Louise crept into Bobby's sick room, where one of the sisters sat dozing in a chair beside his bed.

The twelve-year-old stood gazing down at the face of her best friend, Roberto Marquez, nicknamed "Bobby" by the other children. He always had been the nicest, handsomest boy at the orphanage, with thick black hair and big soulful brown eyes behind a pair of round wire -rimmed glasses. He had arrived at the orphanage at the same time she came there with her toddling sister Theresa and her younger brother Jeremiah. She and Bobby become fast friends over the following year. She had confided more in him than in anyone since her own mother. He always listened, watching her quietly, as she described her plans for the future, but he rarely spoke of himself. Lou thought he had known for some time, that he would never grow up, never have a future, but she had been blind to a lot of his illness from the start. So strange since he died of the very same illness her mother had succumbed to.

The signs had been there for weeks to see, if only she had let herself. Maybe her heart blinded her eyes, since she didn't want to see. "There are none so blind as those who will not see," the sisters quoted to them.

It had started with a cough, a cough that did not go away. Then he started complaining of chest pain whenever the games of run and catch got too rough in the dusty orphanage yard, and he would end up sitting and watching the games from the sidelines. A tomboy, she had been too impatient to sit long on the sidelines with him, much as she cared about him. Her eyes would wander to the game and he would finally tell her to go ahead and play, he would always just watch.

Gradually, the weakness got worse. The other children shrunk away in horror at the sight when his cough started bringing up blood. The nuns had whisked him out of sight, then, and the word was Bobby was dying of consumption. Lou hadn't been allowed to go see him ever since.

Bobby looked different, somehow, and it was more than his pallor and lost weight. She realized, suddenly, it was his glasses. She'd never seen him without them, and they changed his appearance drastically. She thought how odd it was that he looked like a different person without them on. She spotted them by his bedside, and picked them up sadly, turning them over in her hands.

She sat at the edge of the bed with the glasses in her hands, waiting for Bobby to wake up. She wanted to tell him she was planning on leaving, making a way for herself and her brother and sister, before he died. Say goodbye. She glanced down at the glasses, admitting to herself that she came to finally tell him how special he was to her, before it was too late.

Bobby woke up with a feverish glint in his eyes, sweating and coughing violently. For the only time since they had known each other, Bobby looked through her instead of at her, and Lou knew, instinctively, that she had waited too long. Sister Veronica Patrick woke up with a start and frowned angrily at Lou. "What are you doing in here? Don't you know this room is off limits?" Looking past Lou at Bobby, Sister gasped and called for the other nuns.

Lou found herself shoved to the corner, where she watched as the nuns tried to help Bobby, but he slipped away before her troubled eyes, even as her mother had. Sister Veronica had shouted at her a final time to leave, and Lou ran from the room, trying to block out the sight of her friend's dying struggle from her memory. It only after she left the orphanage that night, that she realized she had slipped his glasses into her pocket; she kept them as a remembrance of Bobby, her first love, who she never got the chance to tell was more than just a friend.

After Elias Mills' hanging, Lou rode back toward Rock Creek in silence, blind to the surrounding scenery that rolled past her and her fellow riders in majestic splendor. Lou had formed a special bond with Elias in the short time they'd known the strange fugitive they had delivered to Death, a bond Lou couldn't quite explain even to herself.

Something about Elias haunted Lou. Something about the man's eyes, haunting, piercing, always watching and taking in everything around him. Seeing through the disguises and defenses she'd spent the last few years of her life building up. Somehow, the older man had taken on the role of a father figure to her for those short days, as strange as that might seem. Much as she loved Teaspoon, and thought of him as the father she never really had, she knew the kind old man had never really seen who she was.

Elias, in contrast, had seen right through her disguise, immediately, and told Lou that most folks don't see what's right in front of them. That was true, Lou knew well enough. People saw what they chose to see, she'd found. She'd banked on that for four years, and only a handful of folks had bothered to really see her in all that time. But how much had she learned from that? How much did she see, even about herself and those closest to her?

Those clear, sad eyes of Elias' had seen something. Something between her and Jimmy. Lou sighed. "You'd be woman enough to match him," Elias had remarked, as if just stating a fact. She glanced over at Jimmy, puzzled. Have I ever really seen you, Jimmy? What's really goin' on inside that head of yours? I wish I could see as clearly as Elias seemed to, she thought a little forlornly. For a split second there, by the campfire, we saw each other, Jimmy. Saw each other's souls. A chill went over her, as she thought about that moment, but what did it mean? She had thought later, remembering it, of Cathy in her favorite novel, Wuthering Heights. "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same," Cathy had said of Heathcliff, the man she didn't marry. For the first time, Lou knew something of what that meant, why Cathy could say that but still turn Heathcliff away for Edgar; being kindred spirits with someone, and true love, were not necessarily the same thing, though they often looked a lot alike.

