Tom closed the old barn door as far as he could. The rusty hinges and the build-up of dirt would not allow it to completely close, so he moved Heath to an area where he would no longer see the shrouded bodies of Tennant and Simmons which lay inside. He had allowed Heath to view his uncle's body, partly to identify it, partly to put any lingering questions to rest. Heath had not questioned anything. He simply nodded when Tom lifted the burlap that covered the dead man's face. "That's Matt," he had said simply.

He had not wanted to tell Heath last night when the boy had been so weakened by his injury, but Tom wanted him to know as soon as possible that his uncle had died. Hurtful secrets, he now knew full well, were not solid structures on which to build relationships. He had so much mending to do, with all of his family...including this newly found son.

"I didn't know he was your uncle back in the house before, but I remember him now," Tom said. "His wife was Martha, I believe." Years ago, Martha had hated him completely. She had tried her damnedest to keep him from seeing Leah. Perhaps she had been justified.

"Martha's in jail," Heath replied.

Tom registered some hurt, or rather disappointment in Heath's voice but resisted the urge to place a hand on his shoulder. He didn't want Heath to shrink away from him before they got a chance, however small, to come to some kind of understanding of each other. How did a man meet a nearly grown son? This was a new experience, and one he had not had the need to consider before. From what Mariano told him, he understood Heath to be quite a cunning fighter. An admirable trait, one this boy would have needed growing up without a father in his life.

"I saw your Aunt briefly in the Strawberry jail yesterday," Tom said, he scratched his beard. "She hasn't changed at all."

Heath slowly nodded. "She's where she belongs," he said. "And as much as I hate to say it, Matt belonged there too." He sighed heavily and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I didn't want him dead though." He kicked at the dirt. "I like to think he didn't deserve to die. Nobody should deserve death. But...when I think of how he treated Nick and tried to kill him for just being my brother, well, that's the most evil thing in the world, isn't it? I can't forgive him for that. Maybe God can. Matt made a choice and got his due. That's how I see it."

No grief. Just anger. The boy had a tough exterior, tougher than Tom had ever seen in a boy his age, but Matt was his uncle. The tragedy would come home to him at some point, probably when he least expected. Tom was well aware of that, just as he was now well aware of the dangerous powder keg on which he balanced since he first crossed paths with the quietly beautiful Leah Thomson.

Tom let Heath have the last word on the topic of his uncle, for that was the boy's prerogative. Like Heath, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started to walk slowly back to the ranch house with Heath right at his side. He wondered if Leah knew, wherever she was, that the two were together. He wondered if she finally consented to have him in her son's life. It didn't matter now. It was a given. What to do with this boy wasn't so clear. He could lose his family over this son, and neither was he guaranteed that Heath would want him as a father. It might be too late for everything.

Jarrod was at the front door, leaning against the door frame, when Father walked toward the house with his 'son'. They were carbon copies of one another. Same walk, same build. They seemed to have come to some sort of agreement out there in the barn or perhaps it was mutual grief that made them companions. Jarrod felt a wry half-smile appear and it hit him that he was jealous. Ironic. He was a man with the world at his fingertips, envious of a budding relationship between his father and a young boy with nothing to his name but hardship.

He put a hand to the fading bruise on his cheek, and then rubbed his face. He had to forget it. A new life was approaching. His position was tenuous inside the family, but he had for all intents and purposes left them to live on his own. None of this should matter so much to him, but it did, especially when he thought of his mother...and Audra and Gene. This will matter to them a great deal.

"You're thinking' too hard, Jarrod," came Nick's voice. "That's a warning sign."

Jarrod turned. "No. Not at all."

"Sure." Nick still held an uneaten biscuit in his hand. He sat on the cot and leaned against the wall, not moving much, but sitting up so he could see his father and Heath walk back in. He had been worried about the two of them and had said so a few times. "Are they coming?" he asked.

"They're coming," Jarrod replied as he came back into the room. "Nick, if I don't see you eat that biscuit-"

Nick took one small bite and chewed slowly. He grimaced, putting a hand to his stomach. "Stay close. I may need you to carry me out again."

