Chapter 28

"Teresa Slicker came in for her appointment today … she was saying that they …." Michaela’s voice receded into the background as Joseph observed Stephen Monroe enter the café and head in their direction. He hadn’t given the bank manager much thought throughout the last couple of days, having had his hands full with caring for Katie back at the homestead. But today she’d returned to school with strict instructions not to become involved in any rough play and to protect her broken arm, and he’d come into town to see Robert E, order more lumber from Loren and, of course, have lunch with Michaela. He’d been looking forward to a quiet time with his beautiful wife and up until now their lunch together had been relatively incident free. It seemed that many of the townspeople had come to terms with his sudden reappearance and for that he was grateful. He frowned as Monroe’s eyes focussed on Michaela and he wondered what was going through the man’s mind.

Stephen Monroe approached their table and doffed his hat. "Afternoon Michaela …. Mr Sully," he said courteously, before passing by to seat himself at a table some distance from them. Joseph regarded him in surprise. He’d been certain the bank manager was going to at least try to make conversation with Michaela. He’d seen it in his eyes.

Michaela knew she’d lost her husband’s attention. His was staring off into space and his brow was creased. She ceased talking, wondering what was concerning him. Stephen Monroe paused by their table to greet them and she smiled warmly at him. He really was a nice man. She’d have to make sure she stopped by the bank some time soon to fill him in on what had been happening with her, and about Sully’s return. Her attention returned to her husband who, she now realised, was watching Stephen as he made his way to a table across the room. "Something wrong Sully?" she asked.

Joseph started guiltily and his eyes swung back to hers. He shrugged his shoulders. "Aint nothin’," he said dismissively. "You havin’ pie?"

Michaela turned towards Stephen and caught him watching her, or them, she wasn’t sure. Her brow creased in puzzlement. There was something going on here she didn’t understand. She again quizzed her husband. "Are you sure?" she asked quietly.

"Sure I’m sure," he replied a little tersely.

She considered the situation for a moment and then said quietly, "Stephen Monroe’s the bank manager here .…. You wouldn’t remember him … he arrived after you disappeared. Do you want to meet him?"

"Done that," he returned succinctly. "The other day …. my first real day in town …"

"Oh," she uttered, puzzled. "Did you two have words?"

"No … it was real polite …"

"Well then … I don’t understand …. something’s concerning you …"

"I said leave it be Michaela …. aint nothin’ …"

Michaela’s jaw clenched. "It *is* something Sully ….. I haven’t been married to you for all these years not to notice these things …"

Joseph’s troubled eyes met hers and he swallowed. "It aint important," he mumbled.

"It is to you … I can tell …"

Joseph’s eyes once again regarded the man now tucking into a plate of Grace’s meatloaf and gravy.

"Sully?"

He turned to look at her, meeting her concerned eyes for only a second before becoming inordinately interested in the pattern on the gingham tablecloth. "He said you were friends," he murmured indistinctly.

Still unsure as to the reason why he’d suddenly withdrawn into himself, she replied warily, "I suppose we are …"

His brow creased, he leaned despondently back in his chair, and traced the checked pattern with his fingertip. Suddenly his head rose and he met her eyes. "*Good* friends?" he asked dully.

Michaela blushed. What must Stephen have said?! "That depends on what you call ‘good’ friends," she replied calmly.

He returned gruffly, "What do *you* call it?"

Michaela was beginning to resent Sully’s present vexatious attitude. He knew her better than that didn’t he? "I call it occasionally having lunch together …. talking …. sharing views …. him sometimes sitting with the family at the church picnic …. Is that alright with you?"

Joseph reddened but couldn’t resist probing further. "Reckon he likes you," he stated pointedly.

"And *I* like him," she responded immediately.

He took a deep breath. "How much?" he challenged.

Michaela had had enough. "He’s a *friend* Sully …. someone I could talk to …. someone who didn’t know you, and therefore didn’t feel awkward around me …. who didn’t feel as if he had to consider every word he said for fear of upsetting me … Yes I like him …. but he’s only a friend …. I made that clear to him from the beginning and he accepted it …. that’s the way it always would’ve been …" She paused, waiting to see if he required any further explanation from her. He remained silent, his expression sullen. She glared at him. "What would you expect of me? That I stay home …. not make new friends …. I *did* that …. for more than a year …our friends and family began to worry about me …." Tears welled in her eyes. "There was never going to be anyone but you …. I thought you understood that …" She stood and threw her napkin onto the tabletop. "I’m going back to the clinic." She turned on her heel and walked away.

Watching her walk angrily away from him tore Joseph’s heart apart. He knew he’d been the entire cause, he’d been unreasonable and regretted it, but would she believe him, forgive him? He stood, tossed a number of coins onto the table and hurriedly followed her out. He caught up with her in the alleyway between the clinic and the Gazette office. "Michaela," he said plaintively. He laid his hand on her shoulder, arresting her progress, and then gently turned her to face him. He was shocked by the angry fire in her eyes. "I’m sorry … I was unreasonable," he muttered contritely.

"Yes you were," she responded, not giving an inch.

He hung his head. "I … I …. don’ know why I acted that way …. Talkin’ ta Monroe the other day …. he made it sound like he was one of the family …. The thought of you with someone else ….. well … it makes my blood run cold …. makes me feel empty inside …."

Michaela’s expression softened. "We’ve been through this before Sully …. with William and David …. There’s no reason for you to feel jealous … or insecure …. there’s no-one else for me but you …."

"You’re forgettin’ somethin’ Michaela," he returned quietly.

"What’s that?"

"I don’ remember those other times …. I’m real new to this bein’ married stuff … all I knew was how I felt inside when I thought about you an’ Monroe together …."

Michaela reached out and clasped his hand. "You’re right …. I did forget …. I’m sorry …. but I still maintain there’s no reason at all for you to worry …. Stephen is a friend …. and a gentleman … that’s all …"

Joseph nodded and unconsciously began to play with the rings on her finger. "So you forgive me?" he asked softly.

