Inside, they pushed the door closed against the wind, and shrugged off their dripping slickers to hang on hooks in the hall with their wet hats.

"Jim," Blair asked, his face turned away and his voice deliberately pitched low and soft, "how much can you hear?"

Jim didn't answer. Instead, he carried on into the kitchen to stoke the stove and put on a fresh pot of coffee. Shaking his head, Blair followed him. Once Jim was finished, he touched his partner's arm to get his attention.

"Jim, can you hear me?" he whispered.

"What?"

Sighing, Blair raised his voice. "Can you hear me now?"

Grimacing, Jim rubbed the sides of his face, just in front of his ears. "Guess you caught me," he replied, though that still didn't answer the question.

Practically shouting, Blair asked, "How high is your hearing set?"

"Uh, got the lantern burning full blast, Chief," he finally admitted, grudgingly. "Can't hardly hear a damned thing."

Gesturing at Jim to follow him, Blair led the way to his office where he examined Jim's ears. Afterward, he sat down and scribbled out a note, 'Your eardrums look okay, but I think your hearing got overloaded by the loud thunder – I know it nearly deafened me. And this may also be a residual effect of nearly being struck by lightning this morning. Turn the bronze lantern down to a normal level and let your sense of hearing rest. Don't push it, okay? I think in a few hours, you'll be fine.'

Jim glanced at the note, his brows furrowing as he read. "I was nearly hit by lightning?"

Though he wondered if it had been more than a near-miss, if Jim had actually been struck, Blair nodded and jotted, 'Knocked you out for a few minutes, but you're okay now.'

"You think my hearing will come back, right?" Jim probed, anxious shadows in his eyes.

Nodding reassuringly, Blair wrote, 'Yeah. My hearing is still a bit off, too. Yours is more sensitive, so it makes sense it will take a little longer to improve. I think you should lie down for a few hours, give your body a chance to bounce back. Keep the lantern turned down; don't strain to hear, at least not yet.'

"Okay, Chief," Jim sighed. "You're the doctor. I'll just have a cup of coffee to warm up, and go upstairs. Have to admit, I feel, I don't know, just tired, I guess."

Thinking about how Jim had very nearly died that morning, Blair gave him a wan smile as he nodded in understanding. Waving Jim back to the kitchen, he pushed himself to his feet to follow. His partner wasn't the only one who felt 'tired'. Blair couldn't be more 'tired' if he'd run to Wichita and back. Between what he'd done to revive Cherie the evening before and investing Jim with enough healing energy to breathe, let alone to get back on his feet and chase around town for the last two hours, Blair knew he was just about done in. Jim had helped him immeasurably the night before – it was the only reason, really, that he could even function – but he couldn't ask Jim for more, not until he'd fully recovered from his own injuries.

While they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, Blair continued to ponder the mystery of energy – where it came from, how they shared it, replenished it – and he wondered if he was doing something wrong. Maybe more than one thing wrong. For starters, he didn't think he should be so completely enervated by doing what, he assumed anyway, was what shamans did. Was he missing something? Maybe not drawing on the help of his spirit guide enough? Never before had he felt the pervasive weakness, that odd sense of being less, insubstantial, that he'd experienced after healing Cherie. But then, he'd never reached so far before, either. Jim had. Jim had brought him back from the dead, but nobody had said anything about Jim just about fading away afterward. But then, from what he understood, Jim had drawn upon the power of the spirit guides. Blair wasn't conscious of ever having done that. So … was he trying to do too much alone? Maybe.

Or maybe he was just trying to do too much, period. Until the last little more than a month, he'd only had his skill and knowledge as a doctor to draw upon. Sure, he might unwittingly also have been using some greater force without realizing it, but that wasn't the same, was it, as drawing upon that force on a regular basis? Was he relying too heavily and too quickly upon what felt like magic? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was he abusing his new abilities, using them almost arrogantly, simply because he knew he could? And was he abusing Jim's ability and willingness to help him recoup afterward?

He didn't know, and the questions weren't helping him to feel any better. God, he was absolutely exhausted. That kid's words haunted and troubled him a great deal. Not that he thought there was anything inherently evil in trying to help people, in doing his best and using all the resources available to him to heal. He was comfortable, more than comfortable, in accepting that there was a great deal so-called civilized society didn't know about what was possible, that science wasn't the only truth. But…

He was distracted from his thoughts when Jim finished his coffee and stood to put his mug in the wash basin. "I'll see you later," he said, squeezing Blair's shoulder as he left to go upstairs and rest.

Outside, the storm still blew, but Blair thought the rain was tapering off and the wind didn't sound so fierce. Shivering, he wandered down to the infirmary. Lying down on a cot, he huddled under the blanket and closed his eyes.

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

The heavy weight of a hand pressed over his mouth wakened Blair hours later, and his eyes widened in startled shock at the sight of a sixgun held close to his face. Holding himself completely still, his gaze flew around and he saw nearly a dozen men, all of them strangers, surrounding the cot and filling the infirmary. He didn't know them, none of them, but some of them looked vaguely familiar.

They were some of the men he'd glared at the evening before; men who had been in the stampeding throng that had trampled Cherie.

Men he'd cursed.

"Get up and keep yer mouth shut, or I'll blow yer head off, y'hear?" the gunman growled.

He nodded carefully, and the hand was removed. Men grabbed him to haul him to his feet. A gag was stuffed in his mouth, and his hands were tied behind him. And then they were hustling him out the back door into the yard where the youth he recognized from the school was holding the horses. The kid sneered at him contemptuously, standing back while two men lifted him onto one of the horses.

In seconds, they were riding into the wind, down along the creek away from town.

The rain had stopped but the wind still had a sharp bite, and pewter clouds hung low, threatening more bad weather. Blair was afraid. Wherever they were taking him, whatever was they had planned, he knew he was in trouble. Glancing back over his shoulder at his home, he wondered if Jim had heard anything, but there was no movement at the upper window. His heart sinking, he feared Jim's hearing was still a problem, and that no one knew he'd been taken. Maybe no one would ever know what happened to him.

He was on his own and he was certain he was going to die.

They rode for nearly fifteen minutes, then drew up on a wide grassy bank sheltered from any passing eyes by a thick line of trees. Blair swallowed hard when he saw Kincaid was already there, waiting.

He was pulled from the saddle and shoved forward to stand before the southerner.

"Well, now, we finally meet," Kincaid drawled, gesturing with his head at the man behind Blair to remove the gag. "You curse us again and we'll shoot you where you stand."

"What do you want?" Blair asked, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

Kincaid gave him a cynical smile that did nothing to warm the icy blue eyes. "You're going on trial, Sandburg, for being a witch, or maybe a demon."

Rolling his eyes, Blair expostulated, "You've got to be kidding. A witch? Give me a break. I'm a doctor, that's all."

"A doctor that brings dead things back to life? Few doctors have such skill," Kincaid sneered.

"You're talking about Cherie Brown, right?" Blair hastened to explain. He doubted these men cared what he had to say, but he had to try. "The little girl your men ran down yesterday? She wasn't dead. She was clipped by a horse and knocked out for a bit, that's all."

Kincaid snorted but, before he could speak, the youth blurted, "I saw you bring the Sheriff back to life this morning. You can't deny it! He wasn't breathing!"

Taking a breath, determined to remain as calm as he could, Blair allowed, "No, he wasn't. He'd nearly been killed by lightning and his body was in shock. But his heart was still beating. He wasn't dead. I just had to get his lungs moving. That's why I was blowing air into his mouth and pumping on his chest. It didn't take long for him to start breathing and he was fine – you saw that for yourself."

"You threatened to turn me into a frog!" the youth screamed.

Kincaid raised his hand to end the discussion. "This trial isn't about bantering words and giving plausible explanations to obscure reality," he revealed with a cold smile. "This is a test of God's will and mercy, to determine whether you're worthy of such blessing – or whether you should be consigned to the Devil."

Blair's throat went dry and he glanced at the river. He'd heard of such ancient tests. If he was bound hand and foot, thrown in, and sank rather than managed to float or swim, they'd let him drown. Some tests included being weighted down by a large stone just to make things more challenging. If he didn't panic, if they didn't tie him to a rock, he was sure, even bound, that he could float on his back. But he'd have to stay calm and not thrash around when they tossed him in.

Kincaid's chuckle drew his attention back. "No, no, we're not going to see if you know how to swim," he clarified. Turning slightly, he waved at a stake behind him, around which was piled stacks of wood. "We're going to see if you can survive fire."

Horrified, Blair gasped. "Fire? You're insane!" he exclaimed, furious and desperately not wanting to die, especially not like that. "All of you. Crazy murderers. All you want is to destroy anyone who isn't like you, who doesn't agree with you. You won't get away with this!"

"Gag him before he curses us again," Kincaid ordered, sounding amused. "And blindfold him, just in case he can turn people into frogs with a glance."

Blair struggled and kicked in desperation, but he knew it was hopeless. There were too many of them. There would be no escape. Men held him while the gag was thrust back into his mouth and tied tightly behind his head. Just before he was blindfolded, he saw Kincaid mount up and turn his horse toward town. "God's mercy upon you, Sandburg," he called sarcastically. "And maybe I'll see you again."

They dragged Blair to the stake and, winding rope around his body, bound him to it. Panting raggedly, he heard them toss more wood around him, and then he heard and smelled them pouring kerosene on the rough hewn logs. He grunted in protest, unable to believe they could be so indifferently cruel, but they laughed at him, joked about watching him burn and blacken into a shriveled vestige of a man. Stones struck his body and grazed his face, gratuitous punishment and pain inflicted for the joy of doing so, for how much more could they hurt him than to immolate him?

Sick with fear, dazed by the heavy blows to his head and body, he heaved against the ropes in a helpless refusal to die without protest, but froze when he heard a match strike.

"Let me torch it!" he heard the youth beg, his voice salacious with ugly desire.

Revolted, Blair shook his head helplessly. How could they allow a child to kill? "Nuh dun," he grunted in despairing protest, the gag garbling his words. He couldn't see, could only hear, and he heard a whoosh of flame, felt a sudden searing heat. There would be no mercy shown. The youth was as eager to destroy as were the men he emulated.

Fury filled him at his impotent helplessness; rage consumed him, blind rage, at the callous indifference, the malicious cruelty. Nor would he be the only victim – probably wasn't even the first they had killed. They took too much joy in it, too much satisfaction. How many more would die at their hands?

And they called him evil?

Smoke stung his nostrils, choking him, and the heat became oppressive, stifling, until he had to struggle to breathe at all. His futile anger built in his chest. Jim. They'd probably go after Jim next because he was all that really stood in their way. And then it would be Henri and his family. And Simon and Joel. And maybe Megan, and even Maisie, for daring to face the world alone, without dependence upon any man. How many would die like this, in horror and despair, tortured by fire? Or maybe just shot or bludgeoned in the dark?

"NUHHHH!" he screamed through the gag, enraged beyond reason, beyond hope, furious to be the sacrificial victim to ignorance, greed and a cynical need for power over others. He struggled with futile impotence against the ropes that bound him, utterly enraged that these murderers acted without conscience, laughing at his death – killers who would go on killing again and again, not only in this generation but in those to come, for they taught their children to kill.

Overcome with his inability to act, to save himself or anyone else, lost in his rage, he screamed again and tears leaked from his eyes to stain the bandana that blinded him. These men who surrounded him like jackals knew nothing of compassion or kindness, knew nothing but hate and envy. And he could not stop them. Could not … could not … he hated them, hated them for what they were doing to him and what they'd done to others, and what they would do in the future; despised them as he'd rarely detested any human being, any thing in creation. They were a sickness, a blight that twisted and perverted and destroyed without mercy or regret. In the midst of his defiant, passionate scream of rage, he heard a wolf howl – a call to the hunt – and a cat snarled in warning. The wind picked up, blowing strands of his hair across his face, fanning it out around his head. Overhead, thunder cracked like cannon, and growled loud and long like a furious, marauding beast. A mighty gust of wind whirled around him, sucking the air and smoke from his lungs. A sudden rushing filled his ears, a whooshing as heat built high and surrounded him and yet … and yet the flames did not touch him.

The laughter around him faltered, turned into screams, hideous screams of horror and unbearable pain. Rain burst upon him, drenching him, and the screaming died away into eerie, high-pitched whimpers until those piteous sounds were drowned in another rumble of thunder.

When the thunder faded, the rushing wind dropped and he was left in silence. The stench of burned flesh filled his nostrils, sickening him – and only then did he realize the inescapable truth of what he had done.

Shocked to his soul, his chest grew so tight with shock and inexpressible guilt, he couldn't catch his breath.

He'd killed all those men. Murdered in furious, blind, limitless rage …

God, he'd destroyed a child!

Oh, God, he was a monster….

Chaos spun in his mind, a frenzy of horror; nausea roiled and twisted in his gut, and a keening wail burst from his raw throat. Ravaged by emotion, unable to bear his guilt, panting fast and shallow, his strength and energy spent, awareness faded and darkness swept over him.

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

Sharp rapping on the door roused him but, certain Blair would answer, he just rolled over. But then he heard a woman call, "Doc? Sheriff? It's Marnie! Anyone here? Doc?"

