A/N: Thank you thank you for the feedback. I am still learning and your comments are just so important to me. It's so great to get a feel for how others are viewing what I've written—whether readers are picking up on the points I'm making and enjoying the parts I think went okay. Your support is overwhelming and I truly appreciate it. I hope you like this chapter.

This chapter picks up where we left off with the brothers by the road.

Warnings: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 6:

The ground was cold under his knees when he lowered himself back to Dean's side. He squeezed Dean's shoulder gently with his left hand while his right held the phone and he punched in 9-1-1 with his thumb. "It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine."

The impersonal voice on the other end of the line steadied him and he took a deep breath before starting to talk. "Yeah, it's my brother…we swerved to avoid a deer and went off the road…he hit his head…"

His hand began to gently rub Dean's shoulder while he talked to the dispatcher. He wasn't sure who he was trying to soothe, Dean or himself.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The Highwayman Chapter 7

Sam sucked in a quick breath and let it out in a soft grunt of pain as he hunched over, resting his forehead on the soft leather of Dean's shoulder. His hand massaged the sore muscles in his abdomen, trying to wish the ache away. He was lucky he'd seen the punch coming. Tensing his muscles and turning enough to deflect the force of the hit were probably the only reasons he wasn't on the ground next to his brother. He'd be sore, but he'd gotten off easy.

He'd kept a steady stream of soft chatter up since he'd slipped the phone back into his pocket. Dean had begun to move a little while Sam was on the phone, seemingly in response to Sam's voice, and Sam hadn't wanted to lose that connection. But he needed a minute to think. To calm down, and clear his mind, and think. They were a little distance from the town, but it wouldn't be too much longer before an ambulance arrived. And the police would probably be there first. He needed a story for them. Something to explain the scrape on the side of Dean's head, and the splinters they were likely to find when they cleaned it at the hospital.

He sat up, keeping his hand on Dean's shoulder. "C'mon Dean, coming up with the bullshit stories is your job. I need you to wake up here, bro."

Sam felt the shivers as soon as they began running through Dean's shoulder, and he tucked the blanket a little tighter around Dean's chest. His stomach dropped when icy cold began to seep into his own knees and spread up through his body. He turned his head from side to side, his eyes darting, searching through the patches of silver painted by the fractured moonlight.

The first wisps were already close and reaching for them as the mist continued to spread over the road in front of him, a cold fog that swirled and eddied a few inches above the ground. Dean moaned low in his throat, the trembling in his shoulder more pronounced as the mist surrounded them.

"No no no no no no…not now…please not now…" Fear crept in with the mist, rising through Sam's body with the cold. Fear, anger, a sharp grief tinged with an emotion that ripped at him from the inside out.

"Not now…" He realized his hand was moving harder and faster on Dean's shoulder, that he was subconsciously trying to rub warmth into his brother, protect him from the chill. He was torn between running from Dean, trying to draw Reilly away, and staying right where he was. Because the hand on his brother's shoulder was the only thing that felt real to him at that moment. It was anchoring him to the here and now, keeping him focused.

Reilly's emotions rose quickly. They were a hurricane beating at him, trying to pull him in, and his vision began to gray. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the feel of Dean under his hand, solid and real. He concentrated on his need to stay by his brother, to protect him, to help him. Dean needed him. "Please…"

The harsh pounding of fear and anger began to recede, the emotions backing off until the only thing left was a deep sorrow lapping gently against him. A heavy grief weighted with guilt. The tremors running through Dean began to subside, the movements growing fainter until Dean was quiet next to him.

Sirens were coming closer, their wail rising and falling in the cold night air. Sam shuddered, drawing in a deep, hitching breath. The air around him was still thick with Reilly's presence, but it was fading.

"Please…" Sam's own word was thrown back at him, a plea that floated in the mist. A plea that asked for help, asked for rest. A plea that was tinged with guilt so raw that it continued to rip at Sam's insides.

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"Dean? You wanna open your eyes for me buddy?"

He didn't know the voice, his head was pounding, his shoulder was on fire, and he had a feeling that opening his eyes was gonna hurt like a bitch. Nope. Not gonna do it.

"Pressure's holding steady."

The world was moving under Dean, his bed rumbling and moving from side to side. And somebody really needed to tell the lady wailing over him to stick a sock in it.

A finger was on the top of his eye, pulling at his eyelid. He tried to lift his hand to swat at it but his arm didn't seem to want to move. What the hell trick was his brother playing on him now? Didn't they declare a truce in Texas?

