The characters depicted in this story do not belong to me, other than those I created. All credit is due to Beth Sullivan and her team for her brilliant series!

Prologue.

Sully's head lulled against the wall of the train compartment as he slept. Glowing, arousing images flitted behind his eyelids, sleep weighing down his limbs as his heart raced in response to his dreams. He felt warm, heavy, and exhilarated. Unconsciously, he shifted, his body settling further into the velvet seat.

Large, lustrous eyes gazed into his, flecks of jade and amber sparkling in the firelight. Love radiated there. They fluttered closed as he raised his thumb to stroke her jaw, thick lashes brushing flushed cheeks. His lips touched hers, feeling the sweet, tender whisper of her mouth against his. He pulled her closer, his skin tingling as her simple cotton nightgown brushed against his chest. His fingers sifted into her silky hair, auburn and russet gleaming in the firelight reflected off the wood-panels.

She pressed closer, sighing softly into his mouth. Soft, delicate fingers caressed his face, and he gasped when they brushed over his ear, combing into his hair. His breathing quickened at the intimacy of this kiss, in this bed. Their lips caressed more intimately, breaths mingling as he softly traced the curve of her back, her softness suffusing into his hardness. "Sully" she whispered on a gasp, burying her face in his neck. He wasn't breathing, but it only heightened the rush of sensation and emotion he felt.

"Michaela" he whispered, his head falling back as he inhaled shakily. The sound of his head hitting the wall jarred him out of his doze, and he jolted awake. Grateful that the elderly woman sharing his compartment was still asleep, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He breathed slowly, trying to calm himself.

He couldn't keep thinking about her like this. It had to stop. The Medicine Man, Cloud Dancing, whom he'd met on this trip west, had read his heart like an open book. He'd claimed the Cheyenne Spirits told him she was Sully's heartsong, his soul mate. He'd sat listening to Cloud Dancing for hours, in a field of wildflowers and long grasses somewhere in the Colorado wilderness, as he spoke of his people and shared his wisdom. Sully had smiled indulgently when Cloud Dancing offered this insight about Michaela, a small part of him hoping it could be true.

But now, he was heading back east. He looked out the window. The wilderness had rapidly dwindled away as the train raced toward Boston, and with civilization, reality came rushing back in its place. He could never tell her. She couldn't know he loved her like this. The knowledge would crumble the foundations of their marriage, and she would never trust him again.

Michaela sighed as the carriage pulled up to the house. It had been a trying day at the hospital, battling Dr. Drummond once more over her competence as a physician. She was tired, and she missed Sully. He had been gone nearly six months this time. Now, with summer drawn to a close and autumn fast approaching, the holidays were on her mind, and she wanted him here to share them with her.

Shaking her head, she scolded herself. They had agreed from the beginning that their marriage would be a platonic partnership between close friends. She had never expected such feelings to arise within her, and now that they had, she must stifle them. It wouldn't do to confuse things now, so early on in their life together. She couldn't bear it if he were to feel uncomfortable around her because she was mooning over him. That discomfort would quickly grow into contempt, an outcome far worse than denying these emotions.

Ascending the steps to the front door, it swung open in front of her before she could knock, and Cummings greeted her warmly.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Quinn." Quietly closing the door behind her, he held out his hands for her neatly tailored wool coat, a warm smile on his lips. He was always such a comfort, a welcome, when she arrived home.

"Thank you Cummings, and good afternoon." She straightened her dress, tucking a stray curl back into the intricate arrangement at the back of her head. "Is there any mail?" She hoped for a letter from Sully, and at the same time told herself she shouldn't.

Turning from hanging her coat up, he nodded, a curious smile on his lips. "On the desk in the study." He nodded to her, turned on his heel, and left through the dining room.

Wondering at his odd behavior, Michaela turned toward the study, unable to quell the anticipation that rose in her chest at the prospect of a letter waiting for her.