Marnie? Concerned something had happened to the children, Jim shouted, "I'll be right there," and rolled to his feet. Hurrying down the stairs, he wondered where Blair was.

"Marnie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, well," she stammered in confusion.

Curbing his impatience, he waited for the shy woman to sort out her thoughts.

"That is, nothing is wrong now," she began to explain. "I wanted to let you know I let school out early. The weather looks like it might get bad again, and I thought they'd be better at home with their parents, and some of the settlers came in to collect their children. Anyway, I walked the Brown children home," she said in a breathless rush.

"Oh, well, uh, thanks for letting me know," he replied, a bit confused as to why such sensible actions seemed to make her so nervous.

She wrung her hands and went on, "And, and I was hoping Doc would be here. So I could apologize for what that horrible Walters boy said. Imagine anyone calling the Doc a demon and telling him he's evil?" Marnie shook her head, obviously still incensed. "I wanted Doc to know that I told his father when he came to collect him, that the boy is expelled until he apologizes both to Doc and to Rose, for calling her trash."

"You said this kid called Doc a demon?" Jim clarified, anger building in his chest.

"Yes, it was dreadful," she replied. "There Doc was, doing his best to get you breathing again, and I could tell he was scared, and this brat starts accusing him of these awful things, like cursing his father. Well, it won't happen again. In fact, Mr. Walters said very definitely that there'd be no more trouble about the Doc. Would you … would you tell Doc for me that I'm sorry and that it won't ever happen again, not in my school?"

Distracted by what she'd told him, Jim nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks." What the hell had happened that morning? What did she mean that he hadn't been breathing and Blair had been scared? And … what did Walters mean that there'd be no more trouble? Those people lived to make trouble.

And where the hell was Sandburg?

As politely as possible, he hastened Marnie out the door. Just as she was leaving, he saw Kincaid ride by, heading toward the center of town. And he heard hoofbeats approaching town – a lot of them. Frowning, he whirled around to check the house, looking for any sign of his partner or any indication of where Blair had gone. He found the rumpled cot.

I wasn't breathing?

Jesus. Had Blair pulled another one of his magic healing stunts? He didn't have the energy left for that.

His jaw tightening, Jim looked around and saw the door to the back wasn't completely closed. Moving across the room, he sniffed the air, scenting traces of other men. Out in the yard, he saw the muddy ground had been churned up by at least a dozen horses.

Alarm erupted into fear. What had happened? Why hadn't he heard anything?

His damned hearing…

"Jim!" he heard Simon's voice call from inside.

"Out back," he yelled. Studying the tracks, he saw they had ridden fast along the creek, away from town.

"Jim, sorry it took us a while to get into town," Simon was saying as he came through the door. "That storm this morning wreaked havoc on the ranch." But he must've read something in Jim's face, because he stilled and his face clouded. "What's wrong?"

Jim held up a hand to stave off more questions as he tried to piece things together. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but it sure looked like they'd taken Sandburg. Where had Kincaid been riding in from? Jim was turning to Simon when he inhaled deeply to scent the wind for any clues – and he gagged at the sweet, sickly stench of roasted flesh. Whipping around, panting with sick dread, he stared into the wind.

"They've got Sandburg," he gusted, and then broke for the stable to saddle Lobo. "Get H! Tell your men to follow me!"

Simon frowned in concern, but he disappeared into the house.

Jim had barely finished saddling up when Brown, Simon and the Gold Ribbon riders cantered around the corner of the house. Swinging onto Lobo's back, Jim led them in a racing gallop along the creek.

The stench he smelled sickened him; bile burned in his throat. He didn't want to think about what they'd find, but he couldn't stop worrying that the bastards had burned Blair. I'll kill them. I'll fucking kill them all if they've hurt him.

The further they rode, the thicker the air grew with the nauseating stench until he heard men behind him exclaiming, wondering what the hell it was and what they were riding into. He glanced back at Simon and Henri, and he could tell from their anxious, furious expressions that they were afraid they knew. Just like he was afraid. Just like he was enraged nearly beyond reason.

But when they burst onto the meadow, they all drew up in appalled, shocked silence at what they saw: twisted, blackened corpses scattered on the still green grass – and Sandburg tied to a post; slumped, unmoving, surrounded by burned, still steaming faggots of wood.

"Christ," Jim breathed and urged Lobo closer. Slipping off his mount, swallowing heavily against the urge to vomit, he stared at Blair, trying to discern if he was alive or…

"Sandburg?" he rasped, his voice hoarse, as he drew closer. His gaze narrowed and he shook his head, trying to clear the roar of his own blood from his ears. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he felt Blair's face and gently raised his head. "Blair?"

Simon came up behind him and circled around to untie the blindfold and gag, while Brown appeared, to work on the ropes with his Bowie knife.

"He alive?" Simon asked with low trepidation.

"Yeah," Jim told him. "But he's out cold. Don't know how much smoke he inhaled."

"What do you think happened here?" Simon asked then, his gaze going past Jim to the corpses behind him.

"Justice," Jim replied with stark, blunt certitude. He braced Blair as the ropes loosened and fell away.

"Well, I'd agree with you there, just on general principle," Simon said wryly. "But … how?"

Jim ignored the question as he lifted Blair and carried him from the pyre.

"Jim?" Simon called, pressing for an answer.

"Not now," he returned over his shoulder. "We need to get him home."

"And the rest of them?"

"They're not going anywhere. Kincaid can come to collect his dead – or leave them to rot, for all I care."

As he supported Blair and then lifted him up to Jim, Simon observed for Jim's ears only, "One of them was either a real small man or …"

"Yeah, I saw that, too," Jim snapped, not wanting to think about it. Whatever had happened there, however it happened, it was all too obvious who had been bound at the stake, surrounded by fire. Cold with loathing for what they'd intended to do, he couldn't find it in him to feel grief for anyone who had so clearly meant to burn Sandburg alive, only to find the flames devouring them instead.

Holding fast to his unconscious partner, Jim wheeled Lobo around to lead the way back to Bitterwood Creek.

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

Blair started to revive just as they approached the edge of town. Confused, jerking in fear, he didn't seem to understand what was going on. Jim held him securely against his chest, and murmured, "Easy, Chief. You're okay. We're nearly home." He was relieved when Blair nodded and relaxed against him.

When they drew up in front of the house, there was a small crowd gathered, mostly people who were alarmed to know the men had ridden out so suddenly, hell bent for leather. But Kincaid and McBride were there, too. Jim took considerable pleasure in seeing their complacent, smug expressions shift into confusion when they saw that Blair was still whole and apparently alive.

"What happened?" Sam Sloan demanded, his eyes widening at the sight and smell of Blair's singed clothing and smoked-streaked skin.

"Is he alright?" Megan and Maisie called, sounding scared.

Holding Blair steady, Jim slid down to the ground, and then eased Blair down beside him. "I c'n walk," Blair insisted hoarsely. "With a little help," he added, a wan grin splitting his soot-smudged face.

Kincaid and McBride were blocking the door, too pressed in by the crowd to be able to slip away unnoticed. Appearing to be determined to brazen it out, they stared hard at Sandburg as he and Jim climbed up onto the boardwalk. "What happened, Sheriff?" Kincaid asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Blair stumbled when he heard the voice, and stalled. And then he slowly lifted his head, his expression empty. "Guess you could say God showed mercy – to me, anyway," he rasped without inflection, swaying so dizzily Jim was afraid he was going to collapse. "Though I could wish I'd never have to see you again."

Blair lifted his haunted gaze to Jim's. "Kincaid was there," he said, his voice thin with effort. "He … he ordered it."

"Now, look here," Kincaid blustered. "I don't know what the fool is talkin' about."

"Shut up," Jim snarled. Jerking his head toward Kincaid, he told Simon and Henri, "Lock him up."

McBride slid his hand toward his six-gun, but Rafe, still in his saddle, cocked his pistol and advised, "Was I you, I wouldn't."

"Jim?" Blair whispered, sounding lost, and his knees buckled.

Jim caught him and shifted to pick him up. Giving Kincaid a hard look, he said coldly, "Guess things didn't turn out the way you expected, huh? They're dead, Kincaid. All of them." Glancing at Simon, he growled, "Get him the hell out of here before I do something I wouldn't regret."

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

Blair woke slowly, at first only aware that he was at home, in bed, and that it was night, the darkness relieved only by the thin flame of a lantern on the table by the bed. He felt the bed sag, and then the touch of Jim's hand on his brow.

He hesitated, not wanting to meet Jim's eyes, but he had to, had to face what he'd done. When he looked up and only saw concern, his gaze darted away. "I killed them," he said, feeling dull and empty. "All of them. Even one that was little more than a kid."

"Sandburg, you were tied to a post, gagged and blindfolded," Jim countered, his voice soft, so gentle. "You didn't light that fire. They killed themselves."

Blair swallowed convulsively and shook his head. "You don't … don't understand. I hated them. I … I, I lost control. I heard the wolf and the cat. And then the storm crashed and the wind … was like a hurricane. I did that. I … I destroyed them all."

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed. "You can't know that. You can't know it wasn't some freak of nature – maybe even the finger of God."

Blair forced himself to meet Jim's eyes. "I know," he asserted. "I did it. I … I don't know exactly how, but I did it."

"Okay, even if you did, that's called 'self-defense'. They were trying to burn you alive, Blair! They deserved what happened to them."

Blair shook his head. "I heard them … dying. Nobody," his voice caught, "nobody deserves to die like that."

"No?" Jim disagreed, anger resonating in his voice. "Me? I call it justice."

Blair's gaze dropped and he tightened his jaw against the urge to argue. What did it matter? They'd all still be dead. "I'm scared," he whispered. "Scared of what's happening to me. What I'm turning into."

Jim sighed and then stretched out beside him, gathering him into a strong embrace. "You're not turning into anything, Chief," he murmured into Blair's hair. "But you are alive, and I thank God for that."

A lump thickened in Blair's throat and his eyes burned and blurred. "I didn't want … I…" he stammered, but was too choked to speak.

"Shh," Jim whispered, stroking his back and holding him while he fought and lost the battle to hold his pain inside. "Let it out, buddy. Let it all out."

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

Simon and Henri were in the kitchen, minding the casserole and fresh bread Maisie had brought over an hour before. Sipping coffee, they stared at the floor, still shaken by what they'd seen and trying to understand it.

Jim found them there after Blair had fallen into exhausted sleep. Sighing, he poured himself a mug of coffee and rubbed the back of his neck.

"How is he?" Henri asked, worry darkening his eyes.

"Badly shaken," Jim replied. "Blames himself."

"What?" Simon exclaimed. "But that's crazy! He couldn't have done … he was tied…"

Evading his gaze, Jim raised the mug and swallowed cautiously. When he glanced at Henri, his deputy met his eyes briefly before looking away. "From all we could see," Brown ventured, "looked like a freak wind blew the flames back on them. And then rain put the fires out."

"Yeah, that's what it looks like, alright," Jim agreed guardedly.

Simon's gaze swept from one to the other. "What aren't you two sayin'?" he asked.

Letting out a long breath, Jim pulled a chair around and straddled it. Crossing his arms along the back support, he bit his lip and then said, "When we were at the reservation, a lot of things happened." Scarcely knowing where to start, he hesitated. "Blair was … was killed. Shot off a cliff and he … drowned."

The other two men gaped at him, speechless.

"Yeah, I know. Sounds impossible. The Indians…" He tossed up a hand and, tight with tension, he got up to pace. "This being a sentinel – I have more than just good senses. I can … commune, I guess … with our spirit guides. Animals only Blair and I and other sentinels and shamans can see. They helped me bring him back to life."

"My God," Simon breathed.

"Yeah," Jim nodded, his throat dry. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, his gaze fixed on the floor, he went on, "Turns out, Blair has powers, too. He's more than a guide, someone who helps me, grounds me. He's a shaman, a medicine man. He has more than the knowledge and skill to heal. He has a gift. He can share health through touch by giving some of his energy to the one who is sick or hurt."

"He can do more than heal," Henri offered solemnly. "He can raise the dead."

Simon stared at him. "How do you know that?"

"Because just yesterday, Kincaid's men stampeded over my girl, Cherie. Broke her neck. She was dead, Simon. Blair brought her back to us."

His lips parted in shock, Simon looked to Jim, who nodded confirmation.

"Well, I'll be," Simon murmured as he rubbed his mouth. "I've heard old stories about healers. Never really believed them."

"He has other powers," Jim said quietly. "He can … he can call up fire."

"You mean he deliberately –"

"I don't think it was deliberate. In fact, I'm sure it wasn't. I think … I think his rage and his helplessness overwhelmed him. I think he struck back in self-defense without being fully aware of what was happening," Jim interjected. "He was bound, gagged and blind-folded. The pyre had obviously been lit. I could smell the kerosene that permeated the wood and the ground around him. He said … he said he heard our spirit guides and then the winds came and the storm. By the time he realized he'd called up more power than he knew he had, they were dead."

Glancing at the hall and the stairway beyond, he grated, "He's sick about what he did."

