By the time Jim pulled himself back together and returned inside, he found the others had securely bound the dressing with broad strips of white linen gauze around Sandburg's midriff, and had moved Blair onto a more comfortable cot, covering him with a soft, cotton blanket. Most of the lanterns and candles had been extinguished, the room now shadowed. The mess of the surgery had been cleared away, the bloody clothing and linens set to soak in a pail by the stove. The instruments had been cleaned and placed upon the worktable. Medicines had been returned to the cupboard. And a basin of warm soapy water was ready for him to wash up. Rafe and Simon were gone, and Joel was sitting by the cot. The older man looked up at him, and nodded, but didn't say anything.

Jim blinked and sighed, and then moved to wash his hands, arms and face just as Simon came back into the room, carrying clean clothing for him. Only then did Jim realize his shirt and jeans were slick and sodden with Sandburg's blood.

"How're you holding up?" Simon asked quietly. When Jim just shook his head with infinite weariness, Simon set about helping him get out of the bloody garments and then steadied him as he pulled on the clean jeans and shirt. "You did good, Jim, real good. Any chance he has is because you gave it to him."

Ellison again shook his head slowly as he turned his gaze on Sandburg. "He saved my life tonight, Simon. I was the target - not him."

"I know," Banks sighed as he put an arm around Jim's back and guided him to a chair on the far side of Sandburg's bed. Though Jim looked like he needed to lie down himself, Simon doubted there was any point in suggesting it. Ellison wouldn't give way to exhaustion until he knew if Blair was going to live or die.

"I'll go put on some coffee," Joel said as he stood and left the infirmary. It was going to be a long night.

Jim reached out to grip Sandburg's wrist and, oblivious to everything else around him, he concentrated on listening to Blair's shallow breathing and the irregular beat of his heart.

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

A single lantern flickered low, its fragile illumination dancing into the shadows. Simon and Joel had both fallen asleep on other cots more than an hour before, long after Rafe had returned briefly to let them know that the corpses of the dead had been attended to, and that everyone in town was over at the church, praying for the life of their doctor. Jim had nodded, grateful for the support of his friends and the townspeople, but he hadn't said anything.

In the silence that was broken only by the sonorous, low snoring of the older men, Jim studied Sandburg's face, starkly pale beneath the dark shadow of his beard, as his mind drifted back over the past year.

One year ago, he'd resigned his commission in bitterness and disgust, and had felt lost, with no direction. It had been a hell of a way to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday, and put an end to twenty-two years of everything that had been his life.

One year ago, he'd been locked in a cell with nothing but his thoughts and recriminations for company.

One year ago, he'd vowed never to trust, never to care so much, ever again…

So much had changed since those dark hours.

He'd found new purpose, and joined a fine community of people…had made good friends. Had learned to understand his confusing senses, and had learned to trust again. Simon had been a big help, a tremendous source of strength and encouragement.

But it was Sandburg who had really made it all happen for him. Had healed him, in so very many ways. Had explained what he was - a sentinel, a watchman, specially gifted to serve and protect his community. Had given him a home - had become his best friend. More, Jim admitted to the anguish in his heart. He loved Blair more than he loved life itself, more than anything in all creation. He'd vowed to himself, almost a year ago, to protect Blair, to always keep him safe…

And now Blair had saved his life - without doubt the best and the very worst, birthday gift he'd ever received, though of course Sandburg had no way of knowing that, when the kid had taken a bullet to save his best friend with no thought to his own safety…but at what cost?

Ellison knew he would forever curse the day of his birth if it led to Sandburg's death…

Biting his lip, Jim again forced back the thickness in his throat, as he had countless times throughout the night. He couldn't imagine what his life would have become if he hadn't met Sandburg. Crazy kid. So brilliant and insightful, it was scary. Funny. Kind. Generous. Wild curly hair and big wide blue eyes, endlessly curious and almost always talking…except when he was listening with everything he was - his mind, his heart and his soul. Nobody else would have known how to help him, would have picked up and understood about his hypersensitivity. Blair filled up all the empty spaces, warmed away the chill of disillusionment and bitterness, brought hope and joy, his laughter too infectious to resist, wise man and imp, healer and friend…and brother. From the first moment, Blair had offered everything he had to give, openly, generously, with no thought of recompense of any kind. And now he'd offered his life…to save a man who'd far rather die himself than lose Sandburg.

Ellison felt a flush of shame as he recalled the fight they'd had the afternoon before and his wild accusations. He'd never really thought Blair would betray him - it had all just been his defensiveness about the damned senses and how different they made him feel, and he knew it.

Reaching out with trembling fingers to stroke Sandburg's brow, he wished he'd had a chance to apologize, to say he'd never meant any of it - that he did trust Blair completely, without question. God, he hoped the kid knew that. Didn't still believe that Jim doubted him. As for Megan Connor, well, sure, he thought bitterly, she was attractive, but he hadn't ever given her much thought. No - it had all been about the notes and his fears of being seen as a freak of nature. Stupid, so stupid - why hadn't he realized Blair was keeping the notes only as a backup in case Jim needed them? He'd never thought about the possibility of Blair not being around - and now, as if putting that terrible possibility into words had worked some kind of curse, only hours later, Blair could well be dying.

Bowing his head, Jim wondered what he'd do if Sandburg died, and the inconceivable grief of that possibility twisted in his gut and squeezed his heart, making it hard to breathe. He wasn't sure he could bear the thought of remaining in Bitterwood Creek - but he was equally sure Blair would be disappointed in him if he left. Smiling a little to himself, he imagined the arguments that Sandburg would pose - that the town needed him, and he needed the town - that his friends were here…

And he wondered what Blair's life would have been like if he'd never ridden into this town. One thing was sure…he wouldn't be lying here now, his life hanging by a thread…

"Live," Jim commanded quietly, as he brushed a wayward curl from his friend's face. "You're needed here, too. Your friends don't want you to go. This is your home - our home. Live…"

As if in response to his voice, he heard Sandburg's respirations deepen, and his friend stirred weakly. Jim's heart clenched and he hated to feel so helpless, with little idea of how to ease his friend's suffering, as he saw Blair grimace in pain as he came back to consciousness. "Easy," Jim murmured softly. "Easy, Chief…"

Blair blinked, his gaze confused and unfocused as he stared up at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. Ellison tightened his grip on the kid's arm reassuringly and watched awareness return to Sandburg's eyes as his friend's gaze tracked toward him.

"J'm?" Blair sighed, agony deeply etched into the lines around his mouth and sunken eyes, huge in his pale, pinched, face.

"I'm right here," Ellison assured him. "What do you need?"

Sandburg blinked as he thought about the question, feeling fuzzy and disoriented. Pain, searing in its intensity was distracting him, demanding attention. "Laudanum…no more than two drops…every six hours," he mumbled, as if giving a prescription.

Ellison nodded and, having the medicine and a pitcher of water ready at hand, mixed up the analgesic and then supported Blair's head, helping his friend to drink from the cup he held to Sandburg's lips.

As the strong medicine eased the fire into a slow, remote burn, Sandburg sighed with relief. Focusing again on Jim, he said wearily, though more strongly, "You did everything right. Thanks."

When Jim's gaze broke away, Sandburg snorted weakly. "Stop it," he sighed. "Not your fault. Who were those guys?"

Jim shrugged. "Men with a grudge," he replied, his voice tight. "We don't know their names…"

Blair closed his eyes, weakly shaking his head. They might never know. Taking a breath, wincing a little, he returned his attention to Ellison. "Not over yet," he whispered, knowing the aftereffects of the wound could still kill him. "Give me water, maybe broth, whenever I'm awake. If a fever starts, tepid baths to bring it down. If the wound gets infected, may need to drain it - use sulfa, and some of the herbs Whispering Waters gave me." He paused, but his jaw tightened and he continued, "If the wound goes bad - use maggots to clean it out."

Ellison's lips thinned against a sudden stab of nausea as he involuntarily pictured the horror of that, but he nodded to signal he understood what to do. "You're going to be okay," he asserted as he brushed Blair's cheeks with the tips of his fingers. "You've beaten worse than this."

Sandburg smiled faintly, but it faded as he said solemnly with painful deliberation, "Regardless - whatever happens, don't blame yourself…I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"I know," Ellison grated, not wanting to go there - never wanting this to happen again. "But - the price is too high…"

"No, 's not," Blair asserted, but his voice was growing wispy, slurring, his eyelids blinking heavily. "Jim, you'd do the same for me."

Though he nodded, and was glad Sandburg knew that for a fact, Ellison really didn't want to talk anymore about it. To him, it sounded as if Blair was trying to say 'good-bye', trying to console him, and he didn't want that. Didn't want to think about the possibility that Sandburg might yet die.

"Shh," Jim urged, soothingly, to distract Blair from his worries about him. "No more talking. Just rest, Chief. Concentrate on getting better, okay?"

"'kay," Sandburg sighed, exhausted, and allowed himself to drift into sleep.

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

"Hot…'m so hot," Sandburg muttered, thrashing feebly, barely conscious.

"I know, shhh, it's okay," Jim murmured back as he swabbed his partner's face gently with a cool, wet rag, and then lifted Sandburg's head as he held a cup of water to his lips. Once Blair had taken as much as he was going to, Ellison settled him back on the pillow and bent to again bathe his friend's body and limbs with the tepid water in the basin by the bed.

The fever had started to build about an hour after Blair had first wakened, flushing his hot, dry skin a dull red. For the past four hours, Ellison had been diligently, even tenderly, bathing Sandburg as he fought the fever, so far without much success. Blair moaned softly as though, even only semiconscious, he was trying to hide the pain. But, the kid's hands kept straying to the white bandage, stark against the dark hair that blanketed his chest, and it was clear how much he was suffering. Biting his lip, Jim wondered if he should follow Sandburg's orders and wait another hour to give him some laudanum. When Blair flinched, trying to curl on his side, groaning softly, Ellison made his decision and gave his friend more of the medicinal mixture. He couldn't stand to watch Sandburg suffering, not when he had the means at hand to dull the torment.

"How's he doing?" Simon rumbled, as he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face.

Ellison shook his head as he lifted away the bandage to again check the wound for signs of the infection he could already smell. He winced when he saw slimy green pus leaking out of the reddened and raw incision. "Infection," he grunted as he straightened up. "He's been running a high fever."

"Damn," Banks sighed, as he stood and moved to stand beside Jim, to get a closer look at the kid. "Now what?"

Sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck, Jim replied, "He woke up a while ago - told me this might happen. I have to reopen the wound and clean it out."

Simon grimaced as he swallowed, but he turned away and set water to boil on the stove.

Joel was awake by the time everything was ready, and he held Blair down as Simon assisted Jim. Not that the kid put up much of a fight; he was too weak to do more than twitch and thrash ineffectually. They all wished they could have given him some ether, but they didn't know how much to use and were afraid of doing him harm if they just guessed.

Jim snipped open the sutures binding the wound, his nose wrinkling at the putrid smell. Swallowing, he cleaned it out, splashed in some whiskey that made Sandburg grunt and jerk violently in reaction. And then he dusted in the sulfa and some of the crushed herbs Whispering Waters had given Blair. He'd found them earlier, after Blair had said he might need them, when he'd searched Blair's desk for the deerskin sack. Once again he closed the now torn edges of the wound, sprinkled on more of the medicines and covered it with a linen pad and bandages.

Using the Indians' herbs had reminded him of the other small medicine bag in the sack. Once he washed his hands and arms, he went through to retrieve the one tied with the tiny wolf. Back in the infirmary, he gently slipped the leather thong around Sandburg's head so that the bag would lie on his chest.

"What's that?" Joel asked softly with a puzzled frown.

"The Indians gave us each one," Ellison explained as he moved to fill another bowl with tepid water; Blair's fever seemed hotter than ever. "They said it would give protection and strength."

"Ahh," Taggart reflected thoughtfully. "I've heard they have pretty powerful medicine. Can't hurt."

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

Though the others offered to help fight Blair's burgeoning fever, Jim refused to cede his role as Sandburg's caregiver. Having to reopen the wound had been hideous, his senses raging out of control so that his world was filled with the sight, sound and scent of Sandburg's suffering. But the infection was the enemy now, and Jim exerted his full capacity on doing all he could to defeat it. He reined in his senses with ruthless deliberation, forced them to his will - harnessed them to help him clean out the wound with meticulous care. And once the ravaged flesh had been again closed and bandaged, Ellison resumed his tireless bathing of Blair's hot, dry skin.

It sickened Jim to see Blair so helpless and vulnerable, scared him to think the kid might really be dying. But if this was the last service he could offer, the last stand he could make to save Blair's life, he sure wasn't going to share it with anyone else. Blair had taken the bullet for him; now all he could do was fight back, with every scrap of energy and tenderness he had in his being to help Sandburg cling to life.

