Tuesday, 18 April, 1870

Evening

     Doc Hunter found me on the veranda of the farmhouse early in the afternoon.  I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there, desultorily rocking back and forth . . . long enough, at least, for the cup of chamomile tea I’d been nursing to grow cold.

     “I looked for you in your room,” the doc remarked as he took the weathered rocker next to mine.  “But I’m gratified to see that you’re out enjoying the fresh air.  Must mean you’re feeling better,” he added.

     “About the same, I guess,” I said colorlessly, not in the mood for chatting.

     His brows knit together in mild concern.  “Are you having much pain?” he asked.  “Would you like me to give you some laudanum?”

     “Pain’s tolerable,” I replied briefly.  “I’ll brew some willow bark tea if I feel the need.”

     “Willow bark?” he repeated curiously.

     “The Cheyenne Indians use it for pain and fevers,” I explained.  “My friend Cloud Dancing—“  I stopped abruptly, wondering if I’d ever be able to call him my friend—or my brother—again.  I felt my heart plummet in my chest.  After a pause I swallowed painfully and went on, “The Cheyenne medicine man taught it to me.  Taught Michaela too—about all sorts of herbs and Indian remedies.”

     “Willow bark,” the doc repeated thoughtfully once again.  “Hm.  I never would have thought of
it . . .  And does Dr. Quinn use these remedies in her practice?”

     I nodded.  “All the time.  They work, too.  Once, when her ma was sick from hepatitis, Michaela saved her life with a liver detoxifying tea made from dandelion roots.”

     “Fascinating,” he mused.  His eyes fell on the cup in my hand.  “What do you have there?” he asked.  “Another Indian curative?”

     “Chamomile,” I said.  “Cloud Dancing and Michaela say it’s good for relaxing you, helping you sleep—“  I broke off, inwardly cursing myself.  I hadn’t intended to let on to him that I hadn’t slept.  I knew it would just call his attention to me even more, and all I wanted was to be left alone.  For a fleeting moment I hoped he wouldn’t notice my slip of the tongue; but truth was, I knew he was way too smart, too attentive to details, to overlook something like that.  This man didn’t miss a trick.

     “You haven’t been sleeping?” he inquired sharply, right on cue.

     “It’s nothing,” I said immediately.  “I’m all right.”

     “I’m sorry, but I have to disagree,” he said.  “You may have survived your injuries, but you need rest to allow your body to heal.  And even though physically you’re recovering satisfactorily . . . Sully, from what I’ve been able to observe, you’re far from ‘all right.’”

     My fingers clenched around the cup.  I couldn’t face going through it all again, this time with Doc Hunter.  It had taken every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from breaking down in front of Michaela.  The way she’d tried to comfort me . . . to persuade me to forgive myself . .  .  The love that had poured out of her when I felt so ashamed, so unworthy . . .  My heart twisted with guilt at the way I’d felt compelled to retreat from her.  But I’d been so shaky, so scared . . . that if I let myself accept her sympathy I’d lose control altogether, and maybe never get it back . . .

     And now Doc Hunter was pushing me too, and I couldn’t deal with it.  I couldn’t risk breaking down again, the way I’d done in the hall after I escaped from Michaela.  The way I’d done all throughout the previous night, every time I relived the events at Red Rock and heard my voice say to Custer, “You win.”  Every time I pictured the look on Cloud Dancing’s face when I had to tell him of my betrayal.  Every time I thought of having to face Michaela and the children each day of our lives together with the cloud of my shame hanging over me.

     “How many ways do I got to say it?” I snapped at the doc.  “I told you I’m all right.  I just wish everybody would leave me alone.”  There was an uncomfortable silence.  I avoided his eyes, staring straight ahead at the wide expanse of desert dotted with scrub, and the sandstone peaks shimmering in the distance.  Part of me knew I should apologize, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.  But then Doc Hunter spoke again, rescuing me from having to make the attempt.

