheerfully.  He raised his hand in a gesture of farewell.  “See ya,” he added, and immediately began his descent from the ridge before anyone could say anything else.

    Sully’s parting words echoed hauntingly in Matthew’s mind as silently he began to pray.

 * * * * * * * * * *

     Sully moved quickly and carefully across the open expanse between the ridge and the waterfall, following Hank’s admonition to stay close to cover as much as he was able—though he honestly doubted that such precautions would make any difference.  Bloody Knife could be secreted anywhere among the cliffs overlooking the plain, and if the scout took it into his head to shoot at him, he would be a helpless target.  In fact, the closer Sully drew to the waterfall, the more certain he became that he *was* being watched.  The sensation, like thousands of hot pins pricking his flesh, grew steadily stronger, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  Instinctively his hand went to his tomahawk and he drew it from his belt, holding it at the ready.

     Anxiety and apprehension had acutely sharpened his awareness.  Colors assumed an even more vivid clarity, and his ears seemed to detect every sound, no matter how minute.  His entire body thrummed with tension—his muscles taut, and his nerve endings feeling raw and exposed.  Continuously his eyes raked the cliffs, alert for any sign of the danger telegraphed by his senses.

     But to no avail.  There was no one in sight, and nothing to disturb the stark, primeval beauty of his surroundings.  As he closed the remaining yards to the waterfall, his coiled muscles gradually relaxed, and his galloping heartbeat slowed to a more normal rhythm.  Just as his instincts had forecast, it appeared that Bloody Knife was going to allow him to live until they could confront one another, face to face.

     Sully tentatively approached the plunging water, its sound thundering relentlessly in his ears.  For a few moments he could only stand transfixed, staring at the awesome sight, his anxiety ebbing as it was replaced by wonder.  It was real—truly, unmistakeably, real.  He could feel it, touch it—even fill his cupped hands with water and taste it, if he chose.  The dream-image of the waterfall had been vivid, and it had assumed even more depth and reality in his vision—yet he wondered now if he had ever *truly* believed in the existence of the waterfall until this moment.
 
    But there was no doubting, no denying the evidence of his eyes, or his ears—or his skin, which was moist with spray.  And if all this was real, then the rest of it was real as well—Michaela was here; was actually *here* somewhere inside—and he was about to be reunited with her at last.

    Suddenly he couldn’t wait another moment, and recklessly he scrambled down the wet and slippery rocks, throwing caution to the winds in his eagerness to get to the bottom.  He had a fleeting thought of gratitude that again the spirits seemed to be watching over him, as he managed to reach the edge of the rockpool without incident.

     Carefully Sully skirted the pool and edged behind the curtain of water to the mouth of the cave.  A shallow lip of rock extended out beyond the entrance, and he paused there momentarily, the strength draining from his legs as he was assaulted by the force of powerfully conflicting emotions.  Part of him felt a rush of incredible longing, his body almost aching to see and hold Michaela again.  But warring equally with his longing was fear—black and intense—of what Bloody Knife might have done to her—of what he might find.

     But Michaela needed him.  She needed him to be strong, and he would be that for her—even if he died trying.

     The strength slowly returning to his limbs, Sully resolutely moved forward into what lay beyond.

* * * * * * * * * *

    Though he had to duck his head to enter the mouth of the cave, he immediately sensed that the ceiling inside was taller, and he was able to straighten to his full height.  It was dark inside, nearly pitch black, and for several moments he was forced to remain by the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness.  Finally he was able to make out the features of the rockface on either side.  He was standing in a short tunnel, almost like an alcove, infinitesimally brighter at its opposite end, hinting at a larger room beyond.  Stealthily, trying not to make a sound, Sully covered the few feet toward the pallid light, trailing his hand along the wall as he went.

    Abruptly the tunnel ended, emptying into a bigger, roughly circular chamber.  Toward the far wall flickered a tiny cookfire, its meager flame insufficient to light more than a small portion of the cavern.  The air smelled and tasted acrid, hinting at poor ventilation. The walls nearest him exuded beads of moisture, and from somewhere in the dark reaches of the cave Sully could hear water steadily dripping.  He looked down at the floor of the cave and saw footprints in the damp earth.  Crouching down, he studied them carefully, but rather than the two sets he was expecting, he saw only one.  For the moment he wasn’t sure what that meant, and something deep in his mind recoiled from exploring the thought further.

    Straightening again, he moved further into the room, his steps tentative and cautious.  As he drew close to the fire, he saw the blankets of  a bedroll tossed carelessly off to the side.  His eyes flickered over them briefly, but his mind immediately dismissed them as his attention was caught and riveted by a humped, blanketed shape lying in the shadows.

