This morning, U.S. Marshal John Smith was a happy man. It was a beautiful late November day, and he was riding at an easy lope across the Barkley Ranch north pasture with Victoria Barkley. That remarkable and beautiful woman was riding at his side, looking as relaxed and in her element in the saddle as she did presiding over a formal dinner - or handling a rifle, for that matter.

John was fairly certain he'd be a happy man just about anywhere with Victoria at his side, happy in a way he hadn't been since he lost his wife Caroline almost 20 years ago. Victoria seemed to reciprocate his feelings. This astonishing fact left him humbled and amazed at the many unexpected blessings that had come into his life along with the terrible events of the summer.

John had first laid eyes on Victoria in July in Carson City, when she arrived there on a mission to retrieve her wounded and imprisoned son Heath. John, at that point, was urgently engaged in a mission of his own to rescue that boy from a deadly situation for which he felt in part responsible. On that hot July day, as John argued and pleaded before the judge for Heath's life, Victoria had walked into the room, and in the blink of an eye utterly captivated his heart and his imagination. He had wanted to court her from the moment he laid eyes on her, but with her family in such distress and her youngest son in mortal danger, John resolved not to speak of his interest to the lady until all was resolved and her family was safe at home. That is not to say, of course, that his feelings were not clearly evident from the first, to Victoria or to anyone else who cared to notice.

John looked over the beautiful open range of this northern section of the Barkley spread, rising as it did to the foothills of the Sierras to the east. About a quarter of a mile off, he could see two men working side-by-side to put in a new corral. Even at this distance, he recognized Nick Barkley: tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, talking and gesturing even as he worked tirelessly. Working beside him was a smaller man, fair-haired. That would be Heath. He moved with deliberation, not talking or gesturing, but steadily matching Nick effort for effort.

Victoria had mentioned that since Heath had come to them last year, he and Audra had quickly discovered their shared love and expertise in horse breeding and training, and together were expanding that operation. This required more paddock space, so today he and Nick were assembling a much-needed corral.

Seeing the brothers at work, John thought of Victoria's observation that even now, Heath hadn't yet fully recovered from the prolonged starvation and illness he had suffered over the summer. He was a smaller man than his half-brother, true, but the difference between them was much more pronounced than it normally would be. John watched him keep pace with Nick. He knew how much Heath was struggling to regain the strength and mobility he typically would bring to his work on the ranch. He knew, too, how hard Heath fought to hide that fact from his family, and especially from Nick.

Almost two months ago, when her three sons had finally come back home in early October, Victoria had wired John in Sacramento just to let him know they had arrived safely. She knew that a deep friendship and respect had developed between the marshal and her sons, after everything they had been through together. John had become fond of all three men, each with their distinctive personalities, but with Heath, a strong bond of trust and friendship had taken root. It was this connection that prompted Victoria to contact John more urgently a week or so later, saying only that she was worried about Heath, and asking John to come to the ranch as soon as he could.

So much had happened since that day in June when Nick and Jarrod Barkley first contacted Marshal Smith, then Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal for the Nevada territory. The two men were desperate to recover their brother Heath, whom they had been forced to leave behind in a slave labor camp in Wellington, captive and falsely accused of theft and murder.

Smith and his deputies were camped en route to rendezvous with the Barkleys and investigate their claim. Jarrod Barkley, the lawyer, had galloped into the marshals' campsite in the middle of the night with the news that not only had Heath Barkley escaped and ridden north to meet up with his brothers at Leviathan Canyon, but he had single-handedly killed five lawmen from ambush, and wounded Adam Risley, the warden of Wellington Camp. According to Jarrod, Heath had been beaten, starved, and flogged near to death during the weeks Risley had held him in the camp, and had taken a bullet in the firefight at Leviathan.

The marshals rode overnight and reached Leviathan by daybreak. Marshal Smith surveyed the crime scene that greeted him when he arrived with his team: five dead lawmen including Sheriff Barnes, four with a single bullet to the head and one with a single chest wound; one wounded prison warden in handcuffs; and one escapee, known to be a combat-trained marksman, who claimed full responsibility for the carnage. The fugitive sniper - Heath Barkley - was quiet, cooperative, somber. He couldn't have looked more battered if he had been run over by a herd of buffalo. He was being tended to by his big, ferociously protective brother Nick, who hovered around him humming with barely contained rage and desire to kill Warden Risley with his bare hands.

Jarrod and Nick insisted that Heath had just saved them both from imminent execution at the hands of Risley's gunmen. The warden, however, reported that Heath Barkley was an incorrigibly violent prisoner who had murdered the camp doctor just prior to his escape, and then had killed the sheriff and his men resisting recapture.

So it came to pass that John Smith's first act upon meeting Heath Barkley that day, even injured as the boy was, was to shackle him and place him under arrest. The next morning, he turned his transport north and took his prisoner in chains to the Nevada State Prison in Carson City.

In the end, it took all of three months to clear Heath of the crimes of which he was accused and extract him from the lethal situation in which he had been trapped. Before they even made it to Carson City, Smith and his deputy found themselves in a gun battle - alongside Jarrod and Heath himself - fighting off vigilantes wanting to hang their prisoner. Hostile publicity and word of mouth had convicted the illegitimate Barkley son in the court of public opinion. Heath appeared to be facing life in prison on the one hand, or a messy death by lynch mob on the other.