     “If that’s what you truly want, I won’t press you further,” he said tranquilly, seemingly unfazed by my display of temper.  He hoisted himself to his feet, his hands going to the small of his back as he stretched and grimaced.  I could hear his spine cracking.  “I believe I could use some rest myself—ain’t as young as I used to be,” he said idly.  “One of these days when I threaten to retire I’m actually going to go through with it.”  He started to move toward the front door, but then stopped.  “I’ll be heading home now, but I’ll be back to look in on you both tomorrow,” he told me.   “Of course, if you or Dr. Quinn should need me sooner, just send Jim around to fetch me.”  I nodded in acknowledgement, still not trusting myself to look at him.

     He put his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated again.  After a moment he seemed to make a decision, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn to face me.  “You know, Sully—curing the body is only half the battle,” he said.  “We need to treat the mind—or the spirit—as well.  I’ve attended many cases in which the patient’s mental attitude—his will to live—made the difference between life and death.  There are even some doctors—and I happen to be one of them—who believe that the mind and the body are connected.  That you can’t treat one without the other.”

     A remnant of another conversation suddenly echoed in my mind.

     (“Sully?” Michaela said softly, bending over me.

      “This pain—I can’t sleep,” I groaned.  “I never felt nothing like this.”

      “I wish I knew what to do.  The bark tea isn’t working,” Michaela said worriedly, absently raking her fingers through her hair as she brooded.  “What would Cloud Dancing do if he were here?” she asked herself.

      “That’s just it—he’s not,” I said miserably, holding a cloth to my head as the migrim assaulted me with wave upon wave of unremitting pain.

      “I know what he’d say,” Michaela mused.

      “What’s that?” I asked, momentarily distracted from my suffering.

      “He’d say that something’s out of balance,” Michaela answered.  “We have to treat the whole person.”

      I reached over and laced my fingers through hers.  “He always starts a healing with the sweat lodge,” I said.)

     Tears stung my eyes at the memory of Cloud Dancing’s wisdom, even as I was amazed to hear Doc Hunter express almost the identical thought.  And just as the spirits had spoken to me in the sweat lodge as I sought to heal my migrim, helping me to discover the truth about what I truly wanted, and leading me to propose to Michaela  . . . I wondered if the spirits were speaking to me now, telling me that I shouldn’t reject this white man’s wisdom.  “What would Cloud Dancing do if he were here?” I posed Michaela’s question to myself.  And I believed I knew the answer.

     “I can’t force you to confide in me if you don’t want to,” Doc Hunter was saying to me now.  “But something is clearly troubling you, Sully, and the longer you hold it inside, the worse it’s going to get.  As hard as it may seem, sooner or later you’re going to have to talk about it.”  He turned the handle and opened the door.

     “Wait!”  The word spontaneously came out, startling me almost as much as him.  He paused.  “It’s true,” I admitted reluctantly after a moment.  “I can’t sleep.  I tried to do it on my own, I tried the chamomile—nothing works.”  As I spoke, he let the door swing closed again, then retraced his steps and lowered himself back into his chair.  He didn’t speak, but sat in a listening posture, inviting me to go on without pressuring me.  Restlessly I chewed on my lower lip.  “And—there’s more, “ I said with difficulty.  “I—I’m having trouble . . . that is, I can’t seem to control my . . . my feelings.  I keep . . . breaking down.”  I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I’d actually wept, and that I’d done it more than once—but he seemed to guess without me having to say the words.

     “Do you know why you’re feeling this way?” he asked quietly.

     I shrugged.  “Michaela,” I said, voicing the first and foremost reason that came into my mind.  “Being taken from me, and then almost losing her.”

     “That’s certainly more than adequate cause for you to be upset,” he remarked.

     “You think so?” I asked uncertainly.

     “Of course,” he said.  “You love this woman.  It’s only natural that you should be deeply shaken by what happened to her.”