"I don't think they gave him much choice," Simon observed pragmatically. "They were burning him alive. Any man would fight back, if he could. If he had the means."

Jim nodded. "But most men don't have the means. He thinks he's … he's afraid he's turning into something evil."

"Oh, c'mon! That's just damn foolishness!" Henri protested. "Doc? Why that man nearly kills himself to help other people. When I came in here last night and saw what helping Cherie had cost him – man, he looked like he was dying himself. Evil? Not hardly."

Jim gave him a spare but sincere smile, more grateful than Brown would ever know for the words and the sentiment behind them. "I agree, H. But I'm not sure it'll be easy to convince him of that." Dropping onto the chair, he set his mug on the table. "The man's not a killer. He does everything he can to avoid violence. We all know he's killed when he's had no choice, but it eats at him. And this – hell, one of the men, Walters, had his boy with him. Kid was only fourteen."

"A boy of fourteen knows what's right and wrong," Simon intoned. "He wouldn'a been there if he thought what was happening was wrong."

Jim scrubbed his face. "What's the town sayin'?"

"Well, Henri here floated his rogue wind story and most seem to buy it," Simon replied. "Why wouldn't they? All of us saw that Blair was helpless and unconscious. Hell, his clothing was singed and he was black with smoke."

"The kids might wonder," Brown observed unhappily. Reluctantly, he told Jim, "The girls told us what that Walters boy said at the school. How he claimed Blair had put a curse on those men. That he was a demon, doin' the Devil's work. Some of 'em … 'specially the settlers' kids, well, they're going believe what Walters said was true."

Jim winced and pressed his lips together. What would Blair do if the children started to fear him?

"An' Kincaid's men will want someone to pay for what happened," Simon added. "God, what a mess."

"I don't know what to do," Jim admitted. "Not about Kincaid's bunch. Let 'em come. We can deal with them. But the rumors?"

"You face it down, is what you do," Simon replied with gruff kindness. "It'll blow over. Hell's bells – the rogue wind story makes a whole lot more sense than that a man tied to a stake can call up fire on his enemies."

"That works for me," Jim told him. "But I'm not sure it'll work for Blair. He knows what really happened, and I don't know how he's going to find peace with it."

Simon shrugged. "He'll have to find a way. What's done can't be undone – and I wouldn't want it to be. The only other way it was going to go was for Blair to die himself. It was self-defense. That's it; that's all."

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

A week and a half later, the Circuit Court Judge, Morton C. Stillwater, rode into town with his unlikely escort, an ex-con named Mark McGettrick who, when anyone asked and even if they didn't, steadfastly held to his story that he'd been wrongly sentenced by the Judge some years before for stealing his own horse. Stillwater, a hard man in his sixties, had a shock of gray hair, flinty blue eyes and a pugnacious jaw. McGettrick, a much younger man, had wild curls under his broad-brimmed hat; his smile came easy, but he wore the flint-handled sixguns low on his narrow hips and had a reputation for being fast. Whatever the truth of the story between them, there was no doubt the young gunslinger would protect the Judge with his life.

Jim was glad to see them, having grown heartily sick of Kincaid's whining and bellyaching for company, and he'd be glad to get the man off his hands – not to mention free up the Gold Ribbon riders who had pulled deputy duty to help him make sure the prisoner's friends didn't over-run the jail to set him free. Stepping out on the boardwalk, he tipped his hat as he greeted them. "Judge, Mark, good to see you."

"Got your wire, Sheriff," Stillwater said as he dismounted and rubbed his hands together. "Looks like you've got a meaty case for me this time 'round."

With a grimace, Jim nodded. "Guess you could say that. I'll be glad to see the back of him."

"Well, let's get the ball rolling," the Judge directed, never one for wasting any time. "We'll set up in the saloon. If I convene the court in an hour, that give you enough time to round up men for me to choose a jury?"

"Plenty of time," Jim agreed. "And Judge? Everyone from hereabouts is likely to sit in on this trial."

"Uh huh," Stillwater grunted, his tongue probing his cheek. "Well, so long as they behave themselves and don't try to turn the trial into a circus, we should all get along fine. C'mon, Mark, let's go tell Silas that we'll be ruinin' his business for the next day or so an' get his grumblin' outta the way."

An hour later, the improvised courtroom was packed, with standing room only in the crush around the walls and spilling out the door. Kincaid's men jockeyed for seats on the jury, but the Judge quickly dismissed any volunteers who had lived in the town or its environs for less than six months. Once the jury was arranged in a double row of chairs to one side, the Judge took his place on a stool behind the bar, a gavel in one hand and his sixgun, 'old Betsy', laying conspicuously beside him in case the gavel wasn't enough to maintain order in his Court.

"Sheriff," the Judge commanded, "bring in the prisoner."

When Garrett Kincaid was brought before him, Stillwater looked him up and down, taking in the expensive, well-cut clothing and smartly groomed appearance. "Well, Sheriff, looks like you've taken good care of the prisoner – certainly he doesn't appear any the worse for a sojourn in your jail. Garrett Kincaid, I'm Judge Morton C. Stillwater an' I'll be presiding over your trial for assault, kidnapping, and conspiracy to commit murder. Since there's no lawyer here to advise you, I'll ensure your legal rights are respected. How do you plead to the charge? Guilty or not guilty?"

"Most emphatically not guilty your Honor," Garrett sang out, his tone insolent. "I protest this mockery of a trial."

"You do, do ya? Duly noted. You'll get a chance to tell your story later. Now sit down and be quiet. The Court calls Sheriff James Ellison to the stand. Bailiff, swear the Sheriff in."

Looking amused by the fancy title, McGettrick held a Bible out for Jim to swear his oath to tell the truth, and waved him to a chair by the bar.

"Alright, Sheriff Ellison, explain to me why Mr. Kincaid has been coolin' his heels in your jail," Stillwater suggested with a thin smile.

Jim related the tension that had grown between the new settlers and the townsfolk, and stiffly explained that the newcomers had little respect for any who didn't subscribe to their view of the world and truth, giving examples of what Kincaid had said to him about his deputies upon his arrival back in Bitterwood Creek. He described their wild riding along the street that had nearly resulted in the death of a child and which had occasioned an exchange of words, which he repeated verbatim, between Doctor Sandburg and Kincaid's men, several of whom had died in the clearing by the river the next day. Jim then testified about finding the tracks in the mud outside the back door, and following them to where they'd found Doctor Sandburg bound to the stake, blindfolded, gagged and unconscious, probably from inhaling too much smoke, and surrounded by the corpses of the men and the one youth who had assaulted him and were intending to kill him.

"So, Doctor Sandburg was tied to a stake, surrounded by a still smoking ring of wood and was unconscious," Stillwater clarified, making a note.

"That's right, Your Honor."

"And how does Mr. Kincaid factor in this personally?"

"He was seen riding into town from the direction of the clearing just before we went in search of the Doctor. And when we arrived back in town with Doctor Sandburg, the Doctor reported that Kincaid had been there and had ordered his men to burn Doc Sandburg to death."

"Judge, that's a damned lie!" Kincaid shouted.

"As I've already told you, Mr. Kincaid, you'll have a chance to tell your side of the story. In the meantime, shut up." Turning back to Jim, the Judge went on, "Thank you, Sheriff. I think I've a good idea of the atmosphere of the town and the events leading up to the attempted murder. You may step down. I call Doctor Blair Sandburg to the stand."

Jim was worried about Blair. For the last ten days, he'd been sleeping 'round the clock, and had retreated into himself, eating little and saying scarcely a word. He looked pallid and wasted; his head was bowed as he shuffled toward the bar, his shoulders slumped, like a man who'd been whipped within an inch of his life. Jim reached out to firmly grip his shoulder reassuringly in passing, and then looked at the Judge. Stillwater's expression was closed, giving nothing away, but the shadows in his eyes and the sudden tightness of his jaw revealed his concern at the change in the man he'd previously known to be a wellspring of energy.

"Bailiff, get the Doctor a glass of water, would you? And then swear him in."

Blair thanked McGettrick for the water, and his voice was low and tight as he swore his oath. Frowning, Stillwater asked gently, "Doctor Sandburg, are you sure you're up to giving testimony today?"

With a shallow nod, Blair made an effort to straighten his shoulders as he lifted his head to meet the Judge's eyes. "Yes, sir. I'd just like to get this over with."

"Alright then. Take your time and tell me what happened that day."

With scarcely any inflection in his voice, Blair testified to being dragged from his home at gunpoint and taken to the meadow, where Kincaid had been waiting. Slowly, as if every word hurt, his gaze fixed on some distant point, Blair recounted what Kincaid had said.

Kincaid leapt to his feet, his face flushed, and yelled, "Damned Jew's lying! Can't believe a word he says!"

Blair's eerily calm recital came to a dead stop while the Judge thumped his gavel and Jim pushed Kincaid down onto his chair. Pointing his gavel at the defendant, Stillwater growled, "Sir, you are sorely testing the patience of this Court. I won't stand for your shenanigans and I will have you gagged if you don't shut up." Turning to Blair, his tone softened as he said, "I'm sorry for the interruption, sir. Please continue."

With another shallow nod, Blair resumed his testimony as if nothing had happened, beginning with Kincaid riding off and what happened after … up to the point of being tied to the stake, gagged, blindfolded and stoned before he smelled the kerosene, heard the match strike and the whoosh of flame, and felt the heat of the fire.

But at that point, his voice faltered. His gaze flickered to Jim and then away. "I don't … I don't know what happened then," he murmured, his voice so low that he wouldn't have been heard if the saloon hadn't been absolutely silent. "I know I was furious and I know I was sick to think that they'd probably killed others, and would kill again, and I couldn't stop them. I … I think I tried to scream at them." He'd paused and swallowed. "I heard a wolf howl and what sounded like a mountain lion. And … and the wind was wild, roaring around me all of a sudden, and the thunder … was so loud, like it was right above me."

Taking a shuddery breath, he blew it out. His voice cracked as he told them all, "I heard … I heard them screaming, dying. I … I heard it all. And … and that's all I remember until I woke up later when … when the Sheriff and the posse brought me back into town." He took a deep breath and looked straight at Kincaid. "And that's when I told Sheriff Ellison that Kincaid had been there and had ordered me to be burned to death."

The Judge lifted a warning hand toward Kincaid, who was again half out of his chair, and scowled at him until the defendant settled back down, his expression thunderous.

For a moment, there was absolute silence in the court, and then Stillwater sighed. "I'm sorry, sir, that you were made to suffer such a terrible experience. But I'm very glad you lived to tell us about it. Thank you, Doctor Sandburg. You may step down."

Stillwater then called each of the members of the posse and listened patiently as they individually corroborated the Sheriff's testimony. When the last one had finished, he rubbed his mouth. "Well, I think we could all use a break before we hear what Mr. Kincaid has to say. Members of the jury, I charge you not to discuss what has been said here today with anyone during the recess." He squinted at his pocket watch and intoned, "We'll resume in an hour." After he banged the gavel, he crossed his arms and watched as Kincaid was escorted back to his cell by one of the temporary deputies – he thought the man's name was Taffy – and as the Sheriff hunkered down beside the Doctor, his expression very evidently concerned. Glancing at McGettrick, he waved his 'bailiff' over.

"What do you think?" Stillwater muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"I think you should throw away the key … the man's slime."

Chewing on his lip, the Judge nodded and then stretched. "Well, he's got a right to state his case. But it damned well better be good. C'mon, let's get something to eat over at Maisie's place."

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

Precisely an hour later, Stillwater reconvened the trial, called Kincaid to the stand and had his bailiff swear the prisoner to tell the truth. McGettrick cut him a look that suggested he wouldn't bet money that the truth was what they'd hear.

"Alright, Mr. Kincaid, you've been anxious to tell me your side of the story and now's your chance. Why don't you begin by giving me a little background on how you and your people came to settle here in Bitterwood Creek?"

"Glad to, your Honor," he replied with urbane charm. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd refer to me as Colonel Kincaid."

"Colonel? I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize you were a serving officer. Is there a reason you're out of uniform?"

Kincaid flushed at the question. "I was proud to serve the South."

"Ah, I see. And the people you led here, were they men who served with you?"

"Yes, sir, they were. Fine, upstandin', brave men, all of them. Deserved better when the hostilities ended, but the damned carpetbaggers from the North picked over all that was left like locusts, stealin' the land from rightful owners."

"Uh huh," the Judge grunted, but nodded encouragingly. "So you came out here to homestead on free land, did you?"

"We did, and we are committed to making Bitterwood Creek a place we can be proud of."

"Needs improvement, does it? Not up to your standards?"

"No, sir, it is not," Kincaid confirmed, with a sharp shake of his head. "The town has potential, but it needs a firm hand and strong leadership. Needs God-fearin' people to take a stand and clean up the sordid practices goin' on."

"Sordid practices?" Stillwater echoed, one brow lifting with interest.

"Yes, sir. Disgraceful situations – women running their own businesses," Kincaid explained with evidently heartfelt sincerity. "Nigras actin' like they're as good or better'n white folks. A Jew parading around pretending to be a doctor, deceiving these poor Christian people with his lies." Kincaid shook his head as if he couldn't believe his own litany of scandalous goings-on.

