Author's Note: A loyal friend is like a medicine that keeps you in good health. –Sirach 6:16(a) from the Greek Septuagint

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

Then:

"I'm real sorry about this, Heath." The foreman tapped the little stack of greenbacks against the desk by means of giving expression to his regret, then gave a tiny frown. "I hope you don't feel I been unfair to you. I tried to warn you."

The golden head shook. "You haven't been unfair, Mr. Hughes. You warned me more than once. It's my fault, not yours."

Hughes shot the young man a look of consideration, then opened the cashbox again and rummaged through it until he found several silver cartwheels and one of the little two and a half dollar gold coins known as quarter eagles. He dropped several of the bills back in the box and handed the remainder of the bills and the coins he'd selected to Heath. "Better luck find you then, boy."

The newly unemployed cowhand nodded and moved to go only to be immediately stopped again.

"Heath, wait!"

One golden eyebrow rose inquiringly. Was he going to be given a letter of reference after all?

Apparently so. Hughes had pulled out a sheet of paper and was writing furiously, the scratching of the steel pen nib against the heavy paper loud in the silence of the office. Heath waited patiently while the man fanned the page, then sanded it. When he was sure it was dry, the foreman folded the letter in quarters and handed it over. "It says you're a good worker, but warns 'em to use a curb bit on you 'til you learn to govern your temper a little better."

Heath's lips curved in a rueful smile. "Good advice," he admitted. "Thank you, sir."

The whisky was vile, and his cards had been terrible for three hands running, but the weight of anxiety he'd brought with him on his mad flight from Strawberry two months ago had at last been expiated in his final fight with Jim Dobbin.

Of course, Dobbin had pounded the sand out of Heath, his body ached at this very moment from the punches he'd taken, but there was no denying that he felt… better. So he wasn't sorry, even if it had cost him his job. To Carterson with Jim Dobbin and the horse he rode in on as well.

Heath asked for two cards, then folded immediately on seeing what they were. If he didn't stop playing soon, he'd be broke. He remembered an old gambler telling him that your true gambler plays for the thrill of losing, that winning couldn't compare to the excitement of a catastrophic loss. At the thought, Heath drained his glass, gathered up what was left of his money and excused himself from the game.

He bellied up to the bar. "Beer."

As the barman slid a mug across to him, a slender young man entered backwards. He was speaking to someone just outside the door. "This looks like a good place to try."

Heath set the mug down without taking a drink lest he choke on his surprise. "Ward?!"

Ward turned to his friend, then back to his wife who was just then entering. "What'd I tell ya, Nora? He's right here all the time!"

"What are you doing here?" Heath asked when the friends had settled themselves at a table and ordered three servings of the 'regular' dinner.

"Your momma sent us," Ward laughed.

"What?!"

Nora's beaming smile brought out all the delicate beauty of her young face. "It's true, Heath," she agreed. "Ward has some business here in Tucson, and when I wrote to your mother she said you were working down here and that we should come cheer you up."

"Said you ran out of there last time like the devil himself's chasin' you," Ward added. He leaned forward conspiritorially. "Ole buddy, have you been fightin' with your momma?"

Heath looked at his friend, and suddenly, though it wasn't funny at all, he couldn't stop laughing.

Mr. Barkley was dead, Heath was sure of it.

Or, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything about his father, hadn't ever been sure, not since Carterson. Not since before Carterson, truth to tell.

And anytime he so much as brought up his father these last few years, Momma'd clammed up, but now… now something… something had changed… and what could have changed, except that before Heath's father had been alive… and now he was not?

He told himself he was crazy, because all Momma had said was that she wasn't talking about it, and that was all she'd ever said, but the way she looked at him now… with pity, and she had never done that before…

The general store boasted a big notice board for jobs wanted and jobs vacant. Heath went to look at it, and Ward and Nora came along for company.

Horsebreaker Wanted. Immediately. Top pay. For round-up.

Yes. Heath smiled. He thought of how many times he'd be thrown on a job like that in the two weeks before round-up began. Fire began to lick through his veins.

"You interested?" A man's voice inquired.

"Your notice?" Heath asked indifferently, as though the job meant nothing to him, though he wanted it badly. Maybe the fight with Dobbins hadn't silenced his demons.