     “So that’s what the trouble is?” I said hopefully.  “Just my leftover feelings about Michaela being kidnapped and almost dying?”

     Instead of answering, he eyed me speculatively.  “What about you?”

     I looked back at him, puzzled.  “What do you mean?”

     “What about you almost dying?” he elaborated.  “Coming close to losing one’s own life can also be a profoundly upsetting experience.”

     “I ain’t afraid of dying,” I said immediately.

     “I can see that,” he commented.  “But I wonder if there’s more to it.  Is it possible that the thought of death—holds a certain ‘attraction’ for you?” he ventured.

     My eyes widened.  ‘That’s crazy,” I objected.  “I ain’t got no ‘death-wish.’”

     “Are you sure?” he said, his eyes looking through me in that peculiar way they had.  “You risked death to pursue Dr. Quinn.  You risked death when you fought her kidnapper.”

     “I had no choice,” I said.  “I had to do whatever was necessary to find her and get her back.”

     “That’s true,” he acknowledged.  ‘And from what I can gather, you demonstrated great heroism.”

     I looked away, the word grating harshly in my mind.  “I ain’t no hero,” I muttered.

     “But Dr. Quinn, her son and your friends are alive and safe because of you,” Doc Hunter argued.  “That certainly suggests to me that your actions were heroic.”

     ‘Trust me,” I said grimly.  “That ain’t the way it was.”

     “How was it, Sully?” he asked softly.  “It’s clear you’re carrying a tremendous burden inside, and I get the impression that you want very much to release your feelings and lay down that burden.”

     Rather than answering, I took a page from his book and put a question to him instead.  “Are you saying that’s why I’m feeling this way?” I asked.  “Because I’m—“ I swallowed, then went ahead.  “Because I’m ashamed of something I did?”

     “I really can’t say,” he responded, his eyes penetrating.  “Because you’re unable or unwilling to tell me the entire story of what happened to you.  Thus it seems that’s a question only you can answer.”  A brief silence fell between us as I pondered his words.

     “There are reasons I can’t go into it,” I said finally.  “I—made a promise—and I can’t go back on it.”

     “Dr. Quinn said much the same thing,” he remarked.  “All right, I won’t press you on that point.  But I have to say that without more information about your experience, I can’t really give you an informed opinion about your emotional difficulties.”

     “But ain’t there anything you can tell me?  Anything you can advise me to do?” I implored, casting away my pride as I desperately sought relief from the guilt that gripped me.

     He eyed me sympathetically.  “Well, based on what I do know of your circumstances, I believe I can say this much,” he ventured.   “It appears that a great deal of the tendency toward emotionalism which you’re experiencing now, can be traced to what you’ve gone through since Dr. Quinn’s abduction.  From what I gather, your pursuit took several weeks, during which time you were forced to suppress your fears for her safety—even her very life.  Then, when you finally did locate her, you found her ill and drastically weakened.  In addition, some type of dramatic confrontation took place, in which you yourself barely escaped with your life.  From what I’ve observed, you’ve been sublimating your feelings—“  He broke off at my uncertain look, then amended, “You’ve been keeping your feelings of anxiety tightly contained, for a prolonged period of time.  When a person denies his emotions for too long—when he doesn’t allow himself to feel—ultimately these emotions must seek release,” he explained.  “I believe that at least partially, this is what’s happening to you.”

     “Is that bad?” I asked apprehensively.

     “It needn’t be,” he said.  “Actually, the fact that you’ve been experiencing these emotional episodes could be considered a good sign.  That it’s your mind’s way of venting your feelings of anxiety and sadness.”
 

     “But how long will it last?” I said warily.  “I ain’t going to be this way forever, am I?”

     He smiled reassuringly.  “I seriously doubt it,” he said.  “Just as the body needs time to recover from a physical illness, the mind needs time to recover from an emotional one, as well.  While I can’t give you any guarantees as to how long it will take, I believe I can promise that your emotional episodes and inability to sleep will fade gradually with time.  Eventually, you will heal.