Over and over, he bathed Blair's face, gently cooling his fevered brow. Countless times, he carefully drew the damp cloth over Sandburg's throat and shoulders, his thickly matted chest, arms and hands. With unaccustomed tenderness, he attended to Blair's abdomen, hips and legs, his touch focused to feel the fever, so that he knew whether the tawny skin was hotter or cooler for his efforts. It was an invasion of Blair's person, to touch him with such familiarity, but one Sandburg had granted to him when he'd said the tepid baths might be required. It was a trust Blair had given him, granting dominion over his helpless body - turning to Jim in his need. It broke Jim's heart, to see him so ill, so weak - so much in danger of slipping away. But Jim wouldn't let go. Literally. He kept his hands on Sandburg's body, holding onto his life with resolute determination, cherishing in the only way he could, soothing as best he was able.

It was another two hours before the fever finally broke, drenching Sandburg and the cot he was lying on with sweat. Jim and Simon cleaned and dried his skin and, since it was easier than trying to remake the bed with him in it, Ellison just carried him to another that Joel had made up with fresh, clean sheets.

Dawn had long since come and gone, and soon neighbours started showing up, to express concern or to offer help. Maisie brought fresh bread and a stew for the men, as well as a pot of chicken broth. "It's been thickened with moldy bread and then strained," she said diffidently. "I recall Doc said making it that way could beat infection." Delores McCready also showed up, bringing a jug of juice she'd squeezed from crushed apples. "He always seemed partial to the apples from our tree," she explained, her voice tight with emotion. Sarah Sloane arrived, insisting they give her the laundry she knew needed doing. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw the massive, ugly, brown bloodstains, but she swallowed and carried it all away. LeeAnn Raymond brought a pot of the willow-bark tea and a jar of honey to sweeten it. Megan Connor came by with an armload of fresh sheets and towels, as well as strips of good quality cotton she'd ripped up to make extra bandages. Henri took on the care of all their animals, shaking his head when they offered to pay him for his time and supplies of hay and oats. Sam and Angus dropped in, and later, Johnny and Dan, all wondering if there was anything they could do to help. Some children, quiet and solemn, brought a bunch of wildflowers in a mason jar; more broth and casseroles arrived, until the counter in the kitchen was overflowing with filled bowls and jars. They were all very worried about Sandburg - and all very relieved to know he was alive and holding his own. "I'll pray for him," was a constant murmur when they took their leave.

Joel and Simon took turns visiting with the folks who dropped in, thanking them all for their help and support, but Jim remained by Blair's bedside with one hand firmly grasped around Sandburg's arm. The big lawman looked utterly exhausted as he slumped forward in the chair, his gaze locked on Blair's face. Finally, when Jim again refused anything at noon, probably too tired and worried to eat, Simon figured the Sheriff's vigil had gone on long enough.

"You need to get some rest, Jim," he said kindly but firmly as he stood behind Ellison. When Jim started to shake his head in mute protest, Banks continued, "You know I'm right. You won't do Blair any good if you drive yourself into exhaustion. Go lie down on the cot over there. Joel and I'll watch him, and call you if there's any change."

Reluctantly, Jim nodded and stood. With a last long look, he turned away and laid down - falling asleep short minutes later.

"He's taking this hard," Joel murmured softly as he gazed at the sleeping sheriff.

"Uh-huh," Simon grunted. "S'pose any of us would, if our best friend got shot by a bullet meant for us."

Taggart frowned at the heavy tone and shot a sharp look at his partner. The men who'd come into town had been looking for Jim and Simon, as well as Jed, for that matter, who was back at the ranch. "This wasn't any more your fault than Jim's, Simon," Joel said then.

Banks sighed as he ran a hand over his face. "I guess I know that," he muttered. "But - I keep thinkin', when we knew there was likely to be trouble, we should've told the kid to wait for us here."

Joel snorted. "Right. And I'm sure he would have sat back like a good a little boy and quietly watched all us big, tough, men go off to deal with the bad guys," he drawled sarcastically.

Banks had the grace to smile softly at the unlikelihood of that ever happening. No, all they would have managed to do would have been to insult the young man, and make him remind them, as he had about riding out after the rustlers last spring, that he was the Deputy Sheriff and he had a job to do. "You're right," Simon finally conceded, and then sighed again. "God, I hope he'll be okay."

"Blair's tougher than he looks, Simon," Joel consoled, thinking of the ugly scars on the kid's back, knowing what they represented. "He's made it through the worst of it. Now, he just needs rest."

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

Blair slept through the remainder of that day and the whole of the night, waking only briefly and groggily, his muted moans of distress indicating his need for water, tea or broth and laudanum. His caretakers took turns watching over him, and carefully helped him drink the fluids and medicine before smoothing his blanket as they encouraged him to go back to sleep. Jim became hopeful that his wound was healing; the reddened skin was fading to a more healthy pink with only faintly bloodied clear drainage. Though Sandburg seemed marginally more alert when he roused for brief periods the next day, he was still frighteningly pale and weak - too weak to make it out to the privy, so he resignedly used the porcelain urinal Ellison handed to him. Mostly, he slept another day and a half.

The next afternoon, Jim was watching over him when Blair sniffed and lifted a hand to rub his face, blinking and yawning as he looked around with clearer, more alert eyes.

"You finally deciding to wake up?" Jim teased with a slight grin, relieved to see Sandburg looking a little more like himself, and less like a limp rag doll.

"Uh, yeah, I think," Sandburg muttered and then yawned again. "How long've I been out of it?"

"Almost four days," Ellison told him as he poured a cup of water and then leaned forward to support Blair's head to help him drink.

"Ah, that's good, thanks," Sandburg sighed as he settled back against the pillow. "There anything to eat?"

Jim laughed a little hysterically at that, close to weeping with the sure knowledge, now, that Sandburg really was on the mend, causing Blair to give him a puzzled look. "Chief, we've got enough food in the kitchen to feed an army! Every woman in town has been dropping off chicken broth, beef and vegetable soup, stews, casseroles, bowls of eggs, slabs of bacon, fresh bread, four different kinds of cheeses, juice, willow-bark tea and the kids have been coming by with cookies and cake, 'cause that's what they like when they're sick, or so they tell me."

"You're kidding?" Sandburg smiled, amazed by the largesse and touched by the consideration.

"No, I'm not," Jim grinned. "And you've got jars full of wildflowers back in your office, also courtesy of the kids, the laundry has been done, twice, and we've been given more sheets and towels from the hotel." His eyes softening, Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder as he continued soberly, "You've got a lot of friends in this town, Blair. They all care about you - and they've all been over at the church, praying for you, even Silas and Moe, if you can believe it, but I think Delores and Lucinda hogtied them and dragged them there."

Blair's breath hitched at that, and he looked away as he blinked. "They're good people," he said quietly.

"So, Doc, what can you handle? A bowl of plain broth or do you want something more substantial?" Jim asked as he stood.

"Uh, I think a little soup, maybe with some bread and a small hunk of cheese," Sandburg replied. "Oh, and some juice and a mug of the tea."

"Coming right up," Jim saluted as he headed to the kitchen. He made it from the infirmary to the privacy of the hall before his legs let go and he sank to the floor, curled forward as he tried to hold his tears inside. Oh God, Blair was going to live, going to be strong again and whole. Bowing his head, Jim thanked a God that he was beginning to believe in again, for the gift of Blair's life. For long moments, he trembled with overwhelming relief. But, conscious that Simon or Joel could happen upon him at any time, Jim finally wiped his face, sniffing as he pulled himself back up onto his feet. With a lighter heart, and a smile that wouldn't quit as joy bubbled within his chest, he continued to the kitchen to heat up the soup and make the tea - Blair would live, and now it was time for the happier task of helping him regain his strength.

Joel and Simon wandered in as Blair was eating, enthusiastically pleased to see him so much stronger, his colour more natural, and in good appetite. He'd mend, of that they were now certain. After visiting for a while they took their leave, explaining that it was time they got back to the ranch. Sandburg thanked them for all their help, but then yawned again. He didn't protest when Jim ordered him to rest, and he napped through the rest of the day and into the evening.

When he next woke, Jim was again sitting in the chair by his bed, the oil lamp glowing softly on the small table beside him.

"Don't you have something else to do, Sheriff?" he teased drowsily.

"Nope," Ellison quipped back, though his voice was quiet. "Thought I'd give up keeping the peace and take up nursing the sick and infirm."

Sandburg snorted, but he studied his friend closely. "You look exhausted, Jim," he observed with concern. "You should rest. I'm doing all right."

Shrugging, Ellison replied, "I'm fine," as he leaned forward and almost unconsciously brushed Blair's hair back from his friend's brow and cheek. "I'm really glad to see you're so much better. You scared me, Chief."

Sandburg's eyes glowed with affection as he smiled softly, "I'm better 'cause of you. I know the…the surgery was hard, but you saved my life, Jim."

"Makes us even," Ellison replied, his voice tight with emotion. He bowed his head in silence for a moment, and then looked up to meet Blair's eyes, his own troubled and dark with apology. "About the fight we had. I was wrong. I shouldn't have doubted you…I do trust you, Sandburg. More'n I've ever trusted anyone in my life."

Blair's eyes softened as he nodded. "Thank you," he murmured as he lifted his hand to grip Jim's wrist, accepting the apology. "Now, go to bed before you fall over. Doctor's orders."

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

It was a month before Sandburg was strong enough to pretend he was back to normal - not that he wasn't recovered, but he knew it could take up to a year to attain normal energy levels after a major operation like the one he'd had. As for the ragged scar, he smiled whenever he saw it - the ugliness of it didn't bother him because it was a tangible reminder of how Jim had worked so hard to save his life. When the others wondered if there'd be any problems living without a spleen, he just shrugged and told them it was pretty useless. No reason to have them all worrying that he would be more susceptible to infections from now on - he wasn't about to stop being a doctor and caring for those who were sick, regardless of the risks that posed for him. Doctors all knew it was a crapshoot - that they could always catch something and possibly even die as a result; if they worried about it, they wouldn't be doctors.

Blair very much appreciated everyone's concern on his behalf, and the attentive care he'd received, especially from Jim. But a little smothering goes a long way, and he'd grown restive under the constant preoccupation with his health and wellbeing.

"I'm fine!" he insisted with a laugh when Jim wasn't sure he should go back to accompanying Ellison on his evening rounds. "A walk will be good for me. I need the exercise."

It was a typically rowdy Friday night, and there was no way he was letting Jim head out alone. For the past few weeks, Simon had come into town on the weekends to help out, but he'd sent in word with one of his hands that he'd banged up his knee when a colt he was training to the saddle had thrown him. Joel and Rafe were gone with the herd being driven to the stockyard at the railhead in Wichita, so they weren't available either. The young ranch hand who'd brought in the message shyly offered to help out; but he was just a fresh-faced kid, likely no more than sixteen years old, and Ellison told him not to worry about it when he thanked him for his offer and for bringing Simon's note.

Now Ellison was contemplating his partner, not happy about Blair joining him for the night's patrol. He hadn't been well all that long - and he could get hurt.

Sandburg had gotten pretty good at reading Jim's silences, because his best friend's unconscious expressions and posture were so indicative of what he was thinking or feeling. "Jim," he said quietly as he moved closer to grip his friend's arm, "you can't just pack me away in cotton to keep me safe, you know. I won't let you."

Jim shook his head and shrugged. "I just don't want you hurt again, that's all," he muttered.

"I know, and I appreciate that, but we worked together for almost a year before those gunmen rode into town, and nothing happened. You watch out for me, I know you do - and I'm careful," Sandburg replied reasonably. "It was a fluke, Jim…"

"It might have been a lot of things," Ellison cut in sharply as he looked down at his best friend, "but it was no 'fluke'. You jumped in front of that bullet! Don't try to pretend you didn't, because I know better. And you'd do it again, dammit!"

"Jim, Jim…I know it's hard to come to grips with the idea that someone else cares about you, but get used to it, big guy. I'm your backup, your deputy, your doctor and your best friend - of course, I'm going to try to keep you from getting hurt! That's my job! Now, come on, we've got rounds to make," Blair mocked gently, his tone teasing, but his eyes very serious. Patting Ellison on the arm consolingly, he just walked on out to the street, starting the rounds and assuming the sheriff would follow.

Jim heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "Some job," he muttered. "It's not like you get paid much for it. Nowhere near what you're worth."

But he followed, catching up and looping an arm around his friend's shoulder, to pull him into a quick sideways hug. Sandburg grinned as he reached up and around to pat Jim's back. Then they split apart, back to business and alert as they ambled along the boardwalk, watching and listening for trouble.

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

Skirmishes in the Indian conflicts erupted with increasing regularity as the summer drew toward fall. Throughout the western territories, the indigenous people continued to strike back against the onslaught of settlers and, particularly, the building of the railroad because it would only bring more and more settlers to till the land, to build towns and cities. It was a hard, frightening time - there was little tolerance or moderation on either side. But though the people in Bitterwood Creek, as well as the farms and ranches round about, kept a wary eye out for surprise attacks, for some reason the battles and skirmishes, the raids and massacres seemed always to happen somewhere else.

