EXPLANATIONS - PRC1857 - The Big Valley [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Chapter Text

Thomas Barkley gripped his boy's left arm and levered him upright again after having spent a few intense and unpleasant minutes over Tom's knee. The man then rose to his own feet, shaking out the sting in his right hand a bit. He studied his upset fifteen-year-old, manfully trying to catch his breath. The boy was clearly embarrassed that he hadn't been able to control either his tears or his yelps, and now looked so young and forlorn in his cotton nightshirt and bare feet.

Tom sighed, dug out his handkerchief and handed it to the boy. "Settle down, son," he said quietly. "Take a few good, deep breaths."

"… S-sorry…" The boy hiccupped, wincing in discomfort, fighting to regain his self-control. The youngster was no stranger to pain; Lord knows he'd been on the receiving end of enough of it in his short life, and had taken beatings far worse than this without giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cry. But this time... this time, he didn't know why, but he hadn't been able to distance himself emotionally from what was happening. That fact had both surprised and upset him...badly. He couldn't understand it; he'd fought hard for years to keep from ever showing weakness or fear as he knew, from painful experience, it created the potential for repeated attacks. He couldn't understand why this confrontation with this man had thrown him so badly? Did this man's approval really mean so much to him?

He tried to look up respectfully at his father, but an unexpected wave of fiery throbbing made him strangle a groan and squeeze his eyes shut, shifting his feet to try to ease the fierce sting. The old bear sure has a good right arm ... boy howdy, this hurts! He struggled to neither slip into a fresh round of tears nor give in and rub his throbbing hind end; doing either would destroy his pride, utterly and completely.

Tom waited patiently as the youngster settled himself, gravely accepted back the now-damp handkerchief, then put his hands gently on the boy's shoulders.

"Are you prepared to listen to me now, Heath?"

Sorrowfully, the boy sniffed hard and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Sit down." Tom firmly gestured toward the edge of the bed, making Heath nearly groan in dismay. But he obeyed, wincing and fidgeting, as Tom himself turned his chair, sat down and faced his boy. "We're going to have a meeting of the minds, young fella, and forge a strong connection between this," he said firmly, tapping Heath's forehead, "and this," he intoned, reaching around and gently patting the boy's hip, "so that the next time you get it into your head to disobey me, you'll remember exactly what the consequences are and how they feel. Are we clear?"

Glumly, Heath nodded.

"Now, then. Can you tell me why I punished you, Heath?"

The boy swallowed, flushing. "I… I reckon…" uneasily the boy looked at his father, "because I disobeyed the rule of not taking off without telling anybody."

Tom nodded. "Yes, that's correct, your disobedience is one of the reasons," he agreed calmly. "What else?"

Heath fidgeted uncomfortably. "I reckon borrowing Sheik without askin' is on that list, too," he muttered softly, thinking of the Arabian stallion who'd run like the wind for him.

"Yes, that's true as well. You outright defied me after I told you that you were too young and too inexperienced to handle Sheik without supervision," Tom nodded. Apparently, I was wrong on that account, but for the moment, let's just not even go there… "What else?"

Golly, but it sure is hard to think straight when your backside's on fire. Confused and hurting, Heath looked at his father. "I..I…" He shrugged, miserably.

"How do you think your stepmother and I felt when we didn't know where you were for three long days?" Tom demanded.

Oh. Heath sighed, studying his toes. "Mrs. Bar… I mean, Mother said you were worried."

"Worried doesn't even come close," Tom said sternly. He reached out and using his first two fingers, he tipped the youngster's chin up. When the blue eyes looked away, he firmly used one of those fingers to tap the boy's chin and made Heath look at him. "We were scared, Heath. What you did was thoughtless and disrespectful to the family that loves you. Anything could have happened to you… you could have been lost, or hurt, in trouble, hungry, sick, scared… anything could have happened to you!" He released the youngster's chin, but continued to gaze at him sternly.

Uneasily, the boy tugged on an ear, feeling wretched. I didn't think they'd really miss me that bad… Heath gulped hard against the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I never meant for you or Mrs. Barkley to be…. " Heath swallowed helplessly, angry at himself to feel his eyes welling again with frustrated tears. "I just.. I… "

Tom frowned a little, sensing that there was something more going on here than just disobedience or adolescent cussedness. And there's that 'Mrs. Barkley,' again. Damn, I thought we'd finally got past that.

Tom thought about the difficult session that afternoon in his study when Heath finally turned up again after being missing. The boy had been taciturn and quiet, far more than usual, for several days, and obviously not sleeping well. Then, three mornings ago Nick had stormed into the house before breakfast, demanding at the top of his lungs to know where both Heath and Sheik were.

At first, Victoria and Tom feared the youngster had run away from home… the home that had only been his for a few months, since his mother had died the previous fall. Nick and Tom, and a day later Jarrod after having rushed home from San Francisco after receiving Victoria's frantic telegram, had scoured the countryside for the boy, with no luck. It had never occurred to Tom he might have gone back to Strawberry, the dying little mining town where his mother and Rachel Caufield, almost a second mother, were buried and where Hannah James, the kind but simple black woman who'd cared so dearly for Leah and her boy, still lived.

"He's not a thief, Tom, you know he isn't," she'd chided him when hot-headed Nick accused his younger half-brother of stealing the valuable animal. Victoria had wisely noted that most of the boy's belongings were still in his room. It certainly didn't look as though he'd bolted for good, Tom had worried, but if not, then where in tarnation was he?!

Once he'd finally come home, Tom's fear for his newest child finally gave way to relief that he was safe, and then to anger. Furious, he'd gripped him by the nape of the neck and marched him, wincing, into his study to stand before him in front of the fireplace. Heath had been just as reticent to share the 'whys' of his little escapade then as he was right now. The boy had stood straight and tall, tried to be polite and respectful, but stubbornly wouldn't budge to offer any explanations.

Victoria had hurried in having heard Heath's voice, checking him over to make sure he was all right, until Tom had sternly barked at her to 'sit down, Vic, and stop spoiling him! He's not hurt… not yet, at least!'

"I'll tell you, boy, I'm getting damned sick and tired of trying to convince you that you're as much our son as Jarrod, or Nick or Gene. Well, since you're plainly begging for proof, I'm going to give it to you, in no uncertain terms!"

As Tom gazed now down at Heath, he thought of Victoria's words earlier.

After Tom had sternly sent Heath to his room to change into his nightshirt and wait there for his punishment, Victoria had reminded him that this young one was very different from his other four…

"Remember, he's not one to talk through his problems, like Jarrod, or shout and blow off steam like Nick. He's not even going to cry or chatter his way through it like either Audra or Gene," she'd said seriously. "You're going to have be patient and let him feel safe enough to share with you. I know that's hard for you, Tom, but if you don't, you'll never get anywhere with Heath. We'll lose him."

Now, up here in his room, the boy's unhappiness was closer to the surface, and Tom could tell the roots of all of this signaled something more, something deeper than just being upset from his punishment or feeling guilty for his disobedience. Tom tipped his head to the side for a moment, watching Heath stare stubbornly at the floor and fidget, unable to find a comfortable position on his sore tail.

Tom sighed, glancing at the clock on the mantel, thinking: he and Heath had to come to an understanding, so like it or not, he was in this for the long haul. Tom nodded firmly to himself, his decision made. "Here," he said, getting up from his chair, "turn over on your belly, son."

Startled, Heath's head snapped up and he looked up at his father. "Huh? What?" he stammered, a little scared, wondering what was going to happen to him now.

"Stretch out on your belly," Tom said firmly, pulling the chair around so that he could sit beside his son, and talk to him. Plunking a pillow down next to his son's head, he ordered. "And put your head down here."

Uneasily, Heath did as he was told, sliding his arms under his pillow, and resting his head, his muscles tight and rigid, though he was grateful as all get out to take the pressure off his aching backside.

Tom leaned back and crossed his legs, taking out his pipe, and going through the ritual of getting it filled and lit. Through it all, Heath eyed him warily, wondering what was coming next. Once the pipe was going, Tom leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, thinking.

"Sounds to me like there's more going on here than you've shared with your mother and me," Tom finally said softly. "We can't help you, son, if you don't tell us what's going on in that noggin of yours." The man reached out stroked his son's blond hair, so much like his own had been at that age. "Talk to me, Heath. Tell me why you felt so strongly that you had to go to Strawberry. We are gonna have to start trusting each other, son."

Heath shrugged. "I just…" he swallowed and closed his eyes, hesitating.

But Tom, for once in his life, was patient and just waited quietly. After a few moments, he reached over and gently rubbed his boy's tight shoulder. He could feel the youngster finally, slowly, begin to relax a little. He could almost see the wheels turning in Heath's mind as he struggled with whether or not to share what was troubling him so, and what it was that could have pushed this normally polite and well-behaved boy to be 'defiant, disobedient and disrespectful,' something that all of the Barkley children had been taught were the big punishable offenses. Learning how Tom and Victoria had raised their children to understand the nuances of what Jarrod had, years ago, dubbed "The Three D's" was still very new to Heath: he needed some help in navigating the shoals and eddies of how this family worked, because Heath was by no means a disrespectful youngster - his mother would never have permitted it! He was trying so hard to understand what was expected of him and how to find his place in this family and to go suddenly from only child to middle child of five had been hard. Still was.

"I won't do it again, sir, I promise," Heath muttered softly, eyes closed, resting his forehead on the pillow… anything to get out of having to talk about it.

Tom smiled to himself and allowed that smile to be heard in his voice. "Well, I certainly hope not, because if you ever did, I'd have to teach you what my belt, and not just my hand, feels like connecting with your bare backside. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not have to do that. Trust me, you wouldn't enjoy it."

Heath squirmed uncomfortably. "I reckon seein' as how I didn't much enjoy your hand, I ain't in no hurry to have a lesson from you and a strap," Heath declared softly, his voice heartfelt. "But I really do promise. I won't ever take off again without permission, or lettin' someone know, honest. You punished me; can't we just move on now?" Hopeful eyes glanced sideways at his father.

"Nope," Tom answered the boy, tenderly, but shaking his head. "Help me understand why it happened this time."

Struggling, Heath sighed in frustration. He just ain't gonna let it go! "I already talked about it to Nick," he muttered a little crossly, levering himself up on his elbows, only to be met with Tom's strong hand on the back of his head, gently pushing him back down.

Nick?! Good Lord, of all the least likely sob sisters! Tom almost chuckled. "Stay put, young man, and lay your head back down. We're not finished here," he said calmly but firmly. "So, you talked about it with your older brother. How did that come about?"

Stubbornly, Heath squeezed shut his eyes, clamping his mouth shut. After a few minutes of silent standoff, Tom reached over to gently but firmly pat Heath's rear end, making the boy suck in air between his teeth and squirm uncomfortably. "Heath Morgan Barkley, you're a very stubborn and determined young fella. It might interest you to know you get that trait from me. So, trust me, boy: you will never be able to wait me out. I wrote the book on Barkley stubborn." Once he felt sure that Heath had got the message, Tom leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, waiting patiently and puffing on his pipe.

He smiled slightly to finally hear a frustrated sigh.

"Nick gets t'shoutin' at me and I get mad," Heath admitted, reluctantly. "Then I end up saying more than I prob'ly should. But... well, we finally got some things straightened out between us."

Ah…. Makes sense, thought Tom, smiling to himself. Communication through challenge... pure Nick Barkley. "So… Nick found the right words to get your dander up, eh?"

"Yes, sir," Heath grunted, grudgingly.

"Well, then," said Tom, kindly, "if you've managed to share with your big brother what was behind this slip in your behavior and he understood…?" With a slight questioning tone of voice, Tom was able to query whether or not Nick had, indeed, been understanding. Heath sighed and nodded. "Good, I'm glad to hear it. Well then, can't you trust that I would understand, too, son? I promise to listen." He reached over and rubbed his son's back gently for a moment. "I will always listen, Heath. Can't say there won't be times I'll be angry with you, or the choices you've made, but I'll always listen and hear your side."

Heath sighed again, unhappily, and gave in. "I was… havin' nightmares," he said softly. Tom had to stay very quiet and listen intently.

"I kept having bad dreams about … about Hannah," the boy whispered. "I was … so scared somethin' was wrong. I can't explain it, but… well, I was downright sure somethin' bad was goin' on… that she was hurt, or in trouble." He swallowed hard, then nervously peered sideways at Tom. "Sheik's the fastest on the ranch. I just borrowed him to check on her and make sure…she…." He swallowed, unable to continue.

Tom's heart ached for the boy, finally seeing where this had all come from. Oh, Heath… my poor child…

"I just had to be sure she was all right," the boy said stubbornly, sniffling and drawing the sleeve of his nightshirt across his eyes.

"I think I can understand that," said Tom gently. "And was she?"

"Yes, sir," he answered softly, glancing at his father. First Nick, and now Father... both sound like they really cared. "She was fine. And, boy howdy, she sure gave me what-for about leavin' without telling nobody where I went." He sighed. Grownups sure seemed to all be pretty much cut from the same cloth, whether rich or poor, black or white.

Tom smiled to himself; he remembered Hannah. A kinder, gentler soul never existed; the boy must've really riled her to earn that kind of response! "I think you might have been… well, might have just been missing her real bad, son," said Tom gently, leaning forward again, hunkering over so that he was a bit closer to his son's head. "Feeling a bit homesick, perhaps."

Heath grunted. "That's what Nick said," he muttered into his pillow.

Tom chuckled. "Well, once in a great while, your pigheaded older brother does get it right," he smiled. He tipped his head to the side, looking down at his middle child. "But you put yourself through a lot of meaningless pain, son, by not coming to me or to Victoria."

Heath rolled his head a little and looked up at his father. "Sir?"

"Your stepmother and I love you, Heath," he said seriously, squeezing his son's shoulder gently. "We would never, ever, not allow you see Hannah if you felt a strong need to, you know that, don't you?"

Heath shrugged and shifted uncomfortably again. "Nick says I should just forget about Strawberry."

Tom shook his head. "Nicholas is lucky to have never had something like Strawberry as part of his history," said Tom calmly. "You're not Nick. And he isn't you. Heath, Hannah is dearly important to you, and I would no sooner ask you to forget her than I would ask you to forget your mother. I want you to be able to feel as though you can talk about them. Rachel, too."

Heath tried to roll onto his back, winced, immediately thought better of it and rolled back onto his stomach again. "I don't want to hurt… her," he finally said, very softly.

"Who?" Tom frowned, then dawn broke. "You mean Victoria?"

The youngster nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Son, you won't hurt her by remembering your mama. Your stepmother's got a loving heart as big as this valley. She would never, ever want or expect you to forget your mama." Tom patted the boy's shoulder tenderly again. "And she loves you dearly, son," he said very softly. "In her mind, you're her child, just as much as the others. She's told you that, hasn't she?"

Heath nodded, and was quiet for a moment, thinking all of this over.

Tom wondered if they'd got as far as they were going to get tonight. For the most part, he was pleased with how this conversation had traveled thus far, and sat back, satisfied, finishing his pipe.

Then Heath broadsided him.

"Father… why didn't you ever go back?" Those blue eyes, the same shade of blue as Audra's…as Jarrod's… the exact shade of his own. Those blue eyes that observed everything going on around him, gathering information, were staring right into his own, steadfast, inexorable...giving no quarter.

Tom's breath hitched in his chest, and he closed his eyes. Well, damn, Vic, you were right… this one is a thinker…

"Oh, Heath…" Tom rubbed his forehead, then looked at him, at Leah's boy. He sighed and gently leaned down to kiss his son's head, resting his forehead for a moment against the boy's hair. "This is real hard for me… " he admitted, then shook his head. Squaring his shoulders, Tom figured that if anyone beyond his beloved Victoria deserved to know, it was this boy. He had to try. If you want him to be honest with you, you got to be the same with him, Barkley…

"I… Well, you know I dearly love Victoria, and your brothers and sister."

The boy said nothing but nodded.

"Well, Victoria and I had been through a very sad time. She had a miscarriage… you know, lost a baby before it was born, and neither of us really knew how to handle it. Instead of leaning on each other for comfort, we… oh I don't know, we just took our sadness and our pain and our anger out on each other and for a while we drifted apart. I don't know, and I swear to God I hope I never have to find out, if losing a child that's been born to you is much different, but losing a child before there's any promise of who they would be, what their little personality would be like… " Tom's voice broke, and Heath saw Father shudder and waited, listening with compassion.

Tom sighed, and leaned forward again, arms on his thighs. "I've got no excuse, Heath. Your mother deserved better. She was a lovely, kind and gentle person. And I was hurting, bad." He swallowed. "She.. well, she just deserved better than that, is all. I loved her… for herself. Not the way I love Victoria, but I loved her as herself, as Leah, a kind, loving soul. For that short time, I was able to forget my pain and my responsibilities, and just… be." Tom swallowed hard, remembering that bittersweet, awful, magical time.

The room was darkening now as evening began to fall, and Heath angled himself to look up at the way the lamplight danced across his father's face. Without the full light, in shadows like this, Heath felt as though his father looked… I dunno…younger, maybe? Maybe the way Mama saw him all those years ago… "I reckon I can understand, Father," he said softly. "People sometimes just don't think things through when they're hurtin'."

Tom smiled sadly. "Truer words were never spoken, son."

Heath turned on his side, propping his head up on his hand, thinking.

Tom shook his head, and sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "But I'd made a promise, a vow, and I had two small boys to go home to, as well as a wife I loved. I had to stop being selfish and grow up, face some hard truths about my own stubborn pride."

Thomas Barkley hauled in a deep breath, then, and faced his son squarely, humbled and ashamed. "I had absolutely no idea about you, son. None. If I had ever gone back…" Tom closed his eyes, shook his head and sighed deeply again. "I'm so sorry for the pain I caused her, and you."

Heath studied him then, and a hard lump that had lived in his heart for many years shifted a bit. Took courage to do that, the youngster thought. Well, whatever else he might be, he ain't no coward.

Tom looked down at his son, noting the troubled look on the boy's face. "You need a haircut," he observed, pushing back Heath's hair once again, causing the boy to gaze up at him with those beautiful eyes as blue as a summer sky. God, almighty, but the good Lord does have a wicked sense of humor… leave it to this one to look the most like me, he thought, shaking his head in wonder. "You have to believe me when I say if I'd known you existed, Heath, I'd never have left you or your mother to suffer. I can't say I know exactly what I could have done that wouldn't have caused her pain, but I would never…." He choked slightly, and shrugged again, helplessly.

"Caused her pain?" Heath asked, frowning, not understanding.

Tom smiled sadly at his boy. "If I'd known you existed, son, do you really think I could have ever left you in Strawberry? I could never have not brought you here to live with your brothers and sister. And what do you think that would have done to Leah?"

Startled, Heath pondered that, his blond brows furrowed in thought.

"We can't go back and change the past, Heath," Tom said finally. "All we can do is trust that the good Lord brought us together now for a reason. I love you very much. So do Jarrod, Nick, Audra and Gene… and Victoria. You're a Barkley, as much a part of this family as any of the rest. As much my son as the rest of 'em. I don't know what else I have to do to make that plain. Please, son…let us love you."

Heath nodded, thoughtfully. Then he managed that crooked little smile, the smile that lit up any room he was in… Tom's own smile. And Tom felt his heart melt as he saw Heath finally fully relax.

"Shove over," his father said gruffly, shooing Heath over a bit and climbing onto the bed with him, one arm behind his head and the other around his son's shoulders.

For a long time, Tom and Heath were silent, Heath on his side resting his head on his father's shoulder, listening to that strong heartbeat, each of them thinking about the sweet, gentle woman with the strong faith, big heart and tender touch. Together, they stared out the window at the orange, pink and gold sunset until, finally, Heath fell asleep.

He was safe, and he was home.

Chapter 2: Play

Chapter Text

Immediately following Chapter One

A couple of hours before supper, the pretty, blonde girl perched on the wide, carpeted staircase with her knees tucked under her skirt watching through the open double doors as her new big brother wandered around the drawing room, idly running a hand over furniture, studying statuary and artwork on the walls, and reading the titles on the books on the shelves. Anything but sitting down, making her remember those awful minutes upstairs from last night.

For last night, Audra Barkley and her younger brother Eugene, two years younger at eleven, were in their mother's sitting room upstairs where Victoria had attempted to answer their questions and explain to what had happened with their brother Heath and his disappearance a few days earlier, when they heard Father come upstairs and head toward Heath's room. After a few moments of quiet muffled conversation came the unmistakable sound of their next older brother being soundly punished.

Victoria had perched anxiously in her chair, while Gene sat, silent and pale, on an ottoman at her feet leaning against her knee and Audra cried softly into her mother's lap, all of them listening. Their mother had gently tried to explain that whether he'd meant to or not, Heath had broken a good number of the family's rules and that he'd given Father no choice; their father had to make sure their brother understood how much he'd worried the family, leaving them thinking he'd run away from home and scaring everyone the way he had. Audra understood it, but that didn't help her bruised, tender heart as she sat listening to poor Heath yelp and try so hard not to cry...and fail.

In a funny way, she'd felt real proud of how brave her big brother had been: he didn't howl and beg Father to stop, the way Gene often did, though of course, Gene was a lot younger. Audra herself had been spanked once by Father: as far as she was concerned, if it never happened again, she'd be happy! Her mother wielded a mean wooden spoon, but her swipes still weren't as bad as Father when he was feeling real stern. Heck, even big, brave Nick yelped when Father walloped him!

This morning, most of the family had pretty much left Heath alone and gave him some room at breakfast. He'd been the last to come downstairs, his face red like he was embarrassed. He met no one's eyes when he mumbled 'good morning' and slowly sat down, real careful, in his seat between her and Nick. She saw him flinch and surreptitiously fidget as though trying to find a comfortable position; she wanted so badly to give him a hug, but she knew that would embarrass him even more than he was already.

Nick had been clumsy and awkward, trying to act as though nothing had happened, which made everything worse, as usual. Nick can be so dumb, sometimes….

Jarrod had been quiet and kind to his new brother, squeezing his shoulder gently when he'd got up to get some coffee at the sideboard, and passing him plates of ham and fried potatoes without making a lot of fuss.

Gene had been sad, looking at Heath all the time with those sheep's' eyes, and every time Heath saw him looking, he frowned into his plate.

Then Nick really put his foot in it.

"Father, I'm pretty sure Heath and I should be able to get that last stretch of fencing done today, well before the herd needs to move," Nick said as he buttered his toast and took a big bite. "That oughta give us a chance to get some fishing in before supper," he muttered, speaking with his mouth full.

"Heath won't be leaving the yard for the next week, Nick," Father said firmly, pouring some cream into his coffee.

Turning beet red, Heath swallowed hard and put his eyes to his plate, elbow on the table and his chin resting on his fist.

In sympathy, Jarrod glanced at his new younger brother, then frowned at Father - a tanning and restriction? Isn't that a bit much?! - and then at Mother, whose face was like a blank mask.

Startled, Nick had stared at Father, then at Heath, and back at Father again. "Won't be… but… " he sputtered, tossing his toast onto his plate. "How in the heck am I supposed to get that last stretch done without 'im? You're meanin' to move the herd in the morning and I might make it if worked by the light o' of the moon, except the moon's dark tonight!" he blustered, sarcastically. :"You know full well there ain't nobody else available!"

Audra sometimes wondered if Nick had been out in the sun too long; one look at Father's expression should have shut him right up if he'd had half a lick of sense... But, no. Nick kept right on going.

"Look, Father, I know Heath made a mistake, but - "

Heath winced, putting his fork down altogether, wanting to sink right through the floor.

"Nicholas, this isn't up for discussion," Father stated, firmly, his blue eyes burning a hole in Nick's forehead. "Heath is restricted to the house and yard for a week. I'll work with you to get the stretch of fencing done."

"But -"

"Nicholas, enough!" Mother declared, fixing her second son with a steely gaze.

Muttering under his breath, Nick finally subsided.

"And Heath, elbows off the table, please."

The last was said gently, but firmly. Nick glanced at Heath, looking miserable as he pulled his arm under the table, and then angrily at his Father, who was stone-faced and sipping his coffee.

There he goes, Audra thought, winding up again for something. She knew Jarrod must've kicked Nick in the ankle or shin just as he was about to snap out something that would have got him into trouble; she knew it because Nick had just opened his mouth, then flinched, gritting his teeth, and then scowled venomously across the table at his older brother. Jarrod's blue glare was intense, though, and Nick backed down, finally, when Jarrod tilted his head slightly toward the seat next to Nick. Nick looked to his right and saw how embarrassed and uncomfortable poor Heath looked and gave up… only just.

"Heath, you check in with Silas this morning and find out from him what house chores are your responsibility for this week, understood?" Father said quietly, spearing himself a piece of ham.

"Yes, sir," Heath murmured, dejectedly, pushing his food around his plate.

Father glanced up and looked at his middle child.

"You've got no one but yourself to blame for the fix you're in, son," he said quietly, but not unkindly, mollifying his older sons just a little bit. "I suggest you change your attitude. Stop playing with your food and eat your breakfast. Good food shouldn't be wasted."

Heath glanced at his father, met his gaze, sighed and nodded, then picked up his fork to start eating.

Audra noticed her mother relaxed a little at that point, too, seeing Heath finally eating. Audra had glanced at all of the uncomfortable faces at the table that morning and felt so sad for this new brother of hers. She was bound and determined to find some way today to make him feel better.

Earlier that morning, Silas and Mr. Tom had had a mild difference of opinion over Heath's chores, with Silas coming out on top this time, allowing him to modify the plan just a bit. This early morning talk was a routine the two had developed over the years; Tom rising well before everyone else to think through his day, talking with Silas about plans and then going out to do the same with McColl, his foreman.

This morning, however, Silas was going to bat for the newest Barkley. Silas liked the child and knew how awkward and out-of-place he felt, unsure of his position in the family, still feeling his way slowly through this boisterous, strong-willed and fiery herd of personalities. The old black man gently schooled the boy in the 'high-falutin' manners that the big house used. Heath was always polite and respectful, and assuredly showing good manners as his mama had taught him but lacked the more urbane polish his brothers and sister had been taught since babyhood. Heath had felt a little better about the whole thing when Silas told him, carefully, that his father, Thomas, had had to learn these kind of manners, too, when he decided to court and marry the lovely and cultured Victoria.

"Silas, the boy needs to learn a lesson in following the rules," Mr. Tom had muttered stubbornly, as he poured himself a cup of early morning coffee while Silas worked at the dough for the breakfast biscuits. "We had a good talk, and I understand why he did it, but that doesn't excuse the behavior."

Silas was aware of the parental discipline that had been handed down last night. "He's sorry, sure enough, Mr. Tom, a blind man could see it. Ain't no need to teach that boy that pertickler lesson, sir. That lesson he knows," Silas had stated quietly but doggedly.

Tom eyed him, then shook his head and gave up. He trusted Silas implicitly, and valued his opinion. He'd been getting this kind of advice for the last twenty-five years as he'd raised his children, Jarrod and Nick, especially. Silas was keenly tuned to the children, almost as much as was Victoria.

"Fair enough," he grunted, with a smile.

So, Silas had given Heath a list of chores as long as his arm, but they were jobs that wouldn't take forever to accomplish. Heath had merely nodded in silence and got to work.

He'd filled all of the house's wood boxes, split kindling for the kitchen, swept out the kitchen and pantry, trimmed the wicks and cleaned the lamps for the bedrooms, and cleared the mesquite growing near the mansion's fence line. He put his shoulder hard into polishing the wooden staircase banister, and spent an hour cleaning the rifles in the gun cabinet. By the time late afternoon rolled around, he was tuckered out, and Silas had said he'd done everything on his list for today and he could have some time for himself.

Time for himself would normally have been spent out in the stable or the corral with the horses, but house and yard didn't include those areas, he'd been told firmly. Sighing, he'd wandered through the drawing room, still a bit too sore to want much to sit.

Now, seated on the staircase Audra'd been watching him for more than ten minutes when she saw him studying the chessboard. She got up from the stairs and slowly came into the room. She glanced at the clock, seeing that it was still a good hour and a half or so until supper.

Heath looked up as she entered, and he offered his little crooked smile, so much like Father's. "Hi, Sis."

"Hi," she said softly coming over to him. "Do you know how to play?"

He shook his head, touching the intricately carved pieces, in awe of the workmanship. "I never knew anybody who knew how to play chess."

"Jarrod does," she said promptly. "And Mother and Father, too. Nick knows how, but says its boring." She wrinkled her nose.

Heath chuckled. "I reckon for someone like Nick it might be," he allowed, softly.

"What do you mean?" she frowned, raising her little chin a bit. That sounded a little like an insult to her, and nobody insulted her big brother Nick.

Heath shrugged, and smiled at her, seeing her reaction.

"Nick likes things that move quickly," he explained quietly, making sure she knew he wasn't casting aspersions on her beloved big brother. "Seems like when he wants to do something, he wants to see a result, right away." Heath frowned as he studied the figure of the white bishop, trying to find the right words to say what he meant. "Everything about chess seems to me t'move slower… more thoughtful-like. Planning moves ahead." He peered at Audra to see if she was following him, and she nodded her head slowly, head tipped to one side, listening intently. He nodded himself, pleased she understood. "I ain't sayin' Nick don't plan things, but if he was gonna do something to have fun, I reckon he'd choose something with a quicker result, somethin' he could see right away." He shrugged again and smiled at her as he replaced the piece and wandered over to look up at the picture of their father over the fireplace.

Thoughtfully, Audra studied this unusual brother. That was the best explanation of her brother Nick she'd heard in a long time. She wondered if Heath had figured out the rest of them the same way? "What games do you like to play?" Audra asked, suddenly, sitting on the settee, and spreading her pretty skirts.

Startled, Heath look back at her. "Oh… I don't rightly know," he said, frowning a bit. "I like to play checkers, and some card games. Don't know too many, I guess."

"How come?" Heath flushed a bit, the shutters going down on his face, blocking out his past from his innocent little sister.

"Didn't have much chance to play games," he said gruffly, starting to turn away.

"Why?" she persisted. "I just didn't." She could see he was getting frustrated with her, but she had to know, had to understand this brother better. "Well, what about favorite toys when you were little?"

Heath winced. "Didn't have but one… a wooden train," he said softly, remembering. "I got it for Christmas when I was about four." And Uncle Matt smashed it in front of me as a punishment two years later, right before he damn near tore off a strip of my hide with that strop…

"But why?" Audra asked, stricken. "Why do ya think?" Heath barked, whirling back to her… then immediately regretted it, seeing the expression on her pale face. He heaved a big sigh, and walked around the back of the settee, then leaned over its curved back, resting his forearms on its back and lowering his head to think.

It wasn't her fault; she couldn't understand. She'd never known anything but a life of peace and luxury, of having a warm and soft place to sleep, of not having to go to a cold, hard bed with a belly gnawing in hunger. She didn't know a time of having no clothes that fit properly, or boots that didn't pinch from being too tight or gave a body blisters from being too large. How could he possibly make her see?

"I'm sorry, Audra," he said humbly. "I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just that I didn't… my mama…." Heath struggled, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to say. "I had to work from the time I was seven," he said carefully. "My mama and me… we needed the money I made to make ends meet."

Startled, Audra stared at him, uncomprehending. "But… but what about school?" she asked, aghast. She saw his jaw go steely hard. "I … well, I had to stop goin' to school when I was about 9. That's when I started workin' in the mines."

Shocked, Audra gasped. "The mines…" she breathed. She remembered last night Mother saying that Heath had been in Strawberry the last few days, where he'd grown up and she knew that Strawberry was a mining town. In fact, she knew her family had had mining business there years ago. She wondered if that was how her father and Heath's mother had come to know each other. Shaking her head, she returned to the present, and the information that Heath was sharing with her now. "Doing what?"

"I was a powder monkey," he said quietly. At her confusion, he came around the side of the settee and squatted down, avoiding sitting completely, but looking her in the eyes. "I … worked in the mines, with a couple other boys around my age, setting powder charges, 'cos we were smaller than the men and could fit into the tight spaces."

They shared the same eyes, the same summer sky blue, much the same shape, and those two pairs met… and he was touched by the horror he saw in hers.

"But… Heath…" she put out a gentle hand to his and touched him lightly, then pulled back, not wanting to upset him. "Wasn't that awfully dangerous?" she asked very softly.

He offered that little crooked smile again and shrugged. "I had to work, and that was the job I could find," he said finally.

She was amazed. There was no sense of him feeling sorry for himself. No sense of feeling hard done by. She reached out her hand again and this time clasped his. "Heath, tell me what games you know," she asked firmly, looking him squarely in the face.

Startled by the change of topic, he looked at her, questioning. "Uh… well…" he cast about in his memory. "Like I said, I know some card games…."

"Old Maid? Go Fish?"

At his blank look, she sighed, frustrated.

"Well, this just won't do," she said firmly, sounding remarkably like her mother, Victoria, and getting to her feet she kept firm hold of his hand, pulling him to his feet and toward the stairs.

"Whoa, Nelly," he said, anxiously, 'just where d'you think we're goin'?"

"To the nursery," she rapped out, pulling on his arm.

Heath pulled his hand loose. "Just hold on a second. What are you talkin' about, Audra?"

"You never learned how to play games," she said, stomping her little foot angrily. "You're fifteen years old, and aren't going to be a boy much longer! You don't have a lot of time!"

Startled, he dropped his jaw. "What?" he asked wildly.

Hands on her hips, she wagged a finger at him. "Every boy or girl should know how to just... just play! And you don't! Well, I'm going to teach you how," she declared, firmly grasping his hand again and started dragging him upstairs.

Victoria walked along the hallway toward the staircase, knowing that supper was soon ready and Silas would have it on the table shortly. She'd best make sure Gene and Audra had washed their faces and hands. She stopped a moment, tilting her head as she heard voices and laughter coming from further down the hall, the location of the old nursery.

Quietly she followed the sound of the voices and tiptoed to the doorway.

"Oh, Heath, you can't do it that way!" she heard Audra scold as she giggled uncontrollably.

"Why not?" came the unexpected and rarely heard bubbling laughter of her middle child. "You said that I could make a book of four cards!"

"Not a straight, like poker, you goose! It has to be the four same cards!"

"Oh… well you didn't say that."

"I'm quite sure I did," Audra was saying with great dignity and the giggling laughter came again.

Victoria peeped around the doorway and saw Audra sitting cross legged on the floor on the big round rug while Heath's tall body was sprawled on his stomach propped up on his elbows, his knees bent and ankles crossed, rocking them back and forth like a small boy's. A deck of cards spread out like a jumbled 'lake of fish' lay between them; each held a handful of cards and both were smiling, contentedly intent on their game.

"Well, okay, then," Heath laughed. "I reckon you'd best 'Go fish!'"

Victoria stood and smiled, listening to their happy laughter and Audra's pointed lessons in the intricacies of "Go Fish" strategy. She was so intent on them that she didn't notice that Tom was beside her until she felt his kiss on her cheek. Before he had a chance to speak and break the spell, Victoria quickly put a hand up to his lips, shaking her head.

"Listen," she mouthed at him.

Tom frowned, trying to understand what he was hearing, then his eyes widened, and he glanced down at Victoria.

Her eyes damp, Victoria nodded. "She's teaching him how to play," she whispered, blinking hard, suddenly feeling very proud of her little girl.

Tom's face grew troubled at first, and his own eyes were terribly sad as he listened, thinking of the hardship his boy had endured compared to the happy childhoods his other four children had enjoyed.. But he too, smiled despite himself when he heard Heath crow in delight to have created one more 'book' of cards than his little sister.

It turned out that Heath's additional punishment of being confined to the house and yard for a week was an unexpected joy, as each afternoon Audra introduced him to all kinds of games that he'd never been able to experience in his sad and deprived childhood. The family absolutely rejoiced to find out that, finally, there was a family member who absolutely loved games, all kinds of games, just as much as Audra did. From rummy to checkers, snakes and ladders to puzzles, Heath was willing to give everything a try and ended up loving them all, and, to her delight, was just as competitive as Audra.

Victoria and Tom were so pleased to hear Heath's occasional belly laugh and see a sparkle in the boy's eyes they hadn't seen before. And with that sparkle something else was reborn in Heath… a devilish sense of mischief, that extended most often to practical jokes.

Some were harmless fun, such as the morning Nick roared when he couldn't find his boots, any of them, ANYWHERE! Finally squeezing his feet painfully into a pair of Jarrod's, he'd limped out to the barn … and found three pairs stuck into the stirrups of his saddles. Or the morning Jarrod was running late for a court appearance and found, in frustration, that every one of his string ties were tied together elaborate knots, requiring him to have to borrow one from his father. Or when it was Gene's turn to muck out the stalls and he couldn't find a single rake or pitchfork… because every tool had been suspended on hooks from the loft of the barn.

The trouble started, though, when Heath began to use his practical joking skills as retaliatory strikes, particularly when Nick was riding him especially hard. Usually the pranks were just embarrassing or irritating. But it became clear things had got out of hand and a spree of practical jokes had become a reign of terror when everyone in the house was jolted rudely out of a dead sleep by Nick's gargantuan roar of fury in the middle of one night.

Tom had nearly catapulted out of bed in shocked surprise at Nick's bellow, Audra started to scream in fright down the hall, Gene fell out of bed with a thump and cry, and Nick's door slammed open so hard he dented the wall, hollering, "I'm gonna KILL him!"

In moments, half the household had emptied into the middle of the hallway. Tom, wild-eyed in nightshirt and holding his pistol, steppedout his door just in time for Heath to plow into him and nearly knock him flat, running like the devil himself was giving chase. But it wasn't the devil chasing a little brother, it was Nick … stark naked.

Victoria's eyes popped and she quickly pulled Audra to her, burying her face in her breast. "Nicholas Barkley!" she hissed furiously, nearly suffocating Audra.

Mother, I can't breathe!" Audra squawked desperately, trying to push away from her mother's dressing gown.

But Nick, furious, ignored his female relations and tried to snatch around his father at Heath, who wriggled like an eel out of his grasp. "Hold 'im, Father!" Nick roared. "I'm gonna beat him within an inch of his life!"

"Nick, you really oughta get some clothes on, you'll catch your death," Heath giggled breathlessly, dancing behind Tom to keep himself just out of Nick's reach.

"ENOUGH!" That yell even bested Nick's, and everything stopped still for a moment, Nick blowing like a racehorse and Heath panting, peering around his father's back.

Grimly, Tom handed Victoria his pistol, then in a heartbeat had one meaty fist full of Heath's collar (a fully clothed Heath, he noticed, which pointed rather handily toward his guilt) and the other firmly gripping Nick's left bicep. "Vic, take Audra and Gene into the bedroom!" he barked, and then hauled both sons further down the hallway.

By this point, Jarrod had tumbled out of bed and joined the fray in the hallway attempting to tie the belt on his dressing gown, trying to figure out what in blazes was going on. His eyes widened as he saw the condition Nick was in and quickly shucked his robe, glancing at Mother and the little ones retreating into his parents' bedroom. "For God's sake Nick," Jarrod grumbled, "put this on, you idiot… hey…" He frowned feeling his brother's hand, sopping wet. "Why is your…" then startled, his eyes widened and quickly dropped to the general vicinity south of Nick's navel, noting a similarly glistening condition of Nick's white skin, and struggled to keep from grinning.

Jarrod looked in surprise at Heath, who had an intelligent, healthy fear of his brother in this much of a rage (and their father in a temper, too) but when he caught Jarrod's eye, a ghost of his devilish crooked smile surfaced as well. Oh, Brother Heath, you do have a death wish, he chuckled to himself. He glanced at Nick, steaming, and sighed. "Father, if you'd like I can handle this," he offered.

When Tom nailed his oldest to the hallway wall with his eyes, Jarrod put up both hands and stepped back, accepting he'd be a bystander on this one.

"Put that robe on!" snapped Tom at Nick, and he gave Heath a good shake, "and you, stand still!"

Finally, Nick, still steaming in outrage, was decently covered, and Heath was beginning to think his little practical joke might not have been quite as funny as he'd originally thought. It took some time, but Tom finally got the gist of the issue: apparently Nick's having taken Heath to task publicly a few days earlier, in front of two-thirds of the hands and in a way that was way out of proportion to the problem, had been the source of Heath's sense of justice becoming triggered. In fairness, McColl had told Tom earlier that week that Nick had been unnecessarily rough on Heath and wouldn't take it back or apologize to the boy; Tom should have known something like this was going to be brewing.

Some time in his short life, Heath had either heard of the old Russian proverb that stated "Revenge is a dish best served cold," or he'd just sussed it out for himself. The youngster planned his payback carefully, waiting until Nick was no longer on his guard. The mechanics of the prank were simple, requiring only a very weary older brother who tended to sleep like the dead, and a bowl of lukewarm water, large enough to hold a big, meaty hand of a sleeping man. Nature then would take its course…

Tom and Jarrod looked at each other, and just couldn't help it; they both busted out laughing until tears flowed.

Red-faced and furious, Nick reached again for Heath who darted again behind their father. "Nick, enough," warned Tom, sternly as possible while trying to get his face back into firm lines. "From what McColl told me, at least you were only embarrassed in front of your family, instead of the whole bunkhouse."

Nick snorted, still peeved, but flushed a little at the mention of the hands.

Thinking himself safe, Heath smugly offered that little crooked smile angelically at his next older brother. Tom wiped that off his face pretty damn quickly.

"And you, young man," he said coldly, "will go fetch a mop and bucket and clean up your brother's room, get a feather bed from one of the guest bedrooms, and change his bed. Then you will take his bedding down to the washhouse and wash 'em. I don't care if it takes you the rest of the night." Wilting, Heath grunted an assent.

"This stops now," said Tom very, very seriously, looking back and forth between the brothers.

"Nick, stop treating your brother like a wet-behind-the…" He stopped, fighting laughter at the inadvertent play on words, and shook his head to get himself back under control, while Jarrod had to literally turn around to keep from losing his composure. Tom continued, "Like a snot-nosed kid who doesn't know his butt from a hole in the ground, clear? And, you…" he glared at Heath, "the practical jokes stop. And I mean right now. Or so help me, Heath Morgan, I'll tan you so hard you won't sit for a week. Understood?"

Heath swallowed hard, but his jaw was still thrust forward, stubbornly.

Tom glowered back and forth between his sons. "Your word, boys," he ground out.

Nick and Heath glared at each other, Nick with his hands on his hips and Heath with his arms crossed over his chest, but finally, both nodded.

Tom closed his eyes, with a God, give me strength expression, and sighed. "Nick, why don't you get washed up and sack out in the guest room down from Jarrod's room for the rest of the night," Tom suggested, patting his angry son on the shoulder, and walked him toward that end of the hallway. "Shake it off, son," he said softly, only loud enough for Nick to hear and with a smile.

Nick snorted, shaking his head and stomped into the guest room with as much dignity as he could possibly wrap around himself.

Tom shook his head, and turned to the younger offender. Without a word, he raised an eyebrow and pointed toward Nick's bedroom.

Sighing, Heath nodded and trudged the other way down the hall.

After both had disappeared behind closed doors, Jarrod chuckled, leaning against the wall. "Want a drink, Father?"

"What time is it?" his father sighed, wearily rubbing a hand over his face.

"About 4:00. I wouldn't get much more sleep anyway, myself."

"Nor I," grumbled Tom. "I'll go throw some clothes on and meet you downstairs. Brandy for breakfast sounds particularly good right now…"

Tom quietly turned the knob on his bedroom door and tiptoed into the darkness, feeling on the chair beside his bed for his pants and shirt, he heard a match strike and blinked as a candle was lit.

"Father."

Tom looked back at his bed, where Victoria, Gene and Audra were cuddled, his hand on his bedroom door.

Audra was sitting up, looking pretty as a picture, her cheeks pink with laughter. "I think Heath finally learned how to play, don't you?"

Chapter 3: Book Learnin'

Chapter Text

Book Learnin'

TIME: January, just about three months since Leah's death and Heath has come to live with his father's family, so set before the previous two chapters. Jarrod is 25, Nick, 21, Heath 15, Audra, 13, and Gene 11.

Jarrod Barkley sat at the writing desk near the doorway of drawing room, the scratch of his pen on paper and the drumming of the rain on the roof making a peaceful background noise as he worked on his notes for his opening statement at the trial he had beginning in three weeks' time.

Victoria Barkley knelt below a sturdy dining room chair, straight pins in her mouth, as she folded down the hem of Eugene's trousers. He fidgeted, jumping as a burst of lightning and crash of thunder clapped outside the window. He turned to look, causing her to accidentally prick him.

"Ow! Mother, that hurts!"

"Well, I'm sorry for that, but honestly, Gene, if you'd just stand still we'd be finished with this!" she scolded him. Feeling frazzled, Victoria was just about ready to lose her mind. The boy had grown a good inch and a half in the last two months, and every single pair of pants he owned needed to be re-hemmed. "I have to pin all of these so I can finish them before school starts again next week. You're just making this more difficult for both of us. Now, stand still!"

Jarrod chuckled. "Face it, little brother," he smiled over his shoulder, "she's a woman on a mission. You've got no chance."

Gene made a face at his big brother and sighed, too put upon for words, but stood still as his mother finished. He heard the front door open, nearly turning until he spotted his mother's stern glance. Instead, he remained in place and stared straight ahead.. Victoria herself waited a moment as well, and nodded in satisfaction as Nick bellowed "Mother! When's lunch?!" at the top of his lungs. Victoria had learned in her second son's 21 years that the best way to forestall jumping whenever a door opened was by just waiting to see if he was the one entering the door.

Tom, Nick and Heath carefully shook off their hats and slickers, leaving them on the verandah, and carefully wiped their boots before coming across Silas' spotless floor. Tom smiled at Silas, coming out from the kitchen.

"I suppose you heard my quiet child's question?" he chuckled at Silas, raising an eyebrow at Nick, who grinned right back. Heath just shook his head, smiling, then shivered and headed for the fireplace.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Barkley," smiled Silas. "'Bout 10 minutes, Mr. Nick. Can you hold that long?"

"I'll survive, Silas, I'll survive," allowed Nick, laughing.

"Hello, my lovely," Tom smiled, leaning down to kiss his wife, and ruffling Gene's hair. "Growing again, is he?"

"I'll say," sighed Victoria, shaking her head. She leaned back and eyeballing her work, then nodding in satisfaction. "Alright, Eugene, you can go ahead upstairs and change into your everyday pants. Bring all the trousers I pinned earlier down to me to hem. Be careful of the pins, dear."

"Yes, Mother," Gene grinned, hopping off the chair and pelted upstairs.

Victoria smiled as he left, and she caught sight of her other boys. "Just in time!"

"For lunch I hope," Nick declared. "You got three starvin' men here who're so hungry they're thinkin' their throats've been cut!" Nick shook his wet hair, spraying the room like a freshly washed pup.

"Nicholas, for heaven's sake!" his mother scolded, putting up a hand to ward off the spray.

Heath chuckled and warmed his hands in front of the fire. "I reckon I'd be happy with just a hot cup of coffee," he said, over his shoulder, looking tired. "Boy howdy, I think I'm chilled through."

"Do you need Heath this afternoon, Tom?" Victoria asked, getting to her feet and looking at her husband. "I need to get his trousers hemmed for school next week."

Heath froze, hands extended to the fire, then slowly turned back to the room, shocked and pale.

Tom didn't appear to notice, pawing through the mail on his desk, but Jarrod and Nick certainly had, and exchanged glances of surprise. Slowly Jarrod set down his pen, and looked at his little brother, concerned. He'd been wondering how this was going to shake out.

Heath rubbed his hands on his pants, swallowing hard. "…School." It was a single word, spoken in a flat, dead voice.

"Yes, dear," said Victoria, turning her head when she caught his tone, tilting her head at him. "School in Stockton starts again next week."

Jarrod could just about feel the waves of nervous desperation rolling off Heath and glanced at his father. still frowning over a letter he was reading, clearly unaware of the drama going on in the background.

Victoria's stomach lurched as she saw that, for the first time in a long while, the cold, shuttered expression Heath had worn for the first few weeks here at the Barkley home found its way back onto his pale face, his body tense as a bowstring. Without a word, he made for the door.

"Heath, honey, wait a moment," Victoria said, reaching out to touch him but he flung her arm off, angrily, startling her. And catching his father's attention.

"Hey, you hold it right there!" snarled Nick whirling around, outraged, also reaching for him.

But Heath evaded him, as well, breathing hard, fists co*cked and his blue eyes spitting fire. "I ain't goin', and nothin' you do to me can make me!" Heath declared fiercely, not yelling, but making the statement sound as rock solid as the Ten Commandments coming down from Mount Sinai.

"Heath."

At Tom's stern voice, Heath hesitated a moment, but once again found his resolve. He turned on his heel, chin up, fists clenched, defiantly glaring at his father. "I mean it. I ain't goin'. Do whatever ya want to me, but I. Ain't. Goin'!" A pink spot glowed in each white cheek, and in a heartbeat, he was gone and the front door slammed.

Victoria sat back in dismay. "Oh, Tom…"

But her husband was already heading for the front door.

"Don't worry about it, Father, I'll get him," Nick said grimly, planning to shake that kid till his teeth rattled.

"Stay out of it, Nick," Tom snapped back, to his son's surprise, opening the door and following his middle child out into the downpour.

"Well, what the heck got into that kid?" demanded Nick, irritated at the unexpected beat-down from his father.

Jarrod, who hadn't moved from his vantage point by the door while watching the entire performance, now leaned back in his chair, glancing at his mother. "It sounds as though the idea of having to attend school is something that hasn't been broached to Brother Heath before today," he said softly, raising an eyebrow at his mother.

Victoria looked at her oldest, surprised. "But, surely he had to know…" she said helplessly.

"Why?" asked Jarrod, reasonably, rising to his feet and walking over to her, hands in his pockets. "He hasn't attended school in years. Didn't Father say the boy had to work from the age of 9? Doesn't leave much time for reading, writing and arithmetic, does it?"

Biting her lip, Victoria leaned back on the settee, unusual for her, making Jarrod see just how unsettled she was. Ladies sit up straight, he recalled her always correcting Audra.

"Well, he'll just have to get used to the idea," declared Nick, striding to the fireplace and warming his own gloved hands, in his mind the matter decided, over and done with.

Jarrod rolled his eyes. "Oh, he will, eh? Just as you did? You loved school so very much, after all," he said sarcastically.

Nick wheeled around on Jarrod and jabbed a leather-gloved finger at him. "Whether I liked it or not had nothin' to do with it!" he retorted. "I went because I was told to go. The only choice I had was whether or not I'd sit comfortable while I was there!" He nodded abruptly for emphasis. "Well, the same goes for our dear little brother!"

Victoria shook her head and held up a hand. "This is a different situation entirely, Nicholas," she said, thinking hard. She glanced at Jarrod. "I know he can read and write his name. Do you have any idea of how well he reads? Can he do sums?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother!" Nick grumbled, throwing his hands in the air.

Jarrod shrugged, ignoring Nick's blustering. "He certainly can accurately add and subtract on a fundamental level," he answered, thinking as he came around to stand before his mother. "He can handle money, I know from seeing him at the mercantile. And just last week, Father had him do a complete inventory of the storeroom. He had no trouble with the reading, writing and arithmetic needed for that." Jarrod leaned against the edge of the settee.

Victoria closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I can't believe I didn't see this coming," she murmured.

Outside, Heath had headed straight for the barn, pelting through the downpour, his 'fight or flight' instinct on full alert. Panic clutched his gut and the boy headed straight for the stall where the horse he'd been riding, Gal, was stabled. Breathing hard, heart hammering, Heath struggled to figure out what to do, where to go. He couldn't go back to Strawberry; they'd just find him and drag him back. I could pass for 16 and join the Army, couldn't I? he wondered wildly.

"Heath."

The boy squeezed shut his eyes and clutched carefully at Gal's mane. "I mean it," he muttered over his shoulder, in the general vicinity of where his father's voice had come from. "I ain't goin'."

Tom closed his eyes and sighed and walked up to his son slowly, as though approaching a skittish colt. As it was, the energy rolling off Heath was making Gal nervous; she pawed at the straw at her feet, and nickered. Gently, but inexorably, Tom reached out and took Heath's stiff shoulder, turning him resolutely around to face him. He waited until the boy, his chest heaving from breathing so hard, finally looked up at him.

"First of all, you don't tell me what you are and aren't going to do, boy. Do I make myself clear?" It was said without a yell or a threat. It was a bare, stern statement.

Heath swallowed and looked away. His shoulders sagging just a bit.

Tom reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired, cold and hungry, and soaked now besides, and had to work at not losing his temper, but he could tell there was something seriously awry here. He didn't want to get into a battle with this new son without having a clear idea of what landmindes the battlefield might contain. Head down, he paced a moment, then walked over to the hay bales. "Heath, come here," he said tiredly, holding out an arm.

The boy remained where he was, wary and swallowing hard, unsure of whether or not he was looking at a beating.

"I just want to talk," Tom said irritably, gesturing the boy over to him. "Now, come here and sit down."

Hesitantly, Heath came forward and sat stiffly beside his father on a hay bale.

"Now what's this all about?" Tom asked, hands on his knees and looking at the stiff, upset side view of his middle child.

At the continued silence, Tom exhaled hard. "Boy, I'm hungry and I dare say so are you. But I'm mighty sick and tired of have to pry words out of you like a dentist pullin' teeth. Answer me, Heath!"

"I'm fifteen," Heath finally grunted. "I don't need to go to school. I got all the schoolin' I need."

"Is that right," replied Tom, eyebrow raised. "And how would you know that?"

Heath picked up his head, glaring. "I can read and write, can't I?" he blustered.

"Well, now, I don't know," replied Tom, eyeing the boy. "Can you?"

Bristling in frustrated irritation, Heath shot to his feet, his fists clenched again.

"Pull in your horns, young'un, and I mean right now!" snapped Tom, fiercely, on his feet fast for such a bulky man and towering over his young son. Heath swallowed hard at the icy glare; this was a side of his father he'd not seen before. But while he calmed down a bit, he didn't back down completely, his pugnacious chin still lifted in defiance. Exasperated, Tom pointed back to the hay bale, and Heath slumped back down. Tom stood over him, studying him a moment, then shook his head a bit. Damn, if that boy don't remind me of me...too damn stubborn for his own good...

"You're too upset at the moment to have this conversation and so am I," grunted Tom firmly, "but you get this through your head, Heath Barkley." His hand shot out, quick as a snake, and firmly gripped Heath's chin, forcing him look at him. "Don't you ever talk to me in that tone of voice again. And you had best never again show such disrespect to your stepmother as you did in the house just now, or you will surely live to regret it. Do you understand me?" Heath tried to pull away, but his father was having none of it, and the grip on his chin tightened as Tom's eyes bored into Heath's. "I refuse to believe your mother taught you to behave that way."