Stillwater scratched his cheek. "You'd be referring to Miz Connor and Missus Dunning, who runs the bakeshop and restaurant across the street; to Henri Brown who runs the livery and blacksmith, and acts as part-time deputy; Simon Banks and Joel Taggart, who own the Gold Ribbon Ranch; and Doctor Sandburg, who holds a degree in medicine from Georgetown University?"

"Uppity women who don't know their place," Kincaid drawled with deep disgust. "Runaway slaves no better than trash and as for the Jew? The lot of them are liars and cheats, killers of our good Lord, Jesus Christ."

"Well, I seriously doubt Doctor Sandburg was present for the crucifixion," Stillwater muttered. "Alright, I think you've established your determination to put this town to rights. Now, let's talk about the specific day in question. Doctor Sandburg says you ordered your men to burn him at the stake."

"He's lying; I was nowhere near there. And I seriously protest the assertions that my men did anything wrong. I believe the Sheriff and the nigras and their worthless riders set upon my men and brutally murdered them."

Stillwater coughed and reached for a glass of water. After drinking deeply and setting the glass down, he reflected, "That's an interesting interpretation. I'd be interested to know what you'd offer as proof."

"Everyone knows the Sheriff lives with the Jew, an' is in the pocket of the rich nigras," Kincaid retorted angrily. "Can't believe a word any one of them says."

"So … who tied Doctor Sandburg to the stake?"

"There was no stake."

"Alright, then what was Doctor Sandburg doing out there with all your men?"

"He cursed them; put them under a spell to lure them there to their deaths."

Stillwater blinked. "Cursed them?"

"He's a Jew, Devil's spawn. He's the one should be on trial here, not a God fearin' man like me."

The Judge looked out over the audience, taking in Sandburg's pallor, Ellison's barely restrained fury that was scarcely less livid than that of many of the other townsfolk and Gold Ribbon men, and the smug, self-righteous expressions on those he assumed were Kincaid's people.

Turning back to Kincaid, he observed disarmingly, "I can see you're a man of substance, Colonel Kincaid. Why, I'll bet you're a man who carries a goodly sum on his person at all times."

Kincaid smiled arrogantly and nodded with evident satisfaction at the Judge's assessment.

"Now then, just let me clear. It's your sworn testimony that Sheriff Ellison, the men who rode with him that day, and Doctor Sandburg conspired to kill your men; and it's your further contention that Doctor Sandburg is some kind of witch, who lies with abandon and isn't a doctor."

"Yes, your Honor, it is."

"I see. Well, Colonel Kincaid that, sir, is slander, which is against the law. I'll appropriate the money you've got in your pockets as the penalty for your lies and award the damages to the Sheriff and the Doctor."

"What!" Kincaid bellowed. "Slander? It's the God's own truth!"

Leaning on one elbow, Stillwater jabbed a finger at the apoplectic defendant. "You seem to think you're talking to a fool, Kincaid, but I assure you, you are not. For the past five years, I've stayed at the hotel and often dined well in the bakery – I'd be hard-pressed to find two less scandalous women than the very intelligent, independent and decent Miz Connor or Missus Dunning. The owners of the Gold Ribbon ranch have been the backbone of this community for nigh on twenty-five years. I stable my horse at Brown's livery and know him to be a fair, honest, and hard-working man. And I've known these two men for years," he went on in high temper, gesturing toward Jim and Blair. "The Sheriff is one of the most ethical men I have the privilege to know; he was the man who brought the US Military to account for the slaughter of defenseless men, women and children at Poplar Flats. As for Doctor Sandburg, he also has a reputation as a brave man and healer, dating to the Civil War. To my certain and personal knowledge, he has saved countless lives in this town since his arrival. But you, sir, are another matter. You offer no proof of your ugly and ridiculous accusations and, instead, hang yourself with your own words of bigotry and contempt for a good many upstanding members of this community. You want to be called, 'Colonel', do you? Well and good. You've convinced me, and I daresay you've convinced the jury, that your men would not act without direct orders from you. Your disgusting attitudes and hatred make it pretty damned clear that you believe the good Doctor belonged on that stake."

Shouts rang out in the saloon, Kincaid's people jeering and yelling their outrage and contempt. Stillwater hammered his gavel and shouted, "Silence! Silence or I'll have the lot of you thrown out!"

His lips thin, Stillwater gazed at Kincaid with unbridled disgust. "Your wallet," he directed, holding out his hand. "Or shall I have the bailiff relieve you of it?"

Glaring at the Judge, Kincaid pulled his billfold from inside his jacket and slapped it on the bar. "You have no right to take my money," he growled.

"I have every right, you puffed-up popinjay. I'm the Judge. I determine when someone has broken the law in these parts and what the penalty will be. And if you kick up a fuss or make any other objectionable comments, I'll fine you more." Stillwater pulled a stack of bills from the wallet, counted them out, divided the stack in four and waved Ellison forward. "For you, for Doctor Sandburg, and for the women he demeaned," he said. "Less compensation than any of you deserve for such vile slander but I hope it will suffice as an example that I won't tolerate such nonsense in my court."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Jim replied with a wry half-smile as he accepted the bills, and then returned to his seat.

Turning back to Kincaid, the Judge said sternly, "Now that you've entertained the Court with a pack of lies and vicious slander, perhaps you'd like to give the truth a try. Or didn't swearin' on that Bible mean anythin' to a 'God-fearin' man' like you? Hmm?"

"You have no right to treat me like a criminal!" Kincaid railed furiously. "They killed my men!"

"I take it you have nothing more to add," Stillwater responded dryly. "You're dismissed. Go back to your seat, sit down and keep your mouth shut, or I'll have your sorry ass hauled back to jail right now." Ignoring Kincaid's glare of outrage, Stillwater turned to the jury. "You've heard the testimony, just as I have. I have formed my own opinion about what happened, but it's your duty to form your own, unanimously if possible. If not, a simple majority will suffice since this is not a murder trial. Mr. McCready has made his storeroom available for your deliberations. Please advise the bailiff when you've reached your verdict." Turning back to the crowd, he directed, "Court is adjourned pending the jury's verdict." And he slammed the gavel on the bar.

But the jury didn't even leave the room. After a hasty conferral, they waved to McGettrick and called, "We're ready."

Stillwater banged the gavel for order and called, "Court is back in session. The defendant will rise and face the jury. Members of the jury, what is your verdict?"

Sam Sloan stood up. "I'm the jury foreman, your Honor. Unanimously, we find Garrett Kincaid guilty of conspiracy to murder Doctor Sandburg."

"Well done. The jury is dismissed. Garrett Kincaid, I sentence you to twenty years hard labor in the Kansas State Prison for instigating the kidnapping of Doctor Sandburg from his home, the assault upon his person, and the vicious, heinous attempt to murder Doctor Sandburg by burning him to death. You're lucky he survived. I'd like to sentence you to be hung by the neck until your sorry carcass rots, but I'll have to make do with life in prison. Take him away."

When the saloon again erupted, he banged the gavel and waved it at Kincaid's irate followers. "You lot, you listen and you listen good. Mind your manners and respect my ruling, or I'll have all of you thrown in prison with him!"

A surly silence fell as the settlers filed out of the saloon. Taffy grabbed Kincaid by the arm and hauled him back to the jail. Stillwater looked at the Sheriff and shook his head. "You're going to have your hands full with those people."

Jim nodded in bleak agreement, and then he turned to support Blair as he stood to make his way back to their home. Their friends surrounded them and Joel drew close to gather Blair into a hug, but the young doctor didn't respond. He seemed too broken to even be fully aware of what was happening. Stillwater bit his lip and frowned in concern. Stepping around the bar, he approached the physician. "Dr. Sandburg," he offered, his voice low and steady, "I am truly sorry those men did what they did to a good man like you. I very much hope, sir, that time will heal the memories you bear and mute them to give you peace."

"Thank you," Blair murmured, sounding strained and exhausted. Stepping back, Stillwater watched Ellison put an arm around his shoulders and shepherd him out of the saloon, their friends forming a phalanx around them as an informal honor guard.

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

For days after the trial, everyone in town – with a few notable exceptions – talked about the details they'd heard for the first time during the testimonies like Blair had been saved by some kind of miracle. Pastor Stevens was especially vocal about that, asserting that God had saved the righteous and condemned the guilty. At least, the adults seemed to believe that was what happened. The kids started playing games where one cursed others and they ran away shrieking in gleeful horror.

The first time Blair ventured out of the house a week later and saw them playing their new game, he went white as a sheet and barely made it around the side of the building before he vomited.

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

Jim watched his friend serve up their dinner and, for about the thousandth time, bit his tongue and held his peace. Though a month had passed since they'd freed Blair from that damned stake and brought him home, it wasn't over; far from it. Oh, Blair spoke when he was spoken to, managed to even sound natural, like everything was fine, great, normal. Yeah, right, normal. How 'normal' was it for Sandburg to never initiate a conversation, not once since the night he'd stammered out what had happened? Or to sit in his office, avoiding people? Sure, he went out when he was called, and still did all he could to help anyone who was sick or hurt. The quiet spell had passed and his patient load had again picked up. Now, that was normal – just when Jim perversely wished his partner could have had more time to heal. He was afraid Blair was using the excuse of being busy to avoid dealing with what had happened.

And the settlers? Jim grimaced as he ate his meal in silence. Without Kincaid, they seemed to have lost confidence … and Jim thought they were damned scared of Blair. They grumbled and still spread their toxic beliefs every chance they got, but they'd settled down on their farms. Jim wished they'd pulled up stakes and moved on, but they hadn't gotten that lucky.

Jim had known it was going to take time for Blair to reconcile what had happened, and had done his best to be patient and supportive. But he was getting increasingly worried that no such coming to terms was taking place. Instead, Blair seemed to be drifting further away. It couldn't go on like this. It was driving him crazy that Blair wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't … wouldn't let it go. When Jim pushed, he just said, "I'm fine," and turned away, closing in on himself.

But what scared Jim the most was that Blair scarcely touched him anymore, except when he had to ground him, and slipped away whenever Jim tried to touch him. The only ways Jim knew how to help were to listen and to touch, to express his love, to share whatever he had, to help in any way he could.

But it was like Blair didn't want help – didn't think he deserved it. Being patient and supportive didn't seem to be doing a damned bit of good, and that left Jim feeling increasingly helpless and anxious because he just didn't know what to do, how to make things any better. He found himself becoming impatient and angry … and he was afraid he was soon going to lose it completely and shout at the man who didn't need any more pain or grief in his life. For days now, he'd been keeping a tight leash on his temper but it was getting harder and, if anything, things between them seemed to be growing ever more stilted and tense. He hated it. Hated seeing Blair so miserable, hated feeling impotent to make anything better – hated that it was tearing them both apart.

He glanced across the table and saw Blair, as usual, only picking at his food. In the last month, the kid had lost too much weight and was beginning to look gaunt. "You can't go on like this," he chided, but as gently as he knew how. "If you don't keep your strength up, you won't be any good to your patients. Worse, you'll end up getting sick. And you know what that means. Without a spleen, you could … could…" But Jim couldn't say it. Was too afraid that maybe that was Blair's plan.

"I'm fine," Blair muttered as he pushed away from the table and carried his plate to the counter; pulling his usual stunt of avoidance.

Jim couldn't stand it. Couldn't hold it in any longer – the fear and anxiety, the despair that, even though Blair had survived, Kincaid had still killed something inside of him, the anger at being shut-out. He slammed his palms down on the table and shouted, "Fine? You call this fine? This walking death? This … this travesty of 'normal'? You're not fine, Sandburg. I don't know exactly what you are, but 'fine' isn't it."

Blair flinched but didn't turn back to face him. Just stood there, silent, absorbing it, not defending himself, not fighting.

And then it hit Jim. Not fighting. For all that Blair was a peaceable man, he wasn't a coward. He didn't back down; he held his ground. And when he had to fight, he did; though he often regretted it, he also accepted it. Why wasn't he accepting it now? Christ, the kid hadn't had any choice! What was he supposed to do? Just stand there and let them burn him to death without any protest? No, dammit. And he hadn't stopped fighting, even though he'd been helpless. Because Blair was a fighter, not a quitter.

So why was he quitting now?

Standing, Jim moved to grip Blair's shoulders and, when Blair tried to pull away, he wouldn't let go. "This isn't you, Chief," he asserted. "You don't give up, not like this. I know, I know, you feel bad about what happened. But, hell, they were murderers, the lot of them. Even the Walters' boy. They were murdering you and would have murdered others. Why the hell can't you see that?"

"I do see it," Blair replied, his voice tight. "I saw it then, while it was happening. That's … that's what made me so damned angry."

"Then I don't understand," Jim sighed, still holding on, not letting him escape this time. "Why can't you let it go? Why is it tearing you apart?"

"Don't…" Blair grated.

"Don't what? Don't care? Don't feel sick at seeing you like this? You're hurting, Sandburg. Worse than I've ever seen you hurt before. You can't go on like this. Talk to me, dammit. Tell me what's going on here."

"I can't."

