Tuesday, 18 April, 1870

Evening

     I had no call to take my feelings out on Hank—he was just trying to help, to make me feel better about myself—and part of me knew that.  Fact is, that was probably one of the kindest things he’d ever said to me.  The problem was, he couldn’t make me feel better—nobody could.  I’d failed to make Bloody Knife pay for his crimes.  Worse, I’d sold out to my enemy—the man who’d murdered the Cheyenne . . . who’d murdered my family.  There could be no defense for what I did—no words to describe the depth of guilt I felt.  And shrouded in self-loathing as I was, I couldn’t stand to hear any words of comfort, no matter how well intended.  From Hank—or anybody else.

     As I turned my back and walked away from Hank, Michaela tentatively called my name, but I pretended not to hear.  I tensed, wondering if she would try again, but she didn’t.  I knew she wasn’t fooled, and I despised myself for shutting her out, but at that moment I couldn’t even face Michaela.  Despite her obvious relief that I would live—and my knowledge that I’d done what she wanted me to do
 . . . still, I’d never felt like more of a traitor—or less of a man.

     I knew I didn’t have the luxury right then of giving in to my emotions—there was still the vital matter facing us of getting Michaela to a doctor—and I had to fix my mind on that.  But I was compelled to take just a moment alone to clamp down on my feelings—to try to hold myself together for Michaela’s sake, and the sake of my stepson and my friends.  Michaela was depending on me, and Matthew, Hank and Brendan had made countless sacrifices—had risked their lives—because of me.  I couldn’t leave them in the lurch, or allow myself to fall apart now.  There would plenty of time to punish myself in the days and weeks to come.

     There was an awkward silence, as I felt everybody’s eyes on me, boring into my back.  I could feel their pity, coming off them in waves—and it was intolerable to me.  Bitterly, I found myself wishing that Bloody Knife *had* killed me.  At least I would have died with honor.  It would have been better—*anything* would have been better—than the shame and humiliation I was feeling now.

     The painful seconds ticked past, and finally Hank stepped in to fill the breach.  “So,” he said self-consciously into the quiet.  “How do we find a doctor?”

     “Guess we need Brendan’s help again for that,” I heard Matthew reply, his voice equally stilted.  “You know where we can find a doctor—or the nearest town?” he added more naturally after a moment, presumably talking to Brendan.

     I was starting to feel light-headed again, and I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the bright, sharp pain to drive away the dizziness that wanted to claim me.  Taking a deep breath, I turned around in time to see Brendan looking solemn.

     “As I told you before we left, Las Vegas would qualify as the nearest town, but there’s not much there,” Brendan admitted apologetically.  “And no doctor—at least there wasn’t one when I was here last.”

     “What do we do, then?” Matthew asked, looking concerned as his glance went from Michaela to me.

     “We go to this—‘Las Vegas’—anyway,” Hank declared.  “If it’s the only sign of civilization around these parts, then somebody there has got to know where a doctor is.”

     “That’s logical, but Las Vegas is at least a twenty mile ride in that direction, over rough terrain,” Brendan explained, pointing west of our position.  “Difficult enough for horses, let alone a wagon.  I’m not sure that Dr. Mike or Sully could tolerate the trip.”

     “No need to worry about me,” I said briefly.  “But we’ll build a travois for Michaela, just like I said.”

     “There *is* cause to worry about you,” Michaela spoke up strongly.  “You could start bleeding again.”

     “I’ll be fine,” I insisted.  I could sense her pain as she watched me anxiously, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes.

     “Still, Sully, the trip would take hours, and you know how the temperature drops after sundown.  You can already feel a chill,” Brendan observed.  He was right—I could detect a marked coolness in the air and I shivered slightly.  “It could be dangerous for Dr. Mike to suffer further exposure,” he added.

     He was right about that too, and I stood there helplessly, trying to figure out our next move.  We couldn’t stay here, that was clear—not with Michaela’s condition.  But trying to make it to Las Vegas under the present circumstances might do her even more harm.  There had to be a solution, but I couldn’t seem to see it.  Fact was, my light-headedness was getting worse, and I was finding it hard to think clearly at all.

     “Wait!” Brendan said suddenly, and I tried to focus on him through eyes getting increasingly fuzzy.  “There’s a spread close by called Sandstone Ranch—I spent a week there during my previous trip.  It’s only five miles south of here.  It’s owned by a man named Jim Wilson.  He and his wife were very cordial to me—I’m sure that they’d be willing to put us up, and they’d certainly know if there’s a doctor in the area and where to find him.”

     “Sounds good to me,” Hank commented, his voice seeming to come to me from far away.  I squinted at him.  He looked real small—they all did—like I was peering at them through the wrong end of a telescope.  I tried pressing my nails into my palms again, but the strength had drained from my hands—I couldn’t even make a fist.

     Black tatters fluttered at the edges of my vision, and I swayed on my feet.  “Get the wagon from Custer . . . get Michaela settled,” I managed, my voice echoing oddly in my ears.  “Make sure she’s . . . comfortable.  Get her to . . . to . . .”  The gauzy black veil descended completely over my eyes and the ground came rushing up to meet me.

