Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874

"Heath, don't leave. Please." Victoria reached out a hand toward him. He had only backed up slightly, he wasn't walking away from her, but her gut told her otherwise. She could not tolerate the distant, defeated look she was seeing in his face. No – she would not tolerate it.

"I – I'm not –" He was trying to hide his distress, she could see. He was looking everywhere but at her, seeking some refuge for his attention that would not involve meeting her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere –" There was movement out by the tent and he seemed relieved. "Look, John's on his way back."

She followed his gaze and was very glad to see John walking thoughtfully back toward the gate. She swung back to Heath, then, refusing to be deflected. "Yes, you are going somewhere. Don't lie to me, Heath. Not about this. Not to me." She came close and looked up into his face. "And I will not lie to you. Are you listening?"

He nodded faintly. He was as tense as a clenched fist, as guarded as a granite boulder under the hand she laid gently on his chest.

"What Jarrod believes – that my husband knew or suspected who you were when he saw you in that village – I think, from what he described to me, that it is very likely the truth. And I will not lie to you – this knowledge is breaking my heart. It feels in some ways like a greater betrayal than knowing he gave his love to another woman. I chose this man to be father to my children, Heath, and it terrifies me to think that he was capable of closing his eyes to the reality of a son, regardless of the possible consequences for himself. That is not the man I thought he was –" Her voice cracked slightly with emotion, and she paused, suddenly glad that Heath was not looking at her, because she thought the sight of Tom's eyes right then might undo her completely.

"But all of that, truly, it makes no difference, because the fact remains: he lay with another woman, he knew well what could come of it, and he did nothing. I am a grown woman. My marriage to Tom was my responsibility, not yours. Nor is it your business to protect me from the pain of his failures. Does it hurt to look at you and think of him? Yes, of course it does. But I realized something, earlier today. It hurts just as much to look at Jarrod, or Nick, or Audra. It's not you. Do you understand me? Are you listening?"

His head came up slightly; he was listening, his eyes tracking after the thoughts in his mind. Her voice had suddenly become more strident, more insistent, and she gripped the front of his shirt, leaning in to look in his face. "Heath, I love you. You are my son now. Don't you dare think that tearing yourself out of the heart of this family will do anything but cause more pain. Do you hear me?" She tugged on his shirt, demanding an answer.

He couldn't help but grin faintly at this echo of his Mama. "Yes, ma'am," he answered, softly, looking down at her small fist gripping his shirt front. "I ain't deaf."

"You aren't –" She stopped when she saw the slight smile on his face, and then she hugged him again, heedless of the cold and damp of his shirt that seeped into the suede of her shearling winter coat. She felt his hands gently rub her back, trying to keep at least some of his wet shirt off of her clothing. She squeezed him tighter, and she felt him relax, finally. His arms came around her and held her close, and he laid his cheek against her hair; as some of the tension left him, she could feel him start to shiver in the cold.

Victoria pulled away to look up at him, then led him over to the buckboard. "Heath, you should know better. You'd be warmer in no shirt at all than wearing this wet thing. Take that off and throw this blanket over your shoulders until it's dry." She then turned away to give him privacy as he silently complied with her orders. John had arrived at the gate, and was updating Frank on what had transpired with Morgan. His expression was grave as he walked toward her, and she prepared herself for bad news.


Marshal's Office, Sonora, California, Afternoon, December 2, 1874

Jarrod burst in from the sidewalk, making an uncharacteristically noisy entrance into Montana's sparsely furnished, utilitarian office. The marshal, Jed, Sean and Husu all looked up in surprise as Jarrod dumped an armful of papers onto the worktable around which the men were sitting.

"Raul, I am very glad to find you here."

Montana, frowning, grunted in reply and squinted up at Jarrod to see whether he was being sarcastic. Jed and Husu observed the pile of papers and the lawyer with curiosity. Sean, following Montana's lead, scowled at the tabletop.

"I have good news, and I'm going to need your assistance to put this plan into action. But why so somber, gentlemen? I can't imagine Marco is being difficult, is he?"

"Nope," Montana confirmed. "He's singin' like a sparrow. Can't hardly shut 'im up; court reporter in fact had to go get more paper. 'Course Marco's not a man you'd wanna base an entire case on, bein' as he's spent most of his adult life pickled in whiskey. Givin' us some excellent road signs, though, yes his is. We been sending wires down to Roberts – you met him in Nevada –" he added, when he saw Jarrod smile in recognition, "- an' he's birddogging the really good information from Jamestown over to Stockton. Sean's brother, Roman, is down there with 'im. I'm optimistic," he concluded with a grim, thoughtful smile, "that Jim is close to sniffin' out the proper domino, and then he'll give it a shove. It is his special talent. Glad Ramos could spare him, since he couldn't come himself. Someone's gotta stay behind to keep law an' order east of the Sierra divide, I reckon."

Jarrod had straddled an empty chair and sat down, leaning in to listen. "I'm glad to hear that, Raul, but it doesn't tell me what it is you're not happy about."

"Teleli," Husu said. "Three times we picked up a trail and lost it. The last time – well, we couldn't pick it up again anywhere, but he seemed to be heading down country. Southwest of here. I wasn't much help – we were outside any grounds I've ever traveled. None of our people have been able to move through the foothills freely since I was a child - we were either up in the mountains or boxed in on the flats in a reservation."

Jarrod studied the Miwok boy who continued to impress him with his courage and thoughtful manner. The marshal had dressed Husu in trail clothes – shirt, coat, pants, boots – and his ebony hair was tied in a leather thong that hung down his back. He still looked exotic, but Jarrod supposed from a distance he'd blend in with the other men, which was Montana's intent. He didn't want Husu attracting any hostile attention, what with the fear and hatred that was being whipped up among the settlers in the area.

"Two years I been tracking that man," Montana admitted, "so it's no surprise to me he ghosted. It's just –" His eyes narrowed, and Jarrod noticed Jed give him a sympathetic glance. It was a look that spoke volumes about Montana's feelings, as well as the close relationship between the two men. "I've got a deadline now," the marshal said finally. "Morgan's down there with his troops like a pack a' wolves ready to close in, and I've had word that the Governor's agreed to 24 hours. Unconditional surrender or they will attack."

Jarrod let that chilling information sink in. He looked at it, considered it from all sides, accepted it as reality, and began cataloguing points of weakness and counterattack. He nodded as the necessary steps for his plan became clear; this plan could still work, if only to buy time, though it might possibly even contain within it the seeds of an acceptable solution. That would come later. Right now, he was pretty sure he needed Montana's deputy marshal, the one-man pony express and wire service. Jed had been watching him with a slight smile, and seemed fully to be expecting Jarrod's next request.

"I'm going to need your help, Jed, because it looks like I have to get this done before sunset."