    “Does that make you feel any better?” he added.

     I wanted to say yes—I wanted to put all my faith in his hopeful prediction.  But as long as he was missing the most vital piece of the puzzle—as long as he was in the dark about what was really tormenting me—his optimism was meaningless.  I knew that with time, I could recover from Michaela’s kidnapping, and everything I’d gone through to get her back.  Someday I might even manage to put it all behind me.  But my betrayal, my dishonor—that was a stain I would carry on my soul for the rest of my life.

     But the doc was still waiting for an answer.  “Yeah, that helps,” I said finally, wondering if he’d see through the lie.  “Thanks.”

     “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” he inquired.  “Anything else you’d like to ask me?”

     There was a pause, then I shook my head.  “No, nothing else.  But thanks again for listening.  I’m obliged.”
 
     “No thanks necessary,” he replied kindly.  “But may I offer one more piece of advice?”

     “Sure,” I said.

     “Talk to Dr. Quinn,” he urged gently.  “Unburden yourself to her, if not to me.  Think of it as part of the ‘healing process.’  For both of you.”  With an effort he stood again, and laid a hand on my shoulder.  “You’re a good man, Sully,” he said.  “Don’t ever lose sight of that.”  He squeezed my shoulder once, then went into the house, leaving me to think about all he had said.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
 
     He came to her at twilight, his entrance into her room as silent as the shadows which blossomed and grew in the corners, and spread in a widening pool across the floor.  Michaela had graduated from her bed to an easy chair, but she had fallen into a light doze, her feet propped on a hassock and a book tented in her lap.  Sully paused in the entryway, momentarily transfixed by the sight of her delicate figure.  The flickering glow of the lamp beside her limned the copper strands of her hair, making them stand out in bright relief.  The light was equally tender to her face, warmly caressing the alabaster of her skin.  He thought he had never seen her look more beautiful—or more fragile.  He thought of how close he had come to losing her, and his breath caught in his throat.

     He thought about all the days and weeks of her captivity, wondering how she had ever survived it—from what place deep inside she had managed to summon the courage to endure.  And was stunned and ashamed to realize he didn’t know.  Why? Because he had never asked.  Because his heart and mind had been so selfishly consumed with his own suffering, that no room had been left for anything else.  Even for the feelings of the woman he loved more than his own life.

     And yet she hadn’t reproached him for his insensitivity.  Instead, her entire being had been focused on him—his needs, his anguish.  She had tried so hard to help him; to offer him solace and support.  All she had asked in return was that he talk to her; that he tell her what he was honestly feeling.  But he’d rejected all her efforts.  He’d shut her out—when she, more than anyone else, had a right to know what was in his heart.  He could argue that it was his guilt which had prevented him from opening up to her, and it was true—even now, the thought of facing her in light of his degradation filled him with shame.

     But she knew all that.  She knew him.  She had intuitively and rightly surmised that he thought of himself as a coward, a traitor.  And it didn’t matter to her.  More importantly, she didn’t perceive him that way.  Of course it was difficult—if not impossible—for her to be objective, given her love for him.  But she wouldn’t tell him something she didn’t truly believe, just because she thought it was what he wanted to hear.  She wouldn’t lie to him, even if it was to make him feel better.  She had always been honest with him.  It was something he could count on, as he’d been able to count on little else since all his troubles began.  So why was he pushing her away?

     He examined his heart, and found that he didn’t have an answer.  But the one thing he was sure of, was that he couldn’t work through this all alone.  Perhaps it was time to do what Doc Hunter had advised.  To abandon the remaining shreds of his pride, and turn to the one person whose love might allow him to forgive himself, and set him on the path toward healing.  Maybe, they could even heal each other.

     Sully took a deep breath and moved forward into the room.  He didn’t make a sound; yet something seemed to alert Michaela to his presence, and she opened her eyes and looked at him.