Glancing to her other side, she appraised the Kid. He was as mysterious in his way as Jimmy. For all his seeming simplicity, Kid was a mass of contradictions just the same. He could be fiercely loyal and devoted as a faithful dog one day . . . and then move on to another woman the next. He often seemed to see life in simple black and white terms, yet lived a life of total secrecy, hiding even his name from her. Do I really know you, either, Kid? she wondered. And can you really love somebody if you haven't seen who they really are, just the face they choose to show? She found herself studying him, watching the handsome, cheerful face riding alongside, trying to see beneath the surface, somehow. She saw, though he never spoke of it, that there was a lifetime of pain and hurt buried underneath, one that he kept hidden as carefully as she kept her own. No one could be that secretive otherwise, and besides, every so often, the calm, serene veneer dropped and the angry, hurt child inside him could be seen.

Kid glanced back and caught her staring, and smiled at her. She smiled weakly back, then turned her eyes back to the road.

Maybe nobody ever really "sees" anybody else, she thought. How can I complain about not really knowing Kid or Jimmy, when I've spent more time pretending to be something I'm not, worrying about whether folks see me a certain way or not, than anybody I know. I haven't been myself with anybody since . . . since Bobby, she realized with a start. She thought back once again to her young friend, so different from either of these two men who rode alongside her now. Bobby had lived his short life almost entirely within his vivid dreams and hopes, whereas both Kid and Jimmy lived in the here and now. She was a dreamer, like Bobby, seeing things as she wished they could be, not always as they really were. Wanting to change those she loved to fit her own dreams.

In her concentration on her own thoughts, Lou stopped paying attention to her riding, and suddenly was hit square in the face by a tree branch snapping back against her, one she hadn't watched out for. Her glasses were slapped off her face and knocked to the ground. Lou grimaced as she heard Lightning step on them with a crunch.

"You okay, Lou?" Kid and Jimmy both asked at the same time, as she rubbed her scratched face with embarrassment. She glanced up and looked at the two men, side by side, with identical concerned expressions in their searching eyes. She sat studying them for so long that they glanced at each other uncomfortably, and Lou smiled sheepishly, averting her gaze.

Hopping down from Lightning, she spotted the broken glasses on the road. "I'm fine," she muttered. "But these aren't good for anything, now."

She paused, looking down at Bobby's old glasses moodily. They were more than a disguise to her, they were a constant reminder of a lost friend, a lost opportunity. But other than that, they weren't really good for anything, were they. They didn't help me see anything around me. Just kept me from being seen.

She pocketed the spectacles and remounted, nodding brightly to her two friends; admitting to herself that one of them was much more than that to her. Maybe this is a sign that it's time to stop hiding. Time to look at myself, my feelings, and face them clear-eyed, before it's too late this time.

Emma Cain's house was quiet, too quiet, she mused, glancing out the window at her husband's back as he left for work. As he rounded the corner, she turned back to the room, looking around and listening to the quiet. Sam would be back for supper, and it would be better then, but these moments right after he left were always the very worst, the loneliest, before she got occupied with other tasks or went out to see her friends. She felt sad that she hated to be alone in her house so much, but the memories of the noise and laughter of bygone years, were too painful in comparison to the current stillness. We have our children with us for such a short while, before they go out in the world and leave us, she thought sadly.

Knowing it was natural, did not make it any easier. Of course Emma knew that young ones had to make their own way, live their own lives, and leave their parents behind at some point. But just the same, she had hoped once, that she would be close to her children as adults, in location and in other ways. But neither the daughter who she birthed and raised, nor the other woman who had been a daughter in every other way to her, lived close by. Margaret had gone to live in Europe with her wealthy husband several years ago, and rarely even wrote now, busy with her own life there. Lou had moved to Virginia after the war, and she and Kid were too poor to visit often. But a letter came every week without fail nonetheless, with a Virginia postmark on it.

And truth to tell, it was Lou, not her 'real' daughter, she was closest to, who was the most faithful child, even having been gone for more than twenty years. Unlike Margaret, Lou never forgot a holiday or a birthday, always writing and sending her good wishes and even homemade gifts that probably were a hardship for her to send; whereas Margaret, with all her wealth, usually forgot to even write, let alone send a present she could have well afforded. How sharper than a serpent's tooth indeed, she thought , like Shakespeare wrote, having a thankless child. While she was grateful for Lou's devotion, even that did not quite take the sting from her darling Margaret's heedless, thoughtless taking-for-granted.

Glancing at Margaret's wedding picture a moment, Emma knew part of the reason for Margaret's benign neglect. You had everything, Margaret. Your pa and I saw to that, maybe too well. Two parents who had only you to give everything to, you never had to struggle, do without love and support of two parents. You don't know how lucky you were, how thankful you really should be, she thought, without bitterness , only regret. She probably is so used to me and Sam being here whenever she needs us . . . she forgets we won't always be. Or that maybe we need her too, sometimes.