"Of course …. as long as you let this nonsense about Stephen go," she replied immediately. She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. "We have far too much time to make up …. without worrying about things which are impossible," she added.

He lifted her hand to his lips. "Thank-you," he said sincerely.

She hooked her arm through his and they proceeded to the clinic door, which he pushed open for her. Once inside she turned to face him. He placed his hands at her waist and tugged her towards himself, but she held back. She bit her lip and looked up into his clear blue eyes.

Joseph could tell that she was fighting the need to say something more. "What is it Michaela?" he asked worriedly.

She blushed. "You don’t know how many times I’ve stopped myself from asking this during these past weeks," she said, her voice low.

"What?" he asked in puzzlement.

"I …. I …. was wondering …"

"Wondering?"

"Well …. you were worried about Stephen and I. Have …. I mean …. well ….. I’ve often wondered about you ….. in Paynesville …. alone …..," she murmured uncertainly. "There must have been lots of women …. I mean ….. interested …" She suddenly stopped and took a deep breath. "No," she added abruptly. She placed her fingers over his lips. "I don’t want to know …. It doesn’t matter …." She lifted her head to kiss him soundly, lovingly. "Why don’t you go and see Robert E, then when Katie finishes school, if there are no patients waiting … I might close the clinic early and we’ll go home …" She stepped away from him and headed for her desk.

He abruptly caught her by the waist from behind and pulled her back against himself. He turned her to face him and tilted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. "The answer’s simple Michaela," he said quietly. "Yeah …. there were a coupla ladies who were …. ah … interested …. but I weren’t … I didn’ know why …. only that I always felt kinda nervous … an’ empty inside … There weren’t anyone else …. til you came along …"

Michaela smiled broadly and her hands began to work some arousing magic through the cotton of his shirt. "So …. there’s no-one else you invited to go riding … in the woods …. alone ….?" she asked teasingly.

He shook his head. "You were the first …. an’ last," he said sincerely, his eyes twinkling. He lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his for a deep, fulfilling kiss, holding her tight against himself. He pulled back momentarily to add, "Never dreamed bein’ with a woman could feel like this …. mighta paid more attention to them other ladies if I’d o’ known …"

She peered up to see that his eyes were twinkling even more, filled with love for her alone. "You better not give them even one more thought," she said softly. "I plan on keeping you all to myself for the rest of our lives Mr Sully," she said smiling seductively. She rested her hand at his nape and drew his head down to hers again.

The abrupt clang of the clinic bell heralding the arrival of Michaela’s next patient put paid to any further declarations, either verbal or physical, but quick promises were made to continue the matter later at home.

*************************

Joseph finished sawing through the piece of wood and then sanded the ends to a smooth finish. Sandpaper in hand, he stood back to survey what he’d managed to do so far. When he’d started this project he’d believed he had plenty of time to complete it by Christmas, but now he wasn’t so sure. Just two weeks to go and so much to do. He hammered the new piece into place and then stood straight to arch his back, easing the stiff muscles. He’d been out here since right after breakfast and guessed it was probably now mid-morning, it might even be getting on for lunchtime if his rumbling stomach was anything to go by. Earlier, he’d waved Michaela and Katie off to school and the clinic, and then shortly after, Brian had headed off to the Gazette, calling out a cheery, "Bye" as he did so. Joseph quite liked having the homestead to himself. He felt comfortable here and he could give free rein to his thoughts while working at something he loved. Again his stomach rumbled. Time for a short break. He’d head up to the house and get an apple and a drink before going on with his work.

He pushed the front door open and the profound silence hit him immediately, as did the chill in the air. Colorado Springs was a lot colder this time of year than Paynesville down south. He must remember to stir up the fire before going back to the barn. He chose a shiny green apple from a basket on the kitchen table and crunched into it hungrily, the sticky juice dripping down his chin. He swiped at it with the sleeve of his work-shirt, then strode towards the living-room fireplace with the intention of banking it up. He was brought up short by the sight of a large, flat-topped wooden chest placed before it, a white envelope resting on its lid. His brow creased in puzzlement and even more so when he peered down to see his name on the front of the envelope. He picked it up, immediately recognising Michaela’s handwriting. His heart began to pound and he sank into a wingback chair. What could she be writing to him that she couldn’t say to his face? He sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with their disagreement yesterday. He tore the envelope open and withdrew a couple of sheets of notepaper covered in her neat hand. He began to read.

"My dear Sully,

I believe it is now time for you to see the contents of this chest, so I asked Brian to place it out for you.

Yesterday, in anger, I told you that I’d spent the first year of your disappearance hiding from friends who became increasingly worried about me. Unfortunately, that was true. I spent most of it out here at the homestead, surrounded by reminders of you, wanting to believe that you would one day unexpectedly walk through the door and back into my life. Despite the urging of many concerned people, I refused to move any of your belongings, and was, I am ashamed to say, curt, even impolite, when people kind-heartedly offered to help me. So, for more than a year, your shaving brush and cologne sat in its customary place on the dresser in our room, when I opened our closet the distinctive smell of buckskin assailed me, and your copy of Whitman sat on the night-stand where you’d left it. I liked and wanted it that way. Somehow those little things kept you with me. I know it shocked some of the family and our friends, but I was resolute in leaving things the way they were. There were also so many other things that I refused to move or discuss.

A year passed without me realising it. It sounds strange, but it was both the longest and the shortest year of my life. The days would drag, my heart so heavy that I found it difficult to complete even the most simple of tasks. I sometimes wonder now how Brian, Katie and Matthew coped in those days. I know I didn’t. Conversely, the seasons seemed to fly by. It was summer when you disappeared and suddenly it was summer again and I was no nearer to coming to terms with my life without you. Eventually, one day late that summer, when all the children were in town, and after yet another concerned confrontation with Matthew and Colleen, I reluctantly decided that perhaps they knew better than I, and I had to move on. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I sobbed as I hauled your clothes from the cupboards, drawers and closet, knowing I was doing the right thing and wondering why it felt so awful to do so. Brian had made this chest for me, using your tools, instinctively knowing that when I did eventually put your belongings away, I could never dispose of them. He knew I thought of them as a part of you and therefore also a part of me.