     “Sully?” she said softly.  Just that, nothing more—yet her simple utterance of his name seemed to encompass a world of emotion.  He hesitated for a moment, then closed the remaining distance between them.

     He reached her side, and knelt by her chair.  Her hand reached out to touch his cheek, and tears stung his eyes.  Like a little child, he laid his head in her lap, and her arms came around to embrace him.

     “I need your help,” he whispered.

* * * * * * * * * *

    Compassionately Michaela stroked his hair.  He was saying something else, but his voice was muffled, and she had to bend her head close to his to hear him.

    “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he was repeating, the words a litany of remorse.  Tears started in Michaela’s eyes as well, and her throat ached with the love and anguish she felt for him.

     “You have nothing to be sorry for—nothing,” she said softly into his ear.
 
     “But I do,” he choked.  “I have everythin’ to be sorry for.  I don’t know how you can ever forgive me—or even look at me the same again.”

     “There’s nothing to forgive,” she told him again, her tone extraordinarily gentle.  “Sully, I wouldn’t even be here now, were it not for you.”

     He lifted his head and met her gaze, his blue eyes dark with misery, tears like tiny beads of crystal clinging to his lashes and slipping down his cheeks.  “That’s right—you wouldn’t be here,” he said brokenly.  “Weak and starved, your hands hurt . . . only a shadow of what you were before . . .”

     “But I’m going to get well,” she reminded him.  “The damage to my hands is only temporary, and in time I’ll gain back the weight I lost.  And none of this was your fault,” she said more strongly.  “Bloody Knife did this to me—not you.  You rescued me—you saved me!  Sully, you must stop punishing yourself—“

     “If I hadn’t let him take you from me, none of this woulda happened,” he persisted, refusing to be comforted.  “He made you suffer ‘cause he wanted to hurt me.  I’m to blame, if only by default.”

     “You didn’t *let* him abduct me!” she protested.  “On the contrary, you did everything in your power to prevent it.”

     “Not everythin’—or he never woulda succeeded,” Sully responded dully.

     Michaela stared into his eyes.  “You did everything you could,” she repeated clearly.  “But you’re not clairvoyant, Sully.  You couldn’t predict his actions.  How could you possibly know that he would set the fire as a distraction?”  She regarded him earnestly, but he was silent.  After a moment she spoke again.

     “Sully, I must bear equal responsibility for what happened,” she admitted.  “Before you left for the saloon, you begged me to lock every door and window in the clinic.  But I . . . didn’t honor your wishes.”  It was her turn to look ashamed.

     “What are you talkin’ about?” he asked, momentarily startled out of his depression.

     “I locked the doors and windows downstairs, as you told me,” she answered after a pause.  “But as for the upstairs . . . I told myself it wasn’t necessary—that no one would be able to gain access to the clinic from the balcony or upper windows without being spotted.  I was foolish and arrogant, believing that you were over-reacting.  Tragically, I discovered all too soon how wrong I had been not to heed your warnings.  I should be the one begging your forgiveness, for subjecting you to weeks of agony, and for putting Matthew, Hank and Brendan in danger on my account.”

     “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” he said immediately.  “And you got no call to be sorry.  Even if you’d locked the clinic up tight, it wouldn’t have made a difference.  He was determined to get to you, one way or another.  Locked doors and windows weren’t gonna stop him.  He would have just broken in—or he woulda come up with a different plan.”

     “Well if that’s the case, then why are you blaming yourself?” Michaela said reasonably.  “If Bloody Knife was that determined to do us harm, then no action on your part would have prevented it.”

     Again Sully looked startled, as she turned his argument around on him.  After a long pause he responded, “Maybe you’re right.”

     “I know I’m right,” Michaela declared.  “So I want you to stop reproaching yourself for something that was out of your hands.”

     He was silent again, and she felt briefly hopeful as he considered the logic of her statement.