Emma pulled out an old album of pictures, lingering a moment before putting on her apron and starting the morning chores. The silence was marked by the ticking of the parlor clock, as she looked at pictures of Lou, Jeremiah and Theresa, who had lived with her and Sam and Margaret the long years of the war. She and Lou had gotten so close in those happy years, when Margaret was growing up alongside Lou's first baby, Jeff, born eight months after Kid rode to Virginia. Emma shook her head at the pictures of Lou's baby son, knowing he was a grown man now, married, and working the small farm in Virginia alongside his father.

"Lulabelle, I hope you know how lucky you are too, to have your children still with you, still be able to hear their voices. It goes so fast," she murmured aloud to herself.

Emma remembered little Jeff's antics, with a smile. The noisy little boy could make more racket than ten prim, quiet little Margarets. Emma could almost hear him now, running around the yard shrieking war cries he had learned from Buck, or shooting toy guns at imaginary targets after Jimmy's visit. And his worst stunt, when he had somehow managed to tip over her china hutch by slipping into the parlor and climbing up the side of the wobbly cabinet, at age three. He had been trying to get back a set of toy bow and arrows that she had confiscated from him and placed on top of it; she had made the fatal error of letting him see where she had placed it, assuming foolishly that it was now out of his reach. Emma thought she would remember the sound of that crash till her dying day, the sound of the hutch smashing amid shattering china and crystal she had treasured carefully since her mother's death. But worst of all, was the fear that little Jeff might have hurt himself, as she and his mother tore into the room and saw him sitting atop the pile of shards. Lou's initial fright had turned to extremely vocal fury at the boy, as soon as the young mother knew he was all right, but Emma knew better, even then. China can be replaced.

The parlor clock struck the single chime for the half hour, and she put aside the pictures and the reminiscing. Time to get the morning work done, then get out of this museum of a house, she thought darkly.

Emma got the breakfast dishes done and put away, then turned to the sweeping and dusting. She went into the parlor, and knelt at the cabinet where she stored the cardboard cylinders that stored the wax records for the phonograph player. She and Sam privately had mocked the new-fangled gadget and the two and a half minutes of 'canned music' it played at a time, when Cody had sent it to her last Christmas, but she had to admit now, she liked to play it when the house was empty. The noise seemed to keep her company, she thought, picking out her favorite three cylinders, knowing that she could do the dusting along with them in the time it took them to play. She grinned a little, thinking a moment of all the dusting that Jeff's spectacular stunt had saved her over the last years, and gave the phonograph a crank.

She had no sooner started the phonograph than the sharp clanging ring of the telephone startled her, as it always did, ever since Sam had it installed.

"I'm coming, for heaven's sake!" she shouted at the annoying thing, after stopping the phonograph. The cylinders were expensive, and wore out after they had been played a dozen times or so, it was a shame to let it play unlistened to.

She reached the phone and picked it up, speaking into the mouthpiece. "Hello, this is Emma Cain."

"Emma? It's me, Lou."

The sound of Lou's voice shocked Emma - she hadn't heard it in almost two years, when Lou had come for her last visit.

"Emma? Hello? Is this thing on?"

"Yes, Lulabelle, I'm just surprised . . . when did you get a telephone, sweetheart?"

"Oh, we don't have one. I walked into town and talked the operator into letting me call you. I really wanted to hear your voice today."

"Everything all right, honey?" Emma asked, worried.

"Yes. Well, yes, and no. The bad news and the good news is … I'm going to be a grandma. Jeff's wife is expecting their first in six months. I'm thrilled of course, but I feel about a hundred years old."

"Congratulations, Lulabelle!" Emma laughed. "So you called someone even older than you to feel better?" she teased.

"No, just somebody who remembers me when I was actually young," Lou giggled. "I miss you," she said, wistfully.

"I miss you too, Lulabelle. I was thinkin' on it just before you called, in fact." The two old friends chatted for a little while, until Lou reluctantly said, "Well, Pauline says I have to hang up now, Emma. It's been wonderful hearing your voice. What an age we live in, isn't it?"

"Yes, Grandma," Emma said teasingly.

"Watch it," Lou warned, choking on a laugh.

"I suppose I should, bein' that I am almost old enough to be your mother myself. Now that you're a grandma, I don't know what that makes me; I shudder to think of it," Emma responded.

"You always were a mother to me, Emma, whenever I needed one. I partly called to thank you for that," Lou said haltingly.

Emma couldn't speak for a moment . . . she'd just this morning wished so to hear those words from her 'real' daughter, and now . . .

"I feel the same, Lou," Emma said softly through her tears. "I love you. Give my best to Kid and the family."