From time to time, US Cavalry soldiers rode in to restock their supplies, because it was the one town in that part of Kansas that still seemed to have their supply routes intact, and lots of produce and beef to sell. Folks in town liked to hear the latest news from them, so it wasn't uncommon for any number of people to gather around the General Store during their sojourns and, inevitably, someone would recall their own experiences with Indians in the area…though all admitted it had been strangely quiet, Praise the Lord, since the past winter when the doctor had been taken captive. But, by the Grace of God, he'd managed to escape and their brave Sheriff had found him and brought him back home. The soldiers would nod, pay for the supplies, load them up and head on out of town to return to the business of chasing down renegades.

However, usually it was just the supply sergeant and maybe a corporal to help manage the packhorses who came into town, so it caused quite a stir one day when the whole troop rode in toward the end of August. Jim sauntered out of his office to see if there was any trouble brewing in the area and, though he wasn't surprised to see Major Rutherford dismounting, he wasn't all that overjoyed to see the man again.

"Major," Jim acknowledged when the officer stepped up to the boardwalk. "You find those Indians Sandburg escaped from last winter?"

"No, Ellison, we didn't," Rutherford replied tightly as he gazed up and down the street. "However, my men heard some interesting rumours when they last came in for supplies." His cold gray gaze came back to meet Jim's eyes.

"Really?" the Sheriff replied, holding the stare. "Well, you know rumours. Can't usually put much credence in them."

"Uh-huh," the Cavalry Officer grunted, his gaze shifting to the Doctor's Office next door. "Seems the good Dr. Sandburg has been known to aid and abet wounded hostiles in the past - rumour has it that's why the Indians let him go…"

"He escaped," Jim cut in sharply.

Rutherford chuckled mirthlessly. "Now, you don't think I ever really believed that story, did you? Escaped? With an Indian pony and a rich deerskin robe?" he responded sarcastically. "Too farfetched. And it begs the question of why they didn't kill him in the first place. My men heard he was out at some farm when they attacked, and one brave stopped another savage from killing him, and the people he was with. All sounds pretty friendly to me."

"What do you want, Rutherford?" Jim asked mildly, though he was having a hard time keeping his temper in check. Everyone in town knew about the Indian Sandburg had treated months ago. Though they'd never told anyone, not even Simon, about Swift Eagle's promise to leave their immediate area alone, folks speculated, like folks always would. Raids and skirmishes were going on all over the west…except around Bitterwood Creek.

"Well, I'd like to speak with Dr. Sandburg again. If there's a question of him giving succor to the enemies of our nation, well, that would make him a traitor, wouldn't it?" the Major drawled, his eyes glinting with malice. "And I believe you remember what happens to traitors, don't you, Ellison?"

Jim's jaw tightened as he studied Rutherford with all the warmth he'd show to a sidewinder. "Dr. Sandburg is a hero, Rutherford. He's also a doctor; one folks think works miracles. I'd suggest you be very careful about suggesting he's any kind of traitor."

"I've heard that Sandburg wasn't alone when he cared for that renegade," Rutherford continued, unfazed either by Ellison's hostility or his warning.

Just then, Sandburg loped across the street. He'd been over at the McCready place, checking on one of the boys who had a case of the mumps.

"What's going on?" he asked as he joined them. Looking from Jim to Rutherford, he nodded in brief, cool acknowledgement. "Major Rutherford."

"Seems the Major has heard some rumours about the help you gave to that Indian awhile ago," Jim replied stiffly, "and wonders if there's any connection with them taking you later to their camp. Apparently, he still has some questions about your escape - and has some doubts about your loyalty."

"Oh, really?" Blair replied, as if he were startled by the officer's suspicions. Turning to the Major, he said as he waved toward the building next door, "Maybe you'd like to step into my office and we can discuss your concerns. Jim, were you busy or did you want to join us?"

"I was just working on some reports," Ellison replied with a speculative look at his best friend - Blair seemed unusually calm about what was going down. "They can keep."

The three men strode the few paces to the entrance to the doctor's office and residence where Blair led them into his office. Waving them both to chairs, he sat behind his desk. "Go ahead, Major. What's on your mind?" he asked earnestly.

"I heard you, and Ellison here, gave aid to a renegade a few months ago," Rutherford replied. "It's contrary to this nation's interests to be giving succor to the enemy. I'm sure you know that, Doctor."

"Yes, I do," Blair replied steadily. "But, while it's true that we came upon an Indian male almost a year ago, actually, there was nothing to suggest he was a renegade of any kind. It looked like he might have been hurt in a hunting accident, though it's hard to say for sure, since he didn't appear to speak English and neither of us speaks his language. I patched him up and he left the next day."

"Hunting accident?" Rutherford jeered. "Hunting innocent victims for their scalps, maybe."

Sandburg sighed, but he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "Pure supposition, Major. He was alone, posed no threat, certainly did not display any aggressive behaviour when we found him, and Jim kept watch on him the whole time he was here, in the event that he did prove to be hostile. He had a bad gash along his side, no way to tell how he'd gotten it, and no reason for me to believe him a threat of any kind. I'm a doctor, Major. It's my job to treat those who are injured or afflicted, regardless of race or creed. I took an oath on that, and I do my best to live up to it."

"Why didn't they kill you when they first raided that farm?" Rutherford demanded abruptly.

Sandburg leaned back and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine - I sure thought they were going to. Frankly, I imagined that they planned to torture me slowly and then collect my scalp," he replied soberly, with an expression that revealed some of the fear he'd felt at the time. "I don't mind confessing that it was a terrifying experience."

Rutherford studied Sandburg for a moment, while Jim remained silent as he sat back in his chair, letting Blair handle this, if he could. "Tell me how you got away," the Major asked quietly, his tone suspicious.

Leaning back, squinting toward the ceiling as if he was trying to recall the exact chain of events, Blair replied, "I was taken to a tent and tied - this was after we'd ridden for the night and a good part of the next day. God, I was frozen - I hadn't been wearing my coat when they took me - and stiff from having been tied to the pony after I'd tried to escape earlier. Later, one brought me some bannock and meat, and after I'd eaten, he took me back to their latrine area. I figured it would be my best chance, so I pretended to stumble and when he grabbed me, I came up hard with a fist under his chin, knocking him out. It was dark, and no one else seemed to be paying any attention…we were out behind the ring of tents. I slipped away, and took one of the horses."

"And the deerskin cape?" Rutherford demanded.

"I was wearing it - it had been in the tent, and I'd wrapped myself in it to get warm. I was still wearing it over my shoulders when I was escorted out back," Blair replied easily. "It was cold, Major, as you might recall."

"What happened then?"

"I led the horse some distance away, and then managed to mount him," Blair replied, then shook his head and grinned softly, as if in wry memory. "Not easy getting up on an unsaddled horse, is it? Anyway, I kicked him and he ran. I didn't have a fine clue where I was going, only that I wanted to get as far away as fast as I could." Shifting his gaze toward Jim, he smiled as he continued, "I cannot begin to describe to you the relief I felt when Jim found me - I doubt I could have survived out there alone for much longer."

Rutherford looked from Sandburg to Ellison, and saw an answering smile on the lawman's face. "I told you he gets turned around in the middle of nowhere when everything looks the same," the Sheriff said indulgently.

"Yes," the officer snapped, "so I recall. It was fortunate that you were able to find him 'in the middle of nowhere'."

"Yes, it was," Ellison replied, his voice and eyes cold as he stared Rutherford down.

The major snorted and shook his head, knowing there was no way to prove his theory, but still certain he was right, nonetheless. "Can either of you explain how Bitterwood Creek and the area hereabouts is so fortunate as to not have been attacked since Sandburg was taken?"

Jim shrugged negligently. "Just lucky, maybe…"

But Blair cut in, "You know, I've been thinking about that. People around here are really scared of another attack and, as Jim says, we've been lucky. Who knows, maybe helping that one Indian last year meant something, after all. Maybe he and his people were grateful." He shrugged as he gave Rutherford a hard look, "But, then, you wouldn't expect that of savage hostiles, would you?"

"Look, I know damned well that you're feeding me a pack of lies," Rutherford replied, provoked by the contempt in Blair's eyes and voice.

"I think that's about enough," Jim cut in, standing. "You've asked your questions and gotten the only answers you're going to hear. You've got no grounds for harassing our town's doctor. I suggest you be on your way."

Rutherford had stood as Jim did, the two of them facing one another like raging bulls. Blair remained seated, but interjected in a calming tone, "Gentlemen, if we're finished here, I have some work to do."

Throwing him an angry look as he pulled on his gloves, Rutherford replied, his voice low with menace, "We're finished for now, Dr. Sandburg - but we'll be watching you."

Sandburg quirked a brow as he observed sarcastically, "Things must be quieting down if you've got time to watch a simple country doctor, Major, but you go right ahead if it makes you feel more secure."

Jim quickly stepped between the two men and pointed Rutherford to the door. When they got outside, they discovered that a sizable representation of the town citizenry had showed up, led by Silas McCready and his man, Moe. "There any trouble here, Sheriff?" Silas called out with a belligerent look at the military officer.

"No, I don't think so," Jim replied, though he wondered why McCready and his lot were up to. "The Major just wanted to ask Doc a few questions about that Indian he treated a while ago, and being taken later from the Wilkinsons' place."

"Uh-huh," Silas rumbled. "I heerd that's why the whole Cavalry was in town. Stupid. Ya think there'd be more to do than worry about one man's experiences with the savages. Why, ya might even think, maybe, that Doc weren't trusted - just 'cause he treated that Injun last year. Cain't say as I was happy about that, but Doc's a good man, and he takes his doctorin' seriously. This town's real glad we got him back, and wouldn't want anythin' to happen to him." The men behind Silas mumbled their agreement.

McCready might have been talking as if to the Sheriff, but his eyes had never left Rutherford. The message was pretty clear. If anyone wanted to mess with their doctor, they'd have to deal with the whole town.

Rutherford looked out over the gathering of tense men, and then nodded as he made his decision. Sandburg might be a renegade in his own right, a traitor, but he wasn't worth tackling the entire town, not when there wasn't any proof. But that didn't mean this was over. He'd given due warning; he'd be watching Sandburg, and Ellison, too, for that matter. One day these despicable men would pay the price for traitorously consorting with the enemy, he'd make certain of that. It was only a matter of time. Coldly, he turned to Jim and touched the brim of his hat in a sarcastic salute as he said stonily, "Seems your doctor has a lot of friends. Let's hope he deserves them."

With that, he wheeled around to stride to his horse. Mounting up, he called out to his men and they cantered out of town.

"Doc alright?" Silas asked Jim as they watched the armed troop leave.

"Uh-huh," Jim drawled as he turned to McCready with a slight grin. "No offence, Silas, but I wouldn't have figured you to be one of Doc's cheerleaders."

McCready chewed on the wad of tobacco in his cheek and then spat toward the street. "He's done right by my family, and the folks in this here town," Silas drawled. "T'be honest, I figure he's worth more to us than the good will of a bunch'a soldiers who never seem to get anywhere until it's too late anyway." Looking down the street, he continued, "Figures the cavalry noticed we ain't been attacked 'round here for months now. Makes some sense that they'd suspect Doc of somehow makin' a deal with the savages." Turning back to Jim, he said, "We don't rightly care if he did or didn't. But we reckon helpin' that brave last fall did us all a good turn. S'good enough for us."

With that, he waved to the men accompanying him and they all strode down to the saloon, probably to talk about how proud they were for having chased the Cavalry out of town. Nobody was going to mess with their doctor, not when he was the only one within more than a hundred miles.

Jim shook his head as he went back inside and ambled to the office. Hanging his hat on a hook by the door, he sank down in the chair at the end of Sandburg's desk. "Seems like you've got a fan club, Junior."

Blair smiled as he laid down his pen. "Yeah, so I heard. Who would have thought McCready'd ever go out of his way on my account?"

"Who would have ever thought you could lie like a trooper?" Jim shot back. "I never figured you for one who could tell a tall tale with such an innocent face."

Snickering, Blair sat back and pushed his hair back behind his ears. "Yeah, well, most of it was true, and that's the trick with a good lie." Sobering, he swallowed as he continued, "I don't make a habit of lying, but I can when it's for the right reasons. I'm more useful here than facing down a firing squad. And, if I'd gone down, he'd've taken you, too. I wasn't about to have that happen, not after you went after me and brought me back home."

"I'm not complainin', Sunshine," Jim drawled with an approving grin, very proud of the kid. "I was just surprised, is all."

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

The hot summer finally broke, the earlier sunsets and cooler winds blowing in off the prairie warning that fall was around the corner. September arrived, signaling the official end of summer, and the kids all started back to school, most of them grumbling every step of the way, though they had to admit, their new teacher wasn't too bad - not like Miss Bascome, but okay. Marnie, Angus' oldest girl, had taken over the role of schoolmarm the spring before, after Nellie had been murdered. She was still struggling a bit with her new role, but she enjoyed working with the children, and they responded ever more positively to her as they settled back into the familiar routines. Leaves turned golden and russet, some a bright blaze of crimson, but had not yet fallen. The dry air smelled crisp with that smoky tang of autumn, and the sun was still warm on the face. The annual fall harvest was well underway, the homesteaders humbly grateful for the continuing fair weather.