That stung Heath, and he scowled. Finally, wincing in discomfort at the vise-like grip on his chin, he nodded curtly. Tom released him then, pulled him up to his feet, turned him around abruptly and gave him a gentle push toward the house. "Let's get some food in your belly and see if it improves your mood."

After announcing that for the time being, the issue of school was tabled while he thought about it, Tom had wisely put Heath and Nick to work on opposite ends of the ranch for the afternoon and demanded a peaceful table for their meal. Once the boys had departed for their tasks (glaring at each other), Tom asked Victoria and Jarrod to join him in the study to discuss the issue. Tom seated himself on the edge of his desk, near the settee where Victoria sat down. Jarrod draped his long body into his favorite chair nearby.

"He's not attended a school since he was nine," Tom said quietly, "at least according to Hannah James, the woman who helped raise him. That was when he started to have to work in the mines."

"I can't believe I'd forgotten that," Victoria chided herself, angrily. "Such a stupid mistake…"

"Vic, don't," said Tom gently, shaking his head. "We forget a lot of his history, we all do. It wouldn't surprise me if sometimes he does, as well. It's just taking time for us all to get to know each other."

I rather doubt he's forgotten so much as a day, thought Jarrod. "As I said to Mother earlier," he nodded, "Heath's knowledge of arithmetic is certainly passable; I've seen him add, subtract, multiply and divide in his head and on paper for things around the ranch or in town several times over the three months he's been here. I know he can read, but I'm afraid I don't' know at what level."

Victoria glanced at her oldest son. "Jarrod… what do you honestly think?"

Jarrod shrugged, and glanced at both his parents. "Well… if he was just the average cowboy, I'd say let it go," he said seriously. "But he's a Barkley. And destined to a piece of this ranch someday, isn't he?"

Tom smiled. "Do you have any objection?"

Jarrod raised an eyebrow and smiled back. "Do you really need to ask that?"

Tom studied him and shook his head, pleased. "No, son," he nodded and smiled, putting out a hand and squeezing his oldest son's shoulder in affection. He sighed, then and turned back to his wife. "But Jarrod's right, Vic. The boy's got to have enough savvy and learning to handle his share of this ranch."

Victoria nodded, thinking. She turned to Jarrod. "Jarrod, why do you think Heath is so upset about all of this?"

Jarrod, shrugged. "It could be a lot of reasons, Mother. But I have a feeling his pride and feeling like he somehow doesn't measure up have a lot to do with it."

Victoria nodded, and Tom frowned as he stared at the floor. "Jarrod."

"Sir?"

"Do you think you could work a bit with the boy and get a feel for where his education is lacking most?"

Jarrod's eyes widened. "What?"

Tom stood up and faced his son. "Used common English as best I recall," Tom stated plain, eyebrow raised. "Is there any way you could talk with him and figure out where he's at?"

"Assess his education, you mean?" Jarrod said slowly, eyeing his father.

"Yes."

Jarrod frowned, sitting on the edge of the settee. "Yes, I think so," he said finally. "Mother do you have any of Gene and Audra's old primers? Arithmetic books?"

Victoria thought. "They should be in the trunk in the nursery. And if not, I'll bet I could get my hands on some from the school as a loan."

Jarrod looked at his father. "What are you going to tell him?"

Tom stood up straight, shoulders squared, and Jarrod marveled to see the outline of Heath in that stance. "The truth, what else?" he answered wryly. "That you're going to see if does indeed 'have all the schoolin' he needs.' " Tom's echo of Heath's accent made Jarrod chuckle.

"And if he doesn't?"

Tom set his mouth firmly, and his face took on a very stern expression. "Then he'll find his hind end in a desk at the Stockton school, whether he likes it or not, and, if necessary, one of us standing over him to make sure he stays put until he does."

"I ain't goin'! I don't care what Father says or does, I'll … I'll run away if you and Father make me go! I swear I will!" Hot blue eyes, eyes that matched Jarrod's own, spit fire at him, standing toe to toe with his oldest brother.

"Now, Heath, settle down," Jarrod said calmly.

"Well, I'll tell ya, Jarrod, I'm pretty goldurned sick and tired of people tellin' me how I'm supposed ta feel!" Heath's normally even temper was fully roused at this point as he paced back and forth in front of the small hearth in the office. Jarrod simply shifted his weight to one hip, crossing his arms over his chest and waited. Older brother was an old hand at dealing with the Barkley temper after having been raised by Tom and grown up with Nick; he decided it might do Heath some good to let him harmlessly blow off some steam.

"If it ain't somebody tellin' me what fork to use, or correctin' my talkin', it's… it's… " Heath sputtered, giving up and jamming his hands in his pockets.

"Who's telling you that?" smiled Jarrod, gently. "Last I heard, Silas told me you're the one who asked him for some advice on proper etiquette."

Heath glared at his oldest brother. Clamping his mouth shut, he sat down, hard, on the spare chair in Jarrod's new office in Stockton, and slammed a fist on the desk, thoroughly frustrated.

Twenty-five year-old Jarrod sighed and came around his desk hitching a hip up so that he sat across from his younger brother. "Heath… everyone has things to learn, not just you."

"It surely does feel like I'm the one dealin' with it most," Heath snorted, affecting a fair impression of one of his younger sister, Audra's, pouts, making Jarrod laugh. At first glance, Heath glared, then the absurdity of the situation finally reared itself and the boy sighed, and deflated a bit, sinking into the easy chair.

"Only because you're the one that feels most like a fish out of water," his brother smiled. "And because you're fifteen, little brother. That means, whether you like it or not, you actually DO have a lot to learn. All youngsters your age go through this, Heath. Not just you."

Frowning, Heath rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced at his oldest brother, someone whose opinion he valued very, very much. Jarrod was a lawyer, an educated man with a college degree, and Heath was so proud of him. Heath, who'd quit school at the age of 9 to work in the mines, was able to read and write - in fact, he loved to read, history especially; even if he didn't understand some of the big words, he could figure out the meanings pretty much. He could calculate basic arithmetic, but often felt as though his youngest sibling, 11-year-old Eugene, outshone him in scholarly endeavors, which seemed to just scream out even more the differences of the cultured and sophisticated Barkleys from his own less refined self.

"Heath… what has you so upset about this?" asked Jarrod gently. "Would it really be such a hardship to spend a final year in a classroom?

Heath stubbornly stared at the floor.

"Heath." The voice was firm, and the youngster frowned, glancing at his older brother.

"I'm fifteen, almost sixteen," Heath muttered. "What's the point of it now?" He got up and paced a moment, then leaned on the windowsill looking out over the street below.

Jarrod got up and walked over to his younger brother and put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "The point, young fella, is that you're not just gonna be punching cows until you're too old and stiff to sit in a saddle," said his brother seriously. "You stand to inherit a good part of the Barkley holdings. You need to be able to handle any and all of the business that goes along with it, on behalf of the family if necessary. And for your information, your big brother Nick absolutely hated school, but he went because he understood what was needed, what might be required of him. And that's the ability to handle any and all aspects of the business."

Heath frowned, then looked up at his brother, listening, but snorted at Jarrod's mention of Nick. "He went," the boy grunted dismissively, "because Father'd whale the tar out of 'im if he didn't."

Jarrod chuckled. "That, too. But Nick, as well as Audra and Gene and I, have all been raised to understand this is part of our legacy. YOUR legacy too, Brother Heath."

Uneasily, Heath's brows knit as he listened.

"Each of us has a responsibility to be ready to shoulder the load should something happen and that means and understanding of all kinds of arithmetic and mathematics, from basic addition and subtraction to understanding and calculating percentages, to the ability to read contracts and understand them."

Heath studied his brother, bringing his chin up belligerently. "And you reckon I ain't able to do it." His statement was flat, accusatory.

Jarrod raised an eyebrow. "Heath, I really have no idea what you are or aren't capable of when it comes to schoolwork. I know only what I've been able to see you do in the couple of months we've known you. That's why Father would like to have me assess your capabilities." He studied his brother. "Can you understand where he's coming from?"

Heath swallowed hard and scratched an ear. Rather than answer directly, Heath responded with another question. "And if I don't measure up… what then?" asked Heath, quietly. After a moment, the boy looked up again at his oldest brother… and Jarrod could see the worry and unease.

Jarrod tipped his head to the side, like Father does, Heath noticed. "Heath, let's worry about one thing at a time, shall we?" Jarrod suggested gently.

"That ain't no answer… Pappy," Heath muttered, using Nick's name for his older brother.

"No worse than the one you gave me earlier," Jarrod said sternly. Heath looked up, startled, questioning. "Why, Heath? What has you so fractious about the concept of going spending a few months of a final year of school?" Jarrod put gentle hands on his little brother's shoulders. "C'mon... Tell me what's bothering you."

The boy stared at his brother, his jaw jutting forward belligerently. Jarrod raised an eyebrow and smiled, recognizing Tom Barkley to the life in that expression.

"I ain't gonna sit in a room from mornin' until evenin' makin' a show, every single minute I'm there, of how little I know," Heath growled out, blushing... and too ashamed to look at his college-educated sibling.

Jarrod nodded, releasing the boy with a gentle squeeze on one shoulder. "I figured it was something like that. Barkley pride."

Heath swallowed, wincing, and looking down at his boots. "It's about all I got," he muttered, frowning.

Jarrod sighed and shook his head. Damnation, but this kid is stubborn! I think he's even got Nick beat... He put a hand on the back of his young brother's neck, squeezing gently. "You're wrong, little brother. As wrong as you could be. You're bright, you're capable. And you've got a whole family behind you, backing you up all the way."

Heath shook his head, breaking away from the touch, then walking slowly with his hands in his pockets and his head down, thinking hard. Jarrod let him be, and waited while Heath paced a little, ending up at the window, staring out at the street. Finally, he turned back to his brother. "How?" he asked, glowering. "How would ya go 'bout it? A… Assessing me?"

Jarrod used his lawyer's poker face to hide his elation; he'd honestly not expected Heath to come around, at least certainly not this quickly. "Just the way we're doing right now, mostly. We'll do some talking. I might have you do a little writing as well, and you'll do some reading and tell me what you understood from the material. How does that sound to you?"

Heath frowned and studied his brother, clearly not buying it, but he ran a hand through his blond hair and sank into the chair. "Boy, howdy, I'll sure be glad when I ain't gotta keep provin' somethin' to somebody," he sighed.

Four nights later, Victoria and Tom Barkley relaxed together in front of the fire after the younger children were in bed, and the older three were occupied with activities of their own.

"Audra told me about three different outfits she planned on choosing from to wear day after tomorrow for the first day of the new semester," Tom sighed, shaking his head. "Honest to God, Vic, that girl… As it if matters what color her skirt is!"

"On the contrary, Tom, sometimes that color issue can make or break a young lady's success for a semester," Victoria said primly.

Tom made a face at her, and she laughed. He smiled then, gazing at her fondly; God, I love her laugh. It's like a fountain, or a bubbling mountain stream, I swear…

"Jarrod thought he'd have an idea of where Heath stands by tonight, did he tell you?" Victoria continued, sipping her sherry.

Tom's face grew serious again, and he nodded, sipping his own drink, staring into the fire.

Victoria studied her husband. "What is it that's troubling you, Tom?"

Tom wearily got his feet, knocked back his drink, and placed a big hand on the mantle, gazing into the flames. "Maybe he's right."

Victoria rose and came to her husband, putting a hand on his arm. "Who, dear?"

"That scapegrace son of mine," he sighed, smiling sadly down at her. "He's looked like a hunted man these last three days, stuck all day with Jarrod in the old school room upstairs."

"I think part of that is nerves, Tom," she said gently. "He's worried."

Tom shook his head. "It's more than that, Vic. That boy's meant for the outdoors. Just like Nick. In the same way Jarrod is meant to duke things out in a courtroom."

"Oh, Tom…"

"I've got a feeling if I force him to go, if I insist on cooping him up in a classroom…" He sighed. "More than likely I'll probably spend half my time bailing him out of jail and the other half punishing him. Trust me, Vic. It'll take me three years to straighten him out afterwards."

"A bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Victoria chuckled. "He may not enjoy the year sitting at a desk as much as he would being up to his knees in mud, sunburned and filthy from repairing 200 miles of fencing, with blisters, bruises, cuts and rope burns, or muscles aching from chasing fractious steers fourteen hours a day, but …"

Tom laughed a little, glancing a little shamefaced at her. "I supposed you think I'm indulging him…" he said, a little guiltily.

"No, not exactly," she said seriously. "But you mentioned Nick. Seems to me I remember you spending a good portion of his last year in school bailing him out of trouble or punishing him." She patted her husband's arm. "But he survived, and so did you. Now, Nick knows what's required of him, God forbid it should ever be necessary," said Victoria, gently.

"And Heath will, too."

Tom and Victoria both turned at their oldest son's voice from the doorway as he came into the room, a sheaf of papers in his hands, a smile on his face. Jarrod almost chuckled at the hopeful look on his father's face.

"Well, your middle child will never be a scholar, Father," he smiled, handing over the sheaf, "but he's smart as turpentine, a natural problem solver and can figure out just about anything he'll need to know."

He turned to his mother. "Did you know how much he loves to read?" he asked her. "He's not that interested in fiction, but he's rather like you, Father. He's been devouring most of your shelf on medieval history, American history, world history… and biographies!" Jarrod pointed to the third page in Tom's hand. "I asked him to just write an essay about any of the presidents he knew. He ended up writing six pages on the Founding Fathers." He shook his head, grinning. "When I asked him how he knew about all this, he said his mother's friend, Rachel, had books on Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Hamilton. Rachel and his mother used them, and the Bible, to teach Heath how to read."

Victoria looked over the pages, as Tom handed them to her, one by one as he looked through them. "Oh, my goodness, what beautiful handwriting he has," she said softly.

"Can't spell worth a damn, though," frowned Tom, thumbing through the essays, chuckling and shaking his head in amusem*nt at some of the more creative attempts to get the words right.

Jarrod chuckled. "True, he writes the way he speaks, and yes, his spelling is atrocious, but the ideas and concepts are solid."

Tom looked at his oldest son. "Would he do well in school, then?"

Jarrod hesitated, then walked over to the table and poured himself a sherry. "To be honest?" He looked directly at his father, taking a good swallow, his expression one of you're not gonna like this, but you did ask.. "I think he'd rebel so badly it would kill any desire he might have to continue to learn."

Tom pursed his lips, nodding. That was exactly the conclusion he'd been coming to, without even having seen any of the boy's work.

"There are some odd gaps in his knowledge, which is understandable given his checkerboard history of jobs here and there. But he's got an excellent mind for arithmetic and mathematics, despite some fundamentals that he's missed."

Victoria sat down on the settee, clutching the papers and looking at her son. She could see he had something to propose. "Well, Jarrod? I can see you have something on your mind."

He smiled at her; she knew him too well, did Mother... Jarrod nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, legs apart and tilted his head at Tom. "Father, how about a compromise?"

Tom wrinkled his brow, studying his eldest. "I'm listening," he nodded.

"Heath's right. He'll be sixteen in a few months, nearly a man. And being stuck in a classroom trying to compete with kids who've been there all their lives would sour him. You'll make his life a misery, and he'd likely do his best to return the favor." Jarrod squared his shoulders. "I propose he study an hour a day here, at home. Between you, Mother, helping him with composition and spelling, and Father, you for history, me for Latin, and possibly Nick for math, I think we could help him catch up by the time he hits seventeen and he'll be ready to meet any challenge running the ranch might present."

"Latin?" Tom grunted, raising an eyebrow.

Jarrod grinned, calling the raised eyebrow and raising his father a second one. "Having to practice and study something you neither want to do nor can figure out any way to make relevant and utilize in your every day life will be a good lesson for him… teaches him to buckle down and do as he's told, simply because it's expected of him."

Surprised, Tom laughed at that, then nodded, thinking, and glanced at his wife. "What do you think, Vic?"

She smiled. "I think it's a wonderful idea! Would Nick be willing do you think?" she turned to Jarrod.

"Are you kidding? Being able to lord it over the kid with his three straight years of winning the school's mathematics prizes? Yeah, I think Brother Nick could find it in himself to help out his kid brother," chuckled her oldest son.

As usual, Heath was the first one up in the morning, and had been out already working well before breakfast was on the table. Now, instead of being hungry, his belly was churning with nerves. Father had said he'd make his decision today. The January rain had finally stopped, but it was a cold morning and Heath stood at the corral, hunkered down in his sheepskin coat and gloves, watching the horses, dreading having to go in and learn his fate. The longer he put it off, the longer he could imagine that freedom would still be his.

He'd spent a lot of last night tossing and turning in bed, thinking, and had made up his mind that if Father decided he should go, he'd do his best to accept it. He reckoned he owed the family that much, he thought. Jarrod had made some good arguments… guess that's why he's such a darn good lawyer. And besides, he'd decided grimly, if Nick can do it, boy howdy, so can I.

Heath heard the squelch of boots approaching behind him, and by the stride, knew it was his father. He closed his eyes, as though commending his soul to God, and swallowed hard, making himself ready for whatever was coming.

God almighty, you'd think the boy was being sentenced to a year in prison, thought Tom, looking at his pale face and despondent expression. Well, to be fair, I suppose to him that's pretty much what it is...

Tom glanced out at the corral and saw the sorrel Heath had been working with. He rested his elbows on the corral fence and nodded out toward the animal. "How long before you'll be able to bit him?" he asked, conversationally.

Startled, Heath glanced up at his father, and looked out himself. "Not too long… He's got a soft mouth, I don't wanta ruin him. I thought I'd go in stages."

Tom nodded. "Makes sense," he agreed. "I liked what you did with the filly Nick's got his eyes on for Audra. Where'd you learn that?"

Heath shrugged. "When I was workin' at the livery in Strawberry. There was a Mexican there, a charro from Guerrero, who taught me how they do it down there."

Side by side they watched the horses, until Heath just couldn't take it any more. "Father..."

Tom grew grave then, and looked down, pushing out his lips thoughtfully. "Jarrod shared with your mother and me what you two worked on these last few days." He turned and looked at his son seriously. "He said you're a real bright boy, but that there's a lot of holes in your education, things you missed, through no fault o' your own."

Heath's heart sank, and he firmed his mouth against the disappointment, turning and looking back out at the horses.

"He also said he thought that if you could manage to discipline yourself to study an hour a day on your own and spend some time with me, and your mother, Nick and Jarrod himself, he thought you could catch up by your seventeenth birthday."

Tom remained still, slyly watching out of the corner of his eye.

At first there was no reaction, then he watched Heath's forehead wrinkle, his head come up, and God Almighty, but the sun shone right out of that boy's face with the look of hope that lit behind his eyes.

"So, can I trust you to have the self-discipline to do your lessons here at home?" Tom asked, very seriously, turning to face the boy, hands on his hips. "This is a working ranch, Heath, as you well know. You'll have chores to get done, and I won't have time to chase after you to do what you know you should be doing."

Heath's mouth worked for a moment, but nothing came out. And then suddenly, Tom had a hundred and twenty pounds of 15-year-old hugging him fit to squeeze the life right out of him.

"I will, I promise," Heath whispered, his eyes squeezed shut to keep embarrassing tears from escaping. "Thank you, Father."

Smiling, Tom put his arms around his boy and returned the hug, rocking him. "You're welcome, son," he said gently, kissing the top of his head with a smile.

Watching from the verandah, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth, Victoria watched and smiled as she saw the moment when it obviously became clear that Heath heard his father's decision. She sniffed a little herself, and suddenly felt a cozy warmth as a shawl was placed around her shoulders. She looked up and smiled at Jarrod as he smoothed the wrap around her.

"Thank you, Jarrod," she said softly. "What made you decide to help him?"

Her boy chuckled. "One of the essays I set Heath to write."

She nodded, waiting to hear more.

"I asked him to write five hundred words on the value of education. And he wrote that in the three days I'd been testing him, he'd come to believe that the purpose of an education was to give someone the beginnings of common sense. That books were only one place to learn from. That he'd learned how to laugh from his sister, and to have the courage to ask any and all questions from Gene; he'd learned how to be of cheerful service from Silas, and from Hannah, the woman who'd help raise him."

Victoria turned to Jarrod, hanging on his words. Jarrod stood beside her, hands in his pockets, studying the brickwork below his feet.

"He wrote that Nick had taught him to be tough and face hard things whether or not he thought he could do them, to just believe he could and take it from there. And that I had taught him that sometimes you had to do things because they were just the right thing to do, not necessarily the easy thing." Jarrod smiled slightly at that one, then looked slyly at his mother. "He said he learned about owning your mistakes, and doing your best to makes things right from Father. Also, self-discipline when he'd watched him force himself to do things he didn't necessarily enjoy, like the ranch accounts, because they just had to be done, period, or to stick to just one glass of whiskey when it was obvious he wanted at least two more."

Victoria laughed, tearfully, shaking her head in wonder.

Jarrod grew serious again, fixing his eyes on the bricks once more. "He said he learned not just to read from his mother's friend Rachel, but to love reading for itself, as well." He hesitated a moment, then continued, his face serious, his voice a little softer. "He said while he learned how it felt to be loved, and about honor, compassion and kindness from his mother, Leah..." Jarrod swallowed a lump in his throat, shook his head a moment, and then looked at Victoria, deeply moved. "He said he learned about unconditional love... from you."

Her eyes shone as she gazed at her oldest son.

"Book learning is important, he wrote. But so is what he called 'love learning,' because that's the kind that helps us be better people." Jarrod swallowed hard again, and looked out to the corral seeing Father and Heath turning and coming back toward the house, talking together while Father draped an arm around his son's shoulders. Jarrod turned to his mother and smiled.

"And, Mother, I found I just couldn't fault his logic," he declared, as he kissed Victoria's forehead.

Chapter 4: A Mite Poorly

Chapter Text

Victoria Barkley swept into the dining room carrying a vase of flowers and set it on the sideboard, smiling at her husband.

"Well don't you look pretty as a picture holding that," Tom smiled at her, rising to come to her. He leaned down and kissed her warmly, looking into her hazel eyes. "No posy could touch you, my lovely," he whispered in her ear. She smiled up at him.

"You, sir, are a hopeless romantic," she admonished, allowing him to walk her to her seat and holding her chair for her.

"Guilty as charged," he chuckled. He glanced at the stairs, and the empty seats at the table. "Where is everyone this morning? Usually Nick's the first one at the table, or at least the first one at the food," he smiled, thinking of his boisterous, scrappy, often irritating and altogether wonderful second-born.

"Audra and Gene are - "

"Coming in right now," Gene grinned walking into the dining room, stopping beside her to give her a kiss. "Morning, Mother."

"Good morning, Father!" Audra smiled, particularly perky and kissing her father's cheek just above his beard.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "What do you want?" he asked, with mock wariness.

Audra blushed, and he laughed.

"Now, Father, why would you say that?" Audra asked with a nervous laugh.

Tom chuckled. "Because you, Miss Barkley, are a flirtatious little baggage," he informed her, with a grin, "and you only come to me first when you want something."

"Oh, Father!" she chided him, flouncing into her seat. She snapped her napkin, then looked at him sideways. "I just wondered if it would be all right for me to go to the barn raising dance on Saturday with the boys." When he chuckled, shaking his head, she turned to him then, imploringly. "I mean, I am almost fourteen now. Heath can look out for me!" she begged.

"Not on your sweet Nellie," her father stated firmly, unmoved by her pout, making Gene snort with laughter.

"Toldja, little sister," Nick grinned as he strode into the dining room. "You shouldn't give away your secrets like that, Father."

Tom laughed, shaking out his own napkin.

Audra treated both brothers to an outstretched tongue.

"If you believe that's supposed to prove you're growing up, sweetheart, I'm afraid you've been misinformed," her father observed, raising an eyebrow, causing Nick and Gene to laugh outright, and Audra to grimace. Nick stole a quick kiss from his pretty little sister anyway, and then gave his mother a kiss as well. "Morning, Mother."

"Good morning, dear," she smiled, determined to keep an eye on Audra… she wondered which particular boy had turned the girl's head this time…

"Good morning, lovely lady." Startled out of her thoughts, Victoria looked up in surprise.

"Jarrod! When did you get in?" she cried, clasping his hand and kissing him in return as he leaned down laughing, pecking her cheek. The family crowed in delight to see Pappy at the table after his four-week absence. Nick clapped his brother on the shoulder, and Audra and Gene beamed up at him.

"VERY late last night," Jarrod smiled. "Silas let me in," he grinned, nodding at the major d'omo as Silas came into the dining room, smiling at the oldest Barkley son.

"Didn't 'spect to see you up this early, Mr. Jarrod," smiled Silas, as he set plates of food on the table.

"How lovely! How long are you staying?" she beamed.

"Good to see you, boy," smiled Tom, as Jarrod came around to his seat on Father's left, and shook his son's hand warmly.

"I don't have to be back in San Francisco for another three weeks, so I thought I'd come on home and visit with my wonderful family," he chuckled, bowing to them all before seating himself to the family's cheers and congratulations. Jarrod looked around the table and frowned. "Where's Brother Heath?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Nick, go call your brother," suggested Victoria, only to have the missing child in question come through the doors, fastening his shirt cuff buttons.

"Sorry I'm late," the youngster apologized, clearing his throat as he slid into his seat between Nick and Audra. "Morning, Mother, Father. Hey, Jarrod," he greeted his brother, offering his lopsided grin.

Victoria smiled at him. "Good morning, honey," she smiled, though it faltered slightly. She looked at him; something seemed off, but she couldn't put her finger on it, and she was drawn into conversation with Audra before she had a chance to think it through.

Breakfast was a boisterous, chatty affair with all five of the children home, and Tom and Victoria sat back enjoying the conversation and teasing. Nick talked with Tom about the new strain of grass they were planning to try out for the cattle to graze in the winter months, with Heath being his usual quiet self, offering occasional observations and thoughts; Gene excitedly talked with Jarrod about his science classes at school, a new subject for the youngster; while Audra regaled her mother on the virtues of one Robert Jergens, a new boy at school.

As noisy with laughter and conversation as the dining room had been a moment before, when Tom rose to get out to the range, the children all scattered quickly, Heath and Nick following their father, Jarrod upstairs to change into a suit for town, and the younger two hurrying out to their mounts in order to get to school.

Feeling somewhat windswept, Victoria looked at the suddenly decimated platters, untidy napkins strewn by dirty plates, glasses and cups, and laughed to herself a bit, picking up the mail Silas had just placed at her side and opening a letter from one of her cousins as Silas began to clear.

"Mr. Heath ain't eaten much again," Silas muttered under his breath, concerned. Victoria looked up from the letter she was reading, to the place setting in question. And sure enough, Silas was right: Heath had hardly touched his breakfast. He'd artfully pushed his food around his plate to disguise the fact that he had barely had more than a few bites of egg.

Victoria frowned. Heath usually had the very normal, bottomless-pit healthy appetite of an active fifteen-year-old boy. "Again?" she asked Silas. "This has happened earlier?"

"Yesterday mornin', Miz Barkley," Silas informed her. "Today he's even et less than yesterday. He didn't eat much of his lunch yesterday, neither, ma'am. Mostly it was still in his saddlebags. He ain't et a decent meal since Sunday supper."

Frowning, Victoria tried to think of what it was about Heath that had bothered her this morning, but shook her head in frustration, unable to pin it down. "Silas, you let me know if his lunch goes uneaten again today, will you?"

"'Course, ma'am," nodded the old man, picking up dishes and carrying them into the kitchen.

Writing a letter at her writing desk, Victoria could hear the arguing before Sons 2 and 3 even made it to the front door.

"Nick, I ain't tellin' you again! Just back off and let me be!"

"Oh, Heath, cool off! There's no sense in you getting all hot and bothered," Nick declared as Heath pounded in the front door, throwing his hat angrily on the table in the foyer, and striding to the staircase.

"I ain't hot and bothered," Heath growled over his shoulder... though he clearly was both.

"Well, if you ain't, you're sure giving a good imitation of it!" Nick hollered, jabbing a gloved finger at his younger brother, while Heath stopped in his tracks to cough, hard for a moment, then swung on his brother angrily, a little out of breath but spitting mad.

"Well I'll tell ya, older brother! Bein' stuck workin' with you all day long, anybody's bound t'pick up the talent!" Heath shouted, stomping up the stairs, as Victoria came out from the drawing room, startled by the commotion.

"What on earth is all this yelling about, you two?" she demanded.

"Oh, your sweet little boy has been in a huff over something since lunchtime," snorted Nick, hanging up his hat on the hat rack and waving a hand at the staircase, then turning, his spurs jingling his way into the drawing room, heading straight for the decanters.

"About what?" demanded Victoria, listening to Heath's door slam upstairs. I haven't heard that since the first two weeks he was here, she thought. Then goggled a bit at the three fingers of bourbon Nick was pouring.

"God knows, Mother, I don't!" Nick snapped. "Or better yet, you name it. He's been ornery as a bear with a sore head all afternoon." Nick plunked himself down in a chair and draped one long leg over the arm, taking a slug of his drink. His mother raised an eyebrow, and he sighed, pulling his leg back down. "I don't know what's got into him, but he's been impossible to get along with today. No matter what anyone says, he's surly and ready for a fight."

Victoria pursed her lips, thinking. "Where are his saddlebags, Nick?" she asked.

"I think Jeff brought our stuff out to Silas, Mother, after we rubbed down the animals, why?" Nick grunted.

"No reason in particular," she smiled. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour and a half, dear."

"Sounds good, thanks, Mother," Nick sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. Truth to tell, dealing with Heath today had been an exercise in frustration for Nick, and he just couldn't understand what was going on. Heath was normally a very even-tempered kid, far more likely to find ways to soothe others' ruffled feathers, rather than ruffling his own. Well, certainly not today!

As Victoria entered the kitchen, Silas had just gone through Nick's and Heath's saddlebags, and he glanced up. "Hardly a bite, ma'am."

"What did you give him, Silas?"

"Two roast beef sandwiches, an apple and a jug of cider, ma'am."

"And the cider is all that's gone, right?"

Astonished, Silas stared at her. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, in wonder.

Nodding her head, Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Silas, would you be good enough to put on some willow bark to brew?" she asked, with a knowing smile.

Silas, stopped for a moment, then closed his eyes, nodding. Lawd, o' course. He shook his head with a small smile. "Yes, ma'am, Miz Barkley," he agreed, smiling.

Victoria continued up the back stairs to the family's rooms, walked to Heath's door and knocked.

The door jerked open, and Heath stood there, belligerently ready for a fight, then changed his expression seeing who it was. "Oh, sorry, Mother," he said softly… and hoarsely. And that was what she hadn't been able to put her finger on this morning. Heath's voice... it was normally a rich tenor, and it had been a little lower, more gravelly at breakfast.

Victoria raised an eyebrow, hands folded in front of her. "Who were you planning to punch?" she demanded dryly. He frowned, embarrassed, and put his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, then pulled out a rumpled handkerchief in irritation, wiping his sore, reddened nose. Victoria took the opportunity presented and quickly had his left arm gripped in one hand, and her other palm against his forehead. He immediately tried to jerk away, surprised, but not fast enough. "Heath Barkley, you have a fever," she said pointedly.

"I'm fine," he protested, but got nowhere as she turned him around and pushed him firmly toward his bed.

'Sit down," she directed, leaning over remove the shade from the lamp set on his bedside table.

"Mother, I'm - " he began, starting to back away, but her eyes arrested him in his tracks.

"Stay put!" she ordered, reaching for a match. "Heath, you're hoarse, you're terribly pale and your eyes are so red, watery and circled it's looks like you haven't slept in days. You're grumpy and you're not eating. And, you have a fever. You. Are. Sick." She turned back toward him, lamp in hand. "Now, sit down and open your mouth."

Mutinous, Heath crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

She eyed him, then very calmly put the lamp back onto the table and planted her hands on her hips. "You listen to me, young man. We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way," she warned, making his eyes widen. "Either you sit down and open your mouth on your own, or I'll have one of your brothers or your father come in and hold you down and I'll pry your mouth open. And if you think I can't, you just try me, little boy." She raised an eyebrow. "So, what's it going to be?"

For a few moments, it was a toss-up, but he couldn't deny that expression, and was pretty sure she meant what she said. Finally, he gave up and sank onto the edge of the bed, opening his mouth with poor grace. '

"Good choice, mister," she said sternly, holding his chin. "Stick out your tongue." She peered into the reddened throat. "How long have you been feeling ill?"

He shrugged, frowning. "A day or so." She looked pointedly at him. "Since Sunday night," he admitted, grumpily.

Three days, she thought. She sighed and pulled him to his feet, reaching around him to reach for his quilt, turning it down. "You, young man, are getting into bed right now."

"But, Mother -" His protest was cut short by a wracking cough and a violent sneezing fit. She saw him wince and rub his left ear as well, firming her resolve.

"No buts," she said very firmly. "You get yourself changed and into bed. When I come back, I'd better find you resting, under the covers, no arguments, young man." She gave him a very stern look, and he wilted.

"Yes, ma'am."

He really did feel awful; he'd been shaky and a little dizzy all afternoon, and so incredibly tired, with every muscle aching. He'd coughed and sneezed all afternoon, too. He'd tried to hide it by working alone as much as possible, much to Nick's anger. Maybe Mother was right, he sighed. He pulled off his boots and the rest of his clothes, just dumping them all into a corner, too weary to put them away. He pulled out a fresh nightshirt from his bureau drawer and dragged it over his head, then climbed into bed and lay back.

Prior to living here, Heath couldn't allow himself the luxury of admitting illness to the point of getting into bed until he felt damned closed to dying. He couldn't afford it. He and his mama needed every cent he made, and if he didn't work, they often didn't eat. Things are different now, he kept telling himself. As soon as he relaxed and let his body sink into the warmth and softness, rubbing his aching head, he was surprised to note how bad he really felt. He'd been fighting it so hard all day, but now… He snuggled down under the covers, wearily meaning to just rest his sore eyes while Mother got whatever it was she was going to dose him with… and he prayed to the Almighty it wasn't castor oil, like he mama used to force him swallow down.

Mama…

Heath winced, then opened his eyes slowly. He grew very melancholy to realize he'd never been sick before without his Mama there to comfort and take care of him. He firmed up his lips and shook himself. Best get used to it, he chided himself. You're damn near grown, boy. Time to get over needing your Mama…

When Victoria came back in, she carried a tray with a steeping teapot filled with apple cider vinegar, honey and water, a bottle of oil infused with camphor, and some strips of flannel. She slowly came to the side of his bed, smiling sadly. She was glad he'd given in and gone to bed; he was so weary, he'd already dozed off, she noted, in the less than fifteen minutes since she'd left the room. Seeing him now, so pale and ill, she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed how sick he'd been previously. He's far too good at hiding things, she thought. Well, this is one habit we're going to break and right now, if I've got anything to say about it. And she fully planned to have a lot to say.

So, she grinned to herself, now she knew her newest child's 'tells'. When Nick or Jarrod were ill, all they wanted to do was sleep. Nick would eat even when suffering from an upset stomach; nothing fazed that boy's appetite, she smiled. Audra became tearful; Gene, the healthiest of her other four, became very quiet and just wanted to be near her. Apparently, Victoria smiled, when he was sick, Heath became fussy and irritable, and lost all desire to eat. Just like his father, Victoria chuckled.

Victoria sat beside him, resting the tray on his bedside table and reached over, putting the back of her wrist very lightly against his forehead and then his cheek. She shook her head, frowning. He really was very warm. The door opened behind her and Silas came in carrying a tray with a bowl of cold water and a few rags as well as a cup of willow bark tea.

"Tea should be finished steepin' in about eight minutes, Miz Barkley," he said softly, glancing at the youngster in the bed. He shook his head. "Boy never let on he was feelin' poorly," Silas clucked quietly, drawing up the small table under the boy's window nearer the bed to hold the second tray.

"Well, we'll be having word on that subject, Silas, believe me," she smiled at the old man. "Thank you for bringing that up."

Heath finally stirred, hearing the quiet movement around him and opened his sore, tired eyes. Victoria wiped his face with a cool, damp rag and he sighed. "That feels good," he croaked, trying to smile at her.

"I imagine it does," she said gently. "Honey… why didn't you tell us you weren't feeling well?"

Heath's heavy eyelids lifted partway, and he shrugged a little. "I dunno… I usually … just keep on goin'…" he muttered hoarsely, suddenly wracked by a barking cough.

Shaking her head, Victoria thought to the times this youngster must have done a man's work while feeling miserable. Well, not this time, she thought firmly. "Sit up a moment, sweetheart," she said gently. "I want you to drink this."

He grimaced at the bitter taste of the willow bark tea, even with a good slug of honey in it, and balked a bit, but she was brooking no nonsense and got him, finally, to drink it all down. She smiled tenderly to see him pouty and fussy in ways she'd never seen him before this, imagining him as a very small boy. She had just got him settled again when there was a soft knock on the door and Tom came in, looking concerned.

"How's he doing?" he asked coming over to the bed. "Silas told me he was ill."

"I'm fine," Heath murmured hoarsely, wiping his running nose for what felt like the millionth time today.

"Sure, you are," smiled Tom, reaching down smooth his hair off his forehead and frowning at the level of heat he felt. Concerned, he glanced at Victoria.

She smiled reassuringly at her husband. "His throat is red and sore, but I'm sure he'll be fine with some rest, now that he's finally admitted to being sick," she scolded the youngster gently, kissing his forehead. "Tom, you sit with him a bit while I go check on Audra and Gene's homework, all right? His fever is quite high, so if we can keep cooling him off it should help him feel more comfortable."

"Lyin' right here…." Heath croaked, a small crooked smile on his face, but his eyes still closed. He found the light was bothering him.

"Are you hungry, honey?" she asked gently, kissing his hot cheek.

"No, ma'am," he sighed, frowning. Just the idea of food was distinctly unappealing.

"Well, all right, but I want you to keep drinking water. Try to sleep," she soothed, her cool hand smoothing back his hair.

He nodded, closing his eyes.

Audra prattled on about the young Jergens boy as Victoria tried to work with Gene on his French homework, to the point that Victoria leaned over and tapped the girl's algebra book. "That's enough about this boy, young lady," she said sternly. "I'm far more interested in seeing your mathematics grades come up. Get to work on those equations. Besides, you heard your father. You are NOT going to the social."

Audra sighed. "Well, with so many sick folks in town, I don't think they're even going to have a social," Audra complained, pulling her algebra book closer to read the problems.

Victoria stopped conjugating a verb for Gene and turned to her daughter in surprise. "So many sick? What do you mean?"

Audra's pencil was skimming over her homework, making short work of the problems now that she focused on them. "There are so many people in town sick… with measles." She looked up. "Dr. Merar came to the school to ask how many of us had had measles already, because it looks as though it could be an epidemic if more cases turn up."

Fever…hacking cough… runny nose and congestion… tiredness… muscle aches and pains… "Oh, dear," Victoria sighed, rising to her feet. "Gene, are you all set for the moment?"

Surprised, Gene and Audra looked at each other. "Sure, Mother. But - "

"Heath…" breathed Audra, putting two and two together. "You think he has the measles?"

"Well, that's not so bad," said Gene, shrugging, going back to his homework paper. "We all had it, and we're all right."

Audra knew more, though, and she and Victoria exchanged glances. Victoria shook her head, nodding toward Gene, and Audra bit her lip, nodding.

"Of course, darling," Victoria agreed. "I'm just going to see if he even knows if he had them when was small. Supper should be ready very soon. Silas will call you."

Victoria slipped into Heath's room. Tom was wringing out a cloth and wiping the boy's face and neck as she walked in. He looked at her, surprised she was back so quickly. She touched his arm, then sat down on the bed beside Heath, smoothing back his hair. Goodness, he's warm! "Heath, honey, wake up just a moment, then you can go back to sleep," she said gently.

Heath opened his eyes and immediately turned his head, wincing against the light. Grimly, Victoria immediately took the lamp and handed it to Tom, gesturing to him to place it across the room.

"What's… what's wrong?" he croaked, scrunching his eyes closed.

"Honey, do you remember if your Mama, or perhaps Rachel or Hannah, ever said if you'd had the measles when you were a little boy?"

Tom turned abruptly back toward the bed, his eyes burning.

Heath managed to open his eyes and looked at Victoria, a little bewildered. "I… I can't remember, no. I had scarlet fever when I was eight," he said drowsily. "But … don't remember… nothin' else…"

"All right, honey, don't worry about it," she soothed. "Here, drink some of this." She eased his shoulders up and helped him sip some tea. She got him settled back, and looked at Tom, gesturing out to the hallway.

They were met by Audra and Nick, waiting outside the door. "I'm sorry, Mother," Audra whispered, "Nick asked what you thought it was and Gene told him."

"Jarrod's gone into town for the doc," Nick said quietly. The fact he was quiet told his parents more than anything else how worried he was.

Victoria smiled and touched his arm. "We'll make sure he has the best care, honey," said she tenderly, remembering.

Twelve-year-old Nick had been the sickest of the children when they had all contracted the disease after a band of travelers had come through Stockton. Gene, baby though he was, had had a very light case. Audra, then four and Jarrod, at 16, had been sick but not seriously so. Nick had suffered badly, roaring a fever to the point that he'd developed febrile seizures. Tom had desperately immersed him in a cold bath to try to cool him down, and his parents had truly feared they would lose him.

"Well, I guess this explains his mood," Nick said gruffly, glancing at the doorway in worry. "Little idiot…"

It was close to 10 pm when Howard Merar wearily climbed the stairs, following Jarrod and with Silas trailing him. Nick was pacing the hallway, when he heard the door. He met them at the top of the stairs. "About time!" he growled.

"Nick!" barked Jarrod. Merar glanced angrily at the younger Barkley brother.

"So sorry, Nick," he said bitterly. "I had to comfort a young mother who lost her baby to this disease. I'm sorry it didn't afford me the time to get here sooner!"

Nick blanched, and bowed his head, frustrated and ashamed. Merar stopped himself, and sighed, turned back to the young man and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Nick, that was uncalled for," he said quietly. "Forgive me, it's been… well it's been a damned rough day."

"Nothin' to apologize for," Nick said gruffly. "Should be me doin' it."

Merar smiled sadly and patted the young man's arm, then headed into the bedroom he knew was Heath's.

Tom and Victoria sat on either side of the bed, Victoria wiping the boy's face and chest where she'd opened his nightshirt. He was restless, coughing and muttering.

Merar did a quick assessment and had a feeling that Jarrod hadn't been wrong. Immediately, he put earlier cases from the day out of his mind, and focused on the patient in front of him. "Hello, Victoria, Tom," he said gently. Tom rose, to give Howard access to the bed.

"Heath, son," he said calmly. "Can you hear me, boy?" Merar gently palpated the glands under the boy's chin and behind his ears, which made the youngster wince and groan. Heath's eyes fluttered open, but they immediately squeezed shut at the light from the lamp. "I'm sorry, son, I know that's probably uncomfortable," he said gently, "but I've to take a look at you. Tom, help me sit him up, will you?"

"… I can.. do it…" Heath croaked, struggling to sit up.

"Hey, now, none of that," said Merar, firmly. "Let us help, youngster."

"He got worse very quickly, Howard," said Victoria, worriedly.

"How long as he been feeling ill?"

"Since Sunday night," she replied.

Merar nodded, thinking. "Victoria, can you find me something we can use as a blindfold? The light is hurting his eyes." She immediately hurried out. "Heath, can you tell me where you hurt?"

"…I reckon… where I don't… would take less time…" the boy muttered, wincing.

Merar chuckled, and glanced at Tom. "Well, I'm glad to hear you've still got your sense of humor, son," he smiled. "Back? Legs?"

"I kinda ache all over," the boy sighed, then sneezed. "Everything hurts."

"Coughing too, I'll bet."

He nodded, wearily.

"How's his appetite?"

"He's barely eaten since Monday morning," replied Victoria, returning at that point, handing Merar a long strip of black fabric.

He nodded at her. "Yes, this is perfect, thanks." Merar helped the boy to sit up, then gently tied the strip of cloth around Heath's eyes. "There we go, that should help a bit," he said briskly. "Tom, bring that lamp over here, please." He pressed a palm to Heath's forehead and cheek, frowning. "Ah, good. Do me a favor and hold it just over my right shoulder please, I need to take a look in his mouth. Heath, son, open your mouth good and wide for me." The boy tried, then suddenly was overtaken by a nasty coughing spell. Wearily, he finally managed to keep his mouth open long enough for Merar to look.

"Thar she blows," said Merar, nodding with grim satisfaction. He glanced up at Tom and Victoria. "It's definitely measles. See those bluish white spots in the back of his mouth, by the twelve-year molars? They seem to show up a day or so before the rash becomes evident."

Victoria nodded, her mouth firming. "Then he's got another several days of fever to look forward to," she sighed.

"Afraid so," agreed Merar. "His fever is quite high now. I'd send Nick down to the ice house to get a block. Someone's going to need to be with him at all times. You're giving him willow bark, right, Victoria?"

"Two teaspoons steeped in a cup of water every three hours," she nodded.

Merar nodded. "Good. Keep that up. Hopefully that should help keep the fever from getting a whole lot worse, and ease some of his aches and pains." He smiled at Heath. "Son… Heath?"

Heath turned his head, still blindfolded toward the sound of the doctor's voice.

"Heath, do you know if you usually tend to run high fevers? Did your mother ever say?"

He sighed. "Mama… used ta say… I'd go from cool.. to Hades.. like lightnin'," he croaked weakly. "But they always went back down purty quick."

"All right then," the doctor smiled, patting the boy's shoulder, but concern lit his eyes. So, this one spikes a fever hard. Damn… "Tom, turn down the lamp and place it over on the bureau, and make sure you keep the curtains drawn during the daytime."

"Is there.. his eyes…" Tom was annoyed to find his voice thick and failing him.

Merar patted his friend's arm. "No, the light is just uncomfortable for him." He sat down once again near Heath and once the light was dimmed removed the blindfold. "Son, I wish I had better news, but you're going to be feeling pretty sick for the next couple of weeks or so," he said sympathetically, looking into the swollen, red eyes. "Shortly, you're also going to know what you'd have looked like with freckles," he smiled. "You'll have a bit of an itchy rash that I want you leave alone. Your fever will likely be high, so you'll need to follow your parents' orders to the letter. That way you can recover as quickly as possible. All right? That means you stay put, in bed. Drink everything they give you, the more the better. Lots of water, tea, broth, even if you think you aren't thirsty. Think of it as medicine. Your body needs liquids."

"How long?" the boy asked, closing his eyes. "When … can I … get up?"

"A few weeks, and you'll be good as new," the doctor soothed. "You go on back to sleep now." Merar patted his shoulder, and got to his feet gesturing the parents into the hallway, where the other four Barkley siblings sat waiting: Audra cuddled up close to Nick on a small loveseat, and Gene, up long past his bedtime, tiredly sitting on Pappy's lap leaning back against his chest, all four anxious.

"Don't push him to eat until after the fever breaks, it'll just likely make him sick to his stomach. Clear liquids are the best thing for him right now. Tom, I want you to get him up and walk him a bit a couple of times a day. I don't want fluid to settle in his chest. The exercise will help keep that risk down. He may develop some other side issues - earache, belly problems, you know the routine, Victoria. The disease just has to run its course, so good nursing is key to his recovery."

Victoria nodded, her face pale, remembering Nick and how miserable he'd been. She knew what Howard meant: they had to keep his body as strong as they could until the sickness was finished with him and he could begin to recover. Howard patted her hand.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he, Doc?" demanded Nick, his dark brows knit over his worried eyes.

Merar drew in a breath, thinking. "He's young, and he's strong. And he's one of the stubbornest youngsters I've ever met, next to you," he said gently. "Let's not borrow trouble, son." He gripped Nick's upper arm, gazing into his eyes, and Nick sighed, nodding.

"I'm most concerned about that fever. He's likely to have a very rough few days. Oh, Nick," said Merar, knowing that Nick needed something to do or he'd lose his mind, "go on down to the ice house and get a block of ice, would you? Have Silas put it in a basin so there's always cold water up here with him." Doc didn't even get to finish his sentence; Nick was pelting down the stairs. "Keep cooling him off as best as you can, and for the rest…. Well, you've both been good parents for a long time," he smiled. "Some petting and spoiling wouldn't be amiss right now. Make sure someone's with him at all times until that fever breaks."

"Thank you, Howard," Victoria said quietly, slipping back into Heath's darkened room.

Silas came up the stairs at that point. "Beggin' your pardon, Doctor, but there's someone here, says their young'un is ailing bad."

Wearily, Howard nodded. "No rest for the wicked," he sighed, squeezing his friend's arm. "Stay with him, Tom," he said quietly, meeting his friend's eyes.

Howard had been right. Heath had a very rough night. His cough was worse, he had trouble breathing from his terrible congestion and he hurt all over. His fever soared in the middle of the night. Jarrod and Victoria sat together with him while Tom and Nick slept, ready to spell them around four a.m.

As his temperature spiked, Heath was tormented by fever dreams, demons from his past jabbing painfully into his subconscious, forcing him to relive some miserable experiences. It broke Victoria's heart to hear him cry, frightened and aching.

"… so hot… no, please… I didn't mean to …" Heath whimpered, "...hurts…. Please don't, Uncle Matt… I'm sorry….Don't please, it hurts…" The boy shifted restlessly back and forth in bed, as though trying to escape some punishment he was reliving in his dreams.

"Easy, little brother," Jarrod tried to soothe him, "no one's going to hurt you, Heath. I promise." Jarrod gently wiped the boy's face and neck and skated the cool cloth over his chest and shoulders. Jarrod's blood boiled as he listened to his younger brother suffer and prayed to God he never met this Uncle Matt… or he'd likely be disbarred for committing assault and battery.

Heath tossed restlessly for an hour, then grew very weary and lethargic...and that frightened Victoria and Jarrod more than the tossing and turning.

Heath opened his poor sore, red eyes, glassy and not really seeing what was there, his hand up, reaching. "….Mama?" he whispered. Jarrod winced, and glanced at his mother.

Without a flinch, Victoria immediately leaned forward gathering him gently - dear God, he's so hot! - in her arms. "I'm here, honey," she said softly.

Heath smiled then, that little crooked smile. "Oh, there y'are, Mama…" he breathed softly, smiling weakly. "… awful hot today, ain't it?" he asked drowsily, pushing down his blankets. "I … I'm feelin' a mite poorly, Mama…" he breathed, wincing and bringing up a shaky hand to rub his ear, uncomfortably.

"Will you have a drink of water, darling? It'll help you feel better," said Victoria softly, covering him again, and kissing and stroking his forehead when he started to push them down again, calming and distracting him.

Heath frowned. "...No…" he shook his head, muttering.

"C'mon honey, be a good boy for Mama," Victoria coaxed, gently rubbing his aching left ear and neck. She felt him first tense at her touch, then sigh and relax in relief, his forehead smoothing out. He even leaned into her hand, the added pressure as she rubbed obviously easing his pain... she prayed it was just irritation or his swollen glands and that he wasn't developing an ear infection. She glanced at Jarrod and nodded. He came forward, easing the boy up enough to drink. Victoria kept gently encouraging him, and slowly they were able to get about a cupful of water into him. She noticed as she stroked back his sweaty hair that the rash had begun to erupt at his hairline and behind his ears, across his cheeks and down his neck.

He seemed calmer when she stroked him, or held him close, so Jarrod did his best to arrange pillows and shift Heath to make it possible for Victoria to sit on the bed with him and cuddle him without having her legs or arms going all pins and needles from pressure. When he was restless, she found he calmed quickly when she softly hummed or sang hymns and lullabies. Jarrod kept supplying cool cloths and fresh water, and when Heath shuddered and suddenly began sweating, breaking this round of fever, he gathered fresh bedding and a fresh nightshirt to change him into. Finally, as Nick and Tom came in to relieve them, Heath's fever had come down significantly and he was sleeping comfortably.

"C'mon, son, one more time up the hallway, then we'll get you back to bed."

Heath doggedly put one bare foot in front of the other, leaning more heavily on his father's strong arm than he wanted to. "Sorry, Father… I feel so weak, I wouldn't hit a lick at a snake," the boy grumbled, irritated with himself.

Surprised, Tom burst out laughing. "I hope that's not the fever comin' back," he chuckled. "You're going to have to translate that one for me."

Heath managed a small smile. "Means I feel like I'm a lazy so-and-so," he grimaced, a little breathless. They had to pause a moment, while he struggled with a coughing fit. He'd been sick now for more than a week, his fever still spiking now and again, though it didn't seem to go as high as previously.

Tom slipped a strong arm around Heath's back and gave him time to get his breath back. He'd worriedly carried him back to bed halfway through their first walk a couple of days ago, and Heath had been furious, his pride badly dented. Tom chuckled to remember the boy fiercely making him promise to not do it again unless he was 'fit to die, and Mother was watchin'." Tom got in the habit of letting Victoria know when he planned to walk Heath as the doctor wanted, and for her to stay downstairs.

"Reckon she was madder'n a wet hen when you told her that," Heath grinned when Tom shared the plan for future 'hallway amblin'.

"She was, at that," his father had confirmed. "I'm lucky she didn't have a wooden spoon in her hand at the time."

As they headed back toward Heath's room, they passed the large Cheval mirror outside Audra's room, and Heath sighed in dismay looking at himself. Tom smiled in sympathy. "The rash will fade, Heath, I promise," he said gently.

The boy was absolutely covered from his head to his feet in the reddish-brown stippling of the measles rash. Sometimes it itched miserably, and Victoria had given him several oatmeal and warm water sponge baths that he had to admit eased the discomfort.

Heath managed a small smile and wearily headed back up the hallway. "Am I ever gonna stop feelin' worn slap out?" he asked his father. "I feel like I've been in bed for a year."

Tom chuckled. "10 days, boy. Far from a year." As they reached Heath's door, Victoria came up the stairs with a tray.

"Perfect timing," she smiled. "Your lunch is ready."

"I'm not really very hungry, ma'am," Heath said apologetically.

"Well, Doctor Merar said you needed to eat, so think of it as medicine, rather than food," said Victoria firmly.

"I'll head on downstairs, then," smiled Tom, giving his wife a kiss. "Remember what the doctor told you… do as you're told, ruffian." He ruffled Heath's hair and left in search of his own lunch.