"Don't give me that," Jim growled in frustration, his irritation again growing. "You just don't want to. You'd rather shut out your friends, turn into some kind of martyr – to what, I don't know."

"Let me go."

"No. No, not this time. We're going to have it out here and now. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Dammit!" Blair cursed and jerked an elbow back into his solar plexus, startling him and breaking his grip. Twisting around, Blair shoved him back, hard. "Leave me alone!"

"NO! No, I won't leave you alone. I will not let what those bastards did to you destroy you. Do you hear me, Sandburg?" Jim yelled back, though he felt a spark of hope that Blair was fighting him. The anger was a whole lot better than that terrible silence. Crowding closer, using his bulk to fence Blair in, Jim grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Tell me what's eating you! Tell me what's wrong with you!"

Panting, Blair brought his arms up to break Jim's grip and tried to surge past, but Jim grabbed his arm and spun him back around.

"Don't, Jim. Please!" he begged. "I can't … I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"Can't control it!" Blair shouted, tears glazing his eyes. "Don't you get it? I'm … I don't know what I am, but I'm not … I'm … God, I'm a monster. Jesus, Jim – who does that? Calls down the fury of the gods and destroys other men with fire – just by loathing them so much, despising them, hating them for what they were doing, what they would do! I … I'm terrified. Can't you see that? Terrified I'll do it again!"

"I'm not sure you did do it," Jim shouted back.

"What?" Blair exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief. "Who the hell else was there?"

"The spirit animals."

Blair gaped at him and turned away. "Yeah, right, the wolf and the cat decided –"

"Decided those bastards weren't going to win that round," Jim cut in. "Weren't going to kill a damned decent man for sport. Decided their evil stopped there."

"You don't really believe that," Blair sighed. Raking back his hair, he looked up at Jim, all the fight gone out of him. "Nice try, though. As far as absolution goes, very nice try."

"I can believe it a whole lot easier than I can believe you're some kind of monster, Chief," Jim argued. "And it wasn't absolution because I don't think you need to be absolved of anything. You were fighting for your life – hell, not even that, because you didn't intend to call the wrath of God down on them. You were sick to your soul about their cruelty and what they'd do next."

Blair flinched and looked away.

"What? You think I don't know you were probably thinking about them coming after me? And then after everyone else their kind despise? People you love. People who are worth loving? If … and I mean that … if you did that, stopped them in the only way you could, if – you did it for the rest of us. To protect us. You didn't do it in revenge for what they were doing to you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, Chief. Yes, I do, because I know you," Jim insisted, desperate to keep him talking now that the dam had burst. "When have you killed, huh? Name one time that you took another life to save your own."

"Quinn."

"Quinn had shot Joel. Would have killed him for sure if you hadn't stopped him, and you know it."

Blair closed his eyes and bowed his head. "You don't understand," he whispered, sounding beaten.

"Then explain it to me."

"I wasn't in control," Blair murmured, his voice shaky. "I … I didn't know what I was doing. Didn't know I could do something … something so…" He shook his head. "I don't want that kind of power. I don't want to play God."

"Even when it means being able to save a kid like Cherie?" Jim asked, aching at the pain he heard in his friend's voice.

Blair's shoulders start to quake and he covered his face with his hands as he sank to the floor, bowing forward to curl into himself.

"Aw, Chief," Jim sighed with compassion, tears stinging his own eyes as he dropped to one knee to wrap his arms around Blair and hold him close.

"I'm glad I saved her," he choked. "But … I didn't know … I didn't know…"

"Didn't know the scalpel could cut both ways," Jim offered.

"Scalpels don't," Blair moaned. "I know how to wield a scalpel."

"Well, maybe … maybe you can learn how to wield this, too," Jim murmured into his hair. "It's not all bad, Chief. Don't be afraid of the good you can do."

"The kids…" Blair stammered then, his fingers clutching Jim's shirt like a lifeline. "They … some of them … I can tell they're afraid of me now. Afraid of what I might do to them."

"Afraid you'll turn them into toads," Jim agreed, finding it hard not to smile. "I know. I heard what you said in the school that day." He hesitated and then added with a chuckle, "I hear Urseline Tucker is a little worried you might do that to her."

"It's not funny," Blair insisted, smacking his chest and trying to draw away.

"It's not the end of the world, either." Jim loosened his grip, but still held on.

"You still don't get it," Blair charged, sitting back and impatiently scraping the tears away. "I'm scared of me."

Snorting, Jim sat down beside him and looped an arm around his shoulders. "Well, get over it. I'm not scared of you and nobody who knows you – knows the kind of man you are – is scared of you. Scared for you, maybe. Scared of what you're doing to yourself. But … scared of you? No."

"Maybe you should be," Blair retorted.

"Is that why you've been pushing me away? Pushing everyone away? Because you're scared you'll hurt us?" Jim asked, honestly astonished. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why? If I could lash out like that without knowing what I was doing, who's to say I won't do it again, huh?"

"Well, if anyone is ever set on burning you at the stake again, I hope you do."

"Jim," Blair wailed. "Be serious about this."

"I am being serious," he insisted. "And if you asked any of the others who know what went down – Henri, Simon, Joel – they'd say the same thing. Hell, the night we brought you back, H sat in this kitchen, and when I said I thought you might be afraid of hurting people, he said 'No way,' not you. 'Cause you live to help people. That's what he said. And Simon said he was damned glad it turned out the way it did, because otherwise you'd be dead."

When Blair didn't speak and wouldn't look at him, he sighed. "Blair, for God's sake – yes, fine, it might happen again, but not by accident and not because you got annoyed or some damned thing. But if killers push you to the wall, and they threaten to hurt decent, innocent people, and it's the only way you can stop them – yeah, maybe, it'll happen again. And I say, good. Because when push comes to shove, you're the one I want walking away from that kind of encounter. And, frankly, I don't give a damn about who might not walk away."

"But it's wrong, Jim, to be judge and jury, to condemn and destroy with such incredible power. It's wrong."

Jim kneaded his shoulder. "When we found you – and them – Simon asked me what had happened there, and I said, 'Justice'. And I meant it. Sure … all things being equal, I'm all for locking the bad guys up and letting the law do its thing. But there was nothing 'equal' about what was going down there. They were savage murderers, Chief. They had no capacity to feel remorse. They were going to kill again. And they were killing you. They got what was coming to them. Exactly what was coming to them."

Blair shuddered. "Nobody deserves to die like that."

Jim sighed. "Look, I'm not going to go round and round on this. I hear what you're saying and I get that you're scared of these powers you have, that they're more than you ever imagined, and they … well, they horrify you. But I think you've let it get blown out of proportion. You've been worried about judging them – but what about how unfairly you've been judging yourself?"

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Blair pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. His shoulders slumped as the last of his resistance bled out of him, and he leaned against Jim – the first time he'd sought such support since the night it had all happened. Jim wrapped both arms around him and just held him.

"You're not a monster, Sandburg," he finally offered into the silence. "I don't know exactly what you are – an avenging angel, maybe? An instrument of God's will. If there is a God; you've always been more convinced of that than I am. But, mostly, you're a healer. And in your own way, you're a protector, just like I am. It just … just hurts you more when you can't save everyone. Even the bad ones."

Blair nodded against his chest. And then, to Jim's immense relief, Blair slipped his arms around him, and hugged him back.

For a time, Jim was content to simply savor the closeness, the contact. But there was more he had to know; more that had to be said. Bowing his head, he pressed his lips against Blair's head, and then asked, "Why have you shut me out? Why won't you let me help you?"

At first, he didn't think Blair was going to answer. But then his partner sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I … I haven't wanted to drag you down with me. Haven't wanted to … use you. Use what you give me. I need to deal with this myself."

Lifting his head, Jim looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. "Use me?" he echoed, sorely tempted to shake the stuffing out of his stubborn friend.

"Yeah," Blair admitted, his face still turned away. "You know what I mean. When I'm … when I've spent too much of myself, gone too far, you … your love, your care and concern … your strength – you give it all to me. I, well, I haven't felt I deserved that, I guess. I made this mess. I should clean it up."

"Sandburg, that is such bullshit," he griped. "Sonofabitch, Chief, are we or are we not partners? Did we or did we not promise to share what comes and support one another as best we can? Huh?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Have you thought about what it does to me, to not be able to touch you?" Jim charged, knowing it was selfish, but what the hell? It was the truth. "You think you're the only one who needs what we give each other?"

"Ah, geez, that's not fair," Blair protested. "Lately, all I've been doing is taking … and that really isn't fair to you."

"Don't you want me to touch you?" Jim pressed.

"Oh, don't," Blair moaned, straining against him, holding him tighter. "You know that's not it. It's been so hard, so damned hard, but I … I don't want to use you. Don't ever want to use you."

Jim threaded his fingers through the curls and tugged gently. "Look at me, Chief. C'mon," he tugged again, "look at me."

Slowly, Blair raised his face, and Jim tenderly traced the lines of strain as he gazed into the troubled eyes. "I love you, you moron," he said as gently as he knew how. "And I need you, Chief. Every bit as much as you need me. Maybe more. When you hurt, I hurt. I just want to hold you, okay? Just … just let me help you."

Blair pressed his lips together and he swallowed convulsively. His eyes grew damp but he blinked the insipient tears away. "Okay, Jim. I … it's been so hard man, and I'm so tired."

Jim smiled. Relief flooding him, he asked with simple hope, "So we're okay?"

And then, after far too long, Blair smiled at him. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand. Jim clasped it strongly, accepting the offer and the request Blair was making, understanding the symbolism of it, the import, and could have burst with the happiness that coursed through him.

The healer – his healer – had finally consented to be healed.

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

Thinking about it all the next day after Jim had gone to work, Blair was grateful to his partner for confronting him and literally shaking some sense into him. For so long, he'd felt as if he was locked in a fog, unable to sleep or think straight, mired in horror, fear and guilt. He doubted he'd ever think about those terrible minutes, hearing those dying screams, without feeling sick. But he was finally able to accept that he wasn't some kind of bomb that could go off without warning, that he wasn't a constant danger to the people around him. Intellectually, he could also accept Jim's arguments – which were strongly seconded, he knew, by Henri, Simon and Joel – that he'd acted, to some extent, with instinctive self-defense, even as a kind of protector who couldn't bear the thought of others being tortured and killed by those men. But the magnitude of his action, however unexpected and unintended, still left him feeling very anxious about how little he understood or was able to control his new abilities.

The bottom line was that he couldn't change what had happened and guilt didn't make it better. And Jim had said something else later last night that had really given him pause. Jim had said he'd wished it could have gone down differently, that he'd understood sooner the danger Blair had been in, that the bastards had been killed in a gunfight with Jim and the others, instead of Blair having to live with the responsibility of their deaths. Blair had caught himself nodding in wistful agreement – and then had realized how hypocritical he was being.

Down deep, he really wasn't sorry those men were dead; hell, in many ways, he was relieved because they had been conscienceless killers and had posed a continuing threat not just to him but to a lot of people. If anything, it was his lack of regret that they were dead that had been haunting him, because he didn't want to feel good about something like that. Blair was disgusted with himself for squeamishly wishing it had been someone else who had killed them, for wishing that responsibility on Jim and the friends who had ridden to rescue him. What a hell of thing to wish on people he loved, and how utterly ludicrous was it to mope around about it when he'd be just fine if anyone but him had killed them?

Get over it, he'd told himself then, impatient with himself for his foolishness. It's done, you did it, and you're not sorry they're dead. Not happy about it, sure, fine; but not sorry, either.

So he was determined to do his best to move on, just as he had had to do when he'd killed in the past. He didn't feel any better about it, but he was going to stop wallowing in how badly he felt. Looking back, he could see how Jim and his friends had tried to help him – Joel, especially, had done his damnedest to help him through the trial. He remembered Joel wrapping his bear-like arms around him and was ashamed to know he'd just stood there, unable to accept the support. He'd been so mired in his misery, so utterly self-absorbed, he'd made himself deaf and blind to everything anyone had said or done. And he fervently hoped he'd never, ever, have to face such a situation again. Chagrined now that he could think clearly, he was sorry he'd caused his friends to worry so much about him, but was very touched that they cared so much. And, man, he was thankful that Jim had finally just had enough of putting up with the bullshit, and had forced him to face it rather than giving up on him.

God, he wished he understood it all better, and knew how to handle it better. Shaking his head, he recalled how he'd pretty much reveled in his newfound abilities when they'd allowed him to know Steven was still alive and to help find him; when he'd been able to draw upon them to create fire to impress Geronimo and his people and to create a distraction in the railroad camp, like some kind of parlor trick. And he could never be sorry that he had the capacity to heal. But … he now knew to the depths of his soul that these weren't just handy little tricks or benign abilities. The realization was chilling and he sorely wished he was certain of how to control what he could do, and he sure in hell hoped he'd never willfully contemplate turning such power against other human beings. The magnitude of what he was able to do and the responsibility his abilities conveyed were staggering, leaving him feeling both humble and afraid.

Shuddering, he couldn't even imagine doing something like that again – didn't want to imagine it.

Taking a breath, he told himself he'd just have to deal with how overwhelming it felt; his gifts helped him heal and that's what mattered most.