Hanging up the phone, Emma smiled. The brief call had lifted her spirits more than she could say, the sound of Lou's voice bringing back fond memories, echoes of all the jokes and little talks the two of them had back in the old days. Her self-pity of earlier in the morning was swept away by the merry tones of Lou's voice. Emma resolved to speak to Sam about going East to see Lou and Kid, and Jeff's first child. Cheered, she turned back to her chores, humming softly to herself as she worked.

Thanks Mollie and Hanny for your encouragement!

Ike got up from his bunk, where Emma had been rocking him after the new mustang, Goliath, had kicked him in the side of his head. Her arms had comforted him, but it was time to get back to the stable, to Goliath. He started toward the door, slowly, rubbing his still-aching head.

Jimmy called, "Where you going, Ike? Figure you'd have had enough for one day, we'd split your chores for today."

*Thanks, Jimmy, but I am going to go gentle Goliath.*

Jimmy's eyes goggled. Astonished, he answered,"I'm a little new at this Indian sign, Ike. It looked like you just said you're goin' back out to work with that new mustang again."

*I have to.*

The other boys sat up and looked at each other.

Jimmy shook his head. "Why in blazes would you go near that vicious animal again? He's not trainable, Ike. He should be put down like I said when you came in here, horse-kicked. He's so mean-tempered, he waited till you were looking the other way to go after ya."

Ike gestured wildly, *No! It is not his fault he is how he is. He can be helped, if he is treated gentle. I will not give up on him.*

"I'm tellin' ya, Ike, that horse is beyond help. He's plain ornery, and he's got a taste for bitin' and kickin' now. It's too late," Jimmy insisted.

Going to Ike's side and touching his arm, Emma interrupted, "All that aside, Ike, haven't you had enough for one day? At least wait until tomorrow."

*No. He has to be gentled now, no more waiting.*

"But Ike -"

Ike turned and signed vigorously. *I have to show him he doesn't have to be afraid anymore.*

Ike cautiously approached Goliath in his roomy double stall in the barn. The horse shied away, watching warily from the corner of his eye, with his ears against his head from the corner of the stall.

Ike walked slowly back and forth in the stall, waiting for Goliath to look directly at him. It took nearly fifteen minutes, but finally Goliath turned his head and looked at Ike, who eagerly held out his hand and stood still, keeping his eyes fixed on Goliath.

Goliath stood staring back, and after several minutes, Ike advanced silently, still holding out his hand. Goliath tossed his head back and Ike stopped, returning to his stock-still waiting. After a few moments, he crept forward again, slowly, his hand still raised.

Goliath's eyes were fixed on him now. Barely moving, Ike slowly inched his hand and rested it on Goliath's velvety muzzle. The big horse flinched away, but Ike lightly stroked the muzzle, over Goliath's forehead, then down the horse's blood-red, muscled neck. Goliath reared and pawed the air with his front feet, and Ike backed away slowly. Waiting another ten minutes until Goliath calmed down, Ike repeated the same procedure, but this time, reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather strap. Goliath's eyes went wide with fear, but Ike kept moving swiftly. When he came close enough, he quickly grasped one of Goliath's front feet and held it up, fastening it with the strap, then stood back.

Goliath stood chagrined, helplessly hopping on three legs, trying desperately to free himself, but to no avail. After another twenty minutes, Goliath stood panting and trembling, his eyes registering recognition that there was no way to escape.

Ike went to Goliath and released the strap, rubbing the mustang's leg gently. He let his hands run over the horse's sinewy, now sweat-moistened leg, and over the back, feeling Goliath's strength and warmth radiating under his hands. After a few moments, Ike pulled the strap, raising the leg back up and passed another strap around the horse's middle, pulling the other leg up and slowly guiding the horse down onto his knees and then his side.

Goliath's eye turned wildly to Ike, who soothingly stroked the horse's nose, feeling the flaring muscles in the horse's face relax slightly. He moved up to Goliath's neck, and finally down his legs, until the horse was totally calm and quiet. After letting the horse rest and feeling the gentle rise and fall of Goliath's breathing under his hand, Ike released the strap and helped the horse up.

Ike kept repeating the same steps over, with infinite patience. Two times, then three, though he was tiring as much as Goliath. He was teaching the mustang that he had nothing to fear; even when the horse was totally under his control, he only showed gentleness, never punishment.

As he knelt next to Goliath the last time, stroking the horse's legs soothingly as the big bay gazed up at him submissively, he became aware that the others had gathered silently to watch him. He held a finger to his lips to signal them not to make any noise, and they nodded, watching mesmerized as Goliath.

Ike finally got Goliath up a final time, and held the bridle out for the bay to sniff at. After long minutes, Ike brushed the bridle over the mustang's nose, letting the horse get used to the feel and smell of it, before slipping it unfastened over his head.

Ike opened the door to the stall and led the suddenly submissive Goliath out, turning him into the paddock. Mounting him barebacked, Ike rode about the corral at a walk, not rushing the horse, letting him get used to the feel of a man on his back.