Jarrod shook his head. "I didn't come all the way here to watch you wither away." He took the stool next to the cot.

They sat in silence for a moment. Nick made a short throat-clearing noise and tentatively gestured to the mark on Jarrod's cheek. "You know he didn't mean it," but he saw the change come over Jarrod and amended. "I mean he couldn't have-"

"He sure as hell meant it!" Jarrod countered. "He meant it with everything he had!"

Nick's face dropped. He stared at the partially-eaten biscuit. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me," he said. "Could you hand me my canteen?"

Jarrod picked it up off the floor and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He took a drink. "Well, if it makes any difference, Big Brother..." He sighed and said it as quickly as humanly possible. "I still love ya."

Surprise registered on Jarrod's face. He leaned in. "What did you say?"

Nick glared. "I don't repeat myself." He took another spiteful bite of the biscuit.

Jarrod's face lit up with mirth. "You love me, huh?"

"You want to eat this biscuit? The hard way?"

They both laughed, but the levity was cut short when Nick grimaced and gently put a hand to the swollen cut behind his ear. "I wish this thing didn't hurt so much."

"It looks bad." Jarrod grabbed a cloth and handed it to him. "Infection has set in. We need to cut it to drain the fluid-"

"No you don't," Nick covered the wound tenderly, but soon his frown turned into defeat. "I feel terrible. I ache all over. I thought...well, I thought I had everything under control."

"I imagine you did think that. As usual," Jarrod said. "That wound will only get worse. You know it. We have to take care of it or you'll only get sicker. I didn't come all the way out here to bury you, understand? And I don't intend to." He got up. "Rest assured, if Fred Madden doesn't get that doctor here soon, I'm going to drain that wound myself."

"You are not putting a blade to me, Jarrod. I'll wait."

"Not much longer." Jarrod was serious this time. He would indeed put a knife to his brother to save his life.

Nick covered his wound protectively and watched Jarrod walk away again. He put the biscuit down, afraid he would not be able to keep down the two bites he already swallowed.

Heath walked in and his eyes set on him. "Hey, Nick! You feeling better?"

"Sure."

"Liar."

Father walked in. Nick studied both of them. "Everything all right?"

"As well as can be expected," Father replied. "Jarrod, we should eat and then try to get that wagon repaired if we can. We need to have it ready when Fred gets back."

"Nick needs a doctor." Jarrod said, and he moved to the fireplace to preempt any argument.

Father held out his hands. "You're right, Jarrod. You're right. We're doing the best we can. Waiting..." He shot Nick a sympathetic look and then turned back to Jarrod who crouched by the fireplace, preparing a biscuit with the salt pork. He still refused to face Father.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Father said, after a moment. He scowled and placed his hands on his hips. "You'll have to be patient. This is a difficult situation. For all of us."

Jarrod dropped his forehead into his hand and let out a heavy sigh. "Father, this is your making. All of it. Only it's us who are paying the price." He shot a look over his shoulder to Heath who had been watching the entire exchange by Nick's cot. His mouth went to a thin line. He stood and moved past Father. "I'll be outside."

Jarrod stepped onto the porch. The day was getting hotter and they still had an axle on a wagon that needed fixing. If they could fix it at all with the meager rusty tools they found in the barn. The wagon sat lopsidedly in front of the porch. Jarrod wanted to burn the thing. The idea that Nick might have to travel in that next to the bodies of the men who wanted him dead...a shutter ran through him. He looked at the biscuit he had just prepared and suddenly understood Nick's lack of appetite.

So deep in thought was he that he heard Mariano's voice call out to him before his mind had registered his approach.

"Jarrod!" Mariano called as he rode in. Behind him was a-Jarrod couldn't believe his eyes. A wagon! And driving it was the proud woman with the copper star.

Excitement and finally hope filled Jarrod's pounding heart. Finally, someone who would help them get out of here. Jarrod waved to them and then rushed to the door. When he saw Heath, relief washed over him. It was wonderful to be able to provide some good news for a change. He smiled broadly. "Heath! Your Hannah is here!"