     “Sully . . . !”  I heard Michaela’s voice, tinny and remote, and then, there was nothing.

* * * * * * * * * *

    I felt something cold against my chest, and my hand instinctively groped to knock it away even before I opened my eyes.

    “Easy, young fella—nobody’s going to hurt you,” came a relaxed drawl, as I felt a strong hand close gently over mine and hold it still.  “Just trying to listen to your heart.”

    The words took a moment to filter through the cotton batting in which my mind seemed suspended.  A stretch of time passed that could have been seconds or minutes, as I tried to distinguish if I was still dreaming.  But the warmth of the flesh against mine—the slightly bony feel of the hand and roughened texture of the fingers, was enough to convince me this was reality, and with an effort, I opened my eyes.

    I was laying in a high, comfortable tester bed, in a room wreathed in shadows, an oil lamp on the table adjacent to me casting a soft pool of light on the coverlet.  By my bedside, a tall, rangy man perched on a spindly, ladder-backed chair.  One large-boned hand still covered mine.  The other rested on his knees.  A stethoscope dangled from his neck, the bell disappearing beneath the lapels of the dark coat hanging slackly from his gangling frame.  His head was crowned with a startling thatch of bushy gray hair that sprang up wildly, leading me to believe he’d been called from his own bed to come here.  A trick of the light created a nimbus, like a halo, around the planes of his skull and turned the gun-metal strands of his hair to silver.  His eyes, vividly blue and looking extraordinarily young in his weathered face, regarded me discerningly.

    “Welcome back,” he said kindly, giving my hand a slight, but reassuring squeeze.  “We were beginning to worry about you.”

    I looked at him doubtfully.  “Who are you?”

    “Doctor Patrick Hunter.  ‘Doc’ Hunter to my friends—and my enemies,” he said, giving me an easy smile.  “But most folks just call me ‘Doc’ or ‘Pat’—take your pick.

    “You’re at Sandstone Ranch,” he went on, anticipating my next question.  “Jim Wilson’s place.  He came to fetch me when you folks pulled in.”

    “How long have I—?“

    “Been unconscious?” he finished, reading my thoughts again.  “Well, between the trauma you suffered and the chloroform I administered to suture your wound, roughly three to four hours since you got here—plus another couple hours before that, give or take—according to your lady and your friends.  You got a respectable bump on the head and a concussion to go along with it, just like Dr. Quinn diagnosed.  Not to mention losing a fair amount of blood.  But you’ll be all right—“

    “Michaela!” I said sharply, the disorientation leaving my mind as he spoke her name.  “I mean Dr. Quinn.  How is she?”  Automatically I started to rise up from the bed and pain flared in my skull and mid-section.  I gasped sharply, my body straining against the constriction of the bandage wrapped around my chest, and fell back on the pillows.

    “Like I said, Mr. Sully, you got a concussion,” Doc Hunter reminded me.  “You need to take it easy and rest for a day or so.  No need to fret about the knife wound,” he added, as he saw my hand stray to the site of my other injury and encounter the layers of linen winding around my torso.  “I cleaned and stitched it up, and it should heal just fine.  Shouldn’t even leave a scar.”

    “I don’t care about that.  I just want to know about Dr. Quinn.  Is she all right?” I demanded.

    “She’s resting comfortably,” Doc Hunter said mildly.  “I just left her.”

    “But what does that mean?  What’s wrong with her?  Her hands, they were all crippled, and—“

    “Just slow down,” he said, his voice powerful and soothing.  In spite of my anxiety over Michaela, I felt myself marginally relax.  “I’ll tell you everything you want to know, long as you remain calm.”  I met his eyes, and was reassured once again by their piercing directness.  After a pause I nodded.

    Satisfied, he relaxed as well and released my hand, leaning back in his chair.  I heard it creak alarmingly.

    “To answer your question, Dr. Quinn is suffering from dehydration, malnutrition, and exposure,” he began.  “It’s lucky you got to her when you did—much more time in that cave and I believe her hands would have suffered permanent damage.  As it is, I think the outlook is good.  I’ve got her soaking her hands in warm water, and I believe that regular treatments for a few days will restore the health of the tissues and avert any danger of arthritis or neuralgia.”
 
    I closed my eyes briefly in profound relief.  “Good,” I murmured, letting out a sigh.  “Good.”  After a moment I looked at the doctor again.  “She once treated her daughter’s hands the same way,” I informed him.

    “So she told me,” he remarked.

    “What about the rest of her condition?” I inquired apprehensively.  “The starvation, and the
de—dehy—“

    “Dehydration,” he supplied.  “Well, she’s lost an alarming amount of weight, so we’re going to need to build her up again, help her get her strength back.  But I believe that a regimen of nourishing food, plenty of liquids and rest—along with a mild program of exercise—will restore Dr. Quinn to her former self.”