"He's coming around."

He fought to keep his eyelid where it belonged, solidly closed over his eye, but it was a losing proposition. The finger pulling at it was too persistent. A blinding point of light appeared in front of him and he tried to jerk his head away…but it wasn't going anywhere either. Felt like his brother had placed a couple of Bobby Singer's books on either side of his head. They hadn't been at Bobby's place, though…he didn't think…

The finger was on his other eye now, the light again blinding him, and Dean really had had enough. That was it. He was going to kick his brother's butt.

"Saaammm…" His voice sounded muffled even to his own ears, and he realized there was something over his nose and mouth.

"Pupils are still equal and reactive, and we're starting to get purposeful movement now. Dean? Dean Collins? Open your eyes for me buddy!"

The voice was practically shouting, aggravating Dean's headache. He pulled his eyes open to narrow slits. Anything to get the Marquis de Sade to just…SHUT…UP!

His vision was a little fuzzy, but it was clear enough for him to make out a face leaning over him laughing. "Okay, I'll shut up as soon as you get your eyes open for me."

Oops. Didn't mean to say that out loud.

Reality check. This wasn't his brother pulling a prank on him. He couldn't even see Sam anywhere near him. More of the fog cleared from Dean's brain as he focused on the balding man looking down at him…the grey uniform shirt…EMT name tag… Where was his brother? "Sam…"

The man leaning over him looked to the side as though there was someone sitting near Dean's head and he felt a brief surge of hope. It dimmed when the EMT started talking. "That's the brother, right?" He looked back down at Dean. "Your brother's driving that sweet car in back of us. We're almost at the hospital and you'll see him there. Do you remember what happened?"

Dean thought about it. He remembered a slimy guy threatening them with a smile, and a couple of Andre the Giant wannabe's that worked for him…but he doubted that was the story Sam gave. When in doubt, play dumb. He clamped his lips shut. Nope, he wasn't talking, and they couldn't make him.

"Saved by the bell," the face leaning over him announced. "We're here."

The wailing noise died away and more of Dean's brain began to kick into gear as the siren was replaced by a beeping back up alert as the ambulance backed up to the ED doors.

Things went a little gray around the edges when the gurney was rolled out of the ambulance and the pain in his head spiked for a moment. The world righted itself again as they began rolling him towards the doors and he heard footsteps pounding over the pavement towards them.

"Dean?"

Now THAT voice he knew. More of the encounter by the road came back to him and he remembered the sumo wrestler in a Carhart jacket trying to put his fist through his brother's stomach…Sammy hitting the ground…

His eyes flew open and he looked around frantically, trying to find his brother. Where was Sam? Was he okay? "Saaam?" He couldn't move his head, something around his neck was preventing him from lifting it, blocks on either side were preventing him from turning it… He began to pull at the straps holding him on the backboard until a cool hand on his forehead stilled his movements.

"Dean, calm down, you're going to be okay. You hit your head, remember? You got out of the car after I swerved to miss that deer and fell…hit your head on that wood. Remember?"

He looked up and Sam's face was hovering over him. His brother looked pale and scared, but he was doing his best to smile. He remembered Sam hitting the ground, though. He remembered that choking noise. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine Dean. You're the one who's been napping. How are you feeling?"

Dean's pain subsided a bit as his panic died away and he answered truthfully. "Better." Sam did look like he was okay, like he had it under control. His hand was still on Dean's forehead, the touch of the cool skin soothing, and Dean allowed a small smile to curve his lips. Hey, Cro-Magnon man had just tried to brain him with a tree trunk. He was allowed to have a girly moment or two.

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The coffee in the cardboard cup was barely tan, a milky skin starting to form over the top of it. Sam began to swirl it lazily, his eyes fixed on the small whirlpool forming inside of the cup. It was no longer drinkable, but he just didn't have the energy to find a place to throw it out.

He looked away from the cup, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He couldn't seem to shake the image of his brother lying on the ground. His stomach muscles protested when he pushed himself to his feet and moved to the edge of the examination bed. Dean's eyes were closed, the small lines of pain that had been bracketing his mouth at least temporarily eased. He didn't look too bad. His face was a little pale, the light freckles more visible than they would normally be, but the new bruise on his cheek was no worse than a hundred others he'd had.