The other boys gathered on the rails of the corral.

Cody nudged Lou. "How soon afore he bucks him off, you reckon?"

Lou, transfixed, shook her head. "I think he's tamed him," she whispered.

"It's a blamed miracle," Jimmy declared. "Ike must be half snake charmer, tamin' a horse that way. Normal way is to break him, keep ridin' until you show him who's boss."

Ike shook his head, gesturing with his hand as the other kept stroking Goliath's neck reassuringly.

*No, Jimmy. Kindness is the best way, to show him he has nothing to fear from a man.*

"Well, it ain't the fastest way. You been out here with him for hours," Jimmy muttered.

Ike shook his head. *Worth every minute, because now Goliath knows he can't fight me, and that he doesn't need to, because I won't hurt him.*

Coming into the barn, Ike headed straight for Goliath's stall. He'll have missed me, Ike thought, I've been away for over a week. He stopped short at the sight of the empty stall.

Turning, he went out into the yard and confronted Teaspoon. *Where's Goliath?*

Teaspoon looked down a moment. "Now Ike, I know you set a high store on that horse, and you done a good job, heck, a miracle, gentlin' him. I'm sorry."

*Sorry?*

"They needed more horses at the Devil's Bluff station."

Ike started pointing and gesturing furiously.

"I know, son. But a representative from the company came out and picked out three horses, and Goliath was one of 'em. Nobody wanted any of the horses to go, but there wasn't anything we could do about it."

Ike whirled and angrily walked toward the house. Teaspoon called after him. "Ike, your first run is in that direction tomorrow. You might see him and even get to ride him again when you ride through that station."

Ike slammed the door to the bunkhouse behind him. He knew the way the Devil's Bluff riders treated their horses. Goliath had been gentled enough that any of the Sweetwater riders could handle him without any problem. But if he was mistreated again, Ike was afraid what would happen.

Ike's worst fears were realized when he rode in to the Devil's Bluff station. He was behind on his time, was supposed to just jump on his fresh horse and keep riding without a stop; but when he saw the horse wasn't Goliath, he dismounted and strode to the breaking corral. His heart stopped when he saw one of the Devil's Bluff riders stuck like a burr to a madly bucking Goliath, who had worked himself into a frenzy.

"Don't know how y'all rode that monster at Sweetwater," another rider remarked to him, as Ike broke into a run; a moment too late.

As Ike opened his mouth, as if by some miracle he could will a scream for Goliath's sake. As Ike rushed forward, the bay horse smashed through the corral fence and went down in a spurt of blood as red as his coat, among the splintered corral posts.

He reached Goliath, and saw that the horse's front legs were both shattered as the wood he'd tried to batter down. There was nothing that could or should be done for him, but one thing. Goliath nickered in recognition when Ike reached him, and the boy knelt down next to him.

Goliath stuck his head under Ike's hand, and he stroked the soft skin methodically, tenderly, one last time, as the horse looked up at him trustingly. Keeping his eyes on the horse's peaceful expression, Ike drew his gun and cocked it with his other hand, then shut his eyes and fired.

Thanks to Mollie for her comments!

Lying in his bunk, Jimmy's face twitched. Suddenly he sat up, sniffing the air.

"Fire!" he shouted, as he recognized the acrid smell of smoke. He leaped from his bunk and landed beside it, grabbing his boots and pulling them on, yanking a blanket from his bunk. He was halfway to the door as the others in the bunkhouse groggily followed suit.

Running outside, they saw that the main house was on fire - smoke was billowing from an open window downstairs, and the parlor was ablaze.

"Emma," gasped Lou. "She's inside -"

"Why couldn't she smell the smoke? It's overpowering," Buck wondered aloud as they split up, half of the group running to the pump to form a bucket brigade, and the other half running toward the house. The smell of their fear was as strong and potent as the burning wood and melting glass. Emma probably had been overcome by smoke in her sleep, they knew, but no one could form the words.

Jimmy grasped the doorknob and drew back, shaking his hand painfully. Kid and Lou ran headlong toward the house, each lugging buckets of water, and Jimmy grabbed one, dunking the blanket in it.

"What are you doing, Jimmy?" Buck shouted, running up with another bucket.

Cody was racing pell-mell behind the others, with yet another bucket. "Where can we start throwing these?" he shouted over the raging wind. "Looks like it's mainly downstairs, probably somethin' wrong with the fireplace," he guessed.

Jimmy yelled over the wind, "Lou, get Lightning and ride into town fast as you can, get help."

He threw the soaked blanket over his head and ran toward the porch.

"Jimmy, don't," shouted Buck, chasing behind. "You can't get in through those flames and smoke."

Dimly aware of Lou flashing by on her horse, Jimmy braced himself, took a last deep breath of clear air, and then kicked in the door. The blast of heat from inside was so strong he could smell it, and the foul stench of the smoke enveloped him as he rushed through that blistering heat toward the stairs.