    “Even her legs?” I added.  “When I found her, she couldn’t stand on them—“

    “Just a consequence of her limbs being bound for a prolonged period of time, diminishing the circulation,” he said reassuringly.  “But the effect is only temporary.  Dr. Quinn has full range of motion and feeling in her legs, and I believe she’ll be up and walking around very soon.  She certainly has the mental determination,” he added, a note of admiration in his voice.  “Quite an uncommon woman, your Dr. Quinn.”

    “And an uncommon doctor,” I said firmly.

    “I strongly received that impression from her son and your friends,” Doc Hunter replied, smiling with warmth at my tone of pride.  “The condition of your wound, and her discussion of your injuries and recommendations for treatment, are certainly a testament to her skill,” he added.

    “But I don’t want her upset,” I protested, alarmed that Michaela was continuing to fret over me, and that this man was allowing it.  “You just said she’s weak and needs rest—why are you letting her risk her health bothering about me?”

    “Dr. Quinn is a very strong-minded lady, as you must certainly be aware,” Doc Hunter commented wryly.  “There wasn’t much I could do to dissuade her from consulting on your condition.”  His expression softened.   “Never fear, Mr. Sully—she’s getting both the treatment, and the rest, that she needs,” he said compassionately.  “I’m making sure of that.  I’ve been a doctor for over forty years—a pretty fair one, according to my patients.  You can trust me.”

    “Call me Sully,” I said after a brief hesitation, and extended my hand.  As we shook, I added, “Thanks for what you did.  I’m obliged to you.”

    “And I’m glad I could be of help,” he replied.  “You folks have been through quite a trial, from what I hear.”

    A dart of alarm lanced me again.  “What exactly did they tell you?” I said carefully.

    “Just that Dr. Quinn had been abducted from your town of Colorado Springs, and that you managed to track her kidnapper all the way here to Nevada—but that when you confronted her assailant, he attacked you and got away.

    “Why—was there more to it?” he added after a pause, studying me.  There was something disconcerting about his gaze, as if he could see right through me.  For a fleeting moment I felt a powerful temptation to tell him everything, as if he were a priest and I needed to confess my sins and ask him for absolution.

    But I had made a promise—dark and dishonorable though it might be—and I couldn’t go back on my word.

    “No—nothing more,” I denied, hearing how false the words sounded.  “That’s what happened.”

    “I see,” he remarked, his tone neutral.  “I only wondered because you were muttering a while ago, tossing and turning—you seemed deeply distressed.”

    “Must have been a nightmare,” I said dismissively.

    “A mighty powerful one,” he noted quietly.  He leaned forward, clasping his hands together loosely and looking intently into my eyes.  “You know, Sully, when a man goes through a traumatic experience, it’s only natural for him to have a strong reaction to it,” he said kindly.  “Your fiance was kidnapped by a dangerous man, and for weeks you didn’t know if she was even alive.  And then when you finally found her, she was ill and weak, and you were violently attacked.  A man would have to have a heart of stone not to be affected by something like that.”

    “All I care about is Michaela getting well,” I maintained.  “What happens to me ain’t important.”

    “But that’s where you’re wrong,” he contradicted gently.  “It’s important to Dr. Quinn.  And it should be important to you, too—both for your own sake, and if you care for this lady as much as I think you do.  She loves you very deeply, and she’s worried.  She seems to believe that your emotional reaction to these events could be even more serious than your physical injuries.  And now, having talked to you myself, I tend to agree.”

    “Michaela worries too much about me,” I said briefly.

    “With good reason, I think,” Doc Hunter noted.  “She’s concerned that you’re suffering depression, or melancholy, over this ordeal,” he went on.  “She’s afraid that you’ve chosen to blame yourself for what happened to her.  Most of all, she’s afraid that you no longer care about your own life—about whether you live or die,” he said soberly.

    “Sounds like you had quite a talk about me,” I said, an edge to my tone.

    “Dr. Quinn needed to tell me everything she could to aid me in treating your condition,” he pointed out mildly.

    “Does that include—what happened to me before?” I asked a trifle unsteadily.  “The amnesia?”

    “We discussed it,” he admitted.  “Dr. Quinn thought it important that I know something of your recent medical history.”

      “I suppose,” I conceded.  “Well, I appreciate Michaela’s feelings and I’m obliged for your concern,” I said distantly.  “But I can assure you that I got no intentions of dying.  I’m alive, and I plan on staying that way.”

    “Is that so?” he commented insightfully.  “I wonder.”

    “Look—I’m real grateful for what you done for Michaela, and for me,” I said abruptly.  “And I understand that you’re trying to be kind.  But I’m all right.  Ain’t nothing wrong with me that a few days of healing won’t cure.  And now, if you’ll help me out of bed, I’d like to go see Michaela.”

    “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse that request,” he replied.  “Both you and Dr. Quinn need a night’s uninterrupted rest.  I’ve already given her a sedative to help her sleep, and I intend to do the same for you.  I promise that you’ll see her in the morning.  But for now—“

    “All right,” I agreed, too aware of my weakened condition to argue.  “But no sedative.  I can sleep without it.”