For two days I sorted through our cupboards, closet and desk and placed your things into this chest. By the time the task was complete I felt as if a part of me had been cruelly torn away and when Matthew offered to take the chest down to the barn for me I flatly refused. Thankfully Brian supported me in the matter and so the chest was stored in the house where it has stayed.

Over the next couple of years the purpose of the chest seemed to change. Without actually discussing it, Brian and I had seemed to reach the same conclusion. In the years to come, he and I wanted Katie to know all about her father and so, rather than a storage place for your belongings, it became a place where we could both keep mementos of our relationship with you, things we could discuss with her when she was old enough to understand. Consequently, some of the things in the chest will probably surprise you. We wanted her to know everything, the good and the bad. Some things were placed there in anger and some with love.

It is probably nearly a year since either of us has opened the chest to place something in it, and as far as I know, nothing has ever been removed. I’m so glad that Brian and I did what we did, although now it is not necessary for Katie to learn of her father through a third person. He is here and she already loves him dearly. It is her father who will learn of himself through the contents of the chest. I dearly hope that it will not come as too much of a shock to you.

Your loving wife,

Michaela"

His eyes blurred by unshed tears, Joseph placed the note down on his knee. Far too often during the past few weeks, he’d considered only his own reaction to the fateful events of four years ago and riled at the unfairness of a God who had left him unable to recall his own wife, daughter and family. But there had been a second side to the story, one he now guiltily realised had been just as painful as his own. The thought of Michaela mourning his death and secreting herself away at the homestead brought a lump to his throat that threatened to stifle his breath. To consider his children living their lives without a father to guide them, to protect them, made the dammed up tears roll silently down his cheeks. In just a few weeks these people had become his family in every sense of the word. He loved them dearly and would go on loving them and protecting them to the death.

He took a deep breath and swiped at the tears on his cheeks. His reddened eyes focussed on the rough wooden chest and he slowly rose from the chair to kneel on the floor beside it. He flipped the metal catch and slowly lifted the lid on his past life.

Chapter 29

It was the range of smells that struck him first – of leather, wool, fur, camphor, aging paper. He gulped as he saw the chest was nearly full, everything neat and in its place – clothes and personal belongings to the left, papers and numerous other objects to the right. He was almost afraid to explore further and for several minutes just sat staring at it and what it held. Plunging in seemed almost to be intruding on someone else’s life.

At last he carefully lifted out the grey jacket of a fine wool suit, one which would easily match the stylishness of anything Stephen Monroe would wear. He wondered where it had been purchased and why. All he’d learned so far about himself indicated that he was unlikely to wear such a garment, and yet here it was amongst his possessions. He supposed that Michaela had bought it for him, perhaps as a gift. The trousers and waistcoat followed, both of the same high quality. Beneath them was a black suit with wide lapels, not quite as stylish and of a coarser fabric, more in line with what he’d have anticipated would be in his wardrobe. He placed the two suits on the floor beside the chest and reached in once more. He drew out a number of shirts and held one up. These were different to those he wore now, they were fuller, looser, softer. Some buttoned right through, others had to be pulled over his head. He liked them, they looked comfortable, even if they were different to those worn by most of the men he knew. Then came the buckskin trousers, three pair, all varying shades of the same rich tan of deerskin, and a heavy winter buckskin jacket. He ran his fingers over the soft leather and held it up to his nose. Michaela was right. It was a distinctive smell, one he immediately associated with Cloud Dancing. He remembered Doc saying that he’d been wearing buckskin and a loose shirt when he was found so seriously injured, but those clothes had been so badly soiled and torn, they’d been thrown away. He fought the urge to try the buckskin pants on, to see how they felt against his skin.

He paused in his explorations, already feeling a little overwhelmed. He turned and with the poker, prodded at the glowing embers in the fireplace, stirring them up so that flames began to leap again and suddenly, as clear as day, he saw himself walking through a Cheyenne village. He didn’t need any verification from Michaela, he knew that this picture in his mind was real. The smell of buckskin and smoke intermingled and made his heart pound. There were men tending piebald indian ponies, small buckskin-clad children playing games in a clearing and ebony-haired women leaning over fires turning roasting meat. One woman – Snowbird – stood as he approached, and smiled. Such a nice, friendly smile. Then he remembered the passages from Dorothy’s book. Snowbird and her people were gone. Again tears welled in his eyes. He shook himself and turned back to the chest.

He lifted the buckskin pants and jacket out and placed them atop the suits on the floor. Then he reached deeper into the chest and withdrew something he instantly recognised. He’d seen it in the photograph. It was the heavy, ornate wedding shirt he’d worn when he married Michaela. He ran his fingers over the porcupine quills and was amazed at the weight of the garment laying in his lap. He remembered Cloud Dancing giving it to him, out there in the wooded foothills of the mountains, asking him to wear it for him. He’d wanted to, he could remember that. He also remembered Michaela telling him about Cloud Dancing standing up for him as best man, but having to leave straight after the ceremony to escape capture by Custer. He again fingered the fancy indian decoration on the shirt, then stood and laid it over the back of the wingback chair. It certainly was beautiful and he felt so proud that Cloud Dancing had asked him to wear it. As he sat down again he discovered a small, white fabric object on the floor which he could only surmise had fallen out of the folds of the shirt. He picked it up and smiled. It was a lady’s very delicate, laced-edged handkerchief and he guessed immediately why Michaela had placed it with the shirt. How dearly he wished he could recall the story behind it. He must remember to ask her about it in bed tonight. His skin and heart warmed just a little.