But though the season was changing, the business in town hadn't slowed down any. If anything, it was busier, with the farmers bringing in their produce, and heavy wagons of grain being hauled to the nearby mill on the river. Drifters and gamblers continued to wander into town, the stagecoaches still rolled through, dropping off some folks and picking up others who were moving on, or going to visit relatives back east. On weekends, fistfights and sudden drunken brawls were still a common occurrence, but it was mostly routine, nothing of any real concern. Blair was gratified that his people all seemed in pretty good health and, except for the occasional broken arm, wrenched back or the routine birthing, which he loved because he got such a kick over helping new life into the world, he didn't have a whole lot to do.

He and Jim had gotten closer since the summer, easier together and yet also very much enjoying their friendship, not taking it for granted as maybe they had, unconsciously. Near-death experiences tend to remind folks of their fragility and the vulnerability of life. Jim stopped bitching about the endless tests, and made no further comments about the notes that Blair kept - except non-verbal ones, only they weren't resentful anymore. If anything, he'd look at the notes with a kind of dread and then would turn away, as if denying their very existence; he knew now they'd only be used if something ever happened to Blair - and he never wanted that day to come.

Blair was out of town - helping Sadie Wilmington's fifth child into the world - when three men got off the stage and carried their carpetbags to the hotel. Two looked like they might be sons of the tall, erect, older man, the way they fell in behind him, deferred to him and shared similar sandy-brown, straight hair, odd amber eyes and thin mouths. Megan welcomed them to her establishment as they signed the hotel register and learned they were just passing through, only planning to be in town for a night or two. Glancing down at the register as she handed them their two room keys, the older man having requested a separate room, she smiled as she said, "Mr. Ralston, I hope you and your sons enjoy your time in Bitterwood Creek."

He smiled in return, though his cold eyes gave her an inward shiver, as he replied with a warm Southern drawl, "Oh, ah expect we shall, madam. Thank you."

The three men kept to themselves mostly, though they ambled along the boardwalk later in the day, pausing briefly to read the note on the door of the Doctor's Office that indicated, in case of emergency, he was out at the Wilkinson farm but expected to be back the next afternoon for regular office hours. They sauntered on to the livery stable, and then back to the hotel for an early supper in the small dining room beside the reception desk. There wasn't anything about them that was overtly threatening, but they carried an air of something unwholesome. Maybe it was the cold, amber eyes they all shared. Maybe the slight sneer on their lips as if they felt themselves superior. Whatever it was, it made Megan uneasy and she kept an eye on them.

So she noticed when they were up very early the next morning, leaving without any breakfast, as if they were in a hurry to get someplace. She went out the front entrance, curious to see where they were going. Cocking her head as she watched them walk away, she frowned, thinking they almost looked like they were marching, backs so stiff and resolute, their strides evenly matched. When they disappeared into the livery stable, she shrugged. Maybe they knew folks in the area and that's why they were staying in Bitterwood Creek for a couple of days. They weren't obliged to tell her their business. Having work to do, she went back inside without waiting to see which way they went.

But the men, and their odd, uncomfortable manner, continued to wear on her mind. Finally deciding to give in to her misgivings, though she thought she was maybe being silly, she set off to the Sheriff's Office.

"Jim," she said as she entered, a slight frown between her brows, "I may just be being foolish, but there're some visitors staying at the hotel that, I don't know, seem odd."

"Odd?" he echoed as he looked up with an expression of mild interest. "Odd how?"

Crossing her arms, she shrugged a little. "I don't know, exactly. Cold? Aloof - act like they're better than everyone else. It's a man and his two sons. They stand and walk as if they were military officers, but they aren't in uniform. Likely because they're Southerners…I'd guess the father, at least, fought in the War. I suppose it sounds crazy - they just gave me the creeps. Anyway, they were up early and went to the livery stable. Maybe they're just visiting someone…but…I've got a bad feeling about them."

Jim thought about it. There was nothing in what Megan had told him to suggest the men meant any harm - but she was sharp, and if she'd picked up a sense of threat about them, then maybe they did mean trouble. "What's their name?" he asked.

"Ralston. He's…" she replied.

"What?" he snapped and then surged up from his seat, his expression thunderous as he grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall by the desk.

"Ralston, Jeremiah, and his sons, Joshua and Job," she elaborated, wondering at his sudden reaction. "You know them?" she asked with increasing concern as he swore under his breath.

"Oh yeah," he grunted as he passed her on his way out. "Thanks, Megan," he called back over his shoulder as he loped around the corner and down the alley to his stable. He quickly saddled Lobo, and mounted before cantering over to the livery stable.

Meanwhile, Megan, even more curious and now seriously alarmed by his reaction, jogged to the livery stable to ask Henri if he knew anything more about the three men, or where they'd gone. When Jim clattered into the yard a scant few minutes later, he found Brown saddling up his own horse and Megan busy filling a saddlebag with extra rifle cartridges.

"Which direction did they take?" Ellison called from horseback as Megan threw on the saddlebags and Henri mounted, his rifle already in its sheath on the saddle.

"They asked for directions to the Wilkinsons' farm," Henri called back. "They're after the Doc, aren't they?"

"'Fraid so," Jim replied brusquely, wheeling Lobo around. "You stay here - they're dangerous."

"That's why I'm comin' with you," Brown replied staunchly. The blacksmith hadn't appreciated the uppity, superior manner of his most recent customers; hadn't at all liked being called 'boy' in that condescending tone. He'd read the cruel callousness in their eyes and had suspected they were bad news, for all they'd claimed to be relatives of the Wilkinsons. If they were after Doc, then the young man was in deep trouble. And Doc had been real good to Henri and his family - he wasn't about to stand back and let men like that hurt Sandburg.

Not having time to argue, Jim nodded and kicked Lobo into a fast gallop, Henri on his heels as they lit out of town.

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

Blair was tired but happy as he set out from the Wilkinson farm. Sadie had delivered another fine, strapping, baby boy just before dawn, and he'd've left sooner but Jake had insisted he stay for a good, hearty breakfast, the only payment the proud farmer could really afford - that and a promise to bring in some preserves and a supply of flour, once Sadie was on her feet again. So, he was well fed, and well-satisfied with life as he hummed softly, looking forward to getting home and maybe even a couple of hours of shut-eye.

He was about a mile from town when three riders charged out of the shelter of the trees by the creek, quickly surrounding him.

"What the…" Blair called out, startled more than worried - until he recognized the older man. "Ralston!" he exclaimed, and then looked quickly at the other two men, his stomach twisting in unconscious revulsion at how much they looked like their dead brother, Jonas.

"Thought I'd forget you, huh, Jew?" Ralston, Senior, sneered.

"No, I just kinda hoped they'd thrown you in prison and tossed away the key," Sandburg snapped back, his voice level as he kept a wary eye on them. This wasn't good, and he knew it.

The ex-Colonel of the Masonville prison camp laughed, a harsh, cruel bark. "In the interests of peace and respect for brothers in uniform, officers were forgiven their misguided rebellion and afforded the opportunity to either retain their commissions or retire honourably." He spat into the dirt, a gesture of contempt. "As if I'd ever wear the blue."

"How'd you find me?" Sandburg asked, his voice tight as he tried to control his fear. They hadn't drawn their guns yet, but he had no doubt of what they intended - there was no way they were going to let him get away alive.

"Took me a while," Ralston replied philosophically. "I tracked you to the hospital they took you to, but just missed you. Heard you'd headed back to Maryland - but the folks there don't think much of you, do they, boy?"

Blair looked away at the reference to Eliza and her husband, Lucas, his former partner. Ralston laughed again, vastly enjoying himself. "Anyway, I lost your trail for a time, but your local little newspaper is quite a help. Ran across a story about the brave doctor of Bitterwood Creek, who'd first come into town to help folks quarantined with diphtheria and who didn't have a doctor to care for them. And then he nearly got himself killed, saving the Sheriff's life - because it seems he's also the town's Deputy Sheriff. Very warm-hearted story - got picked up by the national papers. And here I am."

"Yeah, here you are, with your two fine sons," Blair returned sarcastically as he eyed the younger Ralstons with disgust. "Take after Jonas, do they?"

Rage filled Ralston's face as he shouted, "Don't you talk to me about Jonas, you no-good murdering Jew! You should have died more'n two years ago!"

Blair looked from Ralston to his sons, and decided he'd be damned if he was just going to sit around and let them torture him, because that's what they'd do, before they killed him. So, he gave Butternut a sharp, sudden kick, yelling, "Go, girl!" as he bent low over her neck and burst past Ralston. Shots rang out, and Butternut's right foreleg jumped; she stumbled, her sudden speed making her crash to the ground. Blair rolled free, and was scrambling to his feet as the three riders thundered up to surround him and his horse, their guns leveled at him. Swallowing, he turned to check on Butternut but she was already climbing back up onto her feet, her grazed right foreleg dribbling blood from a deep gouge. "Easy, girl," Sandburg murmured, reaching up to stroke her neck. "You're okay."

Ralston snorted and waved his gun toward the creek. "Get moving - that way." And then he swiveled his Colt toward the wounded horse. "Or I'll kill your horse."

Swallowing, Blair gave a jerky nod and, his shoulders stiff, he turned and walked toward the trees. Joshua Ralston caught up Butternut's reins and tugged her along behind as the three mounted men paced him until they had arrived under the cool shadows of the gloriously golden trees.

They had fun roughing him up a bit, but that wasn't what they had planned for the main attraction. They wanted him conscious, and very aware - wanted him to die slowly. So though they bruised his ribs and laid open his face with a cut above one brow and a split lip, they exercised restraint and kept their knives in their sheaths.

"Let's do it, Pa," Job urged with eager cruelty sparking in his eyes. "I want to see him kick."

"All right, son," Ralston agreed with a cold smile. "Go bring his horse over here."

Joshua held Blair tight, an arm around the smaller man's throat, squeezing viciously, while Ralston bound Sandburg's wrists together behind his back. And then the older man looped a rope around his neck, drawing it tight.

Blair swallowed hard. He'd not said a word, nor made a sound, as they'd beaten him - hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction of knowing their blows had hurt. But he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to stop his body's fight for air as he slowly strangled to death, or the ugly rictus of death by asphyxiation, his face blue and tongue swollen out of his mouth, his bowels loosened as the sphincter gave way. It galled him to know that they'd enjoy the spectacle - and made him nauseous to think of his friends, of Jim, eventually finding him swinging from the end of a rope.

They hauled him to his horse and lifted him up into the saddle. Ralston threw the end of the long rope up over a limb that would do nicely, and then tied it off around the tree trunk so tightly that Blair was pulled up stiffly in the saddle. He blinked and swallowed, his jaw tight and his lips compressed to a thin, determined line. He was wondering if he fell a certain way, if he could break his neck even though the knot wasn't designed to do that.

Ralston came to stand in front of Butternut as he looked up at Sandburg and said with formal relish, "For the heinous crime of murdering my fine son, Jonas Ralston, I hereby sentence to you to hang by the neck until you are dead. Do you have any last words?"

"Go to hell, Ralston," Blair grated, his eyes flashing with defiance. "And take your two misbegotten sons with you - may you all burn there with your 'fine son, Jonas'."

Ralston's eyes flashed with fury, but he held it in check. Stepping out of the way, he nodded to Joshua, who smacked Butternut's haunch hard, as he yelled out, "Hiya!" - and the startled horse bolted.

Blair grunted as the rope jerked tight, strangling him as he dangled four feet off the ground.

But then a shot rang out - and the rope snapped, dropping him, choking, to the grass.

The three Ralstons whirled, shocked by the sudden turn of events, their weapons instantly in their hands, firing toward the two men thundering down upon them. Jim's gun cracked again, and one of the boys cried out as he spun and dropped. Henri's rifle boomed, and the other son fell. The riders were almost upon him as Ralston, maddened with fury and holding Sandburg responsible for the loss of all his sons, whirled around to level his weapon on the man who was on his knees, bound and helpless, desperate for air he couldn't get - the rope drawn too tight to allow him to breathe.

Just before Ralston could pull the trigger, Jim dove off Lobo, tackling him and driving him to the ground. Ellison was so maddened by fury that he wanted to tear Ralston apart with his bare hands. As they rolled, Jim grabbed Ralston's gun arm but the older man was made strong by his insane rage and he punched Ellison hard in the face, while he fought to bring the gun down and around to shoot the Sheriff. Job, thought to be dead, struggled to bring his gun up and he shot Jim in the back barely a second before Henri rode in and shot the murderous lout, killing him. Freed of Ellison's restraint by the last perfidious action of his son, Ralston wheeled again on Sandburg, and was bringing his weapon up to shoot Blair in the head when Brown's next bullet rammed into his heart.