    He looked doubtful.  “I really feel that—“

    “Please,” I insisted.  “I promise I’ll sleep.  I’m feeling drowsy now,” I added, yawning deliberately.

    “Very well,” he capitulated, rising to his feet.  “Then I’ll leave you to it.  I’ll be nearby if you need me,” he added as he went to the door.  “Rest easy, Sully,” he said, with one more perceptive look at me, and then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

    I leaned back and shut my eyes, yearning for the blessed oblivion of sleep.  But it never came.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

     “What is your estimation of Sully’s condition, Dr. Hunter?” Michaela asked the next morning as the physcian hovered over her, completing his examination.  She was sitting up in bed, a tray holding a shallow bowl of warm water propped across her lap.  Gently he took her hands and placed them in the bowl, then straightened.

     “Don’t you want to hear my opinion of your own condition first?” he asked.

     “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Michaela said promptly.  “My vital signs are all normal, my strength is returning, and my fingers are already starting to respond to the treatments.  I know that I’ll recover.  I’m much more concerned about Sully,” she told him.

     An indulgent smile touched Doc Hunter’s lips.  He had anticipated her answer, and she hadn’t disappointed him.

     “That true, Doc?” Matthew asked from where he perched at the foot of her bed.  “Is Dr. Mike really gonna be all right?”  He regarded Doc Hunter intently.  Brendan stood near him, and Hank lounged in the open doorway, toying with an unlit cigar.  All three awaited the doctor’s pronouncement.

     “Really, Matthew—I believe I’m more than sufficiently acquainted with my own condition,” Michaela interjected crisply, sounding mildly put out.
 
     “’Course you are, Dr. Mike,” Matthew placated her hastily.  “I’d just feel better if we heard it from Doc Hunter.”  His eyes sought the older physician’s.  “How about it, Doc?” he repeated.

     “Well, I wouldn’t dream of disputing my learned colleague’s diagnosis,” Doc Hunter responded, a twinkle in his eye.  “Yes,” he told Matthew reassuringly.  “I believe Dr. Quinn will make a full recovery.”

     Matthew and the others visibly relaxed, and Michaela looked vindicated.  “*I* could have told you that.  In fact, I believe I did,” she said drily.

     “Never doubted it for a minute, Michaela,” Hank said expansively.

     “Thank you, Hank,” Michaela said pointedly.  “At least *someone* here trusts in my abilities.”  She fixed Matthew with a mildly jaundiced eye.

     “You know I believe in you, Dr. Mike,” Matthew tried to charm her.  “But you know what they say about doctors makin’ the worst patients.”

     “Well, let me go on record as stating that I also believe in my colleague’s abilities,” Doc Hunter chimed in.  “But they also say that physicians shouldn’t diagnose themselves,” he pointed out, eyeing Michaela meaningfully.

     “Well, that’s true of course, and I certainly don’t mean to cast any aspersions on your diagnostic skills,” Michaela began, in some embarrassment.  Doc Hunter noted her reddened cheeks and took pity on her.

     “Forgive me, Dr. Quinn,” he said contritely.  “I was just having a little fun.”  He smiled at her disarmingly and Michaela couldn’t help but respond, feeling rather foolish.  The doctor turned to Matthew.  “And I can assure you, Mr. Cooper, that you can absolutely trust in Dr. Quinn’s estimation of her own health,” he added.  “We just need to keep a close eye on her to ensure that she doesn’t overdo, too soon.”

     “You can count on it,” Matthew vowed, regarding his mother fondly.  “No ridin’ in any horse races, climbin’ any mountains, or jumpin’ off any cliffs for a while,” he teased gently.

     “I’ll try to refrain,” Michaela said primly, but her lips twitched in a brief flicker of a smile.

     “Climbing mountains and jumping off cliffs?” Doc Hunter echoed, his eyes bemused.  “Seems like when I told Mr. Sully you were an uncommon woman, I didn’t give you nearly enough credit, Doctor,” he commented, the admiration he’d expressed to Sully apparent again in his tone.

     “Well I don’t make a habit of such things,” Michaela responded, looking slightly abashed.  “In each case there were extenuating circumstances which prompted my actions.  And in two of the instances, Sully was there with me,” she added.  A shadow crossed her face and she turned suddenly somber eyes on her colleague.  “Talking of Sully, you never answered my question,” she reminded him.  “I sincerely want to hear your opinion, Dr. Hunter.  And please—withhold nothing,” she urged.  “Don’t feel that you need to protect me in view of my present condition.”

     “I wouldn’t dream of being anything but absolutely frank with you, Dr. Quinn,” Doc Hunter said honestly, struck by this fragile woman’s spirit and strength in adversity.

     “I appreciate that,” Michaela said sincerely.  She tried to maintain a professional detachment, but couldn’t mask the inner anxiety reflected in her eyes.  “How is Sully?” she asked softly.  “Really?”