    Sully’s heart began to hammer again, and his pulse pounded in his ears.  Slowly he moved around the fire to where the figure rested.  As he got close, he saw a thatch of reddish gold hair gleaming dully.  A moment later he spotted one fragile, terribly pale hand flung outside the coverlet.

    He dropped to his knees, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.  With trembling fingers, he reached out and gently drew back the blanket.

    Tears sprang to his eyes and his soul flooded with anguish.  “Michaela,” he whispered, heartbroken.  “Oh my God, Michaela . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

     Michaela lay with eyes closed, unsure if she was awake or dreaming.  All the chloroform Bloody Knife had forced upon her had confused and distorted her perceptions, and she couldn’t always trust the evidence of her senses.  But if this was a dream, then it was different from all the rest, with more clarity than any that had come before.

    She was still in the cave, but Sully was here.  He was with her, cradling her, holding her close to his heart.  She could feel his warmth, his strength, the gentleness of his touch.  She could even smell his scent.  Oh, but if this was a dream she didn’t want to wake up!  She didn’t want to leave the safe and comforting haven of her mind, for the ugliness and despair of her reality.  If she was going to die, let her die like this, with at least the illusion that she was with the man she loved more than life itself . . .

    “Michaela?  It’s me—I’m here.  I’m here now, Sweetheart.  Can you hear me?  Can you open those lovely eyes and look at me?  Please, Michaela.  Wake up—please wake up.”

    His voice—so tender, so gentle.  The most beautiful voice she’d ever heard, sounding just as sweet as she’d dreamed it would a thousand times since Bloody Knife had stolen her away.  How she longed to see his face—the golden brown of his hair tumbling about his shoulders, the sensuous curve of his lips and the azure blue of his eyes, with a message of love meant only for her.

    But she was afraid—so afraid—that if she opened her eyes the dream would be gone.  Sully would be gone, and all her joy, all her hope, with him . . .

    “Please, Michaela.  Please . . .  Give me a sign that you can hear me.  I’m touchin’ your face—can you feel it?  Can you feel my flesh against yours?  I love you, Michaela.  I love you so much.  Please, please come back to me . . .”

    His hand.  Delicate as a butterfly’s wing, yet slightly rough, the fingertips calloused by years of physical labor.  She could feel that hand stroking her cheek, her temples, gently smoothing the hair from her forehead.  And
then . . .

    His lips, against hers.  Warm, soft.  So soft . . .

    “You’re safe, Michaela.  You’re safe.  I’m here with you now, and I ain’t never gonna let him hurt you again.  It’s safe to wake up, Michaela.  It’s safe to open your eyes . . .”

    She wanted to believe in that voice.  In Sully’s voice.  She wanted it so much . . .  Tears squeezed out from beneath her lashes and trickled down her cheeks.  And she felt him kiss her tears away.

    “Don’t cry, my love.  Don’t cry.  It’s gonna be all right.  Everythin’s gonna be all right now.”

    Sully cradled her close against him, as if to infuse her with his strength, just as Cloud Dancing had once done for him.  The sight of her tears hurt his heart.  And yet, they might be a sign that she had heard him, and for that he should be grateful.

    His mind was awash with agony.  Why wouldn’t she wake up?  The scout had clearly starved her, and robbed her of water as well—her parched lips testified to that.  But what other torture could Bloody Knife have inflicted upon her to leave her in this condition?  Gingerly he probed her scalp, searching for a headwound.  He found no evidence of one, and was deeply relieved—apparently the blood on the cane
* had* been Bloody Knife’s.  But the light was dim, and he wanted to be thorough.  He carefully lifted her hair, bending close to examine the base of her skull.  Suddenly an odor assaulted his nostrils—sharp, distinctive, familiar . . .

    Chloroform.  As his mind made the connection, he was stunned to realize how long it had taken him to detect it.  It came to him that he must have been breathing it for the past few minutes, but his anguish over Michaela had masked his senses to everything else.

    The reek of the anesthetic was strong, cloying.  Either Bloody Knife had only recently dosed her with it, or he had been drugging her all along.  The transluscence of her flesh and dramatic loss of weight pointed to the latter.

    As he pressed her fragile body close to his, Sully felt a surge of hatred for Bloody Knife course through him.  But on the heels of his rage he was conscious of relief that the Indian wasn’t there.  For had he been, Sully knew he would have killed the scout as coldly, as ruthlessly, as Bloody Knife intended to do away with him.

    “Oh, God, Michaela, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m so sorry for lettin’ him do this to you.  I’ll never forgive myself for this.  Never.”   He lowered his head over hers, his eyes squeezed shut in pain and grief.

    Something touched his cheek—lightly, feebly.  For a moment he wasn’t sure he felt it at all.  The touch came again, and his eyes snapped open.  Michaela was looking up at him.

    “Don’t . . . blame yourself,” she whispered.  “Not your fault . . .”

* * * * * * * * * * *