Henri jumped off his horse and raced to Blair, whose face was now blue with hypoxia. He was sagging to the ground, his strength rapidly waning as the rope around his neck choked the life from his body. The big man hastily loosened the noose and hauled it over Sandburg's head, and then he pulled out a knife to swiftly cut the bindings on Blair's wrists.

Heaving for air, gasping violently, Blair's gaze was locked on Jim who was laying on his back, apparently unconscious…or dead. As soon as he was free, Sandburg scrambled toward his best friend, hastily checking the pulse at the base of his throat and then pulling Jim forward, carefully, to rest on his knees as he bent forward to examine Jim's back. "Henri, give me your knife," he commanded with hoarse urgency, holding out his hand and, when he had it, he sliced through the blood-soaked shirt, baring the wound and the blood pumping from a powder-blackened hole to the right of Jim's spine, below his ribcage.

"Dammit," Sandburg cursed as he ripped off his own shirt. The wound was pumping out blood, rich and red - too much, too fast. As a doctor, Blair knew with chilling certainty that Jim had been hit in a bad place, that this was a mortal wound, but he'd be damned if he'd let Ellison die. Wadding up his shirt as an impromptu pressure pad, he quickly tied the remains of Jim's shirt tightly around Ellison's body to put pressure on the improvised dressing and hold it secure.

"Henri," he called out, his voice painfully raspy, "help me get him on Lobo. We've got to get him back to town!"

Brown, who'd just finished quickly verifying that all the Ralstons were dead, caught Lobo's reins and drew him closer to Ellison and Sandburg, and then he bent to pull Jim into his arms as easily as if he were picking up a child. But instead of placing Jim belly-down across the saddle, he settled him in a slumped, seated position. "Hold 'im, while I climb up behind," he directed Blair. "Wound like that, he shouldn't be shaken up by a rough ride."

Lobo, who didn't usually take to strange riders, seemed to understand his cooperation was needed, and stayed rock still as Blair steadied Jim and Brown climbed up behind him, and then pulled the unconscious man back to rest against his chest, one strong arm holding him securely. Though the gouge on Butternut's fetlock was no longer bleeding, Blair knew she could manage neither his weight nor the speed he urgently needed. Trusting her to find her way home at her own pace, Blair climbed onto Brown's horse, and raced ahead to get things ready in the infirmary.

He hadn't a moment to lose…Jim was dying…

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

Megan was keeping an anxious watch, so when Blair rode in so fast, leaping from Brown's horse and racing into his office, she ran along the boardwalk to follow him inside.

"What happened?" she demanded, finding Blair in the back, a pot and a knife already heating on the stove as he rapidly sorted through the instruments he'd need.

"Bastards shot Jim," he rasped, his movements tight with controlled, economical precision. "Henri's bringing him in."

"The Ralstons?" she asked.

"Dead," Sandburg spat, growling, "and good riddance to them."

He turned and dumped the instruments into the already simmering water, glancing at the clock on the worktable as he moved to the cupboard to pull out towels, linen pads and bandages. Setting them on the workbench by the operating table, he then gathered up the medicines he'd need, also putting them on the bench, ready to hand.

"How bad is Jim hurt?" Connor asked, standing with her arms crossed, wishing she knew what to do to help.

"Bad," Blair grated. He heard the clop of hooves in the back and raced to the door to open it. Brown had already slipped off the saddle, Jim in his arms, and he carried the Sheriff past Sandburg to lay him on the table, where Megan immediately set to work pulling off his boots. Brown took off Jim's gunbelt to hand to Blair, and then loosened his belt, giving Megan a look before he pulled down the jeans. Taking his point, she winked, as she said dryly, "I'm sure he doesn't have anything I haven't seen before," but in deference to the unconscious Sheriff's dignity, she hurried out of the room.

Henri snorted and shook his head as he hauled off Ellison's jeans. "What can I do to help?" he asked Blair. "I used t' help out on the plantation when folks got hurt…"

"Good, thanks," Blair replied as he placed the gunbelt on the worktable, and then grabbed the bottle of ether. "Help me turn him on his stomach and then go wash your hands. I'll need you to hold some instruments while I operate."

While Brown washed up, Blair carefully administered the ether. Though Jim was unconscious, he could revive at any time, and that wouldn't be good in the middle of the operation. Then, checking the clock, he quickly washed his own hands, arms and bare chest, taking a fresh towel to dry himself off. He pulled the instruments from the boiling water, using the ends of tongs that had also been boiling away, a hot towel around them to keep from burning himself as he arranged them on another clean linen that he'd laid on the tray.

Moments later, he was working over his best friend. The bullet had angled up to the ribs, but then deflected deeper into Ellison's body. Silently, with grim, utterly resolute determination and ruthless precision, Blair traced its path, keeping the wound as small as he could and still do what was needed. He kept his field of work dry by using linen to mop up blood that still bubbled up from somewhere inside and from small capillaries damaged by the incision. When it became necessary, he fitted retractors into the wound, drawing them to the necessary position and quietly asked Henri to hold them steady.

Finally, he found the bullet embedded in Jim's liver. Blair swallowed hard as he examined the extent of the damage, and then sighed. Most of the organ was intact, only one end ruptured by the lead pellet. Not great, but better than it might have been. Swiftly, he extracted the bullet, and then spun to the stove to pick up the red-hot knife. Returning, he angled the blade carefully into Jim's body, and seared the damaged liver, cauterizing and sterilizing the lacerated part of the organ. Tossing the knife away, he spilled some whiskey into the open wound, then some of the herbs Whispering Waters had given him, and then closed, using small, precise, tight stitches. Before he bandaged the wound, he dusted it with more of the herbs, as well as sulfa powder.

Henri watched it all silently, wordlessly in awe of how fast the doctor worked. When Blair was finished, Brown turned Jim gently, enough to slip his arms around his back and under his legs and then carried him to the clean cot Blair pointed him toward. As soon as Jim was positioned on his side, supported by pillows, Blair drew two heavy quilts over him.

When Brown asked why the heavy blankets, given the day was warm and the stove had made the infirmary downright hot, Sandburg explained quietly that shock, from the blood loss and from the trauma of the very invasive and traumatic surgery, was the biggest danger now. He needed to keep Jim as warm as he could, his feet slightly higher than his head - and having explained why, asked Brown to lift the foot of the cot while Blair put two thick medical books under the legs to keep it elevated.

Finished, he stood back and blew out a long breath as he studied Jim, and then he wordlessly turned away to wash the blood off his hands and arms. He wanted to weep and rage, scream out about the injustice of this happening to Jim, but it would do no good. So he gritted his teeth, and swallowed his rage and his fear - there wasn't time to indulge his own grief and terror that Jim might not live - no time to wallow in guilt because Ellison had been hurt so badly by men hunting him.

"What about you, Doc?" Brown asked.

"Me?" Blair rasped, looking over his shoulder with a puzzled frown as he lathered his hands. Jim was the one they all needed to worry about, not him.

"Your neck's pretty messed up with raw skin and rope burn," Henri pointed out. "Got some ointment or something I can put on it for you, maybe a light bandage to put around it, so's it'll heal?"

Wearily, Blair gave his friend a slight smile as he nodded. "Thanks, H - I forgot all about it."

When his own injury was attended to, Blair looked up at the big man. "I really appreciate all your support today," he rasped through his raw throat. "For coming with Jim to save my neck - literally - and for helping me with him. You're a good and brave friend, Henri."

Brown looked down and away, embarrassed by the praise. "So're the two of you," he replied quietly. "T'was Megan told Jim the Ralstons were in town - she didn't like the look of them," he told Blair, sharing the credit for his rescue.

Connor returned then. She'd been lingering in the doorway, anxiously watching the surgery, ready to help if needed. But when Henri was moving Jim onto the cot, she'd gone back to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Holding out a mug of the restorative beverage, which she'd sweetened with honey, she said to Blair, "Jim's not the only one in shock. Sit down and drink this before you keel over. Only thing that's been keeping you going so far is sheer nerve." Turning to the blacksmith she ordered, "Help me bind his ribs. From the look of those bruises, I'd bet some are pretty banged up."

Blair blinked at her as he took the mug she shoved at him, and had to admit, now that there was time to notice, his ribs were aching pretty badly. When they finished binding his chest, she then cleaned up his face, putting antiseptic on the cut over his eye, making him hiss with the sting of it. That done, she stood back and gave him an assessing look, and then nodded. "Okay, I guess you'll do," she said crisply.

Blair couldn't help the small grin as he bowed his head in gratitude, and then looked back up into her bright eyes. "Thanks, Megan. For this," he waved at himself and the tea, "and for sending Jim out after me."

She nodded, only sorry she hadn't sent the Sheriff sooner. Looking at the bandages around his throat, remembering how his neck had looked and the hoarseness of his voice, she said hollowly, "They hung you, didn't they? Bastards. But why?"

Sandburg sighed. "Long story - we were on opposite sides in the War. I'm okay." When she gave him a skeptical look, he insisted, "Really, I'm fine. Look, I can take care of Jim now - you guys have businesses to run. You should go - but again - thank you, both of you, for everything."

They didn't really like to leave, but could see he needed some time to catch his breath. "Is he going to be all right?" Connor asked, pausing in the doorway.

"I hope so," Blair replied hoarsely, biting his lip as he turned away.

Silently, Megan and Henri nodded, and then they headed home. But they each pondered what neither had mentioned, nor ever would - the ruin of Blair's back. And they each wondered about the kind of hate that would engender such hideous abuse - if it was the same hate that had driven those monsters to ruthlessly hunt down a good and decent man, for the purpose of hanging him until he was dead. And then, they thought about Ellison, so desperately wounded by those same bastards.

Like Blair, they both consigned the Ralstons to hell.

Alone, Blair drew all the shades and dimmed all the lamps but one. He grabbed a spare shirt out of the cupboard and pulled it on, and then dumped the soiled linens and clothing that stank of blood into a bucket and set it outside the back door, to be attended to later. He cleaned his instruments and took away his medical supplies, closing them off in the storeroom. And then he picked up a basin and carried it to the small table by the cot. After filling a pitcher with water, and pulling down the laudanum from the shelf above the worktable, he carried it, the pitcher and a cup to the table. Last of all, he pulled out the small medicine bag with the panther talisman that he'd saved from Jim's shirt pocket, and slipped over his best friend's head.

And then he sat down in the chair beside Jim, waiting - hoping - his best friend would wake up. Taking Jim's limp hand between his own, clenching the long fingers tightly, he choked past the sob in his throat, "I did my best, but I don't know if that's going to be enough. God, please, don't leave me. You have to fight, Jim, you have to live…"

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

Two hours later, Jim groaned miserably. "Sick," he rasped urgently.

Blair shifted the basin quickly to the floor just below Ellison's face. Then, lifting a knee to rest his thigh against Jim's abdomen and pressing down with one hand on the wound to keep Ellison's body immobilized, he supported his friend's head as the man vomited over the side of the cot. "Easy," he soothed, his voice pitched low. "It's the ether - makes most people sick."

Ellison moaned again as Blair wiped his lips and then gave him a sip of water. "Feel like I've been stomped by a horse," he muttered weakly, grimacing with pain.

"You were shot in the back," Sandburg told him calmly. "How're the lanterns? All turned down?"

"Huh?" Jim mumbled, bleary with pain, nausea, blood loss and shock, not to mention the aftereffects of the surgery. "Oh, right." He pressed his eyes closed, fighting to concentrate on the images in his mind. "Damned things are bright," he grated.

"Okay, we can fix that," Blair soothed. "Let's start with the red lantern…"

Once he'd worked Jim through the process of lowering his sensory sensitivities, Blair gave him another drink, this time with a drop of laudanum in it. It would knock Jim out and keep him still - and right now, that was what was most needed so that he didn't pull any of the stitches and cause more internal bleeding. Sandburg knew the liver could heal, but it needed time. Especially since it would be working overtime trying to make up for the blood Jim had lost.

It wasn't long after that before folks started to come by, worried about their Sheriff. Blair appreciated their interest, and was grateful when Delores took charge of the laundry, and Maisie brought chicken broth and stew, along with fresh bread. But he was worried that too much company even in the front of the house, with people talking and asking questions, expressing their concern, would disturb Jim. So when Megan dropped in again, he asked her if she could stay and take charge of the door to the street - thank people for coming, but send them quickly on their way again. He asked in such a way as to present it as a favour to him, so that he wouldn't have to be constantly going to greet people.

Megan nodded, but she looked around at the dimmed room, and hadn't missed that Sandburg was speaking very softly, even for a guy with a raw throat. "Too much light and noise bothers him, doesn't it?" she asked astutely, her own voice soft. "I've noticed sometimes that he winces on really bright days, like he's got a headache. And he seems to overhear conversations no one else possibly could."

Blair's eyes flickered away from hers as he replied, "I guess, but lots of people have better hearing or vision than other people do…"

"Uh-huh," she grunted but let it go as she turned back to stand watch and fend off intruders, doing what she could to give both men a chance to rest and heal.

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

Blair kept Jim asleep for the better part of five days.