     The physician’s eyes were kind, but guarded.  “Physically, he’s doing well,” he began.
“Just as you discerned, he’s suffering from a concussion, but I don’t believe that there are any other complications.  I successfully sutured the knife wound, and I believe it will heal completely.  With luck, there won’t even be a scar.  Thanks to your own measures in treating the wound, as well as in getting Sully here so quickly, I don’t anticipate much risk of infection—though of course I’ll keep a close watch on his progress.”

     “But are you sure about the concussion?“ Michaela asked worriedly.  “He’s been sleeping so long. Perhaps it’s not a natural sleep—“

     Doc Hunter’s expression altered slightly, and she felt a rush of alarm.  “What?” she said immediately.  “What is it?”

     He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable, but then resolutely went ahead.  “Actually, Sully awoke late last night,” he admitted.

     “What!” Michaela exclaimed again, her eyes shocked.  “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

     “Because I anticipated that you might react this way, and I wanted you to have an undisturbed night’s rest,” Doc Hunter told her mildly.

     “But you knew how concerned I was about Sully’s condition!” Michaela said accusingly.  “How could you keep me in the dark till now?”

     “Dr. Mike, I’m sure Doc Hunter did what he thought was best—“ Matthew attempted to soothe her.

     “That may be true, Matthew, but you know the state that Sully was in after—“  She bit her lip.  “After everything that happened,” she finished awkwardly.  She turned back to the doctor.  “And you knew of my concerns regarding Sully’s state of mind,” she said.  “Not to mention the other things I confided to you—about Sully’s recent history, his emotional difficulties . . .  I simply don’t understand how you could keep such an important development from me.”

     “Dr. Quinn, I understand your concern for Sully,” Doc Hunter said calmly.  “And I also understand your need to care for him, and your frustration that the current situation makes that impossible.  But right now the responsibility for Sully’s care—and yours—rests in my hands.  I have to do what I believe to be best for both of you, and I have to ask you to trust my judgement.”

     “Forgive me,” Michaela managed after a moment.  “Of course I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t giving Sully the best of care.  It’s just—Sully’s been through so much . . . we both have—“  Her throat tightened and she couldn’t finish.

     “And it’s hard maintaining your detachment as a doctor, when you’re also a woman in love,” Doc Hunter said gently.

     Michaela swallowed, forcing down the tears welling up inside her.  “Yes, something like that,” she confessed softly, looking down at her lap.  After a moment, however, she raised her chin determinedly.  “Tell me about Sully, Doctor—please.”

     “Of course,” he said kindly.  “But perhaps, we could have this discussion in private?”  He glanced apologetically at Matthew, Hank and Brendan.

     Hank immediately straightened.  “Uh, sure,” he said self-consciously.  “I gotta talk to that Wilson fella ‘bout sendin’ a telegram to Colorado Springs anyway.  Let ‘em know all’s well and we’ll be comin’ home soon.”

     “There are a lot of people who will be very happy to get the news,” Brendan agreed.  “I’ll go with you,” he offered to Hank.

     “I appreciate you both attending to this matter,” Michaela told them sincerely.  “Sully will too.”

     Hank shrugged.  “No big thing,” he said diffidently, and quickly made his departure.

     “We’re glad to help,” Brendan said warmly.  “We’ll see you later,” he added, then followed Hank out the door.

     “I’ll be back too,” promised Matthew, rising and approaching the head of the bed.  He stooped to kiss her on the cheek.

     “Matthew—you needn’t leave,” Michaela protested.  “We’re family—we’ve all been in this together from the beginning.  Anything Doctor Hunter tells me you can certainly hear as well.”

     “Thanks, Dr. Mike, but that’s all right,” he answered.  “I kinda think you and the Doc need some time to talk alone.  You can fill me in on Sully later.”  He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then left.

     There was a silence, then Michaela took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on Doc Hunter.  “As you requested, we’re alone now,” she stated, her eyes grave.   “It’s time for you to tell me what’s wrong with Sully.”

* * * * * * * * * *

    But she was unable to contain her impatience, and couldn’t refrain from plying the elderly doctor with questions.  “What was Sully’s condition when he awoke?” she asked anxiously.  “Was he lucid?  Was there any confusion, or sign of—“  She hesitated, almost too frightened to voice the words.  “—of memory loss?” she finished.

    “He was groggy at first—entirely normal under the circumstances, as you know,” Doc Hunter said.  “But his disorientation abated quickly—soon as he heard your name, in fact.  He was alert and talking, concerned for your condition, and seemed to have total recollection of what happened to you both.”  Relief flooded through Michaela at the physician’s positive report; but even as she mentally offered a prayer of thanks, her ears registered an odd note in Doc Hunter’s voice, and a sensation of unease swept her anew.

     “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked intuitively.

     Doc Hunter raked his hand through his hair, rumpling his bushy locks even more so that they rioted over his head in wiry tufts.  After a moment he pulled a chair close to Michaela’s bedside and lowered his tall, spare frame onto the seat, expelling an audible sigh.  Michaela noted the shadows beneath his eyes and the deep lines which cleaved his forehead and bracketed his mouth, testifying to his lack of sleep.  She knew that she and Sully were the cause, and guilt assailed her at the demanding, high-handed way she had treated him.  How rude and disrespectful to an elder colleague she must have sounded!  What an ingrate she must have seemed, shrewishly attacking this kind man after he’d left his warm bed and come out into the night to treat two people who were complete strangers to him.