Sam put the wilted coffee cup on the table next to the bed with a detached relief to finally have it out of his hand. He bent over slightly, peering at the side of Dean's head. The head of the bed was raised, and Dean was propped up enough for Sam to have a clear view of the swollen knot above Dean's ear. He ran the tips of his fingers over the short spikes of hair, moving them out of the way so he could see the slight abrasion. Dean was lucky they hadn't had to cut any of the hair to clean the area up and remove a couple of splinters.

A cold wave of anger swept through him at the thought of that bastard hitting his brother with a piece of wood. If it hadn't been old and dried, if it hadn't splintered easily…things could be very different right now. If he was lucky he might have been standing over his brother in an ICU bed.

"Dude, are you like…running your fingers through my hair? Cause that's just wrong. On so many levels." Dean's voice was low and gravelly, but it was still a hell of a lot clearer than it had been when they first got to the hospital.

"I'm counting lumps. I think I could get you a listing in Guinness, man." Sam straightened up and looked down at his brother. "I thought you were still sleeping."

"Nurse Ratchett is probably gonna be in to torture me again any minute. And what are you still doing here? I thought I told you to go get some sleep?"

"And I thought I told you I didn't like that idea," Sam replied, his mouth straightening into an obstinate line. He crossed back to the hard plastic chair and plopped down.

"You don't have to like it dude. You need to get out of here and get some sleep. C'mon Sammy, you're supposed to be the smart one, but you hanging around here is stupid. They already said I'll probably be out of here tomorrow…" He trailed off, looking confused for a second, and Sam felt an instant spark of worry. "Huh, it's way after midnight, so I guess they actually meant later today," Dean corrected himself. His eyes were clear when he fixed them on Sam and the spark of worry fizzled out. The entire time in the hospital had been like a rollercoaster ride. Sam seemed helpless to stop himself from overreacting every time Dean moved wrong.

"So you can come back and get me then," Dean continued, seemingly oblivious to his brother's brief jolt of fear. "You heard them, dude. All the scans came out clean. Even on my shoulder." He fingered the navy blue sling holding his left arm against his body. It was similar to the one Frank MacDougal had been wearing and Sam was starting to wonder if the hospital got a volume discount on them.

A dramatic story about Dean falling when they were walking in the mountains the day before had convinced the doctors to also check Dean's shoulder for any serious damage. What the hell, they were already checking his head and neck. If he was gonna glow they might as well make sure it was nice and bright.

The doctors had used a lot of complicated jargon to explain that they were able to rule out separations, dislocations, fractures, impingements, torn cuffs…which left them with the bruised muscles that the brothers had already self-diagnosed. Sam hadn't disagreed when Dean complained about all the poking and prodding and scans that were needed to tell them what they already knew. Sam hadn't disagreed that they were a pain in the butt, but he hadn't felt guilty for insisting on them either. The image of Dean's arm hanging uselessly at his side when he was being attacked was burned into his brain right next to the one of Dean on the ground.

Dean leaned his head back against the top of the bed, closing his eyes with a wince. Sam was immediately up and back at his side. "You okay? Do you want me to get the nurse and see what they decided about pain meds?"

"I've got a headache Sam." Dean cracked one eye open and glared at his brother. "And your hovering is making it worse. I'm not dying, dude, and the bedside vigil is getting on my nerves…and it's a waste of time. If you stay here all night you're going to end up not getting any sleep again tonight. Not smart. You may not give a shit about yourself, but how are you gonna be able to watch my back, if you can't keep your eyes open?"

Sam sank back into the chair. It was hard to be stung by the words when he realized that Dean was right. He was already exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before and he was stiff from getting hit in the stomach by a human battering ram. A shower to loosen the muscles would probably be a good idea. "I'll compromise," he said, his voice rough. "I'll go back to the inn when they're taking you up to a room. After I get the room number and know everything is okay." He forced a grin when he looked up at his brother. "That's my best offer, take it or leave it."

Dean sighed and closed his eyes again. "You said you gave the Hancocks a heads up about this, right? And Bob? We don't know how long Charlie and the mutant Oompah Loompahs have been watching us."

"Yeah, when you were down getting the CT scans. The Hancocks aren't worried. They basically repeated everything Bob already told me. Quincy won't make a move against them. The toughest part was convincing them not to call the cops on our behalf. They said Charles' warning was pure bullshit. The cops are straight. But I told them we could take care of ourselves, and if a police report got filed the Institute would pull us out of here."

"And they went along with it?"