Heath settled back into bed and exhaled in resignation as the tray was placed on his lap. Victoria lifted the cover and Heath's eyes widened a little, and that his crooked little smile surfaced. Victoria winked at him. "Now take your medicine," she smiled, and handed him his spoon.

"Chicken soup," he smiled, his voice still a little hoarse. "My mama used to make this for me when I was sick." He tried a taste and then winced, startled. "It's… it's just like hers." He swallowed hard, shocked at the wave of emotions hammering at him, and shakily put his spoon down. The sickness had robbed him of a lot of his strength, he knew, but this weakness surprised him. Tasting that soup had brought his mother's image to his mind, as close as if she were there in the room with him, flooding him with memories of countless times she's soothed his pain, comforted him, sung to him, rubbed his back, loved him… and now she was gone. She would never do that for him again.

Victoria clasped his hand as she watched his eyes well up. "Heath, honey," she said gently.

"I'm fine," he croaked, coughing. "I just… I'm sorry, ma'am, I just really miss…" He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and turning his face away.

Victoria took the tray and set it aside and sat down beside him on the bed. She reached up and smoothed back his hair, leaning over and kissing his temple. "Heath, I'm going to tell you something, and I'd like you to try to listen, but isn't going to be easy. Will you try?"

Heath stared down at the pattern on his quilt and nodded.

"I'm a mother. I've nursed all of my children through any number of childhood bumps and scrapes, illnesses, broken bones, gunshot wounds, you name it." She smiled at him. "I've been one of the lucky mothers… I have been able to be there for my children. I know that not all mothers can be, for reasons that have been no fault of their own."

Heath's lip trembled, and he turned his face away again. "Please don't…"

"No, honey. This is something you and I have needed to talk through for a long time, son." Victoria wasn't angry, but she would be heard. "One's child is just that, one's child… for all their life. I think you know that it wouldn't matter to me which of you was hurt… Jarrod or Gene, Nick or Audra… or you." She put a finger under his chin, tipping it up. "Heath, I want you to think about something. When your father was attacked and robbed in Strawberry 16 years ago, he was hurt and left for dead in an alley. And a kind, caring, loving woman helped him, nursed him back to health." She lifted her chin, proudly. "I am so grateful to her for helping him."

Heath looked at her, his eyes disbelieving. "Grateful… how could you be grateful?" he spat out. "Every time you look at me, you must think of how he... how he…"

"No, Heath, I am grateful," she insisted, interrupting him, firmly shaking her head and gripping the boy's hands. "Grateful because without Leah Thomson, there would have been no Audra or Eugene Barkley. Or you."

Startled, Heath stared at her.

She reached out and cupped his mottled cheek, smiling at him through her tears. "Oh, I can't deny that I was hurt to learn about Tom's infidelity, but he wasn't the only one who made mistakes back then. We were both to blame for the problems in our marriage at that time. Both of us. I never knew exactly who the woman was, not until last year, when we met you. But it didn't matter. He told me when he came back the gist of what happened, even if not when or where. Just that a kind woman saved his life and he forgot his vow, lost his way, for a time.

"I could have chosen to be angry, and resentful, and punish him for it. But I made up my mind 17 years ago that I didn't want Tom's and my lives to mean nothing. I love my husband, and a part of him lives in Jarrod and Nick, Audra and Gene, and in you. And from everything you've told us, your mother didn't choose to be angry or resentful, either. She also chose love."

A few tears welled and slipped out of his still-sore eyes, burning them, making him wince. He started to rub them, frustrated, but she held back his hands, reaching instead for the warm, wet compresses Silas had left, in a sturdy bowl with hot stones heating the water. She tenderly patted his eyes, very gently blotting away the sticky residue. This gave Heath the time he needed to get his emotions back under control.

"When you first came to us, I was determined to make sure you knew I cared about you because I was grateful to your mother for helping Tom." She clasped his hands, tenderly. "It wasn't more than a few days before I started to care about you for you... because I loved you, even as feisty and ornery and stubborn as you could be. I just couldn't help it," she smiled, shrugging. "You're my boy, my son. As angry as you were when you first got here, I could see that anger was as much feeling lost and alone, hurting and missing your mother as anything else." She stroked his cheek. "I will never, ever try to replace Leah in your mind or your heart. I couldn't if I tried. But I do wish you would let me mother you just as I would your brothers and sister. If nothing else, I'd like to offer Leah that comfort, knowing her boy is cherished and cared for. I know she's watching over you, of that I'm sure."

Heath swallowed hard, his eyes studying hers.

"And I think she'd want someone to give him a hug and a cuddle now and again. Or take a wooden spoon to him if he needed it," she teased him, gently.

Heath hauled in a breath, shakily, and sighed. "Boy howdy, Mother… you sure do know how to get a fella nerved up," he muttered, sniffling. He glanced at her. "This is… well, it's the first time I been sick since…"

"Since she died," Victoria nodded gently. "I thought as much, honey." She stroked his hair back. "So, if you don't think you'd be dishonoring her, will you let me do a little mothering now and then, Heath?"

He managed that crooked little smile, his father's smile.. the one that had convinced her the moment she saw it paired with the same blue eyes her husband had sired in Jarrod and Audra, that he was, indeed, Tom's boy. "Yes, ma'am. I reckon she wouldn't mind."

"… I'm tellin' you, boy, that bronc was buckin' like he was shootin' for the moon!" declared Nick, lounging across the foot of Heath's bed, leaning up on one elbow.

Heath chuckled, sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around them. "Wish I could'a seen it," he admitted, regretfully. "I knew he was gonna be a mite feisty."

"A mite feisty?!" Nick roared with laughter.

Gene was sitting cross-legged next to Heath, saying earnestly, "Honest, Heath, he was worse than Rocket was last month." Gene grinned at Nick, excited and proud of their big brother's prowess. "I figured Nick wouldn't be able to sit for dinner, he kept getting' slammed in the saddle so hard."

"Oh, you did, did you?" growled Nick, grabbing his baby brother and starting a tickle-fest, making Heath laugh and Gene squeal.

"Nick, Gene, stop yelling," Audra complained, putting her hands over her ears as she sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning up against Jarrod's legs as he sat in the easy chair beside the bed. "You're gonna make Heath sick all over again."

"I'm fine," Heath protested, absently scratching at his neck and chest, so happy to have some company. He was getting awful bored stuck in bed all day. He couldn't even read, as the doctor said his eyes needed another few days of rest. One thing being sick had taught him was that he really loved being part of a family; he'd missed his brothers and sister very much while confined to bed.

"Stop scratching if you know what's good for you," warned Jarrod, leaning over and giving him a gentle clip round the ear as he handed his younger brother a glass of water. "Drink that down," he smiled.

"Aw, Jarrod…" he complained, accepting the glass glumly. "I reckon I've drunk enough water to float a whole damn navy…"

"Heath Barkley!"

Had Tom been present and watching, he'd have chuckled to see all five of his children flinch and straighten up at that tone of voice from his tiny, formidable wife.

"You watch your language, or I'll wash your mouth out with soap!" came Mother's voice scolding from the hallway, as she entered the room, fresh towels and linens in her hands, and her eyes blazing.

Heath gulped down half the glass and looked abashed. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, scooching back down under the covers, knowing that was going to be her next admonition.

"All right, your four. All of you, out," she said, firmly, resting the clean laundry on his bureau. "Your brother needs to rest."

Noisily, his siblings filed out, leaving Heath to lay back on his pillows, feeling out of sorts. Victoria glanced at him, and seeing the mild pout, smiled. "You should be back on your feet by this time next week," she said matter-of-factly.

"I'd get better faster if I could just get up," he grumbled.

"Well, that's not going to happen, so there will be no testing of your theory," she said, with a small smile. She reached out and touched his forehead. Cool, thank goodness. When he fidgeted grumpily, she patted his cheek. "None of that," she warned, with a smile and kissed his forehead. "I thought you might like me to read to you, since you can't yet yourself." Nothing budged his pout, and she chuckled. "Well, alright if you want me to just leave you alone -" she said airily, rising to her feet.

"No, ma'am!" he looked up quickly. Heath had been used to being alone for most of his life. Now, he found he missed his family at those times he couldn't be with them… like now. He was feeling enough better that he was bored to tears, and lonesome.

She chuckled. "What would you like me to read, honey?"

Heath hesitated, looking at her, unsure. He remembered the conversation they'd had a few days prior, and he found himself yearning for the old routines, the rituals his mama would perform that reassured Heath he was loved and that he'd soon be well again. "My… my mama used to read to me from the Bible when I was sick," he said softly. He looked at her, hopefully. "Would you… would you mind?"

Victoria's eyes welled with tears, touched. She gently reached out and stroked back his blond hair. Thankfully, the rash had receded from much of his face, and his handsome features were clear again. "I wouldn't mind at all."

Tom walked down the hallway after having changed his dirty work shirt, thinking to stop in his middle child's room to cheer him up, and heard Victoria's voice, soft and soothing. He peered around the door and smiled tenderly. For he saw Heath laying back on his pillows, resting quietly, while she held his hand and read from his mother's Bible.

"Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church,
and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.
And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick,
and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins,
he will be forgiven."

James 5:14-15

Chapter 5: I've Had Me A Day

Chapter Text

SLAM!

Furious, young Heath Barkley heard the door jamb shudder behind him and paced for a few steps, angrily swiping at the blood dripping from his nose. Growling in frustration, he stalked to the ewer and bowl in the corner, pouring out water into the basin. He picked up the bar of soap next to it and lathered his hands, wincing as the soap smarted the cuts on his knuckles. He leaned over and started to vigorously rub his face, then flinched, surprised, when four or five places, from chin to lip to cheekbone, all exploded in sharp stinging pain. Forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he did his best to calm down, and, more carefully, soaped his face and rinsed off. Reaching for the towel hanging from the table's bar, he patted dry his face and reluctantly glanced in the mirror.

Above the dirty and ripped shirt, he could see his face sporting a rapidly blackening eye, a split lower lip, a nose still dripping blood, a good-sized cut on his cheek bone, and bruises forming on his chin. Sighing, he touched them gently, and winced. A sharp knock came on the door, and before he could answer, the door opened and in swept his stepmother Victoria Barkley, carrying a tray with a bowl, a several bottles and some rags. Glowering, Heath looked at her.

"Heath, come here and sit down," she said firmly, nodding toward the chair beside his bed. She set the tray on his bedside table and glanced at him, still rooted to the spot he'd been a moment earlier. "Young man, I'm not in the habit of asking twice."

He hesitated only a moment more, then trudged to the chair and sank into it, still trying to stanch the flow of blood from his nose.

She tipped his face to one side and studied it. "Well, that's going to be a good shiner by morning," she observed, shaking her head. She handed him a cold cloth. "Tip your head back a bit and press that against your upper lip, right under your nose," she said firmly. When he missed the spot she meant, she guided his hand there, and pressed hard, making him wince. "Keep the pressure up so the bleeding stops." She then gently touched the cut on his cheekbone, and he flinched, trying to jerk away. She picked up the bottle of witch hazel, and blotted a rag. She leaned over and dabbed at his cut.

"Ow!" he yelped, surprised by the sharp bite of pain. "That stings!"

"I don't doubt it," she said, sternly, gripping his chin, and holding him steady as she cleaned the area. He squirmed.

"… son of a…" he muttered, grimacing as he tried to evade her.

"Don't finish that, or I'll wash your mouth out with soap," she said distractedly.

He tried to be still, but the bite of the disinfectant was fierce. "Mother, c'mon! That really smarts!" he protested, wincing.

"Heath, I've got to clean it out, so you might as well hush and stop being such a baby," she said sternly. He swallowed his stung pride, and sat still. She then picked up the bottle of liniment and soaked a rag in that as well, gently applying it to the bruises on his chin and lightly around his eye. "Be careful not to rub that into your eyes, or you'll really wish you'd stayed out of that fight."

Then she took a few minutes to clean his scraped knuckles and rub some liniment into them, remaining silent and gently massaging his sore hands, which served to soothe Heath's temper as well as his aches and pains.

When she'd sensed that the worst of his anger had cooled a bit, she handed him a bag filled with ice chips wrapped in softened oil cloth. "Put that on your eye," she said gently, giving him a kiss on his forehead. Uneasy, he obeyed, feeling more foolish by the moment.

"All right, Heath," she said firmly. "Start talking. What happened?"

Heath closed his eyes, his head back, shaking his head, his cheeks growing a little pink. "Honestly… I don't even remember what started it," he grudgingly admitted, sounding stuffy with the rag still at his nose.

She smiled to herself. Nick said the same thing, she thought. These two, I swear…

"Let's see if that nose has stopped bleeding," she said, gently. He cautiously pulled away the rag and she studied him, tilting his head back just a little more. "Yes, I think it's stopped." She took the bloody cloth from him and dropped it on the tray. "Keep your head back, though, just to stay on the safe side," she advised. She shook her head at him; he looked a mess.

"If it's any consolation to you… Nick looks just as bad."

He frowned. "It ain't," he said quietly, then glanced at her. "I'm… " He shrugged. He sighed and peered at her. "Look, Mother… I've just had me a day." Heath tugged on his ear, thinking, and then glanced up. "Father was fit to be tied… looked mad enough to tear our arms off and beat us both to death with the bloody stumps." He slumped unhappily, peering at her. "Is he still?"

"You'll know shortly. He and your brother are… discussing the issue in the barn at the moment," said Victoria calmly.

Heath winced. For himself, a trip to the barn could easily translate to mean a session with Father's belt. But Nick was 21, not 15. Lord only knew how Father planned to keelhaul him. There was little Father hated more than fighting between the hands. Fighting between the boss' sons in front of the hands? He remembered clearly how well that had gone over the last time and he didn't even want to think about it.

She chuckled and smoothed back his hair. "Heath, you and Nick haven't fought like that since you first got here, months ago," she said gently.

"I know," he replied quietly. "And I'm… well, I'm truly sorry for it. I don't know, he's just been jammin' his spurs in me fit to bust, lately, and … well… " Heath's lower lip pushed out, without him even realizing it. "Well, I just took about all I was gonna."

"About what?"

"You name it, he rode me," Heath complained. "If I was movin', I shoulda stood still, and if I was stuck in one place, I shoulda hustled." He shrugged. "'That ain't the right tool, boy!', "Don't you know how to make a slipknot, boy?'" Heath sighed, shaking his head. "No matter what I did, it was wrong. Just like when I first got here."

"Did you ask what was bothering him?"

Heath looked at her like she'd lost her mind, and she couldn't help it; she laughed. "All right, forget I said that." She got to her feet, gently pressing the ice pack back against his cheek again and gathered up the supplies and placed them back on her tray heading for the door. "You keep that on there. Your father will be up to talk to you when he's finished chewing up and spitting out Nick," she sighed, shaking her head.

Heath settled himself to allow resting his chin on his hand also held the ice pack in place. The cold ice pack felt good on his face, it was so hot on this late April day. He sighed, rubbing his temples. He was sore all over from the fight.

He'd been in fights before… lots of 'em. Some he'd lost; most he'd won. But somehow, he'd really believed that the worst ones, the awful ones between him and his next elder brother, were a thing of the past. Funny how Mother mentioned those early days, when he'd first arrived here…

November, roughly five months earlier

As the pink and orange sunrise began to glow over the corral and fences, Heath rubbed his hands together, realizing he needed to remember his gloves when he went back to the house for breakfast; the weather had turned and there was a bite in the late-November air that hadn't been there just a week earlier.

He'd finished mucking out the stalls and had moved the horses out into the corral ready to lay fresh straw. He'd worked at the bunkhouse woodpile and spent time sharpening tools for use during the day. He glanced again at the sunrise, trying to guesstimate the time, then turned toward the house looking for the tell-tale smoke of Silas' kitchen fire and smiled. Breakfast!

The boy glanced around the yard to make sure he'd not left anything out or undone that could harm any of the men or the animals, and spotted a large rake out of place. He immediately retrieved it and returned it to its spot on the barn wall. He'd been trained in the proper ways to care for animals and horse equipment by Dave Ewell at the livery in Strawberry, with a crop. It had proved to be an effective, if uncomfortable, method of making sure his stable boys knew better than to risk hurting an animal, co-worker or a customer due to negligence and the lessons had proven to hold solid in the last three years, Heath snorted to himself, shaking his head. He'd had enough sharp stings to his rump or back to last him a lifetime. Nodding in satisfaction, Heath wiped his hands off on his pants and headed back toward the house.

After spending a quick moment getting washed up, he'd come in through the kitchen. "Mornin', Silas," he greeted the old man softly.

"Well, good mornin' to ya, Mr. Heath," beamed Silas. "Got some ham and red-eye gravy for ya this morning." He chuckled to see the boy's eyes warm immediately, pouring a glass of cold milk and handing it to the youngster. "You already been at them horses, ain't you, sir?"

Heath nodded, as he thirstily drained the glass. "Silas," he panted, a little out of breath from gulping. "I surely do wish you'd leave off callin' me that." Heath sighed, slipping into a chair at the kitchen table, stretching his long legs out, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. "It ain't fittin'. My mama'd warm my britches for puttin' on airs with an elder."

"Mr. Heath, I might be your elder, but you a Barkley," the old man chuckled, moving the steaks from the big cast iron grill on the kitchen stove to a platter. "You might'a got here by a different road, suh, but heah you are."

Heath chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. Different road? Boy, howdy, I guess so…. "Well, but I reckon maybe... at least, in here," he smiled, gesturing around the warm, cozy kitchen… to Heath, so far, the most comfortable room in this big house, "couldn't you be just Silas and I could just be Heath?"

Silas studied the boy, shaking his head with a smile. "Well, Mr. Heath, I'll grant ya this. Your papa is often down here early, like you. If he ain't here at the time, I'll do as you askin'. But he heah? You're Mr. Heath. Fair enough?"

Heath grinned, nodding. "Fair enough."

"All right, then, Heath," Silas said markedly, "you'd best skedaddle yourself in to breakfast. Miz Barkley, she don't like you children to be late."

"Nick's usually late," grunted Heath, pushing himself to his feet.

Silas chuckled. "Just to sit… Mr. Nick, he's always there once the food arrives. Now you git… suh."

"Yes, sir," Heath chuckled, giving that sweet little crooked smile… the one that Silas remembered on Mr. Tom's face all through those first years when he was a youngster himself, not much older than this boy here… and heading out toward the dining room.

Silas smiled, remembering a much younger Tom Barkley making much the same deal with him. Anywhere else, he was "Mr. Barkley." Here, in the kitchen in the early mornings when Tom would come down for his first cup of coffee and need an ear while he was planning his day or thinking out loud how to deal with a fractious or disobedient hand… or son!... he was Mr. Tom.

Victoria noted the enthusiasm Heath was putting towards his breakfast this morning and smiled. She knew Silas had come up with some Southern style recipes that the boy enjoyed tremendously, obviously recipes or meals his mother had cooked. Heath always had a good appetite, and finally, after nearly a month on the ranch, was beginning to fill out from the skinny, pinched youth he'd been when he'd arrived. His tall, sturdy body showed the promise of maturing into that of a big man, much like his father. She didn't think he'd be as tall as Nick… perhaps Jarrod's height. But he was strongly built and reminded her so much of Tom when they'd first met.

Tom had noticed the enthusiasm, as well, and chuckled. "McColl said the woodboxes were filled," he smiled, sipping his coffee. "Apparently you've already earned that breakfast."

Heath glanced up, warily. Was there a mocking tone in there? When he looked at Tom Barkley's eyes, though, they were warm and approving. Heath relaxed a tad and nodded. "Yes, sir. It's mighty good. Like my ma…" he trailed off, flushing and glancing at Mrs. Barkley for a moment, then putting his eyes down to his plate, frowning. Victoria and Tom exchanged glances but said nothing. Give him time, Victoria's eyes said gently. His mother has just died.

Audra, sitting next to her new brother, and Gene, across the table, glanced at each other, but said nothing.

Nick grunted and turned to his father. "So, where're you gonna be today?"

Tom raised a brow. "You know where I'll be," he said, with a small smile... it had been a bone of contention between them for days. "Staking out the addition to the forge." He raised an eyebrow. "And I know where you're going to be as well."

Nick grinned. "The north west fence line," he sighed, nodding. "Well, Hansen and I should be able to - "

But Tom cut him off. "Nope, 'fraid not. I need Hansen here."

Nick frowned.

"Now, Nick, you know he's one of the few hands with a building background. You also know we don't have time to waste. We've got a lot of maintenance and planning to do this winter with the planned expansion of the herd in the spring." Tom glanced at Heath and smiled as he saw the youngster wipe his mouth on his napkin, contented, apparently finally finished filling that bottomless pit he called a stomach. Tom hadn't seen an appetite like that since Nick was his age. "Take Heath with you to help you. He hasn't seen that part of the ranch yet."

Nick's head snapped up, in shocked surprise, as did Heath's. The two brothers eyed each other warily. "Father, you know I ain't got time to wet-nurse a - "

"Nick, I don't recall that being a suggestion."

"Northwest fence line… by the orchards and river, separating this ranch from the Craddock place, right?"

All eyes swiveled to young Heath, most in shocked surprise. He looked back and forth and shrugged. "I rode up that way a couple days ago. 'Bout three miles of stretched wire, busted line and loose fenceposts, right?"

Tom turned to his second son, eyebrow raised. Wet-nurse, eh?

Nick scowled, and got to his feet, dropping his napkin on his plate. "Well, move it, boy, we ain't got all day," he groused, spurs jingling as he strode for the door leaving Heath to roll his eyes, sigh and then scramble to follow.

Victoria shooed Gene and Audra out to get going to school, and once they were gone, glanced at her husband, now rolling his sleeves down and buttoning his cuffs. "Tom, we've got a problem brewing here, and you know it."

Tom sighed. "Vic…"

"I'm serious," she said firmly.

"I know you are, sweetheart," he nodded. "But I can't order them to get along. Nick and Heath must find their way, and Heath needs to find his feet."

"He can't if his older brother is kicking his legs out from under him," she declared. "And we need to understand why Nick is so angry about this."

"Vic, you know perfectly well why Nick is so angry about this," Tom said quietly, eyeing her. He put out his hand to her, and she clasped it, gazing at him. "I can't really say I blame him," he muttered.

Victoria gripped her husband's arms and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. "I don't blame him, either, necessarily, but what brought that boy here isn't Heath's fault," she said gently. "It's not fair for Nick to blame him."

Tom nodded, troubled. "I know. He's blaming Heath so he doesn't have to blame me." Tom shrugged. "He and I are gonna have to have this out at one point or another, but he's not ready just yet."

"Don't let it wait too long… it's not fair on your middle child."

Tom sighed, scratching behind his ear. "Honey… trust me. Nick'll come around, and if Heath could get that chip off his shoulder it would go a lot easier. But again… I can't swat 'em into caring about each other." He kissed her cheek. "Now I have to get out there and get the men to their work."

The hands gathered outside the bunkhouse, mounts ready, waiting for their orders. Nick had deployed a good third of the men up to the most recent stand to clear in order to get firewood for the winter cut and dragged back to the ranch for splitting and stacking. Another seven or eight were deployed to work on ranch equipment, getting it all readied for storage and use in the spring. The rest of the men would be, like Nick and Heath, repairing fence lines, shoring up infrastructure of the ranch boundaries.

"Heath, on that stretch of fence line you and me are gonna work on today," Nick observed, as he checked Coco's cinch. "There's been some cats troublin' the herd up that way. You got a rifle?"

"Yes."

"With you?"

Heath sighed in exasperation and reached up to the scabbard, clearly showing on his saddle, and pulled out his rifle, old and battered and, to an unknowing eye, having seen better days, showing to Nick, and all but uttering the words, You blind?

His older brother eyed the weapon doubtfully. "Shoot decent?" demanded Nick, gesturing toward the old rifle in the boy's hand.

Heath glanced down at his admittedly aged but reliable as sin Spencer carbine. "Well, I can hit what I'm aimin' at, if that's what you're askin'," Heath replied dryly, eyebrow raised, and gazing coolly at his older brother. "Why? There some kinda shootin' test required in this family?"

A couple of the hands chuckled at this smart-mouthed stripling challenging Nick Barkley. Most of the others sighed, knowing this warn't gonna end well…

Under the shade of the bunkhouse roof overhang, Tom Barkley and his foreman, McColl, were observing the interchange, remaining unobtrusive. McColl, however, frowned and turned, looking pointedly at the boss. Tom gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head; he'd meant what he said to Victoria: Nick and Heath were going to have to battle this out and figure out their relationship, and he wanted them to try first without him intervening.

Nick frowned. He'd meant to question the reliability of the old weapon, not his younger brother's ability, but as usual the prickly little pain in the butt had chosen to misconstrue his words. And it was starting to get distinctly on Nick's nerves.

"Nooo…" he said tightly, drawing out the word, hands planted on his hips, "but before you head out on my range I want to know if you can handle that blowpipe in your fist before you shoot one of my hands when trippin' over a cactus!"

McColl winced; Nick couldn't have packed more insults into that single sentence if he'd sat down and thought about it for two weeks.

And Heath heard every one of them. White with rage but without a word, Heath suddenly whirled around toward the stable, swinging the rifle up to his shoulder and let off four quick shots, all aimed up at the weathervane at the top of the building, making it ping.

Four times.

And sending it flying back and forth.

Four times.

The men had either frozen, ducked or yelped when the gun had come up so quickly, and Tom, himself, hadn't been far behind. McColl had frankly ducked. And Nick had his pistol out its holster without even realizing it. All the horses danced a bit, except for Coco and Gal…

Tom was torn between wanting to laugh - even their horses were used to these two and their antics! - and a strong desire to knock their heads together. The man sighed and shook his head… gonna have to have a word with that boy tonight. It's good to know he's a good shot and can handle that rifle, but if he pulls another stunt like that with a firearm, my belt and his butt are gonna have a short, sharp conversation…

Heath slowly brought the rifle back down, a satisfied expression on his face as he watched the weathervane spin in the chilly November breeze. He turned to his tall older brother, one blond eyebrow up and then stalked to his horse, swung up without bothering with stirrups and shoved the rifle into its scabbard. "I'll meet ya up at the fence line," he said tightly, wheeling around and nudging Gal into a canter.

Tom glanced at Nick, trying not to grin at his second son standing there with steam coming out his ears. "All right, you men," he said calmly, coming forward making the hands aware of him, "you've had your orders. Let's not waste any more daylight. Get movin'."

As the group scattered toward their work, Tom slowly walked up to his son, still fuming a bit, and chuckled, shaking his head. "Son, you could spend the rest of the day figurin' out how to put your brother in his place," he said, making Nick look up in angry surprise - for that was exactly what he'd been trying to figure out. Tom just barely kept from chuckling. "Or you can spend your time finding out exactly what he can do before you make assumptions and sell him short. You might be surprised."

"Nothing that little shi… brat does surprises me," Nick grunted angrily. He glanced at his father, rolling his eyes at the expression he saw there. "Surprised by what," he grunted finally, in irritation.

"By both what he can do… and by how much he wants to help and learn." Tom co*cked a graying eyebrow at his son and headed on toward the forge with McColl in tow.

Nick stared after Tom as the older man headed toward the stake-out of the new smithy addition.

It was a rather fraught day for the Barkley brothers.

When Nick wasn't trying to correct something he felt Heath was doing wrong, the two worked in silence for most of the afternoon, not really noticing how they'd establishing a rhythm of supporting each other without realizing it. Heath carefully watched Nick and the way he manhandled the wire fencing, bulling it into position in order for Heath to quickly use the wire grips to pull and stretch the wire into place before using pliers to crimp and twist the tips.

"Hold it!" Nick had growled at him, when they'd first started. The boy's back went up, until he saw Nick pull out a spare of thick work gloves out of his saddlebags. "Last thing we need is you ripping your hands to shreds," his brother snorted, gruffly. "What you got on won't keep barbed wire from digging."

Heath had narrowed his eyes, but pulled over his own leather gloves, and slipped them into the pockets of his sheepskin coat, and slipped the work gloves, startled by how stiff they were.

"You'll need to grip harder than you're used to," Nick explained, seeing his expression.

"I ain't a weakling!"

"Didn't say you were!" snapped Nick. "But, little brother, you are without a doubt the most cantankerous little brat - "

Heath's jaw shoved forward, pugnaciously. "You gonna jaw or you gonna work?" he demanded, hands on his hips.

Nick glared at the boy, then nodded, allowing a slow grin that held absolutely no humor in the slightest to form. "Okay, little man… you want to work? Well, son, you're gonna work!" he warned.

And brother, did he. But Heath kept up. The harder Nick pushed, the more Heath pushed back, taking whatever Nick dished out and handing it back in spades, without complaint or comment. Nick was surprised to realize that they'd completed the full four-mile stretch nearly an hour ahead of quitting time. Grudgingly, Nick decided to call their day early and head back to the house… and poor Heath thanked God. He was exhausted.

"Well, boy," he admitted grudgingly as they trotted back into the ranch yard for supper, "I'll give ya this: you can work when you've a mind to."

"Boy howdy, Nick, can't thank you enough for that vote o' confidence," Heath muttered dryly, so tired he was ready to fall asleep sitting up right here in his saddle. The boy hurt from his hair to his toenails and all he wanted to do was fall into bed. He honestly didn't care if he ate or bathed tonight, he was that dog tired and riled from spending the day pushing himself to show Nick he could take anything his older brother threw at him.

"Hey, Senor Nick!" The black-haired cowboy turned as he dismounted.

"Ciego, ¿cómo está?"

"Senor, su madre, Senora Barkley, she want you help her in the house."

"For cryin' out loud, I just got here, how does she even know I'm home?" he demanded, staring at the Mexican in astonished consternation.

"She say soon as you ride in, I tell you," grinned Ciego, spreading his arms wide and raising his shoulders helplessly.

Nick rolled his eyes and glanced at Heath, who'd just dragged himself painfully off Gal. "You put up the horses and I'll find out what she needs."

"Me?" Heath squawked. "I been workin' as hard as you!"

"Don't give me none o' your lip!" Nick growled. "Get those horses rubbed down. THEY'VE been workin' hard, too! Or you gonna ask 'em to put 'emselves up?"

Steaming, Heath took Gal's reins and tugged her toward the barn. He was done; nothing he ever did was gonna be good enough for this miserable brother.

"Hey! Coco, too!"

"Put up your own goddamn horse!" Heath snapped over his shoulder, done with being treated like a field hand.

"Why you little - "

"Senor Barkley! Senor Barkley!"

Tom swung around at the panic in Ciego's voice… Ciego, who never got up enough gumption to get riled, much less panic, was tear-assing around the side of the house, where Tom was assessing the woodpile and storage for the winter… another task to add to the list: a new lean-to to build before the rains hit in late December and January.

"What ails you?" he demanded.

"Senor Nick, and Él Rubio… they beating each other senseless!"

"…isn't as though either had much to start with…" Tom muttered under his breath as he hurried around to the barn.

The hands had formed a circle around the Barkley boys as they slugged it out, all of them more than a little surprised by the young one's tenacity and skills. The older hands could see that Nick had been holding back… he had forty pounds on the boy, height and reach to his advantage, too, but Heath was wiry, scrappy and knew how to fight dirty, and was madder'n a hornet. He'd had managed to land a few good punches, bloodying Nick's nose and busting his lip. Now, they were gripped together, rolling around in the dirt, landing what blows they could.

McColl had heard the ruckus and was hurrying in from one side just as Barkley himself came around the other side of the yard. McColl headed for Nick, and Barkley got a grip on the waistband of Heath's britches, pulling him off his older brother and onto his feet. But that didn't last long; Heath was beside himself, kicking and fighting, until Tom finally had to pick him up, his strong arms pinning the boy's to his chest, and balancing him for a moment on his hip, to try to keep his egg-beater legs from kicking him. He knew Heath was seeing red and needed to have the spell broken for a moment, that he was so angry he was unaware of who had him.

"Enough!' he'd finally barked in the boy's ear. "I said, settle down!"

McColl hadn't had the same battle to calm Nick down, but the older boy still was in a fair temper himself. All the anger and frustration Nick had been bottling up since learning of Heath's existence and his arrival five weeks earlier had finally been ripped raw, like a scab on a festering wound… sealed over but not healed, oozing rage and pain.

McColl had been with Tom Barkley darned near since the beginning after the man had staked his claim here in the valley. He'd built the herd with him, been his right hand man as the Barkley holdings began to accrue through sweat, guile, hard work and an absolute cussed refusal to give in. He'd grieved with Tom and Victoria over the loss of their third child and protected Miz Barkley here on the ranch when Tom had gone off the rails for a time up the Stanislaus 16 years ago. He'd helped him raise these young'uns, especially Jarrod and Nick, occasionally wiping frustrated tears over failures or disappointments or misunderstandings with their parents or friends; administering the occasional tanning when needed and their father wasn't available. And now he could see how much Nick was hurting.

McColl had warned Tom that just letting the situation be between Heath and Nick wasn't going to work with these two; they were both far too much alike… and too stubborn. The foreman glanced over at Heath, the boy finally getting himself back under control and looking so much like his father as a young man, both in appearance and temperament; right now, he looked like he wouldn't give an inch to a rattler in his path. McColl glanced at Tom and was relieved to note that it looked like his boss had finally figured it out as well.

"In the barn, both of you!" Tom barked, arm flung out pointing at the barn door, then turned his Gatling gun gaze on the interested bystanders. "And if you men want to keep workin' here, I'd best see every one of you busy, and I mean right now!" Not surprisingly, the hands scattered.

Both miscreants stood before their father, bruised, bloody and seething. They'd just been treated to a lecture that would have left their hides in ribbons if Tom's words had been a whip.

Father had trotted out the old standards, Nick fumed, from fighting on the ranch, to responsibility as 'Barkley sons,' to being a good example for the hands, and just about anything and everything else he could think of. Heath was furious, as well, but also scared and upset, having absolutely no idea what to expect from this man, but figuring on the worst, and there was no blasted way he'd take a beating for this without fighting back.

Breathing hard, Tom stared between the two, his hand itching badly to pull off his belt and give them each a hiding they wouldn't forget in a hurry. However, while doing so would admittedly give Tom some temporary satisfaction, it wasn't going to solve the problem facing them.

"I'm so angry and ashamed of you both right now, I could spit," he finally grunted out. "I'm gonna need some time to best figure how to straighten you two out, so in the meantime, both of you get into the house and get up to your rooms. I don't want to look at either of you tonight!"

Heath's eyes widened, glancing at his brother and Nick's head came up in shock. "Father, you can't be serious!" he gasped. Sent to bed? At my age? Was he kidding?!

"Do I look like I'm joking, Nicholas?" Tom barked. Glaring, Tom watched as the two hesitantly headed for the door, Nick looking angry enough to spit nails and Heath finally looking troubled.

It had been a long night for all three of them. Victoria had bucked her husband and insisted that the boys have the chance to get cleaned up before retiring for the night, and that whatever else had happened, they'd both worked hard and needed to eat. So, before their banishment, while one bathed, the other ate a sandwich or two in the kitchen. It was a very quiet house for supper and afterwards, as Tom gazed into the fire, trying to think of how to handle this very touchy situation.

As the early sun streaked into the kitchen, Silas entered in ready to get the kitchen stove fired up and was startled to find Mr. Tom already there, seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hands and looking dead tired.

"Morning, Mr. Tom," Silas said softly. He reached up into his special cabinet and pulled down a loaf of his iced raisin bread, Mr. Tom's favorite, and cut off a couple of slices, silently placing them in front his employer on a plate with a knife and a crock of sweet butter. Tom looked down and smiled sadly.

"Silas, fetch yourself a cup of coffee and sit for a moment, I need an ear," he said wearily.

As he outlined his plan, Silas at first had widened his eyes, startled, then they crinkled in amusem*nt. "This could backfire real bad, Mr. Tom," he warned.

"I know," Tom grunted, running a hand through his thinning hair. "That's what worries me. But, Silas… I've got to believe in my boys, that they understand the importance of sticking together. If it was Jarrod and Nick, I'd know… but these two…" he sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Silas nodded. "I understand, Mr. Tom." He sipped his coffee, thinking. "Them boys are Barkleys, both of 'em," he said finally. "You go ahead and give your plan a try."

Heath and Nick came downstairs to breakfast outwardly calmer, if not exactly penitent. Breakfast was deadly quiet. Audra and Gene barely opened their mouths except to eat and Victoria, while not giving him the cold shoulder, was clearly not pleased with Tom.

Nick, never one to just let sleeping dogs lie, waited until he'd finished his last bite of breakfast (he wasn't THAT much of a fool!), then drew in a deep breath and looked at his father. "So? What's the plan for today?" he asked quietly.

Tom eyed his older son. "When I've finished my breakfast, we three are going to have a chat."

Heath and Nick exchanged uneasy looks. "Where?" Nick asked, warily.

"I'm not finished my breakfast," said Tom firmly. "And I won't have you two ruining this meal for me the way you did supper last night." Both Nick and Heath had the grace to look a bit abashed at that, and subsided.

The young men didn't have long to wait. As far as Heath was concerned, Father had been downright diabolical.

After a quiet talk out in the barn, Nick and Heath found themselves, much to their consternation, tied together, Heath's right wrist to Nick's left, with about a foot of rope between them. Tom had fashioned a pair of soft, but sturdy, leather wrist restraints.

"In order for this ranch, or this family, to survive and thrive, you two have got to learn how to work together," he said calmly, quietly, looking at both his sons in the eye. "So, for the rest of today, you're going to have to figure out how to make that happen. You're going to talk this through, or kill each other, one or the other. I'm hoping and praying that I'm not wrong, and I can be proud of my sons… both of you." He nodded towards the saddlebags by the door. "You'll get that next stretch of fencing done today. I had Silas pack a good lunch for you both. That way, the coats can stay on."

Nick was white with rage… Heath scowled.

Tom studied them. "I'm also going to trust that you both are honorable and won't try to take those off," he said quietly, making sure both of his sons looked him in the eye. He wasn't surprised that Nick looked more mutinous on that score than Heath (he'd half expected that Nick would wait until they were just out of sight and rip the damned thing off his wrist), and waited, pointedly, for a nod from his older son.

Seeing his father knew where his mind was, Nick erupted. "How am I supposed to get my work done?" he demanded, jerking up his arm, and dragging Heath's with it.

"Alone?" Tom said calmly. "You're not."

Nick glared. And Heath frowned, but was listening, intently.

"But together? I truly believe you two can accomplish anything," said Tom quietly, looking meaningfully in one angry son's hazel eyes, so much like Victoria's, and into another pair just like his own. And with that, he turned and left the barn, leaving Nick stewing, and Heath thoughtful.

"Well, c'mon," Nick grumbled, moving forward without thinking, and yanking Heath nearly off his feet and pulling his own shoulder painfully. The boy grunted in discomfort, and Nick glanced back, in consternation. "Sorry. I, uh…"

Heath looked up, surprised. That was the first apology he'd ever got from this feisty older brother.

It was a long, hard, awkward day. The boys found that the only way to keep from accidentally yanking painfully on their fettered wrists was to talk to each other and work out what they were going to do. The only way to accomplish anything, from mounting their horses to eating their lunch, was by talking it through and working together.

As they attacked the miles of barbed wire fence requiring repairs, Nick explained the finer points of working with the crimping pliers, and Heath listened, nodding and taking on board all of Nick's instructions. Without the ability to turn away, Nick finally saw his younger brother's efforts. He might be taciturn and quiet, but he wasn't lazy. And he learned fast.

Without Nick's back turned, Heath was able to pick up on the fact that while Nick spoke gruffly his facial expressions showed he wasn't trying to be mean or difficult; gruff was just his way.

They were finally able to reluctantly find the humor in the situation when they waited as long as they could, but Heath finally had to relieve himself or he was gonna burst. He and Nick turned their situation into a literal pissing match, chuckling with laughter to see whose aim was better, who could "shoot" further, and who had the greatest capacity for sheer volume.

On their way home, carefully having their horses trot side by side apace, both young men were pensive, and glanced at each other.

"Nick… about yesterday," Heath finally said softly. "I reckon I was outta line, and… well, I'm sorry about it."

Nick sighed. "We've both been outta line, boy," he said quietly. "Look, I'm not good at apologizin'."

Heath chuckled. "No… really?"

Nick snorted. "I guess…" he shrugged, and sighed. "I guess I've been … well, I've been pretty riled at Father, and … well, I took it out on you. Sorry." He stared straight ahead; he wasn't proud of himself. None of this situation was Heath's fault. He'd been unfair to the kid.

Heath nodded. "I bin pretty riled at him, too," he answered, staring out into the distance. "But I reckon I've had more practice at it." He glanced back at his brother. But apparently Nick wasn't ready to say any more, so they continued the ride in silence.

Nick thought about what Heath had said; he nodded to himself, thinking how he'd have felt in Heath's shoes. And he thought about his own mother, and that startled him. He glanced sideways at his younger brother. "Your mother…"

Heath stiffened.

Nick continued, "Her name was Leah, right?"

Heath nodded.

"Pretty name," Nick said quietly. He glanced at his little brother.

Heath nodded. "She was, too." And said nothing more, and the boys rode home together in silence, but a silence that was thoughtful and pensive, not charged with anger.

They might not have been ended the day the best of friends, but at least they weren't ready to kill each other. This ain't gonna happen overnight, Father, Heath thought irritably to himself, but maybe… just maybe, we can figure out how to both be on the ranch together without burnin' it down….

Once again in the present, Heath dropped the icepack into his lap and sighed. I reckoned we'd come so far from that day, he thought sadly. Then something Mother said niggled at his mind. "Did you ask what was bothering him?"

Heath got to his feet and walked over to his window looking out over the yard. His window overlooked the barn and he saw the doors open and both Father and Nick come out, looking calm, if serious. Nick's head was bowed, and he saw Father gently grip his brother's shoulder and squeeze, as though in comfort. Heath frowned, watching them walk together toward the house.

"My turn," he sighed, sourly. He quickly shucked off the filthy, ripped shirt and changed into a clean one, just tucking in his shirttail when the knock came at his door.

"Come in," he called, a little surprised. Normally if he was getting a talking-to, Father didn't bother with the niceties of waiting; he'd knock once and just come in.

Ah. Nick.

Nick stood before his younger brother, eyeing the kid. He tried not to wince looking at his battered face, then remembered what his own looked like, and figured that both had given as good as they got. He sighed and ran a hand through his black hair. "Heath… I need to talk to you."

Heath crossed his arms over his chest, stubborn. Then he saw the look in his brother's eyes. Frowning, he sighed, pulled in his horns, and gestured to the easy chair. As Nick sat down, Heath sat on his bed, tucking one leg under him.

Nick sat forward, leaning his arms on his knees, frowning at the floor. They sat in silence for a long time, until Heath started to get antsy. Nick noticed and shook himself. "I'm sorry I've been riding you so hard," he finally murmured.

Heath raised a surprised eyebrow. "Why?"

"Why am I sorry?" Nick looked up. "I just told ya!"

Heath shook his head in irritation. "Why were ya riding me so hard?"

Nick frowned again. "I… I had some bad news two days back. It kinda… well, it kinda threw me."

Heath pulled up his other leg and sat cross-legged on his bed. "What bad news?"

Nick swallowed. "A friend of mine died."

Heath raised an eyebrow. "Nick… I'm right sorry to hear that," he said very quietly and gently. "Anybody I knew?"

Nick chuckled. "No… her name was Kate. Kate Lansing."

Heath's eyes widened. "From the Fair Play?" he asked, startled.

Nick's eyes came up, shocked. "What in hell do you know about the Fair Play Saloon?" he demanded, his hazel eyes drilling into Heath's, making the tips of the boy's ears go bright pink.

Flushing, Heath swallowed. Dammit…

"You stay outta there, boy, you hear me? Or I'll have your hide!" Nick growled at him. "Or better yet, I'll tell Father, and he'll have it!"

Heath sighed. "Nick… what's this got to do with -"

"She died trying to…" Nick shook his head, frustrated, and got to his feet pacing.

Heath's brows furrowed, trying hard to understand.

"She was pregnant," Nick finally spit out over his shoulder.

Heath's brow cleared and his closed his eyes. "She died trying to get rid of it," he said flatly and looked at his brother. Grimly, Nick nodded. Suddenly Heath paled. "Oh, Nick… was it… "

Nick sank into the easy chair. "No," he said quietly. He picked up his head and looked at Heath, pain radiating from his eyes. "But it just as easily coulda been, a few months ago."

Heath sat thinking. He thought back to seeing Father and Nick leave the barn a few minutes earlier. "Did you tell Father?"

"No." Nick shook his head. "I said I'd been upset because of the death of a friend. That's all."

"Why're you telling me?" It wasn't said in a nasty or mean way, just matter-of-factly.

"You had a right to know why I've been … well, like I've been." Nick got to his feet. He dragged his big hand through his black hair, and sighed. "When you first got here all those months ago, I was so angry at Father, and I took it out on you, remember?"

Heath raised an eyebrow and smiled a little at his brother, and Nick snorted. "Yeah, I guess you would," he muttered.

"Anyway, I was so mad at Father for what he'd done to Mother. But until two days ago I really didn't make the connection with … well, with your mother. And what he'd done to her as well," Nick said gruffly. "I know he didn't know she was pregnant with you, but it isn't like he couldn't have found out." Nick grew quiet for a moment, thinking, the turned toward his younger brother. "When she realized you were coming… she could have snuffed you out of existence, but she didn't."

Heath frowned, nodding. He knew all this. He and his mother had talked this through, how she'd said she simply couldn't do it, that she just loved him too much already.

"I didn't mean to take it out on you, Heath," Nick sighed, sinking back into the chair. "I just suddenloy realized that I was no better than Father, and that… well, that hurt after I'd been so angry at him just a few months ago." He glanced at his brother. "I don't know if you'll believe me, but I probably would have taken it out on anyone I was workin' with today. You just had the bad luck it was you," he grunted.

Heath sighed and leaned back against his pillows, thinking this through. "I understand, Nick," he finally said gently. "And like I said, I'm real sorry about your friend. It's…" he swallowed, closing his eyes, shuddering in remembrance. "It ain't a good way to die," he muttered.

Nick winced, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, then drew in a deep breath. "No, it ain't," Nick agreed gruffly. He sighed and hauled himself to his feet. "Any way, I apologize, and hope you won't hold today against me."

"No, of course not, big brother," shrugged Heath, with a smile. He thought of something, and glanced at the door. "Nick… are you here before Father or instead of 'im?"

Nick chuckled. "Father's comin' up when I leave. But I wouldn't worry too much," he smiled in reassurance. "I told him the fight was all my fault."

Heath sighed in relief, then glanced again at his older brother. "I hope he didn't keep them fetters," Heath offered, with his little lop-sided smile, getting to his feet.

Nick laughed softly, remembering that day all those months ago, and headed for the door. He hesitated a moment, hand on the handle, and turned back. "Heath. I'm real glad."

"Real glad 'bout what?"

Nick swallowed hard. "Real glad your mother had the courage to bring you into the world." He looked straight into his little brother's sky-blue eyes.

Touched, Heath smiled, and nodded, saying nothing, just letting those eyes send comfort to his older brother.

Nodding, Nick sighed and left the room. Heath then walked over to the small photograph of his mother that rested on his bedside table and picked it up.

"I'm glad, too," he whispered, gazing at her sweet face.

Chapter 6: What Brothers Do

Chapter Text

March, roughly five months after Heath's mother passed away and his arrival at the Barkley Ranch

Heath rested his chin on his left fist as he read through his history text's chapter on the Monroe Doctrine and the Mexican-American War, making notes both of words that he needed to look up and of the concepts to discuss that evening with Father, when he became aware of the odd feeling of being watched.

He and Eugene were alone in the drawing room, studying at the card table; Audra was spending the night with a friend, so they'd had the table to themselves to spread out their books and other study materials. Part of his agreement with his father to avoid being sentenced to attend the Stockton School as a regular student involved Heath proving he had the self-discipline to spend an hour or so a day studying and then meeting with one member of the family or another that evening for another thirty minutes or so to discuss his work. He'd found it was easier to just do it at the same time Audra and Gene did their homework, roughly an hour to ninety minutes before supper was ready. It meant he worked a slightly shorter day with Nick but by the end of the day was just as worn out, physically and mentally, as he'd been before. Still, one hour cooped up studying sure beat a whole day, as far as he was concerned. And talking over what he'd worked on wasn't too bad… unless it was that godawful Latin.

Now, he picked up his eyes and saw Gene studying him. "What?"

Startled, Gene shrugged. "Oh, nothin'…." And went back to his own work.

Frowning, Heath shook his head and put his eyes back to his book, tapping his pencil on the sheaf of foolscap he was working with. Ten minutes later, he felt the eyes again, and just glanced up, but Gene's eyes darted back to his paper.

By the third time, Heath sighed in exasperation. "Have I grown another head, or somethin'?"

Startled, his little brother stared. "What?"

"You been starin' at me like I suddenly grew horns for the last twenty minutes," Heath snorted. "What ails you?"

"Well, nothin', really…" The eleven-year-old scratched his head, trying to figure out the best way to broach this… his new big brother could be 'a mite techy' about himself, as Silas sometimes put it. "But I kind of need some help."

A blond eyebrow raised, Heath sat back, slightly uneasy. Five months ago, Heath Morgan Thomson had been an only child, a nameless bastard born and bred in a filthy mining town, poor as dirt, raised by three women - his mother, Leah Thomson, her best friend, Rachel Caulfield, and the old, loving Negro woman Hannah James, who'd assisted Leah all of her adult life. He may not have known who his father was, but he surely knew what it was to be loved and cherished. Then Mama died, and within days Heath Morgan Thomson had become Heath Morgan Barkley, the middle of five children to wealthy Stockton rancher, Thomas Barkley. This secret had been kept from both father and son all of Heath's life until his mother's deathbed, just this past fall.

While he'd learned a great deal about family life (well, at least this family's life!) through this past winter, he still hadn't really developed much experience being an older brother (or a younger one for that matter, he thought to himself, thinking of the arguments that still occurred between himself and Nick). A lot of energy was expended trying to figure out his place, trying to determine what position a quiet listener with a stubborn streak a mile wide could have in a family of loud, boisterous, proud and volatile personalities. As he watched Gene ready himself to ask his favor, Heath swallowed and tried to tell himself to 'think about what Jarrod would do.' That was the older brother he felt he had the best handle on: the wise, canny eldest Barkley offspring, the smart lawyer who split his time between an office in San Francisco and a newly opened one here in Stockton.

"See, here's the thing," Gene said, seriously, scooting his chair next to his brother, eyes earnest. "I have an assignment for school where I have to write a paper about someone, someone I find interesting, living or dead, and I have to do research on the person. I figured, hands down, you're the most interesting person I know so I wondered if you'd let me write about you."

Heath's jaw dropped. "Me?" he asked, in a small voice. "What in heck makes me interesting?" he asked uneasily.

"Are you kidding, big brother?" grinned Gene. "You've worked in and around the gold, silver and copper mines, you've worked horse and cattle ranches, you're a natural with horses, one of the best bronc riders on the ranch, even though Father won't let you break any of the stock - "

"Gene!" Heath hissed, eyes wide putting a finger to his mouth, glancing at the closed drawing room doorway.

"Oh, don't worry about it, nobody's home but Silas," Gene waved away, making Heath roll his eyes. "Nobody knows you were ridin' Widowmaker."

"Except you," snorted Heath, glancing at the clock. "Look, I've got another ten minutes of work to do, or Father'll have my hide."

"Will you do it, please?" begged Gene.

"I ain't much about talking about myself," Heath said, uncomfortable at the very thought. "There's gotta be somebody better'n me - "

"Aw, heck," Gene grumbled. "If you don't, Father'll tan my hide!"

Surprised, Heath turned to his younger brother. "What are you talkin' about?"

Gene sighed, frustrated. Flushing, the eleven-year-old scratched an ear, embarrassed. "I .. uh… well, I didn't get some history homework done last week and lost two grades."

Heath sat back, whistling. "Boy howdy…"

"I'll say," grunted Gene, glancing nervously at his older brother. "And you know how Father is about me slacking off at school," doing his utmost to look as pitiful as possible. Heath fought a small smile.

"Anyway, I asked my teacher if there was some way I could make up the two failing grades, and she said this was the only way, to write a five-page paper using research methods."

Heath frowned. "But… how does doing a paper for English composition make up missing two history grades?" he asked, tipping his head to one side.

For pity's sake, he's just like Father! So darned logical! Gene groaned inwardly. "It's the research part of the whole thing that was important," he insisted, irritably. "C'mon, Heath. Big brothers help little brothers out, it's what brothers do, you know that!"

Heath snorted. "Oh, yeah? Well, I'll tell ya… I reckon you might wanna let Nick in on that little bit of information," he said, dryly.

"Please? C'mon, please?" he begged.

Heath hesitated… this whole thing sounded off to him, but for the very first time in the five months he'd been here, Gene had come to him, asking for help, asking for him to be a big brother. Heath bit his lip. Gene's hazel blue eyes were imploring. And he did know exactly what Father would say - and do! - about that missed homework. Sighing, Heath tugged an ear, thinking. But still…somethin' ain't right here…

"I thought we were brothers," Gene grunted, getting to his feet, angrily, and turning away… and listening behind him, hoping against hope.

"Now just hold on, I ain't said no… exactly," Heath finally said, quietly, and a little bit uneasily.

Gene had to fight to keep from crowing. He'd convinced him! "You'll keep it quiet, so Father doesn't know? I'll have my homework made up well before the grading period's over, I promise."

"I don't like that portion of this l'il project of yours, that's for doggone sure," Heath said gruffly, frowning at his younger brother. "It ain't right to lie to Father."

"I'm not!" protested Gene. "Just.. well, just not tellin' him everything up front, that's all. Once I've made up the grade, it'd just be a big tempest in a teapot."

Heath raised an eyebrow at his younger brother.

"Nick and Jarrod used to do this all the time," Gene said airily, tossing his final ace in the hole into the pot.

"What?"

"Cover for each other."

Heath frowned. "They did?" Heath repeated, doubtfully. "That doesn't sound like Jarrod."

"You can ask him," Gene insisted. "Nick, too. They'll tell ya… oh. But wait until after next week when I've turned in my paper, okay?"

The drawing room door opened suddenly, and Victoria Barkley swept in, making both boys jump in guilty surprise. "Boys, it's time for dinner, go get washed." She glanced at the papers and books between them on the table, and then at them directly, her eyes narrowing a bit. "Did you both get your work finished?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gene said. "Heath helped me out."