Thankfully, the stairs hadn't caught fire, but Jimmy saw now that the entire ceiling on the first floor was on fire . . . no way to know how long the floor above would hold. He raced up the stairs, coughing on the noxious fumes, sweating, to the upstairs floor.

He could barely see a foot in front of him through the smoke, but he pressed forward, as low to the ground as possible, his eyes watering, until he reached Emma's door. Pushing it open, he saw Emma lying in the bed asleep, through the smoke-filled room. Slamming the door behind him, he grabbed a chair and hurled it through her window, shattering the glass. After gulping down a breath of fresh air, he turned back to the bed and took Emma's limp form in his arms, carrying her to the window.

Hearing the crash, Kid and Buck had come around the house with a ladder, and Jimmy passed her out the window into Kid's arms. Then as Kid carefully retreated down the ladder, Jimmy put a leg out the window. His head was swimming. He dropped the scorched-smelling blanket to the floor, and managed to get his legs onto the ladder, then lowered himself down, collapsing on the ground next to Emma.

The last thing he remembered was the doctor Lou had brought back bending over him, his face serious, as the townsfolk battled the blaze in the background.

He woke up in his bunk, his throat and eyes sore and itchy. He looked around and saw the other riders seated around the table, when Buck glanced over at him.

"Hey, you're up," he exclaimed. A woman Jimmy didn't recognize came over and smiled, handing him a dipper of water.

"Hello, Jimmy. I'm Clarissa, a nurse the company got for you. You're quite a hero, they tell me."

Jimmy scowled and took the drink. "How's Emma?" he said hoarsely.

"Just take a few sips first," Clarissa urged, but Jimmy pushed the dipper away.

"I asked you how Emma is," he growled. "She musta breathed a lot of that smoke -"

"Emma's alive, but she's very sick," Lou cut in somberly. "They had to take her to town to try to take care of her. She may not make it, Jimmy."

The riders looked downcast at the floor. Jimmy managed to get his clothes on over his long johns.

"If only one of us had woken up a few minutes earlier, seen somethin'," Jimmy said bitterly. Ignoring Clarissa's protests, he managed to stand up shakily. He couldn't imagine how much damage the smoke had done to Emma, if he was this affected by a few minutes' exposure.

"It couldn't be helped, Jimmy," Kid started, but Jimmy was on his way out the door.

"You should rest, Jimmy," Clarissa called after him, lamely, but Jimmy kept going.

He unsteadily made his way to the barn, noticing with half-attention that his sense of smell seemed to be gone, since he'd woken up after the fire. The spring flowers Emma had planted and tended so carefully had no scent to him, as he stood in her garden, miraculously untouched by the fire. In fact, the fire had been confined to the first floor, and only smoke damage seemed to have been done to the rest of the house, from what he could see. Looked like a few sparks may have traveled to the tree near her porch, and he could smell the burnt, charred odor of blackened leaves and bark.

Mechanically, his mouth set in a thin, pressed line, he found himself gathering the flowers, knowing she would like to see them. Emma was special to him, in so many different and confusing ways. He didn't know what he would do if the worst happened. He found a piece of twine in his pocket and tied off the bouquet for Emma, heading in to the barn, where for the first time he couldn't pick up the familiar smell of leather, horseflesh and straw that usually filled the stalls. Like it matters, he thought dully, his head aching.

He saddled Sundancer and swung astride, though he felt somewhat nauseated and weak. But he rode in to town and found the doctor's office.

"What in tarnation are you doing up, Hickok?" the doctor thundered at him when he entered.

"Came to see Emma," Jimmy said thickly, but he didn't protest when the doctor guided him to a chair. He watched silently as Emma's slender frame rose and fell under the quilt, her breathing raspy and shallow. Suddenly she started awake.

"Jimmy?" came Emma's voice, weakly.

He jumped up again, ignoring the rush of dizziness that followed, and went to her side, holding out the bouquet of flowers. She recognized them, and looked up at him gratefully as he laid them on the table beside her bed. Seeing that she was holding her throat, probably as sore and scratchy as his own, he got her a glass of water and held it to her mouth.

After she drank a little, she glanced at the flowers again. She smiled up at him and whispered, "Thank you for those, Jimmy. And thank you for what you did at the house. I would have died if you hadn't risked your own life for me." She rested back against the pillows with his help.

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Emma," Jimmy said, clutching her hand.

They looked at each other, a long, searching look when the door opened and Sam came in. He had brought flowers too, and he hesitated, just a second, at the sight of Jimmy holding Emma's hand.

"Sam," Emma said, her eyes brimming over with tears. She freed her hand and put her arms out to Sam, who clasped her in his arms.

"I shoulda been there," Sam berated himself. "I've been after you for weeks to get the boys to clean out that chimney, and I should have just done it myself . . ."