At least … at least as awful as his memories were about what he'd done, with Kincaid in prison and the worst of his followers dead, his people had settled down. The threat the new settlers had posed to Jim, their friends – hell, the whole town – seemed to be over. Maybe now, life could get back to normal. And for that, he could be very grateful.

Pushing away from the table, he washed up the dishes from breakfast and poured himself another cup of coffee. Still a bit shaky but feeling better than he had in weeks, lighter somehow, he ambled into his small dispensary to make up the packets of medicine he'd need to take on his rounds later that morning.

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

Days melted into weeks under the summer's burning sun; July came and went and soon it would be September. The settlers kept pretty much to themselves, busy with building their cabins to ensure they had more than tent canvas or wagons for shelter when the weather turned cold. Some of the men had come in to clear the away the wreckage of the construction sites, hauling the wood and used nails back to their settlement to use in building their new homes. They'd been sullen and glowering while they worked, but hadn't caused any trouble. And, in keeping with the requirements for homesteading, they were improving the land, planting crops … and bringing in sheep to raise for the wool, and to slaughter for the markets in the east. They finished building their own meeting house, too, to hold their worship services. With the school closed for the summer, there was little reason for them to come into town other than to buy supplies at the general store or to call on Milt Ambrose if they were sick or someone had been hurt.

Jim wanted to believe the crisis was over, the danger passed. Things had sure quieted down. Mostly, he was glad that Blair seemed to have bounced back. He was eating again, and had regained most of the weight he'd lost. Smiling and joking again, he was getting back to normal, but his eyes still didn't sparkle with energy, and that was worrisome. There were times when he seemed distracted, his expression distant and clouded, anxious, and Jim figured he was still battling the ghosts of the men he'd killed. Took time to lay something like that to rest.

But … for all that there'd been no major trouble, Jim felt uneasy. Little things, small in themselves, seemed to him to signal that the river of poison hadn't dried up, had just gone underground. Sam had mentioned the other day that, even though another bank wasn't being built, he didn't know where the settlers were safeguarding their money. They weren't using the bank, and Clive Tucker had taken his own savings out, as had some others in town. Sam speculated that the settlers had set up a kind of credit system amongst themselves, which was fine. No reason they shouldn't … but it signaled that they were determined not to support any institution that did business with people like Simon and Joel.

A rock had been thrown through a church window one night the week before. Could have been kids, a prank; but it could also have been a signal of something more virulent. Some folks in town, like the Tuckers, had taken to attending the new meeting house out by the settlement and talked about the purity of the lessons taught there, the sermons that spoke of the superiority of the white race and man's rightful dominance over women because of Eve's original sin. Women were just weak-spirited, they said, easily led. Jim rolled his eyes and wondered how Clive – or anyone for that matter – could swallow such pig-swill when Urseline was a perfect example of a very strong-spirited, opinionated and cantankerous woman who wouldn't be led by anything but her own narrow-minded ideas.

Someone was writing self-righteous diatribes to Dan Raymond, insisting he print them as 'editorials'; putrid stuff about how people with black skins had descended from monkeys and weren't fully human, and about how Jews couldn't be trusted – and worse, far worse, should all be condemned and exterminated for having murdered Jesus. Dan used the trash as kindling for his small stove in the office. But the anonymous letters kept coming, nasty, ugly epistles of hate.

The Tuckers and their like-minded friends in town had also transferred their families to Milt Ambrose's questionable care. Urseline never seemed to tire of standing on street corners to gossip about how wonderful it was that such a fine, upstanding, brilliant Christian was now offering excellent doctoring to folks in town, and how she just could not understand why anyone would choose to go to anyone else now that there was a choice. Fanning herself, she'd ask how anyone could actually trust someone who wasn't a Christian, how they could feel safe and not fear their souls would be sent straight to hell. Jim swore she had to be stalking Blair because her loud commentary seemed to invariably occur when Blair was nearby, on his way in or out of the general store or when he was walking to or from one of his house calls to see a patient. The last time Jim had overheard the vicious busybody he'd –

Sonuvabitch, she's at it again! he realized, surging up from his desk, nearly incandescent with fury. He could hear her going on about it in the general store. In three steps, he was out the door. He had a few choices things of his own to say about idiots who put their lives and the wellbeing of their kids in the hands of that greedy, self-serving charlatan, Milt Ambrose.

When he stomped into the store, Blair looked around from the counter, where he was paying Angus for their supplies. "Hey, Jim," he called, his cheerful tone belied by the sharp warning in his eyes. "Just in time to help me carry all this stuff home."

"Chief, that's not why –" he growled, shifting his gaze to Urseline who was holding court in front of the barrel of apples. He took a step in her direction only to find his way blocked by his partner.

"Don't," Blair grated so low nobody but Jim could have heard him, and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Look, enough is –"

"No!" Blair hissed through his fixed smile. "She's got a right to her opinions, not to mention free speech," he insisted. "You're the Sheriff – you're supposed to uphold the law, remember? Not use your authority to intimidate. Now come on. Help me carry this stuff home. Save me an extra trip."

Steaming with annoyance, Jim glared at Urseline – for all the good it did. When he caught the satisfied glitter in her eyes when she looked at him, he wanted to throttle her. But he allowed Blair to turn him toward the counter and he dutifully picked up one of the loaded boxes. Behind the counter, Angus looked even more dour than usual as he counted out Blair's change.

"Sheriff," he acknowledged with a tight nod. "Doc, thanks for the business."

Grinding his teeth together, Jim led the way out onto the boardwalk, but they'd hardly stepped outside when he heard Angus call, "Mrs. Tucker, if you don't mind, this is a store not a ladies' tea party. I'd be obliged if you'd all finish up your shopping so's other customers can get to what they'd like to buy."

"Huh!" Jim gusted. "Good for him."

"What?" Blair asked, looking around in confusion.

"Angus just told Urseline Tucker to finish her shopping and move on," Jim reported with a smug smile of vindication.

"Oh, man," Blair sighed. "I appreciate it, but that won't stop her. Besides, I can't say I miss dealing with her and the others who are now going to Milt. A little worried about their continuing health, maybe, but he's a better qualified doctor than most who claim to know what they're doing, so it could be worse."

"Chief, she's –"

"I know, I know," Blair cut in as he strode toward the house. "I know what's she's saying. Believe me, I've heard it all. But paying any attention to her will only encourage her – she'll get all self-righteous about 'some people' not wanting 'other people' to speak their minds or some damned thing. Jim, people around here either agree with her or they don't; nothing she says or anyone else says is going to change that. Eventually, she'll find something else to talk about; hopefully soon. It's embarrassing but … she's entitled to her own opinions. You just have to ignore her, not let her get to you."

Jim grimaced as he followed Blair into their home to take the supplies into the kitchen. Setting the box down on the table, he asked, "Is that what you do? Not let her get to you? I don't know how you do it – listen to that crap and not fight back."

Blair shrugged as he took cans from a box to put in the cupboard under the counter. "I can't say it doesn't bother me; it does. It is uncomfortable, embarrassing, and well, some days just plain infuriating. But … but it's about picking your fights, I guess. Urseline is annoying, but that's all she is. Guess I'd be more concerned if it was someone I respected."

Listening, Jim nodded thoughtfully. He understood what Blair was saying, and could see his point that it wasn't worth fighting about. Maybe. But … 'uncomfortable' was no way to live, and it pissed him off that Blair had to settle for that. Blair and the Browns, and anyone else who was 'different'.

Sometimes … sometimes he almost missed Kincaid and the fight the man had offered. At least he'd been upfront; Jim could deal with 'upfront'. It was the ones who hid in the bushes and spewed their poison in small but persistent ways that aggravated the hell out of him; there didn't seem to be any way to make them stop. They were like water wearing down stone, just a trickle at a time, but possibly more dangerous in their way, more capable of erosion and massive long-lasting destruction to the fabric of their town, than Kincaid had been. Kincaid had given them something to rally around and fight.

Sighing, not having any answers, not even sure how to name the insidious threat he felt in his bones, he helped Blair unpack and put away their goods.

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

Jim looked up at the creaking of wagons, the jangling of harnesses, and the thudding of more horses than it took to haul wagons. Rising from behind his desk, he stepped out the door to look down the street at the approaching cavalcade, grinning to see Joel atop the lead buckboard, and Simon on his palomino, riding with a dozen or so of their men as escort. Moving to the edge of the boardwalk, he tipped his hat as Joel rolled past, though he was already hauling on the traces to stop the wagon in front of the general store. Jim was puzzled as he looked at the empty wagon beds; wasn't usual for the Gold Ribbon ranchers to stock up on so many supplies at one time, let alone at this time of year when their own gardens met their needs.

"You look like you plan to clear out the whole store," he called good-naturedly.

Joel was climbing down from the wagon as Simon waved their men toward the saloon to wash the trail dust from their mouths. "We'll be in shortly," Simon called as he looped his palomino's reins over the hitching post. Drawing off his hat, he wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand before resettling the Stetson at a casual angle on the back of his head. "Jim," he acknowledged with a smile, holding out his hand for their ritual greeting.

Smiling broadly, Joel slapped Jim on the shoulder on his way inside the store. "I'll take care of settling the account, and then go see if Blair and H got some time to join us for a chinwag while the men load the wagons."

"Sounds good," Simon agreed, and he and Jim made their way to the saloon.

Jim looked back over his shoulder and noted that the smile had vanished from Joel's face after he'd turned to enter the store. Pushing through the bat-wing doors behind Simon, he took in the expressions of the riders, all of whom he knew well. Rafe was watchful, and the usually cheerful Taffy looked downright grim, as did Reynolds, Nelson and Larkin. They had moseyed up to the bar, but they hadn't turned their backs on the front or rear entries.

"Trouble?" he asked, keeping his tone deliberately mild.

"Hope not," Simon replied with a grimace. "But it can't hurt to be careful these days," he sighed and waved at Moe to send two mugs of beer to the table he chose where he could watch the street out the front windows. "Tex got winged the other day, riding along the northern ridge."

"What!" Jim exclaimed, frowning heavily. "He okay?"

"Yeah, just a graze," Simon sighed. "Didn't see who did the shootin'; just high-tailed back to the ranch. Nobody rides the range alone now, just in case."

"The settlers have your northern boundary pretty well staked out," Jim observed.

"Yeah, and they're crowding on the west, too. Trying to cut us off from town, make us ride the long way around," Simon reported as he took the beer Moe handed him with a nod of gratitude.

"Damn," Jim muttered as he lifted his frothing mug.

"Uh huh," Simon grunted. "You know us – we like to be peaceable. But I swear they're still spoiling for a war."

"Hey, Simon! Guys!" Blair called out cheerfully as he arrived with Joel and Brown.

"Blair," Simon greeted with a warm smile. "You're lookin' a sight better, son, than the last time we saw you."

As he and the others joined them at the round table, Blair gave both older men a smile. "I'm a lot better, thanks." Giving them a bemused look and a tight shake of his head, he added, "I was really out of it … might not have seemed like I appreciated your support, but I did. A lot. Thank you." Before they had a chance to say anything, he swiftly asked, "So what brings you into town? With all those wagons, looks like you're stocking up for winter early this year."

"Nah," Joel replied, his lips twisting with irritation. "Angus got in a load of barbed wire for us. We're here to pick it up."

"You're fencing the range?" Blair exclaimed, looking from one to the other in astonishment. "But, but that's –"

"Not something cattlemen do," Simon cut in, his expression tight. "Can't say as we like it, and we'd be lyin' if we said we're not worried about losing cattle over the winter, if they drift against the fence and freeze to death, but we don't have much choice."

"The settlers've brought in sheep," Joel explained, sounding tired. "We have to protect the pasturage – sheep forage clear to the dirt." He sighed and shook his head. "Stupid to graze them here. They'll have a dustbowl on their hands in no time."

"We're also takin' care to keep the settlers themselves out," Simon intoned as he lifted his mug and drained it. "We're missing steers along the north and west boundaries … and Tex got winged a few days ago up in the same area."

"Is he okay? Why didn't you send for me?" Blair demanded.

"He's fine, son," Joel soothed. "No more'n a scratch. Fair warning, though, that things haven't settled down as much as we hoped they would."

Jim shifted his gaze to Blair in time to catch the flash of despair before it was gone, hidden by other shadows of concern for their friends.

Not for the first time, Jim cursed Kincaid and his band of troublemakers. Setting his mug on the table, he wondered where it was ever going to end – or if it ever would.

"I don't like it," Joel grumbled. "We came out here in the first place so we'd never have to feel boxed in again; never feel like we were in a cage. An' now, hell, we're putting up the wire our own selves."

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

Blair was very pleased with Maisie. She'd followed his advice and had been out walking every day, often twice a day, for nearly two months now. Her color was better despite the summer's persistent heat, and her ankles and hands were no longer swollen. Blair could see that she'd lost fifteen or twenty pounds and was lighter on her feet.

"I feel so much better, Doc," she said with a happy grin. "I don't get so breathless anymore, and I'm not nearly so tired at the end of the day."