Beneath two or three cotton nightshirts, at the very bottom of the chest, were a pair of heavy brown work-boots, well worn and very scuffed, and two pairs of soft indian moccasins. He took the moccasins out and this time couldn’t resist. He quickly untied his boots and placed a pair on his feet, flexing them, relishing the feel of the soft leather. He placed his boots aside and returned to the chest’s contents.

Beside the boots were a number of objects, including the shaving brush and cologne Michaela had mentioned in her note. He opened the bottle and splashed a little of the cologne on, unconsciously immersing himself in his alter-ego. He set them aside and withdrew a number of obviously indian items – small fur-lined pouches, larger buckskin bags, and a unique pouch, one side of which was a tortoise shell. There was also a quiver for arrows and laying across the front of the chest, a bow. There was a small knife with a polished wooden handle which he knew immediately was for whittling, and a tomahawk almost identical to the one which sat in the small box under the bed upstairs, the box he’d brought with him from Paynesville.

Gradually the floor around him became cluttered with clothing and objects from his past. He found the copy of Walt Whitman’s poetry Michaela had also mentioned, along with a couple of other books. He momentarily thought of the crates containing his books which were due to arrive from Paynesville any day now, but his attention soon returned to the present and the chest.

His eyes turned to the papers neatly stacked on the right side of the chest. He pulled a small pile out. They seemed to be a mixture of letters, telegrams and newspapers. There was a small bundle of letters tied together with ribbon. He undid the ribbon and discovered that all the letters originated from the same place. He pulled one out of its envelope and quickly perused it. It was from a man called Hazen and from the tone of the letter, Hazen was evidently his boss. Further delving revealed that Hazen was a district indian agent and that he’d written to him in his capacity as indian agent at Palmer Creek reservation. The tone of the letters began to make him feel uneasy. Again various passages from Dorothy’s book occurred to him, stories of the indians starving while indian agents sold the government allocated food and supplies for a healthy profit, of diseases transmitted via blankets supplied to the indians by the army as part of various treaties. He swallowed and closed his eyes, only to see he and Michaela standing in a clearing, side by side at an indian burial, surrounded by a large number of bound, lifeless bodies, prepared for burning. A small group of indians, including Cloud Dancing and Black Kettle stood with them, chanting and crying out to the spirits for their loss. He could hardly breath, overwhelmed with a sadness, a dread, that made him also want to call out to God, the spirits, anyone who would listen and ease his and the Cheyenne’s pain.

When he had at last controlled his erratic breathing and rapidly beating heart, he thrust the letters aside and stood to glare angrily down at the chest and its contents strewn about the floor. He didn’t know whether he could go on with this now, there was too much unknown, too much that hurt. There was no elation in the return of such memories. He strode into the kitchen, as far from the chest as possible and slumped into a chair where he sat despondently as time ticked by. After a while he put the coffee pot on the heat and cut himself a thick slab of bread. Where before he had enjoyed the solitude, he now yearned for someone to interrupt, to divert his attention from the chest in front of the fireplace. Eventually, like a reluctant moth drawn inexorably to a flame, he rose from his chair and made his way back to the place before the fire.

He picked up a folder of paper and opened it to reveal the longest telegram he’d ever seen in his life. Scanning it, he realised that it was a medical document, outlining a treatment developed by the Cheyenne for liver ailments. Having little understanding or interest in such things, he flicked each page over until he reached the end. The telegram concluded with the words, "I hope these are the papers you wanted Dr Mike. I hope your mother’s health will soon improve and that you and the children are well. Fond regards, Sully." When would he have had need for sending such a telegram? He returned to the first page to discover that he’d sent it from here, all the way to Boston. He remembered Michaela telling him about their trip to Boston, how he’d come after her when she’d been away for so long and that he’d finally declared he loved her on the train just before it pulled out, leaving her behind. There was a smaller telegram in the folder. He opened it to read, "Dear Sully, Please send by telegram the medical papers located in the drawer of my desk in the clinic, my mother’s life may depend upon them. Thank-you Sully for everything. Fondly, Dr Mike….." and suddenly he remembered. The suit! He’d been so afraid he was losing her to William, the man Michaela had mentioned yesterday, he’d gone out with the children and bought himself the grey suit, to impress her and her family. It had worked too! He’d left her behind on that train, but she’d returned only a few days later and run into his arms. He suddenly so desperately wanted her here with him. He needed her to share the memories, the pain and the elation, and to explain what he didn’t understand.

There was suddenly an eagerness about his explorations. Yes, some of the items in the chest brought pain with them, some induced puzzlement, but all were lifting the mist which had clouded his brain for so long, leaving him feeling detached, a part person only. He drew out a large piece of heavy paper folded in half. He started in shock when it revealed a wanted poster. "Byron Sully, Wanted Dead or Alive, $200 Reward". There was no date on it. He had to think it came from the time he helped the indians escape from the reservation and fought with the soldier. They’d made him look real mean in the picture. Was that how people saw him? He wondered why it had been kept in the first place and then included in the chest. Did he want Katie seeing something like this? Michaela said in her note they wanted Katie to know everything about her father, good and bad. This was certainly the bad.

A pile of newspapers followed and as he glanced through them he marvelled at how many times he and Michaela had appeared in the newspaper and not only the Colorado Springs Gazette. There were several copies of the Denver Post, a Washington Post and papers from small towns nearby such as Manitou and Soda Springs. The articles seemed to cover nearly his whole life with Michaela – their engagement, his appointment as indian agent, her abduction by dog soldiers and his rescue of her, a far-fetched story about him saving President Grant’s life in Washington, their wedding in the meadow, troubles at the reservations, his ‘death’ in the river after falling over the cliff with Sergeant O’Connor, the terrible massacre at Washita, and again he fought tears. As he quickly read each article, he placed the paper aside and picked up the next. A need was driving him now. A need to find out as much as possible, to see which small piece of information might prompt the recall of the mentioned incident or something related to it.