     “I ‘spose you got a point,” he conceded presently.  “But even if I couldn’t stop you bein’ taken from the clinic, that’s got nothin’ to do with what happened at Red Rock.  I had a choice to make, Michaela, and I took the dishonorable path.  I made a deal with Custer and let Bloody Knife go free—and in the process I betrayed you, Cloud Dancin’, and the memories of Snowbird, Black Kettle and all the other Cheyenne that Custer murdered.  And for what?  So I could live, or stay out of prison?  How can I live with myself after that?  How can I face Cloud Dancin’ after what I done?” he added miserably.

     “Do you really believe Cloud Dancing would want you to die, or rot in prison for the rest of your life, to prove a point?” Michaela asked him softly.  “That he would have expected you to sacrifice yourself for his sake, or to honor the memories of his slain people?  As tragic as their deaths were, Sully—as bitter a thing as it is to accept—the fact is that they’re gone.  Nothing and no one can bring them back.  For you to die as well would just be one more senseless, empty death added to the others.  One more reason for Cloud Dancing to grieve.  And even if you went to prison, it would be a life wasted—a “living death,” if you will.  I can’t believe Cloud Dancing would want you to condemn yourself to that fate.

    “There’s something else very important that you need to consider, Sully,” she went on.  “It wasn’t just your own life in question.  You held the fates of four other people in your hands that day.  You did what was necessary to save *all* our lives—not just your own.”

     But he was shaking his head, unconvinced.

     “Very well,” Michaela continued.  “Let’s consider what would have happened had Custer not intervened, and Bloody Knife succeeded in murdering you.  Do you think he would have honored his word to let the rest of us go?  We were witnesses to his crimes.  Personally, I have no doubt that he would have killed us without a second thought.”

     “You got that right,” Sully agreed darkly.

     “Well, then?” Michaela said reasonably.

     “But what about Custer?” Sully persisted.

     “All right,” she said.  “What about Custer?  He’s a despicable human being, an enemy to the Indians, and I know how much it devastated you to enter into an alliance with him.  But the fact remains that he saved your life.  He claimed that he didn’t intend to harm you—that Bloody Knife acted of his own volition—“

     “And he lies the way other people draw breath,” Sully interrupted grimly.

     “I agree,” Michaela replied.  “But in this case—as extraordinary as it sounds—I believe he was telling the truth.  I don’t think he ever intended that you should be involved when he sent Bloody Knife in pursuit of Cloud Dancing.  And when Bloody Knife nearly killed you in the mountains, I think his actions were as much of a shock to Custer as they were to us.”

     “But he admitted he ordered Bloody Knife to follow me,” Sully argued.

     “Following you is one thing,” Michaela said.  “But murder quite another.  Custer made it plain that Bloody Knife’s crimes were a serious threat to his own position and future.  We know how consumed Custer is with his own self-interest.  You said it yourself, Sully, when you confronted him.  Why else would he be willing to cover up any hint of your involvement, if not to protect himself, first and foremost?”

     “Savin’ his own skin,” Sully muttered.

     “Precisely,” she said.

     “But . . . agreein’ to forget about what Bloody Knife did to you—what Custer tried to do to  Cloud Dancin’ . . .  I don’t know if I can ever put that behind me, Michaela . . . if I can ever make peace with it . . .”  His voice trailed away, his face a mask of guilt.

     “I know that right now it must seem like your guilt is unique, and your pain insurmountable,” Michaela replied.  “But you’re not the first person to have such feelings, Sully.  Someone very close to you went through a very similar kind of suffering.”

     There was a flicker of surprise and curiosity in his eyes.  “Who?” he asked.

    “Cloud Dancing,”  she answered softly.

    “Cloud Dancin’s never done nothin’ wrong,” Sully protested.  “What reason would he have to feel guilty?”

    “Washita,” Michaela said simply.  “When Black Kettle took the tribe to Fort Cobb, Cloud Dancing stayed behind with the dog soldiers.”