"Well, that was kind," she smiled at Heath, who looked preoccupied. "Did you get your work finished, honey?"

"Pretty much," he nodded, hastily. "I've only got about 10 more minutes to do. I can do it tonight before Father and I talk." He gathered his books and notes and brought them over to his father's desk for the chat after dinner.

"C'mon," urged Gene, anxious to get his brother away from Mother before she'd spot something was up, "or Nick'll use up all the hot water."

"Eugene, please clean up your mess," directed Victoria, as she headed out to the kitchen. "Heath, go ahead up, Nick's already out of the bathroom."

Gene watched Heath head upstairs to the bathroom and bit his lip, frowning. At first this had all seemed like such a good idea; Heath never told anyone much about his life before coming here. What little they knew was information Father had learned from the people who raised Heath, darned little from the boy himself. And Gene was getting tired of trying to guess his way into his brother's head. Nick couldn't bully it out of him; Jarrod couldn't cross-examine it out of him, and Audra couldn't wheedle it out of him. Heath was just like a closed book. Father said to leave him be, that when he was ready, he'd share, but he'd been here darned near five months and beyond his birthday (May 3rd), his favorite food (everything, as far as Gene had been able to determine!), his boot size (smaller than Jarrod or Nick had expected, though Father's feet were kinda small for a man his size) and the fact that he couldn't spell worth a darn, there was nothing about Heath himself that the family could say they knew.

So, Gene felt compelled to hatch an elaborate plan to try to try to find out more. Uneasily, he scratched at his ear, thinking hard. He knew he shouldn't have lied to Heath, but he couldn't figure out any other way to learn what he needed to learn. And as long as Heath thought he was helping Gene stay out of trouble with Father, everything should work according to plan.

"So, what's your earliest memory?"

Heath stopped raking out the stall, glancing over his shoulder at Gene. "My what?"

"What's the oldest thing you can remember?"

"Why?"

Gene rolled his eyes. "Because it's an … esta…establishing question… " Gene answered patiently. "So what's your earliest memory and how old do you think you were?"

Frowning, Heath started raking again, thinking. "I reckon… I never thought about it. I don't rightly know," he said softly. He closed his eyes for a moment, and allowed his mind to travel back. A dark room, and an image of a crackling fire… a pattern on fabric… yellow flowers on a pale blue background…. an apron? No… blanket, maybe. Of movement… forward and back, forward and back… a soft voice, humming… It wasn't Rachel, because God love her, Rachel couldn't carry a tune if the poor thing had handles… and the small, delicate hands that held him were white not black, so it couldn't have been Hannah. "I musta been very small… I think… I think maybe being rocked to sleep in front of a fire, and my mama hummin'," he said very softly, remembering… then came to himself and the present, and flushed, bashful and uncomfortable. He frowned. "Don't write that."

Gene looked up in surprise "Why not?"

"It's… it's private," Heath answered, flushing beet red.

"But…" Gene sighed. "All right, maybe we should do more recent parts of your life," he said cheerfully. "Did you ever have a pet?"

"Yeah… had a dog, Rusty. For a little while."

"What kind?"

Heath chuckled. "All kinds... I reckon you name a breed, Rusty had a bit in there."

Gene smiled. "He sounds nice."

"He was," Heath sighed, setting the rake aside and grabbing a shovel. He glanced at his younger brother. "Uh, I understand that you have to do some homework, but does me helping you mean I gotta do YOUR share o' the chores, too?" he grinned.

Gene blushed. "Oh, sorry," he giggled. "I got caught up in my questions."

Gene fetched the wheelbarrow, and he and Heath shoveled together, then Gene pulled down fresh straw while Heath brought the dumpings back to the manure pit, and returned with the wheelbarrow.

"So you said you had him for awhile," Gene continued. "How old were ya?"

Heath swallowed hard. "I… I was ten," he said softly.

Gene grew a little troubled. "He… he died, didn't he?"

Heath nodded. "Yeah," Heath responded quietly, then he looked at his little brother. "Don't ask me how, Gene." Heath winced to remember his beloved puppy… kicked to death by a vicious, drunk miner who'd tripped over him while staggering out of the saloon. Heath winced and started putting away the tools.

Gulping slightly, Gene nodded. "Uh, okay."

As Heath and Gene worked to spread fresh straw in all the stalls, and then guided the animals back in from the corral, the little boy struggled to find something to ask that didn't have some kind of sadness attached to it, and realized with a sudden shock that there were likely very few times in his brother's life that weren't sad ones. Desperate to change the subject, Gene took a stab in the dark. "Did your mother name you for someone special, or did she just like the name? Father always liked the name Eugene, that's why that's my name, and my middle name is for my Uncle Thor. Theodore was his given name but we always call him Uncle Thor."

Heath smiled, thinking of the Norse gods, and Thor as God of Thunder. "Is he loud, like Nick?" he grinned.

Gene laughed. "He is!"

Heath thought a moment. "Heath was a name my Mama liked," he smiled. "It means 'man who dwells in the wild, untamed land.' She said it was English, like from England, I mean," he continued. He frowned a little as he continued. "Morgan is for my granddaddy, her daddy," he said thoughtfully. "He was a miner. They came west from Kentucky in '49 'cause her daddy wanted to try his luck in the gold fields."

Gene was about to ask, "Did he find a strike?" but stopped in time, realizing that if Heath's grandfather had done so, he wouldn't have been living so poor when Father found him last year.

Heath thought back to his grandfather, that old, useless drunk who'd made his mother's life a livin' hell when he was in his cups. Heath realized these last few minutes he'd gone from feeling pretty good about his day to being down in spirits, and sighed. "Uh, Gene… I gotta get some stuff done before I talk with Nick tonight about my arithmetic," he said quietly, and eyes lowered, he headed to the wash house to get cleaned up before going inside.

The one day of the week when Heath Barkley generally had a little free time he could call his own, time for which he really didn't have to answer to anyone, was on Saturday afternoons. Generally speaking, he completed all of his chores by just after lunch at the latest, usually well before that, and had until supper time to do what he liked. Growing up dirt poor in Strawberry, the concept of unfettered time was pretty much alien to the boy; darned near every waking hour, from the time he turned seven, was either working for wages, or helping his mother, Aunt Rachel or Hannah.

Heath drew in a deep breath of cool March air as he sat, tall and relaxed in his saddle, on enough of a rise to be able to not risk Gal's footing in the tule fog that blanketed the lower elevations after last night's rains. So much different than what he'd known, all of his life. A stout pair of boots that fit him, warm clothes on a cold day, a horse under his backside, and a full belly. Heath closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment. While he was grateful for all of this, and while he'd learned to care deeply about, even love, this new family of his, he missed who he had lost very badly.

He missed being fussed over by Hannah, who always found a way to make sure he had even just a piece of cornbread or half an apple with him for when he got hungry while working a long, hard day. He missed Aunt Rachel gently smacking the back of his head and then giving him a kiss on his cheek when he teased her. And he still mourned the loss of his mother's tender hug and loving support on those days when life just felt so very, very hard. Those nights she would come sit by his bed, and run her fingers through his hair when he was angry or upset and let him talk through his troubles, always listening, always making sure he felt that he was the most special thing in her world. And he never, ever doubted it.

Heath had learned over the last months that giving himself a moment and just breathing through the memories, rather than trying to fight remembering, usually made them easier to bear. Surprisingly, his father had taught him that. "You can't run from memories, son," he'd said one night, not long after Heath had been at the Barkley ranch, probably only a few weeks after his mother had died.

Heath had struggled with his grief and his homesickness those first few weeks, trying hard to behave as his mother would want most days, giving in to his sadness and anger on others, which would put him at odds especially with his next elder brother. Heath wasn't a talkative person by nature on the best of days; when he was suffering under the crushing load of grief his mother's death had brought him, he'd pick at his meals, speak only when spoken to and often disappear in the evenings. One night, his father finally found him in the barn, exhausted with trying to keep his composure, stretched out on his stomach in the hayloft.

Heath remained face down, his face buried in his arms, despite knowing it was disrespectful not to stand up when an elder came into the room, even if the room was just a hayloft. Mama'd give him a good smack on the seat of his britches and tell him to behave… but then he remembered that no, she wouldn't. She wouldn't ever do that again. He almost laughed, but the chuckle turned into a strangled sob when he realized that he'd even welcome her comin' at him with that godawful switch she used when he was acting 'pertickler ornery' if it meant he could hug her just one more time.

Father didn't seem angry with him, though. He'd climbed up the ladder, and when Heath didn't answer him when he called out his name, just tightened in on himself, Father had come all the way up the ladder and came over beside him. Father was a big man, strong if a bit portly now, his dark blond hair and eyebrows streaked liberally with gray and his beard almost completely silver, so when he got down on the hay loft floor with Heath, the boy heard the slight grunt of effort and felt the thud of the big body.

Father said nothing, just placed his big, strong hand lightly on Heath's back and rubbed gently with his fingertips, around and under his shoulder blades, easing the tension keeping them tight and rigid. For a bit, nothing more was said. The Father's hand moved from his back to his head and stroked him.

Heath squeezed shut his eyes and went rigid. "Don't…. please…."

Mama did that!

But Father didn't stop. "You don't have to always hold it in, you know."

Heath flinched.

Don't you start your bawlin', boy! Stop that right now or I'll give you a good reason to cry! Be a man! His Uncle Matt's voice haunted his thoughts, until, to his surprise, Thomas Barkley's voice now began to finally chase that voice away.

"Sometimes… sometimes things just hurt too much to keep them buried inside you, Heath," the man said very gently. "You've got to let them out or have someone help you to do it." He said no more for the moment, just moved back to rubbing the youngster's back. Heath tried to recall if his mother had ever done that, and honestly couldn't remember it. Mama would run her fingers through his hair, and that always felt good on his scalp. Maybe it was because he tended to sleep on his back, and … and, well, that he'd never been afraid to cry in front of his mother. She would dry his tears, always, and hold his hand. But this… Father rubbing his back like this... Heath sighed, feeling comforted but in a very different way, and realizing his breathing had calmed down a bit.

"Missing her tonight?" Father asked quietly.

"I miss her all the time," Heath whispered. "Tonight's… worse'n most."

The hand stilled for a moment, then started again. "I'm sorry, son," his father sighed. "I'm sorry you're hurting so much, but it truly goes to show how wonderful your mama was, and how much you love her. I wish there was something I could do to take away the pain, but I know I can't." The big man patted his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Something you should know, though. And I imagine it isn't what you're used to hearing."

Heath remained still, but listened.

"Men cry, too. We just tend to do it away from people who wouldn't understand." The man once against stroked his son's blond head, then patted his bottom in comfort. "Here, in this house, Heath… we all understand. You can't run from memories, son. So, don't try. It's fresh now, and it hurts… but in time, I promise you, in time those memories will be very precious to you rather than just painful. I promise."

That had been months ago, now, Heath realized. He still thought of her so much of the day, but it wasn't as awful as it had been then. Father hadn't lied to him.

Heath exhaled, and looked around the landscape… where would be the best place to practice? He knew Nick and most of the hands would be on the other side of the Ranch today, working on fence and infrastructure maintenance, getting ready for the spring round up and drive. He'd carefully listened to see where Father and Nick were deploying everyone. No one, as far as he'd been able to learn, was coming here, near the Barkley vineyards.

With a gentle heel, Heath got Gal moving into vineyards, being very, very careful to stay away from the vines themselves. Father had walked him through the vineyards when he first arrived, just as harvest was about to begin, pointing out important items to be careful of.

"It's best if you steer clear of here until you're a bit older, Heath," Father had said seriously. "There's a lot of money tied up in the vineyard, and too many ways for something to go wrong. Mortally expensive things. Got it?"

At the time, he'd nodded. He wasn't anywhere near as interested in grape vines as he was in the rest of the ranch, but now this quiet haven, or at least quiet until next month when the season picked up again, was exactly the kind of lonely spot he needed.

Heath dismounted and tied Gal up in a sunny area near plenty of grazing, and reached in his saddle bags, removing a bundle of leather. Once unrolled, a sturdy, well-used but oiled leather holster and revolver came free and Heath comfortably buckled the belt low around his slim hips and tied down the thigh lace. He released the safety thong over the gun's hammer and drew out the weapon, examining it. Since the day Heath had won this revolver in a poker game from a former Union soldier down on his luck two years back in Strawberry, this weapon had been clean as a whistle, perfectly oiled and maintained, just like Heath's rifle. But since arriving here, outside of Stockton at the Barkley Ranch, the revolver had remained rolled up in its holster hidden deep in Heath's belongings (and that was a neat trick when he first arrived, since he had damned few of those). This was his first time pulling it out after many months.

"Chile, you ain't gonna need that where you goin'," Hannah had said gently, when he was packing up his gear. "You won' gotta be the one protectin' the Barkley fam'ly, like you was here." She put her hands on his shoulders squeezing gently. "You can be, jus' a boy like you should'a been able t'be."

"You think so?" he'd said, scoffing. "It ain't like I can wipe away the last ten years, Hannah." He rolled it up.

Hannah hesitated. "I don' 'magine your daddy goin' t'like you wearing that, no more'n yo' mama did… you only fifteen. You still just a chile, honey. Ain't no need - "

He picked up his head, blond brows lowered over his azure-blue eyes.

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Heath Morgan Thomson, you a caution," she'd finally sighed in resignation. "Stubborn as a mule. Just you be careful, you promise me?"

He'd relented a little, then, realizing she was just worried for him, and sighed, nodding. "I promise, Hannah."

And so, his Remington, a model 1858 in near-new condition, had remained rolled in its holster in his bedroll. But now, Heath Morgan Barkley was beginning to feel at home on Barkley range… and felt like sowing a few wild oats.

That morning, when Heath had been cleaning the rifle cabinet, he'd also 'inventoried' (read, counted) the boxes of ammunition for all the firearms on the ranch, including the sidearms. They were all kept in the rifle cabinet, except for Father's Nick's and Jarrod's pistols. There were a couple of ladies' guns, and some spare sidearms. Awhile back, when Heath had commented on it, his eyes bright and hopeful, Father had sternly warned him that touching any of them without permission would earn him a trip over his father's lap, and one he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

"Your rifle is the only firearm you need at your age, youngster, and don't you forget it," Thomas Barkley had stated firmly. "You hear me, Heath?"

When he'd frowned, and his lower lip jutted a bit, Tom Barkley had gripped his shoulder firmly, not painfully, but firmly, and turned him around, right sharp. "I said, did you hear me?" Two pairs of matching sky-blue eyes - one set firm, no-nonsense, the other stubborn - stared into each other. Tom Barkley expected to be obeyed in this, no questions asked.

Heath frowned, but nodded. "I heard you, sir," he answered, respectfully. And he obeyed, not touching any of the sidearms in the gun cabinet, except to clean them as part of his chores.

But Father hadn't said anything about Heath's own gun… the fact Father didn't know about it was moot, as far as Heath was concerned.

So, the boy had slipped a box of .44 cartridges into his saddlebags, determined to save up and replace them when he got paid at the end of the month.

Heath decided to concentrate on just target practice, on remembering the feel of the weapon again, and not worry too much about fast draw practice right now, though when he'd been in Strawberry, he'd cultivated that to a fine art as well as honing his target skills; he'd needed to know he could defend the women of his family if necessary. But after the recent dust-up with one of the ranchers to the south over water rights, making Father, Jarrod, Nick and several of the hands take off in the middle of the night, pistols and rifles at the ready, made Heath realize that if nothing else, he was the one left at home to protect his new women - Mother and Audra, as well as young Gene. And so, his Remington came out of hiding.

At a variance of roughly 15, 25, 50 and 100 feet, Heath went about the effort of setting up a number of items as targets. His first few shots were wide, to his irritation, and he settled himself doing his best to go back in his thoughts as to how it had felt to shoot this gun, seeking out muscle memory he knew was there. By shot five, he was once again in a groove, hitting what he was aiming at, arm extended, or from the hip. And for the next forty-five minutes or so, Heath Barkley relaxed and enjoyed some target practice… defiantly using a kind of weapon that he knew, if he was being honest with himself, he'd been forbidden to touch.

Early Sunday morning, before breakfast and before everyone would either mount up or get into the carriage to head to church, Heath knocked on Gene's bedroom door.

Gene opened the door, peering around the side in case it was Mother or Audra. When he saw Heath, he grinned and gestured him in. "Hey," he grinned, continuing to button his shirt.

"Hey," said Heath quietly, glancing back at the hallway and then slipping into his little brother's room. "Gene, I need to talk to you."

"Okay," nodded Gene, tucking in his shirttail. "Your tie's crooked."

"What? Oh." Heath impatiently glanced at his tie in Gene's mirror and straightened it out.

"So, what did ya wanna talk about?" asked Gene, curiously.

Heath was obviously uncomfortable about something.

"Um… " he sighed. "Well, Gene, here's the thing. I been doing some thinking… and.." He swallowed hard and glanced uneasily at his brother. "I reckon I'd like to leave off on this research homework assignment you've got."

Gene stared at him. "But.. why?" he demanded in dismay.

Heath frowned. "I just… I just reckon there's nothin' that interestin' about me. And… well, I don't much like talkin' about myself."

"Yeah, we noticed," Gene grunted, turning his back on his brother and picking up his suit jacket.

Heath, sighed, feeling bad. "I'm sorry, I truly am. And I'll be glad to help you do the research you need to do on anybody else so's that paper can get done in time, I promise."

"Forget it," snapped Gene, shrugging angrily into his coat.

"But I know you have to get it done for this week."

"I said don't worry about it!" Gene snapped back. "It was all just a big story anyhow."

Nonplused, Heath stared at him. "A… what?"

"Forget it," Gene grunted heading for the door.

"Oh, no you don't." Startled, Gene glanced at the iron grip on his upper arm and looked up into a white face. "Whaddo you mean, a big story?"

Gene pulled his arm loose and glared at his brother. "Getting you to tell us anything about yourself is like getting blood from a stone! We've all tried to get you to open up and talk, but nothin'! You're clammed up like a convict!"

Beginning to get an idea of what was going on, Heath's face grew paler. "You mean… this was all some act…some way to get me to talk about myself…"

"Yeah, stupid me wanted to get to know my brother a little better," Gene sniffed, starting again for the door… and was utterly shocked when he was shoved hard against it.

"Wanted to get to 'know' me?!" Heath snarled. "By lyin' to me?! By usin' me?"

Startled out of his own arrogance, Gene looked up, a little scared at a version of Heath he'd never seen before. A very angry version.

"I wouldn't call it usin'…" he faltered.

"What the hell WOULD you call it, Eugene?" demanded Heath, right in his younger brother's face. "So, it was all a lie. The whole nonsense about missed homework and worried about bein' in trouble with Father? All of it?"

Scared, Gene swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm… I'm sorry," he whispered.

Panting hard, Heath suddenly released his brother and backed away, face white, fists clenched. "I… I…" Heath swallowed hard and yanked open Gene's door, sending his younger brother tumbling to the floor, and pelted down the hallway to the backstairs.

Frightened, Gene swallowed and leaned against his doorjamb, worried.

Church was a difficult affair. They were slightly late because Father had first had to find, and then drag an angry, stubborn Heath from the barn and thrust him into the buggy beside Audra, not permitting him to ride like the rest of the brothers. "Of all the ridiculous nonsense," Tom had sputtered, marching Heath forcibly out of the barn, and boosting him into the buggy with a solid, painful whack to his backside. Heath winced and got into the seat, planning to pout the whole trip in, until Tom wagged a finger under his nose. "You will lose the attitude, Heath Barkley! You'll also sit still and behave yourself at services, young man, or you'll be eating your lunch standing up! You understand me?!" Even Victoria could see something was desperately wrong. Poor Heath looked heartbroken, but he stoically nodded, sitting rigidly silent the whole trip into Stockton. Nick and Jarrod glanced at each other in concern as well. It was long ride in, Audra glancing worriedly at Heath, pale, mouth clamped shut and eyes glistening the whole trip.

Father had put the fear of God, literally, into him and he did sit still during the service, seated between Nick and Audra, but Audra also noticed that Gene was also paler than usual and kept glancing at his brother. So, she thought, something is up between the two of them...

Heath barely touched his lunch and asked to be excused before the meal was finished. Father studied him: face white and pinched, his mouth a hard line. "Yes, you may. But why don't you and I talk a bit after I'm finished, all right?" Father knew something was up, and now regretted the anger he'd shown earlier. He had to keep remembering that he hadn't raised Heath from babyhood, and that this boy's reactions to issues and problems were going to be different that his other four.

Heath made no response, taking the 'yes' and quickly leaving the table, throwing his napkin on his chair. Gene worriedly studied his plate, not eating much either. When he was excused at the end of the meal, he went hunting.

"Leave me alone," Heath said, flatly, as he lay up in the hayloft, ignoring Gene as much as humanly possible.

"Heath, c'mon," Gene tried wheedling. "What are you so mad about?"

Heath turned on his brother, startling the younger boy and making him retreat a couple of steps. "If you don't know, then no sense in me tellin' ya," Heath sneered. "But I'll sure bet Father'll be interested!"

Gene blanched. "But … "

Heath glared at him.

Gene simply couldn't understand why Heath was so upset, choosing to completely let go of his own culpability in the situation. And in order to stop feeling bad about himself, Gene got riled and stuck his own obstinate chin out. "You tell Father about this, and I'll have somethin' to tell him, too!"

Shocked, Heath turned and stared at his brother. "You wouldn't!"

"Watch me!" snapped Gene. "I'll tell him about Widowmaker.. and I'll tell him about that Remington you got hid at the bottom of Gal's straw bale!" Gene bolted as he saw Heath come flying up and slid fast down the ladder, pelting toward the door. But he was no match for Heath's long legs.

"I don't believe this!" Heath seethed, gripping a fistful of his little brother's shirt collar. "First, you humiliate me, and now you're threatenin' me, too?"

"I just wanted to learn more about you!" Gene cried. "You never tell us anything about yourself! We've all tried, but you won't share nothin'!"

"That's my business!" Heath shouted.

"Hey, you two!"

The boys immediately separated as Mr. McColl, the ranch foreman came in, frowning. "You boys know better than to carry on so around these animals! What's this all about?"

"Nothin', sir," muttered Gene.

McColl glanced at Heath. "Nothing, Mr. McColl," Heath answered quietly.

Exhaling in frustration, McColl opened the door and pointed out. "Take it outside, whatever it is, or I'll have to have a word with your daddy. Understood?"

The boys nodded and slunk out. Once the door shut behind them, Gene's hand shot out and grabbed Heath's arm. "If you don't tell, I won't tell," he said, his eyes boring into Heath's.

Heath stared down at him and shook himself free. "Fine," he spat. "But I ain't never talkin' to you again, Eugene Theodore Barkley." At with that, Heath stalked away toward the ranch's outbuildings, head down and his hands in his pockets, leaving a very troubled younger brother watching his retreating back.

It was still early, no more than about 7:30 in the morning, and surprisingly hot for late March. Nick found himself further up in the rocks than he'd expected to be. A trio of beef had straggled off in the night from the main group and wandered. To his great irritation, Heath was nowhere to be found this morning, or Nick would have sent him out looking. But all this last week, brother Heath had been like a horse with a burr under his saddle: restless, irritable and sullen. He'd get his chores done, and didn't slack off, but would disappear for hours at a time. Usually, this younger brother would be at his elbow, wanting to learn this, that or the other thing about the ranch, asking questions, and would want to see how Nick or Father would perform their jobs in order to be able to have these new talents and skills become part of his own set of ranching tools. But since some childish falling out with Gene last Sunday before church, Heath had been at loose ends, needing escape from the family rather than connection.

Come to that, thought Nick, as he and Coco picked their way through the terrain, hunting, Gene had been at odds with himself as well. What the heck is going on between those two? Nick wondered. Normally they got along like gangbusters; maybe Audra knows something? Nick decided he'd try to corner her a bit before supper tonight to find out what he could. If not, he'd have to confront Gene and find out what the heck was going on: Heath was too valuable to him and to the ranch to have this continue much longer.

Nick snorted to himself… never thought I'd hear myself say that!

Regardless, Heath was gonna get an earful once Nick got his hands on him. The boy had just taken off, period, without letting anyone know where he was headed, and he still had a passel of chores to get finished, Saturday or no Saturday. He knows better!

The black-haired cowboy scanned the terrain, grateful that these last four or five days of unseasonably warm temperatures had also burned off the tule fog, making his hunt for missing cattle a bit easier. As his sharp eyes sought out any telltale hint of red-brown fur in the gray-green-brown of the terrain, Nick suddenly sat up sharp at the sound of a pistol report. Who in the world was up here shooting off a gun in the middle of nowhere? And why? On Barkley range?! Grimly, he turned Coco's head toward the echo of shot and picked up speed, all senses alerted for sounds or sights that didn't belong.

= = = = =

Heath slipped his pistol back in his holster, nodding gravely to himself. That was better, closer to the speed he'd been able to achieve back in Strawberry a few months back. It's just gonna take time to get those reflexes honed again. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing the early morning breeze to dry off his neck… felt the morning sun, already hot, beating down on his shoulders. He smelled the fresh scents of the morning… the tarry fragrance of black sage, the freshness of the grasses, the sweetness of the occasional wildflowers blooming where you wouldn't expect them… So different from what he'd grown up with in Strawberry. He found that quiet space inside himself, calmed his unsettled spirit, and put everything out of his mind but the task at hand.

Slowly he opened his eyes, focused on a small sapling…and the next moment it was shredded as he drew and palmed the hammer of his pistol. In place of the tiny tree were shards of the bark and leaves floating in the desert air.

"Holy cow!"

Heath whirled in shock, gun drawn with a tight bead on the source of the voice… his younger brother, first eyes wide in admiration… and then terror.

= = = = =

Nick had just cleared the rise when he spied the figure of someone just standing… not doing anything, just standing… in the middle a group of rocks. A slight movement behind the figure caught Nick's eye as well, and he spotted a smaller figure sitting on the rocks slightly about the first man. No... that wasn't a man, that first figure couldn't be more than a boy, from his size… Then Nick recognized the pale, sage green sheepskin jacket. What in hell is Heath doing all the way out here? He focused immediately on the smaller figure and realized in shock that had to be Gene. And before he could think of anything else, Nick Barkley watched his next younger brother go from standing to a slight crouch and heard six fast reports of pistol shots, and watched a small tree growing out of a stone outcropping explode into shreds. Shocked, Nick had trouble getting the words my little brother and fast draw to work together in his mind. Then suddenly alarmed, Nick immediately spun his gaze back at Gene, praying to God that no stray ricochet had found its way near the younger boy. When Gene seemed to be fine, Nick clenched his teeth and sent Coco quickly moving toward the boys. I'm gonna beat that kid until he's black and blue! He'll have to ride home flopped over his saddle, because he sure ain't gonna be able to sit when I get finished with him!

= = = = =

Heath immediately dropped the muzzle of the gun, thanking God that he'd emptied all the chambers, and started to shake.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Heath shouted at his younger brother, badly rattled. "I could've killed you!"

Eugene gulped. He actually did know better than to come up on someone with a gun in their hand without giving clear notice, but he'd been so shocked and surprised by Heath's ability with that pistol that he'd forgotten everything he'd ever been taught about firearm safety all of his life. "I-I'm sorry, " he stammered, slowly climbing down from the rock he'd been perched on.

"Why'd you follow me here?" demanded Heath, in disgust now, beginning to calm back down and reloading his pistol. "Lookin' for more nuggets, somethin' else you can use t' blackmail me?"

"No!" his little brother protested.

"Then why? What else do you want to know? What other secrets about me do you think you're gonna get? I got nothing for you! NOTHING!'

"Please, Heath, I just wanted to talk to you, to try to explain - "

"Well, you can't!" Heath turned his back. "'Cause I ain't interested in anything you got to say."

"But - "

= = = = =

Nick threw himself off Coco, dropped his reins, and started stalking up over the rocks, getting madder by the moment. He had just cleared the last stumbling block of rocks coming into the little notch where his brothers seemed to be fighting with other - God, what else is new with these two? - until he saw Heath suddenly whirl and fire.

= = = = =

"I said I - "

….RRATTTTLLLLEEEEE….

In horrified shock, Gene's head swiveled to the ground roughly eighteen inches away from his feet to the coiled source of the sounds that had turned his blood cold.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Scrambling backward, Gene lost his footing and landed, painfully, on the rocks staring in shock first at what remained of the large rattlesnake then swung his gaze to his brother, whose eyes were intense and hot but composed, gun outstretched and black smoke wafting in the air around him. Heath swallowed, let out a shaky breath and then sprang toward Gene.

"Gene! For God's sake, Eugene!" Nick ran for his baby brother, still sprawled on the ground twenty feet away, his legs obviously having given out from shock.

Heath had vaulted over several rocks to get to Gene as well and was running his hands fast over his brother's body, looking for blood, bite marks, any indication that he hadn't been fast enough. "You're all right? You ain't been bit?" he demanded, pushing up Gene's pants legs and examining above the boot line.

"N-n-n-no… I'm f-f-fine," Gene stammered, his teeth chattering.

As soon as Nick got there, he checked Gene as well, then whirled on Heath. Startled and scared, not understanding, Heath tried to back away, but Nick grabbed him, looking at his arms and hands frantically. "You're all right? It didn't get you, either?"

"I'm fine," Heath nodded, turning back around, looking at the snake, which lay dead, in pieces, roughly two feet away. "Wh-where did you come from?" he asked, shaking his head a little, struggling to get himself back under control. He then noticed Gene shivering in shock, and quickly shucked his jacket, wrapping the additional warmth around Gene. "You better get him home," he muttered. "He's pretty shook up."

"I'd better get you both home," declared Nick, "And trust me, you and I are gonna have a talk later on about why I was up here." He gripped Heath by the shoulder. "In the meantime, well, that was some damn fine shooting, boy," he said with quiet admiration, gazing into shaken blue eyes. His plans for a scolding dissipated a bit as he saw Heath was as unsettled as Gene. For the moment, he squeezed the boy's shoulder in support. "You saved his life. I'm… well, I wish I could say Father will be as pleased."

Gene was still shivering but piped up now. "Nick, does he have t' know?" he asked, his teeth chattering. "Y-you could s-say you shot it."

Nick raised an eyebrow at the two boys. "I ain't lying for you, Eugene Theodore Barkley," he said sternly, adding Heath to his glare, the intention of a scolding back in the forefront once more, "not for either of you. Obviously, you're involved in this mess in some way; we've all known something was up since last Sunday," he said, glaring at Gene. "So, don't think you're out of the woods. As for you!" Nick seemed to suddenly puff up to twice his size as he swung on the older of the two boys. Heath flinched for a second but held his ground.

"Where did you get that weapon? And what the hell were you thinking, shooting in the rocks?" Nick demanded, as the adrenaline coursing through him began to desperately need a vent.

"Well, there's no one to hit," Heath snapped back, answering the second question and hoping his bravado was hiding how scared he felt.

"Except you or your horse!" Nick yelled at him. "You never heard the word ricochet, boy?!"

Heath opened his mouth to return a volley, then went white. He swallowed hard and looked up, shamefaced, at his brother. Nick nodded, in satisfaction. Never thought of that one, did you, Smart Alec?!

"Get your gear, both of you," Nick grunted. "Where's your horse?" he demanded of Gene. Swallowing hard, Gene nodded toward a clump of trees roughly 50 yards away. "Go get him. You, go fetch Gal and bring her here," he snapped at Heath. "I don't want either of you out of my sight until I hand your sorry hides over to Father. Now, git!"

It had been a long, silent ride home, and Nick didn't offer them the relief of talking things out. He chose instead to let them stew in their own juices for the trek.

Truth to tell, Nick was doing some stewing of his own. How do I handle this? He wondered. If Heath hadn't had that gun on him, and if he hadn't been as good a shot as he is, or as fast a draw as just about anybody else I've ever seen wearin' iron - including me, goddammit! - Gene'd be dead now. O' course, if Heath hadn't had the damn gun, they wouldn't have been up there in the first place… Nick bit his lip, thinking. He knew Father had told Heath that his rifle was the only firearm he was going to have for the time being; he knew because Tom had shared that information with Nick, chuckling about the disappointed look on the boy's face.

"Can you imagine, a fifteen-year-old loose in Stockton with a sidearm strapped to his hips? God almighty, save me from half-grown boys," Tom had muttered that day, shaking his head. But, Nick thought, Father doesn't know the boy can handle himself, and obviously had a reason for it. If there was anything else Nick had learned about this enigmatic little brother, Heath always had a reason for the things he knew, the things he did.

They trotted in through the gates, and when Heath started to turn toward the barn, Nick said, "Nope. Front door. Both of you."

"I think I'm gonna puke," Gene whispered, looking a little green. Heath looked decidedly nervous as well.

"Better do it out here before you go in then," advised Nick, dryly, dismounting. "You know how Mother feels about her rugs. Ciego! Put up the horses, willya?"

Nick put an arm around each little brother's shoulders as much to keep them from bolting as in support as he walked them into the house and into Father's library.

It had taken a long, long time to get the whole story out, from Gene's convoluted efforts to find ways to get to know his older brother, to Heath's disobedience with his pistol. Victoria and Tom had blanched to hear about the rattlesnake, and both parents were angered by the little bit of mutual blackmail the brothers had perpetrated.

By the end of the 'discussion,' poor Gene was already crying, and Heath was pale as a sheet. Both boys were sorrier than they'd ever, ever been… and both had a feeling they'd soon be sorrier still.

"All right, so let me see if I've got this straight," began Father, ominously quiet. He fixed his gaze first on Eugene. "You decided that you weren't getting enough information about your brother fast enough to suit you, so created an elaborate ruse to trick him into believing that you'd be in trouble if he didn't help you to deceive me. Then, when, amazingly," said Tom in exasperated derision, "the floor fell outta that little escapade, you decided to turn to blackmail in order to forestall some much-deserved punishment for being so cruel and deceitful."

Lifting a hand, Tom counted off the crimes, one by one. "You lied, multiple times over multiple issues," he stated baldly, putting up his forefinger. "You betrayed your brother's trust, probably to a point beyond repair." Finger number two rose. "You stalked him like a criminal, spying on him, betraying his trust even more, and putting yourself into danger." Finger number three. "And you chose to make his life a misery because you didn't have the courage to face your own mistakes." Finger number four. Tears rolled down Gene's face as he miserably studied the tips of his boots. "What exactly do you have to say for yourself?"

Hiccuping, Gene murmured, "I'm s-sorry…"

"Sorry you did it?" snapped his father. "Or sorry you got caught?!" And the floodgates opened. "Go to your room and get changed for bed. I'll be up shortly."

Bawling, Gene hurried from the room and ran up the stairs.

Then the curtain went up on Act Two of this little family drama as Tom turned toward the larger miscreant in the room. "And now you," grunted Tom, exhaling. "Did I or did I not, just a month ago, make it clear to you that you were not to use any other firearm than your rifle?"

Heath swallowed hard. "Well, um… actually, you said I wasn't to touch the ones in the cabinet - "

Tom's hand slammed down onto his desk like a sledge on an anvil. Heath jumped and winced. "Don't you dare pull that nonsense, Heath Morgan Barkley!" he roared. "You knew exactly what I meant, and you outright defied me! You knew it was wrong, and you chose to do it anyway. Didn't you?" He glared straight at his son. Scared, Heath looked up, flinched at the expression of disgust and anger he saw, knowing he was expected to answer. He couldn't speak but nodded.

Grimly, Tom pointed at Heath's hips. "Take that thing off, now."

His hands shaking, Heath unbuckled his gun belt and removed it. His father's hand was outstretched. Heath hesitated. Tom's arm extended further, palm up, and his expression was inexorable. Unhappily, Heath handed it over. Tom rolled it up and placed it on his desk.

"Go to your room and change for bed. Don't even think of altering your path upstairs."

Heath swallowed hard and trudged for the stairs, climbing them wearily. Like Gene, he knew being sent to his room to get ready for bed at roughly 1:30 in the afternoon didn't bode well…

Tom leaned over his desk, palms splayed out, and closed his eyes, shaking his head. Victoria was shaken, and ran a hand over her face. She looked at her husband to try to see how he was holding up, and then noticed that Nick was unobtrusively still in the room.

"Father."

Starting in surprise, Tom looked up; apparently, he hadn't realized Nick was still in the room either.

"I'd like to … respectfully… ask that you rethink your plans for Heath," Nick said quietly.

"The boy's earned a whipping and that exactly what he's going to get."

"I understand how you feel but - '

"Nick - "

"Father, you weren't there!" Nick finally hollered. Shocked at being talked back to, Tom's eyes widened. Nick took advantage of the moment. "I understand why you're angry, and I agree, he deserves to be punished, but I don't think he deserves a licking."

His jaw working, Tom studied his second born.

Nick drew a breath and tried again. "Father, he's good, and he's fast. He drilled three shots into that snake before I could clear my gun from my holster. If he hadn't been there, Gene'd be dead," Nick said baldly. Victoria moaned slightly, and swallowed.

Tom angrily drew himself up straight, pointing a finger in his son's face. "If he'd obeyed me in the first place, neither of them would have been in danger!" he declared.

"Yes, I agree, but he was there, and Gene did follow him." Nick shrugged, helplessly. "They're boys, Father, and they're Barkleys. You know as well as I do, things like this happen. My point is… well, he's been using that gun for a while." Tom stopped for a moment and looked, searchingly, at Nick's face.

"You don't get that good in a couple of months, you know that," said Nick quietly. "And you tell me: In all the months he's been here, have you ever known Heath to do something, good or bad, without having a solid reason for it? It might not be a reason that'd keep his hide intact, but it's a reason, always."

Tom harrumphed and walked in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, his hands on his hips.

"I think you need to talk to him and ask him why he's got that pistol, why it was important for him to learn to use it." Nick walked over to his father, seeing the mood had shifted just slightly. "I wouldn't be surprised if… well, if he had to be the one to protect his mother and the other two ladies that lived with them."

Victoria's eyes closed. Of course! Why didn't we think of that?

"Now that doesn't change the fact that he disobeyed you, and I agree, ya can't just let that go. But, well…" Nick sighed, running a big hand through his black hair as his father turned his face to the fire in the grate. "Doggone it, Father, Heath's not a typical 15-year-old, you know that!"

Tom turned to his son, eyeing him.

"That boy's had to grow up fast, too fast, to be honest, and face things in his short life I can't even imagine," Nick insisted. He drew in a breath; gazing into his father's face, he said, gently, "You can't just turn that experience backwards and pretend it never happened just because you want him to stay a little boy awhile longer. Heath's a mixture… boy and man. You're just gonna have to figure out how to be a father to someone in between like that. After all, it ain't his fault, is it?"

Tom studied Nick, and his expression softened slightly. "When did you get so smart?'

Nick chuckled, shaking his head.

"I suppose you think Gene's suffered enough, too?" asked Tom, lightly, having an idea that Nick believed otherwise, as he did himself.

Nick frowned. "Nope," he replied, firmly. "Father, I know why Eugene did it, God knows Heath bein' close-mouthed as a clam annoys the livin' bejeesus out of me, too. But how that little squirt played this whole thing out? Nope. That was just plain wrong. Heath has trouble trusting people as it is, and with his little stunt, Gene's done more to set him back than anything that's happened since he's been here. I never would have believed how devious and dishonest my baby brother could be, never, no matter what his reasons were."

"Well, thank you, Nick for your viewpoint. Why don't you let your mother and I talk for moment, then I'll go upstairs and deal with your brothers."

Nick nodded and left the room, feeling a bit better. No matter what condition Heath's rear end would be in in an hour, Nick had done the best he could for him.

The house was quiet after the long, difficult afternoon and evening. Heath lay on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep just yet. He found the fact that he COULD lay on his back was nothing short of astonishing. When Father and he talked it out, and he explained why he had the pistol and admitted, shamefaced, that he'd deliberately kept its existence secret because he didn't want to give it up, Heath fully expected the whipping he knew he deserved. But Father had shocked him and said he'd decided on another route.

Earlier, Heath had stoically listened to his little brother's wails from down the hall, trying to tell himself Gene was only 'gettin' what he had comin', stubbornly pushing his empathy aside by nursing his grudge in an effort to distract himself from what he figured was going to be his own, much longer session with Father's belt.

But instead of the expected dose of strap oil, Father had decreed that Heath would spend the weekdays of the next two weeks spending the entire day, from nine in the morning until five in the evening, doing schoolwork in the library or drawing room. He'd have an hour's break for lunch. His chores were to be completed between the time he got up and breakfast, and then from breakfast until nine.

"That means studying, not daydreaming," said Father very sternly. "I don't want to see you dawdling. You were supposed to prove to me that you were mature enough to handle your time." Tom raised an eyebrow. "This lapse proves to me you're still enough of a boy that I may have to rethink our plan and perhaps send you to school after all until you've grown up a bit more. We'll have to see how you manage these two weeks before I make my final decision. Oh, and that gunbelt will remain locked in my cabinet."

Tom had been gratified to see first the intense relief on Heath's face replaced by the crestfallen expression as Tom's words sunk in; this wasn't seen as taking an easier way out. In fact, Tom could see Heath probably would rather have taken the whipping. The youngster's next words bore that out.

"Father, shouldn't ya just lick me? I know this is a workin' ranch and you haven't got the time to be keepin' track o' me - "

"I'd best not have to worry about keeping track of you, Heath Morgan, or you'll not only be sitting in that drawing room from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon for two weeks, but you'll do it with a substantial fire in the seat of your britches. Do I make myself clear?"

Heath gulped. "Yes, sir, you surely do."

Tom grunted, fighting a smile. "About that gun…" Tom tilted his head to one side, studying his boy…. Damn. No, Nick was right. He had to stop looking at Heath and seeing a young Jarrod or Nick. This boy's life was so far removed from what his older boys had grown up with as anyone could imagine. "Putting all other things aside, I want you to know how proud I am of you for the way you handled the incident with the rattler."

Heath's eyes widened. Well, boy howdy, that was about the last thing he'd ever expected to hear come out of his father's mouth...

"Nick told me you remained calm and composed and saved your younger brother's life." Tom drew in a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "I do understand why you had the pistol. And I'm sorry for it. I would have liked for you to feel safe and secure growing up, and to have a normal boyhood for a few more years. But your older brother reminded me today that sometimes what we want just isn't possible." He gazed at his middle child, noting Heath's quiet expression as the boy just waited for him to finish. "That pistol is going to remain locked up in my cabinet for a month. After that, you may wear it for protection when you're here on the ranch, just like your brother and the hands do."

Heath's jaw dropped.

"On the ranch only, mind" Tom warned. "You will not wear it to town. You won't wear it anywhere except when you're out and about with the cattle or working fence lines and things of that nature. Are we clear, Heath?"

"Yes, sir!"

"First time you step outside the line on that rule that pistol will get locked up until your 17th birthday, which is the age I made your older brothers wait until to wear theirs. There will be no second chances on this, Heath."

Tom got to his feet, hearing Heath's stomach growl. He harrumphed. "I think for tonight, you'd best do some hard thinking about how you're going to behave yourself for the next two weeks. You have some trust to rebuild. I'll have Silas bring you up some supper a bit later, then I want you in bed, lights out. Clear?"

Heath swallowed his disappointment; it was three in the afternoon… it was gonna be a very long night. But he was aware that Father was being incredibly decent about this whole thing; he knew he'd deserved a tanning just as much as Gene had. "Yes, sir. It's clear."

Tom nodded, then turned for the door.

"Father…"

Tom stopped, and looked down at his boy, still seated on the bed. Heath was solemn, but his gratitude showed in his eyes. "Thank you."

His father smiled sadly. "You're welcome, Heath. But instead, thank me by doing some hard thinking tonight. All right?"

The boy nodded, and Tom smiled as he left the room. But once outside the door, Tom sagged a little and frowned, sighing. Nick was right… Heath was trembling right on the brink of manhood, with too much awareness of the hardness in the world reflected back from those azure eyes. It was going to be an interesting dance, these next couple of years, for Tom and Victoria to best figure out how help this child of theirs to make it the rest of the way, trying to heal old hurts as he traveled the path of maturity.

Evening had fallen softly over the Valley, and the brilliant oranges, pinks and purples of the majestic sunset usually went a long way to easing Heath when he was overwhelmed, sad or tired. Tonight, even the magic of the Valley couldn't seem to help soothe Tom Barkley's troubled middle child. Sitting on the small porch overlooking the ranch yard, his long legs stretched out and propped up so that his booted feet were crossed at the ankles on the porch railing, Heath leaned back in the porch chair, his head leaned back against the house wall, not really seeing the ranch, only feeling the heaviness of... what? Betrayal? Anger? Frustration? Shame? All of those things at once, really. Deep sadness was in there, too. A longing to go back in time, just a few days, and stop this train of misery that had derailed yesterday, causing so much upheaval, perhaps before it ever got started. If I'd just listened to my gut and not fallen for Gene's baloney, he thought sadly, none o' this would have happened. But no... good ol' sucker Heath...

Heath closed his eyes, trying to stay calm, but felt his breath catching in his chest and his face flaming with shame.

Observing him from inside the morning room, Jarrod's heart went out to the boy. He'd had a rough, emotionally painful couple of days, and was still pretty bruised, wanting nothing to do with the family at the moment. Jarrod's brows knit as he tried to decide how to best approach the situation. Older brother Nick had done what he could, calming Father down from taking his strap to both his younger sons. Gene had tried to apologize, but he'd had no idea how deeply he had wounded his next older brother until it was far too late.

Last night, when Jarrod had gone upstairs to check on his baby brother before turning in himself, he'd found the eleven-year-old sobbing and trying hard not to be heard. If Nick had been the one to check, he'd have figured the tears were residual from Gene's tanning. But Jarrod knew better. Oh, that wasn't to say that Gene's backside wasn't pretty darned sore after four sharp, painful licks of Father's belt - his first ever - but Jarrod had also seen the attempt made earlier in the evening during a chance encounter at the bathroom doorway; an attempt in which Gene had tried to apologize to Heath and received the older boy's brutal rebuff…

"I never, ever woulda reckoned you to be the one to do that to me," Heath had spat at Eugene, trembling with wounded pride. "All the time I been here, I always tried to be the best brother I could to you. I never shoved you aside like Nick does sometimes, or treated you like my sweet little baby brother, the way Jarrod can sometimes do. I always tried so hard to take you serious and listen to you, and be decent to you. To know that you suckered me, used me… I just can't believe - " Heath's voice gave out, and he closed his eyes, getting control of his emotions again, and when he opened those wounded blue eyes, they were as cold as ice. "Well, trust me, dumb ol' hillbilly Heath won't make that mistake again," he said bitterly.

"Heath…" Gene tried, stricken at seeing the depth of his older brother's wounding.

"No. You're gonna have to go find somebody else to make you feel better about yourself." And he'd stalked to his bedroom door, closing it firmly behind him.

Eugene's eyes had welled with shame and pain, and, momentarily forgetting the condition of his rump, he sat down on one of the hall chairs, only to wince in pain and pop back up again, shaking his head in misery, first rubbing his backside, then one hand on a hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck.

Jarrod came around the corner slowly. Momentarily startled and embarrassed, Gene looked up, worried it might be Nick, who was nearly as mad at him right now as Heath was: Nick had told him exactly what he'd said to their father, and how disappointed he was in Gene's behavior. But luckily it wasn't Nick. it was Pappy, looking at him with gentle compassion.

One look at his baby brother's sad eyes, and Jarrod opened his arms. Gene buried himself there, tears soaking the front of his brother's shirt. There were no histrionic sobs, no wailing. Just silent, miserable tears. Jarrod held him close, rocking him slightly, seeing how, through the crucible of suffering, poor Gene was a sadder but wiser boy tonight than he'd been just a week earlier.

"He'll never ever forgive me," he whispered. "Oh, Jarrod, I never meant for things to get this bad…"

Jarrod hugged him close for a moment, then walked him down the hall to his own room. All his siblings at one point or another had found solace, comfort and good advice while stretched out on Jared's bed with him, talking… well, all but Heath. Young Heath wasn't yet aware of the healing nature of a Pappy-style hug while talking things through on Jarrod's huge bed.

"C'mon, little brother," Jarrod encouraged gently. "Tell me the whole story. What happened?"

Stretched out on his stomach, Gene's eyes streamed as he poured out his heart. "I just wanted to know him better," he sniffled when he'd come to the end of the long, sad story.

"Well… but that's not altogether true, is it?"

Gene looked up, surprised.

Jarrod looked at him, deciding that it was time to treat Gene a little more maturely than in the past. If he was old enough to cause such big pain, he was old enough to face some hard, fast truths…It was time for Gene to grow up a bit. "That might have been the plan at the beginning, but then you played on Heath's kindness and gentle nature, his worry for you being in trouble with Father, a little bit of mutual blackmail, and the fact that he's still trying to figure out how to go from being an only boy child being raised by three women, to suddenly have to fight and jockey for position in a family with a passel of brothers," smiled Jarrod. "He's never been or had a brother before, big OR little, and you played on that, Gene."

Uneasily, Gene lowered his head back onto his crossed arms, his eyes troubled.

"Your problem, my young friend," said Jarrod seriously, "is that you're too smart for your own good. Heath's problem?" Gene glanced back at his oldest brother, seeing Jarrod smile. "So is he… way too smart to not notice that something wasn't right with your little scenario, and most certainly too smart not to see when you'd started using him instead of respecting him."

Gene pouted; this little chat was going in a direction he was not enjoying. At all. "I already got one whippin' today," he grouched. "I don't need another."

Jarrod chuckled and reached out, gently squeezing his brother's shoulder. "Not trying to whip you. Not trying to punish you at all. I'm just trying to make you understand how badly you've hurt our brother's feelings. He trusted you… probably more than anyone else except Audra or Mother. It's going to take Heath a long while before he feels able to trust any of us again, thanks to this."

Gene lost the pout and scratched his head sadly. He was by nature an open child and wasn't someone who enjoyed hurting others. It was hard for him to hear his older brother's words, especially since they were almost the exact same ones his father had sternly lectured him with a few hours earlier. Sadly, he nodded, attitude gone, Jarrod was happy to see. "What do I do, Pappy?" he asked soberly. "How do I fix it?"

"First of all, understand that you can't really 'fix it,'" said Jarrod, shrugging. "Give him time. You can't push anyone, least of all our Brother Heath, into forgiveness. And understand that you just might deserve a little misery from him until he figures himself out," said Jarrod gently. "You've earned it, I'm afraid."

Remembering that difficult chat, Jarrod studied this brother, trying to figure out the best way to approach him. Straight on frontal assault? Nah. Heath was so stubborn he could have outlasted a Roman siege. Misdirection? Absolutely not! he warned himself. That's what started this whole mess! Jarrod sighed. Well, this was uncharted territory then … he was going to have to scout as he went along, armed for bear and anything else that might come up.

Jarrod flexed his mental muscles and strolled out onto Father's favorite little porch, the one that looked out over his domain, and glanced down at his younger brother. "Hey."

"Hey."

Jarrod hitched a hip on the railing beside Heath's boots and leaned against the porch upright. "Been a rough week for you," he said quietly.

Heath glanced at him, then back out at the barn, shrugging.

Jarrod continued to gaze out at the horses running around in the corral, thinking, sipping his mug of coffee.

"Little brother, I want to talk to you," he said finally. "I don't expect any answers, because I've kind of observed these last months that you're one of the great listeners of the world. Unusual in this family, mind you, but not unheard of. Your grandmother Barkley was the same."

Heath's brows lowered and he started to pull his legs down, only to have Jarrod - very firmly - hold his crossed ankles in place. "Nope. This time you don't get to choose, little brother. You don't have to say a word," he said, turning his face to his younger brother, "but you do have to listen. I won't take long." He smiled to see Heath's lower lip protrude. "Pouting is optional, but not recommended."

The lip stayed out. Jarrod chuckled.

"To keep this brief… I want you to know how sorry I am that Gene did what he did. It was terribly unfair to you, and I can see - all of us, really, can see - how much it hurt. And you have every right to feel angry and maybe even a little betrayed by it. But I'm also going to ask you if you think you might try to be able to understand the 'why'."

Heath's brows knitted even tighter together.

"You have a little brother who has never had another male in this family close enough to his age to feel a kinship. Nick and I love him dearly but Nick's almost eleven years older, hardly buddy material. And I'm as old as Methuselah to him. He loves Audra dearly, as all of us do, but, well… you know…"

The attempt at humor got nowhere, but Jarrod was undaunted. He'd been a lawyer for a few years now… finding ways to swing tough judges and juries to his viewpoint was getting to be mother's milk to him.

"It's overwhelming, I imagine, to suddenly find yourself the center of attention in a large, noisy family. We were all born to it. And when you're part of a family this loud, this 'in your face,' you figure out the best ways to survive based on your own gifts. Audra's all female; she falls back on her feminine wiles. And when they don't get results, she puts her tomboy skills to work. Nick brazens things out, demanding, arguing, staking his claim."

Jarrod never changed his tone but started noticing subtle changes in Heath's body language; the boy was listening. "Father's shrewd, and somewhat like Nick, will battle for what he wants and needs, though he's got a little mellower with age."

That earned him a glance askance, and Jarrod forced himself to ignore it, but grinned inwardly.

"Mother… she's something special," he said, quietly. "She's feisty, but she figures love will find the way, every time, in any given situation. She's not wrong, really, but she gets disappointed sometimes when love is, perhaps, the last thing on her beloved offspring's minds…"

That earned Jarrod a small smile. I thought so; Mother is likely the only one who'll ever be able to get a direct answer out of him. Raised by women, that would make sense. He's learned to fear and mistrust men…

"Gene's best skill and sense of personal safety rests in gathering information," Jarrod said more gently. "The more he knows, the safer and stronger he feels. He tried every way he could think of to find out more about you, not to use against you, Heath, but so that he could understand you and be a good friend. He bollixed that up a bit at the end, this time, but believe it or not, all he really wanted was to get to know you better. You're reticent and quiet, making information-gathering that much harder for him."

Heath's brows had loosened up a bit, and he was now more pensive.

Jarrod squeezed his brother's leg gently. "That doesn't excuse what he did, or mean that you shouldn't feel angry and betrayed, but could you maybe… just maybe, understand and try to forgive?"

Heath looked up at Jarrod for the first time, and Jarrod plainly saw the wounding there, and sighed. "Heath, little brothers make mistakes sometimes, and it's part of our jobs, as big brothers, to help them understand when they've done something wrong, and even to help them figure out how to make things right again. I'm sure you can remember mistakes you've made, that Nick or I might have helped you through."