"Yeah. I mean, they're nice people and they don't want to see us get hurt…but stopping the land deal is important to them. They agreed, Richard going this far to try to stop us means there's some connection between the ghost and the land. If we find out what it is, the Hancocks might be able to use it to show the land is historically significant and stop the sale."

"What about Bob?"

"He was actually tougher. He wanted to come right over to sit by your bed and hold your hand. Don't worry, I told him no visitors." Sam shook his head. "He still thinks he's not in any danger from Quincy, but I don't like it. I think we're going to have to watch how much we talk to him, especially now that Richard Quincy is back."

"Huh?" Dean had allowed his eyes to drift shut but now they snapped open.

"Forgot to tell you that part," Sam said, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Richard Quincy showed up about fifteen minutes after we left with the Hancocks. Things should get interesting."

Dean's head leaned back against the bed again, his eyes closing. "Hail, hail the gangs all here," he muttered softly. He cracked one eye open to look at Sam. "Hey, you know this is all your fault, right?"

Sam had allowed his head to fall backward so that it was resting on the top of the hard plastic seat back. He tilted his face down a bit, moving his gaze from the ceiling to his brother's scowl, and quirked one eyebrow up. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"

"Quincy is afraid to go after two historians and a midget inn manager, but us he'll go after. Bob was right about the 'Paranormal Investigations Institute' not being too intimidating," he grumbled. "You couldn't say we work for Ghost Hunters? Or the real FBI X File unit? Or, maybe like a paranormal Men In Black? Or…"

Sam returned his gaze to the ceiling with a sigh. It probably would be a good idea for him to head back to the inn soon. Really soon.

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Sam's feet scuffed along the wooden floor as he dragged himself down the hallway to his room. He was so tired he was practically numb, the connections between his brain and his nerve endings temporarily shorted out. Dean would kill him if he knew Sam was sleeping in his own room. He had never actually said that he would sleep in Dean's, but he hadn't corrected Dean's assumption that he would, either. If he squinted his eyes just right, he could see that as not exactly lying to his brother.

Even after he'd told Dean about the latest encounter, and his belief that neither Reilly nor Bess meant them any harm, the worried look hadn't left Dean's face. He understood why Dean was nervous about him staying in his own room, but he honestly didn't think it made a difference. Bess and Reilly seemed able to reach him in a lot more places than just his room. So he might as well be comfortable.

It was a rationalization, and he knew it. But he just didn't have the energy to analyze why he was so comfortable in the older room, why he felt drawn to it. Definitely didn't want to go anywhere near the idea that maybe he wanted to see Bess again.

He pushed the door open with a small sigh of relief. There was no denying the warmth that seemed to wrap around him as soon as he stepped through the doorway. The stress that had hardened the muscles of his neck and shoulders into rock over the past couple of hours eased when he shut the door behind him.

Sam was willing to admit he needed whatever bit of comfort the room could give him tonight. The grief he had felt when he'd learned of Bess' fate had almost brought him to his knees. The shell he'd put around those emotions had gotten him through the rest of the night, allowed him to function even when he'd been so scared for Dean. Allowed him to hold it together even when Reilly's presence at the roadside had ramped the grief up. But the shell was cracking.

It didn't matter that logically he knew the emotions weren't his. Logic had nothing to do with it. The pain was deep and harsh. The loss felt real, and new, and it was shredding his insides to not know what had really happened when Bess died. The guilt he'd felt from Reilly by the road was an acid inside of him.

Clothes were left where they fell as he shed them on his way to the shower. The only item he kept a tight hold of was the silver Beretta. He hadn't forgotten the very real physical threat that had been leveled against them. The gun would sit on the small washstand, within reach of the shower.

The hot water pounded against his shoulders and ran down over his body, loosening something inside of him. His leaned his forehead against the shower wall and his shoulders shook once before he drew in a ragged breath and straightened up. He tilted his head back, letting the water run through his hair and over his face, mixing with the salty drops there.

It was a lie. When he said there was no way that Daniel Reilly would have run off to Boston after Bess' death. That was a lie. If it was Daniel's musket ball that had killed Bess, he might have fled. So full of guilt and hatred for himself…he might have done anything.

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Exhaustion—physical, mental, emotional—was too deep to be ignored. Just drying his body and pulling a pair of sweatpants on felt like a major accomplishment. He collapsed onto the bed, his hair still wet, and slid the gun under his pillow. His fall into sleep was swift and complete.