     “But that ain’t the same,” he objected.  “He thought they were gonna be safe—he couldn’t know what would happen.”

     “Of course not,” she agreed.  “But that didn’t mitigate his guilt.”  She paused for a moment, then went on,  “Have you recovered your memories of that time?  Do you recall when you took me to Cloud Dancing so that he could finish teaching me about the medicine?”

     “Yeah, I remember,” he said quietly.  “I remember it all.”

     “Cloud Dancing was in such pain when you first brought me to him,” Michaela continued, her eyes shadowed with memory.  “He said that he should never have let Snowbird go on without him.  And he wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself, or move forward with his life.  I understood what he was feeling, because I was equally wracked with guilt, believing myself culpable for the deaths of the Cheyenne because I supported the railroad coming to town.  Both of us felt so lost, both of us blamed ourselves.  But by sharing our sorrow, somehow we learned to make peace with what had happened.  We began to find our way out of the darkness.

     “But the torment I saw in his eyes at the beginning . . . I see it in your eyes now, Sully,” she said gently.  “Cloud Dancing would recognize that look if he were here, because he languished in that same slough of despond.  And that’s why I know he would never judge you or hold you to blame for the painful decision you were forced to make.  Just as you claimed he didn’t blame me, when you said that he wanted to see me.”

     “When you were hurtin’, and I went to Cloud Dancin’ for help, I told him you were in a dark place, and he said he knew, ‘cause he’d been there too,” Sully recalled quietly.

     “Yes,” she said.  “And now you’re in that dark place, and you need to find your way out.”

     “But it still ain’t the same, Michaela,” he maintained.  “What happened to the Cheyenne—Cloud Dancin’ didn’t have no control over that.  But it was different with me.  I made a deliberate choice.  I didn’t have to give in to Custer—but I did it anyway.”

     “To save all our lives,” she reminded him.  “And the fact is that Cloud Dancing *did* make a choice—to let the tribe go on without him.  Don’t you think that must have haunted him afterward?  Just as your choice haunts you?”  She regarded him earnestly.

     “We know that Cloud Dancing didn’t fail his people,” she stated.  “But Cloud Dancing believed he did—and to him, that was all that mattered.

    “I believed I’d let the Cheyenne down—that I should have stopped what happened—even though you said there were some things we couldn’t stop.

    “And now you believe you’ve failed me, Cloud Dancing, the Cheyenne . . . even though it’s not true.  Don’t you see?” she concluded passionately.  “It *is* the same, Sully—in every way that matters.”

    He stood with an effort, his hand pressed to his chest, and walked a few paces away, standing with his back to her.  Michaela watched him anxiously.  The seconds stretched out.  Finally he turned.  Slowly he retraced his steps, emerging from the shadows veiling the room into the circle of illumination cast by the lamp.  “I guess . . . I never thought of it that way,” he conceded softly.  “I was so wrapped up in my own guilt, I couldn’t see past it.  I couldn’t—see myself the way you see me.  Even now, it’s
hard . . .”

    “It’s very hard to be objective about one’s self,” she agreed.  “And harder still to see ourselves the way others see us.  But the only thing that matters is that it’s all right to forgive yourself, Sully—to allow yourself to go on.  And perhaps—someday—even to be happy again,” she added.

    “Do you think that’s possible?” he asked yearningly.

    “Yes,” she answered, her eyes tender.  “With the help of those who love you.  Doctor Hunter said love is the best medicine of all.

    “Will you let me help you, Sully?” she entreated.  “Will you let me love you and help you to heal?”

    He gave her a small, tremulous smile.  “Ain’t nobody whose love and help I need more,” he said.  “If . . . you’ll still have me.”

    “May 20th—just as we planned,” she replied, her eyes radiant and her smile of joy like a glimpse of sunshine after the storm.  His injury forgotten, Sully bent and took her in his arms.