Jarrod turned himself around and faced Heath squarely, leaning his backside against the railing. "It's a normal human reaction to feel resentful when you've been injured. But letting that remain too long is dangerous."

"So I'm just supposed to forget it and make believe everything's fine again, huh?"

Jarrod smiled sadly. "No. As I said, understanding why Gene did what he did doesn't excuse it, and you have every right to be angry. Resentful, though? That's something else entirely."

Heath's brows knitted again, but more in an effort to understand than in a stubborn refusal to comply.

Jarrod sighed and frowned, trying to gather his thoughts. "Resentment is like a dirty bandage, Heath… we use it, covering up the injury we've suffered, thinking we're protecting ourselves, stopping the bleeding from the wound at first, keeping the air from making the sting too painful to bear. And perhaps, right after the wound's been inflicted, it does serve that purpose," Jarrod shrugged. "But it doesn't take long for a dirty bandage to make an injury worse than when it first occurred. Dirt gets into the wound and inflames it. Instead of allowing the wound to heal, probing anywhere near that injury hurts worse than it did right after it happened, and sometimes scabs heal right over a festering infection. And a festering infection can kill."

Heath's beautiful eyes were troubled as he gazed out into the yard, still listening, but not looking directly at Jarrod any longer.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, little brother? This resentment and refusal to forgive is a part of you that's developed because of a very unhappy boyhood; it was the way you protected yourself, helped you cope with things that were too big for you to handle as a small boy. But it's time to grow up, and do your best to let it go; it's no longer serving you. The first step toward feeling better, believe it or not, is in forgiveness."

Jarrod pushed himself upright and headed toward the door, then stopped when he reached Heath's shoulder and looked down at him. "Oh, and one last thing," he added, as though in passing. "Forgiveness isn't for them…it's for you. Because harboring resentment is going to hurt you so much more than anyone else. It's like you swallowing a bottle of poison, and then sitting there, waiting and watching for the other person to die."

Jarrod patted his brother's shoulder as he left the porch and went back into the house with his cup of coffee, leaving a troubled younger brother behind, staring out into the yard, seeing nothing but thinking a great deal.

As the hot afternoon sun poured through the drawing room windows, Heath slumped in his seat, draped over his workspace as though he was fit to die. It was just four days into his two-week punishment, and he was honestly wondering how he would ever survive. He was soooooo bored…

"That's why it's called punishment," his Father had informed him, in no uncertain terms, an hour earlier. "It isn't meant to be fun." Tom had come in to retrieve something, and found Heath slumped over his workspace in misery. "Keep that nonsense up, young man, and it'll be three weeks. Sit yourself up straight and get to work. And pull in that lower lip, before someone sits on it."

Even in memory, Father's very stern tone was enough to give Heath a needed imaginary smack upside the head. Groaning, he pulled himself upright and picked up his Latin book and his pencil once again. He heard the buggy come into the yard and scowled; Audra and Gene were back from school. He pulled his materials together…that meant he had another hour before he could be finished.

He could hear his sister and brother giggling and chatting out in the foyer, but their conversation stopping as they seemed to hesitate outside the door. Scowling even more than before, he turned his back on the door.

Audra and Gene quietly opened the door and peeped in. Audra sighed to see her older brother had, once again, positioned himself with his back to them so that he didn't have to look their way while occupying the same room. She glanced at Gene, who'd adopted his own 'don't-care' expression and flopped into a seat at the other side of the room.

"Honestly, you two are like mules, the pair of you!" she scolded. "I refuse to sit here and try to study with the air filled with … with… with mulespit!"

Both heads picked up and turned, in shock. "With what?" Gene asked, staring at her, dumbfounded.

"Is that even a word?" asked Heath, wrinkling his brow.

"Well, if it isn't, it ought to be!" she snapped, stamping her foot. "You two are brothers! You'd better stop being stupid and apologize to each other, right now, because I'm tired of it!"

The two youngest sons of Tom Barkley immediately pulled on identically stubborn pouting scowls, Heath crossing his arms in front of his chest and Gene jamming his hands in his pockets; never had the youngest Barkley boys looked as alike as they did at this particular moment.

"Well, I've tried, but ol'... ol' Mulespit over there won't even listen!" Gene grunted, gesturing toward his brother.

"Me apologize?" Heath snorted. "What the heck for? I didn't do anything!"

"You said you'd tell Father if I - "

"You lied to me! And you - "

As the argument raged behind her, Audra rolled her eyes, walking calmly to the table and carefully unloading her homework supplies. She arranged her pencils just so, set her books in the order in which she wanted to complete her lessons. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that warfare had escalated. Now Heath was leaning back, drawn up to his full height with his hands on his hips, snottily giving Gene a sense of "I'm bigger than you!" as they argued with each other, making Gene angrier and angrier.

She sighed and turned around. They were pretty loud. There was no way she was going to be able to study with this racket.

Eugene had had just about had enough of Heath's blustering from on high. He grabbed Mother's footstool and plunked it in front of his brother, who had stopped yelling just long enough to stare at him, bemused. Gene climbed up, hauled in a deep breath and, poking Heath in the chest, picked up the fight with "you think you're so goldarned smart!" And they were off and running again, recounting each other's sins for a good two to three minutes by Audra's count, literally nose to nose now and spitting mad, as if all of the energy they'd bottled up for the last few days finally had an escape valve.

Tom and Victoria had been in the kitchen talking with Silas about an upcoming dinner party they were planning when they heard the Battle of the Drawing Room's first salvos rend the air. Nick was just coming in the front door, his own mouth open, ready to yell, when his younger brothers stole his thunder. And Jarrod came downstairs from his room, eyes wide at the noise, a lawbook in his hand, finger stuck in it to hold his place. All of them converged outside the drawing room while the battle raged, Nick and Jarrod whispering back and forth to place bets on who'd throw the first punch between them. Victoria however, had ideas of her own and murmured something in Tom's ear, making him chuckle.

"No way," he shook his head. "I'll take that bet, but you're going to lose, my lovely," he whispered back at her.

"We'll see," Victoria whispered back, a knowing grin on her face.

Finally, Audra had had enough. She threw her hands in the air, stalked between them, gripping each by an ear. Gene shrieked and Heath yowled, one desperately trying to lower himself, and the other going up on his tiptoes to take some pressure off their ears. Trying to pull away hurt worse than following her grip, and both knew, sure as hell, if they hit her back Father would whale the tar out of 'em… "You do not hit girls; I don't care what they do or what they say! You'll be a gentleman if it kills you." So, both begged her to let go, but she hung on like death.

"You two listen to me!" she declared. "I love you both and you're going to straighten up and apologize to each other right now. Because I'm not wasting any more time not having you as my brother," she snapped at Heath, then turned on Gene with "and I've loved you all your life, you stupid clod!"

Heath tried to wrench away and groaned in pain. Gene had been in this position before and knew damn well to stay put; Audra was downright mean when it came to ears…

"Ow, Sis, c'mon! That hurts!" Heath yowled.

"Apologize!"

"No! OW!!"

"Apologize!"

Wincing and twisting, finally Heath gave in. "All right, all right!" he cried out, and she immediately released them both. Both boys took a moment to suck in air between their teeth and gently rub their bright red, sore ears. Heath glared at her fiercely. "God Almighty, Audra! You damn near tore my ear off!" he growled at her.

"You watch your mouth, or Mother will - "

"-wash your mouth out with soap," all three Barkley children said, in unison, and looked at each other… and giggled.

Victoria clapped her hand to her own mouth in the hallway, covering her giggle, and her older sons had to turn away to keep from laughing out loud.

Heath, still rubbing his ear, scowled a moment longer, then when Audra's hand started to snake up, he grabbed her wrist. "I'm doin' it!" he snapped at her. "Just gimme a second!"

She raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at his hand gripping her, and looked back, eyeing him balefully. He let her go, drew in a deep breath and glared at his little brother.

"All right, so I'm still pretty mad at you for what you did," he said, jaw clenched, "but… well, but I guess I wasn't no angel is this whole mess, neither. So, I'm… I'm sorry."

Gene, also rubbing his own reddened ear, looked up at his brother seriously. "I meant what I said, Heath. I promise I'll never do anything like that ever again. I never meant for things to go as far as they did, and I know it was wrong of me to try to trick you like that. I really miss our talks. I was wrong and I'm truly, truly sorry."

Heath looked at Gene and saw his earnest expression and what at least appeared to be contrition written all over him. After a moment's hesitation, Heath relaxed. He was tired of being angry, and he missed his little brother, too. He offered a small, half-smile.

Audra beamed at them both. "Good, I'm glad that's done," she said matter-of-factly. "Now we've only got about half an hour until supper, so let's get our work finished."

Jarrod and Nick grinned at each other, and Nick headed upstairs to wash for supper, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath.

"You owe me a new hat," Victoria teased her husband in a whisper. "I told you she'd straighten them out."

"You women are gonna be the death of me," Tom chortled softly, crooking his arm for her to slip her small hand through as they walked back to the kitchen and a waiting Silas.

Heath gathered his books and papers and joined his younger brother and sister at the table. Audra got started on her arithmetic as Gene pulled out his history book. "What are you working' on today?" he asked Heath as they all got settled and started working.

"Just Latin left," Heath grunted, pulling out his last stack of assignments. "Like I ain't got enough trouble with English, Jarrod set me to learnin' a language ain't nobody spoken in two thousand years." He shook his head as he looked over the page.

He looked at the verb he was supposed to learn to conjugate today and his eyes widened. Feeling a pair of eyes focused on him, much like last week, Heath immediately turned to his younger brother, but Gene had settled down with his textbook, reading intently. Audra, too, was busy. Turning his head the other way, he saw Jarrod smiling at him, leaning against the doorframe. He blushed a little but offered a nod and a small, crooked smile back. Jarrod winked at him and headed for the stairs himself.

Heath focused on the page in front of him.

"…Ignosco tibi…Tu parce mihi…nos donantes vobismetipsis…" he mouthed to himself. "I forgive you… you forgive me… we forgive one another…"

Chapter 7: A Moral Dilemma

Chapter Text

Tom Barkley felt grumpy and irritable this morning, and Victoria wisely suggested he go for a ride, just himself, as he gathered papers together on his desk and she finished up the ranching correspondence at hers.

"I got more work than I can shake a stick at, Vic!" he'd snorted back at her. "Just who's supposed to get it done while I 'go for a ride'?" Without realizing it, he'd managed to sound as childish as Nick on a bad day.

Victoria fought a smile. "Exactly how much do you think you're going to accomplish in this mood? At least, how much that isn't going to have to be redone because of errors and flubs made from inattention?"

He rounded on her, glaring… and she raised an eyebrow at him, thoroughly unimpressed. "I'm not one of your hands, Thomas Barkley. Or one of your sons."

He harrumphed, and rubbed the back of his neck, gruffly embarrassed. She chuckled and came over to him, putting her arms around his waist...she wisely didn't mention that that was getting harder to do that these days... "Tom, you need a break. You've been working too hard for too long. You're getting crochety."

"Crotchety!?"

"Crotchety," she repeated, nodding her head decisively. "You need to go kick up your heels and remember you aren't an old man."

"Victoria Barkley…"

"Yes, dear?"

Tom hesitated, then she saw the expression she was waiting for: his little boy/hopeful/guilty/mischievous expression that appeared once in a great while, and blue eyes that had dropped thirty years. He looked down at her, soooo tempted….

"You sure you'll be all right for the day?"

"Go."

He grinned at her then, with a devilish, thoroughly and disconcertingly hungry gaze. To her astonishment the years dropped away and she saw the twenty-three-year-old who'd completely swept her off her feet all those years ago. He pulled her to him and kissed her passionately, making her head spin, her knees weak and her heart hammer. She felt herself picked up in his strong arms and carried a little way across the room and then plunked on the settee.

"I'll be back for supper," she heard him whisper in her ear in a chuckling, throaty whisper as she gasped and tried to settle herself. Laughing to herself as she heard the front door close, Victoria closed her eyes again, smiling.

Victoria winced, hearing her son's voice wafting in the French doors from outside heading towards the house. "Nicholas, bring your voice down a notch, if you please."

"MOTHER!" It escalated, rather than desisted.

Sighing, Victoria rose to her feet. "Yes, Nick," she said calmly, walking into the foyer.

"Where the heck is Father?" he demanded, spurs jingling, the front door slamming behind him.

"He's out."

"Well, no kidding!" Nick snapped, hands on his hips.

"Nicholas, watch yourself."

He sighed and dropped his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "But I mean, where in tarnation is he? We've been needin' him up at the branding pen for the last hour!"

"Well, you're just going to have to continue needing him, dear," she said calmly, going back into the drawing room.

Nick gaped at her, then followed her in. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Mother!"

"Nick, if you don't stop yelling, I'm going to douse you with cold water," she scolded him, turning on him. "Your father had something to do, so you'll just have to make do without him today!"

The front door slammed again. "Hey, Ma!"

"Oh, good grief, Nick. Now you have Eugene doing it…"

"What'd I do?"

Little Gene strode into the drawing room, his hat jammed on the back of his head. "Oh, there y'are, Ma," Gene grinned at her. "Mr. McColl says Father needs to come out to the barn, right quick."

"Well, apparently that ain't gonna happen," said Nick snidely.

"Isn't."

Startled, Gene looked at him. "Huh? Why not?"

"Because he ain't here!"

"Isn't."

Nick waved a hand in irritation at his mother. Gene was thoroughly nonplused. Father was always there! Or at least someplace reachable on the ranch proper.

"Boys, go on back to work and just make do without him for today. He'll be back this evening and you can make his life a misery then, all right?"" their mother asked brightly, with a big smile, and walked out of the room, climbing the wide staircase.

Nick and Gene watched her go in consternation, then looked at each other and shrugged.

"Well, I guess I'll head into town, then, and pick up the lengths of iron for the forge," grunted Nick. "Gene, do me a favor and ask McColl to send a rider up to the branding pens to let 'em know I'm goin' in to get the supplies myself, willya? I gotta go into town and talk to... well, to somebody."

"Sure, Nick," Gene agreed, affably. "Where d'ya think Father went?"

"God knows, I sure don't," Nick grunted as he and his spurs jingled their way out to where Coco was tied up, waiting for him. He stopped midway and yelled up the stairs. "Mother! I'll pick up the mail in town!" and headed out.

"Jarrod, that's some fine work you did on the Metzer case."

Jarrod Barkley picked up his head from his notes and glanced in pleased surprise at his boss, District Attorney Barton Collins.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Collins, I appreciate that."

Collins leaned back in his chair, nodding. "Good, clean law. Excellent cross examination of their star witness. I was impressed; you did your homework, young man. Taking apart an expert witness by beating him at his own game isn't an easy task."

"Well, in this instance, I think it was just dumb luck me being the son of a rancher," Jarrod, chuckled. "All us Barkleys are raised on understanding water rights easem*nts. If I hadn't spotted the legal loophole in that agreement, big enough to drive a carriage through, my father would have never forgiven me. He'd have said my 13-year-old sister Audra could do a better job!"

Collins laughed, then sobered, glancing at the young man. "I am sorry that it's put your family at odds with Metzers, though. I understand your families have known each other for years."

Jarrod nodded, setting down the pen he'd been using. "Yes. They arrived here in the valley about five years after Father and Mother started the ranch. My parents actually did quite a bit to help Harvey and Ernestine get their own spread established." He shook his head, sighing. "Honestly, I wouldn't have believed it of Harvey Metzer… but I guess you just never know how someone's going to face hardship. And not having access to that water?" Jarrod shook his head. "A hardship would be putting it mildly."

"Still, the law is the law. Had Metzer been honest, instead of trying to cheat the Kirbys, they might have been able to work something out advantageous to both."

Jarrod nodded. "I agree."

"Ah, well," sighed Collins, rising to his feet. "Well, young fella, it's a Friday, and I'm going to be delinquent and knock off early. There's nothing in the docket next week, so I'm hereby giving you the afternoon off as well."

"Oh, but sir, I've got the opening arguments of - "

"Jarrod, I won't say it twice, boy. Go get yourself some lunch and take the rest of the day off!" Collins grinned. "You work too hard, Counselor. Trust me. There will never be a lack of people who've broken the law. Enjoy the moments off while you can."

Jarrod laughed and scratched his head. "Well, I can't deny it'd be nice to get home in time for dinner with the family," he agreed. "Fair enough, Mr. District Attorney! You have a good weekend, sir, and I'll see you Monday morning."

Jarrod packed up his briefcase and, whistling, strode out of the DA's office, stopped off at his own tiny little fledgling law practice to check his mail, and sighing in satisfaction, headed out the door toward the livery stable where Jingo was presumably enjoying his day.

"Well… Counselor Barkley."

Jarrod felt a chill on his back as he heard that voice, dropping with contempt. He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around.

"Hello, Will." He kept his voice even.

" 'Hello,' he says." The fair-haired young man who'd stopped him finished coming out of the saloon where he'd obviously spent some time, based on the scruffy and bedraggled condition of his grooming and clothes and reek of whiskey. " 'Hello', from the fine Counselor Barkley…:"

"Will, c'mon," said Jarrod quietly, coming a little closer.

"Oh, yes, the educated, saintly Jarrod Thomas Barkley, Esquire, lawyer, Extry-ordinary… who ain't afraid of sending people he's known all of his life to prison!"

William Metzer, son of convicted Harvey Metzer, looked upon his old childhood friend with what looked to be pure hatred. These two young men were of an age; they'd grown up together. Played together as small boys, swum at the same swimming hole, sparked the same girls, competed for the same school prizes, raced horses up and down the valley together, until Jarrod had gone off to prep school and then college back east, the dream they'd both had, while Will remained home. Will was the only son in his family of four children, destined to take over the ranch, despite his own desires to further his education. Will had managed to hide his resentment, and tried to remain friends with his old playmate and buddy. They'd drifted apart due to the time apart. But it had never become ugly until this past month, when Jarrod had successfully prosecuted Will's father for perpetrating fraud on water rights. Now, all the resentment that Will had harbored seem to bubble to the surface.

Jarrod reached to gently grasp Will's arm, trying to reason with him, but the other young man angrily shook off his hand.

"Get away from me, Barkley, you two-timing, cowardly traitor!" The young man shoved Jarrod back, hard, into the side of the building, Jarrod banging his head hard enough to see stars. "You've done enough to my family!"

They were starting to gather a crowd at this point, and Jarrod shook his head to clear it. "Will, for God's sake…"

"God had nothin' to do with this," sneered Metzer, "and everything to do with you, you f*ckless - "

"I only did what I had to do, under the law," Jarrod declared. "You know that! Harvey knew it, too!"

"You DARE mention my father's name! You stinking - "

Will Metzer might have been a bit drunk, but he was a working rancher, hadn't an ounce of fat on his well-muscled body, and had the power of rage and hatred backing up every swing of his fist.

Jarrod felt the back of his head slam against the saloon outer wall again and grunted, then wheezed as Will body slammed him.

"All of the years…" Will Metzer growled, punctuating his words with vicious gut punches. "All of the hardships,,,, the Metzers and Barkleys … weathered together…"

Until, finally, Jarrod's own temper blew to the surface like a geyser.

A roundhouse right slammed into Will's jaw, throwing him back into the middle of the street.

"Your family…had the same chances…mine did!" Jarrod ground out furiously, hauling in air, his nose streaming blood, his lip rapidly swelling, and clutching his belly. "Mine did it honestly… even if yours didn't!"

With a feral roar, Metzer lunged for Jarrod and the two young men blasted through the dressmaker's store's window, miraculously cutting neither of them, but causing an uproar within the store, to say the least. The two punched and slugged first inside the store, then making their way back out into the street while townspeople cheered on one or the other, and a few upstanding citizens attempted to pull them apart, but without any luck. That changed when the Sheriff arrived on the scene, assessing the situation, goggling a bit to realize that Counselor Jarrod Barkley was one of the combatants, then grimly waded in himself.

By the time the Sheriff pulled the two young men apart, Jarrod's fine suit was a tattered rag, and he looked no better than Will Metzer. With the help of his deputy, both Jarrod Barkley and William Metzer were locked up in the Stockton jail on the charge of drunk (at least one of 'em) and disorderly conduct.

"Fred!"

Fred uncompromisingly slammed shut the cell door behind the young man.

"Fred, I've got a right to let my family know!" snapped Jarrod, angrily, wiping his bloody nose, and wincing when his hand connected with his sore lip.

"We'll take care of it, Jarrod… after lunch," replied Fred, amiably. "Gentlemen, suppose you two just relax a bit. Take a load off." Fred smiled benignly at the two 25-year-olds and walked back into the main office, shutting the door behind him.

Will and Jarrod glared at each other and stomped to the furthest corners of each of their cells and plunked themselves down on the cots to fume.

Young Gene Barkley came in the kitchen door lugging a heavy hod jammed with kindling, holding it open as Heath followed him in, an armful of firewood in his arms.

"Thank you, Mr. Gene, Mr. Heath," smiled Silas, nodding at the boys as they dropped off their loads. Silas was in his kitchen apron, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he worked at dressing a chicken for dinner, making the kitchen aromatic with the delectable fragrance of spices, chicken gizzards and hearts, onions and other vegetables.

"Boy howdy," Heath breathed in, his eyes closed in bliss, "that shore does smell like heaven, Silas."

"You stuffin' it, Silas?" demanded Gene, looking around for the torn-up shards of dried out bread that Silas always used to make dressing with his roasted poultry.

"Shore am," smiled Silas, nodding toward a huge crockery bowl on the sideboard, covered with a large linen towel. "You boys ain't gonna have no dinner, though, if those wood boxes aren't filled upstairs. Your Mama asked you to get that kindling in yesterday, Mr. Eugene. And Mr. Heath, you know your daddy said to have them boxes filled before you skedaddle this afternoon."

Heath sighed, nodding, and glanced at Gene. "Best get to it, little brother, c'mon."

Out at the woodpile, Heath had taken off his shirt in order to get the chopping done without having to change clothes again to head to town in the afternoon. Gene was busily splitting kindling off to the side, filling up his hod and lugging it to the house and upstairs to the bedrooms. Heath had tied the arms of his shirt around his waist on the last haul of wood upstairs so he could quickly wash up and then slip it back on before heading to town.

"Whatcha gonna do in town?" asked Gene, perched on the bathtub's surround talking amiably with his older brother while he washed and tidied himself.

"Gonna meet up with Jeb Winters. We though we might go check out them new draft horses comin' in today by train," answered Heath, buttoning his shirt.

"Can I come, too?!" begged Gene hopefully.

"Now, you know you came with me the last time I went town for some fun," Heath smiled. "I really just need a little time out with a friend, time for me. It's been a long, hard few days. Nick worked me purty near to death this week."

He sighed as he saw Gene's face fall and bit his lip. He turned toward his younger brother and squatted, crouched eye to eye with Gene seated on the tub surround. "Look, I'll tell ya what. If Mother and Father say it's okay, we can go fishin' tomorrow after church. Maybe even Jarrod and Nick'll come with us. Whaddya say?"

Now, that was tempting, thought Gene. All four Barkley brothers heading to the fishing hole together? "Well, okay," he conceded. "Maybe I'll just ride into town myself and see if any of my friends want to do somethin' together."

"There ya go, good idea. Just make sure you check first with Mother," nodded Heath, relieved that that little drama had been forestalled. Heath had really had a very busy, tiring week and he very much wanted a break to get away and relax.

The ranch work was no issue. Sure, it was dirty, hard work, but in that realm Heath was in his element. He was never happier than when helping make Barkley Ranch a success. No, it was his other 'job' - an hour a day of schoolwork - that had put him through the wringer this week.

Jarrod and Nick had both introduced new material for his studying this week and he'd been discouraged with trying to understand the math, something that wasn't usually a problem for him. It had taken two days of frustration, leading to a belief he was too stupid to understand it, before Nick realized that there was a necessary preliminary skill Heath had never learned that was required to efficiently understand and complete the problems. Once Nick spotted that discrepancy, he taught Heath the missing information and Heath was able to quickly solve the equations. It went a long way to restoring his self-esteem, which had been pretty much in the trenches for two days. That only lasted a few hours, though, until Jarrod started making him begin to translate actual passages of Latin text. Boy howdy, but he hated it!

A few minutes later, both Eugene and Heath poked their heads in the drawing room where Victoria and Audra were both reading.

"Mother? I'm headin' out," smiled Heath with a wave.

"Whoa."

He stopped, startled and turned back.

"Wood boxes filled?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Axe has been sharpened for the next person?"

Audra chuckled to herself as she turned a page.

"Yes, ma'am." His eyes twinkled and he fought a grin.

"You washed before you put that shirt back on?"

"Yes, ma'am." He grinned fully on that one.

"You're going to see Jeb, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. Not totally sure what we're gonna do, but I'll be back for supper. Smelled me that chicken Silas has got goin' and I sure ain't gonna miss out on that!" he declared.

"All right, then," she laughed, smiling back at him. "Have fun."

"Say hi to Jeb for me," called Audra, with a wave. Heath nodded and headed out.

"What're we gonna do, Nick?" complained Vince Blackwell, as he downed another slug of whiskey.

Nick knocked back his own whiskey. "I dunno, Vince. Damn it!" he slapped the table, angrily. "We should've known that breeder was too good to be true!" Nick pushed his hat back farther and his head, and rested his chin on his gloved fist.

"Well, we didn't." Vince wiped a hand over his face. "I sank everything I had into that stallion, Nick."

Nick grunted. "Yeah, I sank most of my savings into it, too."

And while the stallion was an excellent animal, his bloodline's provenance was what had been able to garner Nick and Vince the level of stud fees they'd charged… and already collected. To find out now that the stallion wasn't what he claimed to be, and the breeder gone with all their money, had rocked the young men on their pins.

Vince had literally put everything he had into his share of the stallion to create a stake for his own spread. He'd been a working hand on the Barkley ranch for eight years now, putting aside his money carefully. He and Nick had been studying the horse operation on the ranch and decided that putting together their money for a good stallion could prove to provide the independence Nick had wanted, to be his own man while still helping Tom to run the ranch, and could hopefully provide Vince with the ability to no longer work for someone else, but to work to build his own little piece of the world.

To have found out they'd been suckered had hurt and hurt bad. But for Vince, the situation had been devastating. They'd put the law to work on tracking the no-good cheating welsher down, but he'd disappeared like a puff of smoke.

"Not sure how I'm gonna pay back all those fees," sighed Nick, morosely staring into his whiskey glass.

Vince snorted. "I can't."

Nick looked up. "Whaddya mean, you can't?"

Vince stared him straight in the eye. "Just what I said. I can't!" he knocked back another shot, shuddering. "I… well, I already reinvested all my share of the fees. I ain't got it no more."

Nick frowned and looked around him to make sure they weren't being heard. "But, Vince. You gotta … we gotta pay back those stud fees! Otherwise we ain't no better than thieves!"

Vince leaned forward, too, his head closer to Nick's, his voice low. "Well, now, Nick, maybe there's a way outta this here dilemma," he said softly. "I mean, what if we didn't say nothin' about what we know."

Nick sat back, shocked. "Not say anything?!"

Vince patted the air, looking around again. "Keep your voice down, dammit!" he hissed. "That's nearly a thousand dollars in stud fees, boy! I have NOT got that kinda money stuffed in my mattress!" Seeing Nick's face, frowning in consternation, Vince shoved his chair a little closer, and blinked, a little blearily, wheedling, "C'mon, Nick! Who's gonna know?"

"Who's gonna - "started Nick, incredulous. "I am! And if I can't look in the mirror without turnin' my own stomach, then I know whatever it is ain't worth doin'!"

"You Barkleys… so righteous, never steppin' outta line! Well, it's easy for you! You've GOT everything!" spat out Vince. "A thousand dollars… hell, your family could cough that up easy from the thousands you got in that bank down the street, and never miss a stinkin' penny!"

Angrily, Nick poked his finger in Vince's chest. "It every occur to you one of the reasons we've GOT everything is because we GOT it honestly? Every inch of that ranch was wrung outta this earth by hand, Blackwell! With blood, sweat, tears and one helluva a lot of pure cussed grit! My father and mother earned every "stinkin' penny" we've got in that bank, and when it comes to work? Well, boy, I'll be glad to put a roster of my day up against yours any time!"

"Oh, you think so, do ya?!"

"Yeah, I think so!" yelled back Nick. "There ain't a single Barkley on the place, from Father down to eleven-year-old Gene, that doesn't work their tail off for that Ranch!"

Stung, Vince stood up then...teetering slightly. "You callin' me lazy?"

"No, I'm callin' you dishonest!" snapped back Nick, also rising to his feet... a little wobbly.

Vince's strong left hook knocked Nick back to the floor, but the rancher was back on his feet in a heartbeat.

By the time Cosmo, the bartender, sent someone for the Sheriff, three tables, seven chairs, a good portion of his top shelf and the bar itself were significantly the worse for wear.

"I don't know what they were fightin' about, Sheriff, and I don't care!" shouted Cosmo, as Fred and his Deputy separated Barkley and Blackwell. "I want 'em locked up and I want to know who's gonna cover damages to my place! I swear, any time Nick shows up here, I end up forkin' out money for repairs!"

"Now, Cosmo, you know that ain't so!" retorted Nick, wincing as he rubbed his jaw… Damn, even drunk Vince had one helluva right cross… "You know I usually just come in for a drink and some cards!"

"Humph!" Cosmo snorted. "I mean it, Sheriff, I'm pressin' charges on both of 'em!"

With them arguing mightily with him, the two young men were marched down the street to the jail by Fred and his deputy.

Jarrod heard the commotion before the door to the jail opened. Nick? God, was that Nick's voice?!

"Fred, I'm tellin' you this is a tempest in a teapot, and I'll - "

"Nick, I ain't arguin' with either of ya," Fred said firmly, pushing him into cell room, unlocking the door with one hand and gesturing him inside with the other. His deputy put Vince in the next cell, with Metzer.

Nick stomped in and glanced at the other man sharing the cell… and his jaw dropped. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I could ask you the same thing," said Jarrod dryly. "In fact, I am asking. What - "

Nick waved a hand. "I don't wanna talk about it," he grunted and walked over to the window overlooking the back alley.

Eyebrows raised, Jarrod went back to the bunk and sat down.

"You get word to anybody at the Ranch that you're here?" he asked.

"And just when would I have done that?" snapped Nick, irritated, swinging around on his older brother.

"Great. Two of us stuck in here, and no one knows about it," grunted Jarrod, flopping back on the bunk covering his eyes with an arm, frustrated.

Jeb Winters was the youngest son of a neighboring rancher and his wife, John and Lilah Winters who had a large horse breeding ranch west of the Barkley spread. Jeb was a handsome fourteen-year-old, kind and patient, and an excellent young horseman already with a good eye for decent horseflesh; good eye being the operative word. He'd been injured as a youngster when a horse's hoof clipped the left side of his face and apparently damaged the optic nerve in that eye. While there was no disfigurement, and his warm brown eyes were beautifully shaped, Jeb could see no more than vague shapes, and had only a sense of light and dark on his left side. It had never discouraged him from working with his horses, though, nor had it marred his sweet temperament.

Jeb's family had been tentative friends of the Barkleys since their arrival, though John tended to be more competitive and combative with Tom. Barkley was richer, better-liked by some (and, to be fair, more hated by others as well), and more powerful and influential in Valley and state politics than John. Tom Barkley was just plain 'more' of almost everything than John Winters… and it galled the other man to no end. When Heath arrived and his background spread, John used it. He managed to sour Lilah from being overly friendly with Victoria, tried mightily to sway oldest son Robert from associating with his contemporary, Nick Barkley, and fed into the naturally nasty temperament of his beautiful but badly spoiled daughter, Amy, to treat the youngster like the spawn of Satan.

Jeb was the only one who refused to follow along with his father's program.

"Pa, I've met Heath," he said firmly. "He's a decent fella, quiet and kind, good with horses. How he came to be ain't his fault, so I can't see the point in treating him bad. And I won't!" And nothing his father said could change his mind.

Heath and Jeb met up in town with the plan to take a look at Fred Springer's new string of draft horses that he was planning to introduce to his farm. They were supposed to be arriving by rail car around noon.

"Mr. Springer says they're a new line of Shires," Jeb was telling Heath with enthusiasm as they positioned themselves for viewing along with several other locals, arrived at the depot with the same notion. Heath and Jeb were early enough to have snagged some good viewing spots along the fencing.

"Shires?"

"English. Supposed to be among the biggest and with best pullin' capacity of the whole breed," explained Jeb. He turned his head slightly so that his right eye could better see. Heath noticed his own position would be easier for Jeb, and quickly stepped back, pulling him over so that his friend had a better line of sight and took his spot.

Jeb, surprised, grinned at his friend. Just like Heath to notice somethin' like that, he smiled to himself, nodding at the other boy. Heath just smiled that little crooked half-smile and then his eyes brightened, and he nodded toward the track, hearing the whistle.

"Holy mackerel, look at the hindquarters on that one," breathed Jeb in amazement. "I bet he could pull that train!"

"He's gotta be 19 hands," Heath whistled, eyes wide. "Shire, you said?"

"Yep."

"Wonder what his bloodline looks like," Heath commented, trying to imagine the lines of conformation that had gone into this amazing animal.

"Better'n yours, that's for sure."

The back of Heath's neck went cold, and he stiffened. Jeb whirled, recognizing the voice.

"Take a walk, Barnes," he warned.

"Why should I, Cyclops?" sneered the other boy. "It's a free country. I got as much right to be here as you. And way more'n him."

Heath breathed in through his nose, and deliberately turned his back. Not today. I ain't gonna let this townie ruin my day. Not today…

"Barnes - "

"Jeb… just let it go," Heath interjected quietly.

Harrumphing, Jeb turned back around and, steaming, tried to focus back on the horses as they were walked around the railroad corral by the handler who'd accompanied them. What angered him most was there were grown men around that corral, some snigg*ring, apparently enjoying seeing Tom Barkley's bastard being harassed. And that just made him mad.

"Pedigree requires knowin' who the sire is," said Barnes loudly. "But, oh wait, I guess we know yours."

Jeb started to turn again, but Heath's hand shot out.

"I mean it, Jeb," snapped Heath, finally glaring at Barnes. "He ain't worth it."

Bob Barnes, son of the local banker, grew red in the face at that, and the two other boys with him could see the bully gathering steam.

"But ye see, fellas," he said loudly, "just knowing who the sire is isn't enough to make a bloodline. If the mare is nothin' but a cheap, overused - "

Suddenly, Heath whirled, his fist connecting smartly with the bigger boy's mouth, knocking him back several steps and into the arms of one of his friends.

Heath, face red with anger, followed him out beyond the corral, and two men immediately slipped into the places he and Jeb left behind, chuckling at each other.

"You want to make yourself feel big by callin me names? You have at it," Heath spat at the other boy. "But you lay into my mama and I swear I'll mash you into pudding!"

Jeb, again, looked around him at the men… and was disgusted to see absolutely no one stepping up to call off Edward Barnes' son. Stinkin' cowards!

Bob shook his friends off, rubbing his chin. "Oh, you're gonna get it now!"

All three boys jumped Heath, and Jeb immediately joined in. Now, this did get the men's attention, about the only thing that could break the attention away from the draft horses. But none stepped in to do anything.

For Edward Barnes held the purse strings in town; you couldn't get a loan at the Stockton bank without his say so. And defending Tom Barkley's illegitimate son against Edward's brat was not going to bode well for anyone's credit.

During the fight, as they rolled around in the dirt, pounding on each other, Bob Barnes called Heath's mother every filthy name he'd ever learned from his father about women, until poor Heath was beside himself.

Finally, a couple of men did step in, but not until the sheriff had arrived and tried to break up the scuffle. And unfortunately, Heath was too angry by that point and wouldn't stop trying to get at Barnes. Ed Barnes himself had shown up by then, having been alerted to the fight while trying to get some lunch at the local hotel restaurant.

"I want that young thug arrested!" he thundered, seeing the condition young Bob was in.

"Sheriff, it wasn't Heath's fault!" protested Jeb, wiping blood from his lip.

"I got reports here that young Heath threw the first punch," answered the Sheriff, shaking his head.

"Well, yes, but - "

"There! You see?" Barnes crowed in triumph. "His own friend admits he started it!"

"I did not!"

Fred patted the air. "Everybody cool off."

Shoving through the crowd, Tom Barkley broke into the scrum, looking at the five battered youngsters, and the red face of the town's banker.

Heath gulped at the sight of his father, dreading his reaction to Heath's involvement in a public fight. This was unknown territory. Uh oh...

Tom looked to the sheriff as he walked over to Heath. Tipping the boy's chin up and studying the bruises on his face, he tossed over his shoulder, "What seems to be the trouble, Fred?"

"Bit of a scuffle, Tom, and it seems your boy got it underway."

"Father, that isn't true!" Heath protested.

Tom looked at the Sheriff.

"Bystanders confirm Heath threw the first punch."

Eyebrow raised, Tom looked back at Heath, who wilted. I'm gonna get blamed, no matter what I say.

Tom's mouth firmed, and he looked over at Jeb.

"Jeb, what happened?" he asked.

"Why ask your brat's friend?" demanded Barnes, his arm around young Bob.

"Because Jeb Winters is the most honest youngster in the valley, next to mine, and wouldn't tell a lie if his mother's life depended on it," snapped back Tom over his shoulder at the banker. He returned his gaze to Jeb. "Answer me, boy."

"Them three were deviling Heath, and … well, he couldn't take no more," said Jeb, carefully, trying to avoid repeating the vile, slanderous statements against Heath's mother he'd heard.

Heath blushed, and angrily stared at the ground.

It didn't take a leap of intellect to make the connections, Tom realized. He turned and looked directly at Robert Barnes. "Suppose you tell me what you said," he demanded, sternly.

Uneasy, Bob looked up at his father.

"No need for that," sputtered Ed Barnes, angrily. "Everyone knows what he said was true."

Tom nodded; his suspicions confirmed. "Well, the only way you'd know that, Ed, is if he was repeatin' somethin' he'd heard from you. So, then, suppose YOU tell me what your boy said to rile mine so badly? Because Heath doesn't go lookin' for fights, except under one condition."

"Father, I - "started Heath, starting to feel worried about the direction this whole thing was taking.

Fred wasn't far behind. "Now, Tom, we just got everybody settled down, and - "

"Oh, no you haven't," Tom said, decidedly, as he fully turned to Barnes, senior. " 'Settled down' is not the frame of mind I'm in at the moment, I can assure you o' that." He looked down, coldly, at young Bob. "You insulted his mother, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

"Now, Tom - "

"You insulted a woman, dead and buried, with no way to defend herself, to a boy who loved her dearly," continued Tom, coldly and inexorably. "And it looks like three of you to one, all of you older." He glanced quickly at Jeb. "Sorry, Jeb. Three to two." He smiled briefly in acknowledgement of Jeb's help, then drilled his stony gaze back at the young bully, who first stared back insolently, his chin up. But it was a brief, empty bluster, and red-faced, he uneasily looked up at his own father.

"And that's what I was waiting for," nodded Tom, taking a step closer and glaring straight into Ed Barnes red face. "He learned it from you."

Heath put a hand on his father's arm. "Father, don't," he said quietly… and a bit awkwardly; his split lip made talking difficult.

Tom didn't shake him off but didn't acknowledge him either. "Barnes, you got a problem with me, take it up with me. Leave the boy out of it. He's done nothing to you."

"We're a God-fearing community, Tom Barkley!" snapped Barnes, pushing Bob slightly behind him… as if Tom would attack the youngster. Some of the other men in the crowd reacted to that; Tom Barkley was a lot of things, but that little gesture went too far, for many of them. Suddenly the long memories of the townspeople came into play and many recalled times Barkley and his sons and hands had backed them up, whether with labor to save a crop before a frost, or fighting a fire, or guns to stave off an attack. As rapidly as a wildfire, the crowd, now numbering close to thirty, was splitting itself off into factions.

"Sheriff, I want to press charges against that boy!" bellowed Barnes, not quick enough to pick up that the crowd's mood had changed.

"God-fearing?!" chuckled Tom, darkly. "Don't make me laugh!"

"Yes, God-fearing! Deuteronomy 23:2 clearly states 'A bastard shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD; even to his tenth generation shall he not enter into the congregation of the LORD,'" snapped Barnes. "This town is a congregation of the Lord!"

Barnes' side of the crowd all shoved in their two bits, grumbling loudly or offering comments, while poor Heath winced… well, he sure knew that Bible verse well enough…

"For myself, I rather lean toward the New Testament, when it seems people weren't quite so rock-headed stupid. And John 8:7 just as clearly states, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone!', "snapped back Tom. "That is most assuredly NOT you, Edward!"

"He's a little bastard who - "

And that was as far as he got. Tom's big fist shut his mouth, smartly. That was all that was needed to blow the cap off the energy of a crowd that had been wound up tighter than a firecracker. Before Fred knew what was happening, he had a brawl on his hands, with more than 30 combatants, but the main event was assuredly between Ed Barnes and Tom Barkley, with Bobby Barnes and Heath Barkley's coming in a close second. Fred had been shoved hard to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. In the time it took his him to get his wind again, the fight had escalated badly.

Fred staggered to his feet, glanced around himself for safety's sake, and then quickly raised his pistol into the air and let off a shot.

Combat halted.

That blowhard Barnes had insisted on pressing charges against Tom and Heath both. The Sheriff had ultimately decided they'd have to be fined; he'd plainly seen Tom throw the first punch in that mess, and he knew Heath had done the same, but he was not seeing them arraigned in court, period, and told Ed Barnes to clean up his own house before he started messing any further in others'.

While it hadn't gone over well, the townspeople in general were supportive, and Fred herded the two Barkleys over to the jail, trying to figure out exactly how to get word to Barkley Ranch about the situation when, lo and behold, the last of the Barkley boys, young Eugene, pushed forward. "Father! Father, are you all right?" he asked, impressed by the rapidly-blackening eye, bruised cheek and skinned knuckles his father was sporting.

"What are you doin' here, boy?" demanded Tom.

"I was lookin' up my friend, Marty, to maybe go ridin' up by the bluff… it's all right, Father. Mother said I could!" he assured, Tom, forestalling Tom's next question. "And we were just coming down the street when we saw the fight!" answered Gene, excited. "I pretty surprised to see you in it! You were awful good against Mr. Barnes, Pa!"

"Dare say," muttered Tom, wiping a hand over his face. "Look, Eugene, you head on back to the ranch and ask your mother to come on in here, and Gene -" He stopped the boy as he turned. "Tell her to bring along the cheque book, will you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"She's gonna need it," said Madden dryly.

"Well, if it was just me, I'd have enough to cover my fine on me, Fred," grumbled Tom, "but since you insist on Heath bein' involved - "

"Well, now, I didn't insist, Tom, that was Ed Barnes. But the young'un there's not the only other one with a fine you'll be payin', Tom," said Fred, with a small smile as he opened the jail door, and the two Barkleys preceeded him into the office. "Havin' a bit of a Barkley family reunion goin' on in my jail today."

"What?" Tom stopped a moment, staring at him. Fred picked up the keys from his desk and gestured Tom and Heath on through, with a disconcerting grin on his face. Tom glared at him and stalked into the cell room… and stopped dead.

Jarrod and Nick, together in the same cell, and both looking the worse for wear, looked at their father in shock.

"For cryin' out loud, Father!" Nick exclaimed. "That was you out there in that brawl?!"

"What in the name of heaven is goin' on here?" demanded Tom, turning violently on the sheriff, who raised his hands patting the air.

"Calm yourself, Tom. Jarrod's been in there since lunch for drunk and disorderly - "

"I was not and AM not drunk!" snapped Jarrod, angrily.

"All right, I beg your pardon, Counselor," amended Fred with a smile, and continued, "for disorderly conduct after getting into a street fight with Will Metzer over there, who was drunk and disorderly, and puttin' each other through Sarah Styles' dress shop window." He pointed toward Will Metzer, glaring at the contingent of Barkley from his side of his cell.

Tom grimaced, having a pretty good idea what the source of that brouhaha had been all about…

"Now, Nick over there, was drunk - "

"Only a bit, Father," protested Nick, then glaring at Fred.

" - and got into with Vince Blackwell yonder," smiled Fred, nodding toward Vince, who most assuredly was drunk, though not disorderly at the moment as he'd passed out completely. "So, I had to haul 'em both in after them two broke up the saloon over something to do with stud fees."

Fred slipped the key into the Barkley cell, swung open the door and bowed, waving in Tom and Heath. "Might as well keep it all in the family, I'd say. Kinda like a family pew in church..."

"You know what, Fred? You're nowhere near as funny as you think you are," growled Tom as he strode in, followed by Heath.

Fred merely laughed under his breath as he locked the cell door behind them and returned to his office.

Sheriff Madden chuckled to himself, glancing through the door leading to the jail cells. It was an unusual sight, to be sure: Four Barkleys, the old man and his three oldest sons, all looking like prize fight rejects.

Jarrod Barkley, the lawyer, was stretched out on one of the bunks, as far away from Will Metzer as he could get. Metzer had sobered up considerably throughout the afternoon, and was now sitting dejectedly in his cell, head in his hands. Fred hoped that boy had got his anger out of his system finally with the fight. It was long past time for that wound to heal.

Nick Barkley, the big, dark-haired rancher, was leaning against the cell wall staring out the window, scowling. His combatant was sharing the cell with Metzer, snoring away, clearly unfazed by his battle with the Barkleys. Ol' Nick just looked ready for another go 'round.

Big Tom and young Heath Barkley were sitting side by side on the other narrow bunk in the cell, having a quiet talk; that was the one Fred felt worst about. Dadburned people in this town… blamin' a decent kid for somethin' totally outside his control. Astonishing how much that boy looks like Tom, too.

Fred heard the doorbells jingle, and turned. And stood up straighter, swallowing hard. Oh, Lordy. Now I got Miz Barkley, and she looks loaded for bear...

"All right, Fred, where are you keeping them?"

"Now, Victoria - "

"Don't you 'now, Victoria' me!" Boot heels beat a tattoo toward the other room.

Inside the cell, four pairs of Barkley eyes swung to the door. The three boys all swiveled themselves toward the door, swallowing hard.

But Tom leaned back against the cell wall, relaxed.

Come to think of it, Fred realized, ALL the eyes in those cells were turned this way. The Barkleys sure are puttin' on a show today.

Victoria studied the condition of her sons and shook her head. Then she glanced at their father, gazing at her, unperturbed. "Are you all right?" she asked calmly.

"Of course," he responded, rising to his feet and coming to the cell door, gazing at her through the bars. "So're they," he said gently, tipping his head towards their sons. And smiled at her. "Pay their fines, Vic."

Jarrod, Nick and Heath all glanced at each other, then looked at their father.

Hands on her hips, Victoria stared up at her husband, shaking her head. "Oh, sure," she nodded, grimly. "Get your sons out of trouble. And what about you?"

He grinned at her. "Are you willing to? Wasn't sure. I figured I was safe asking about the boys…"

"Tom, I could - " Victoria sputtered, then gave up, and her shoulders sagged. "Gene told me what happened," she said quietly. She came closer to the bars and reached up, gently touching her husband's black eye. She glanced over at Heath - now standing beside Nick, whose arm was draped over his younger brother's shoulders, Jarrod beside Nick in support as well, and all three looking their parents - then back at her husband, with pride and gumption written all over her. "I hope to heaven you made him look twice as bad," she said grimly.

Tom chuckled. "Oh, yes, ma'am, that I did."

By the time all of them got home, got bathed and were doctored by either Victoria or Silas (Nick had begged Heath to let Mother doctor his cuts and bruises, and let Nick be worked on by Silas… "C'mon! She'll go easy on you. Me, she'll pour straight alcohol into my scrapes!"), and had eaten supper, it was decidedly late. Audra and Eugene had been sent to bed after they admired their war wounds, and the three older brothers were told to go wait in the drawing room.

"Boys, I'm not angry at any of you," Tom reassured Jarrod, Nick and Heath, all standing before him, their mother seated in her chair at his side. "How could I be? I'd have to be angry at myself as well. But I think your mother wants an explanation."

"She most certainly does." Victoria said dryly. "Jarrod, suppose we start with you."

By the time Jarrod had explained what happened, Victoria was sighing and shaking her head. "Why didn't you just walk away?" she demanded.

"Mother…"

She waved a hand. "I know, I know." She looked at him, wincing at the bruises. "I just find it all so hard to believe…you two were friends as children."

"People change," he shrugged. "And… well, in Will's shoes, I might have felt the same, I don't know." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe duking it out with me got some of the worst of the vitriol out of his system… I'd like to think so, anyway."

Victoria nodded, then raised an eyebrow looking at Nick. "And what about you?"

Haltingly, wincing a bit at having to admit he'd been taken, Nick explained day's transgressions.

"So, because you were drunk, you let him get you angry enough to get into a fight," she finished for him.

"Now, Mother, to be fair, Nick ain't gotta be drunk for that," put in Heath, helpfully, making Jarrod snort with laughter.

"I'll get to you in a minute, mister," she warned, and Heath shut up and looked at his boots, while Nick glared at Jarrod, who managed to get his expression under control and look innocently straight ahead.

"Mother, I'm sorry it ended up in a fight, but… well, I just couldn't let Vince go through with making up any fool story like that, not one that would have the Barkley name attached to it," Nick grunted, frowning. He glanced at her, praying she could possibly understand.

She nodded, and finally turned to Heath, still staring dejectedly at the floor.

He gulped, noting the silence and slowly picked up his head, peering at her worriedly.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently. "And I don't mean your bruises."

He sighed, understanding her. "Yes'm. I've been hearing stuff like that all my life," he said quietly. "I'm usually pretty good at letting it roll off my back most times… but when they throw names at my mama…." He shrugged. "I reckon I ain't too good at holding my temper then. An' then, when they start throwin' the Bible at me…" He shook his head, frustrated. "I ain't never been able to understand how a 'loving God' could ever say generations of a family should suffer for something a person did. I reckon he sent Jesus to straighten people out on that score. Guess that didn't work out as He planned…" He glanced at her. "If you don't want me goin' to church no more with you, I'll understand," he offered helpfully. "I mean, my mama raised me to believe God is everywhere… I find Him out in the rivers and mountains, and up in the rocks and in the valley. I ain't never found Him inside four walls, anyhow."

Jarrod leaned forward and shot Heath an admiring look of Good effort!

Victoria eyed her oldest son coldly, and he subsided, flushing a little but unable to totally wipe the grin off his face. "Nice try," she replied dryly to Heath, "but you'll join the rest of us at church tomorrow, same as always, young man."

"Yes, ma'am," he sighed, resigned.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways… sometimes, downright obfuscated, if you ask me," smiled Tom. He felt, rather than saw Victoria glare at him, and immediately turned to her. "And yes, I know… you didn't ask me."

"You're right, I didn't." She stood up then, hands on her hips. "Tom, honestly! After today, is that all you can say to these three?"

"Not at all," he answered easily, leaning against his desk, then wincing as the hard wood connected with a bruise on his rump where he'd gone down once during the brawl that afternoon. He straightened up, rubbing his backside, and walked closer to the boys, looking at each one. "As I see it, Vic, each one of our sons proved himself able to walk the moral high ground today. Our oldest was able to prove his devotion to the word of law, above all else, but not without a certain amount of compassion. Will Metzer will see that eventually, Jarrod, I know he will. He's had a rough time these last few months. Will's as honest as they come and won't make the same mistake Harvey's made." Tom reached out and squeezed Jarrod's upper arm and smiled. "Glad to know sitting behind a desk hasn't softened you too much. However... your share of the repairs of Miss Sarah's shop? That's on you."

Jarrod rolled his eyes, but grinned and nodded.

Tom stepped down the line and gazed through narrowed eyes at Nick. His second son met his gaze, feeling a bit foolish, but still with a clamped jaw and feeling he couldn't have done anything different than he did. "Nick, here, proved that while he's not above making a dumb-ass mistake now and again… " Tom raised an eyebrow at the young man, who sighed…making Tom chuckle and put a hand out to gently grip the back of his neck and squeeze in support. "… he's also honest and willing to pay for those mistakes. I couldn't be prouder of you for that, Nicholas," he said seriously. Then he raised an eyebrow. "The damages at Cosmo's are coming out of your salary."

Nick looked up in surprise, then winced. "Do you think you could loan me the money to repay the stud fees, Father?" he asked quietly. "I'd like to front the cost of Vince's share. He ain't got two nickles left to rub together. He put everything he had into that stallion."

"I think we can work something out."

Tom clapped Nick's shoulder, chuckling, and then sobered a bit looking down at young Heath. "And you, Mr. Barkley," he said sadly, reaching out and tipping up his son's chin, taking another look at the bruises and split lip, shaking his head. "I'm sorry you have to deal with such things, son. They're my fault, not yours. And I'm very proud of you that you held your temper, at least until your mother's good name was attacked." He cupped the boy's cheek. "Try not to let fools like Bobby Barnes upset you so much, son. There's always gonna be somebody."

Solemnly, Heath nodded.

Tom turned to his wife gesturing to his three oldest boys. "So, we have before us three young men who upheld the word of law, transactional honesty and the good name of the people they love. Morality in several different suits. How can I find fault with that?" Raising both eyebrows, Tom tilted his head at her.

Victoria's eyes narrowed, and she shook her head in exasperation. "I'm going to bed. I've had enough of you men for one day," she said finally, walking up to each son and kissing an unbruised part of his cheek.

"Night, ma'am… I mean, Mother."

"G'night, Mother."

"Good night, lovely lady."

They watched her sweep up the wide staircase and looked back at their father.

"Is she gonna forgive us sometime soon?" asked Nick.

"She'll be fine come morning," assured Jarrod.

After about fifteen minutes Tom firmly sent Heath on up to bed, despite his protests of not being tired, and Nick and Jarrod decided to play some billiards. They invited their father to join them, but he chose instead to head on up himself.

"Church tomorrow, boys, and the entire Barkley clan will be in attendance. Understood?" he said, sternly to Nick, who occasionally found a reason to skip out.

Nick sighed and nodded. "Understood."

"Good night, boys."

"Goodnight, Father," they chorused behind him.

Tom wearily mounted the stairs and walked on down the hallway. He sighed in irritation to see a light still burning under Heath's door. He knocked once, quietly, and opened the door.