It meant painstakingly feeding liquids into him, virtually drop by drop, and massaging Ellison's throat to encourage swallowing, but Blair worked over him tirelessly, only stopping for quick, brief naps. When he'd ensured Jim's first need, for liquids to sustain his strength and help compensate for the blood he'd lost, Blair turned his attention to Ellison's body. Through Megan, he'd bought a sheep's skin from the General Store, rich with lanolin, to protect Jim's back, and got Henri to help him turn Ellison three times a day, to take pressure off his spine and hips. Hour after hour, he soothed lotion into Jim's skin, over his long arms and legs, and into his back and hips, so that his skin wouldn't dry or become irritated with lying too long on the rough cotton sheets. As he soothed and massaged, careless of the burn in his ribs as he lifted and bent the heavy limbs, he gently exercised Ellison's arms and legs, to keep circulation going and to lessen the weakening of Jim's muscles.

As he cared for his best friend, Blair's eyes blurred as he thought about how this was the third time that Jim had saved his life in less than a year, had simply refused to let him go. First, through the bitter cold and across the endless white prairie, at the risk of his own life, to get him back from the Indians and bring him home. And then, fighting his own terror, Jim had pressed his hands into Blair's body to staunch the hemorrhage that was killing him, and to remove the bullet that had brought him to death's door. And this time, thundering out to save him from being murdered by that scum, the Ralstons, only to have his boundless courage and unhesitating determination rewarded by a bullet in his back. Sandburg had done all he could, as fast as he could, to help Jim; hell, he'd move heaven and earth to save Jim's life, if he could. But he didn't know if his best would be good enough - and he was desperately afraid that Jim might yet give his life for having saved his.

And he talked, endlessly, a soothing ripple of sound, oblivious of the rawness of his own throat - soft words of respect and admiration, continuous encouragement to rest and focus on staying alive. Words that he could never say when Jim could hear them and know that one soul in this world wanted nothing more than his wellbeing and happiness, lest he embarrass the proud man. But this one soul sorrowed for Jim's pain and Ellison's silent grief over his inability as a man to right all wrongs, and in poignant regret that Blair could not better ease the burdens that Jim carried with such strength of body and character.

Feeling, somehow, that he should be able to do more, willing to give all that he had, Blair could only lay his warm palm over Jim's heart and bend to kiss this beloved man's brow, as he murmured, "I love you, my brother. I want you to live."

Minute by minute, hour by hour, day after endless day, Sandburg kept his vigil by Ellison's side, afraid that if he left, on his return he would find Jim gone…

If, and when, anyone in town needed his attention, he asked that they come to him, and he treated them in the office or the kitchen, leaving the infirmary quiet. He was quietly pleased when he learned that a prayer group had started over at the church, and that they were taking turns praying so that the prayers never stopped as the sun rose and fell and rose again as the days slowly passed. The preacher, Pastor Stevens, stopped by to offer good wishes and to assure Blair that he only need call on him or any of his flock for whatever help the doctor might need in caring for their Sheriff.

On the fifth day, guardedly hopeful that the wound was healing well and immensely relieved that Jim only had a slight fever, normal given how hard his body was working to heal, Blair stopped using the laudanum. It was time for Ellison to wake up - time for him to start taking in more than water and thin broth to regain his energy and strength.

A couple of hours later, Jim began to stir and Blair began a low murmur of encouragement to draw him back to consciousness.

"Hmm?" Jim mumbled and then sniffed.

"Come on, big guy," Blair soothed. "Time to wake up and show me those baby blue eyes."

"What?" Ellison muttered as he blinked and frowned up at the ceiling, his eyes slowly tracking toward Blair's voice. "What happened?" he sighed, grimacing with discomfort.

"I'll explain, but first, let's check your lanterns," Sandburg directed quietly. When he was satisfied that Ellison was as comfortable as he could be, he gave Jim some water, and then reached for the gruel he had ready and waiting on the side table. "I want you to eat some of this," he said, as he lifted a spoon to the Sheriff's mouth.

Jim took it and swallowed, but made a face, cutting his best friend a dirty look.

"I know, not your favourite thing, but you're not quite up to steak yet," Blair grinned, relieved beyond words that Jim was so coherent and responsive.

But Jim was now scrutinizing Sandburg, and from the way his eyes narrowed, he didn't seem to like what he was seeing. "Chief, you look like shit." And then memory seemed to return and he scowled as he stared at the light bandage around Blair's throat. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's still a little sore, and my voice is a bit rough, but your marksmanship won the day - how the hell did you manage to hit that swinging rope with only one shot from that distance?" Blair replied, subtly redirecting the conversation away from his own injuries.

"I was motivated," Jim grunted, concern still in his eyes. "Jesus, Blair…when I saw…"

"I'm okay - as you can plainly see," Sandburg cut in, neither of them needing to dwell on that particular memory. "Thanks to you, with a little help from our friends."

"Those bastards better all be dead," Ellison growled, furious and sick with the memory of Sandburg swinging from the end of a rope.

"They are," Blair answered shortly, as he lifted another spoonful to Jim's mouth. "Now eat - doctor's orders." While Ellison ate, Sandburg told him again that he'd been shot in the back, but that he'd gotten the bullet out and was hopeful that Jim would have a full recovery. "I want you to take it easy for at least a month, and as soon as you can take more solid food, you can eat all the steak and liver you want until I figure you've had enough red meat to restore your blood loss."

"If I'm doing so great, how come you look like something the cat dragged in?" Jim demanded before Blair could stick another spoonful of the gruel into his mouth. "Don't try to snow me - I've seen you take care of enough sick people without half killing yourself to do it. When did you last get some decent sleep?"

Blair looked away from the too penetrating gaze and set the nearly empty bowl down. Memories of the wound and the extent of the damage flickered in his mind, and he swallowed. "You were lucky," he replied quietly, turning his gaze to Jim's, "the bullet didn't hit anything that wouldn't heal. But it was…a critical injury, and I…I wasn't sure…I did my best…as fast as I could…but I was afraid…"

His voice cracked and he turned away, blinking hard as he drew in a deep breath. Swallowing, he murmured, "Sorry…I was just real scared for awhile…"

Jim reached out to grip Blair's wrist, holding on as firmly as his weakness would allow. "How long since I was shot?"

"A little more than five days," Sandburg replied, swiping at his eyes with his free hand before he turned back to face Jim. "I kept you knocked out so that you'd be still, and heal. But you are healing, and you're going to be fine."

"Of course, I'm going to be fine," Jim murmured fondly. "I've got the best doctor in the world looking after me."

Sandburg snorted, but he smiled faintly. "Yeah, well, you've got a doctor who tries real hard, I'll give you that." Reaching up to stroke Jim's brow, he dropped his voice as he added, "And your doctor says you need to go back to sleep and rest some more."

Weary, feeling far weaker than he'd ever want to admit, Jim nodded and closed his eyes, but when he felt Blair cover his hand in a light, reassuring grip, he murmured, "Make you a deal, Doc - I'll go back to sleep if you go over to the next cot and lie down. I can hear your heart beating, so you don't have to hold my hand to let me know you're nearby…"

"You can hear my heart beat?" Sandburg exclaimed in astonishment. "Really?"

Ellison grimaced, unhappy with himself for having blurted out something he'd not previously mentioned, because it felt so invasive and embarrassing. But then, struggling to make light of it, Jim blinked open one eye as he muttered, "Don't bother the guy who's trying to sleep, okay? Go lie down like your 'blessed protector' tells you to do." And then he closed his eye, immediately pretending to snore.

Blair laughed at the familiar tone of teasing, taking great comfort that it looked like Jim was going to be just fine. But as he stood, he leaned forward to drop a light kiss on Jim's brow before turning to sink down on his own bed, finally feeling he could relax enough to really rest. "I love you, my brother," he whispered as he closed his eyes.

"I know," Jim rumbled from the other bed. "I love you, too, kid. Now, for God's sake, go to sleep."

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

The leaves fell from the trees lining the banks of the creek and the nearby river; slowly at first as single, individual leaves lost their last grip on life and dropped to dance for dizzy moments on the wind, before sinking to rest and return to the earth. Then for two days, there was a virtual blizzard of crimson and gold tumbling from the trees, leaving them suddenly stark and barren, bereft. The wind no longer blew warm, but had a biting, bitter edge that cut through clothing and chinks under doors or between tiny gaps in the walls and around the windows. At dawn, the ethereal lacing of frost reflected the first, glittering beams of the rising sun. The homey scent of wood smoke filled the air, rising on plumes of wispy gray against the clear, deep blue sky; and the chill crispness of the air clarified and purified sound so that it fell sharper, cleaner, on the ear. Autumn and winter were dancing together, one spinning into the lead with a sun that could still be warm, and the other, blowing cold whispers of what was to come.

Activity in Bitterwood Creek slowed down as fewer drifters passed through, relatives stopped visiting from out of town, and everyone hunkered down to get ready for the coming winter. Women toiled over hot stoves, canning and making preserves. Men chopped and stacked endless cords of wood for the fires that were essential to survival once the snows came with their killing cold. Women pulled out the winter layers, going over them to repair rips and tears, putting on patches, letting down hems for children who were taller this year. Men went hunting, to lay in meat for the dark months. There was less time for casual socializing, a greater sense of urgency that there was only so much time to get ready before that first blizzard hit and locked them indoors for long, dreary, months.

Word came over the telegraph that the Cavalry's war against the renegade Indians, who refused to stay on the land assigned to them, was heating up. Wagon trains had been attacked as they'd lumbered across the western territories. A whole Cavalry brigade had been wiped out up in the Dakota Territory. Several homesteads scattered across Kansas, Texas and up in Nebraska had gone up in flames over the summer. It appeared the Cavalry was stepping up its efforts to contain the Indians. Soldiers were shipped west from the Union on the same trains that brought Gatling guns and huge stores of rifles and ammunition. There was a big push on to bring the hostilities to an end.

Folks in Bitterwood Creek felt charmed when they heard about the depredations in other places. Though Doc and the Sheriff refused to be drawn into any discussions about their collective good fortune, people had their own ideas - and were, frankly, astonished to think the Indians would be that grateful to have been helped by a single white man. They wouldn't have credited the savages with such a fine degree of decency and honour. Still, nothing else could explain their good luck, so they offered up their prayers for continuing safety every Sunday - and kept the good doctor stocked with meat, eggs, fresh bread, vegetables from their gardens and fruit from their trees, and a good stack of chopped wood, out by the stable.

Simon's sprained knee was taking a while to heal, and he still couldn't ride into town. Until he could, Jim and Blair both knew Sandburg couldn't maintain the peace in Bitterwood Creek alone. Henri Brown didn't know what to say when Sandburg approached him to ask for his help. As the Deputy, while the Sheriff was laid up, Blair had the authority to bring on another deputy, but no way under the stars would Brown have expected he'd be asked to take on such a high-profile, trusted and respected role in the town - to wear the badge that Sandburg kept in his own pocket. His throat tightened up, and he brushed his hand under his nose as he sniffed, muttering something about having a cold, as he blinked rapidly. It made him proud to be asked to wear the small tin star, to be considered as someone whom others, black or white, would trust and respect, even defer to. So he took the badge and pinned it on, wearing it with a new level of confidence and visible commitment to do his best, to be worthy of Sandburg's, and Ellison's, trust in him. It never seemed to occur to him that the Ralstons might well have killed both Jim and Blair, if he hadn't ridden out with Ellison, but the Sheriff and his Deputy knew how it could have ended. Henri Brown had declared himself that day as a man who would make a stand when the chips were down and one of his people was threatened. So far as Ellison and Sandburg were concerned, he'd earned the badge, pure and simple.

Later, when Simon was able to come in for the weekend nights, Brown was as likely to be his backup as was Blair. It was a measure of the people who lived in Bitterwood Creek that most only thought the arrangement was sensible. Banks and Brown were capable good men, big strong men who could keep the peace, and that's what the job was about, wasn't it? Besides, Brown had helped save the lives of Doc and the Sheriff, so it only made sense that they'd asked him to help out.

The bottom line was, as Simon, Joel, Blair and Henri all assured him, it meant that Jim didn't have to worry about the security and wellbeing of his town and its citizens while he took whatever time he needed to heal.

The reassurance was thoughtful, even kind; but didn't do a damned thing to reconcile Ellison with the sorry fact that the bottom line, so far as he was concerned, was that he wasn't doing his job!

So, starting about two weeks after he was shot and escalating as time went on, Jim complained vociferously that he was fine, that he had a job to do, and it was time to stop the coddling. However, despite his vocal assertions, he was secretly relieved that Blair paid him no mind. The weakness Ellison felt lingered, scaring him - making him wonder if he'd ever regain the resilience and energy, the sheer stamina and strength, that he'd had before the Ralstons had come to town. He felt the cold more, and he was always so endlessly tired, embarrassed to still be napping during the day when he'd slept soundly the whole night before.

He wondered if, maybe, he was getting old. Most men didn't make it to fifty, and he was pushing forty already.