Entering the dim room, she stopped short. A fire had been laid in the grate, and the back of a very familiar head rested against the richly upholstered wingback chair before the fire. Michaela couldn't prevent the happy smile from her lips, nor the butterflies which fluttered suddenly, insistently, in her stomach. Tiredness fell away as adrenaline flooded her system with giddy energy. Fighting to maintain her composure, she stepped forward.

"Sully." her voice, a half-whisper, sounded pleased, surprised, relieved. He rose quickly at her greeting, turning to face her. "You're home."

He smiled a boyish, goofy smile at her obvious statement, striding towards her and enveloping her tightly in his arms. "Yeah, finally."

This was his girl. The one whose bright eyes and enchanting smile had stayed with him throughout his trip, no matter the conditions. It felt so good to hold her, to feel her slender frame held securely against his, her smooth hair against his cheek, her fresh, sweet scent flooding his senses, her softness, her energy. Pulling back, he looked into her eyes, seeing life and hope and affection burning brightly there, caged within a very composed exterior.

He resisted the impulse to touch her cheek, to draw out that vibrant life dancing within her eyes. Instead, he squeezed her hand as he released her. "I missed you. Six months…"

She nodded. "It felt like a lifetime. I've missed you, too…" She paused, and they smiled at each other for a second, lost momentarily in their secret affections for one another. Michaela shook her head suddenly. "Oh Sully, you must be exhausted; you should rest. If I'd known you were coming home I'd have had Jane make all of your favorites-"

He held up his hand, interrupting her. "No need. I wanted to surprise ya." Her eyebrows rose at his relaxed speech, and her mind flashed to what he might be like out west. It occurred to her that it must fit him perfectly: wild, simple, free. "I thought maybe we could let Jane and Cummings go for the night, eat something simple. Catch up. Letters can only say so much." He looked at her, trying to gage her thoughts. "Whaddya say?"

They settled themselves before the fire with a loaf of bread, cheese, and leftover apple pie. Sully poured them hot cups of tea. Michaela prodded him about his trip for hours, and slowly, he painted mental portraits for her of the land, towns, Indians, his interactions as a negotiator. How he had befriended the Cheyenne Medicine Man Cloud Dancing and Chief Black Kettle, and was welcomed amongst them, sleeping for days in their teepees, sharing meals and learning their ways.

Michaela listened with rapt attention, her eyes lighting up in excitement at his adventures and saddening at his frustrations. And she admired him. She admired his astute discernment of people's character, his intuitive knack for finding creative solutions to problems, his ability to identify commonalities between the Indians, government, and settlers in order to bring them together, to help them agree on potential solutions that best benefited everyone.

Her eyes took in his face – his blue eyes alight with excitement, the western world hidden therein, his strong brow, nose, and jaw set in contrast to his soft-looking lips. The bronze hue his skin had acquired in the western sun, the bleached streaks in his hair from the same. He had unbuttoned his shirt at the top, and shucked his jacket, shoes, and tie long ago. He looked so casual and easy sitting there cross-legged before the fire, and she wondered if he had always been meant for a world other than this, other than Boston or New York, away from societal expectations. It had never really occurred to her before, and the implications frightened her.

As he spoke, he studied her surreptitiously. The tension he had always sensed in her between freedom and restraint seemed so obvious now, as she sat erect and carefully arranged upon the oriental rug. She had let her hair down, the tight curls of earlier in the day relaxing in the warmth of the fire, tumbling loosely about her shoulders in free, luxurious waves. He wondered how much more herself she would be out west, far away from the expectations and conventions of Boston society.

Then, he prodded her about the last six months at the hospital, her struggles against the male contingent of her profession, also her medical victories, the people she had helped. He felt so proud of her, of her determination and intelligence, her compassion and love. How she persevered, despite the battles she fought to maintain her influence. And through it all she modeled integrity and earned respect.

His heart swelled with love for her. In the long months of his absence he had never stopped thinking of her, wondering if some long-ago planted seed of love for her had begun to sprout. Now, he was sure of it; it was flourishing.