His eyes alighted on a front page article headed, "Train Crash, Colorado Springs Residents Feared Dead". The date of the article put it at only a few months after Katie was born. He read it avidly and was surprised to see that two of the ‘residents’ mentioned included himself and Cloud Dancing. He read further, about how the people of Colorado Springs had been first on the scene and rallied around to assist the survivors, and how Michaela had saved many of the wounded with the assistance of Andrew. He noted the references to himself and Cloud Dancing foiling the attempts of bank robbers to rob the train and then send it plummeting over a cliff on a siding. And suddenly he could see and hear it - the end of the line looming up before him, his inability to stop the train before it left the tracks sending railway cars jumping the rails and turning over, the horrifying sounds of screeching brakes and tearing metal, the fear that he would never see his family, his tiny new daughter again. It was all clear, all terrifying and yet there was also a sense of elation that he’d survived and soon been again in Michaela’s arms. He leaned back and took a deep breath. There was too much happening to him in too short a time. He set the newspapers and letters aside and returned his attention to the various personal effects both in and outside the chest.

******************************

Michaela had been worried about Sully since shortly before lunch. There was a unaccustomed heaviness in her heart and her stomach was churning with nervousness. She’d repeatedly told herself that yes, the discovery of the chest might be traumatic for Sully, that he was bound to be agitated, bewildered and hopefully even excited about its contents, but she’d been unable to shake this feeling that she needed to be with him now. She’d deliberately intended him to go through the chest when he was alone, it had seemed the right thing to do at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. She’d be appalled if he was angry and withdrawn again. She gave Flash a light dig in the ribs to quicken her pace.

She’d managed to quash her apprehension until around two and then the urge to go home to him had finally won out. She’d asked Colleen to take the rest of her afternoon patients, asked Brian to look after Katie when school got out and collected her horse from Robert E. Now she couldn’t reach home fast enough.

She slowed Flash to a walk as she entered the yard, almost hoping she’d hear Sully working out in the barn, and yet instinctively knowing that would not be the case. She slid from her saddle, put Flash in the barn with a blanket over her and nervously walked up to the house. She pushed the front door open and peered in, her eyes at once going to the living-room fireplace. He was, as she’d expected, sitting there, his demeanour and state of mind unreadable. She shrugged off her heavy winter coat, hung it on the hook behind the door, and took a hesitant step forward. He did not move, apparently unaware of her presence. As she neared she was startled to see that his shirt hung over his waistband and he was wearing buckskins and moccasins. He was absorbed in a letter, and noting the pile from whence it had come, she knew what it was about. She was almost hesitant to make her presence known, not wanting to startle him, nor be the immediate object of his possible outrage.

At last she took a deep breath and said quietly, "Sully?"

He hadn’t heard her come in, and for a split second he wondered whether she was merely a product of his imagination, his need. The longer he’d spent poring over the contents of the chest, the more he’d wanted her here with him. His eyes flew to hers, he sat up a little straighter and then opened his arms to her.

She watched as a myriad of feelings crossed his face when he realised she was standing there. His brow was creased in a frown, but it wasn’t in anger. If anything he resembled someone waking from a deep sleep and feeling disoriented, and there was a weariness about him as if he’d just undertaken a long journey. When he threw his arms open, beckoning her, she didn’t hesitate. She dashed across the room and dropped to the floor beside him. He drew her close and clung on, his face buried in her hair at her neck, his body at once tense and vibrating with barely controlled tumultuous emotions. She held him close, rocking him slightly, making soft soothing sounds against his ear and still he clung to her. Gradually the tenseness eased from his body and she felt his breathing even out. When she finally felt it appropriate to pull back a little she was struck by the unnatural glitter in his eyes and the vulnerability in his expression. She gently cupped his cheek, "Its alright … I’m here now," she reassured him softly.

He nodded and took a deep breath, his lip caught between his teeth. She turned a little so that she could settle back against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her, then she picked up the last letter he’d been reading. "My letters," she said softly. "When you were away I’d nag Horace to go through the newly delivered mail, hoping you’d have had the time and opportunity to write to me. I’d read them over and over again ….. until you returned." She paused and brought his hand up to her lips. "Then …. that last time ….. the letters stopped … and you didn’t come home ….."

"No …. I didn’ come home," he repeated in a whisper. "I was lost … but I’m home now …." She turned to momentarily look up into his eyes, hardly daring to hope. She ran her hand over his buckskin clad leg and he unexpectedly chuckled. "Feels different …. but I like it," he said softly against her ear.

"Mmm …. me too …. for years I saw you in nothing else …. except occasionally you’d surprise me by wearing a suit."

"Like for your birthday …." Again she swung around to look hopefully up into his eyes. He continued, "The first time we ever kissed …"

She frowned. Had she told him that story sometime during these past weeks?

"Matthew told me I better make a move …. or I’d lose you …. so I came to your party …. an’ wore the suit …. You shoulda seen your face ….," he explained, his mouth twitching into a faint smile.

She turned fully around to sit on her heels between his legs. Her eyes raked his face and she murmured, "Oh God Sully …." Her eyes began to fill with tears.

"Hey … hey …. its me should be cryin’ …. not you," he said gently. He swept his arm over all the clothing, papers, books spread out over the floor. "Its like all these things are part of the puzzle …. an’ gradually they’re all fittin’ inta place …. I look at some of ‘em an’ don’ remember a thing …. but then the next one …. everythin’ comes floodin’ back …. Sometimes I’m excited about what I remember …. sometimes I wish a particular memory didn’ come back at all …" He shook his head ruefully. "I’m not makin’ sense am I Michaela?"