The lamp was still lit, as he'd seen, but it looked as though Heath was sound asleep, sprawled across his bed arms and legs in all directions, a book splayed open on his chest. Smiling to himself (So much for 'but I ain't tired, Father!"), Tom walked over and carefully picked up the book, slipping its bookmark into place and setting it on his night table, then blew out the lamp. Heath muttered in his sleep and rolled over, kicking off most of his quilts. Tom shook his head with a smile, covered him up again, and smoothed back his hair careful to avoid the bruises.

"Sleep well, Heath," he whispered, leaving the room.

Once at his own door, he drew in a deep breath, ready to face just about anything, and turned the handle.

Inside, Victoria was reading, her hair down around her shoulders. The soft light was alluring, he realized, softening all the edges of his sight, allowing him to smooth out the years in his mind. She didn't look up when he came in, her eyes primly remaining on her book. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off, neatly folding it and laying it on his bureau. He sat down in his easy chair and removed his boots, set them aside and pulled off his socks, tossing them into the hamper, and his pants, folding them as neatly as he did his shirt.

She was still gazing studiously at the page of her book.

He chuckled and walked over to the bed, slipping between the sheets.

"No nightshirt?"

"Nope." he settled himself. "Good book?"

"Well, it's supposed to be."

"Sorry?" he asked, startled.

"I've read the same paragraph about ten times since I came upstairs and couldn't tell you what in the world it says." She closed the book with a snap and laid it on her bedside table. She crossed her arms and looked at her husband. He's 49 years old, not a boy anymore! She shook her head. "Did you have a good time?" she asked dryly.

He turned on his side, propped his head on his fist, and grinned. "Yup."

"I thought as much. Honestly, Thomas Barkley, I could - "

But she didn't finish her sentence because he drew her to him in a deep, passionate kiss.

When he released her, kissing her nose, she drew in a breath and sighed. She gently touched the black eye, shaking her head. "I love you, Tom."

"And I you, my lovely. No moral dilemmas in that, is there?"

"Nope," she said, echoing his own voice and speech pattern, and snuggled against him.

Chapter 8: Growing Up

Chapter Text

Nick Barkley, shirtless and sweating, his bandanna tied around his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping down into his eyes lugged the fence post off the wagon and brought it closer to the baling wire and tools, dropping it with a resounding thud! "Heath!"

"Yeah!" His kid brother was about 15 feet further back, his blond hair dark with sweat, and his torso glistening and bronzed as he filled in the hole around the last post they'd re-seated.

"You got that post-hole digger?"

Heath grinned, rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Yeah, sure Nick, right here in my back pocket."

"Oh, hardy-har-har," snapped Nick.

Heath chuckled. "Should be back in the wagon… where you put it."

"Oh. Yeah." Sighing Nick trudged back to the buckboard, while Heath shook his head.

Together, the brothers put their backs into it and both were grateful as Nick seated the post and sighed, yanking off the bandanna and wiping his face. "Thank the Lord, that's the last one."

Heath picked the shovel and started filling in the hole while Nick held the post upright. They heard hoofbeats and turned to see their baby brother, Eugene, trotting up on his pony. "Hey, there, short stuff."

"Hey. Ma says you two need to get back to the house on time for dinner tonight, she's tired of holdin' meals for ya," Gene reported with a grin.

"Is that right?" grunted Nick, with a mirroring grin.

"Yup. And Silas made duck."

"Do tell!" Heath's eyes shone. He swung back to Nick. "You 'bout ready?"

Nick raised an eyebrow. "You think that post is gonna reseat itself, boy?" he demanded dryly, hands on his hips.

Heath's face fell, and he sighed, picking the shovel back up and resuming tamping the dirt back into place.

"You all know what's wrong with Audra?" asked Gene curiously.

"Wrong? Whaddya mean, wrong?" demanded Nick, as he used his boot to stamp down the dirt Heath was funneling back into the hole.

"She came home today cryin' and threw her books down in the drawing room and ran up to her room and ever'thin," answered Gene, looking worried. "And she was awful pale, kinda green-looking."

"That a fact," mused Heath as he finished redistributing the shoveled-out dirt and shoved against the post to check its sturdiness.

"Aw, poor little Sis," grunted Nick. "Sorry to hear that. Usually take a lot to get Audra under the weather. She's the healthiest female I ever - " Nick stopped short, frowning, and looked up at his small brother. "You said she was cryin', Eugene?"

His head bobbed, and he pushed his hat back further.

Nick shook his head and glanced at Heath. "That isn't like Audra, either… she's not a crier," he mused, frowning. "Mad as a wet hen? Yes. Stomp and slam doors? Sure. But cry? No, not even when she's sick." He shook his head again.

Heath said nothing but looked around for any tools they'd forgotten. "Looks like that's it, Nick. I reckon we're done, and that duck is quackin' my name."

Nick raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "Is it, really."

"Yup," affirmed Heath, a hand to his ear, listening off into the distance, then nodding in satisfaction, making Gene giggle.

"Well, then, small fry," Nick bellowed, "let's head back home and hear this miracle for ourselves!"

Tom Barkley sipped his whiskey, staring into the flames dancing in the hearth, his thoughts swirling and disappearing like the tongues of flame, the sparks of embers and smoke the fire created before him. Memories flooded his mind, memories of the bright and sunny afternoon a tiny little female boldly made her presence known into his family, squalling as loudly as her brothers had for attention and her determination to get her needs met. Memories of her totally conquering her eldest brother as her champion and protector from the moment he first held her; her first steps as she tried desperately to keep up with her beloved big brother Nicholas. His bellows and stomping had never frightened her as an infant, not once; in fact, she did her best to imitate them. She was fearless, and bold, like her brothers, ready to tackle anything and everything they did… Nick in a skirt, that was his Audra. He remembered the one time in her life he'd been the one to paddle her backside rather than her mother, and it was for recklessly trying to ride a horse that was way too big for her despite his telling her she was forbidden from going near it. She'd scared him out of ten years that afternoon.

Victoria had shocked him this evening, by gently letting him know that his little girl wasn't a baby anymore. His newly-turned thirteen-year-old daughter had 'become a woman' today, as they said around here. He sighed to himself. She was surely a long way from that, but the implications were undeniable. For the rest of her life, Audra would be hearing from someone or other how she had to behave like a lady. And he was pretty sure he knew just about how well that was gonna go over with the young woman herself.

He cast his mind back thirty years, trying to remember his sisters. He seemed to remember his younger sister having rougher times each month than his older sister, but that could have been temperament as well. He'd grown up on a farm, been around critters all of his life; the estrous cycles of female animals were absolutely nothing new to him and didn't trouble him in the slightest. But the idea that his daughter, his baby girl, was now capable of being someone's potential wife, bearing someone's children?

That thought shook him to the core of his being.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door open behind him and light steps enter the room. When he felt a hand gently sit on his shoulder, he started, and looked up. Vic was looking down at him, tenderly. He sighed and reached a hand up to touch hers.

"How is she?"

Victoria sighed, and came around to sit beside him. "I think shocked is the best way to describe it, even though we've talked about it off and on for the last year or so."

Tom raised an eyebrow at her. "Really?"

Victoria sighed at him, exasperated. "Well, of course! Do you think I wanted her to have this occur and think she was dying? For goodness' sake, Tom!"

He cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah, I suppose so. Like when I had to talk to the boys…"

"Exactly. Which reminds me, it's about time for Eugene to have the 'talk'. He is eleven now."

Tom sighed, resting his head back on the chair. "Yeah… I think I need to have a little chat with my middle child, too. Find out if he's got any questions or … well… "

Victoria turned to him. "Heath?" She mused, nodding. "That's not a bad idea."

Tom stared at the fire for a few more moments. "Is she scared?" he asked softly, worriedly.

Victoria took his hand. "Yes," she said simply, with a sad smile. "She knows that everything changes from here on out." She gripped his hand. "And yet, you know, nothing really changes at all. The last thing she needs is for her 'menfolk' to treat her differently. As I said to her… women have been dealing with this wrinkle for millennia. She's not the first and won't be the last. It's just a part of life, like men having to shave."

"Except that we don't tend to cry or have hissy-fits each mornin' when we soap our faces and sharpen our razors. Ow!"

"Tom, stop it!"

"All right, all right, just trying to infuse a little levity into the situation," he sighed, rubbing his arm, glaring at her. "Dammit, woman, you hit hard! Why in the world do you make me smack the boys?! You could handle it just fine!"

She eyed him sternly, eyebrow raised.

He frowned at her.

She relented a little. "So, we know Audra is a little unnerved. What about you?"

He sighed. "I'm… sad," he admitted. He looked at her. "She's not my baby anymore."

"She'll always be your baby girl, Tom," she said gently. "You have to help her understand that, all right? Don't treat her any differently than you always have."

"Is she hurting?"

"A little… it will pass in a day or so. I gave her some willow bark tea, and she's fallen asleep with a hot water bottle."

"All right, Vic. How do you want me to handle this? Tell me what she needs."

"I want you to love her just as much as you always did."

He sat up sharply. "How could you say that!" he demanded in outrage, red in the face, glaring at his wife. "How could you ever think I could change how I feel about her?!"

She smiled at him, nodding, poking him gently in the chest. "That's what she needs," she said gently, kissing her husband. "To know that."

"Jarrod, I'm tellin' you if we don't take Hastings up on his offer, and I mean right now, we're gonna lose any opportunity to get that new string bought," Nick declared as he and his older brother entered the house. Nick looked up and saw Silas coming from the kitchen and threw him his hat, grinning at Silas as he caught it expertly. Jarrod shook his head and walked to the coat-tree to hang up his own.

"I'm not unaware of the potential fall-out," Jarrod countered. "I'm just saying that I'm not convinced that we need to jump on it this fast! You're giving away our hand."

"If we don't take advantage of that offer, he'll buy from someone else, and we'll have jack squat to purchase that mare, Jarrod! Mark my words!" shouted Nick, hands on hips, legs wide apart and leaning forward toward his brother.

"And if he does, we'll sell to someone else," shrugged Jarrod, unfazed by Nick's histrionics.

"Oh, you think so, huh?" snapped Nick, black-gloved hands on his hips.

"Yes, I think so, huh!" replied Jarrod, maddeningly calmly back at his younger brother.

Growling, Nick swung around to Silas. "Where's my father, Silas?!"

"I'm not 'zactly sure, Mr. Nick," Silas said, frowning. "I do know he went upstairs to yo' parents' bedroom awhile back, said he was looking for some paperwork he had stored up there in the closet, but that was awhile back."

Nick nodded and swung back at Jarrod. "Alright, Counselor, let's go find out what Father's got to say about it!"

Jarrod rolled his eyes, following Nick as he stomped up the stairs. "Nick, for heaven's sake…"

"FATHER!" Nick bellowed, knocking once and storming into his parents' bedroom, followed by Jarrod.

There, before their mother's triple-paneled mirror, Audra was standing in pantalets and camisole on a small hassock with her mother fitting her… in a very tiny, very feminine corset trimmed in frothy lace.

In the split second that followed Nick's bumptious entry, his hazel eyes widened in shock to see that his playful, feisty tomboy of a sister - who could out-ride and often out-punch any boy her age - had developed a very dainty, feminine little figure with a pair of lovely… oh, lordy!

Nick whirled around, face as red as a tomato as his mother shouted "NICHOLAS!" and Audra screamed, diving for the screens Mother had in her room.

"What in the world is wrong with you!" scolded Victoria her son, whirling around to see where Audra had disappeared to. "Get out of here, right now!"

"I… uh… I'm sorry, I … uh… was lookin' for Father…" Nick babbled, in an agony of embarrassment.

"Nick, you PIG! GET OUT!" shrieked Audra, furious, from behind the screen.

"Now, Audra - "

Nick shot out the door, with Jarrod, grinning, ambling after him.

Outside in the hallway, all the way at the top of the stairs, Nick leaned against the wall, his face still red enough to rival Gertrude MacGillivray's ribbon-winning beefsteak tomatoes at last year's Sacramento State Fair.

"Little brother… will you never learn to slow down?" asked Jarrod calmly, eyebrow raised.

"Did you see that? I mean, did you see that?" Nick demanded, whirling on his brother, trying desperately to 'unsee' what he'd just encountered.

"See what?" asked Eugene, coming out of his room right then.

"Never you mind!" shouted Nick, startling the little boy.

"Criminers! I just asked!" complained Gene.

"Never mind, Gene," smiled Jarrod. "Head on downstairs, would you, and see if you can find Father? Brother Nick and I need to talk to him."

"Sure, Jarrod," Gene answered, haughtily, sticking his tongue out at Nick and running fast to avoid the swat Nick aimed at his backside.

Once Gene was out of earshot, Nick whirled on Jarrod again. "I mean it! Did you see that?"

Jarrod smiled at him. "What? A young lady growing up?"

Nick waved a hand. "That ain't no young lady, that's Audra!"

Jarrod laughed. "Oh, Nick, for heaven's sake. She's turned thirteen… what did you really expect? That she'd remain in pigtails and your old riding pants forever?" Shaking his head, Jarrod continued on down the staircase, while Nick stood, upset, in the hallway, his thoughts whirling.

Yeah… I guess that's exactly what I expected… thought Nick sadly, as he followed Jarrod more slowly down the steps.

Heath galloped across the fields, eating up the intensity of the ride, and slowing down just before he hit the gate, knowing that Father would not be best pleased to see him running his horse that hard and fast when it wasn't necessary. But, boy howdy, it sure felt good be riding so fast as to have the wind blowing his hat brim flat against his head, and Gal's mane and tail flying like flags behind her. Chuckling, he leaned down and patted her heaving sides, offering an "Atta girl!," then walking her gently under the "Barkley Ranch" archway so that by the time they got into the yard in front of the barn she'd be breathing normally.

Heath waved at McColl, talking to some of the hands, as he swung down. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the horse liniment he'd gone to town to fetch for the Ranch foreman, handed it off and then led Gal into the barn.

Inside, he was surprised to find Father and Gene seated on a hay bale in the cooler, darkened barn and smiled hello at them both.

Gene looked a little dazed, and Father himself looked amused.

"F-father, are we done?" asked Gene, uneasiliy.

Tom smiled and nodded. "Yes, we're done. You go on, son."

Gene shot out of the barn so fast, the straw on the floor was still settling as the door started to close.

Heath raised both eyebrows and looked at his father. "Everything all right?" he asked, concerned.

Tom chuckled. "Yes, everything's fine. I just had to have a … well, a little conversation with your brother that unnerved him a bit."

Heath led Gal into her stall and started untacking her. "Unnerved him?"

Tom tilted his head and took a deep breath. Well, no time like the present…

"Yes. Had a little talk about growing up."

Wrinkling his brow, Heath looked back at his father as he loosened Gal's cinch and pulled off her saddle, walking toward the sawhorses near the entryway.

"You know… the changes a boy's body goes through as he starts becoming a man."

Tom watched son number three stop short, his back stiffening, then slowly continue his trek to the sawhorses. Tom smiled wryly.

When Heath returned Tom could see his face was red, and he couldn't meet his father's eyes.

"Heath…"

"No talk needed, Father," Heath said, firmly... and a little desperately. "I'm aware."

Tom chuckled. "Are you. Practical experience?" And Tom suddenly realized, in shock,that actually anything was possible here...

Heath's eyes came up, an expression of horrified astonishment on his face, his face beet red. "No!"

"Good." His relief was surprisingly strong. Tom ambled over with a curry comb and started currying Gal's flank and gaskin… effectively blocking Heath into the front part of the stall to work on her shoulder, chest and withers.

"Look, I know this kind of conversation embarrasses you…"

"It don't embarrass you?" demanded Heath, incredulous.

Tom laughed. "No. I've had the experience of doing this twice already… well, now three times, with your brothers before talking to you."

"Father, I - "

"Heath, hold up. Just listen a moment," said Tom firmly. "Keep yours hands busy… it helps," he said, trying to keep the amusem*nt out of his voice. "I just want to be sure you know that when you have questions or are uncertain about anything… and I mean anything, son… you come to me and ask. Don't ask your friends, because the likelihood of them having any answer that's better than anything you might conjure up on your own is pretty low. And that could be dangerous. Come to me so you get the truth."

Desperately uncomfortable, Heath combed carefully through Gal's mane.

"The conversation young Eugene and I had just now had to do with … well, with what can happen sometimes in a boy's sleep - "

Shocked, Heath turned to him. "Father, I know!" the boy blurted out, agonized. "I'm fifteen!"

Tom smiled. "Well, it doesn't happen to all boys at the same time, you know, and sometimes doesn't happen at all. And when it happens the first time, and the youngster doesn't understand what's going on, it can be pretty scary."

Heath swallowed hard. It had been. He remembered feeling scared, and terribly embarrassed. He'd been twelve… luckily Aunt Rachel had grown up with brothers close to her in age (Uncle Matt was so much older than Mama, and surely wouldn't have talked to her about anything like this! Also, as far as Heath was concerned, Uncle Matt was the absolute last person he would seek out for information from about this kind of stuff, that was for sure…); she had gently tried explain what was happening to him, and about the physical changes he could start to expect over the next couple of years. He'd been absolutely and totally mortified but at the same time was relieved to know nothing was wrong.

Tom could see this was building more of a wall than creating a path to communication, and sighed. "Son, I need you to understand something, and I mean clearly," he said seriously, turning the boy around and making him face him, embarrassment notwithstanding. "As you yourself just said, you're fifteen years old now. That means you are fully capable of goin' out there and getting a young lady with child. And from what I remember myself, and my friends and brothers, and your brothers, of bein' fifteen, pretty girls and young men and what they do together behind closed doors is pretty much on your mind most o' your waking life! That's normal and true of all boys, Heath."

Heath winced. Well, good to know I'm normal, I guess, he thought glumly.

Tom noted the expression and smiled to himself, sympathetically. "I wouldn't be doing my job as a good father without making sure you have the right information goin' forward. You'll be a man soon, and being a man carries with it a lot of responsibility. You know, too darned well I'm afraid, exactly what can happen between a man and woman and what kind of consequences can arise." He raised his eyebrow at his son, meaningfully.

Unhappily, Heath sighed. "We ain't gettin' around this, are we," he muttered.

"Nope." Tom reached over and took the curry comb out of Heath's hands and walked him over to the same hay bale he'd just sat on with Eugene. "Either you can sit there and listen to me as I talk to you, or you can tell me what you already know. Your choice."

Heath literally groaned out loud, and Tom chuckled. "For heaven's sake, Heath! This is just normal human living! What's got you so embarrassed?"

"I just don't talk about this stuff!" he grunted.

"Well, then you can listen," Tom agreed, drawing in a deep breath.

"No!"

With excruciating slowness, Heath spit out what he knew about human sexuality. Tom was careful to listen quietly, gently correct some misconceptions without making the boy feel stupid or foolish, and was actually pleased, overall, with the level of Heath's understanding. Learning that he'd got this information from Leah herself made him even more humbled and grateful to the woman who'd been this boy's mother. "Your mother did a fine job, boy. If you make sure you pay heed to what she's taught you when you and a young lady are together, you'll do just fine."

Tom pulled in a deep breath and exhaled. Well, they'd survived it, both of them, though poor Heath looked a little unraveled around the edges… "As you get older and have more questions -"

"Look… if I have a question, I'll .. I'll ask Nick," Heath said, quickly, desperate for this dreadful conversation to be over. "I promise."

Tom winced. Oh, good grief! Might as well ask the fox to guard the henhouse! Nick was young yet, just twenty-one, and Tom noted that Nick's normal brain function still frequently got overwhelmed by a pretty girl just walking by him on the street. "Well, I'll go along with asking an older brother if you feel you can't talk to me, but I think you'd be much better off asking Jarrod. He's a bit older, and a little bit more settled. Nick'll get there with time, but he's young yet. I want you to promise me you'll ask your questions of Jarrod, son, if you don't feel…well, safe enough I guess, to -"

"It ain't that," Heath said, frustrated. He turned to his father, so embarrassed. "I'm just… I do trust you, Father, honest, but - "

Tom smiled, then, and put a hand on his youngster's shoulder. "I understand, son. Truly I do. But I mean it. I want your word. Jarrod."

Uneasily, Heath nodded. "Yes, sir. Jarrod."

"All right, then."

Barkley, you make sure you talk to both of those older ones darned quick and make sure they are aware of exactly what is acceptable information to share! Tom thought to himself.

For a moment, Heath sat there, thinking. He looked up at his father sitting beside him, calm and wise, and felt…

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "I was just thinkin'… I never had a fella to talk to like this before."

"I know," Tom said gently, squeezing his son's knee. "Knowing you do is important, whether you ever actually ever do or not. Knowing you can? That can make a lot of difference sometimes."

Heath nodded. Tom clapped his shoulder and got to his feet. "Okay. I'm done embarrassing you for the time being," he chuckled. "Go finish grooming and putting up Gal. Supper'll be ready soon."

Heath watched him go, thoughtful. Just knowing you had someone you could ask… yes, it does make a difference, he thought as he returned to his mare.

Nick and Heath came in together from the range with little time to spare before they knew dinner would be on the table, and met Jarrod washing up for supper in the wash house.

"Whew," Jarrod winced, waving a hand in front of his nose. "You two are enough to make a person's eyes water. What the heck have you been doing today?"

"Workin' like men, older brother, workin' like men," grinned Nick, flapping his arms up and down, and making Jarrod groan and wave the air around him, pushing his brother toward another wash basin.

"So, you actually done somethin' today strenuous enough to need soap and water?" grinned Heath, teasing, as he stripped his own smelly shirt off and grabbed a bar of soap and wash rag.

"Intense thinking, Brother Heath… causes the sweat glands to work overtime," snorted Jarrod, eyes squeezed shut and face dripping from being rinsed. He patted around the table for something to dry off with, and Nick slapped him in the face with a towel. "Thanks," he said dryly.

"Happy to 'blige," Nick smiled sweetly, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt and wrinkling his own nose. "Phew… you ain't wrong, brother. I wish I'd had a chance to have a bath before dinner, but I think we cut it a bit too close. Quick wash up'll have to do." He dropped the malodorous garment into the hamper and reached for a bar of soap.

Over by his basin, Heath took his time washing, enjoying the feel of clean, no-longer-sticky skin. Silas handed him a towel, and put the rest of the folded linen away on the shelf. Heath dried off his face and underarms, and reached for the clean shirt that Silas had just brought out for him as well once hearing his and Nick's voices coming toward the house.

"Hold it, younger brother," warned Jarrod as he buttoned his cuffs, glancing at Heath. "You missed a spot. No… wait a minute…"

Heath stopped, startled as Jarrod leaned in close to him, his eyes narrowed. "What?" the boy asked, glancing toward the mirror.

Jarrod studied him, then a slow smile broke over his face. "Why, Brother Nick, I believe our younger sibling is sprouting."

Nick opened one eye and winced against the soap that stung, cussing briefly, then wiping his face quickly. "What's that?"

"Take a look for yourself," grinned Jarrod, gesturing at Heath's face. "Not only is he one of the lucky ones that doesn't have to deal with a spotty face, now our little brother is growing himself a beard. Or a mustache, at least."

Startled, Heath whirled and looked closely in the mirror. Sure enough, a darker shadow rested on both sides of his upper lip.

"Nah, it's just dirt," scoffed Nick.

"Nope," grinned Jarrod. Nick narrowed his eyes at Jarrod, and walked over, gripping Heath's chin and tipping it up.

Heath batted his hand away, aggravated. "Cut it out!"

"Why, Counselor, I do believe you're right," Nick declared, with a grin.

Beet red, Heath scowled at his older brothers.

"Voice is gettin' deeper, too," noted Silas, as gathered the dirty clothes the young men had dumped and placing them all into the soaking tub.

Heath shot him a wounded glance; Traitor!

Silas merely smiled at him as he continued on outside to the garden with shears and a huge bowl to cut some greens for a salad.

"I think we need to teach him how to shave," grinned Jarrod.

"Awww... Our baby's growing up," Nick chuckled, as the two older brothers crowded around the younger.

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Heath, embarrassed.

"Seriously, Heath," Jarrod said, with a smile. "You've got quite a good mustache underway. It looks like you're ready to start shaving whenever you feel up to giving it a try. And all kidding aside, Nick or I would be glad to walk you through it," he offered, turning away to slip on his jacket.

Heath looked at them, trying to gauge if this was an elaborate heckle or if they really meant what they said. He looked again in the mirror.

"Do it once and you probably won't have to again until you turn 17," chuckled Nick.

"You think you're so damn funny!" snapped Heath, stung. Scowling, he grabbed his vest and slung it on, about to push past his brothers and heading inside, shirt cuffs still flapping and shirttail still out.

"Hey, now! Whoa, there, boy!" Nick's eyes widened and shot out an arm. "I meant it," he said calmly, eyebrows raised. "I shaved the first time at about your age and didn't have to again until I was nearly seventeen. Every man's a little different, o' course, but usually that's the way it goes."

Heath looked at him, unbelieving, then glanced at Jarrod, who nodded. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Your beard will be slow to grow at first," added Jarrod, with a smile. "You probably won't have to start shaving regularly until you're seventeen or eighteen. We're dark, so it was more noticeable. You're so fair-haired, it might be less." He too, tipped up Heath's chin. "But I don't know... that mustache is dark. I'll bet if you ever want to grow a full one, it'll be darker than the hair on your head. What about your… ahem…. other hair?"

Heath went from fair to tomato-red in seconds.

Jarrod grinned. "Blond or brown?"

"Brown," Heath choked out, and turned away to button his cuffs.

"Aha! Hence the darker beard and mustache," nodded Jarrod.

"Tell you what," said Nick, slipping on his black leather vest. "You c'mon into my room tomorrow morning, early, and I'll show ya how it's done. Shaving's easy, but if you're not careful you can get a rash. I'll show you what I use to keep that from happening: Pear's Shaving Soap, best stuff out there."

Jarrod grinned and nodded. "I'll come in and kibbitz. And I prefer Colgate and Company's… smells better."

A little bashful, Heath studied his older brothers, checking to be sure this still wasn't an elaborate gag, then smiled a little, shyly, and shrugged. "Okay."

"C'mon, little brother, I'm starved!" Nick declared, and the three oldest Barkley brothers headed into the dining room.

Ever since walking in on Audra and their mother, Nick had found himself avoiding being alone with his sister, and often blushed deep red just looking at her. It broke Audra's heart, because never more than now did she need to know that the normal, every day things in her life wouldn't change and she needed her beloved Nick to be one of those things.

Father had seemed to go out of his way to give her hugs and reassure her. Jarrod was his usual gallant self and found herself actually really liking it when he treated her like a more grown-up girl. Eugene seemed a bit confused as to what was going on, but as such, he treated her the same as always. Heath was pretty much always gentle anyway, unless he was teasing her, and he sure didn't stop doing that, so all was normal with him. She did notice that when she was more emotional, irritable or seemed more tense, just before… well, before that happened each month, Heath was the one who seemed the most understanding, and somehow supportive. He'd bring her hot tea, or a cushion for her lower back, or just let her yell at him until she got it out of her system, would cry and apologize. Jarrod and Gene would just let her be, Father would glance at Mother, and Nick….

Oh, Nick , she thought sadly as she saw him once again glance at her at dinner, and then look away, blushing. It'll never be the same again… And she stopped then, and put her little chin up, determined. Well, I'll be double-darned if I let that happen. Him and me? We're gonna have this out!

After supper Audra bided her time and waited until Nick was left alone in the drawing room while Heath went out on the verandah to talk about his classwork with Jarrod, Gene and Mother had gone into the kitchen for her to cut his hair and Father was out in the bunkhouse talking to Mr. McColl. She watched him until he sat down wearily on the settee then she strode into the room, closing the doors behind her.

He looked up, eyes wide and started to get to his feet.

"Stay put!" she snapped, startling him completely. She stomped over and stood over him, totally unaware that the heaving, pert little bosom she presented was unsettling him badly. "I want to know why you're being so strange with me!"

"Strange? I don't know what you mean," he sputtered, started to get up, but her hand shot out and pushed him off balance, to land with an oof! of surprise.

"I mean that ever since you walked in on Mother and me you won't stay alone in a room with me, you won't look me in the face at dinner, you won't - " she choked. "Oh, Nick, why are you mad at me? What did I do?"

Shocked, Nick stared at her. "Honey, I'm not! I'm not mad at you," he said uneasily.

"Then what? What happened? Why don't you …" her lips trembled, though she struggled hard to keep the welling tears from coursing down her cheeks. And he could hear the unfinished remainder of that sentence. Why don't you love me anymore?

Feeling ashamed and wretched, Nick reached up and took her hand, gently bringing her down to sit beside him on the settee.

"I'm so sorry, sweetpea," he said gently. "Truly, I never meant for you to think there's something wrong with you."

She did burst into tears then and buried her face in her hands. Crying females… Nick just didn't know how to deal with crying females. But then some little gear in his head slipped into place. This was his baby sister, and he knew just what do for her. Gently, he put his arm around her shoulders and she immediately turned to him, weeping into his shirt front, clinging hard. She'd missed him so much!

Finally, after a few minutes, she calmed down and just leaned her head against his chest, listening to his strong, solid heartbeat, a sound that had always, always calmed her and eased her fears. When she could hear that heart, his or Father's or Jarrod's… well, she knew everything was going to be all right.

"Then why, Nick? Why did you avoid being near me?" she asked in a very small voice.

Nick sighed. "I just… it's hard for me to see you growin' up, honey."

She sniffled. "But why?"

He shrugged, uneasily. "Well, I guess because it means that I have to accept that someday, there's gonna come a time when I have to watch you become some young buck's wife. And… well, there's never going to be anyone I think will be good enough for you," he finished, gruffly.

For that had been a good portion of it. That, and the thought that he never wanted to see her to look up at another man with the adoration and admiration that she'd always given him; he thought it just might break his heart.

Audra sighed then, too, feeling warm and loved once again. "Oh, Nick… that won't happen for years and years and years," she said softly, putting her arms around his neck and hugging him. Out of force of habit, he pulled her into his lap and she cuddled against him, blinking hard; she had begun to think he'd never let her get close to him again, the way he'd acted lately!

"But I didn't expect this to happen for years and years… you in corsets, of all darned things!" he declared, making her blush and giggle, "And yet, here we are," he said, a little helplessly. "You'll always be my baby sister. But I guess I'm gonna have to learn how to treat you more like a young lady."

"I sure hope not!" she countered, seriously. "Just treat me like 'Audra', Nick. From everything I'm hearing, the very last thing I want to be is a 'young lady'," she said dismally. "They sound like idiots. I want pretty clothes, yes, but I don't want to ever be as stupid as you men seem to think women are supposed to be."

He sighed and tipped his head, looking at her with a smile. "See what I mean? Growin' up already." He frowned. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, stupid as 'us men?' want you?"

She waved a hand. "Never mind, I don't want to ruin this. I intend to enjoy this cuddle!" she declared, making him laugh.

Outside the door, Victoria smiled to herself, so glad that Audra and Nick had worked out this wrinkle in their relationship. Poor old Nick, she sighed to herself, you really don't do well with change, do you?

Smiling, she opened the drawing room doors and came in. "Oh, there you are," she smiled. "Audra, come upstairs with me, will you? I finished the bodice of your new party dress and we need to refit it."

"All right, Mother," she sighed, kissing Nick's cheek and getting up. Nick smiled at her.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he called as the ladies headed for the door. "From the looks o' things, you'll fill that bodice out just fine!"

"NICK!" they chorused, outraged.

"What? What did I say?" he asked, wounded, spreading his arms, eyes wide.

At school over the recent days, Audra found herself much more thoughtful, quieter, trying to wrap her mind around the changes in herself.

At lunch, the gaggle of girls she usually sat with were talking about boys… again… but this time, she found herself actually listening.

"… so my sister, Jenny, said she 'felt quite faint' and Charlie carried her back to the buggy," Hettie was proclaiming, triumphant.

"What made her ill?" asked Audra. The other girls rolled their eyes.

"She wasn't, silly! She just pretended to be so that Charlie would make much of her," explained Hettie… as though to a slow child. Audra, stung, blushed.

"Well, that doesn't sound sensible. It sounds deceitful." Audra frowned in dismay.

"Oh, Audra, I can't believe you don't know more about boys growing up with all of those brothers!" sighed Marion.

"Boys always want to feel strong and powerful around girls," explained Beryl, munching on her sandwich. "Mother says the best way to snag a husband is to figure out a way to make a man think everything is his idea, even though it's your own."

Audra raised her eyebrows. "Well, that's not how my brothers are," she declared.

"Oh, I don't know," tittered Maggie. "When Nick came over to spark my sister Em, he was like a moony calf!"

Frowning, Audra blushed as the girls all laughed and went on talking about sisters' beaux, or the boys they thought they wanted to set their caps for. More and more stories flowed around her, making her more confused and depressed by the moment.

Audra rode out to the creek bed, hell bent for leather, as if the wind whipping her hair around might blow the cobwebs from her brain and help her think. As a consequence, she wasn't paying attention. She didn't see Heath and Gal behind her at all, nor start to gain on her, until she heard the little black mare's hoofbeats behind her. She flung a look back and angrily pushed her mount even faster. She didn't want company today!

But this wasn't her usual ride. Dusty had thrown a shoe, so she'd taken Bramble, a skittish gelding who was known for being unreliable. Ciego had warned her against it, but she'd stubbornly ignored him and told him, for all intents and purposes, to mind his own business.

As she sped across the meadow, she realized that Bramble wasn't responding to her subtle leg commands. She quickly gathered her reins and gave them a tug to slow him down… but he was having none of it. Alarmed, she pulled harder. Nothing. Bramble was running wild and she couldn't control him.

Before things go out of hand, though, she realized that Gal and Heath were right beside her and he was stretching out an arm. She grimly released her reins and catapulted herself to him, and he pulled her around behind him. Bramble kept on going as it he was chased by wolves.

Gal slowed down, finally coming to a stop. Heath dismounted and hauled her off, and she then saw how angry he was.

"I oughta put you over my knee and whop your tail until you sing for forgiveness!" He hollered at her. "What in tarnation were you thinking, takin' that horse? You know he ain't reliable! You coulda broke your neck!"

"Don't you dare yell at me!" she hollered back, pushing him away from her. "Nobody talks to me like that! NOBODY! What the heck were you doin' following me, anyway?!"

"I'll do more than that, you little wildcat!" he snapped furiously. "Ciego told me he said for you to leave that horse in the stable and you refused! You think Father'll take that well?!"

"Go ahead! Tell Father! I don't care!" she cried out, stomping her foot, and to her utter surprise, burst into tears. Surprised, she turned away, shocked at herself. What is wrong with me?

Heath panted, getting his fear for her safety under control and dropped his head, shaking it. He exhaled and walked over to her, coming around in front of her. "Talk to me. What's goin' on?"

Sobbing, she helplessly shrugged her shoulders and just bawled; everything was just too much to handle today. He tipped his head to one side, and noticed they were near the creek bed. He sighed, took her hand gently, saying "C'mon, Sis," and walked her down to the bank and sat her down, with the soothing sound of the moving water behind them.

"Tell me what's wrong."

And it all poured out of her. Everything. How she had recently 'become a woman'…

"I know."

Startled, she stared. "Now, how in the world would you know that?" she demanded in disbelief.

"Audra, for cryin' out loud! I grew up the only feller in a house with three women!" he grinned.

Audra suddenly relaxed and grinned back; the only one of the men in her life right now who just approached this whole thing normally, without acting strange.

"But that's not everything, I can tell. So what else?" he encouraged her.

So, she shared the stories she'd heard. Apparently, men considered women with brains to be too much work and wanted empty-headed prattlers instead of someone who could help them run a ranch or raise a family. They wanted weaklings who couldn't do a thing for themselves, in order for them to be able to appear strong and masculine. They wanted girls who couldn't make up their own minds, so that the men could do it for them… but only if the girl could figure out a way to make said men think the decisions were their own. Women were to be decorative, not demanding. They were to be put on pedestals… and by golly, they'd best stay there!

"Oh, Heath, I don't want to be like that, I don't know that I could if I tried for a million years!" she cried out, getting up and pacing, then finally plunking herself down, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them.

"Sis…" Sighing he walked over to her, sitting there so dejectedly, her face buried in her arms. Not weeping again, but darned close. He stood over her for a moment then squatted down behind her and gently enveloped her in his arms, kissing the top of her head. For a long time, they said nothing, him just holding her close and comforting her with his silence and his strong arms.

Finally, he felt her shift just a little and he took the chance to move, sitting down beside her, allowing her the right to regain her composure on her own, but also allowing his hip to touch hers… he was there for her, just giving her room.

Mama? Aunt Rachel? I surely could use a little help here, he prayed, trying to call on the spirits of Leah Thomson and Rachel Caufield. Help me find the right words to help; I don't want to make it all worse.

Finally, he broke the silence, first by tossing a stone from the bank beside him into the water, allowing the splash to be the first sound to break around them.

"Sis, I can't figure out where you got this foolish notion that bein' a girl makes you less important or less able than us fellas," he then said softly, seriously, staring out over the moving water. "You're not less. And we ain't more. We're like two sides of a coin, that's all. Bein' a boy don't make me strong. Bein' a girl don't mean you're weak. I would never look at Mother and think 'weak,' would you? She's the strongest person I know. My mama was strong, too. That didn't stop her from bein' a female, a total woman. I think it made her, and makes your mother, even more of a woman."

Slowly, Audra picked her head up from the arms, her eyes wet with tears, but not sobbing or 'carryin' on.' She didn't look at Heath, but, like him, stared out over the water.

"What is it that scares you so much?"

"All of my life, all I've wanted was to be like Nick," she replied, softly. "He doesn't take any guff from anybody, ever. He does what he wants."

Heath chuckled. "Well, I'll go along with the first part, anyhow… but then, neither do you."

She looked at him, a couple of tears running down her cheeks. "That's what I mean, Heath! That's all going to change now!" she mourned.

"Why?" he asked, bluntly.

"Because men don't want to marry a girl who's forward!" she spat out bitterly.

He chuckled at her, making her scowl at him.

"Says who?" he asked, with a smile. "And who says bein' sure of yourself means you're forward… whatever the heck that means. I'm a man… or almost," he grunted, shrugging. "The last thing I want for a gal is a female with no spirit or brains."

Troubled, she sighed, and rested her head against his shoulder. "Why do things have to change?" she asked, dejectedly. "Why can't things just stay as they are?"

He understood what she meant and swallowed hard. "I asked that, too," he admitted.

She frowned. "When?"

"When my mother died."

She winced. "Oh, Heath, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to -"

He smiled at her and leaned over and kissed her cheek, shaking his head. "No, it's all right, that's not what I mean." He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, careful to not make her need to move. He looked out at the water once more. "The night my mother died, and I found out who my father truly was, I can honestly tell ya, Sis… I really didn't care. The only thing that mattered to me right then was my mama. I didn't care if my father was the King of England; no matter who he was, he could never be what my mother was to me."

She remained quiet, listening.

"That next day, when I woke up and my whole world got turned upside down, the last thing I wanted was change. I didn't want nothin' to change. As hard as our life was, I wanted it back. It was what I knew. It was familiar. Each day had a… a shape, a form that I could recognize even in the dark. You can get used ta anything, even hard times, and fear movin' away from it." He shrugged. "But Hannah told me that to never change was to just die. And that my Mama wouldn't want that for me."

She was looking at his profile now, his blond, wavy hair…his nose with that sweet little flat front, his strong brows, so much like Father's. She realized, surprised, that he'd changed, too, in the few months he'd been there. He was heavier, healthier now, his face more filled out…older, more mature. But he was still Heath.

"I guess what I'm getting' at, and maybe not sayin' it real good… if there wasn't no change… I'd never have met you." He turned his head and looked at her then, a look of such pure, sweet love and affection that it almost took her breath away. "I'd never have a sister."

Her eyes did well up then, and she noticed his did, too.

"You ain't weak, Audra," he said seriously, shaking his head. "There's nothin' about you that's weak. You're bold, and strong, and brave and smart. You bring out the best in us big galoots, you know. 'Bout the only time Nick ain't yellin' is either when he's asleep or when he's talking with you," he grinned, making her laugh.

"We want to protect you, and sometimes we forget that you really don't need that. It just makes us feel better to think you do." He sighed, thinking. "I reckon lookin' at Mother and Father is the best way to think on all this.

Frowning, she looked at him in question.

"They balance each other out," he observed. "Ain't nobody could call Mother weak, but she brings a certain softness to the world we live in. Father's strong, but when Mother ain't there to sort'a leaven the dough… " he winked at her, and she smiled a little, "he can be too hard, and uncompromising. When they're together is when it's best." He shrugged helplessly, turning himself to look her straight in the eye, earnestly trying to make her understand. "I don't know how to say it better than that. That's what you gotta shoot for, Sis. Not bein' a useless, giddy female. Instead, become a strong woman to be a good man's partner, no matter what anybody else tells ya a girl is supposed to be. You be your own kinda girl. Then the right kinda guy will want you for all of who you are, not the wrong fella wantin' you to be someone you ain't."

Troubled, thinking hard, she looked straight into his honest face, loving her so simply and uncompromisingly, and sighed, but couldn't voice how she felt. He understood and scooted his butt around again so that he could put his arm around her shoulders and let her rest her head again. They sat together, silent, for a long time just watching the water flow, the birds dip and dive, coasting and climbing in flight, the insects buzzing… everything around them, all of life, changing.

That evening, the heat from the day, strong for the time of year, made Heath abandon his studying in the drawing room and sent him outside where the air was at least moving. He'd settled into one of the comfortable chairs on the wide verandah, his book in his hand and relaxed, reading.

"I wanted to thank you."

Heath picked his head up from his biography of Daniel Boone, startled. He hadn't even realized that someone had come out on the verandah with him. He smiled at his sister. "For what?"

She shrugged, sitting down beside him, allowing the cooler breeze to waft over them both. "Is this why you're out here and not inside?" she grinned at him. "The breeze?"

"Boy howdy, I guess so," he declared. "It's like an oven in there. Don't matter where I sit to read." He stuck his finger in his book as a placeholder and smiled at her. "So… thank me for what, Sis?"

She shrugged again and leaned back. "Just for… oh, just for being you, Heath Barkley!" she said irritably. "For knowing the right things to say to a … girl."

He smiled. "Not just any girl." He sighed and leaned back too. "And if I did know the right things to say to a girl, I'd have a goldurned date for the social on Saturday. Since I don't, I do believe you're mistaken." He chuckled. "I just know the right things to say to my sister."

She laughed. "Maybe so." She grew serious. "Father won't let me go," she grumbled.

"I know, I heard. And he's right, too."

"Heath!"

"You, little sister, are too young to be sashayin' around a dance floor," he said, sternly, opening his book again. "You might be growing up, but you ain't there yet."

"You're as bad as Jarrod and Nick!" she pouted.

"Tough."

She stuck her tongue out at him. He returned the favor, making them both burst out laughing.

They sat together quietly for a moment until he noticed that she was looking at him, a funny expression on her face. "What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What's the dirtiest word you know?" she grinned.

His eyes popped open wide. "What?!"

"You heard me," she said, with a grin. "If I'm not grown up enough to go to the social then I'm still young enough to go riding with Jeb and he dared me to come up with the dirtiest word I've ever heard."

He shook his head, a little rattled by the abrupt turn around in the conversation. "You're outta you ever-lovin' mind if you think I'm gonna -"

"Oh, c'mon, Heath! He double-dog-dared me! You know I've gotta when it's a double-dog-dare!" she complained.

He rolled his eyes.

"You used to work in the mines, and you worked in a livery stable. You know all the really bad ones!"

"I might, but you ain't gonna, that's for damn sure!"

"C'mon… I should know what they are so I can avoid using them by accident, don't you think?"

She batted her eyes at him.

There was just something so ludicrous about the whole situation, Heath started to laugh helplessly. He co*cked his head to the side, studying her. "Will you promise to lay off these stupid dares?"

"Maybe… Okay! Okay! I promise!" she cried, when he blithely picked his book back up again.

Had he been even just a year older, Heath Barkley might have had the maturity to have resisted his sister further. But, truth to be told, he was still enough of a boy to find the mischief of teaching his sister one of the most profane cusswords he'd ever encountered in all of his fifteen years to be just... well, just toooo devilishly tempting.

So, he did… an absolutely filthy word that included the king of all cusses.

He said it.

She clapped a hand to her mouth in shock, then repeated it to his satisfaction.

And then they giggled together uproariously.

There was only one problem: both of them forgot that the verandah windows were open.

Jarrod and Nick, outside the kitchen door, were doubled over struggling to keep their laughter from being heard as a long-threatened punishment was doled out to their younger siblings.

"Oh, Mother, please, please don't! We promise not to - "

"Open!"

"Honest and true, Mother, we won't ever - "

"I said OPEN, and I mean now!"

Still chortling, Jarrod winced despite himself as he heard the gagging and groaning coming from his kid brother and baby sister, remembering days gone by. Nick was silently laughing so hard that tears ran down his face.

"I've warned both of you countless times, you especially, Heath Morgan! You've only yourselves to blame!" Victoria scolded. "Fifteen minutes. You two just sit still, don't you budge an inch, do you understand me?"

Miserable, Heath and Audra sat side by side on kitchen chairs, each of them occasionally gagging and retching as they struggled to hold still and not allow the bars of lye soap in their mouths to dissolve and froth any more than absolutely necessary as Victoria stood guard over them, glaring, arms crossed sternly over her chest.

As Heath felt a particularly foul bit of the disgusting soap slither across his taste buds, he squeezed shut his eyes and moaned. He then furiously swiveled his head to send his sister a glare so hot it was a wonder she didn't spontaneously combust.

She winced and gagged again.

Tom walked in from the yard and stopped short at the sight in front of him. Audra was flinching with disgust, eyes squeezed shut, and poor Heath was as beet red as he'd ever seen him.

"Oh, Judas Priest," he sighed, shaking his head. He frowned at them both, hands on his hips. "I guess there's not a whole lot of worry that either of you is growing up too fast after all, is there?"

Heath winced, his expressive eyes begging his father for a reprieve, while Audra openly gazed at him imploringly.

"Forget it." He turned to his wife. "What in the world earned them this?"

She beckoned to him and he lowered his ear to her mouth.

His eyes shot open wide, and he fought to keep his lips steady as he looked at his son and daughter first in outraged amazement, then in wry amusem*nt.

"Well, if you two are gonna earn yourselves such a godawful punishment as that, at least you made it for somethin' worthwhile," he said dryly, his eyes twinkling, leaving his two blond children to their fate.

Chapter 9: Home

Chapter Text

Tom Barkley turned the small wagon into the road leading to the outer arch declaring "Barkley Ranch" with an emblem, a "B" with a slash diagonally through it - the family brand - and pulled up, glancing beside him. The boy sitting there was rigid with tension and had said next to nothing on the whole long trip from Strawberry. Last night, when they'd stopped for the night on the trail, he'd helped make camp, gather wood, make coffee and clean up tin cups and plates and spoons, but offered little in conversation. Tom's heart ached for the youngster.

Seeing him for the first time had been a shock for Tom. Looking at this boy made him feel like he'd stepped back in time thirty years, seeing himself in some expressions, or his brother Jim in others. Blond hair, the exact same shade as Audra's, but oh! so thin! He was tall and well-made with what promised to be broad shoulders and long, strong legs once Tom could regularly fill up that belly of his. He was handsome, and Tom recognized his own heavier brow line, though the boy's nose was his own, or possibly Leah's. Tom really couldn't recall. It had been broken once or twice, he could see, as well. His ears were like Tom's family's, close to his head. But what marked him so much right now was the palpable pain and shock he was in from his mother's death just days earlier. The boy was exhausted, mentally and physically; he needed plenty of good, healthy food, fresh air and sleep.

"Heath," he said quietly. Slowly, the 15-year-old swiveled his head to aim his face toward Tom's but didn't look up to meet his eyes. "This is the border of Barkley Ranch… your home, now." Tom reached out to touch the boy's knee, but the boy flinched, moving his body to further himself from him. Tom wasn't offended; he understood. "Son, how are you holding up?" he asked gently.

"I reckon I'm all right, sir," he answered softly, his gentle accent - Leah's accent! - was charming, soft. "Just kinda tired."

"I imagine you must be," said Tom. "I'll bet you're hungry as well. I'm sure Silas will have something ready for us when we get in. We're only about three-quarters of an hour from the house. You want to sack out in the back until we get there?"

The boy frowned and shook his head. The idea of being that vulnerable, having absolutely no control in this situation, was terrifying to him. He didn't know how he'd ever fall asleep again, truth be told.

Tom sighed, feeling a bit helpless. "Son… I know you must have questions. I know you're confused and wondering what comes next." He tied down the reins and turned in the wagon seat to look at this stranger, this child-man… who looked so much like him. "I wish I had the answers. But I don't. I've got even more questions than you do. But I'm happy to try to answer anything I can." He leaned back slightly, stretching out his back muscles a bit. "I'll answer any question you have, best I can."

The boy stared at his hands, saying nothing for a long member. Finally, he stirred just a bit, and shrugged. "I'm… I'm sorry," he said softly. "I can't think much of anything right now but missin' …. her." He choked on the last word, kind of in surprise. He hadn't expected that much emotion.

"There's no need to be sorry, boy." Tom murmured. "Don't try to figure out what's going on too, too much right now." He patted the youngster's knee gently, and this time, Heath allowed it. "Understanding and feelings are gonna be a bit at odds with each other for a while. Give yourself some time."

Heath hauled in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

Tom thought to the brief, sporadic and charged conversations they'd had in the last several days. How that child's life had been completely upended, between losing his mother and suddenly gaining the father he'd wondered about all of his life. Leaving behind the only home he'd ever known to suddenly be thrust into a family he knew nothing about….

"You have three brothers and a sister," Tom said gently, seated at Hannah's beat-up but spotless kitchen table. Tom had thought some quiet time, just talking, letting Heath get used to his voice, might be helpful… He knew the boy was good with horses, and he thought the parallel might be useful. When they first sat down, Hannah had kindly placed a cup of hot coffee in front of each of them. After taking one look at the boy's white face, Tom had quietly encouraged Heath put a little bit of sugar into his, though he didn't usually. "It'll do you good, boy," he said gently. "It will help ease that skittish feeling inside."

"Miz Rachel, she usest t'say the same thing," prompted Hannah, wishing Rachel could be there, but she'd been gone a year now, in the typhoid epidemic. Rachel Caulfield had been known throughout Strawberry as an excellent nurse; Tom ought to know. She and Leah had been the ones to pretty much get him back on his feet sixteen years ago. Sadly, it was that kindness and skill that had finally taken her.

Pale, Heath had said nothing through most of the one-sided conversation Tom was having, but his father noted a small response to the mention of siblings. The boy swallowed and looked at him.

"Do… do they know about me?" he asked, in his soft, gently accented voice.

Tom nodded, seriously. "They do now. When I found out about you… I made sure they knew, too."

"You… you have a wife," Heath said softly, frowning now. He looked up, engaged truly to the first time. "Right?"

"Yes," said Tom, humbly. The most amazing woman the good Lord ever produced, he thought to himself, still astonished that she hadn't shot him. "Her name is Victoria."

Heath gazed directly at him then. The boy's eyes were blue, and Tom suddenly was startled to realize… they're mine! Those are my eyes! Like Jarrod's, like Audra's... He swallowed hard, and made himself stay engaged, despite the startled realization.

"She hate me?" the youngster asked.

Tom blinked. "Hate you? No, why should she?" he asked, bewildered.

Heath almost laughed.

Flushing, Tom frowned. "Heath… none of this is your fault, boy. She knows that, too. Why on earth would she hate you?" Me? Now that's a whole 'nother story…

Helplessly, Heath did laugh then, even if was laughter tinged with scorn. "I reckon if there was someone pushed on you, into your family, into your home, who was proof that she carried on with another man, it might rile you a bit."

Tom winced. Well, I did ask...

"Heath!" Hannah rose to her feet from her place in the corner. "Chile, ain't no need fo' that. Don' you shame yo' mama." She came to him, and gently placed one hand on his shoulder while tenderly stroking his blond hair with the other, her tenderness belying her scolding. "No need fo' that…"

The boy flushed, and clamped his mouth shut, staring down at the table, nodding. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"No, son, she doesn't hate you. She's sorry that you haven't been able to grow up with your brothers and sister." Or your father. "She's looking forward to meeting you."

Helplessly, Heath had drawn in a shaky breath, trying manfully to pull this information in and understand it all. "Older? Or younger?"

Tom smiled. "Two older brothers, and a younger sister and brother."

Heath nodded, then frowned a moment. "I'm… in the middle?"

"Yep…my middle child," he said gently. "Your older brothers are Jarrod and Nicholas, 25 and 21, and your sister's name is Audra, she'll soon be 13, and the youngest is Eugene, just 11. We usually shorten that to Gene."

The boy nodded, and exhaled. "I'm sorry… to be such trouble. You should just let me stay here in Strawberry. I could …" Heath shrugged.

In the background, Hannah's kind face creased with worry. Tom saw her expression and smiled gently at her, shaking his head.

"Well, I'm afraid that's not an option," he said kindly. "Now that I finally know about you, there's no way I'm passing up the chance to get to know my boy."

Heath winced. Sure... and all the people in that fine town who look up to ya and your family are gonna accept your bastard son just fine, I suppose...

"Besides," Tom continued quietly, "I know you've had to be the man of the house here for awhile… that's a big job for shoulders that aren't quite broad enough yet for a load so heavy."

Tom fought to hide a smile at the reaction he got for that one! Pugnacious chin shoved forward, brows lowered over hot blue eyes, mouth thinned… good Lord, he looks just like Jim used to in a temper! Tom realized, astonished, thinking of his next older brother around this age.

"Now don't get your hackles up," he said easily, careful not to laugh. Raising Jarrod and Nick had taught him not to take lightly the pride a Barkley son carried at this age. "You've done the job and you've done it well from everything Hannah's told me. But it's time for you enjoy a couple more years, anyway, of being a boy." He glanced at the woman, nodding his thanks to her, and she gravely nodded back.

"I can't leave Hannah alone," Heath muttered, looking at her in worry.

The woman petted him tenderly. "Oh, chile… dis be ma home. I be jus' fine."

Frowning, Tom was surprised to see the boy lurch to his feet, rounding on her. "Hannah, I can't," he cried out, upset. "This is my home, too!"

Everything he was, all the love that boy held from his mama, from Miss Rachel and the love he had for her, rested in those beautiful eyes for her to see. She put her gnarled, work-worn black hand to his cheek.