"My house . . ." Emma whispered hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, Emma, it was badly damaged, but I'm sure the boys and I can fix it up for you."

Emma nodded weakly, and Sam mumbled, "But I don't want you going back there alone."

Sam leaned back, and tipped Emma's chin up. "Marry me," he asked her softly.

Emma's eyes were brimming with tears, and she glanced toward Jimmy in the corner; but just for a moment. She nodded, "I will," and Sam pulled her close.

After a moment, Sam turned and stuck a hand out to Jimmy. "Thanks for what you did, Jimmy. Not too many'd risk their lives for another like you did."

Jimmy looked away, and nodding his head, started out the door and back to his horse.

The ride back was different from the ride in to town. He was relieved beyond words that Emma was all right, and the aching worry for her life was now gone. All that remained was crushing numbness, as he rode home blind and deaf to everything around him, unable even to smell the wildflowers that were thick along the road.

It was harder than he expected to see her agree to marry Sam; he had thought he was past that crush. He supposed a first crush never really dies, as he swayed on his horse tiredly.

His eyes were suddenly blurred with unwelcome tears . . . whether they were tears of relief she would be all right, or jealousy, or exhaustion, or all three, he couldn't have told. He choked them back down, forcing himself homeward with a stern, immobile face, but along with the slowly returning sweet smell of the wildflowers, he was aware of the bitter and unfamiliar smell of disappointment, of a loss of something he had never really had.

Thanks to Mollie for your suggestions and to Lisa for the title!

He woke up burning with fever, his head and body aching miserably. Slapping again at the mosquitoes that tormented all the children since the hot, dank summer had started, Buck stood up and trudged to the end of the room lined with cots full of boys. He despaired when he saw the bucket below the community dipper was empty. Dully, he turned and looked at the other boys in the dawning light, and realized something was wrong, really wrong. The others were tossing and turning in their beds, their faces flushed. A few had their eyes open, eyes glassy and unseeing, their faces sweating and their hands trembling.

Buck swayed on his feet, then, his thirst overcoming him, staggered to the door, dragging the bucket behind him. Somehow he found his way to the pump outside, but stood leaning against it, too weak to operate the handle. He looked around the orphanage yard, noting that for the first time since he had arrived at the mission, the sisters' curtains were still closed in their convent building. He knew that usually they had been up for an hour, kneeling on the bare floor of the chapel praying, before making breakfast and chasing the children from their beds by the time dawn fully broke. As he thought this, he spotted one of the younger nuns, peaked-faced little Sister Bridgid, coming around the corner of the convent. Sister Bridgid had arrived at the school around the time he had, and Buck judged she had no more than eighteen summers to his eleven.

"Peter," she called to him, using the name the nuns had given him. She rushed over and helped him sit down.

"Are ye out of water in the boys' dormitory, then?" she asked, taking the bucket from him and filling it. She turned and helped him take a long drink of water from the dipper. The cool, clean tasting water flowed down his blistered throat, and for a few seconds he felt a little better, looking up at her gratefully.

"Ye'll need to go back and lie down, macushla," she explained patiently. She wiped her forehead. "I'm … I'm the only one who isn't ill," she said, fear showing in her eyes even as she tried to keep it from her voice. "I'm trying to get some broth ready for the children and the sisters, but everyone needs to stay in their beds. It's fever and ague, Peter."

He looked uncomprehendingly at her. She tried, "Malaria?" He still stared; he had picked up a good deal of English and even learned some simple reading in the short time he had lived in the mission, but this was beyond him.

Sister Bridgid sighed, and took the bucket in one hand and helped him under his arm with the other. "It means that you and the others are very, very sick, Peter. And I haven't any medicine for you, so I have to go to town and look for help."

He clung to her hands, frightened, as they reached his bed. "Don't leave us, Sister," he pleaded.

She helped him into bed and tucked the covers around him. "Don't be a jennet, Peter," she said in that lilting voice of hers. "I wouldn't be after leavin' me children," she said softly, her soft blue eyes in her freckled face shining kindly at him.

The room was swirling with visions, nightmares the like of which Buck had never experienced. Through it all, one thing was constant - Sister Bridgid, moving among the children, bringing them water mixed with a horrid, bitter tasting medicine that she murmured to them would take away the fever. She sang to them constantly, and though her Gaelic lullabies were different from those his mother had sung to him years ago, the tone and effect was the same. The children, who had always counted young Sister Bridgid as their favorite, now saw her as an angel of mercy as well. Though she was a plain-faced girl, the sight of her smile and eyes was such a comfort to all of them that no one thought of her plainness for a moment; and Buck especially grew to worship her as a second mother.

Bad as it was, Buck's illness was less severe than the other children, and he had a strength and resilience from life on the plains that the others lacked. After several doses of the foul-tasting medicine, he was creeping along behind Sister Bridgid like a little shadow, helping with those who were still recovering. Sister confided that now that they had the magic herb, 'quinine', there was a good chance that most, if not all, would recover.