She cupped her face with her hands. "You’re making wonderful sense Sully …. There are memories we would all rather forget …. but we have to learn to live with them …"

He nodded, his eyes drawn to the range of items on the floor. He picked up the yellowed wanted poster and flicked it open. "Why was this here Michaela? …. I don’ remember it yet an’ I don’ understand why its here …"

Michaela took it from him and regarded the crude sketch of the man she loved. "Its Brian’s," she explained softly. "This happened when he was a similar age to Katie …. You were wrongly accused of inciting the dog soldiers to attack a railway work site …. Brian was with you when it happened …. He understood it was unjust … he wanted Katie to know the details …. I didn’t know he’d even kept the poster." She glanced around at the other papers scattered on the floor. "Most of the newspaper articles are Brian’s too …. He kept them all together … in a box …. in his room ….I didn’t realise he was collecting them …."

Sully nodded and said quietly, "I’m glad he did …"

"So am I …. He was almost embarrassed when he brought it down and told me he was going to put all the papers in the chest." She dropped her eyes to the floor. "At the time I couldn’t bear to look at them … it hurt too much …."

Sully again pulled her close, gently, comfortingly caressing her, and then his eyes locked with hers. "I’m gonna thank him when he comes home," he said softly. "Ya realise we still got a long way ta go Michaela …. there’s still an awful lot I don’ remember or understand."

She nodded and leaned in to kiss him lovingly. "But we’ve come so very far ….. together … haven’t we Sully?" She settled down on the floor again, nestled into him, and then picked up a yellowing newspaper. She flicked it open, her eyes alighting on an article titled, "Colorado Mountain Man Saves President’s Life". She turned to grin up at him cheekily and then began to read aloud.

Chapter 30

Michaela pulled her robe more securely about herself and continued on down the stairs. It was bitterly cold, as cold as it can only be as dawn sends streaks of pastel colour across the early morning sky. It had been quite a night, and although she’d had very little sleep, she was too restless to lay awake any longer. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d experienced the full gamut of emotions as she had last night. Even the late arrival home of Brian and Katie after their supper at Colleen and Andrew’s had only momentarily disrupted Sully’s compelling search for his past. They’d pored over letters, newspapers, and personal possessions, at times driven by an urgency which she understood, but found difficult to satisfy. And as a discovery prompted the return of an associated memory, there were also the accompanying emotions – anger, bewilderment, excitement, sadness, delight. They’d laughed and cried together, found strength in each other’s presence, and consequently, she was certain, cemented their relationship even further.

Now she was overwhelmed with an extreme tiredness of both mind and spirit. For weeks she’d fought to stay in control, to support Sully in every way possible and still maintain some degree of normality with family and friends. Now, as he regained his memory and therefore control of his life, she felt exhausted, and not a little bewildered. The doctor’s logic in her recognised that the return of his memories might continue to be random, but deep down, and she knew irrationally, it hurt that he recalled events such as the typhus epidemic at the reservation, and yet did not remember their wedding or Katie’s birth.

She walked slowly into the kitchen, absent-mindedly rekindled the few embers still aglow in the stove, and put the coffee pot on to heat. She straightened and glanced out of the window where grey clouds, still lightly streaked with dawn pink, hung heavily over the mountain tops. It all looked so peaceful out there, a peacefulness which contrasted sharply with her inner turmoil. She wondered why she felt this way. After all, things were coming right for them at last, weren’t they? But she yearned for a sign, something which would reinforce his loving words, something which would convince her that she and the family were as important to him as other aspects of his life. She knew she was being irrational, and wouldn’t in a million years give voice to her misgivings, but couldn’t help feeling this way, no matter how hard she fought it. She’d chastised herself often these past few weeks for wanting *everything* and wanting it too quickly. She must now exercise a concept she’d always tried to impress on her patients and family – forbearance.

She set a match to new kindling and the remaining charred wood in the kitchen fireplace and then wandered into the living-room. The contents of the chest were as they’d left them. When they’d finally made the move upstairs last night, both had been too tired to do little more than tidy everything into a couple of piles and leave them on the floor. Upstairs, the talk had continued on and on as Sully sought background to so many of the objects and papers he’d discovered during the day. Finally he’d drifted off into a restless sleep and she’d lain beside him, awake and unsettled.

She glanced down at the untidy pile of old newspapers. She too had been surprised by the numerous articles about the family which had appeared in the press, and if she were to add those pertaining to her participation on the town council, they’d be even greater. She stooped to neaten the pile, then picked up one of Sully’s old shirts and sighed. That was a long time ago now, a time that somehow seemed less troubled, more tranquil. Then she chuckled ruefully. How could their past ever be considered tranquil? No, it was her mind playing tricks. What did they say? You can never go back. ‘They’ were right. There was no going back, only forward.

She stood straight and took a deep breath. The future *did* look bright. She sidled closer to the warmth of the fire, her eyes falling on the mantle above the fireplace, and suddenly she couldn’t breath. Why hadn’t she noticed it last night? She crossed her arms in front of herself and swallowed deeply. It was back, in its old customary place! She closed her eyes and vividly recalled the last time, no the next to last time, she’d seen it. It was following a particularly painful discussion with her mother, a few months after Sully’s disappearance. Mother had been so kind, in her own way, staying with them for a long time, foregoing her planned engagements in Boston. And during that time, she’d tried desperately to convince Michaela that life *would* go on, that the pain would eventually ease. In response, Michaela had turned on her wrathfully, demanding that she not speak in platitudes, that her life *had* changed forever and so had the lives of her children, that the pain would never leave her.

She now realised that this was probably the first time her mother ever truly comprehended the depths of her youngest daughter’s feelings for Sully. She recalled the pain, the hurt, on her mother’s face and the unexpected tears welling in her eyes. She’d been astounded by her mother’s reaction, as she so seldom let her feelings show. Realising that she was unable to penetrate her daughter’s despair, Mother had turned on her heels and gone wearily upstairs to her room. Michaela had swung around angrily, her eyes alighting on what was supposed to be a symbol of hers and Sully’s love, a bringer of good fortune to their marriage. She’d angrily grasped it, nearly breaking the leather thong which held it in place and vehemently hurled it across the room. She could still vividly recall it landing silently at the base of the sideboard, its white contrasting with the dark stained wood of the floor. Later, before the children arrived home, she’d picked it up and tossed it into the back of a cupboard where it had stayed, until one day years later when she was searching for something. She hadn’t had the heart to return it to its place on the mantle. She’d taken it to Sully’s chest under the stairs and placed it inside with everything else.