    Yes, she knew he was a doctor, like herself . . . that he was well accustomed to having his rest disturbed, and that unexpected emergencies any hour of the day or night were a fact of life for him—just as they were for her.  But still, he could have provided the medical treatment they required and then left; perhaps to return once—at most, twice—to check on their progress.  Many doctors she had known in Boston—not to mention one or two in Colorado, like Doc Cassidy—would have done just that.  But instead, Doc Hunter had stayed with them both through the night, monitoring their conditions and treating them with sensitivity and compassion.  She owed him so much.  What if he hadn’t been here?  What would have happened to Sully then?

    Plainly, even before she heard the news about Sully she so anxiously craved, she owed the gentle physician an abject apology.

    “As far as Sully’s emotional state—“ Doc Hunter ventured, breaking in on her thoughts.

    Michaela raised a hand to forestall him, splashing a dollop of water onto the bedtray in the process.  “Dr. Hunter—before you begin, there is something I’m compelled to say.  I must humbly beg your pardon for the shameful way I’ve behaved—for raising my voice to you and most especially for criticizing you.  I’m not in the habit of conducting myself in such an appalling manner . . .  I can only conclude that my extreme duress over Sully has affected my senses even more than I realized.  Please forgive me for my apparent lack of gratitude, and for any injury I caused you.  On the contrary, I am profoundly grateful for everything you’ve done for Sully, and for me.  I . . . . don’t know we would have done, otherwise.”  Her voice shook slightly.
 
    Doc Hunter immediately reached out and carefully took her hand, his large yet extraordinarily gentle fingers dwarfing hers.  “No need for apologies, Dr. Quinn,” he said, his eyes humane.  “You’ve been through a particularly frightening ordeal—one which would have broken most people.  And I’m not just talking about what happened to Sully—I’m talking about what you, yourself, suffered.  Ever since I met you last night, your one abiding concern has been for Sully—what he endured.  But you’ve said nary a word about yourself . . . what it was like to be stolen away from your loved ones, threatened, abused, not knowing if you would live or die . . . that must have been terrible to bear, and it’s only natural that it would leave deep scars—“

    Michaela tensed, his words summoning up images she didn’t want to remember.  “I suppose—I prefer not to think of all that,” she said quickly, mentally thrusting away the chilling memories.  “I’m alive and I’m safe—thanks to Sully.  And in time, I know I’ll heal.” She paused briefly and then went on, “Do you recall my telling you about the massacre of Black Kettle’s tribe at the Washita, and how Sully’s grief over that loss contributed to his amnesia?”  The doctor nodded.

      “Well I went through my own emotional trauma because of that tragedy,” she continued.  “What happened was so unspeakable, and my guilt and anguish over it was so great, that I thought for a while I might never survive it.  But with Sully’s love, and the help of our dear friend Cloud Dancing, I made it through my ‘dark night of the soul.’  I managed to recover then, and I will again.

    “But—I’m not so sure about Sully,” she confided softly.  “There was something he had to do at Red Rock—a choice he had to make—that was equally agonizing regardless of which path he took.  And I believe—“  She stopped, demanding honesty of herself.  “That is, I *know*—that he based his decision on what I needed—on what I begged him to do.  But I fear now that he’s greatly tormented by that decision—that he sees himself as a coward.  If only he could recognize that it took far greater courage to resist his impulses—to take the path of peace rather than violence—“  She broke off again, fearing to reveal too much of the incident they had all sworn to conceal.
 
    “That doesn’t mean that you aren’t suffering equally at having to watch him go through such pain,” Doc Hunter said compassionately.  “However—“  Here he sighed and knit his brows.  “I agree with you about Sully’s emotional state.  He’s carrying a tremendous amount of guilt inside, and it’s eating him up alive.”

    “Why—what did he tell you?” Michaela said, fear clamping icy fingers upon her.

    “Almost nothing,” Doc Hunter said soberly.  “That’s just it.  He was very remote—very . . . self-contained.  Every time I tried to get him to talk about his ordeal, he eluded the question or changed the subject.  When I attempted to explain the effects of melancholy, he didn’t want to hear it.  Even when I told him how worried you were about his state of mind, he insisted he was all right and simply reiterated his concern for you.”  His eyes, deeply blue, were sympathetic in his lined face.  “I believe Sully is punishing himself, and he doesn’t want to be forgiven,” the physician concluded.

    “Or he believes he doesn’t deserve forgiveness,” Michaela said barely above a whisper, her heart aching as she imagined Sully’s agony.

    Doc Hunter nodded.  “Perhaps your assessment is closer to the truth,” he agreed.  He leaned forward, regarding her earnestly.  “Is there any more you can tell me about what happened?” he asked gently.  “If I understood better the crisis Sully was facing, perhaps I could be of more help in his recovery.”