As they traveled, the marshal continued his task of sorting out the facts of the case. He came to learn a few things about the quiet, fatherless young man he had taken into custody. Heath's embattled trail in life was one of survival in the face of privation, adversity, and violence. What John discovered for himself, in their time together, was that despite all this, Heath was not just a survivor. He had fought to keep his spirit intact - or at least not so broken that he couldn't work his way back to himself somehow. He had fought to keep his heart and his mind open. Heath seemed to know intuitively that without that, survival in and of itself didn't amount to much. John saw in Heath a man who was kind, introspective, stubbornly honest and even more stubbornly brave.

Despite his growing respect for Heath, however, the marshal had seen no alternative but to deliver the boy to the state prison as an accused murderer, pending the court's decision. Before long, however, John came to believe he had badly underestimated the dangers his prisoner faced, and had failed in his duty to keep him out of harm's way.

On the trail, Heath spoke to John of gratitude for the life and the family he had found, even as he faced being torn from the home he loved and had so recently come to. His brothers were devoted to him, and seemed to John to be good, loyal men both. But fear and despair can rise up and drown a man, and strong as his prisoner was, John knew Heath was struggling to keep his head above water.

For his part, Heath did not contend with the facts of his new reality: Smith had a job to do. He was the law, the man with the keys who was taking him to prison. Heath did not sense cruelty in him. The marshal was tough as iron, uncompromising on his responsibilities to the law, but he seemed honest, honorable. Heath chose to trust him. But as his situation went from bad to worse, week after week, Heath was losing ground. He needed an anchor, someone to hold to, to help him gather his strength. Drowning, he reached for John.

John had lost his own son to the war, at just Heath's age. The marshal was tough, but he was not an angry man, or hard-hearted. He could see the boy needed him. He could not help but offer himself. The relationship between the two men deepened, evolving from one of lawman and fugitive, to one almost of father and son.

By mid-September, it appeared the tangled and ugly Wellington case had been resolved. Heath was healing up and out of prison, cleared of all charges, and was finally out of danger, or so they all thought. The bad guys were well on their way to prison or the gallows. Believing all was well, Smith left Carson City for Sacramento to begin his new post as U.S. Marshal in charge of the 9th Federal District. Roughly two weeks later, John was shocked to learn that Adam Risley - as evil a man as Smith had ever encountered in his long career - had had one more gambit to play. The former prison warden, on the eve of his own trial and certain conviction, very nearly succeeded in trapping and executing Heath Barkley in front of an eager mob of citizens, and escaping with the Attorney General as a hostage.

Risley was stopped in a showdown that apparently involved two children with bows and arrows, the details of which John decided he would have to hear from Heath himself, as that story seemed somewhat incredible. A few days later, Risley himself was shot dead in the courtroom when he again attacked the Attorney General, prompting a general sense of relief with the close of that unpleasant case.

John too felt relief, especially when he heard the three brothers were finally safely home. Still, an abiding concern for Heath remained. He knew Heath's fiancee, Rivka, had been there at the ranch waiting for him to return. From what he had seen of their relationship, he expected her presence would have gone a long way to helping Heath recover. But Rivka had to go San Francisco to begin work as a physician at a new hospital, and could only be at the ranch intermittently. John wondered if that was part of Victoria's concern that led her to wire him so urgently. John didn't need much prompting at all to go to wherever Victoria was, but her telegram had read: Worried for Heath. Please come soonest. John had saddled up and was heading toward Stockton within the hour.

John rode late into that October night, coming south from Sacramento. He could have stayed with his sister Emily and her husband in Stockton, but he wanted to get to the ranch as soon as possible. So he planned, once he was on Barkley range, to find a place to sleep out for the night and then ride to the house in the morning. He cut off the road and took a trail that ran along the ridge overlooking the north pasture, slowing his horse to a walk. He expected in daylight he'd be able to see the house from here, and he knew there were a few streams and sheltered spots where he could camp.

Cresting the ridge he was surprised to see a small campfire not far ahead of him, under a stand of oak trees. Feeling now slightly alarmed and protective of the family asleep in the darkened house, Smith dismounted and approached quietly on foot, his sidearm in his hand. As he got closer, he saw only one horse tethered nearby, and one unoccupied bedroll and saddle by the fire. From off to one side in the dark, he heard the sound of a lever-action rifle, and a low, gruff voice.

"Put that gun down and step into the light where I can see you."

Smith complied, moving closer to the campfire. After a moment, he heard, "John...?" He looked up to see a young man step out of the darkness, a Winchester in his right hand.

"Heath," John said, relieved and surprised, but a bit concerned. What was the boy doing out here in the middle of the night, camped within sight of his own home? John holstered his sidearm and went to him. They embraced warmly, and Heath offered him some coffee.