She opened her eyes and reached out to the finger the ornate mixture of leather and feathers. It had been a wedding present from Snowbird, given to her the last time she’d seen her Cheyenne friend alive. It had hung there on the mantle through good times and bad, to Michaela always a symbol of their union.

And now it was back and there was only one person who could have put it there. How did he know? Did he remember where it belonged? There was no other explanation, was there? She suddenly clutched it to her chest and burst into tears. He *was* back, after all this time and after all they’d been through. She could do nothing to halt the wracking sobs as she unconsciously released the tension and despair of four long, long years.

Brian walked sleepily down the stairs, surprised by the warmth in the air on this chilly winter’s morning. He glanced up to see the fire ablaze and his mother standing inertly before it. There was something about her posture that made him uneasy. As he neared, he realised her shoulders were heaving and her breath was emerging in deep, heartfelt sobs. He hurried over and put his arms around her. "Ma?" he asked anxiously. She turned reddened eyes on him and his breath caught. "Ma?" he uttered again. "What’s wrong?" She shook her head, unable to speak, and he pulled her into his arms. As he did, he realised she was clutching the Cheyenne talisman which had always hung on the mantle. Then it occurred to him that it hadn’t been there the last few years. He gently removed it from her hands. "It was in the chest … weren’t it?" he asked softly. Again she nodded. He continued, "Pa found it yesterday huh?"

"Yes," she replied in a strangled whisper.

"He remembered?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I … I … don’t know …. I guess …."

"Then you put it back here?"

"No … *he* did …"

"So he *did* remember …" He gently stroked her arm. "Other things too?"

She nodded. "A lot," she said softly. "About all sorts of things …."

He smiled and gently wiped at her tears. "So why’re ya cryin’?"

She gulped. "I … I …. don’t know," she rejoined tearfully. "I … I feel so … so …"

He gave her a hug. "You were really worried about leavin’ the chest out for him ta see … weren’t ya?" he asked quietly. When she nodded he added, "But it was the right thing … he seemed real excited last night …."

"You’re right," she said softly. "And I’m thrilled that it brought back so many memories …"

"Then why the tears?"

Again she shrugged. "I don’t know Brian …. I suddenly feel so overwhelmed … I suppose I can’t believe the nightmare’s nearly over …."

"Nightmare?"

"*Four* years … of missing him … hoping he’d miraculously come home …. having to be strong …."

"Sounds ta me like you’re just plain tired ma …," rejoined Brian compassionately. "Why don’ ya sit down here …. an’ I’ll git ya a cup of coffee an’ some breakfast … Is pa awake too?"

"I don’t think so … he was sleeping when I came down …. I couldn’t seem to relax enough to fall asleep," she said, abruptly yawning.

Brian smiled. As he’d grown older he’d come to realise his ma wasn’t as strong as she tried to make out, that there was a soft, vulnerable side to her that only a few were allowed to see. He rested his hand lovingly on her shoulder. "You sit quiet … an’ I’ll git ya that coffee .." She nodded and slumped into the chair. When he returned only a few minutes later it was discover her sound asleep. He watched her for a moment and then quietly padded up the stairs. He tentatively knocked on his pa’s door and entered. Sully was laying sprawled out across the bed, his breathing deep. Brian didn’t really want to wake him, but he had a feeling he was doing the right thing. He reached out, rested his hand on Sully’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "Pa?’ he said quietly. "Pa … wake up …"

Sully woke with a start, not sure where he was. His eyes gradually focussed on Brian. "What’s wrong?" he asked instantly, then realising he was lying in bed alone, added, "Where’s Michaela?"

"She’s downstairs pa …. I reckon she needs ya …"

He immediately pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Something’s wrong?" he asked anxiously.

Brian frowned. "Not wrong exactly …. I just reckon she needs ya … she’s feelin’ …. feelin’ …"

"Well?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders. "She said she was feelin’ overwhelmed … she’s bin real upset …. she fell asleep in the chair … maybe you could bring her upstairs …" He trailed off, wondering whether he was making a fool of himself. "I … just figured she might need to be with ya is all …" He suddenly reddened.

Sully regarded him indulgently and then laid his hand over his son’s resting on the bedclothes. "Ya did the right thing … I’ll come git her …" He glanced across the landing.

Brian nodded. "I’ll take care o’ Katie … an’ tell Colleen an’ Andrew ma might not be in today …"

"Thanks Brian," said Sully sincerely. "I’m gonna find a way ta make it up to all o’ you some day … you’ve helped your ma so much … an’ now me …"

"Aint hard ta help folks ya love," said Brian dismissively, his blush belying his casual manner. He strode out onto the landing, followed a couple of minutes later by his father.

Sully stood by the chair looking down on his sleeping wife. He’d been startled by her tear-stained cheeks and reddened eyes. Overwhelmed, she’d said. What did that mean exactly? He bent down and gently slid his arm in under her legs and back, then lifted her into his arms.

Michaela woke with a start. "Sully!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

"Takin’ you back up to our bed," he rejoined lovingly, striding towards the stairs.

"I can walk …. you can put me down," she said weakly, actually enjoying the feeling of his arms around her.

"Nah … aint inclined," he said softly against her ear. "Reckon ya need some sleep … an’ maybe some holdin’."

She dropped her head onto his shoulder and let him carry her up the steep staircase. Once in their room he placed her gently on the bed, removed her slippers and robe and tucked her under the covers, before moving around the bed and slipping in beside her. He immediately drew her into his arms, her head resting on his chest. She sighed contentedly. He held her like that for a long time but was aware she hadn’t fallen asleep again. At last he said quietly, "Why were ya cryin’ down there?"