    “I wish I could tell you,” Michaela said honestly.  “But I’m afraid there are aspects of this incident that I’m—not at liberty—to discuss.  All I can do is prevail upon you to give your best estimation of Sully’s condition based upon your limited knowledge.  What can I do to help lift Sully out of his despondency?  How can I help him find his self-esteem—his sense of worth—again?”  She gazed nakedly at Doc Hunter.

    Her anguish tugged at his heart.  Hard to believe he could be so moved by the troubles of a couple he’d only just met.  But there was something about these two . . . a passion, a single-minded devotion to each other that eclipsed anything he’d ever seen before.  When they spoke of one another, their eyes glowed with a fiercely burning incandescence.  It was almost as if they were one being—two halves of the same soul . . .  And now this gentle yet courageous woman was desperately seeking his help to save the life of her beloved—her other half.  But it wasn’t up to him.  She was the one who held the key to Sully’s recovery . . .

    His peculiarly arresting eyes regarded her serenely.  “How do you help him?” the physician repeated.  “That’s simple, my dear.  Love him—that’s the best medicine of all.  Just keep loving him like you always have—and together you’ll get through.”

* * * * * * * * * *

       “Michaela?”  The familiar, beloved voice stirred her from sleep, and she opened her eyes to behold Sully standing over her, his hand lightly resting on her hair.  As he saw her focus on him, he smiled tenderly.

     “Sully!” she breathed in joy and relief, rising up to meet him.  He gathered her into his arms and for several moments they could only cling to each other, too overcome for speech.  Suddenly, however, Michaela  drew back from him.  “Should you be up?” she said anxiously.

     “Doc Hunter promised if I took it easy last night, I could come see you this mornin’,” he told her, taking the seat the older doctor had vacated a short time before.  As he sat down, Michaela saw him wince, his lips blanching as he pressed them together, though he tried to conceal it.

     “Sully, you shouldn’t try to hide your pain from me,” she reproached him softly.  “I believe it’s too soon for you to be moving about.”

     He stroked her arm reassuringly.  “I’m all right,” he said.  “The Doc looked me over just ‘fore I came in here.  He said I could get up—walk around a little, if I felt like it.  And there was no way I was gonna wait any longer to come see you.”

     “But your wound—the concussion—“

     “Both better,” he said.  “It’s the truth, Michaela.  You can ask Doc Hunter.  So—“  He cupped her chin in his hand and assumed a mock-serious expression.  “No frettin’—all right?”  His features dissolved into a smile.  She managed to smile back but her heart wasn’t in it.  There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and a pallor had leeched the tan from his skin.  But more than anything else was the aura of sorrow that seemed to hover about him like an invisible shroud, despite his determined attempt to be cheerful for her sake.  His eyes were shadowed with a kind of pain that had nothing to do with the physical injuries he’d suffered.

     “You look so tired,” was all she could say.

     He shrugged dismissively.  “We’re all tired,” he said.  He still wore the smile, but it looked brittle, forced.  “I don’t want to talk about me no more,” he added suddenly.  “I just care about you and how you’re feelin’.”  She watched his eyes travel over her frame, noting every subtle detail.

    “You look beautiful,” he breathed, his gaze riveted upon her.  Briefly the manufactured smile vanished, replaced by an expression of genuine pleasure that lit his eyes with a warm glow.

     “Then I think it must be your vision that’s weak this time,” Michaela replied, making a half-hearted attempt at a jest.  But it sounded flat to her ears.

     “Oh no, Michaela,” he declared, his expression frank with admiration.  “There’s nothin’ wrong with my eyes.”  Again he was being sincere.  Michaela’s shining copper brown hair—freshly washed and brushed out by Mrs. Wilson—cascaded around her shoulders like a cape; and the pink satin gown their hostess had lent her put a faint blush of rose in her cheeks.  She was still far too thin, but Sully thought that the sharp planes and shadows in her face weren’t as harsh as they’d been two days ago, suggesting the promise that eventually she would regain everything she had lost.

     “The Doc told me you’re gonna be fine,” he spoke again.  “You don’t know how relieved I was to hear it,” he added more softly, but Michaela could sense the anguished tension within him, hovering just below the surface, as if he was struggling manfully to contain his emotions and keep them from spilling forth.

     “Yes,” she confirmed, just as softly.  “I’m going to be fine.  Which is why I don’t want to waste our time together discussing myself.  I want to talk about you, Sully.  I’m worried for you—“

     “There’s nothin’ to say,” he responded reflexively.  “I’m all right, you’re all right—that’s all that matters.”  Again the artificial smile, the false bravado.

     “I wish that were true . . .” she began, her eyes troubled.

     “Well, it is—so stop worryin’,” he told her.