"Heath, chile, you listen good to ol' Hannah," she said gently. "You growed up pa'ht of a famb'ly dat love you…love you so much. Miz Leah… Miz Rachel… an' me. Time you becomes pa'ht of another good famb'ly. Mistah Tom, heah… he yo' daddy. Ain' his fault he din' know 'bout you, chile. Miz Leah… she such a good woman…. She love you so much… you her whole world. Her whole world."

Tom nearly held his breath, watching his son's reaction to Hannah's words; he wondered if, in the midst of Heath's pain, he could take in the reality of what was said, understanding its implications: Leah could have got in touch with him, let him know Heath existed. But she didn't. She couldn't have borne losing her child…which was most assuredly what would have happened. Whether or not Heath understood that, Tom couldn't tell, and this wasn't the time to broach it, anyway. Leah was dead; Tom squared his shoulders, willing to bear the reproach and anger he knew would eventually be coming his way once Heath was past the worst of his grief. He was here, ready and willing to absorb his son's rage; let the boy retain his memory of mother as he knew her.

"You let him be yo' daddy, chile. Let yo' famb'ly love you. It's what yo' mama wanted."

"But - "

"Now, no buts, young'un," she said firmly. "Dis here be ma home. It mine, thanks to my good friend Rachel, only thing I ever owned, an I ain' leavin' it. I ain' getting' no younger, neither, boy. All you gots heah be that no good brother o' yo mama and that trash he call a wife," she said, darkly. "Yo' mama wanted you as fa'way from them two as you could be. Mistah Tom, here? He gives that to ya."

She saw she wasn't budging his stubborn heart. "Oh, Heath," she sighed, and gathered him in her arms. Tom's heart ached to see the boy first remain rigidly angry, then the young man melted into the sad, frightened child for just a moment. The father could see the pain in the boy's face as he clung to her, burying his face in her bodice. "You gots a whole new life waitin' fo' you. Time you grabbed it, wi' both yo' hands, chile, and you hangs on tight, y'heah?" She smiled, tremulously, pushing him gently back so her old dark eyes could look deeply into his troubled azure ones. Her kind face trembled with emotion as strong as the boy's. "Don' you make me fetch that switch, now," she tried to tease him, but her face crumpled at the end.

He swallowed hard, eyes welling. Suddenly, Heath whirled on Tom Barkley. "We could take her with us!" he insisted, intense and driven, gripping her hand. "You said you had a big ranch! There's gotta be a place for her to have a little house o' her own!"

Tom sighed. "I already broached that to Hannah, Heath. I offered that. She turned me down."

Upset, Heath turned back to her.

She smiled, tenderly. "It all fo' de best, chile. You trust ol' Hannah in this," she said gently, stroking back his blond hair. "Home be what you make of it, Heath. You gots a daddy… brothers and a sister… and maybe another mama… now, don' you make that face, chile, you heah me?" she said sternly, tipping up his chin and making him look at her. "Miz Leah, she'd want you have a woman lookin' after you. You make dis new home yourn."

It had been a long time before the boy could settle and sleep that night. Tom knew because it had been just as hard for him. Once the youngster had fallen into a troubled doze, he and Hannah had sat out on the porch, and she tried to share with him everything she knew about Heath's history. She shared with him how badly Matt and Martha Simmons had treated that child all of his life. Most of any beatings he'd received in his young life had been from that man.

"He ain't no stranger to a belt, Mistah Tom. That devil Matt Simmons saw to that," she grunted darkly. She glared at him. "But if'n you gots to take him in hand, you'd do best to talk with him. He stubborn, Lawd knows. Land sakes, so stubborn, that boy!" She shook her head, smiling a little apparently remembering instances of a young Heath trying his mother's patience. "Once he gots a notion in his head you could beat him black and blue and t'wouldn't make no never mind," she sighed, shaking her head.

Tom smiled a little to himself. Well, that sounds about right... Nick was the same. Even Jarrod, depending on the issue at hand.

"But if'n you talks wi' him, you takes th'time t'help him unnerstan' why somethin' gots to be, you goin' t'be bettah off." She raised her chin, defiantly. "He a good boy, is Heath, suh. Miz Leah, she a good woman and she raise a good boy. Heath… he a good boy."

"I don't doubt it, Hannah," Tom said softly. "He seems like a fine boy."

That mollified the old woman and she calmed her prickliness. "I's gettin' old, Mistah Tom. My mind gits cloudy. I ain' fittin' to raise a young man, and Miz Leah… I meant what I said. Miz Leah, she want her baby as far away from them awful people as he can git."

Finally, in weariness she went to her own bed, leaving Tom on the porch, fighting the burning desire to march down to the hotel and drag Matt and Martha Simmons out into the street by their hair and treat them to beatings of their own. But it wouldn't take back anything that had been done to that child in the past. Instead, he thought about how to best make moving forward easier on the boy.

"One day at a time, Tom." That's what Vic had said. "Be patient and let him come to know you. He's mourning, I'm sure he's scared and very unsure. You're not going to see his character until he's past the worst of that. Be patient, be kind and just love him. That's what we have to do."

He sighed and leaned back his head, wondering what in the world he could ever have done to be so blessed, to have been loved so much by two amazing, strong, loving women, both of whom seeming to have forgiven him almost anything. How he wished he had been aware of the boy; he could have made both Leah's and Heath's lives easier… Could you? A niggling voice in the back of his head taunted him. Could you have left that boy with his mother? Or would you have demanded him, separated them?

Unhappily, Tom couldn't - or wouldn't! - answer it, and finally he gave up. It was time to think toward the future anyway. Trying to re-create the past was fruitless.

Now, with Heath's meager belongings in a single carpet bag in the back of the wagon with his saddle, saddle bags and other tack, battered but meticulously repaired and cared for, and his horse, Gal, tied to the back of the buckboard, Tom drew them closer to the house, glancing occasionally at his boy, so tense, so uneasy.

"Try to relax, son," Tom said gently. "It'll all work out. Just try to give it time."

Heath didn't reply, but he tried to take deep breaths and calm himself.

As they pulled up to the Barkley mansion, Heath's eyes widened, and it was all he could do to keep his jaw clamped shut to keep it from dropping to his chest in shock. Apparently, the rig had been heard inside because before they drew to a complete stop, the front door opened and people poured out onto the brickwork verandah and down the steps to meet them. Heath's heart hammered, and this time, when his father's big hand gently squeezed his knee, he didn't mind it.

First the eleven-year-old, Gene, a handsome little fella with sandy hair and hazel eyes and a big smile pelted out the door. "He's here! Our brother's here!" he shouted behind him, running back and reaching for the hand of a tall, crisply-dressed young man with black hair, a handsome, intelligent face and big, sparkling blue eyes… just like Heath's own. He was laughing and smiling… smiling right up at him. When their eyes met, the young man's expression was kind and gentle. He nodded up at Heath.

"Hello, Heath," he said, in a warm baritone voice. "I'm your oldest brother, Jarrod. This pest is your littlest one, Gene."

Eugene grinned up at him. "Hi, Heath!"

Heath tried to smile and had no idea how aloof and distant his terror made him look, but while little Gene was a little unsure, his big smile faltering just a bit, Jarrod seemed to understand, and winked at him.

A very pretty blonde girl had run out as well, her long blonde hair flying behind her and Heath was startled. At first, he thought he must have known her from somewhere and he suddenly realized why: he and she could have been twins in features… male and female versions of the same person, from the blond hair and blue eyes to their tall, slim builds and smiles. My sister, he thought, astonished. Suddenly, seeing her made the concept of shared blood and family very real to him for the first time.

"Hello," she smiled up at him. "I'm Audra! Mother tells me you and I are the closest in age, next to me and Gene."

"That a fact?" he croaked, again, trying to smile again and getting a little closer this time.

Then a tiny little woman with liberally gray-streaked dark hair came forward. She had hazel eyes, like the younger boy. Heath's stomach rolled with nerves. She's small and lovely, like Mama, he thought uneasily, afraid to look at her face. She was followed out by a very tall, slim, black-haired young man with a cold, closed expression, wary hazel eyes and a face filled with resentment. Uh oh… reckon there's gonna be some trouble there…

Audra reached for the other young man's hand, and he gave it, but unwillingly. "Oh, don't be put off," she scoffed, grinning up at the man. "This is Nick. He's a grump sometimes."

Heath swallowed, and nodded at the man, who gazed back at him, eyes narrowed a bit. This was a reaction Heath knew far too well; he found himself straightening his back and squaring his broad, if thin, shoulders, putting up his usual wall without even realizing it, narrowing his own eyes back at this brother, and raising an eyebrow to add a little of his own emphasis, standing his own ground. He also didn't notice his oldest brother glancing between the two, and smirking a little, shaking his head, as though he could see future sparks on the horizon, too.

Tom hopped down, and smiled at everyone, then turned back to Heath, reaching out gently, patting the boy's knee. "It'll be all right," he said very quietly, their blue eyes meeting, Heath's uneasy, Tom's encouraging and reassuring. Heath swallowed hard and forced himself to move closer to the edge of the buckboard seat in order to get down.

When Tom stepped back, giving Heath room to climb down, Tom moved aside and standing right in front of him was Mrs. Barkley. In an agony of embarrassment and nerves, Heath drew in a shaky breath and slowly steeled himself to make eye contact.

"Hello, ma'am," he said softly, politely, as his mother had taught him every day of his young life, his face pale. "I'm Heath."

She looked up in his eyes, and he braced for almost anything. But what he saw in hers was nothing but gentle kindness. "Hello, Heath, I'm your stepmother. I'm so very glad to meet you," she said gently, reaching out slowly, as though to a frightened wild animal. She cupped his cheek, studying his face and shaking her head in surprised wonder. "You look just like your father," she said, her voice breaking just a little. She glanced at her husband, and they shared a smile, then she looked back at her new stepson.

She clasped both of his cold hands in hers and smiled at him, and his siblings grouped around her… Nick a little further back, but there.

"Welcome home, Heath," she said simply, squeezing his hands.

Chapter 10: I'll Always Want To Be a Barkley

Chapter Text

Blackness …. no sound…. no sensation… but awareness… strange…

The blackness was pierced sharply now and again with agonizing red light… how can light, or a color, hurt?

...sigh...I hurt...why?

He noticed becoming aware of smells as well…he wrinkled his nose, uncomfortable. He couldn't place them, but he could associate them with… what… pain? illness? It didn't make sense. Nothing did. He wanted to go back to the blackness… where no red lights hurt him…

Sounds now, too... someone talking... can't make out what was being said... somehow, he knew they were words, but nothing connected. He knew the voice, though. It was a soft one… a woman's voice, he could tell that… he knew it. A voice that brought comfort… that eased pain, didn't usually cause it, but that surely wasn't the case right at the moment.

"… Heath… come on, sweetheart, it's time for you to open your eyes… "

Who was that? And who in the world was the other one in the room, moanin' fit to die?

"Heath Morgan Barkley, you wake up right this minute!"

That voice…. That commanding tone…

His eyes flew open… and boy howdy, did he regret it.

He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as the world spun, his head feeling like it was going to explode. Flailing, he threw out his right hand desperate to try to gain purchase (oddly he noted he couldn't move his left one at all… he vaguely wondered why, but didn't expend a whole lot of energy to the thought since dying appeared to be the most important thing on the agenda right now); he needed something to hang onto, something to keep the world from careening crazily. When the tiny, but strong, hand grabbed his and clutched it, he gripped it like a lifeline.

"….Who…?" he winced again, as his stomach continued to roll uncontrollably. "..mm sick…" he choked, and the woman got a basin under his chin just in time. She supported his head and shoulders, and gently rubbed his back as he heaved. He gasped in surprised pain as a fire burned in his lower left chest every time he heaved.

After he was finished, she eased him back on the soft mound of ... something... behind him, and tenderly wiped his mouth.

Exhausted, panting in short shallow breaths, he kept his eyes closed and lay very still, trying hard to understand what was happening, and finding it a struggle.

She rinsed out a fresh cloth in cold water and cooled his face, speaking gently and softly, encouraging him to breathe slowly and evenly. After a little bit, far more carefully than before, he opened his eyes a slit.

"Well, there you are," she said very softly, with a smile. "It's about time you woke up, you've had us all very worried, young man. Here, honey, have a drink of water."

He almost made the mistake of shaking his head, but instead merely grimaced, clamped his mouth shut and turned his face slightly away. He had the feeling he'd just bring anything he swallowed right back up again and, boy howdy, he didn't care to repeat that process again any time soon.

He closed his eyes again, his headache pounding. "… wha… hap… happened … to me?" he whispered, wincing. "… hurts… to… breathe…"

"What can you remember?"

He tried, but there was nothing to retrieve. He heard the door open and heavy tread coming in… a tread he thought he should recognize... Someone else, too. Two sets of footsteps.

"Well, he's awake. That's good news," came a voice he felt like he should know. He felt the bed creak under him, and winced, grunting in pain. "Ribs hurting?"

"…yes…" he cracked his eyes open once more and looked up.

A kind face, but a face he associated, somehow, with being hurt… or hurting in general. He frowned, confused and uneasy, trying to shift away.

"What… where…." He muttered, looking for the woman, his hand patting around on the bed seeking her hand, that lifeline. She had moved to the end of the bed, and stood with the big bearded man, both appearing to be concerned, looking at the older fella in front of him. Nothing was connecting in his mind, everything felt scattered, and it scared him. And his eyes showed it. He cried out, trying to shift away, as the man probed the area on the back of his head that hurt so miserably.

"Shhh, easy now, I know that's pretty uncomfortable, son, but I have to check it out," said the older man gently and kindly, but brooking no nonsense, holding Heath's right hand back as he probed the injury site with his own left.

Uncomfortable?!... smarts like hell, more's like! the boy thought, scrunching shut his eyes as the older man kept running his fingers over what felt like a heck of a lump on the back of his head.

He nodded to himself and released the boy, patting the youngster's shoulder, then sitting back, much to the boy's intense relief. The man glanced back at the couple. "Thank heaven, there doesn't appear to be any fracture… no sponginess. But he's likely got a solid concussion."

The boy blinked. Concussion. He knew what that was, he realized. That's when you got a knock on the head so bad the brain swells a bit...

"So, young fella, let's just go slowly for a bit. Can you tell me your name?"

Blankly, he stared at the man. Name…. what was that? Name… what you call yourself… that's what it was. What am I called? He felt like the name was on the tip of his tongue… just out of his reach. He frowned, growing upset. How can I know what concussion is, but not my own name?

"Shhh, it's all right. You've had a nasty bump on the head, son, it'll come back to you. No, no, relax now, it's going to be all right," the older man said soothingly, reaching for his black case and pulling out a twist of paper. He retrieved the glass of water from the bedside table, emptying the powder into it, and stirred.

"…but…what happened…" The boy groaned as the pain in his head pounded mercilessly. He noticed his shoulder ached when he moved, as well. What happened to me?

Startled, he felt a strong arm snake behind his back and his upper body carefully lifted, a glass pressed to his lips. He slammed his mouth shut, frightened, and turned his head, trying to fight them off, but he was weak as the water they were pressing him to swallow. All his effort served to do was cause him more discomfort.

"Oh, sweetheart, no, don't," he heard the woman's voice say, distressed. He heard her skirts rustle as she came beside the bed again, taking his hand… he gripped it, scared. "Don't fight it, honey, please. The medicine will help you feel better."

Cracking his eyes open a moment, he looked at her, and her own eyes showed her distress at his fear. Got to … calm down… don't want… to upset her…. Why that was so important to him, he couldn't say, but even if he didn't know his name, he knew without a doubt that he didn't want her upset on account of him.

"It's all right, I promise," she coaxed him, nodding in reassurance, kissing his temple.

And then the big man with the beard and the kind, worried eyes knelt beside him, smoothing his hair back tenderly. As clearly as the boy had known he wanted to protect her, he knew just having this man nearby helped him feel safer and more secure. But who were they?!

"You need rest, son, and you can't do that without medicine for the pain you're in. This will let your body rest. You'll sleep a bit more, and everything will make sense again," the man said softly. "C'mon, now. Trust me, son, drink it down. That's it…"

His breath hitching in a small sob, the boy finally gave in, making a face as he swallowed down the bitter draught, He desperately kept his grip tight on the woman's hand until the drug the drink contained sent him back into the pain-free darkness, his anchors gone.

A week earlier…

"Afternoon, ma'am!" Heath smiled, touching his hand to his hat brim as the wife of the Stockton Cattleman's Association president, Mrs. Bonnett, came out of the general store.

"Why, Heath! How lovely to see you! How's the family?" she smiled at him. "Gerald, stop your nonsense right now!" she scolded the little one at her side, bouncing up and down demanding candy. Heath grinned at the little fellow.

"I dunno 'bout your mama, Gerald, but with my mama, bein' good got me further 'long. If I wanted candy, I made sure I behaved myself real good. Then she'd think about it," he confided, man to man, with the little fellow. The four-year-old studied Heath seriously, screwed up his eyes as if to assess whether or not Heath was telling the truth.

"Did she?"

"Sometimes," he smiled and nodded. "But not always. It was a treat, not an ever'day thing."

Gerald pondered that, and left off his demands, instead quietly taking his mother's hand with a sigh.

Mrs. Bonnett rolled her eyes and winked at the youngster. "Thank you, Heath. So, everyone's well?"

"They're all well, yes, thank you ma'am. I'll let Mother know you asked," he nodded politely.

Grace Bonnett had never worried about the way Heath Barkley had come to the Valley and be known. After all, if Victoria Barkley was prepared to accept the child, who seemed to be polite and well-behaved, who was she to argue? Lord knows there were enough difficult youngsters born IN wedlock in Stockton to contend with; Heath Barkley certainly didn't seem to offer any difficulties and as far as she was concerned, there were bigger problems in the world to be concerned with than a sweet youngster like Heath.

"Good, thank you, dear. And let your mother know that we'll be expecting her fine chocolate cake at the social's cake raffle," she smiled at him, patting his cheek. He grinned and nodded and went ahead into the store.

"Afternoon, Maisie," he greeted the shopgirl, fishing in his pocket for the list of supplies that Silas had handed him upon leaving the house that afternoon.

"Mr. Heath, I knows you's out for your afternoon off, but Mister Eugene said you was planning on headin' to town. Do you think you could pick up a few supplies for me while you is in there?"

"Sure, Silas, as long as I can carry it al on Gal," he grinned. "I wasn't reckonin' on the buckboard."

Silas chuckled. "No, suh. Yo' saddlebags and two bags o'flour over your pommel should handle it fine," he reassured him.

Heath grinned. "Well, then, happy to help out."

Now he handed the list over to Maisie, the young dark haired shopgirl who worked for Stan and Dorothy Lamont. "Oh, this is Silas' handwriting!" she chuckled. "Did he forget a few things?"

"I reckon so," he smiled. "If I come back just before closin' time will that do, ma'am?"

"Certainly will, Heath," she reassured him, glancing at the list. "You go along and enjoy your afternoon."

"Thank you, ma'am!" he grinned. "I will!"

"Heath?"

Startled, that was a voice he thought he knew…but from a place that definitely was not here. Old warning senses flared, and Heath turned around sharply, reaching his hand reflexively to his hip for a pistol that wasn't there. The last time he'd heard that voice though…

"Whoa, boy!" the voice came. "Didn't think the sound o' my voice would make ya reach for a gun!" chuckled the youngster.

A young man, not much older than Heath himself, brown-haired and dark-eyed moved into the light before Heath, his clothes clean if roughed up and worn.

"Lem?" Heath breathed. "Good gravy… Lem Granger?!" he moved forward, a smile on his face and his hand out for a handshake.

Relieved the other young man grinned and they shook, strongly.

"What're you doin' in Stockton?" demanded Heath, with a smile. "I never would have expected you down here… I reckoned you for mining the Klamath for at least another four years!"

"Well, that mine petered out, so I joined up down here with the Lucky Dollar."

"Owned by Jeff Wells," nodded Heath, thinking. This was a mine that was a competitor of the Barkley mine for men. "Wish I'd a known; I coulda got you a job at Barkley-Sierra, up to Lonesome."

"Oh?" grinned Lem tossing a coin to Maisie for the pickle he drew out of the barrel of brine. "You workin' there, as well?"

Heath suddenly felt odd, a little bashful. "Uh, no, not exactly." He glanced around seeing a number of the town's old biddies distinctly interested in their conversation. "Lem, let's go talk somewhere."

Once outside, Lem headed for the saloon, but Heath hesitated. "I… uh, can't Lem. How about we grab a cup o' coffee or somethin'?"

"It's hotter than the devil's vestibule down here, Heath, and my gullet's hankering a cold beer. C'mon."

"I can't."

Lem Granger stared at his old buddy. "Whaddya mean, you cain't? It's just a beer."'

Heath grinned. "Well, I ain't 16 yet, you know that, so I cain't." He shrugged.

Surprised, Lem stared at him. "When in heaven did that ever stop ya before?" he asked, in wonder.

Fifteen minutes later, after Heath provided the money for Lem to go into Cosmo's and pick up two beers to bring outside into the alleyway (which actually was against the town ordinance as well, though Heath didn't realize it), he'd explained the change in his fortunes to his old mining buddy, this fellow charge boy. Lemuel Granger had, like Heath, been an illegitimate son; fatherless, dragged up in a mining town. But unlike Heath, his mother had been a saloon girl, drunk most of the time herself, leaving Lem to raise himself most of the time. He was a hellion of the first order, but a year ago, he was the first and only friend Heath Thomson, as he'd been known then, had really ever had.

Lem had never told Heath, but he'd always envied him the mother his friend had in Leah Thomson, as well as the strong support of Miss Rachel, Rachel Caulfield, Leah's best friend, and Hannah James, the kindly old black woman who'd cared for both women, and who'd helped to raise Heath. Lem had never had that, never had anyone care much about him, and he resented it. So, when Heath and he hooked up, Lem did his darnedest to underhandedly create havoc in Heath's life by pulling him into one wild, crazy stunt after another, dragging them both into mischief more and more serious as time went on. Heath never saw the manipulation; he'd simply been too happy to have a friend near his age. Lem wanted a protégé, and felt he had it in Heath; a younger boy who'd look up to him, no matter what.

Staring at his old buddy now in shocked astonishment, Lemuel Granger assessed his clothes, his hat, his boots and realized that his old fellow growler and charge boy was no longer just barely keeping body and soul together. Heath Thomson… no, Barkley!... had made it. And resentment burned in his soul. Why him? Why not me?

"One of the Stockton Barkleys," he breathed, shaking his head, eyes narrowed a bit. "Lord a' mercy, Heath…"

Uneasily, Heath nodded. "Yeah. I never knew. Mama never breathed a word until she was on her death bed."

"When did your Mama pass? I'm sorry to hear that," said Lem, awkwardly, but honestly. "Miz Thomson, she was a real nice lady."

"Last fall," answered Heath as he sipped his beer while they perched on hogsheads in the alley outside of Cosmo's. "October."

"You bin here ever since?"

Heath nodded, taking another long, slow pull of the cold beer. Now, that's what I'm talkin about…. He sighed to himself, in bliss. He missed this. When he and Lem had been growlers for the miners, chasin' the can, both had been known to 'help out' by licking off the frothy heads off the cans… well, until Mama'd found out. And, boy howdy, but Mama had all but worn him out with that godawful switch she had in the closet.

"You will not have another sip of that brew until you're of age, Heath, you hear me?" she'd scolded afterwards, while he still danced a bit, shifting his feet trying to ease the sting in his britches.

As he sipped his beer, an uneasy feeling fell over him, and he frowned a little, glancing down into the fragrant, malty depths of the mug. Mama wouldn't have liked this a't'all…

Lem had asked him something. "What's that? Sorry, was.. thinkin' of somethin' else."

"I asked ye if you told them fine Barkleys o' yourn about all the hell you and me raised that last year in Strawberry?" Lem grinned.

Heath wrinkled his brow, thinking, and an uncomfortable knot started forming in his gut. No… I've been working a long time to forget all that…

About eight months before Heath's mama'd died, Lem, perhaps eighteen months older than Heath, had left the Stanislaus and Strawberry and headed north to the Klamath when he got a chance to work on the mines up there. But in that two-month period before Lem left Strawberry, Heath and he had truly raised hell, getting into worse and worse trouble. Leah had been at her wit's end. Heath, a big, strong and stubborn fourteen-year-old, was being impossible to deal with: lying to her about where he was, arguing with her, defying her, throwing temper tantrums when he didn't get his way. For a time, poor Leah wondered what devil had got into her boy… and how in the world she was going to get it out!

Most of the time, Heath didn't mean to be wicked, he was simply so happy to have a friend… and didn't dare do anything to risk that friendship, especially with an older boy. So, day after day, all the good lessons he'd been taught from babyhood were forgotten as he misbehaved and made his mother's life a hell filled with worry that he'd end up arrested and in prison.

To Leah's relief, and that of Rachel and Hannah, it all calmed down after Lem Granger left town, and within a few weeks, Heath was back to his usual self.

"Well? Do they?"

Heath scratched his ear. "No, they don't. It was all a long time ago," he muttered. "Besides, after you left, well, I stopped bein' such a dadburned fool."

"Fool, eh?" Lem tipped up his beer and drained it, wiping the froth from his face. "We was more'n that. We was downright criminal… " he chuckled.

Heath glanced at him, darkly. "It wasn't funny, Lem. Some o' the things we did… well, it was just wrong."

"Sure it was! But we got away with it all, didn't we?" He chuckled, seeing how uncomfortable the younger boy was. "Bet your high and mighty Barkley relatives would pop a gut if they knew their newest member had set fire to a shed while hidin' in it and smokin', and run off a herd o' sheep, losin' most of 'em, or tied up the simple son of one of the miners to a stake in the dark, or… "

"Stop it!" Heath got to his feet, slamming the mug on the hogshead he'd been sitting on. "I quit doin' fool stunts like that, I tell ya! I wasn't that person anymore after you left, and I'm glad of it!"

"Sure, Heath," grinned Lem, enjoying deviling the youngster before him. "But you were, for sure, the kind o' kid that your fine Barkley relatives wouldn't allow to play with their own kids. Just like in Strawberry, where you and me warn't allowed to associate with 'decent folk.' "

Heath had spent a long, long time burying those awful months and the terrible things he'd done in the name of keeping this boy as a friend, and shame of those months bubbled up to the surface again, harsher and more fresh than when they'd originally happened.

"I ain't that person anymore," he repeated, getting up and gathering his things.

"Hogwash," snorted Granger, picking up the mug Heath had left a third full and swilled that as well. "A feller don't do stuff like that without bein' a certain kind o' person," Lem said slyly. "It's just waitin' to pop back out again. When it does, them Barkleys'll throw you out on your ear. And I'll get YOU a job, over to the Lucky Dollar!"

Heath turned to his former friend, glaring. "I'm heading back. I'm glad I saw ya, Lem. Reminds me o' the person I don't want to be."

And he strode out of the alley, just to hear "Can't run from y'self, Heath Thomson! Won't be long, and them Barkleys'll get rid o' you!" echoing in his ears.

Tom Barkley clicked his tongue just right for the two draft horses, Pete and Penny, to back up the rig expertly at his command. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the rig was lined up with the smithy and halted the team.

"You should'a been a teamster, Boss," grinned McColl, shaking his head. "Ain't never seen anybody stop a rig on a dime 's'good as you."

Tom hopped down, laughing. "Probably would have been a damn sight easier than what I'm doing, that's for sure," he snorted, pulling on his gloves. "But sweet talk will NOT get you out of helping me unload that rig."

McColl laughed, and donned his own gloves. His eye caught dust lifted in the distance. "Rider comin'… " he mused. "Sure does appear to be in a consarned hurry."

Tom glanced up and squinted into the distance. "I'll say," he muttered. "Wonder what's wrong to be… wait a minute…" And then, as he recognized the horse and rider, Tom's mouth sent in a firm line. McColl recognized that rider, too. Raising an eyebrow at the boss, he put his attention back to unloading iron for the spring's branding, but Tom put out a hand, his eyes still on the rider, but shaking his head at his foreman.

As the horse approached, Tom watched the rider rein in the animal, bringing it down to a lope, then trotting under the white painted arch declaiming "BARKLEY RANCH" and coming up to the barn.

Tom watched Heath sling himself off and, obviously angry about something, gather the reins and lead Gal into toward the barn door.

"Hold it."

Fuming, Heath stopped in his tracks.

Tom walked over and around him, since Heath clearly didn't plan to turn around, so that he stood in front of his boy. "What's the all-fired hurry?"

"Nothin'," Heath grunted, starting to walk around his father, but arrested in place by an arm.

"Well, something's on your mind," said Tom calmly, "or you wouldn't be treating that horse as you did."

"She likes to run!" the youngster answered back, angrily.

McColl winced. Oh, brother, here we go…

Tom didn't say a word; his expression was enough. Heath sighed in exasperation, scowling but not looking directly at Tom.

"I have to rub'er down," he insisted, impatiently, his face growing red with embarrassment.

"Yes, you do. And water her. And then you're going to come back here and unload that wagon. It might work off some of that temper you're nursing."

Heath's head snapped up, jaw dropped. "That ain't fair! It's my afternoon off!" he complained.

"It was your afternoon off, until you showed how irresponsible you're willing to be when riled by treating that pony as you did."

Heath scowled back at his father, opening his mouth to make a new, big mistake, but Tom interrupted, a finger raised.

"Keep up with the smart mouth, youngster, and I'll find something to keep you busy from now until bedtime!" warned his father sternly.

Steaming, Heath clamped his mouth shut and glared over his father's right shoulder.

Tom could tell that if looks could harm, he'd be in ribbons in the dirt. He drew in a breath and released it, relaxing his stance just a little. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and reasonable. "Now, if you're willing to settle down and talk to me, tell me whatever it is that's bothering you so much, we can discuss this sensibly." He remained silent for a moment, offering Heath an out. Instead, he watched his boy dig his heels in even deeper. Sighing, he continued, "If not, then get your butt into that barn, care for your mount, and then get out here and finish unloading. Your choice."

Angry and feeling cornered, Heath's jaw worked for a moment, then he gathered his reins again and marched into the barn.

"Choice made, apparently," Tom muttered, rolling his eyes, as the barn door closed behind his son.

McColl came up beside him. "What was that all about?" he asked, concerned. That wasn't at all like that young'un.

"Beats hell outta me," answered Tom, frowning. Finally, he shook his head, exhaling hard. "Nothin' ornerier than a half-grown boy, Duke, that's all I can say. I'm sure whatever it is will either surface soon or blow over. Let's get some coffee and talk about the hand assignments."

As Heath angrily unloaded the irons and other smithing supplies, placing them in the supply shed, he found himself uncomfortably reliving the argument earlier with Lem.

…You told them fine Barkleys o' yourn about all the hell you and me raised that last year in Strawberry?

…Won't be long, and them Barkleys'll get rid o' you!

But… they wouldn't, would they? They'd told him this was his home now. Would learning about some of the awful things he'd done a year ago lose him his place here? Troubled, Heath frowned as he wearily finished up, pulling off his gloves and tucking them under his belt, thinking. Doggone it, I wish I'd never walked into that store today! Unhappily, Heath leaned against the smith wall. The conversation with Lem had reignited all of his fears, all of his worries that something would happen and he'd be sent away and lose everything. Again.

In the beginning, when he'd first arrived, he'd tensely waited for the moment when the Barkley family had had enough, and their charity ran out for the bastard son of Tom Barkley. Every night for the first couple of weeks, he went to bed wondering if that would be his last night of a warm bed, full belly and a sense of belonging. But after many weeks and a lot of reassurance, Mother and Father had finally made him believe that this wasn't temporary, he was here to stay. A member of the family.

He hadn't really misbehaved before, except that one misunderstanding about his trip back to Strawberry to check on Hannah, and that had been… well, different. Way back, when he'd first got here, having this all disappear would have been bad enough. But now? Now, the possibility of being told to leave, now that he loved his family so very much, and was finally part of something he'd always dreamed of? His stomach churned at the awful thought and he bit his lip. Maybe he should talk to Father… Father and Mother always said that he should come to them with his troubles. But… this? Should I just try to forget it all again, like I tried before? But, no. Lem was working nearby. It wouldn't surprise Heath in the least, now, if the other boy used it like blackmail.

Maybe Nick…? oh, forget that.

Jarrod? Suddenly, Lem's words floated to the surface again… We was more'n that. We was downright criminal… The youngster swallowed hard, thinking over some of the pranks he'd pulled with Lem. He knew the sheriff had been called in to investigate the accidental shed fire, and it had been an accident, even if Lem and Heath smoking in there had caused it. It was an accident… just one he'd never owned up to, though he'd wanted to right after it happened. Lem had furiously talked him out of it.

"You ain't never been in trouble! They'll send me to prison! You gotta stay mum, Heath! Or you'll be responsible for me going to jail!"

At fourteen, that had been a terrible burden.

And now… Heath didn't know enough about the law to know whether or not the authorities might send them both to jail. But he did know his brother well enough to know Jarrod wouldn't let up on Heath until he gave himself up if he felt his younger brother had broken the law.

Heath squeezed shut his eyes in misery. No, definitely not telling Jarrod…

His worried thoughts were interrupted as Nick trotted in with the men, laughing, talking and dismounting after a long day's work. Startled, Heath glanced up at the sky. Good gravy, it couldn't be that late, could it?

Rather than being spotted and having to talk to his brother, Heath quickly slipped around the back of the smithy and headed for the house, streaking in through the kitchen door.

"Mistah Heath, there you are!" called out Silas as he hurried for the stairs. "Hold on, there. Where's them supplies?"

Heath stopped dead on the stairs, closing his eyes in frustrated horror. Oh, no…. damn! "I… I'm sorry, Silas, I forgot 'em," he admitted. And yet another mistake! "I dropped off the list but ... well, I forgot to go back for 'em."

"Oh, Mistah Heath!" scolded Silas, frustrated himself. "I woulda gone myself! Now we got no extra sugar."

"Well, then you shoulda gone yourself!" Heath grunted crabbily. He went pale, shocked to realize he'd actually spoken out loud, but once it was out, he was unable to pull it back. Overwhelmed, Heath turned and stormed for the stairs to Silas' shocked surprise… and that of Victoria, who'd just come into the kitchen soon enough to hear the exchange.

"Heath!" Her voice was like a whip crack. Miserably, he realized he couldn't escape. Exhaling, wanting to punch the wall, he hauled in a deep breath, turned around and trudged back down to the landing, flushed and scowling.

"Apologize for your tone of voice, right now."

He glanced up seeing her fierce expression, and he swallowed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, glancing up at Silas. "I just forgot."

Silas nodded, still frowning at him, though, and turned to the angry lady beside him. "I'll go check and see if there's enough sugar and flour for me to get me some from the bunkhouse, ma'am. Mebbe that'll hold us until Monday."

Heath turned to head on up before he was caught further. But then, he always did underestimate Victoria Barkley… after all, this woman HAD already raised Nick...

"Stop right there, young man."

Rolling his eyes, Heath exhaled in frustration and turned back, finding Mother right in front of him. "I think unless you want to find yourself getting to know the four walls of your room very well over the next day or so you'd better change your attitude," she said very sternly, her hazel eyes commanding him not to budge.

Upset, Heath clamped his mouth shut and studied the treads of the stairs, his heart hammering.

Stymied, Victoria studied him. What on earth is going on? she wondered. This isn't like him at all!

Finally, she saw him wilt slightly, and mutter, "Sorry." He swallowed and sighed. He looked at her. "Can I go?" At her nod, he was off like a shot, running up the stairs, leaving her to stare after him, concerned.

Those moments of staring at his four walls came faster than either Victoria or Heath expected.

By the time suppertime arrived, Heath had worried himself into a lather. At first, he'd tried to beg off even sitting with the family, figuring he could scavenge in the kitchen later, but Mother had sternly ordered him downstairs. Once grumpily seated at the table, he'd been irritable, surly and just generally a pain in the backside, until Tom had had enough and sent him to his room before the meal was over.

"Fine," he muttered rudely, pushing back from his seat, and heading for the stairs at a run, nearly knocking Silas over in his haste to get out of the room.

Audra and Gene, shocked, glanced at each other worriedly.

Nick leaned back in his seat, eyebrows raised. "What in the - ?"

Tom held up a hand. "I've no idea, and frankly I've had enough with this meal being ruined," he said firmly.

But despite the quieter atmosphere, the most present personality in the room was the unhappy one who'd stormed out a few minutes earlier.

The next several days proved challenging for everyone in the family. Heath's mood appeared to remain dark and cloudy, his temper remained short and he pushed every boundary he was given, driving Tom nearly 'round the bend.

He bucked Nick at every turn… he did his job, and did it extremely well with nothing needing to be redone, but questioned every order, every request, pushing back at Nick until his older brother was ready to dunk him in the horse trough, and finally sent him to the tack room to work alone, since he couldn't seem to get along with anybody.

He did the same with his father: arguing, questioning, answering back, and Tom's patience was wearing extremely thin. Finally, after five days of this nonsense, Tom had had enough.

"You will either change your attitude, or you and I are going to have a short, sharp conversation in the barn, buster! Is that what you want?"

"No," grunted Heath, sullenly.

"Then straighten up! And I mean now! I am not asking you, boy. I am TELLING you, this nonsense is OVER! If you want to talk about it, we'll talk about it, but this misbehavior is done! Are we clear?"

One sharp nod.

"Just to make sure we are, you get yourself up to your room for the rest of the night and think it over! Tomorrow morning there had better be a change, you hear me? Now, get upstairs!"

How one 15-year-old boy could make climbing a carpeted staircase sound like a herd of cattle were clattering up them was beyond Tom, but Heath was pulling it off with passion.

Victoria walked up as Tom glared at his son's back, listening to him stomp down the hall and then slam his bedroom door.

"And here you thought you missed his babyhood," she said airily.

Tom whirled on her, angrily. "What?" he demanded.

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're at least seeing toddler tantrums at their very best."

He harrumphed and stalked into the drawing room, making a beeline for the bourbon.

Bright and early the following morning, Heath was in the corral, buckling on his chaps.

"Are you serious? Your father gave the okay?"

"Put him up," nodded Heath (not exactly answering the question), pulling on his gloves, then walking around the horse, eyeing him coldly, watching the way he moved, and actually looking like he knew what he was doing… which he did.

Andy Barcomb, the wrangler on duty that morning looked askance, but glanced at Vince and Pete, who both shrugged, as if to say, "he's the boss' son."

"You ever been on a bronc?" asked the older man, holding the horse's halter and rope.

"Yep," nodded Heath… and that was true. He had, and done well. More than once, a fact he'd tried to make his father understand when he'd first arrived.

"But, Father, I've done this before!" he protested as his father shook his head 'no' in answer to his request to work the broncs. "I broke all the livery's young stock! Charlie trusted me to handle - "

" Well, good for Charlie!" snapped Tom, turning back to his boy. "But I am not prepared to have a fifteen-year-old riding an animal you're not strong enough to handle!"

"Who says I'm not!" demanded Heath in outrage.

Tom glared. "You watch your step, boy! I said no, and I meant no!"

"You ain't bein' fair!"

"Maybe not, but it isn't my job to be 'fair,' at least not by your lights," he responded firmly. "That's the end of it, Heath. Not until you're sixteen, are taller and have more muscle. Period."

"That's it, boy, you got him!"

"Stick to 'im, Heath!"

Heath grimaced and gripped his knees and thighs tightly, allowing his upper body the fluid motion needed to stick in the saddle, pulling the horse's head up, not allowing him to drop, but boy howdy, that horse was strong! Heath hauled with everything he had and felt himself tiring.

Grimly gritting his teeth, determined to stick, he pulled in more air … then suddenly, to his utter shock, felt himself not thrown from the animal, but plucked from its back. Shocked and unnerved, he swung his head around trying to understand what in hell was going on, as he watched the horse buck it's way around the corral until it realized he was no longer on its back.

Heath looked wildly down and saw the white-sleeved arm and black gloved hand tightly wrapped around his chest and felt his temper boil. "Put me down, Nick!" he bellowed, kicking.

"You kick my horse, and so help me, I'll belt you one before Father gets his licks in," he heard, fiercely, in his ear.

Fuming, Heath shut up and quit kicking until Nick brought Coco up by the rail of the corral, and Nick dropped him over the side on his feet. To Heath's surprise, his brother immediately followed, boots landing in the dirt, right beside him.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" demanded Nick, furiously, towering over his kid brother.

"I was handling it! And I was doin' fine!" shouted back Heath, yanking off his gloves, jamming them under his belt, furiously angry. "You had no right!" he hollered, aiming a solid right into his brother's midsection.

Ready for it, Nick staggered slightly, but regained his stance with no difficulty. "Well, I hope you got somethin' better than that to offer, little brother, because the sky is just about to come down right on top o' your blond head," snorted Nick, looking behind his kid brother with an eyebrow raised.

Heath whirled around, fists still co*cked, and gulped as he saw his father, head down and brows lowered, bearing down on him like a freight train.

All afternoon and into the night, Heath alternated between pacing back and forth, and flopping back on his bed, staring morosely at the ceiling. The speed and volume of the emotions he'd run through since his father had sternly sent him to his room that morning had been dizzying. Rage to shame, anger to misery and everything in between. They hadn't been alleviated by the abrupt visit from Tom shortly after, delivering a blistering lecture and then handing down the dictum that he was confined to these four walls for a week until he learned to obey the rules and behave himself.

He had a feeling his father had just barely held back from slapping him when he'd rudely retorted, "Fine! I'll get some shuteye, since you got me workin' like a dog all the time anyway!"

"Well, we'll just have to see if a week is enough," said Tom coldly. "You are forbidden to set foot outside this room, young man. Your meals will be sent up to you, since you're clearly impossible to be around at the moment." And with that, he'd turned on his heel and strode out.

Heath squeezed shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory of that awful interchange. He didn't mean what he'd said, he really didn't. Wretched, he rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

So, his days here were numbered.

… you're clearly impossible to be around…

Setting his mouth firmly and blinking back the dampness in his eyes, Heath pushed himself up off the bed. Well, then, if that's the way the wind's blowin', so be it. I'll pick the time I go; no sense waitin' for an axe to fall. With the confused logic only understandable by a troubled, very upset 15-year-old boy, Heath Barkley convinced himself that running away from home was the only option he had now. Where he would go, he wasn't at all sure. He toyed with the idea of hooking up with Lem at the Lucky Dollar, but knew that he could never be friends with Granger again, now that he saw what the other boy truly was, how willing he was to hurt people he called his friends. So, with no plan in place other than to leave, Heath felt it best for everyone involved to make the break clean and quick.

He grabbed a blanket spreading it out on his bed to make a bedroll. He pulled a few clothes from his bureau, mostly the ones he'd arrived with, and rolled them up tightly. He packed a few important personal items into his saddle bags, including his daguerreotype of his mother, hesitating a moment to finger the lovely frame Mother… Mrs. Barkley had given him to protect it.

Sighing, he carefully opened the back and removed the image; he didn't want to be accused of stealing something. He tied the ends of the bedroll, leaving enough rope for a shoulder sling so his hands would be free.

He glanced around the room, sure he hadn't taken what wasn't his, and shrugged into his warm jacket; it was a hand-me-down from Nick… one he found he didn't want to part from. Frowning, he shook his head, and kept it on as he headed for his bedroom window.

He eased up the sash, looking outside. The moon had risen; it was about 1 a.m., he noted; most everyone should be asleep by now. He carefully eased one long leg over the sill and steadied himself, gathering his nerve.

Drawing in a deep breath and angling himself to provide his best possible balance, Heath sprinted the roof line of the back of the house, aiming for the answering gable on the other edge of the pitched roof. Surefooted as a mountain goat, Heath quickly found himself straddling the ridge, heart hammering, grinning with the excitement of it, and glancing over the edge at the lower kitchen entryway roof line. All he had to do now was lower himself to the kitchen entry roof and then drop off again to the ground. His plan was working fine!

He flattened himself against the back side of the roof and got his two hands gripping the fascia board under the roof line. Just as he swung himself out and around, two stories above the ground, gripping the sides of the peaked roof, the soffit and fascia suddenly separated with a horrifying screech and he felt himself tumbling through the air, crying out as he slammed his left side and shoulder on the edge of the kitchen roof with an almighty crash, then tumbling down to the ground.

…now…

He could hear soft rustling…didn't sound like the skirts he'd heard the first time he awoke, though…softer than that. He still smelled the sharp, biting smell again… witch hazel, that was it. The stuff Mother used on scrapes and such that smarted like the dickens… That's what he'd smelled, before and again now. Oh, no, there's that headache… he moaned softly, trying to shift position a little ease the tightness of his neck muscles and winced. Bad idea… and remained still.

He tried to take stock of the rest of how he felt… what happened? The hitch in his breathing and aching on his left side told him of likely cracked ribs, and he realized his arm was bandaged directly to his side, his wrist and shoulder aching a bit. He frowned… his head hurt the worst… slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

His head was turned toward his window, he realized, and he saw Father gazing out into the yard, the window open and a breeze blowing the curtains … that's what the rustling sound was... looking tired to death. Heath swallowed, and turned his head a little and saw Mother, dozing in the chair by his bed.

Had they been here all night? What happened? How'd he get hurt?

And then, memories flooded his mind like a rush of water poured suddenly into a jug.

Heath gasped, startling both his parents; Father turned sharply and hurried toward the bed, and Mother jolted awake, immediately leaning toward him.

"Oh, Heath!" she cried softly, seeing his eyes open, a big smile wreathing her face.

"Wait a minute, Vic," Tom said carefully. He leaned over and smoothed the hair back from Heath's face, taking care not to muss his bandage. "Son, can you tell me your name?"

The boy sighed, swallowing hard. "Heath… I'm Heath," he whispered, wincing as talking made his head throb.

"Heath what?"

And the boy's face crumpled. ".B..Barkley…" he whispered, though I'll bet you don't want me to use that anymore…

Sagging in relief, Tom leaned over and kissed his forehead, surprising the youngster. "Oh, thank God," his father breathed, gruffly, "you're all right. When you woke before, and couldn't remember anything, not even your name… well, you scared us half to death!"

"I don't think I'll ever forget the sight of you laying there, crumpled and bleeding on the ground," Mother said, blinking back tears. "Why, Heath? What has been troubling you so badly you felt you had to run away rather than talk to us?"

Helplessly, he tried to shrug, but it just hurt too much. Wincing, he closed his eyes.

"We'll talk about it later," Father said firmly, his arm around Mother, kissing her gently and tenderly.

"How bad… am I hurt?" he asked softly.

"Bad enough!" Mother declared. She shook her head, and though she was relieved he was awake, she still scolded him. "A concussion… you dislocated your shoulder, that's why you arm is bandaged to your body that way, and a couple of cracked ribs. You're lucky you didn't break your neck!"

Heath swallowed hard. Never before had being scolded felt so good. If she didn't care, she wouldn't yell, would she? he wondered.

"You're going to be pretty sore for some time, son, so you're going to have to stay put, right where you are. And I mean it, Heath. It's dangerous for you to get up with that head injury. I want your word you'll obey me," said Father seriously.

"Yes, sir," he whispered. Right now, he felt too darned uncomfortable to disobey, anyway…

"There'll be plenty of time to talk through what's been going on. Don't worry about it right now, all right? For the moment, the only thing that matters is that you're safe, you're home, and you're going to be fine." He picked up a glass and another twist of paper… the drug that had let him sleep so soundly earlier. Father eased him up and helped him swallow down his medicine, then settled him once again. "Go on back to sleep, now. We'll be right here when you need us."

Mother and Father told Heath he was recovering well, but to him it felt unbearably slow and distinctly uncomfortable. He was to be confined to bed for the first 10 days after his fall because of the concussion, and Doctor Merar had made it clear that he was restricted from any strenuous activity for the next six weeks to two months to give his ribs and his shoulder time to heal.

Heath sighed, able to note the irony of the situation, when he realized that his foolish and reckless behavior had made sure his father's punishment of a week confined to his room was enforced, in fact, he'd extended it.

But as much as each of the hurts he'd accumulated in his fall from the roof pained him and kept him awake at night, the ones he'd gathered in his fall from grace a year back in Strawberry were the ones hurting him most, refreshed and made sharper still by the pain caused his family with his most recent crazy behavior. If there was one thing that galled Heath Morgan Barkley the most, it was being made to look like a fool. Making himself look like a fool truly took the cake.

Sad, frustrated and embarrassed, Heath had pretty much shunned anyone who came to visit, until big brother Nick strode into the room the third morning afterwards, sat down in the easy chair by Heath's bed and made a stern pronouncement.

"Little brother, this nonsense is gonna stop, right now."

Heath's head was aching particularly badly, and he was in no mood. "Fine. Leave, and you won't have to look at whatever 'this nonsense' is," he muttered, his eyes remaining closed as he tried to stay still to avoid increasing his discomfort.

"This nonsense, my young friend, is you feelin' sorry for yourself."

Heath leaned his head back a little further, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. "Nick, my head aches," he pronounced. "Have a little pity and just let me alone, can't you?"

"Nope."

"'Course you can't," his kid brother sighed, wincing as Nick swung his legs up on the bed and plonked 'em, crossed at the ankles, at the foot, jarring the bed frame. Heath grunted in discomfort and was ignored.

"Time to shake it off and take this whole mess for what it was."

"Oh?" grumbled Heath. "And what, 'zactly, might that be?"

"One of your times of Growing Up Crazy."

The way Nick stated it, Heath felt like it was an illness, something with a real name. Despite his pounding head, Heath managed to turn his head to face Nick and stare at him.

"Boy, you might as well hear it from me: at your age and probably for another couple years yet, every once in a while, the lamp in your brain gets snuffed out or somethin'. One minute you can be perfectly normal, thinking things through, making good choices, and the next it's like everything you'd ever learned in your life and all the good sense you'd gathered through the years goes out the window."

Heath picked at the stitches on his quilt with his right hand, downcast. Well, that's true enough…

Nick sighed. "Nobody understands, nobody can possibly know what it feels like, nobody else can ever hope to feel like you do. But you know what? They do. Because they've been there, too. That, little brother, is Growing Up Crazy."

Heath eyed his older brother askance, but it was strange; Nick's words had described how he felt just about perfectly.

Nick tilted his head at him. "All boys go through this," Nick said, shrugging his shoulder. "Not all of 'em damn near kill 'emselves, but then, we're Barkleys… we gotta outdo everybody else in everything."

"You did something like this?" Curious, Heath let his head and shoulders rest back on his pillows, relaxing a little to listen.

Nick waved a gloved hand. "Oh, good lord, boy," he pshawed. "All of us did. Jarrod ran off at 15 to follow a girl who moved away to Denver because Father and Mother wouldn't let him marry her. He was dead sure he'd never love any other girl as much ever in his whole life. A month later he was sparking another girl."

Heath chuckled a little, trying to imagine a lovesick, 15-year-old Jarrod and having distinct trouble.

"And I'm the one who ran off to San Francisco at 15 to join the navy. If Father hadn't telegraphed someone to look out for me at the docks, I'd still be on board a ship somewhere, unless I'd been keelhauled for insubordination."

"Why the navy?" asked Heath, wrinkling his forehead. "They got more rules than Father."

Nick nodded and waved a hand. "Now, see? That's just what I'm sayin'!" he declared, punctuating his words with a gloved finger pointing out at the world in general. "Normal common sense? Right out the window." He shrugged, waving a hand. "Oh, hell, I dunno. I thought it was romantic."

"I guess you don't get seasick."

"No idea."

Heath laughed, and stopped abruptly, wincing as his ribs protested. He thought for a moment, then swallowed hard and glanced at his older brother. "What'd Father do?" he asked softly.

Nick smiled. There it is… that's what's bothering him, or at least part of what's bothering him. "First thing?" Nick grinned. "Hugged me so hard I thought he'd squeeze the stuffing outta me." His older brother then raised an eyebrow. "Then he tanned my tail so bad I spent the whole train ride home standing up." He smiled at his kid brother. "But he forgave me. That's the thing, Heath. He always forgave us, no matter what dumb-ass, stupid things we did."

Glumly, Heath closed his eyes, his head aching. "Stupid is right…" he sighed, sadly.

"Oh, he always saw to it we paid for our mistakes and made things right as best we could, but there's nothing we could do that kept him from forgiving us, ever." Nick leaned over and poked his brother gently in the chest, making Heath open his eyes and look at him, for once gentle and reassuring. "That's true for you too, little brother."

He saw the sorrow and regret in his little brother's eyes then. "Heath, try to do some thinking about how to you can make things right with Mother and Father," he said gently, surprising the boy by his tender tone. "And talk with them. I think you're gonna find they've already forgiven you. Just be honest with them, ask pardon and take it from there."

Heath snorted at that, though his heart jumped a little at the hope it just might be true. "Reckon it's more likely they're figurin' how fast to ship me off somewhere…"

"Nope, not a chance," declared Nick breezily, getting to his feet. "Once you're accepted into the Barkley clan, boy, you gotta die to get out of it. And even then, I ain't so sure. And besides… you're not just accepted. You're a Barkley, blooded true."

Heath looked up at him, then, hopeful. "You think so, Nick?" the boy asked wistfully. "I know I'll… well, I know I'll always want to be a Barkley," he said softly.

"Well, then, that's good, because you are. And you always will be." Nick grinned down at him and was pleased to finally get rewarded with a small smile.

"Boy, life is gonna kick you in the pants a good number more times yet before you're finished growing up. But you just remember… you'll always have a big brother or two around to offer some liniment afterwards for your bruises."

As the afternoon sun moved slowly across the sky, Tom Barkley sat in the easy chair in his middle child's bedroom, a book in his hand reading as Heath had a long, restful nap. Tom noticed his boy beginning to stir, and set his book aside, studying the youngster.

It had been six days now since the fall, and Heath's scrapes and bruises were beginning to fade a bit. He didn't look nearly as battered as he had in the first hours after falling two stories, bouncing off the kitchen roof and landing on the ground in the dooryard.

Tom had bolted upright at the first screech of the wood breaking, and then hearing Heath's cry was all he needed to shoot out of bed, and had grabbed for his pants when he heard the crash on the kitchen roof and the sickening sound of something hitting the ground. A sound that he'd be happy to never, ever hear again in his lifetime.

He'd bellowed for Victoria and Nick as he ran for the backstairs; luckily, Vic had heard it too and was right behind him, her dressing gown floating around her. She added her own yell of "Nick! NICK!" to Tom's, so that wild-eyed, clad in nothing but his pants, Nick emerged from his bedroom as well, and ran with his parents down the backstairs.