But, much to his relief, he didn't have to confront the fears about his unaccustomed feelings of fragility anywhere but in his own heart, because Blair not only wouldn't believe his protestations about being 'just fine', but actively contested the fact, saying there was 'no way in hell' that Ellison could be fully recovered. He'd lost a 'bucket of blood' - well, alright, maybe only a good-sized pitcher's worth - but it took months for the body to remake and restore what was lost, and there was no way to hasten that 'physiological process'. Furthermore, any major surgical operation challenged the body's resources of energy for up to a year, and Jim did realize that he'd undergone very major surgery, didn't he?

When Jim cocked his head and raised a brow as he looked meaningfully at his younger friend, Blair realized belatedly that he'd talked himself into a confession he'd never intended to make.

Sighing, he allowed as how he still got tired more easily since the 'summer' (his euphemism for having damned near died), and yes, it was frustrating, but it would pass, would eventually get better. He then, immediately, launched into a flurry of impressive and barely understandable medically technical explanations about the impact of 'gross trauma', reminding Jim that he'd suffered an essentially 'mortal', as in fatal, injury, but had been lucky enough to survive. But the massive severity of the injury 'shocked' the body, literally staggered it; and the corrective surgery, while eminently necessary, obviously, only compounded the initial shock and trauma, exhausting the body's reserves of energy as it reeled under the dual assaults and struggled to live, to survive, as in keep breathing! The body was a wondrous creation, but it was not invulnerable, could not and would not pretend to more than it could do - the body was honest! Pain meant something; it just didn't hang around because it was bored and felt like it. Exhaustion was real, not an illusion, not laziness or whatever. It was just plain stupid to ignore the body's messages, and Jim wasn't that stupid, was he? Blair hastened to point out that Jim had lost weight, though he was eating well, citing it as 'empirical evidence' that he was burning energy that his body needed to heal! The naps he needed in the afternoons were the same deal…his body craved nourishment, downtime and rest so that it could restore itself - so that it could build back strength and resilience and stamina! Just exactly what, about all that, didn't Jim get?

The combination of Blair's clinical certitude and personal candour, not to mention his outright indignation, eased Jim's hidden fears and reminded him that Blair had never lied to him. If Sandburg insisted this weakness was only natural and would eventually go away, then it must be true. So, he really tried to settle down to let his body heal without complaint, though he couldn't always contain his restiveness, his inherent need to be active. But, since he couldn't be active physically, he had a lot more time to consciously think about things as he lounged in the well-crafted, well-cushioned and cozy chair and footstool Sandburg had had moved up to his bedroom, along with a beautiful and warm down-filled quilt to keep him from getting a chill - so that he'd have a private place of quiet comfort to relax and rest, away from the hectic office and infirmary downstairs. Comfortable, and warm under that quilt, his gaze drifted out the window over the stark trees by the creek, and he thought about the stuff Blair had blasted him with, when Sandburg had finally had enough of Jim's persistent irritability and routine bitching, as well as his refusal to accept, with 'some modicum of grace', that he needed time to heal. As he recalled the scathing diatribe, he also remembered how Blair had admitted, reluctantly, that he, too, still felt weak after he'd almost died last summer. But then, Sandburg had, as was typical, distracted him away from that admission by haranguing him with ever more, and louder, information as it pertained to Jim's health. As to that, Ellison had to admit he'd never seen Blair so riled up before, though the fast-talking was nothing new.

And that gave Ellison pause, as he reflected that maybe Blair didn't always tell him the honest to God truth - maybe he didn't outright lie, but he'd misdirect, or withhold information, like the fact that he was still fighting residual weakness and a tendency to tire easily, not that he'd slowed down any. Chewing on his lip, Ellison considered that new insight, picking out other examples of how Blair kept his own hurts to himself, hidden by a convincing veneer of cheerfulness overlaying calm kindness. The kid had developed misdirection to a fine art in his efforts to not burden or worry anyone with his troubles, but most particularly his, admittedly, occasionally overly-protective best friend. And, well, he'd sure spun a good yarn to Rutherford just a few short weeks ago. Blair could be a more convincing liar than most anyone would ever believe given his air of still youthful innocence, wide-eyed sincerity and cheerful nature.

Youthful innocence, my ass, Ellison thought with a snort, that man has lived through hell on earth, and has to be pushing thirty!

So…what if Sandburg wasn't being completely honest about the state of his own health?

And that got Jim to wondering why it was, apparently, only 'utterly obvious' that his body, most particularly his liver, needed a chance to heal - but it was perfectly fine for Blair to have a whole organ ripped from his body because the spleen was, essentially, useless. Why was it there in the first place, if was useless? And if blissfully sleeping through a 'profoundly invasive procedure' was so all-fired 'traumatizing', what did it do to a man who'd had to consciously live through the experience? What wasn't Sandburg telling him? With a shaft of sudden, cold, fear, Ellison wondered for the first time if the spleen was a whole lot more important than Blair had ever let on - and that maybe, without it, Blair was somehow vulnerable, might yet pay the ultimate penalty for having saved his life. Sure, he seemed to be fine, but what if he wasn't? What if he was just pretending to be fine?

Jim, having a legitimate and important bone to pick, would have trooped downstairs and confronted Sandburg with his new questions immediately, if the kid hadn't been out tending to a farmer who'd gotten his leg crushed when his wagon had rolled that morning.

So, Jim had to bide his time and - since he wasn't a particularly patient man - his sense of concern escalated to outrage that Blair so quickly lectured him while keeping important information about his own vulnerability from Ellison. They were supposed to be best friends, right? Partners, even. If he couldn't trust Sandburg, whom could he trust? And why the hell didn't the kid trust him to be able to understand and handle Blair's needs? Was it a doctor thing or a Blair thing? Or was there something that Jim was doing, a way of behaving, that kept Sandburg from trusting him? Did he, maybe, think Jim didn't care?

Well, he'd find out, wouldn't he?

Just as soon as the devious little schmuck got home!

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

Jim heard Butternut's distinctive canter on the hard earth long before Blair finally rode into the yard below and swung wearily out of the saddle. Beginning to stand, intending to head straight downstairs, Sandburg's behaviour caught his attention, so he leaned forward, concealed by the curtain, and studied his best friend with new intensity. Sandburg was resting against Butternut, his head bowed against her neck, and his shoulders slumped, looking too tired to stand. Then he straightened up with visible effort to lead his mount into the stable. For long moments, during which time Jim listened closely, he stumbled around unsaddling Butternut and brushing her down, murmuring in low, sad tones that were too soft for Ellison to make out. He caught Sandburg's muted groan as he forked hay into the mangers for both their horses, and Jim was about to go out to help, but Blair was already shuffling out of the stable, his medical bag in one hand, the other clutching his collar closed against the chill wind. As he approached the back door, he looked up at Jim's window, the shadow of a smile on his pinched, worn features. He couldn't see Jim in the shadows, Ellison knew that, but he could see Blair plainly - the lines of exhaustion around his lips, the dark shadows of fatigue under too-wide eyes that were dull with weariness. And then Blair again straightened up, squaring his shoulders and forcing a bounce into his lagging steps, once again appearing the effervescent, indefatigable kid who laughed easily and seemed never to have a care in the world.

Jim's jaw tightened and his lips thinned. It hurt that Blair felt he had to pretend around him. And it made him angry, born of concern and worry for the younger man, but angry nonetheless. It was a lie, all that fine pretense of boundless cheerfulness and sparkling humour. Damn it. He should have noticed a long time ago. He knew what Blair had endured in Masonville, but had hidden away, would probably still be hiding if Jim hadn't seen the scars. Yeah, sure, the kid was probably only carrying on with the easy-going manner he'd likely learned long ago to hide what he figured others didn't need to know or, maybe, couldn't deal with. Sandburg was strong, one of the strongest men Jim had ever known when it came to character and conviction, integrity and honour, and nobody could hold a candle to the depths of compassion in the man. But, damn it - wasn't it lonely? When did Blair give himself a chance to just lean on someone else once in a while? Even now, with the depth of friendship they shared, did he feel he was alone? Had he always felt alone? And, come to that, why hadn't he ever talked about his childhood and youth? Jim frowned, wondering why he'd never asked Sandburg about his past. Maybe because he didn't want to talk about his own childhood and, if he ever raised the subject, Blair would be on him like a terrier, wanting to know what Ellison's home life had been like, and why he'd run away to the Army when he'd only been thirteen. And, sonofabitch, that kid would worm everything out of him and, before he was finished, Jim would have forgotten his original interest had been in hearing about Sandburg's past.

Well, he was wise to the kid now. No more fast-talking and misdirection, no more teasing and shrugs and easy laughter that dismissed the mere question that he might have problems, or worries, or hurts, as of no import. No more. This partnership was a two-way street; they backed each other up. It was time to get a few things straight.

By the time Jim clattered downstairs, Sandburg was in the kitchen, stoking up the stove and gazing at the shelves of canned goods and preserves that the good ladies of the town kept supplying. Hearing Jim, he turned with a smile.

"Hey, how're you doing? Hungry? I was just looking at our overflowing abundance of choices. Man, so long as one of us keeps getting hurt and invoking the mothering instinct around town, we'll never starve. I was thinking maybe some of Maisie's incredible beef soup - it's got lots of vegetables in it - and maybe some bread. A simple but satisfying evening meal - what do you say?" he burbled on as he poured hot water into a tea pot and pulled down two mugs, setting them onto the counter before retrieving the fresh loaf of bread from the cupboard and pulling out a round of cheese go with it - perpetual motion wrapped up in a cheerful package.

Jim crossed his arms, standing like a rock in the doorway. "What do I think? I think it's time you sat down for a bit and caught your breath," he said repressively. "You look so tired that the breeze from a butterfly's wing could blow you over."

Blair stopped and gaped at the tone and the thunderous look on Jim's face. "What's with you, man? Wake up grouchy after your nap? I'm fine, just…a little tired, that's all, no big deal," he replied, his tone teasing and dismissive.

"Cut the crap, Sandburg - I finally figured out the game. I know I'm slow, so it took me more than a year, but I have figured it out," Jim slammed back. "Sit and catch your breath. I'm capable of heating up some soup and slicing some bread for supper."

Blair's eyes narrowed as he studied Ellison. Concerned, he asked, "What's wrong, Jim? Why do you look like Mount Vesuvius just before it blew up and buried Pompeii? I know it's got to be boring, here all day alone, and you hate being tied down. But, if you need something…"

"I'll tell you what I need, Chief," Jim cut in, moving into the room as he pointed a rigid finger at Sandburg, "I need you to start being honest with me."

Too tired to join in this dance, and not having a fine clue what Jim was going on about, Blair snorted and threw up his hands. "What is with you, tonight? What honest? When haven't I been honest with you?"

"What's the spleen really for, Chief?" Jim challenged.

"What?" Blair gaped, feeling slightly sandbagged and wondering if Jim had been amusing himself by reading the medical tomes in the office. His gaze shifted away, as he tried to redirect, to get to the bottom of why Jim was asking now, months and months after the fact. "Why? What brought that up?

Jim looked away, obviously reaching for calm. "You told me the spleen is useless, that nobody really needs one - but that doesn't make any sense. You said yesterday that the body doesn't lie, that it's 'honest'. So why would the body waste time with a useless organ? Why does it exist in the first place?"

"Oh, well, it all has to do with evolution, like your appendix, for example. At one time, it had a function processing the unrefined foods we ate, but now it's not necessary and really only causes trouble. Evolution takes a long time, Jim, and…"

"What's the spleen for, Sandburg? Straight out, okay? No beating around the bush about the appendix and evolution and…"

"I wasn't beating around the bush. You asked me why the body would have useless organs!" Blair cut in, his voice rising.

Jim blew out a breath and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The kid was working so hard at avoidance of the question that Ellison was getting very worried. What could be so terrible that Blair wouldn't tell him, even when he was asked directly and repeatedly? How serious was it? "You're starting to scare me, Sandburg," he said tightly. "What's so bad that you won't tell me?"

Hearing the genuine fear, Blair sagged. "Ah, Jim…it's nothing you need to worry about…"

"How about you let me decide that for myself," Ellison countered. "I'm all grown up, in case you haven't noticed. I'm not some kid you have to protect all the time!"

"Okay, okay," Blair capitulated as he held up his hands in surrender. He poured two mugs of tea, set them on the table and sat down. Looking up at Jim, he explained, "The spleen really doesn't have a hugely important role, not like the liver, or stomach, or brain or intestines. I didn't lie about that, not exactly. But, it may have a function in helping to sustain the immune system - to help resist and fight off disease. We don't know, not for sure, but people without spleens seem to be more prone to infection than they were before it was removed. That's it. No big deal. But, I didn't tell you because…"

"Because you're a doctor and you're around sick people all the time, and now you're more at risk and you didn't want anybody worrying about that," Ellison cut in, his anger building again. "Dammit! You could…"

"Die, yeah, I know," Blair cut in calmly. "Jim, every doctor knows his work can put him at risk. If we worried about that, we wouldn't be doctors. I'm careful. I'm not a fool or some martyr who thinks dying for my work would somehow be noble. But - I am a doctor. I'm not going to stop being a doctor. And having you, or other people, worrying that every time I go out to treat a case of pneumonia or whatever, is going to…well, the worry doesn't help, doesn't change anything, and frankly, it just takes more energy to reassure than to just avoid the discussion in the first place."