     Michaela sighed, her expression grave.  This wasn’t going to be easy.  It was as if Sully were reverting to the early period of their relationship, throwing up walls to shield himself again.  And as much and as hard as she was fighting to break through those walls, that’s how hard he was struggling to keep her out.  He had resisted Doc Hunter’s initial attempts to discuss his emotional condition, but that didn’t surprise her.  Kind and understanding though he was, Doc Hunter was a still a stranger; thus Sully may have found it difficult, if not impossible, to unburden himself.  But she had hoped that between the two of them, it would be different.  That if she broached the topic and let him know she was here for him—ready to listen and offer comfort and support—that he would open up to her.  But his response to her first tentative overtures—or more precisely his avoidance of them—had dramatically diminished that hope.  Clearly, she would need to be more direct—even demand that he respond to her, if necessary.

     “Let’s talk about goin’ home,” Sully suggested, abruptly changing the subject.  “I was thinkin’ of sendin’ Hank and Brendan on ahead with the horses—Matthew, too, if he wants to go with ‘em—while you and me can take the train.  If the doc says you can travel in a few days, hopefully we’ll all make it back to Colorado Springs within a couple weeks.  That all right with you?”

     “Yes, it’s fine,” she said.  “But there’s something much more urgent I need to discuss with you, Sully—“

     “What is it?” he asked quickly.  “You hurtin’?  Want me to fetch Doc Hunter?”

     “No,” she said firmly.  “I’m not experiencing discomfort, I don’t need the doctor.  I just want you—“

     “Well, I’m here—I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he interjected.
 
     “That’s not what I mean!” she exclaimed vehemently.  He looked shocked, and she immediately felt guilty for raising her voice.  “I’m sorry.  Of course I want you here with me,” she amended more quietly.  “But I need you to talk to me, Sully—please.”

     “That’s what we been doin’,” he responded, his eyes and tone carefully neutral.

     “No, it isn’t,” Michaela contradicted him soberly.  “I’ve been talking—or trying to—but you’ve been putting me off, changing the subject . . .”  She paused, then plunged ahead.  “You’ve been avoiding the real issue, Sully—refusing to discuss the heart of what’s bothering you.  Sully, we need to talk about Custer and Bloody Knife—about how it’s affected you—“

     “It’s over,” he said flatly.  “No need to dredge it up anymore.”

     “But it isn’t over!” she burst out.  “Not as long as you’re suffering.”

     He averted his eyes, as if once again he couldn’t bring himself to face her.  She gazed at him in frustration and longing, willing him to drop the mask and share his pain with her.

     “Sully,” she ventured again.  “Please—look at me.”

     After a long moment he complied, his expression guarded and a tell-tale shimmer in his eyes.

     “I know Doctor Hunter tried to talk to you about your feelings,” she began.  “And that apparently you were unwilling or unable to respond.  That’s all right—I understand that you may have found it difficult to confide in someone you hardly know.  But this is me, Sully,” she said earnestly.  “*Me.*  I love you.  You can talk to me.  You can tell me anything, you know that.

    “I can’t presume to know your thoughts and feelings . . . but I can make an informed guess based on what I know of your nature.  And one thing I can say with absolute certainty, is that I understand better than anyone else what you’ve been through these past several weeks—culminating with what happened yesterday.  And—“  She hesitated, then gently continued,  “And I believe I understand what it cost you to agree to Custer’s terms.  I know that you did it for Cloud Dancing, to protect him—and for my sake, because I begged you not to leave me.  But because of that, I can’t help feeling responsible for the pain you’re enduring now.  I’m so sorry—“

     “You got no reason to be sorry,” he said distantly.  “You got no call to apologize for any of this.”

     “But the pain—the guilt that I believe you’re feeling . . . it’s because of me,” she insisted.  “Sully, I can’t pretend I wasn’t profoundly grateful that you let go of your need for revenge to stay with me.  But I’m afraid that now you’re punishing yourself, perhaps even thinking of yourself as a coward, or as less of a man—when in fact it’s just the opposite!  Don’t you realize how much courage it took for you not to submit to violence—to go along with Custer even though every fiber of your being raged against it?  You did it for me, and for Cloud Dancing and the others.  I know you believe you failed us—and failed yourself.  But in fact you gave us a priceless gift.  You were willing to sacrifice everything for our sake.

     “Sully,” she concluded passionately.  “You saved our lives!”  She sought his eyes, desperately searching for some outward sign that her appeal was reaching him.  But the mask—the wall—remained.  Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he spoke.

     “And lost my honor in the process,” he said dully.

     “No—that’s not true!” she said fervently.  “You’re the most honorable man I’ve ever known.  You always have been, and you always will be.”

     “Tell that to Cloud Dancin’ when he finds out I made a pact with the enemy who murdered his wife and his people,” Sully replied, his eyes dark and wounded.  He stood, pressing a hand to his chest as pain flared briefly in his eyes.  “Think I could do with a little rest now,” he added.  “You should rest too.  I’ll come back later.”  He bent awkwardly, and kissed her forehead.

     “Sully, please—don’t withdraw from me now—we’re not finished . . .” she entreated.

     “Take it easy—get some sleep,” he told her, moving toward the door.

     “Sully—!“  But he was gone.

     Michaela covered her face with her hands, anguished tears fountaining up from a place deep inside her.

     Unknown to her, alone in the hall, Sully wept as well.