"I'm glad, really glad," he replied. "You've been taking good care of yourself and it shows. I'm proud of you, Maisie! Now," he went on, waggling a playful finger at her, "just keep it up!"

"I will, I can promise you that," she assured him, patting his back as she walked him to the door of her shop. "You've made a new woman of me, Doc. I'm grateful to you."

"You've made a new woman of yourself," he contested with a smile.

He was still smiling when he stepped out on the boardwalk and turned to head back to his office – and nearly ran into a woman and her son, who'd just climbed down off their wagon outside of the apothecary.

"Oh, sorry, excuse me," he apologized.

She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. "Lord save us!" she gasped and, grabbing her son's hand, she pulled him away, and held up her other hand in a sign to ward off the Devil. "Get away from us!" she screeched. "Get away!"

Carefully containing his expression, though he knew he was probably flushing, he held up his hands and backed off, and then turned to jump down into the street, walking stiffly across to the other side. Jim came out of his office, his scowl thunderous, just as Blair climbed the steps onto the boardwalk outside of their house.

"What was that all about?" he demanded, jerking his head toward the woman who had scurried into Ambrose's shop.

His jaw clenched, Blair looked away.

"Sandburg?"

Still getting his temper under control, Blair muttered bitterly, "What? That? That was just an example of the latest trend going around. The settlers, and some others, have started using a hand sign to 'ward off demons'. Seems to work best when accompanied by hisses or screeches."

"Since when?" Jim asked, looking seriously appalled.

Determined not to vent his anger on Jim, Blair blew a long breath. "Oh, for a week or so, I guess; should be fun when the kids go back to school next week. They'll all be doing it for the scary thrill it gives them."

"Ah, Chief," Jim groaned and bowed his head, the brim of his Stetson obscuring his face. "Honest to God, I don't know what to say," he rasped, fury mingling with pathos and helplessness in his voice. "This is … dammit."

Blair's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know," he sighed. Reaching out, he gripped Jim's arm, both to give and receive comfort from the touch. "It's okay."

"No, it damned well isn't 'okay'," Jim snarled, his head coming up, meeting Blair's gaze, his blue eyes hard with rage that Blair knew wasn't directed at him, but was very much on his behalf.

"You're right. It's not. Relegate it to the 'shit we can't do anything about' file," Blair replied. He took another breath and squared his shoulders. "Look, I've got work to do and I know you do, too. But, uh, thanks, man. For being furious. It helps, you know. Really helps that I don't have to suck it up and deal with it alone."

Jim's mouth tightened as he scanned the street. "You don't have to put up with this crap, you know? Just say the word, Sandburg, and we're gone."

Blair gave him a smile and the chill of the encounter melted away. "I know, and I appreciate that more than I can ever say. I'm … I'm still hoping it won't come to that. I'm not ready to throw in the towel yet."

Jim searched his face and gave him a small, tight nod. "It's your call, Chief. You've got a hell of a lot more patience than I do. But it's your call."

His smile widening, Blair slapped his arm as he turned toward their house. "Thanks, Jim," he murmured. "Thanks for … well, just thanks."

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

Blair was making notes on his last patient of the day when he heard the front door open. He looked up, wondering who else had gotten sick or maybe had an accident. But, to his surprise, Jim appeared in the entry, carrying a sack from the general store.

"Hey, didn't expect you this early. Just taking a break?" Blair asked with a smile.

"Nah, decided to play hooky for the rest of the afternoon," Jim replied with a shrug. "You finished for the day?" he asked, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good," Jim said, mouth curving in a conspiratorial smile as he tipped his head toward the back of the house. "Thought maybe we could sneak off down to the creek, do a little fishing, have a cookout." He lifted the sack. "I got us some steaks, in case we don't catch anything."

"Hey, now, that sounds like a plan I can get behind," Blair agreed with a grin. "What else you got there?"

"Oh, a couple ears of corn, some mushrooms and onions – we've got potatoes, right?"

"Uh huh. I'll get them and the…"

"Nuh-uh, you just finish up there and get our fishing rods. I'll take care of everything for supper," Jim cut in cheerfully, as he disappeared from view. "Meet you out back."

Tickled by the idea of 'playing hooky', Blair quickly finished his notes and locked up his records. He heard Jim still messing around in the kitchen when he headed down the hall and through the infirmary to the back door. But he'd just come out of their shed, fishing poles and their small tackle box in hand when Jim appeared carrying a large pot with everything else he needed stuffed inside.

They sauntered in companionable silence across the long grass to the creek, and then along the water to a shady place upstream that had become a favorite fishing hole two years before. A light breeze laden with the light, sweet scent of clover and wild honeysuckle ruffled their hair and gentled the heat of the day. Aside from the rustling leaves, the warble and twittering of birds, and the gurgle of the water whispering along the bank, it was blessedly quiet, the busy sounds of the noisy town lost behind them. Blair took a deep breath and could feel the tension in his muscles ease.

Jim set down the supplies and, after they sorted out the hooks, they settled, shoulder to shoulder against a couple of comfortable rocks warmed by the lowering sun, and dropped their lines over the low bank into the slow-moving stream. Sunlight filtered through the slightly swaying branches, creating a soothing dappling of shadow and winking brilliant gems of light on the water.

"This is nice," Blair murmured, his gaze drifting across the narrow creek to the trees on the far side. Wild flowers grew in profusion along the far bank, a rainbow of colors crowning through the grass and peeking out from under the low growing bushes. Butterflies, yellow, orange and a few blue, fluttered lazily on the balmy wind.

"Mmm," Jim agreed and shifted to drape an arm around Blair's shoulders.

Soothed by the tranquility, Blair felt himself relax more than he had in weeks. His attention mesmerized by the play of light and shadow on the water, his thoughts drifted away from his worries about the town and the settlers. His breathing slowed and deepened, and he felt the healing heat of the sun soak into his bones…

He woke to crackle of flames, and the scent of woodsmoke mingling with that of frying onions, mushrooms and potatoes, and meat sizzling over the fire. Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned widely. "Mmm, that smells good," he sighed as he looked back over his shoulder at his friend, who was squatting by the fire, tending to a pot of boiling corn and the frying pans. "Guess we didn't catch any fish."

"Nope," Jim agreed, and looked up at him with a lazy smile. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving," Blair replied with a grin, shifting to sit closer to the fire. "Anything I can do?"

"All taken care of," Jim assured him.

Blair yawned again and rolled his shoulders as his gaze drifted over the countryside. A small smile curved his lips when he looked back at Jim, understanding that his friend had decided he needed some pampering, some time to just … be. Away from the town. Away from everything. Just the two of them with nothing to worry about. "Thanks, man," he murmured.

Jim's eyes searched his and, evidently satisfied with what he found, he just nodded before turning his attention back to their meal. A few minutes later, he stabbed two cobs of corn with a fork, pulling them from the roiling, steaming water and set them on a plate. He flipped the steaks and, while they finished cooking, he lathered the cobs with butter and then salted them lightly, just enough for flavor. Rolling one onto another plate, he handed it to Blair.

They nibbled enthusiastically from one end to another, savoring the rich taste, careless of the butter dripping down their fingers and smearing their lips. Blair was just finishing his when Jim dished up the main course of succulent sirloin, cooked to perfection just the way Blair liked it. Blair didn't know how he did it, maybe using a combination of scent and the springy feel of the cooking meat, but Jim always got it right. Digging in with good appetite, unable to remember when he'd last been so hungry or so enjoyed the taste of food, Blair moaned with appreciation, drawing an amused chuckle from Jim.

"Oh, it's great," he mumbled his praise around a mouthful. "Best steak I ever tasted."

When he swallowed the last bite, having chewed slowly to relish the flavors, he set the plate down and smiled happily. Inhaling deeply, feeling pleasantly full, he exhaled slowly and then said, "That was just perfect."

Smiling broadly, his gaze warm with affection, Jim dipped his chin. "Good, I hoped you'd enjoy it." He settled the coffee pot on the still-hot embers and gathered up the dishes and the pots, taking them to the creek to scour first with the gritty sand along the bank, and then to rinse them clean. The coffee finished perking while he was still doing the clean-up. Using one of the rags Jim had brought to wrap around the hot handle, Blair poured two mugs and carried them over to the creek. When Jim set the clean utensils aside to dry in the sunlight, he handed his partner a mug and they settled on the rocks, their shoulders again lightly brushing against one another.

"I needed this," Blair murmured, gesturing at the water and the trees with his mug.

"We both did," Jim replied, his tone low and easy. Sliding his arm around Blair's back, he looped his fingers over Blair's shoulder and upper arm, massaging lightly. "They don't define who you are, Blair. Hell, they don't know you, don't know anything about you. And they never will, because they don't want to. But that's their loss, Chief." He paused and shook his head. "There's times when they make me so mad I…" But he stopped and turned his head to look at down at Blair. "But, you know what? I could almost feel sorry for them. 'Cause they don't know what they're missing. Almost," he said again, and drew Blair closer against his side.

"Only almost?" Blair echoed with a small, bemused smile.

"Yeah, only almost. If they had any redeeming qualities, I could feel honestly sorry for them. But they don't." Jim tilted his head to look up at the sky. Slow and reflective, he said with quiet conviction, "They have no idea that one of the best men they'll ever encounter in their lives is right here, and that you'd be their friend if they'd let you. You're a good man, Sandburg. You'd … take care of them, if they let you. But they shut you out and treat you like dirt. So I figure they don't deserve the … the privilege of knowing you. I can't feel sorry for people who willfully hurt you, Chief. I can't feel anything much more than contempt for them."

Touched by Jim's words, grateful for them, Blair leaned against his strength and bowed his head.

"The luckiest single moment of my life was on the day I rode into this town and got myself shot; otherwise, I might've just ridden right back out again, and never met the best man I've ever known, the best friend I'll ever have. Jim paused, and his voice was lower when he continued. "You changed my life, Chief. Changed me. Made me a better man than I was; certainly, a far happier one." His gaze roaming the creek now, the trees on the far side, his words coming slower still, he went on, "You've taught me about more than my senses, you know; a lot more. When I rode in here, I was bitter, angry and … utterly alone in the world. I couldn't imagine any kind of future that mattered. You taught me how to trust; how to … how to care again about life, about the people in my life. You taught me how to love. I can't imagine … well, I don't even want to imagine never having gotten to know you."

Blair's throat tightened and he slipped his arm around Jim's waist. Despite his uncertainties and the helpless anger of the day, Blair felt peace and contentment suffuse him, like spring rain falling gentle on the barren desert, bringing a dawning splendor and brilliant affirmation of life ... and hope for the future. For so long, he'd yearned for a home as they'd wandered the world, him and Naomi, ever seeking, never finding. And in his aching youth and young manhood, he'd been tempted by the lure of stability into believing he loved and was loved, but it had been only a mirage, not real. Not lasting. He'd felt forsaken, betrayed, abandoned and had thought he'd never know this fulfillment. For so long, through so many lonely years, he'd wandered seeking home, believing it to be a place.

Now, at last, he knew that home wasn't a place, it was a person. Home was Jim, being here with him, needed and wanted by him. Supporting one another, building a life together, laughing and sharing the hurts, and this … moments like this that were more precious than gold and silver. Whether they were sheltered by stone or wood, or under the wide canopy of the starlit heavens, it didn't matter, so long as they were together.

"Works both ways, Jim," he murmured pensively. "You taught me a lot about trust, too. I didn't know what real friendship meant until I met you. I didn't know what it felt like to … to have someone I could count on. To have … a family, till I met you. I thought I'd always just be passing through, drifting, looking for something – home, I guess – but never expecting to ever find it."

"And … now?" Jim asked, his grip around Blair's shoulders tightening.

"Now, I'm home. Here and now. Not here in Bitterwood Creek; that's not what I mean. I mean, with you; wherever you are, when I'm with you, I'm home."

"So'm I, Chief, when I'm with you," Jim affirmed as he rested his chin on Blair's head. "So'm I."

They sat by the edge of the creek until the sun had slipped below the horizon and stars were beginning to sparkle overhead in the deep indigo of the night sky.

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

September came, school started again, and the settlers' children, along with others who lived on outlying farms and small ranches along the river, made their daily trek into Bitterwood Creek. The littlest ones were accompanied by mothers who took the opportunity to visit friends in town and do a bit of shopping at the general store or the apothecary. After the first few days, when their numbers filled the street for the first hour or so of the day, Blair consciously remained at home. There was only so much warding off the devil or shrill exclamations of hate and fear that he was prepared to face, and he'd already had to stomach more than enough of the hysteria. He didn't say anything about it, just quietly shifted his schedule to do his rounds later in the morning; he rather hoped Jim wouldn't even notice.

But one morning, midway through the second week of September, Jim drained his coffee cup and set it carefully on the table, the conscious gesture of a man afraid he might otherwise smash the crockery into very small pieces.

Blair quirked a brow as he glanced from the blameless mug to his partner's tight expression. Here it comes, he thought, but managed to stifle the sigh.

"You don't have to cower in here every morning until they're gone," Jim grated. "This is your town, more than it is theirs."

"I'm not cowering," Blair countered. "Simply … judiciously avoiding unpleasant encounters."