"That's right." The stranger was shorter than Heath by half a foot, and slighter. "Name's Lightly. Me and my men have a contract to break horses for the round-up at Creekwood Ranch, but one of 'em got throwed. Broke a leg. Only two of us left to break them horses, so it's lookin' doubtful we'll finish on time, and I purely hate to fail on a contract."

"When's the deadline?"

"Week from Saturday."

"How many horses?"

"Forty."

"Mexican style?"

The horsebreaker shook his head. "They're mustangs mostly. Just need 'em straight broke. Ride 'em or weed 'em out."

Heath licked his lips. He saw that Ward and Nora had paused in their shopping to watch the negotiation unobtrusively. "How much?" He could hear the stress in his voice, the eagerness, and willed it away. No wonder he'd done so terribly at poker earlier.

"Ten dollars a day. And beans."

"Fifteen."

"Thirteen."

"Deal."

They shook. "Be at the ranch come sun-up."

Heath nodded.

As Lightly moved away through the aisle of the mercantile, Ward came up to slap Heath on the shoulder. "Thirteen dollars a day? You lucky ole hound dog! Easy money!"

Heath was giving Ward a funny look. Lightly had heard and came back over to the taller, younger men. He offered his hand to Ward. "Johnny Lightly."

"Ward Whitcomb."

"You ever seen a bronc bein' broke?"

Ward laughed. "Not yet."

Heath's new boss smiled. "Come out to Creekwood Ranch any day this week or next and further your education."

"I'll be sure to do that."

Contrary to Ward's opinion, the money was some of the hardest Heath had ever earned. But he was exhilarated. And happy.

"I've got bruises in places I didn't know I had places," Heath laughed, sopping up syrup with one of Nora's excellent flapjacks. Only woman Heath had ever met who could make 'em better than a man. Coffee like liquid night eased his throat. God, he had missed them.

Ward smiled across at his friend, marveling at the quantity of pancakes he was putting away. And he was getting big! "You must have a hollow leg you're putting 'em in," he teased.

"Nope. Just that they give you a month's pay every day, they expect you to do a month's work for it. Makes a man mighty hungry."

Good feelings filled the tiny room to overflowing. Nora smiled at her two men. "I wish it could always be like this." She set a plate of broiled steak next to the tower of pancakes, and Heath reached for one like a starving man.

Heath's pay had provided this feast, but—

"When I strike it rich," Ward promised, "it will be like this. Just like this. Won't that be somethin'? We'll be livin' high on the hog, Nora, honey. All three of us. You, me, and Heath."

Pleased laughter emanated from all three of the friends.

Three wasn't a crowd at all.

Three was just right.

Ward's voice drifted down softly in the darkness. "Heath?"

His friend was there, lying in a shakedown on the floor. "Yeah?" He kept his voice soft, because the even sound of Nora's breathing said she was asleep.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Sure."

"Why'd you fight with your momma?"

Darkness and silence was the only answer.

Ward sighed. "I'm a fine one to say this, but you should make things right with her."

Had she told Ward or Nora? Heath found the idea… hard to believe. "Make what right?"

"Whatever it is that's come between you."

It was Heath's turn to sigh. "My father's between us… or not between us."

"How's that?" Ward's voice was puzzled. He'd assumed Heath's father was dead.

"She wasn't married to him."

"Oh… well, it ain't the end of world." There was a long pause, then Ward asked curiously, "What's he like?"

"I don't know!" Despite himself, Heath's voice rose. He lowered it with an effort. "I never knew him. And Momma doesn't want me to. She won't ever say who he is, or where he is, or…"

"Is he alive?"

"Or whether he's alive or dead."

"Hmm. Well, they do say 'Momma knows best.' Prob'ly ain't worth knowin'."

"What?!"

A shrug was audible in Ward's voice. "Mine ain't."

"I'd trade a dozen of my daddy for your Momma, Heath," Nora added clearly. "You don't know how lucky you are."

Something moved in Heath's chest. "I do know how lucky I am… I just forgot for a little while."

Johnny Lightly's team of horsebreakers finished their contract on time. For once it was Nora and Ward who saw Heath to the stage, since Ward was still working on business deals in Tucson.

"You say Howdy to your Momma for us now, Heath," they told him.

"I'll give her your love," Heath promised.

"Give her your own!" Ward shot back.

Heath laughed. "I will."

Nora and Ward stood arm in arm watching as the stage thundered away. They could see Heath waving from the window, and he could hear their laughter in his memory, until the stage was out of sight.