There was no feeling of peace when his eyes opened in the darkness this time. Fear was thick in the room, laying over everything like a blanket, making it difficult to breathe. Soft laughter, male snickers, pulled his eyes to one of the windows.

The casement was open and two figures knelt there, keeping watch over the outside landscape. They were dressed alike in uniform coats with white breeches and what appeared to be black boots. Some type of white strap crisscrossed over their backs. It was difficult to make out the color of their coats until one of them moved just right and the soft light coming in the open window illuminated their sleeve. He was not surprised at the lobster red revealed by the moonlight.

Both men tensed at the sound of a horse's hoofs outside, their hands reaching for the muskets hidden in the shadows. Their shoulders slumped at the sound of a soft whistle and they leaned the weapons back against the wall.

Sam couldn't stop the shivers that were running through his limbs. The gentle warmth of the previous encounters had been replaced by a malignant chill. The cold leached into his heart and mind as he realized what he was seeing. He'd just heard the story that night. They were there for Daniel, their weapons were meant to bring him down. And Bess…

His heart pounded in his ears and he tore his eyes away from the two men. And she was there. So close he could touch her.

Hatred flooded him, an anger so deep that he didn't know how to contain it.

They had bound Bess to the foot of her own bed. Thick ropes cut into her slim form, holding her harshly against the heavy wooden post at the foot of the bed. Her head was unbowed, her eyes fixed on the window, and Sam realized that she could see the road outside from her position. They had tied her where she could watch as they killed her lover.

She stood straight, her delicate hands tied behind her. Sam could see them twisting, pulling at the ropes around her wrists, the darkness of blood smearing the ropes, running down her hands. Tremors coursed through her but she didn't make a sound.

Sam waited until the two men at the window had their attention solidly fixed outside before carefully sliding his legs out from under the bedcover. The air coming in the open window was cold, but Sam knew it wasn't the only cause for the goosebumps that rose on his bare chest.

The fear that filled the room was tinged with something darker. Currents of deep despair…of inevitability…swirled around him.

No…no…no…no… Maybe he could change things. Maybe this fate wasn't set in stone. Maybe that's why he was there, so he could set things right.

Desperate hope propelled him upwards and he rose to his feet in the dark room, making no sound, staring at the back of the soldier's heads. He took a step towards them, anticipation twitching his fingers into fists. Movement caught by the corner of his eye stopped him and he froze, turning just his head.

The despair building in the room began to seep into him as he realized that he would be able to do nothing.

Hidden in the shadows, a third soldier stood next to the other window. He was facing Sam, the white lapels of his uniform coat clearly visible. He was staring right at Sam…right through Sam…with a look of complete boredom. It filtered into Sam's mind that he was still bare chested, still in his sweat pants. Pain blossomed inside of him and his throat began to close as grief filled him.

He was merely an observer here, a witness to the shadows of events long past. He had been desperate to know what happened that night, and it seemed Bess was granting his wish.

Bess did not see him as he approached her. He blinked back the moisture that filled his eyes when he saw the piece of cloth they had tied around her head, forcing her lips apart, gagging her. Her hair had fallen loose and swirled around her shoulders, framing her beautiful face, almost hiding the bruise on her cheek. He lifted his hand, wanting to bury his fingers in those dark waves, feel their silken softness, smell their perfume one more time.

The muscles of her arms and shoulders were quaking as her dark eyes flew back and forth between the soldiers and the open window. It would appear to be fear to any of the soldiers who glanced her way, but Sam knew it was the only visible sign of her struggle with the ropes binding her wrists.

The despair he had been fighting viciously sank its claws into him when he realized her goal.

"Oh God, no…"

He thought her eyebrows might have quirked slightly at his heartbroken whisper, but he couldn't pull his eyes from the musket they had fixed into position next to her. The muzzle was jammed cruelly into her ribcage under her breast. They had probably put it there as a way to control her, but they didn't know his Bess. She saw it as the salvation of the man she loved.

A grandfather clock hidden in the bowels of the inn began to chime, and Bess' movements became more frantic. An eerie calm fell over her as the last stroke sounded. She had reached her goal at midnight.

He reached a hand towards her and it was as though some unseen force was blocking him from touching her, from touching the musket, from stopping this.

"No, Bess…please…no…" his voice broke and he just wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to make everything right, he wanted to save her. And he knew there was nothing he could do except bear witness to her sacrifice.