"So, it was deliberate. You willfully chose to as much as lie to me," Jim accused. "You withheld this information, keeping it a secret…"

Having had more than enough, Blair stood up, stomping toward Ellison and poking his finger in Jim's chest as he flared, "Secrets? You want to talk about keeping secrets? How about the fact that you can hear my heart beat? Huh? How's that for a secret? I'm trying to help you use and manage your senses and you don't tell me something like that? Just how long, since we're being so honest here, have you been able to hear my heart beating? Do you hear everyone's heart beating? Because, that's been really worrying me. How distracting must that be? How incredibly annoying! God, how much energy does it take just to cope with that kind of noise surrounding you all the damned time?"

Startled by the attack, Jim backed up, trying to keep the avalanche of questions straight. "Since I first woke up after the bank robbery, that's when and how long. And, no, I don't hear everyone's heart, not unless I really listen. So, it's not distracting, or annoying - it's relaxing, more than anything…"

"All the time we've been working on your senses, and you never told me? Why not?" Sandburg stormed.

"Well, it's not something that comes up, you know…"

Sandburg snorted and shook his head. "Jim," he said quietly, "it's fundamental. I have run countless tests to determine the scope of your hearing, and you've never told me you could discern such subtle…do you know what that means? It means that when you're dealing with other people, you can tell when they're tensing up, or losing control or maybe lying. I can't believe you didn't tell me this until you were so whacked out that you didn't know what you were saying."

Wearily, he turned away, sinking into his seat, his head turned away as if he could hardly bear the deception.

"Chief, look, it just seemed intrusive…embarrassing…I didn't know how you'd feel about me hearing that all the time. I mean ALL the time," Jim struggled to explain.

"I'm a doctor, Jim. The functions of the body don't embarrass me. They fascinate me," he replied flatly, not looking up at Ellison. Shaking his head, Blair sighed and then raised his eyes. "It's okay, I know you're not comfortable with your senses, but please, you have to tell me this stuff or I can't help you."

Chagrined, Jim nodded, and then froze. His head lifted and he glared at Sandburg as he snapped, "You just did it again!"

"What?" Blair demanded, looking thoroughly confused and more than a little annoyed.

"You twisted a discussion about you and your health, and the fact that I want you to be straight with me, to a discussion about my senses, and completely distracted me from what I wanted to talk about," Jim replied, shaking his head, caught between exasperation and admiration for the sheer skill and subtlety of Sandburg's tried and true tactics. But then, at the look of utter confusion on Blair's face, he asked, "Do you even know you're doing it?"

Sandburg closed his eyes and leaned back against his chair. God, he was so tired. What the hell was Jim talking about, and did they really have to talk about it right now? "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't understand what you think I'm doing. I'm interested in other people, in lots of things - so I ask questions and…"

"No, Blair," Jim cut in quietly, his anger spent. Sitting down, he laced his fingers on the table and said, "It's not just about curiousity and genuine concern for other people - which you have in abundance. I'm not challenging that. I am saying that you have a habit, conscious or otherwise, of not letting anyone in, of never sharing worries, or burdens, or concerns, or whatever with anyone else. Whenever anyone gets close, you redirect the conversation away from you."

Blair opened his eyes to look at Jim as he listened. "But…" he tried to interject but Ellison held up a hand.

"Just listen, okay? I want to say this, want you to know what I've finally noticed, because it bothers me, and worries me. It's not just the big things, like Masonville or the risks you live with now because you don't have a spleen. It's the little, everyday, things, too. Like tonight. I saw you ride in. I watched you - you looked like you could barely hold yourself up, you're so tired. I heard you, in the stable, not the words, but you sounded so sad. And then, as you approached the house, you straightened up, pasted a smile on your face and bounced in, like everything was just fine. But it's not, is it? You're hurting and you're dead on your feet. Why do you feel you can't let me see that?"

Blair studied Jim for a moment, and then his gaze fell away as a range of emotion played across his mobile features. The mask of pretended vitality slipped away, followed by weariness that quickly changed to such profound sadness that Jim felt his throat tighten in response. "What is it? What's hurting so bad?" he asked, very quietly, afraid if he pushed too hard now, Blair would close up on him again.

Swallowing, Blair replied, in a voice hoarse with control as if he was afraid it might break, "I had to take off Simpson's leg today. There was nothing I could do to save it…the bones were completely crushed, and if I'd tried to save it, it would have rotted - and he'd've died." Twisting the mug in small circles, his head down, he continued, "He, and his wife, and his oldest kid, Nathan, he's nine - they all begged me not to take it off. 'Cause he's a farmer, and he's got six kids and he needs both legs to work the fields and keep his family safe and fed. He told me he'd rather be dead, that Aggie could find another husband then, to care for her, and the kids. He begged me…"

Blair's voice cracked then, and he compressed his lips tightly, his whole body rigid with the effort to not break down under the weight of pity and sorrow he carried. "He hated me, I could see it in his eyes, when he realized what I was going to do, that I wouldn't allow him the dignity of just dying and being done with it. You know how many times I've seen that look in a man's eyes? Hundreds and hundreds of times! All those men and boys in the War…but…life is precious. It's a gift. And I can't…can't just let it slip away, not if I can hold onto it. Nobody but God knows what the future might bring. Nobody knows how much richness they can still have. God…if they have someone to love them, family…if they can feel, and touch, or see the dawn or hear a bird sing…they're still alive, and life is something you don't get back when you throw it away in a moment of fear or despair. Death comes to claim us all soon enough - there's no need to hurry it along."

Blair took a deep breath, his hand coming up to brush his eyes and he sniffed. "I get tired, Jim. Physically, emotionally and spiritually tired, just like any other man. But I know it passes. Whether or not I'm right or wrong about doing whatever is necessary to help people hold onto some quality of life, I know that it's the only way I can be and live with myself." Looking up at Ellison, he asked, "Why would you even want to hear this stuff? Why do you want to know that someday I might get sick because my spleen isn't there anymore? There's nothing that can be done to change any of it. It just is. Why do you think I should tell you things that are only depressing or might worry you when you don't need the aggravation?"

"Because you're my best friend," Jim replied, his own voice unsteady. "Don't you understand? You don't have to carry all this alone. You're not alone, not anymore. I don't know how to say it any plainer, Chief - I don't want you thinking you have to pretend around me. Maybe all I can do is listen, and, yeah, maybe sometimes I will fuss too much, because I do worry about you. You're strong, kid - but nobody should have to be strong all the time, every damned minute of their lives. Why is it so hard to just let me be your friend? God knows, you've done everything in your power to be here for me, to help and support me any way you can."

Sandburg's eyes drifted around the room, not really seeing it, as he pushed his fingers through his hair, dragging it back off his face and behind his ears. "I don't know why it's so hard," he mused, a slight frown between his brows as he thought about it. "I can't really remember being any other way." Shifting his gaze back to Ellison, he continued, "It's not because I don't trust you, because I do. And it's not because I don't value our friendship - you're the best friend I've ever had and I…I honestly don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you." He took a shuddering breath and swallowed hard. "This past year has been the first time in my life that I've known that I'm not alone. You're like a rock, Jim. Solid. You won't ever let me down. Or betray me. Or…just forget about me. When you rode into Swift Eagle's camp, I couldn't believe my eyes. Nobody - I mean nobody - else has ever, would ever, go out of their way, let alone do something so resolute, so brave, just to…to bring me home."

Sandburg's voice cracked as his head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he fought back the raw emotion that suddenly rampaged through him.

"Ah, Chief," Jim choked as he stood to move around the table. Hesitant, uncertain, he paused when he reached Sandburg's side, but he couldn't bear to see the kid hurting so badly. "Come here," he growled as he gently pulled Blair toward him, dropping to one knee so that he could hug the younger man. Blair turned into his arms, pressing close, his own arms coming up around Jim's back to hold on tight, his face pressed against Ellison's shirt.

"I'm sorry," Blair sniffed, still trembling. "I don't know what's wrong with me…"

"Shh," Jim soothed as he tenderly rubbed his friend's back. "There's nothing wrong with you. Not a goddamned blessed thing. Except, maybe, for your tendency to trick and deceive, misdirect and confuse to protect everyone around you. It's all well-meant, for a good cause, I know - but it stops at the door, okay?"

Sandburg huffed out a broken laugh. "Yeah, okay - I get it. Good causes outside and lost causes inside."

Turning it into a joke, dismissing it, making light of, and denigrating his own value. Jim sighed as he looked toward the ceiling, praying for strength. "No, kid, you don't get it," he said quietly. "You're not a 'lost cause', Blair. Who you are, what you feel, what you want, is important - and here, inside these walls, if nowhere else, you get to relax and just be you. Because, well, because you're worth caring about, and worrying about, and I want you to feel safe with me. Hell, Chief, of course I went after you to bring you home, 'cause this isn't home without you in it. You gotta know by now, I don't have a clue what I'd do if I lost you, either. Nobody in my life has ever been as important to me, as you are. Now, do you get it?"

Blair was quiet for a long minute but, finally, he nodded as he sighed, "Yeah, I, uh…thanks…" Pushing back out of Ellison's clasp, he sat back and looked at his friend. Licking his lips, he said steadily, "I'm real tired, tonight. It was a hard day. And, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you made us something to eat. Something not too heavy. And, uh," he hesitated, looking away, but then turned his earnest gaze back, "I'd really like to talk more about what you can hear - not because I'm trying to avoid talking about myself, but because I'm really interested. Okay?"

Jim's lips quirked in a crooked grin as he said, "Okay." Standing, he ruffled Blair's curls and added, "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Snorting, Sandburg shook his head as he said, very seriously, "Oh, man, you have no idea."

Chuckling lightly as he turned away to begin preparing their meal, Jim was, in fact, struggling desperately to hide the very deep fear that now took possession of his soul. Blair was at risk. Every damned day when he went out to tend someone sick, he tempted fate. But it was only too clear that Sandburg had absolutely no intention of giving up who and what he was - and if Jim wanted Blair to share his burdens, he couldn't be seen to buckle under them. Once again he despaired of his complete inability to protect a man who refused protection, and could only love him, and pray that Blair's strength of heart and soul would be enough to ensure the health of his body.

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

The walls came down after that - oh, not all at once. Both men were too engrained in their inclinations and habits of just dealing with things on their own. Long years ago, when they were still but young children, they'd both been hurt by life's events and, most of all, by their parents, who hadn't been there to hold and reassure them when things were rough - more, who had most often been the cause of their pain. Both boys had learned - very early in life - they had no one to depend upon but themselves. The despairing and very frightening realization that they were flying on their own, while still so young, had branded their souls. But, gradually, they learned to share more, and risk being vulnerable with one another, if no one else.

Jim learned more about Sandburg's childhood, and tried not to show his very real shock that Sandburg had no idea who his father was, illegitimacy being something shameful for most of society. Frowning, Ellison thought about the ugly names Blair would have been called by other children, and the way he would have been ostracized, as if his uncertain ancestry was somehow contagious. Blair didn't belabour the mystery of his parentage, more or less just treating it like another fact, but Jim saw the shadows in his eyes before they dropped away. Sandburg described his mother, Naomi, as something of a gypsy; but as more was revealed, Ellison thought the description kind more than accurate, though it was true enough that the woman moved around a lot, and had taken her son along for the ride. She wouldn't tell Blair anything about her past, so he had no idea of any family but her. Instead, she told him that it didn't matter where people came from - what mattered was the kind of person they were. And Jim had to admit, that was a pretty good lesson to learn.

Sandburg went on to tell him that throughout Blair's childhood, they had drifted from place to place, and not just in the United States but all around the world. When Jim asked how they could afford to move around so much, Sandburg had shifted uncomfortably before allowing that they didn't travel in style or alone, just not with the same people for long…the same men, for long. Jim had swallowed hard as Sandburg cut him a sideways look, gauging his reaction.

"She's not a bad person, Jim," he hastened to say. "She's great, actually. Just…different."

Jim could see how important it was to Blair that he not judge Naomi Sandburg harshly, so he nodded, and reflected aloud that Sandburg seemed to have learned a lot about the world, that it had helped to make him the kind of person who accepted people as they are. Ellison was rewarded by a relieved smile, and a grateful nod. But he wondered - wondered a lot - about Blair's revelation the first night Jim had begun cutting through the well-built walls that hid his friend's sorrows…about how Sandburg had said that nobody else would go out of their way to bring him home. And Jim began to understand that Blair had been talking about his mother that night, and that's likely why he'd reacted so emotionally to having to accept that it just wasn't normal to grow up feeling that totally alone in this world. Did 'not traveling in style' mean the kid had gone hungry and cold? Did all those men w