The kitchen yard was bedlam as Nick, Tom and Victoria and several of the hands all converged, Tom sending someone for the doctor immediately, and Victoria and Nick slowly assessing how bad Heath's injuries seemed to be before trying to move him. McColl ended up directing two men to go get a large board and the boy was carefully transferred onto that to carry upstairs.

The family was terrified as Heath seemed to make no move to come around, though the doctor didn't appear to be unduly concerned just yet. He even observed that putting that joint back into place, and taping his cracked ribs were probably best done while the boy was unconscious anyway.

But luckily about an hour before dawn, Heath stirred and came around, if not completely aware of what was going on or even who he was, which scared his family badly. After assessing his condition and getting him back to sleep, leaving orders to wake the boy every two hours or so, Merar reassured them he would most likely be fine - "Is there anything harder than the head of a Barkley?! Come on, now..." - and assured the worried parents that he'd be back later that day to check on the boy.

After several hours of sleep, Heath had awakened enough to mournfully try to explain what had been going on. It took time and patience to get the whole story, but finally Tom and Victoria were able to piece together the past and the present through the mind of a troubled boy, and understand what had been eating at their son this past week.

Getting some broth into him, and more medicine to help him sleep again, Victoria had gently massaged his good shoulder to lull him back to sleep, while Tom studied him, upset that the boy still didn't trust them enough to come to them with his problems.

"Oh, Tom… can you imagine how scared he must have felt?" she whispered, as she stroked the boy's blond hair off his forehead as he slept. "Seeing this boy again… it must have brought up all the emotions he suffered through right after his mother died… feeling as though there was no one he could talk to, no one he could confide in…" she shook her head, adjusting the pillow under their son's left arm to try to make the angle for the dislocated shoulder a little more comfortable. She noticed the boy's forehead smoothed out a little, seeming to be less uncomfortable than before.

Tom nodded and drew Victoria onto his lap. She leaned back, putting an arm around his neck. "He's been eaten up by this… but what do we have to do to make understand we're on his side?" he hissed angrily.

"Tom…" Vic chided him.

He exhaled, frustrated, and nodded. "I know, I know. I just… I don't know what else I can do to make him understand this isn't temporary. That he's ours, he's my boy…" Tom's voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to erase the image of Heath, crumpled and broken in the yard. Irritated with himself, he shook his head, gritting his teeth.

Tenderly, Victoria leaned over and kissed her husband's cheek. "He's scared, Tom. YOU know you love him. He's not sure yet. He's lost everything once. To him, in his confused half-grown mind… well, it looked like it could happen again. He felt out of control, so running away became the only control he could have."

He sighed again and nodded. "I know." He opened his eyes and squared his shoulders, glancing at his wife.

She recognized the look. "You know what you're going to do," she said, tilting her head.

Slowly, he nodded. "I do. The rest will be up to him."

Heath opened his eyes, and, seeing his father there, tried to sit up, respectfully, but grunted in discomfort at the movement.

"Hey, now," warned Tom, with a smile. "Lie still, and don't aggravate those ribs." He leaned back in his chair and gazed at his boy. "How are you doing?"

"Gettin' better," he answered quietly. He sighed. It was time to face the music, and talk this through; he couldn't put it off any longer. "Father…" he hesitated, scratching his ear, wondering how in the world to start this conversation.

"I have a feeling you're going to get some better rest if we talk about what's been going on lately," observed Tom, with a smile. "Am I right? In fact, I think knowing what your punishment for this last little bit of nonsense will be will go a long way to settling you."

Eyes wide, Heath gazed at his father.

"Well, am I?"

Silently, Heath nodded.

Tom cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "My first thought was to paddle your backside so hard the glow could heat the mansion," he said sternly.

Heath winced, and sighed, blushing in shame.

"But it appears you've done a pretty good job of punishing yourself. You're gonna be hurting quite a bit for a few days. What in the world were you thinking?" Tom reached over and clasped his son's hand. "How do we convince you… you ARE a Barkley. You weren't given some gift. You were given your birthright, boy. You're my son, as much as any of the others. You are a BARKLEY."

Heath drew in a breath and swallowed. "But… the things I did…" Shamefaced, Heath looked away.

"Yes, let's talk about that," nodded Tom, calmly, leaning back. "As I understand it, there was an accidental fire in a shed caused by you and your friend smoking inside, so that's property damage. There was stealing three apple pies off a windowsill; that's petty theft. There was running off some sheep; that's disorderly conduct, or possibly criminal mischief, since you didn't profit from it. There was gathering up all the tools of a miner and tossing them into an empty mine; could be theft, though I'll lean more toward criminal mischief on that one, as well. And finally, there was a bit of cruelty done to the mentally simple son of a miner and his wife."

Heath blushed; that last one bothered him more than any of the others. It had been the last, the very last, time he'd allowed Lem to lead him into such nonsense. He'd be haunted until the day he died by the pitiful cries of that poor fella. As his father listed each crime so baldly, Heath had wilted just a little bit more.

"So, I've decided, young man, that it's time to straighten all that out. You're going to return to Strawberry with me in a few weeks, after those ribs and that shoulder have a bit more time to heal, and make restitution to each and every one of those families for the damage and distress you caused."

Startled, Heath looked up, his eyes wide.

He tipped his head to the side. "In case you're wondering, I checked with Jarrod on each of the charges and what they would be."

Heath swallowed hard.

"And to be absolutely clear, that restitution will be at the discretion of the offended party. Whatever they feel you deserve, you will accept." Tom gazed calmly at the boy. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Silently, Heath nodded.

"Afterwards… your slate is clean."

The youngster frowned, hesitating, then looking down at his quilt. "What about my slate with you?" he asked very softly.

Tom smiled to himself and leaned back. Heath finally looked up. "I told you, son. You've punished yourself far worse than I ever could. I will ask you, though, to please, please learn to come to your mother or me with your problems," he said seriously. He leaned forward and reached out, tipping up his son's chin. "We forgive you, Heath. We did before you even woke up after your fall."

Heath's eyes welled up, and he sniffed. "Why?" he asked, helplessly.

Tom smiled. "Because you're our son and we love you."

Heath felt overwhelmed, and looked away, blinking hard.

"Now, Mr. Barkley, will you please let go of some of the guilt, and just try to relax, rest and heal?" he smiled. "Trust me, you're not a bad person. You are NOT looking at a future at the California State Penitentiary. You made some stupid mistakes, mostly, I'm guessing, because you had a friend for the first time in your life, and you didn't want to do anything to mess that up."

Heath frowned. "Shoulda known better," he muttered.

"Yes, you should. But you were fourteen years old. You were a kid, and kids make mistakes. And I dare say it's one you'll never make again. Right?"

Heath looked up, sadly, and nodded.

"All right then. Forgive yourself, Heath. Trust me, son, part of your job as you're growing up is to make mistakes. It's the only way you're going to learn."

"If that's true, then maybe I'll be smart as Jarrod by the time I'm twenty-five," Heath muttered morosely.

Tom chuckled. "How do you think he got that smart, short stuff?" his father grinned, finally making his middle child smile.

Epilogue

It had taken a bit of time, but they were finally able to track down all the people who'd felt the brunt of Heath's past misdemeanors. Tom and Heath spent about six days in Strawberry finding everyone he'd wronged and making restitution. They stayed with Hannah during their visit, after explaining why they were there, and Heath was lucky his mother's old willow switch didn't come out of the closet, Hannah was so outraged to learn of his behavior. 'Yo mama turnin' in her grave, Heath Morgan!" But she, too, had finally calmed down when she heard the plan to make good on all the trouble he'd caused.

For one family, Heath had spent a long, hot day making repairs to their cabin in exchange for his mischief. For another, out of his own earnings, he made restitution for the damages he'd caused.

For a third and a fourth, he'd had to spend some time in the family woodsheds … and not chopping wood. Twice in one day, he accepted what was coming to him without a word. Very worried, Tom had felt badly for his boy, but reluctantly didn't interfere, at Heath's direct request, except to insist that they call it a day after the second round of discipline, and wait to start again in the morning to find the final person he'd wronged.

White-faced and limping, Heath didn't argue and quietly went to bed as soon as they got back to Hannah's, stretched out on his stomach, his face turned away. Tom had come over to him and sighed. My poor, brave boy, he thought, pulling up a chair beside the cot, gently rubbing the boy's back, soothing him for a bit, not saying anything but providing comfort and support until the boy finally dozed off in an uncomfortable sleep.

By the next morning, poor Heath was looking a bit ragged around the edges, but, stubbornly determined, he kept his word and explained to the fifth and last person he'd wronged why he was there, ready to face whatever the old miner felt he deserved.

News spreads fast in a small, dying town, and news like the great Tom Barkley of Stockton and the town's former fatherless stable boy showing up to right past wrongs made for a good tale to tell around a bottle at the saloon. The old miner had heard what Barkley and his boy were doing in Strawberry, and had also heard about what had happened so far with the previous four families.

The old man reached out, shaking Tom's hand. "You're a good father, Mr. Barkley," he said quietly. "Ain't many would do as you are, teachin' the boy how to repair the mistakes he done made." He glanced at the youngster, standing quietly, waiting to hear his fate. "Heath was always a decent young feller, never had any trouble from him afore," he said calmly. "Leah done a good job raisin' him. He just fell in with a wrong'un and forgot what his mama taught him for a bit."

Heath blushed tomato red, staring at his boots. The old miner walked over to the youngster and put a hand on his shoulder and, when Heath looked up, smiled down at him. "Sounds like he's took responsibility and faced up to what he's done. For me, I wasn't too hard done by. It was a foolish prank, hidin' my tools, but he didn't steal none of 'em, and I got 'em all back. So, sir, if'n it's all right by you," he said, glancing at Tom, "from what I heard, I think he's been punished enough. I'm happy to wipe his slate clean on my account."

Surprised, Heath looked up at the man then over at his father, unsure.

"That's called justice tempered with mercy, son," smiled Tom at his son, then glancing over at the miner. "I thank you, sir, for your understanding."

"No need, Mr. Barkley. I used to work your mine. You were one of the good'uns, sir," he said, calmly.

With that conversation, Heath and Tom had found all the families and made restitution as best he was able to do. It was over.

The night before they were to return home, Heath stood on Hannah's porch, leaning against an upright, sipping coffee and looking out on his old life… the view he'd seen every day of his life before being connected with his father and his family. So much had happened since his mother died, it hardly seemed like his life anymore. Tom came out with his cup and joined him there. "Hannah says supper'll be ready in about five minutes."

Heath nodded, eyes still on the view.

"So… we'll head back to Stockton first thing tomorrow," said Tom calmly, knowing his boy was going to have a miserably uncomfortable ride. But Heath merely nodded again, turning to him.

"I 'magine Nick's got a list o'jobs as long as my arm waitin' for me," smiled Heath.

Tom chuckled. "I wouldn't doubt it," he agreed. He looked at his young son who looked more at peace than he had in weeks. "How are you doing?"

He smiled, shyly. "Better… well, actually, pretty sore in certain spots, I guess, but feelin' better otherwise," he grinned ruefully, rubbing his aching rear end. "I might be standin' in the stirrups for a good part o' that trip back, though."

Heath sighed…likely won't be able to sit my horse comfortable 'til at least day after tomorrow. Oh well, reckon it ain't no one's fault but my own…

"Well, I'll tell ya," mused Tom, thoughtfully. "I was thinkin' bout rentin' a buckboard to get us into Sonora…"

Heath looked at him hopefully, then firmed his mouth, shaking his head. "You shouldn't do that on my account," said Heath, calmly, if a little blue. "If I'm sore, I know it's my own fault."

"I agree," said Tom seriously. "But I want to get home. And if we have to keep stopping every mile or so for you to walk, we won't be home for two weeks." He winked at the boy, and then laughed outright at the expression of relief on his son's face, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm proud of you, boy," he said seriously a moment later, his arm still in place, giving the boy a gentle squeeze. "You've faced up to your mistakes, taken your licks… quite literally…." He grinned, drolly, while Heath rolled his eyes. "Now you're forgiven and can move on. Will you just do me one favor?"

"Course, Father," said Heath, earnestly. "Anythin'."

Tom turned the boy to face him and winked. "I'd appreciate a bit of a breather… can you give me a month or so before you put me through this again? It's been an exhausting, if interesting, few months."

Tom roared with laughter to see Heath's pained expression and gave him a hug and a ruffle to his blond hair as they headed back into Hannah's warm, cozy kitchen.

Chapter 11: Spooked!

Chapter Text

The gorgeous vistas of the San Joaquin Valley served as a beautiful backdrop as four horsem*n made their leisurely way from Modesto toward Stockton, two outstanding mares in tow, traveling in the brisk March late afternoon. The men ranged from a strong, if stocky, middle-aged man sitting straight and tall in his saddle, a set to his head and shoulders that commanded the space around him, strong thighs gripping his tall sorrel, hands relaxed, all the way down to a youngster in his mid-teens, tall, sturdy and bearing the older man's 'mark'… unmistakably part of this man's family from his coloring to the co*ck of his head and his straight back seated on his own black Modoc mare.

Leading the party was the tallest of the group, a young, handsome and dark-haired cowboy, rugged and possessed of a self-awareness that was often perceived as arrogance by those who didn't know him. Those who did knew the air wasn't arrogance; it was the absolute surety of knowing exactly who he was and what his place was in the world: Nicholas Barkley, the heir apparent of one of the most prestigious ranches in the Valley, bright, capable and strong-willed, ready to wrestle into submission the weather, the land, his men…in short, anything God threw at him.

Next in line was his older brother: not a rancher, though capable of handling it if he had to. He was a lawyer, a man of just as much action but which played itself out in a very different arena… that of a court of law. Words were the tools of his trade, and despite a strong body, it was the limber, flexible muscles of his mind that were disciplined to think, argue, posit, and worry a problem into submission. And yet, Jarrod Barkley, too, had been raised to understand a working ranch. So when Nick mentioned a horse auction in Modesto, and thought it would be good experience for their new, third brother, young Heath, to experience, the brothers and their father decided to make a spring trip of it.

And it had been a good trip, thought Tom Barkley as he studied his three oldest sons riding before him. Young Heath had proven himself to be a particularly good judge of fine horseflesh, spotting out several issues with a couple of mares Nick had focused on, comparing their conformation and to how they might breed against the Barkley ranch stock. Tom had been impressed with the boy's knowledge… and wondered who had been such a good teacher for his son. It was just one of the hundreds of things each and every day Tom wondered about this newest child of his.

It was still such a bittersweet adventure for Tom, trying to learn and unlock the secrets – at least the ones young Heath would allow him to know - of this quiet, bright and capable young man whose blue eyes held far too much sad knowledge for his fifteen years.

In these few months since Heath's arrival, after the death of his mother, Leah, and Tom and Heath had first learned about each other, Tom caught himself often seeing flashes of behaviors or expressions that reminded him of Jarrod or Nick growing up… for example, Tom had noted their foreheads were different, but Heath and Nick both shared his own heavier brow line while Jarrod took after his mother's people in that. And when the boy was angry, his glower so resembled Tom himself and his brother Jim, as well as little Gene in a temper, it always startled Tom into a reluctant smile.

Somewhere along the line Heath's nose had been broken once or twice – something that made Tom's blood boil since he had a darned good idea just how it had happened and by whom, though the boy had never said – but it looked as though it might have originally looked a bit like Jarrod's, and Tom had always thought Jarrod's reminded him of his own father's. But the boy had a measure of his mother, Leah, in there, too. Tom sighed. He'd missed out on so much of this youngster's childhood and raising. She'd done a fine job, though, he had to admit. His son Heath was a fine young man, bright, mannerly, kind and loving. She'd done well to raise a boy in that godawful mud pit of a now-dying mining town, Strawberry. Tom shook himself, and his movement caught Heath's eye.

The boy glanced back ad to the right, at his father, questioning, Is everything all right? His sky-blue eyes questioned, with a small lopsided smile… Tom's own eyes, and his own smile.

The man returned the smile and nodded with a wink. Heath relaxed and turned his eyes back to the trail and glanced up at his older brothers, now riding side-by-side, seeming to be talking quietly together. Heath marveled at the thought… his older brothers. It still, after all of these weeks at Barkley Ranch, was amazing to him that he was part of a big, boisterous family.

"I'm just sayin'… it's his first Barkley camp fire," grinned Nick, speaking softly, just loud enough for his older brother to hear. "Can't not have a ghost story."

"I think you're expecting a reaction like Eugene's," chuckled Jarrod, shaking his head. "Brother Heath is significantly more sophisticated than our baby brother."

"Oh, c'mon. It'll be fun! You used to love scaring the pants off me," Nick chortled, under his breath.

"Well, that's certainly true," agreed Jarrod with a smile. "All right, Nick. Which one, then?"

"Gotta be the ghost of old Ambruster Pike…."

Setting up camp had been organized and orderly. Tom and Jarrod had set up the campfire and organized cooking and sleeping arrangements, while Nick chose two sets of trees to picket line the horses. Heath was sent in search of firewood, coming back a couple of times with wood suitable for kindling as well as good sized chunks to burn for most of the night, then helped Jarrod remove saddles and other tack, saddle bags and bedrolls from the horses, while Father set to cooking.

While Father had skinned and boned the brace of rabbits Heath had picked off during the first part of their ride, Heath got to work cutting up the vegetables that had been among the supplies Father had purchased in Modesto before they'd left town after the auction.

The two older brothers assured Heath that Father was the best cook amongst them, in fact, his trail cooking rivaled their mother, Victoria's, and she was good.

"Darned good thing," Heath sighed, as he leaned over to use the extra canteen to fill the coffee pot, " 'cause cookin' ain't my specialty. I'll skin your kill and prep it for ya, but if ya want to eat decent, I ain't your man."

"No?" smiled Jarrod.

"Lord, no," the boy returned, shaking his head. "We all got sick with somethin' couple o'winters back, and Mama, Hannah and Aunt Rachel were all so weak they could barely lift their heads. We were all real bad, but between Hannah and me we dragged ourselves together outside to milk the cow and goat, so at least we had fresh milk. I seemed to get over it quicker'n they did, so I got up and tried to cook somethin'. I think I set 'em back a week."

Jarrod grinned, and shook his head. "Nick is a surprisingly decent cook over a campfire… think he picked up some tips from Father." He glanced over at his tall younger brother, working hard at stretching the picket line and re-tightening it for the second set of horses. Nick had carefully placed the horses with Father's big gelding, Apollo, leading the right hand picket with good-tempered Jingo beside him and Gal given a little extra room on the lefthand side, while Nick chose the stronger of the two new mares to lead the picket line the right, with the second mare beside her and Coco on the other end. He'd been observing them as he tightened ropes and no one seemed to be getting fractious with the arrangement.

"Ain't much Nick can't do, is there?" mused Heath, with a small smile of admiration as he, too, watched his next older brother talk to the horses as he used taut line hitches to secure the animals along each 20 feet of rope line.

Tom and Jarrod glanced at each other, smiling. "Well, he can't sew up a wound to save his own life," muttered Jarrod, thinking of the scar he carried on his arm after getting sliced with a knife on the trail several years back and the only one available to doctor him was Nick.

"Now, Jarrod, he's got much better at that," snorted Tom, stirring his pot of stew.

"Who's got better at what?" asked the brother in question as he brushed his hands off on his dark pants.

"Sewing."

"Sewing?!" Nick stared at his brother, who smirked and tapped his upper arm. "Oh," Nick muttered, flushing a little and looked embarrassed. "C'mon, Jarrod, it was my first time."

"First times can be rough," agreed Heath, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary expression on his handsome young face as he finished. Startled and a little shocked, Jarrod and Nick both did double-takes on this younger brother whose mouth trembled with mirth. Tom rolled his eyes. God save me from half-grown boys…

"Watch yourself, young fella, that's more than bordering on inappropriate," said Tom firmly, but turned away as if to gather cooking supplies in order to keep his own amused expression away from his younger son's awareness.

Four saddles were positioned around one side of the campfire, with bedrolls opened. Other bits of their gear were grouped around the campsite, from campstools to lamps, a small table to various bits of cooking gear. The boys and their father were very much enjoying the savory rabbit stew, bread and butter as Nick began his story.

"So back in '46, when the Donner Party crossed the Ruby Mountains by goin' through the Overland Pass, a fella by the name of Pike… Armbruster Pike.. led another party… much smaller, only a few folks. They were following Donner's group, but by a good few weeks behind," Nick was saying, his voice soft, carrying quietly on the soft spring air, while the fire crackled beside them. He took a bite of stew, and grinned at Tom. "Father, you've outdone yourself."

Heath mopped up the savory gravy with his bread and butter, sighing in bliss. "I ain't tellin' Silas, but you could give 'im a run for his money, Father," the boy agreed.

"Well, thank you, boys," smiled Tom, dabbing his own bread in his gravy.

"You gonna finish that story, Nick, or what?" asked Jarrod with a grin.

"Oh, yeah," nodded Nick, as he sat cross-legged, scraping up the last of his stew. "Well, that very same blizzard that hit Donner's party, stranding 'em there in the Sierras, also hit Pike's party. Worse yet for them, though? They'd missed the cutoff for the Overland Pass altogether, and they were pretty much stranded right around Mooney Basin."

Nick ended up wiping his mess kit bowl so clean with his bread, it likely wasn't gonna need washing, and leaned back against his saddle with a contented sigh and a slight belch. Heath snorted, while Tom chuckled. Jarrod merely rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, story goes that the same tragedy that hit the Donner Party hit Pike's group. Once all food supplies got depleted, and their livestock were eaten, they started…um… well, nibbling on each other."

"God, Nick!" Jarrod laughed, "Glad I'm done eating!"

"Well, that's the story," Nick shrugged. "Now, whether or not Pike himself was murdered and his drumsticks turned into somebody's dinner, or he lost em due to frostbite, nobody knows. But what is known is that ever since that horrible winter, the ghost of Armbruster Pike has been seen off and on over the years. A ghost that is always described as being hunchbacked with long scraggly white hair and beard, and no legs."

Heath's eyebrow went up. "No legs?" he asked, skeptically.

"Yup," nodded Tom, "I heard about it too, up the Stanislaus. I'm surprised you didn't, Heath, it was a common story in Strawberry."

"Exactly," nodded Nick. "They've been mining up there near Bald Mountain for a number of years now, and a settlement that lies right near there, by the upper reaches of Water Canyon, and another in the upper part of Mahoney Canyon? Well, those two spots have had stories for twenty years about miners just disappearing, and never being found again."

Nick had managed to create an ambience; everyone was silently paying close attention.

"I was listening to one ol' codger talkin' about the night he was at his grubstake, workin' by lamplight with his partner… one minute the other feller was beside him, the next he seemed to disappear. The ol' fella went hunting for him, but there didn't seem to be a single trace. He hunted for an hour by the mine, but finally gave up, figuring he'd gone off for one reason or another. So the ol' guy holed himself up at the mouth of the mine to get some sleep and start again in the morning. When he came out in the mornin', there was his partner laid out deader'n a mackerel on the ground in front of the mine's mouth….with his head missin'."

Tom rolled his eyes and glanced at Heath, who was looking at his next older brother with an expression of long-suffering toleration… and no fear, whatsoever. Jarrod, too, saw that not much was getting Heath wound up tonight.

Nick kept going. "The ol' feller said he found the head 'bout thirty feet off from the mine entrance. And as he backed away, scared to death, he turned and saw this ghostly… kinda wraith-like old man with scraggly white hair nearby… draggin' himself along, 'cause his legs are gone…."

For a moment, nothing but the crackle of the fire could be heard.

"Heath….sure you're not even a little… SPOOKED!?" burst out Nick, laughing as Heath jumped at the noise.

"Yeah, I'm sure," sighed Heath, rolling his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I've heard all o' those stories myself. And more, 'round the mines."

"I don't know, Nick, I think out little brother is far too sanguine to be taken in that easily," grinned Jarrod. "Best give it up for the night."

Nick grinned and sighed, "Yeah, I guess you're – "

Owwooooooooooooooo!

Everyone jumped at both the suddenness and closeness of the wolf's howl, including the 'sanguine' Heath. Wide-eyed, the brothers looked back and forth at each other, then all three at their father, who raised an eyebrow. "It's a wolf, boys," he said dryly. "We've got a good fire. Relax."

Nick coughed a little, sheepishly, trying to get his heart back under control when he suddenly stopped breathing altogether.

Just across from the four of them, the book Jarrod had been reading before the sun was too low in the sky to offer enough light to read by, was inching its way toward the fire… untouched by anything… moving by itself.

The book…was moving…. by itself… he could hear it dragging along the scrabbly ground.

His eyes wide in disbelief, Nick felt his mouth go dry. "F-Father…" Nick choked, the whites of his eyes completely visible around his hazel irises.

Tom looked at Nick, alarmed by his tone, then swung around to follow his line of sight… and his eyes, too, widened in disbelief and shock.

"What the – " Tom, startled, lurched upright from the reclining position he'd been in, staring in consternation and fear.

Pale, Jarrod's eyes widened as well as he pointed three feet from the book, now joined in movement by Nick's campstool and Tom's spare halter for Apollo not far from that.

Tom swallowed hard, made himself breathe deeply, and forced himself shakily to his feet. Jarrod and Nick did the same, Heath slowly rising as well.

"You see anything?" whispered Nick, squinting. "I just… I can't … " There was nothing on the other side of the campfire… nothing but three inanimate objects appearing to be awfully damned animated at the moment.

"There's nothing around them," breathed Tom, shaken. "I don't… I …."

Jarrod, not hearing anything from their youngest brother, tore his eyes away from the terrifying sight of their gear moving by itself, and glanced back toward his little brother, his eyes wide, face white, and suddenly frowned.

"Heath! What….." His mouth opened and closed, then relief spread over his face. "Heath, you little..."

For Heath Barkley was all but rolling in the dirt, trying to keep from laughing out loud. Rattled, Nick struggled to tear his terrified eyes away from the moving items and look behind him, confused… then angry.

"What's'a matter, Nick?" gasped Heath, panting with the effort to breathe through his laughter. "SPOOKED!?"

Tom, turning just after Jarrod had and also realized what had gone on, ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "Heath Barkley, I oughta – "

"Now, Father, Heath just beat Nick at his own game, that's all," chuckled Jarrod, flopping back onto his bedroll, and slowly getting his own heart rate back under control. "Dear God, you brat, you like to killed me." He sagged, shaking his head and chuckling. "Damn near had a heart attack..."

"You?" gaped Nick. "YOU did that?"

Then Jarrod lifted his face and grinned at the boy. "How in the world did you do that?"

Heath chuckled and got to his feet, seeming to have something grasped his fist… and the items across the fire quickly moved toward them. He yanked hard, skirting them or pulling them fast through or around the fire, and hauled in the line, like a fish.

"Black fishing line!" Nick gaped, then slapped his own knee, bursting out laughing. "All right, you little stinker," he declared, still laughing and shaking his head, "I'll get you for this, I swear I will!"

Heath grinned. "I'm sorry, Nick, Father, but I just hadta."

"Oh you did, didja." Tom chuckled to himself also getting himself settled back again on his bedroll. "Nick, you've got a run for your money with that one, I'd be wary if I were you."

Heath chuckled and started drawing in the lines to untie the knots in his brothers' and father's possessions to return them. He almost didn't see the black lines of thread at all for the darkness… then his sharp eyes spotted a sudden shift.

On the other side of the camp fire, where he'd earlier, during camp set up, surreptitiously placed their items tied to the strings while everyone else was busy with their own tasks, he saw his own distinctive tin cup, painted with a bright red decorative "H," begin to rock on its own and shift position, jerkily, toward him.

Shocked, Heath looked down at his tin mess kit that had been beside him… and complete… just a few moments prior. Heath stopped breathing for a moment, growing pale. He'd not tied a length of black fishing line to that. He glanced down at his hands and saw the three lines he'd tied firmly grasped now loosely connected to nothing, and then wildly looked at his brothers and father, but all three were chatting briefly and getting themselves rolled up in their blankets or, in his father's case, picking through some of the wood to add to the fire. All were turned away from the fire, all engaged in other tasks.

Heath slowly, heart hammering, turned his face back toward the other side of the fire but… no, the cup was gone. His eyes shot down, and… he gulped. There it was. Seated beside his spoon and dirty mess kit bowl, right where it had been when he'd first left it.

Heath went cold, and felt the hair on the back of his neck and his arms rise. In less than a heartbeat, he'd scooted back several feet. Did I imagine it? Swallowing hard, Heath listened hard for the sound of footsteps or indeed for anything that didn't belong, but all he heard was the sough of the wind through the branches over head.

Nervously, he pulled his saddle closer to Nick's. Surprised, Nick glanced at him. "What's wrong?" he asked, seeing Heath's expression, and looking around himself, curiously.

"Nothin'," replied the boy, troubled, but not meeting his older brother's eyes. "Just cold… figured I'd move closer to the fire. Okay with you, ain't it?" he asked hopefully. "I ain't crowdin' you, am I?"

"No, it's fine," nodded Nick, his brow a little furrowed. He glanced around him again… the horses seemed fine on their lines… even Apollo was behaving himself over there.

Tom stocked the fire. "Boys, considerin' that wolf, I suggest you sleep with your boots on," he chuckled, "and your pistols at your sides. We'll just toss all the mess kits into a bag and get 'em washed up at home." He smiled to see his three oldest boys… three, he marveled!... all together. "You three go ahead and get some sleep. I'll keep watch for a bit, and wake one of you if I think it'd be a good idea."

They all leaned back against their saddles as pillows, wrapped in their blankets and gazed at the stars briefly before finally nodding off to sleep… Heath later than the others, as he listened hard to the sounds around him long before Nick's snores finally lulled him, too, into sleep.

Tom heard the horses nickering to each other and slowly came out of his dead sleep. He opened his eyes, looking up at the beautiful sunrise-painted sky, purples, reds and oranges… He drew in a deep breath and remembering where he was, very slowly stretched out his muscles, knowing he'd be stiff as a board. Slowly he stirred himself and, wincing, rolled onto his side glancing towards his sons. All three of them were still sound asleep. Nick hadn't budged from his position from last night: on his back against his saddle, his hat dropped over his face, but luckily not snoring any longer. Beside him, Tom smiled to note that Heath had slid down and curled up on his side.

Tom sat up suddenly, cold with shock, emitting a grunt of pain but ignoring it as he quickly looked around. Heath's saddle was no longer behind his head. In fact it was… gone. Quickly, he scanned the campsite and swearing to himself, dragged himself upright. "Nick! Jarrod!" he bellowed as he struggled to gain his feet.

Jarrod, a light sleeper, jolted awake immediately and came off his saddle. "What? What's going on?"

"What's wrong?" Nick demanded, awake instantly, and Heath too, bolted upright, usually the lightest sleeper of the three.

But Tom was standing now, and looking at their ravaged site.

Every item… every single item… of their gear that hadn't been literally touching them, was gone. As if they'd never been present at all.

Heath's saddle… the cooking gear… the mess kits… the campstools and the tiny folding camp table…. the extra tack for the horses… their saddle bags. Everything.

Gone.

Nick immediately whirled and ran for the horses.

"What the hell…" Jarrod breathed, staring around himself, shocked. He looked down, noting his gun belt – which he'd removed in order to sleep last night - was gone, but the pistol, which had been in his hand was still there. All of their blankets intact. Anything they'd had touching their bodies...and, apparently, the horses.

Heath, staggered, looked at the ground, looking for something, track of any kind. Nothing. With a growing pit of discomfort in his stomach, he thought back to last night.

"Not funny!" snapped Nick, angrily advancing on his little brother, giving him a shove.

Startled, Heath stared at him, gaping. "Me? I didn't do this!" he protested.

"Oh, sure ya didn't!" snapped Nick. "Where is it? What did you do with all of it?"

Desperately, Heath looked at Tom. "Father, I didn't!" he declared, getting angry now.

Tom eyed his middle child sternly, but uneasily saw that the boy appeared to be telling the truth. Hesitating, Tom glanced at Jarrod.

"No tracks," Jarrod said bluntly. He gestured around them. "Look. No footprints, no indication of anything having been dragged." He, too looked at Heath.

Upset, Heath pleaded, "I didn't do anything, I swear I didn't!"

"All right, settle down," commanded Tom, to both Nick and Heath. "Nick, don't be a fool," he snapped, gripping his second son by the bicep when the dark-haired cowboy advanced angrily on his younger brother. "Look around you! You see any sign? That's easily… what, 90 lbs of gear, missing?!"

"Well, it didn't just walk away by itself!" shouted Nick, angrily.

Heath, remembering his cup from last night, looked troubled around him. But...What if it did?

Finally, the four Barkleys pulled together what was left of their camp, and stomachs growling, mounted up to ride home. Heath had no choice but to make the long ride bareback. Jarrod had offered to have Heath ride Jingo, but Heath shook his head. "I'm the lightest, it'll be easiest on me to go bareback. I done it before… but thanks, Jarrod."

He was terribly wounded that Nick didn't believe him. For the dark-haired cowboy still believed that, somehow, Heath was behind this craziness. Despite both Tom and Jarrod remonstrating with him, demanding to know where in the world the boy could have put the items, and asking how he could have done it without leaving sign of any kind, Nick remained angry with Heath.

"That's crazy!" protested Heath. "You think I want to ride home no saddle, no stirrups? It's fifteen miles!"

"Enough!" snapped Tom at his second son. "Look, I have no idea what in the world is going on here, but fighting with your brother isn't going to solve it. So pipe down!"

Tom didn't like admitting when he was rattled… and he was most definitely rattled. He was downright mystified… and deeply uneasy.

"Look, I don't know how they did it, but we've clearly been robbed," said Jarrod calmly.

"Oh, that's crazy," Nick blustered. "If they were gonna steal something, why not the horses?! They're the only things really worth anything! What they stole had no real value!"

"Well, I don't know, Nicholas!" Jarrod snapped back. "But the one thing that IS clear, is that the stuff is gone! Crazy it might be, but gone it is! Screaming about it isn't going to change that!"

Uneasily, Heath continued to remember that spooky moment the night before when he'd seen his cup move… without the benefit of his rigged fishline. He was on the verge of telling his family, then he got a good look at Nick's face and gave that up as a really stupid idea. Nick would never believe it, and it would just fuel his belief that Heath was at the bottom of all of this.

"I think we oughta get outta here..and right now," Heath said quietly, glancing around himself uneasily as he gathered his blankets and the few things he had left… even his hat was gone. Thank heaven he'd heeded Father and kept his boots on!

Feeling spooked, Nick and Jarrod glanced at each other, then at their father.

"I agree," nodded Tom. "Mount up."

It was a desperately uncomfortable four-hour ride home, silent and sparked with emotions, ranging from blame and anger to deep uneasiness and more than a touch of fear.

It was approaching 10 in the morning as they drew closer to the outer arched gate of Barkley Ranch. Tom squinted in the distance and looked over at Nick. "Son, your eyes are better than mine. Is that the men crowded around the fence?" he asked, in disbelief.

Jarrod and Heath looked as well, but Nick nodded in confirmation. "Yeah, looks like about fifteen of 'em, at any rate. What the heck…"

Firming his mouth, sick of the nonsense of this day, Tom spurred Apollo into a good lope and headed off toward the distinctive large white archway with the big sign "Barkley Ranch" and their brand, a B with the diagonal slash through it, decorating the top.

Sure enough, about fifteen men, including his foreman, McColl, were crowded around the left hand side of the gate. They turned at the sound of hooves, and McColl clearly showed relief to see them.

"Thank God, boss, you had us plumb worried!" the foreman declared, glancing at the three Barkley sons and the two mares behind them.

"Worried? Whatever for?" demanded Tom, as the other three came up closer as well.

McColl glanced uneasily at Barrett and Hale, then nodded toward the cluster of men. At his nod, all of them separated.

There, beside the gate, were piles of gear… camp stool and table… cooking gear… a book and lamp. And Heath's saddle and hat.

Gaping in shock, the four Barkleys stared at the neat piles of gear.

"We thought somehow you'd been set on out there, boss," said McColl uneasily. "We were about to put together a party to go find ya."

Nick swallowed hard, staring at the saddle, then looked at his little brother. "Sorry, squirt," he muttered quietly.

Unable to take his eyes off the piles of gear, Heath just gulped and nodded.

"Boss… what happened?"

Tom shook himself, glancing at his three very dazed, spooked sons.

"Duke… trust me, when I find out you'll be among the first to know," he said, a bit shakily. "But, brother… have I got a story for the next round-up campfire."

Chapter 12: L'Art d'Embrasser

Chapter Text

Jarrod Barkley leaned back in his padded desk chair and rubbed his burning, tired eyes. It was late and he'd been working at his large desk in his room since dinner, making notes, comparing statements and depositions with hard evidence from the law enforcements officers on the case. He'd prepared. He was ready.

I've been sitting here way too long, he groaned to himself, his back and shoulder muscles complaining bitterly at the hours spent here over the course of the evening. Wearily, the young lawyer glanced at the clock on his mantel and sighed. Nearly eleven thirty; long past time to call it a night. Breakfast at seven was going to be a challenge.

He laid down his pen, quickly casting a final glance over the notes on the page, pleased overall with the direction his opening arguments were taking, based upon the evidence he planned to present. Confident and feeling sure, he relaxed and hauled himself to his feet, capping his pen and screwing tight the lid on his pot of ink.

When the soft knock came at his door, he grew alarmed. Who in the world … at this hour?! Worried that there might be sickness or trouble, Jarrod quickly padded across his bedroom carpet in his stocking feet to the door, opening it a crack.

He couldn't have been more surprised to see his fifteen-year-old brother, Heath, clad in nothing but his nightshirt, outside his door.

"Heath! What in the world - ?"

"Jarrod, can I come in please?"

The boy looked uneasy, his eyes troubled, with dark circles below them as though he'd been unable to sleep.

Jarrod's first impulse was to demand if the boy knew what time it was, but he could see there was something wrong. Instead, he opened the door fully and ushered his younger brother in, glancing up and down the dark, quiet hallway.

"What is it, Brother Heath? Are you all right?"

Uncomfortably, Heath, shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. I just…"

Surprised, Jarrod watched the boy's fair cheeks begin to glow bright pink. So… something fairly substantial was on his mind… so substantial that it looked like the youngster might just give up and bolt if Jarrod didn't take things in hand.

"Here… have a seat, little brother, and tell Pappy all about it," suggested the older man, keeping the mood light but firmly taking hold of his kid brother's arm and guiding him toward the chair by his bed.

Heath perched on the edge of the armchair, clearly uncomfortable. He scratched an ear, and sighed. "I… maybe I should just … just…" awkwardly, trying to rise.

Jarrod calmly reached over and firmly gripped his brother's forearm. "Look… something's clearly bothering you, you're here and from the look of you, you're not going to be falling asleep anytime soon. Why don't you just spit it out?" he asked gently.

Sighing, Heath tried to relax and lean back in his chair. "It … it's hard to talk about." He swallowed, eyes fixed on the pattern of the carpet. "I need some advice."

Jarrod nodded, encouragingly. It's gonna be a long night at this rate, he thought with a smile.

Heath finally sighed, squared his shoulders, fierce blush and all, and picked up his head, gazing directly into Jarrod's eyes. "I wanna know how to proper kiss a girl."

Startled, Jarrod's own blue eyes mirrored his little brother's. "How to..."

Heath nodded. "I done it before, but…" If it was at all possible, his face bloomed an even deeper shade of painful red. "Well, we smacked noses and by the time the bleedin' stopped, she'd kinda lost interest," he admitted glumly.

Jarrod struggled to keep from bursting out laughing. "Hers? Or yours?" At his brother's confused expression, he clarified. "The blood."

"Oh. Mine," admitted Heath. He sighed and leaned back, now that the worst was over and he'd admitted his need. "Father said that if I had questions about … well, about… stuff like this, an' I didn't feel comfortable goin' to him, I should come to you."

Suddenly, Jarrod remembered a very firm conversation from a few weeks back, in which Tom Barkley had, in no uncertain terms, made clear exactly what was and wasn't appropriate information to share with his younger brother.

"He's fifteen, Jarrod," his father had warned, "Remember that. He doesn't need to know all the … well, the mechanics of things just yet. Answer his questions, but don't offer more information than he's asking for…not just yet, anyway."

Jarrod remembered chuckling to himself, figuring that Heath was a lot more savvy than Father had realized, but now he understood exactly where Tom had been coming from. Savvy the boy might be. What he wasn't was experienced. Once again, Jarrod shook his head in admiration at his father; not much gets past you, eh, Old Man?

"So, what exactly is it you need to know, little brother?" asked Jarrod, seriously, inviting his younger brother up on the bed to stretch out with him.

Eyes opened wide in surprise, Heath took him up on his offer and stretched out luxuriously on Jarrod's huge bed, eyes closing in bliss at the comfort and space. "Well, mostly," he yawned, nearly cracking his jaw, "how to kiss 'er without breakin' our noses, hers 'specially. And… well, an' how to do it… like I know what I'm doin'," he finished softly.

Jarrod nodded, understanding. He doesn't want to come across as green as grass in front of this young lady. Hmm… is she inexperienced, too, then? Or someone more savvy than he is? That potential alarmed Jarrod just a bit, but he decided to proceed slowly here, rather than scare the boy off from sharing with him altogether. "So … your experience kissing a girl has been kind of limited, then?" he asked, matter-of-fact.

"Well, I've kissed girls on the cheek, never on the lips, 'ceptin' that one time," his brother admitted, embarrassed.

"The young lady in question…" Jarrod mused, carefully. "Anyone I know?"

Heath raised an eyebrow, a cold expression on his face. Jarrod shrugged. "Fair enough. I was simply trying to assess the… er… experience of the young lady in question,"

"Well, I ain't plannin' on bussin' a saloon girl, Jarrod!" Heath hissed at him, angrily.

"No offense intended, Brother Heath," soothed Jarrod, with a smile. "So, then… A young lady of gentler birth, apparently."

Heath narrowed his eyes, trying to see if his older brother was funnin' with him. When he didn't pick up on any teasing, he tried to settle himself a bit. "She's… she's a nice girl. And I just…" Hesitating, Heath rolled on his side facing his brother. "Look, I've seen fellers dancing with and kissin' the gals in Strawberry in the saloons – "

"What in the world were you doing in saloons, at your age?!" asked Jarrod, startled.

Heath sighed impatiently. "I worked the mines, was a growler, off an' on, for the miners from the time was about 7 until I started ridin'… well, like I said, off and on until I was nearly 14," he finished abruptly.

"You surely have had a storied past, younger brother," Jarrod sighed, scratching his ear. "Alright, so, go on. You saw the men in the saloons, and what?"

Heath frowned picking at the stitching in Jarrod's quilt until the older brother reached over and lightly smacked the boy's hand.

"Unless you plan to replace that, pick apart your own quilt," Jarrod grinned. "Out with it. And what?"

Heath flopped on his back. "Well, I certainly ain't gonna be mashin' my face into her bosoms or puttin' my hands up her skirts, that for darned sure!" he snapped, beet red once again, an arm over his eyes.

Jarrod winced. Oh, good Lord… "Wise, that, little brother. All right, I think we're getting closer to the issue, now. You want to know what is considered acceptable in terms of getting a kiss from an otherwise respectable young lady. Correct?"

Arm still over his eyes, Heath nodded abruptly.

"All right, then." Jarrod stretched his legs out, crossing his legs at the ankles and clasped his hands behind his head. "Let's start with this: do you think she's ever been kissed before, ever?"

Jarrod felt the sigh go right down to his little brother's toes. "… pro'bly."

Pretty, then, mused Jarrod, with a gentle smile. And someone other boys are after, too… so, there's competition there…hmmm….

"Well, first off… how far along have you two got?"

Startled, Heath lifted his arm and looked at his brother, unsure.

Jarrod lifted his hand, forefinger raised. "Any flirting going on, her to you or vice versa?"

Heath's cheeks glowed again. "I guess so… I mean… I ain't sure…" Helplessly, Heath looked at his older brother.

Jarrod took pity on him and smiled reassuringly. Finger number two arose. "Well, alright then, have you gone for a walk alone together?"

Heath nodded.

"Good. Held hands yet?"

Heath pondered that one, eyes narrowed in thought. "Kinda," he said finally.

Jarrod looked bemused. "How do you 'kinda' hold hands?" he asked, wonderingly.

"Well, we were walkin' and she kinda tripped and I caught her hand, and… and well, she let me and di'nt let go," he said quietly.

Jarrod almost groaned. Oh, Heath, my boy… you've got yourself a live one there… But he kept his facial expression non-committal. "That so," he observed. "Well, then she's not afraid of you touching her, that's good. Some girls are so inexperienced it makes them nervous for a boy to even touch their hand."

Heath frowned. "… no, I don't think she's nervous about it."

Jarrod closed his eyes, growing a little uncomfortable. I'm beginning to wonder which of you is the one getting trapped into a kiss here…

"What are some other ways a boy flirts with a girl? I mean, I know when a girl's flirtin' with me, but…"

Jarrod smiled at him, then, with a tender grin. "To be honest, Heath, sometimes you just being you is like flirting with a girl."

Startled, his little brother looked at him. "Whaddya mean?"

"You're a very kind, gentle fellow, little brother. You care about people and it shows when you're talking to them," shrugged Jarrod, with a smile. "That's the basis of what flirting is anyway: making a girl feel like they matter, like they're special to you for that moment in time. Remembering things she's told you in passing and making sure she knows you listened to her… really smiling at her… sharing things with her, from an ice cream to a sarsaparilla…being a gentleman and holding the door open for her… feeling protective of her when you're together, and especially when you're not… making her feel like she's the only girl in a room full of 'em. That's all flirting is, Heath. Caring about someone and letting them know it."

Heath studied on that for a bit, and Jarrod allowed him time for the thought to simmer a bit.

"So… how did you two meet, if you don't mind me asking?"

Warily, Heath glanced at him. "We… um…"

"Heath, for heaven's sake, you can hardly be worried I'd be trying to steal your girl, can you?" grinned Jarrod, figuring they reached a safe point for a tease.

His brother rolled his eyes, with all the eloquence of a fifteen-year-old boy.

"Well, then, unless you believe the young lady is an inappropriate girl and Father and Mother would be upset," said Jarrod seriously, "what in the world is the problem with telling me who it is?"

"Because… if I kiss her and she belts me one, or sics her father on me, I'd as soon not have the whole family know," Heath muttered.

Jarrod sighed. "You mean having Nick know… and teasing you about it."

Glumly, Heath nodded.

Jarrod smiled gently. "I understand… but Nick's had his own adventures in this arena, little brother. It's a rite of passage."

Heath exhaled softly. Then he looked at Jarrod. "What about you? Who was your first kiss?" he asked, shyly.

Jarrod smiled at him and closed his eyes in memory. "Ahh…. Anne Reynolds," he sighed, smiling broadly. "I was just turning 15, if my memory serves me, and Anne was in the same grade at school. We shared a desk for about half a year. She had long, beautiful, shiny black curls and the greenest eyes I'd ever seen, like that emerald necklace Mother has. Her skin was white as bone china. She… was… gorgeous. We used to sneak holding hands under the desk. We got caught and that was when Mrs. Hastings separated us," he chuckled. "Didn't stop us, though. I used to walk her home…she lived in town, so I'd escort her home, and one afternoon outside her gate, we just were looking deeply at each other, and I kissed her." He glanced sideways at his brother. "I should have asked her first… a gentleman would. But we'd been holding hands and what-all… somehow I was pretty sure she wouldn't mind."

"What happened?"

"Her grandfather passed away and her father relocated the family to Denver to run the family business for his mother," sighed Jarrod. "I was miserable. Even asked Mother and Father-"

"For permission to marry her."

Startled, Jarrod looked at his brother. "How in Hades did you know that?!"

"Nick told me."

Jarrod rolled his eyes. "Oh, good grief," he muttered.

Heath smiled. "He also said that a month later you was sparkin' another girl."

Jarrod made a face. "Well, young love often is capricious," he declared.

"Ca… what?"

"Capricious… given to sudden and unexpected changes," Jarrod informed him, hastily changing the subject. "So anyway, back to you. Do you think you've been flirting with her?"

Heath was thoughtful, then slowly nodded.

"Do you think you love her?" asked Jarrod gently.

Heath, smiling ruefully, shrugged. "Lord, Jarrod, I dunno. I just know that when I'm near her my insides feel like mush, my brain don't work like usual and everything is… I dunno, brighter… more colorful…"

Sympathetically, Jarrod reached over and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Sounds like you think she's at least pretty special."

"Yeah…" breathed the boy, his face serious… but a little dreamy, too.

"How has she given you reason to think she might feel the same way?" asked Jarrod, with a smile.

And for the first time that evening, Heath relaxed and smiled as well. "She looks right at me and smiles, a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. She reaches out every once in a while, and just touches my arm, or when we're walkin', she'll let her arm lean up against mine. And… well, and she said she likes me."

Eyebrows up, Jarrod stared. And you haven't kissed her yet?! "Well, sounds like you're ready to ask for a kiss."

Heath gulped. "Ask?"

Jarrod nodded firmly. "Ask. Don't steal one. Make sure you're treat her like a lady by being a gentleman yourself," he said seriously. "Asking her first makes her know you want to treat her right. That says a lot about how much you care. Anyone can steal a kiss and just move on to the next girl. Asking first tells her you care more than that. Understand?"

Heath swallowed again and nodded. "I reckon." He scratched an ear. "I just… I mean, do I just haul off an' say 'okay if I kiss ya?' " he blurted out, anxiously.

Jarrod laughed. "Well, that's one way, and the most direct, I suppose, but there's a couple of other ways you could do it. One that used to work well for me was to say something like…"

The older young man grew very serious and turned on his side, gazing directly into Heath's blue eyes with his own matching orbs, until his little brother's eyes widened. "You're so beautiful right now…" Jarrod spoke softly, slowly, tenderly, never breaking eye contact. "it'd be a terrible shame to let that pretty smile go without a kiss. May I?"

Heath's eyes were held in thrall by Jarrod's, until his older brother grinned, releasing them, and the boy blushed deeply once again, shaking himself slightly… Boy howdy!… "… I'd never remember all that…." he groaned.

Jarrod chuckled. "Practice it. Or you could always go with the tried and true, 'I really like you… may I kiss you?'" he shrugged with a grin. "Sometimes the easiest, most straightforward method is best."

Heath sighed. "What if she says no?" he asked softly.

"Then you respect her wishes and don't."

"Ever?!"

Jarrod grinned. "Not until she tells you that you may." Jarrod thought of something else, the image of their own parents looming in his mind, and he grew serious. "Another thing, little brother… I'd be very careful. Do you know if this girl's parents are the real protective type?"

"Protective?"

"I mean, if he found out about it would her father come after you with either a horsewhip, or a shotgun and a parson?" asked Jarrod dryly.

"Oh." Heath sighed. "I honestly don't know. I been wonderin' that some myself." He glanced ruefully at his older brother. "I mean, I reckon I know that I ain't exactly the best catch in the Valley."

Jarrod sympathized, but he understood that Heath wasn't a fool; he knew what the status of his birth meant in a lot of the families of Stockton. He grimly nodded. "You're a fine young man, Heath. It's not your fault that there are some fools here about," Jarrod told him, firmly. "You remember that. It's their problem."

Heath raised an eyebrow, as if to say it may be their problem, but it often ends up to be a problem for me as well!

Jarrod conceded the unspoken point and nodded briskly. "Well, then, that's all the more reason to ask her first, beyond the fact that it's just the right thing to do."

"So… how?!" demanded Heath, in exasperation.

Ah, yes… the mechanics… sorry, Father, but I've got a brother in need, here…

"All right," nodded Jarrod seriously, sitting up. "First off, if you're both ready, first thing you do is check where her hands are."

"Her hands?"

"Yep… if you've holding hands, that's good. If not, and say she has her hands in front of her then turn her (or yourself) so that you're face to face and gently take her hands in yours. You could clasp them in front of you, between you, or hold them out slightly at the sides," Jarrod said, demonstrating as he spoke.

Heath had sat up too, and was mirroring Jarrod's example, nodding. "Okay."

"Make sure you don't pucker up your lips."

Startled, Heath stared at him. "Huh?"

Rolling his eyes, Jarrod demonstrated that, too.

Blushing, Heath nodded in understanding. "Oh. Why not?"

"Because you want your lips soft for her, not hard and tense...besides the fact that it makes you look foolish."

"… uh, okay…"

"Whatever you do, keep your eyes open. That's how you'll keep from breaking your silly nose. Come slowly closer and tilt your head slightly, making note of the angle her head is at," instructed Jarrod, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Understand what I mean?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Then, lean your whole upper body toward her, slow and smooth, not like a rooster pecking at corn," grinned his older brother, making Heath giggle a little nervously. "Smooth, Brother Heath, that's what you're shooting for. One long, smooth movement. Like you want to close the space between you."

Jarrod noticed Heath growing a little pale and licking his lips.

"When you're between… oh, maybe 2 or 3 inches away from her, that's when you can slowly start closing your eyes. Shows you're relaxed."

"Relaxed… sure," grumbled Heath, rolling his eyes.

Jarrod grinned. "Fake it 'til you make it, brother. Anyway, keep 'em closed for the time you're kissing her. Otherwise it's a little… oh, I don't know, a bit creepy… like you're watching her for a reaction."

"How… how long should I…"

Jarred smiled. "This first time? Just a few seconds… no more than a count of three of four, for sure. And…" Jarrod hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention the boy's tongue, and recalled his father's admonition: Don't tell him more than he's asking for! He decided to not even approach that yet. Next lesson, if there needs to be one, he thought in amusem*nt; to be honest, Jarrod had a feeling that once he got his jitters out of the way, Brother Heath would do just fine on his own.

"And what?"

"And keep your lips soft and welcoming… if she's not too stiff, you could gently pull her close to you, but just play that by ear. This is your first kiss… don't rush it."

Jarrod studied his brother, seeing the frown of concentration and his big brother heart melted a bit… poor kid. "Hang in there, Heath. You'll be surprised. If you just relax, and take it slowly, nature should really help you figure out what your next step should be. Pay attention to her. See what her actions are telling you. Does she look scared, or stiff? Then back off but smile at her so she knows you're confident and enjoyed her kiss, too."

Jarrod patiently waited, watching all of this information secure itself in his little brother's mind. He saw Heath relax considerably and grinned as the boy shyly smiled at his older brother. "Thanks… Pappy. This helped a lot."

"And you're not going to tell me the name of this Venus who's caught your eye?"

"Nope," responded Heath, getting up from the bed, and heading for the door, tossing over his shoulder, "after all, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell!"

Jarrod laughed softly as the door clicked quietly closed.