One morning, Buck sat outside the nuns' dormitory resting while Sister Bridgid went inside to tend to the other nuns. To his surprise, one of the older nuns met Sister at the door. Buck shrank down inside himself at the sight of which one; the one who had re-named him "Peter Cross" and who was in charge of discipline of both the novice nuns and the children. Only Mother Superior's kind heart stood between Sister Mathilde and the severest of punishments, Buck knew.

"Sister Mathilde. You're up," Sister Bridgid said, nervously.

"Yes, I'm up, though I'm not quite myself yet." Sister Mathilde glanced at Sister Bridgid. "I need a word with you, Sister."

"Buck, could you excuse me and the Sister?" Sister Bridgid said wearily.

"Buck?" Sister Matilde said sharply.

Emboldened by the time he'd spent as Sister Bridgid's right hand, Buck spoke up quickly. "That's my real name, at least the English for part of it. My whole name is Running Buck in your tongue."

Sister Matilde's face stiffened. "That'll be enough out of you, Peter. I addressed Sister Bridgid, not you. You are excused."

Buck went around the convent but sat down in the shade, listening, afraid.

"Sister Bridgid, I'll come right to the point. You obtained quinine enough for the entire orphanage, though we have no money to pay for it. How?"

Buck saw the shadows of the veiled women on the ground beside the building, and saw the smaller, more slender shadow's head bowed in silence.

"It was not donated, was it, Sister Bridgid?" The older nun's voice accused.

The shadow shook its head, still in silence.

"You stole it, or stole the money for it, then?"

Still silence.

Sister Matilde's voice turned sorrowful. "You debased yourself to get this medicine from the shopkeeper in town, Sister?"

Buck's hands tightened; was that how she had saved all of them - how she had saved him? She'd sacrificed that much for all of them? Admiration mingled with the bitter taste of pity for her, and anger at the shopkeeper who had taken advantage of her.

"What else could I do, Sister? He said it was the only way. Was I to let all of the wee ones, and my Sisters, die?" Bridgid pleaded.

"It's true then. You took a vow of chastity, and that vow has been broken."

Buck knew from Sister Mathilde's tone that Sister Bridgid was disgraced, in serious trouble that he knew no way to help with.

"Yes, Sister. But I did it to keep my other vows - of service, of -"

"Enough, Sister Bridgid. Mother Superior is too ill to attend to this situation. As her next in command, I will."

"Please, can't you wait and ask Mother Superior -"

"Your other vow was obedience, Sister Bridgid. As your elder, I demand you obey me." Sister Mathilde shook her head. "I don't wonder you wish to wait for Mother Superior's opinion. She is lenient, and puts these children's welfare above any other consideration. But there is no consideration higher than obedience to God's law. And your very presence here among these innocent children after what you have done, is a poison, a taint."

"Must I leave, then?"

"Yes. But since I know your motives were only to save others, I will find a way to get you the money to return home to Killarney."

Sister Bridgid laughed. "Go home in disgrace, expelled from the convent, Sister? I think not. I'll not take anything from the convent, from my bairns' mouths, either. No, I'll make me own way here as best as I can."

"As you wish."

Buck watched as the shadow came closer, and saw Sister Bridgid standing near him, removing her veil. Under the veil he had always seen covering her forehead and hair, she had long wavy hair, as red-gold as the sunset, and he gasped in surprise at the sight of her one true beauty, hidden up to now.

"Buck, I thought Sister told you to go," she said, not at all angrily.

He stared at her, tears in his eyes. "You have to leave."

She smiled, running her hand through her bright hair. "Don't feel too bad, macushla. There's more than one way to serve God and one's neighbor. I'll find another," she told him. Her eyes bright, she kissed him on the top of his head and looked into his eyes. Nodding, she whispered, "And 'twould have been worth it for that look alone. Take care of yourself, Running Buck. If they let you have my letters, you'll hear from me. My real name is Eileen McNamara, so you'll know it's me."

Buck went in to the sick room and greeted Ike, who signed back weakly.

"Time for your medicine, buddy," Buck told him, mixing the white powder in with a dipperful of water from the bucket.

*Not that horrible stuff again. It tastes like poison.*

"You take it," Buck answered, a little shortly. "Somebody . . . somebody gave up a lot so you could have it."

Ike looked curiously at Buck, seeing his friend was close to tears. Nodding and taking the dipper, he forced the dose down, ignoring the bitter taste as best he could.

*Buck? What did you mean when you said somebody gave up something for this medicine?*

Buck shook his head, muttering, "Nothing," and looked out the window, seeing Eileen, dressed in street clothes, getting into a wagon and pulling away, her face turned toward the dormitory window, seeking, and then lighting up when she saw him. He leaned out and waved to his friend as she waved back, as long as he could keep her in sight.

THE END.