He felt her tense momentarily, then she said softly, "Honestly?"

"Uh huh .."

"I really don’t know …. everything happened so fast yesterday …. After all this time …. its hard to believe its nearly over …."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Nearly over?" he murmured.

She began to trace circles on his chest. "The nightmare," she whispered. "I can’t quite grasp it …" She peered up at him. "You’re back with me …. I …. I …. You’ll never leave me again …. will you Sully?"

He pulled her closer and brought his head down to kiss her briefly but lovingly. "Nah … I aint ever goin’ anywhere …. We belong together … you an’ me ….," he whispered. "I reckon we’ve had our share of bein’ apart …. our love bein’ tested …."

Michaela was quietly crying again. "Hold me Sully …. please …. and don’t let me go …"

"I got ya Michaela," he returned gently, reassuringly. "An’ I’m holdin’ on tight …." Again he kissed her lovingly, then slid down so that her head rested securely under his chin. "Sleep now ….. I’ll be here when ya wake," he advised softly. He pulled the covers up over them and gently caressed her skin until she drifted off into a deep sleep.

**************************

Sully strode up to the telegraph office and waited in line until Horace finished assisting a rather demanding, older lady. At last she moved away and he handed his letters over to the telegraph operator. "Wanna send these ta Paynesville Horace," he said, placing a coin on the counter.

"Sure thing Sully," Horace replied, stamping the envelopes and tossing them into a bag awaiting the afternoon train south.

"Oh … an’ Michaela wanted me ta collect anythin’ else come for her. She didn’ come inta town today," added Sully.

Horace dropped his head. "Aint had a chance ta sort this mornin’s mail," he said sheepishly. "Got real busy today …. but if ya wait I’ll go through it for ya soon as the train leaves."

Sully smiled. "Sure ….. I aint in any hurry …. anythin’ I can do ta help?"

Horace chuckled. "Wish ya could …. but its against regulations for anyone else ta touch the US mail."

Sully nodded and turned to lean nonchalantly against the counter, just as a high pitched train whistle could be heard off in the distance. Horace glanced up at the clock and then bent forward to lean on his elbows. "Right on time for once," he remarked wryly. He glanced up at his friend and suddenly said, "Sully …. mind if I ask ya somethin’?"

"Ask away Horace …. but don’ be surprised if I don’ know the answer …," replied Sully with a smile.

"Well …. ya can tell me ta mind my own business ….. but I was wonderin’ …"

"Wonderin’?"

"Yeah …. I was wonderin’ …. well ….. how does it *feel*?"

"How does what feel?"

The telegraph operator reddened. "I’m bein’ nosy …"

"How does what feel?" asked Sully again.

"How does it feel ta not remember …. I bin thinkin’ about it a lot since the other night in the café …. an’ I just couldn’ imagine how it felt …"

Sully’s eyebrows rose and then he frowned.

"Ya don’ haveta answer me …. It aint none o’ my business," Horace assured him.

"It feels strange …. confusin’ …. sometimes ya git mad ….," replied Sully, as if he hadn’t heard Horace’s last comment. "But most of all …. ya feel alone …. ya don’ have anythin’ ta look back on …. ya don’ own anythin’ … an’ when people tell ya things …. its like they’re talkin’ about someone else …."

"Does it still feel like that?" Horace asked, his eyes at once kind and curious.

Sully shook his head. "Not so much now …. I guess I’m lucky …. I got Michaela … an’ Katie …. an’ the family …. don’ feel so alone no more …"

"But ya still don’ remember?"

Sully smiled. "Since the other night …. there are lots of things I remember …. but there are still lots I don’t …"

"So your memory’s comin’ back," stated Horace. "That’s good … soon everythin’ll be back ta normal …."

Almost to himself, Sully murmured, "Don’ know ‘bout that …. don’ know if it can be after all this time … an’ what we’ve bin through …." Masked by the increasing rumble and hiss of the train as it drew into the station, Horace didn’t catch his aside.

Sully watched as a few travellers disembarked from the train and four others prepared to board. Horace bustled around collecting the mailbags and a couple of large, awkward parcels from the baggage car, then he hauled them up the steps to the telegraph office and placed them on the floor inside the door.

As the engine slowed and the steam and smoke gradually cleared, Sully noticed an old, grey-haired lady step out of the rear of the passenger carriage and stand on the top step in preparation for disembarking. She was dressed stylishly for travel, one wrinkled hand held a silver-headed cane, the other, a tapestry travel bag. She was not frail but appeared a little unsteady on her feet She stood uncertainly on the top step, obviously wary of the smallness and steepness of the steps down to the ground. Sully hastened down the platform steps and stood by the railing, offering her his hand. "Can I help you ma’am?" he asked, fixing his eyes on the woman’s weary, drawn face. He was startled to see her pale even more and she swayed dangerously on her feet. He leapt up the first step to steady her. "Reckon we better git you to a seat huh?" he commented gently. He took her arm and supported her as she slowly ventured down the steps to the ground. "You got luggage …. inside?" he asked. She shook her head and mutely indicated two large bags which had been unloaded from the baggage car. He nodded. "I’ll git you up these steps to a seat," he said quietly. "Then collect ‘em …" He assisted her up the steps to one of the wooden benches on the station platform. When she was seated, he stood upright and called, "Got a lady out here could use a glass o’ water Horace." He placed her tapestry bag at her feet and then, taking the steps two at a time, went back for the lady’s luggage.

Feeling as if she was a part of some surreal dream, Elizabeth Quinn watched her long lost son-in-law stride across to her bags, lift them easily and turn back towards her. He raised his head to catch her studying him and smiled self-consciously, his blue eyes twinkling. There was something strange about him. He was acting as if he didn’t recognise her. She took a deep breath. Michaela’s short letter from Paynesville had indicated that she was once again searching for Sully, even after four years, but never in a *million* years did Elizabeth expect that she’d have actually found him and that he’d be here.