"Judiciously?" Jim echoed, his gaze narrowing.

"Yeah," Blair explained, an impish grin playing around his lips and lighting his eyes. "I've noticed the Sheriff in town is getting increasingly annoyed by the nonsense. Wouldn't do for him to haul off and smack a woman for being an idiot."

Jim snorted as he stood to buckle on his gunbelt. "More like shoot 'em for being criminally stupid," he muttered. Grabbing his hat from the peg, he asked, uncertainty in his voice and eyes, "You sure you're okay, Chief? This … I'm sorry you have to put up with this crap."

"I'm good," Blair told him, his grin widening. "Don't worry about it; in the great scheme of things, doing rounds mid-morning instead of right after breakfast isn't a big deal."

Though he didn't look convinced, Jim nodded and turned away. "See you at lunch," he called as he went out the door.

Blair's grin faded as he cleaned up the kitchen. "It's not a big deal," he mumbled, but his jaw tightened as he slammed the damp rag down on the counter, and he felt futile anger burn in his chest. "Get used to it," he snarled to himself as he tromped across the hall to his office. "It's the way things are now. Just the way things are."

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

Later that morning, he strolled across the small town to visit Sarah Sloan and Delores McCready on one of his regular visits to see how their maternity cases were coming along and to offer any coaching if it was needed, particularly for the cases in the settlement where he couldn't visit the women personally. When he knocked on the Sloans' front door but didn't get an answer, he wandered around to the back in case Sarah was out of earshot in her garden. As soon as he came around the corner, he knew something was wrong.

Sarah and Delores were sitting on the old bench under an apple tree, and Sarah was sobbing. Hurrying to join them, he dropped to one knee beside Sarah and touched her arm.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he asked, looking from her to Delores, who also had tears in her eyes.

"Hard case," Delores murmured as she rubbed Sarah's back consolingly.

Sniffing, scrubbing the tears from her face but unable to stop the leaking of more from her eyes, Sarah panted, "Lorelei Samuels … I couldn't … I couldn't…"

"Easy, easy," Blair soothed. "Slow down, okay? Just, just concentrate on getting your breath. Slow, deep breaths, that's it … slow and easy." Looking up at Delores, he asked, "Could you fetch Sarah a glass of water? She keeps a pitcher in a bucket of well water just inside the kitchen door, to keep it fresh and cool."

"Sure thing, Doc," she agreed, and seemed relieved to be given something definite to do that might be helpful.

Blair drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sarah, who dabbed her face and blew her nose. Tears still streamed from her eyes, but the wrenching sobs had stopped.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, her voice still catching. "But it was so … so h-hard."

"What happened?" he asked, his tone low and calm.

She sniffed again and swallowed, and twisted his handkerchief in her hands. "Lorelei went into labor yesterday afternoon. But the baby was turned the wrong way. I … I tried to move it, you know? The way you taught us. But it wasn't working. And, and I knew she was in trouble. Her feet and her legs were so swollen and she wasn't breathing right."

Her voice caught, and he took her hand, afraid he knew what was coming. "It's okay, Sarah. You did everything right. I know you've been encouraging her to stay off her feet and watch her diet. And I know you did everything you could."

"I tried," she murmured. Taking a breath, she looked at him. "I begged them, Doc. I begged them to let me get you. I know you could have helped her. If they'd let me get you, she'd … she wouldn't have…"

Her voice broke again and she covered her face with her hands. Delores returned with a glass of water. "Here, Sarah," she offered uncertainly.

Sarah accepted the offering and took a few sips. Her expression was haunted and her tone subdued but tight with anger as she continued, "They refused; both Lorelei and her husband, Reese. Said they wouldn't have you in the house; wouldn't let you look at her, let alone touch her. So they sent for that fool, Ambrose, who was worse than useless. He just stood there, muttering about God's will." She sniffed and took another sip of water as if fortifying herself. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head. "She started convulsing just after dawn, and then she … she stopped breathing. She died and took her baby with her. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing but stand there and watch…"Her voice hitched with a sob. "Watch her die."

"Oh, Sarah," Blair moaned, sick at heart to hear the tragic story and saddened that Sarah had been caught in an impossible situation. He reached out and wrapped her in a firm hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"I c-can't d-do th-that again," she stammered through her tears. "I j-just c-can't. I'm s-s-sorry."

"I know, I know, shhhh," he murmured, holding her while she sobbed. "There's nothing to be sorry for, my friend. You did everything in your power and … and I understand that you don't want to be caught in such a tragic situation again. Shh, Sarah. It's okay. It's okay."

Gradually, she calmed and drew away from him. Her expression was tight and her tone was bitter as she said in a breathless rush, "Ignorance killed her and her poor baby. Ignorance and blind, stupid, cruel hate. I can't stand those people, Doc. I feel bad for her, and it was terrible to watch her die like that, but … but they're mean-spirited. About you. About the Browns and Mr. Banks and Mr. Taggart, and even about Miz Connor and poor Maisie, who's only doing her best. They're reaping their own harvest. If they weren't so pig-headed, Lorelei and her baby wouldn't've died. I'm sure of it. And, and Ambrose? I heard him sayin' to Reese Samuels that it was my fault. That they should never have trusted me. He said that if he'd been called in sooner, he would've been able to help, maybe. I was furious! Maybe if I knew more, had more experience, maybe … but that's not the point! I told them they needed a real doctor. They needed you. But they wouldn't listen!" Her voice broke and she pressed his handkerchief to her mouth.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry you had to deal with all that," Blair replied, trying to maintain his own veneer of calm though he felt a knot of futile anger in his chest and a good deal of guilt for having placed her in such an impossible situation. She hadn't wanted to deal with the settlers, but he'd encouraged both her and Delores to keep doing what they could to help. And now this. "You did everything you could. And more. You stayed with her to give what comfort you could right until the end. That's hard. I know that's hard. You're a good, kind woman." Glancing at Delores, he added, "Both of you are."

Rising, he looked off across her vegetable garden to the prairie beyond. "But, sometimes, all we can do isn't enough. There's no guarantee if they had called me that I would have been able to do any better. Sometimes … sometimes tragedies like this just happen."

"Sorry, Doc," Delores said fiercely, "but I'm not buying it. Sarah's right. If they weren't so all-fired stupid and mean, if they'd called you, this wouldn't've happened. I'm done with 'em, too. I can't abide them and their ideas. I can't."

Crossing his arms and bowing his head, Blair didn't know what to say. The settlers, for all their wrong-headedness, were just people, people who needed help like any others. It tore him apart that they wouldn't let him help, wouldn't trust his skills and knowledge, and … and people like this young Lorelei and her innocent child had died for want of his care. All because he was born a Jew. Shaking his head, he wished he had it in him to keep encouraging these two women to continue offering their skills, because they could do so much good. But he'd already done that and now this had happened. Sarah would carry those painful memories with her for the rest of her life. He couldn't force them to help, and he couldn't force the settlers to come to him. "I'm sorry," he said again, low and sorrowfully. "I'm sorry this happened."

"Doc, you have nothing to be sorry for," Sarah objected. "None of this is your fault."

"It's not your fault, either, Sarah," he said with a small, sad smile. "I would have spared you that, if I could have. You were only there in the first place because I asked you to keeping doing what you could to help the settlers."

She broke eye contact and her shoulders slumped. "You're disappointed in me. For giving up. For not wanting to help them anymore."

"No, no," he protested, once again dropping down beside her. "I couldn't be prouder of either of you. You've both done your best. You've both done tremendous good for a lot of women and their babies. Please, Sarah, don't misunderstand me. I know that … that you're angry and frustrated. So am I. I wish they would let us help them, but they won't. We can't force that help upon them. It's their choice. I put you in an impossible situation; there are always cases where a doctor is needed, but I've been sending both of you knowing you wouldn't be able to call on me, and that wasn't fair, not to either of you. Believe me, I understand your decision to only work with women when you know you can call on me if necessary."

He could see the tension ease from both of them. "What matters right now is that you know you did your best and you gave what comfort you could. That's what I want you to remember about what happened. You did your best."

She sniffed and nodded. Reaching out to touch his arm, she murmured, "I had a good teacher." Giving his handkerchief a rueful glance, she said, "I'll put this in the wash and bring it back to you in a couple days."

"Ah, don't worry about that," he assured her. "I've got a drawer full of them. So … are you okay?"

She nodded again. "I'm glad you came by, Doc. It helps to know you don't think there was anything else I could have done. It was all just so … so wasteful, I guess. So unnecessary. Stupid and tragic."

"Part of the physician's oath is to do no harm. You did no harm and, in this case, that was all they allowed you to do," he offered, avoiding any more direct comment about her judgment about the deaths. Though he understood and even shared her view, voicing aloud the sentiment, blaming the young woman for her own death and her husband for the loss of his wife and child felt too harsh, even cruel. Deliberately changing the subject, he asked, "What about your other cases? Is there anything either of you wanted to discuss with me? Anything that worries you?"

For the next twenty minutes, he listened to their reports, offered advice, and got them firmly focused on the future rather than the pain of the immediate past. When he left, they were both much more cheerful, their anger and frustration distanced by the discussion.

As he headed back toward his office, he wished he'd been as successful in distancing his own anguish and sense of helplessness. On the way, he stopped to check on an elderly couple who had found the summer's relentless heat exhausting. He ensured they were bouncing back, now that the air was cooler, at least at night. And he discreetly confirmed that they were getting help from their neighbors to stock their larder for the long winter ahead. But, after he left them, his thoughts returned to the settlers and their prejudices, to Milt Ambrose and his unwillingness to seek assistance when it was needed; more, his apparent inclination to blame others – or God – for his own incapacity. He felt angry and frustrated, and … hurt, he supposed, that his name, his heritage, could inspire such hatred. Deep in thought as he skirted around the edge of the schoolyard, he didn't immediately notice the shift in the tone of the usual shouting of the kids.

"Stop that! Take it back!" a familiar young voice sang out angrily.

"Ah won't! He's evil; momma says we all hafta ward him off else he'll steal our souls!"

Blair turned to see Rose shriek with inarticulate fury and haul off to smack a boy considerably bigger than she was. The boy roared and dove at her, driving her to the ground, where they squirmed and scuffled, hitting one another.

"Whoa!" Blair yelled, diving into the fray to separate them. "What's going on here?" he demanded when he had them both up and their feet, holding them each firmly by the arm.

Rose gave the boy a sullen look, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don't matter," she muttered. "He's jes stupid, is all."

But the boy was tugging fiercely, trying to get away from him. "Lemme go!" he shouted, quite obviously terrified. "Don' eat me! Don' kill me! Lemme go!"

"Eat you?" Blair echoed, astonished. Loosening his grip, he let the boy scramble away from him. "What are you talking about? I wouldn't ever hurt a child."

"Tha's not true!" the whelp challenged hysterically, tears blurring his eyes. "Ya'll killed my brother! Burned him up!"

"Jo-Jo!" Marnie shouted, taking the boy by the shoulders. "Hush up! You're being silly and creating a fuss. This is Doctor Sandburg and he saves children who are sick. He never hurts anyone!"

"He's a devil!" Jo-Jo shrieked, holding up his hand to circle his fingers and thumb to make the sign to ward off evil. "Don' let 'im touch me!"

"Marnie, I'm sorry," Blair stammered. "I was just passing by and –"

"Don't you apologize, Doc Sandburg!" Marnie cut in, flushing with embarrassment and anger. "You didn't do anything wrong." She gave the boy a firm shake. "Stop your yelling right now!" she commanded, and Jo-Jo subsided into a sulk. "I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap, is what I'm going to do." Glancing at Rose, she sighed. "Rose, you oughtn't to start fights. You know better. You come and get me when there's a problem, y'hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rose murmured, but she gave Jo-Jo a cold look. "But he started it."

"You go on in and write out twenty times, 'I will not fight'," Marnie directed firmly, "and I'll check your notebook to see that you did."

"Yes, ma'am," Rose replied with evidently hard-won docility. Her lips tightened briefly, but she looked up at Blair with wide sorrowful eyes. "Ah'm sorry, Doc. 'Bout what he sayed. T'isn't right."

"No, it isn't," Blair agreed as he knelt beside the child and fondly cupped her cheek. "But you don't have to fight for me, Rose. I'm a big boy and silly words can't hurt me, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered with a solemn nod. "He jes made me so mad."

"I know, sweetheart. I know," Blair allowed. "Thank you for worrying about me, but Miss MacDonald is right. Fighting isn't the answer. Go on in, now, and do what she says, okay?"

She nodded again and, with a defiant look at Jo-Jo, she gave Blair a quick hug and then whirled away to run into the schoolhouse.

"His brother?" he asked Marnie, sick to death that this was another Watson child.

Marnie flushed and scowled at the boy. "His older brother, Lucas, was one of the men who attacked you last summer. Lucas Tremayne was the oldest – sixteen years older than Jo-Jo here; old enough to know better'n to do what they did." Looking up, she met his eyes. "They were all old enough to know better. What they did was terrible an' what happened wasn't any of your fault, that's for sure."

Jo-Jo flashed her a sullen look before glaring at Blair. "Was