Silently studying the younger man in the firelight, Smith could see now why Victoria was worried. Heath did look better than he had all summer, but that wasn't saying much, really. He was too thin, he was limping still, and he appeared tired and sore. That part wasn't too surprising - healing up from the kind of injuries Heath had sustained took time. What concerned John was the look in his eyes, as though he were helplessly watching a catastrophe from which he had just escaped. His face was drawn and preoccupied, his body tense, guarded, even as he invited Smith to join him with a smile. His affectionate welcome for the marshal was genuine, but the casual demeanor was a veneer. His restless hands and eyes were broadcasting his anxiety, and Heath became increasingly uncomfortable under Smith's steady, concerned scrutiny.

Finally, abruptly, Heath stood up and paced a short distance by the fire, twisting in his hands the bandanna he'd used to pick up the coffee pot. "Cut it out, John," he said, though not forcefully. "I'm fine, I just -"

"Heath. C'mon, sit down. I was going to ask why you're bedding down out here with Charger, but I'm guessing it's because you're not sleeping much and having nightmares, and you don't want to trouble your family with that."

Heath stopped and stared out into the dark toward the house. "I put them through so much this summer. Don't want them to have to keep reliving it along with me every night. I figure at least this I can keep to myself." He sighed, turning back to kneel down and stoke the coals. He kept his eyes on the fire for a long moment, his expression morose. "Get feeling some nights like it would've been easier for everyone if I'd just died up on that ridge in Leviathan," he murmured, speaking so quietly John could barely hear him.

Heath realized he just opened a very big can of beans, saying such things to John. He chalked up that slip to the anxious hyper-vigilance that had him out of his bedroll and sighting his rifle on an approaching intruder, followed quickly by the relief and surprise of seeing John Smith appear by his campfire. Such a confession certainly had not been in his plans when he snuck out of the house tonight. His plan had been to take his nighttime demons a safe distance from the house, get through till morning as best he could with a little sleep in between nightmares, and ride back in time to have breakfast with the family like he hadn't gone anywhere. It's how he'd been getting by since he and his brothers had come back home and Rivka had left for San Francisco.

John could see Heath regretting already having thrown those cards on the table. "Listen, son, you need a decent night's sleep before you can have any reasonable opinions about what's easier or best for anybody else. That's hard enough for a person to figure out when they're well-rested -" John picked up an empty whiskey bottle from beside the campfire. "- or sober."

Heath glanced up, then shook his head, his eyes back on the glowing coals. "Yeah. I've tried that. Doesn't work - never does. I dumped it out."

"You have a good head on your shoulders, Heath. Don't let anyone tell you different." John looked back over his shoulder, then stood. "I'm going to go get my horse. Was planning to camp up here tonight anyway. How about I keep you company - ride in with you in morning."

Heath studied John for a long moment in the firelight. Then he smiled sadly. "Sure. Thanks. John, I -"

Turning to go, John stopped to listen.

"I never - - I never could figure out how to thank you for what you did - for that letter I got from the Army. I still don't know what to say. I don't think anyone's ever done anything like that for me in my life." Heath looked up at John from where he knelt by the fire, searching his face.

John's reply was somber. "It was no trouble at all, son. I was glad I was in a position to put things right."

Heath looked down, swallowed, suddenly close to tears. He made an effort to lighten the topic. "Now, the medal. That was a bit much, don't you think?" Heath laughed quietly, remembering. "I have no idea how you pulled that off. Were you aiming to impress my mother? 'Cause it worked."

"Funny thing," John said, smiling back. "Kinda wish I could take credit for that, especially if it impressed your mother."

"Why wouldn't you take credit?"

Now John laughed. Turning back, he crouched down so he could look Heath in the eye. "Listen. The government wanted me to take this job in Sacramento. It's a big job, a big territory, and a big Federale title. So I reckoned I could ask for a few things to be taken care of before I'd accept. Top of my list was correcting the terms of your separation from the U.S. Army, and expunging that "dishonorable" crap they dumped on you. The rank of Sergeant followed naturally from your length of service, and the sad fact that by the time your unit was liberated from Carterson, you - at the age of sixteen - had the most combat seniority of the surviving NCOs."

Heath had gone still and silent as John spoke, listening, remembering.

"Once I got them to pull your file, Heath, to actually look at it and understand - well, I had nothing to do with the rest of it, the medal or anything. Your service did all the talking." He gave Heath a pat on the leg and stood up with a groan, feeling a little stiff from the long ride. As an afterthought, he added, "- but if it impressed your mother, well, maybe we can just keep that between us."

Heath opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, tried again - then he just shook his head. Finally he took a breath and let it out with something like a laugh. "Yes, she is impressed with you, John. And I've so far found my mother to be an excellent judge of character." His eyes were bright in the firelight. "She asked you to come check on me, didn't she."

"Yep."

Heath took a deep breath, nodded. "Want to say I'm sorry, that she's wrong, she's worried for nothin' - and I know you need no excuse at all to come galloping down here." He tried to smile, failed. "I don't know what - what to do. Keep just getting through the day and waiting for it to get better. I can't - I don't know what else - what else -" He broke off, trying to settle his thoughts. Looked at his hands. "Seems she's right about both of us. I - I'm grateful to you. It's - well - it really is good to see you, John."

"You too, Heath. I'll be right back."