He could see her hard won prize, the tip of her finger resting lightly upon the trigger of the musket. She stood tall and held her head proudly, her eyes looking into the moonlight outside of the window. The words he had spoken to her the night before seemed to fill the room.

"Look for me by the moonlight. I swear I will come back to you by the moonlight…though hell should bar the way."

Into the silence of the night there came a slight sound and Bess' eyes began to flicker between the soldiers and the window, her breath quickening. Horse's hooves rang out on the road outside, slowly approaching through the moonlit night. Bess was practically vibrating, fear and determination warring on her face.

The sound came closer and her features softened as her glistening eyes fixed on something beyond the casement. Sam felt like he was moving in slow motion as he turned to the window. The road was a ribbon in the moonlight and a figure was coming into view, cresting the hill. He came closer and closer, the sound of his horse's hooves the only disturbance in the silence of the frosty night.

The final player on the stage moved into his assigned position as the third soldier lowered himself to his knees in front of the other window. All three silently raised their rifles as the tragedy rushed towards its preordained conclusion. Their fingers drew back the hammers and they sighted down the barrels, death focused on the approaching rider.

Bess went completely still and Sam tore his eyes from the moonlit scene in front of him. He started to shake as he turned to look at her, his heart breaking. Her beautiful face glowed in the moonlight, at peace.

"I love you Bess," he whispered, and he thought that, just for a second, she saw him there and heard his words.

Her eyes widened and she drew in a deep breath. Her finger moved on the trigger and the musket shattered the silence.

Outside of the window a set of hooves began to gallop, a hard fast pattern receding into the distance as a volley of musket fire thundered from what must have been every window of the inn. None of the musket balls would come anywhere near him. She had warned him away before he was in range of the British weapons. She warned her love away without him even knowing she had given her life to do so.

Bess' head slumped forward, her hair falling in a gentle curtain over the sides of her face. Blood began to run down the barrel of the musket and she sagged brokenly, the ropes the only thing keeping her upright.

Sam could see what he had missed before. The red ribbon was still woven through her hair, the love knot the same color as her blood. He lifted his hand and this time he could touch, he could feel the silk under his fingertips.

Something in his chest shattered into a million pieces and he sank to his knees. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't survive watching a woman he loved die…because of him. Not again.

He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Waves of pain tore through him, sobs that he would not give voice to, would not give in to. Time had no meaning as he kneeled on that cold hard floor, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

Silence fell around him and the air shifted. It was still chilly, but the frigid cold was gone. He lifted his head and he was alone in the room, kneeling next to his own bed. The soldiers were gone. The stench of gunpowder was gone. The blood was gone. The woman he loved was gone.

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His eyes traced over the dark beams on the ceiling. The room's usual gentle warmth had been restored, and he marveled at a spirit that was so strong it could bring a sense of welcome to the place where it had died.

Sam had collapsed back onto the bed, numb and shaking, after everything was over. He had expected a sleepless night, but a gentle hand had stroked through his hair, calming him and allowing slumber to pull him softly down. He'd managed a few hours of deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

His emotions had settled by the time he awoke. The gut wrenching grief was gone. It was possible to breathe again without pain. But a deep sadness lingered, an open wound that ached. The emotions were his, not Reilly's. He had been a voyeur in the middle of their love affair, feeling Reilly's emotions and seeing Bess through her lover's eyes. He had witnessed her love and courage, felt her warmth, first hand. It was almost inevitable that he had formed his own bond with the spirit.

She had allowed him to see that last horrible night, and he knew it was not because she wanted a witness to her bravery. It was because she didn't want there to ever be any doubt that Daniel might have played a part in her death.

The pieces were all there, if he could just fit them together. He was certain now that Daniel never went to Boston. It went beyond the highwayman knowing he could not have killed Bess because he never fired a gun. The guilt he'd felt coming from Reilly wasn't because Reilly had accidentally killed her, the guilt sprang from Reilly's belief that their love had caused her death.

When word reached Reilly of Bess' fate his anger and hatred would have aimed him at the British troops like a guided missile, but he would have had another target in his sights as well. Sam understood many of Reilly's emotions now. He understood the anger that came off of Reilly in waves, he understood the sense of betrayal. The British had known he was coming for Bess that night. Someone had heard them the night before, and betrayed them.

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A/N Those of you familiar with The Highwayman either through the poem itself or the song knew this was coming. Knowing it was coming didn't stop me from crying when I wrote it. I hope I did the scene justice.

Thanks so much for reading.