A second chapter in one night - only because you're all so great. Just a warning that this chapter contains some sensitive subject matter.

Four months! She couldn't believe that they'd been here that long. She looked down at the Colonel and sighed. Nothing had changed, not a thing. He simply lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. He would then close his eyes and, she assumed, sleep. She looked after him completely – feeding him, bathing him, changing him – just as if he was a new born infant.

She'd kept hoping, for weeks, that he would get better. She had imagined, a few times, that she'd heard him speak, or move, but after a while had acknowledged that it was her imagination – her wishful thinking. No, he wasn't getting better.

She spent hours with him every day, talking to him, telling him about her life on Mariscola. She told him about Henry and about Charlie – and about James Manning who was trying to buy the ranch. She touched him as much as she could, hoping that the human contact would reach him somehow. She knew that it hadn't, and it probably never would.

Today she had turned him over, noticing that he'd developed some nasty bedsores. She tried to move him into different positions but still the sores would appear. On top of that he was slowly wasting away. Oh, she fed him as much as she could but just couldn't get enough down him. She'd finally asked Charlie to see if he could get some rubber tubing the next time he went to town. She figured he'd starve to death unless she could insert a naso-gastric tube and get more nourishment down him that way.

Now, looking at his vacant eyes, she wondered what she was doing. She knew the Colonel would hate this. There was nothing he would detest more than to become what he was now – an empty shell of a man. She wondered if it was more cruel than kind to keep him alive. Maybe she should just stop feeding him and let him starve.

NO! No, she couldn't do that to him. But look at him Sam, she said to herself. Is this any less cruel? Instead she should just take a pillow and place it over his face. It would be quicker, more humane. Oh yeah, she laughed – much more humane to murder someone with a pillow rather than starve them slowly. "Jack, what should I do? What would you want me to do?"

The only thing that had kept her from actually carrying through and ending this, was the thought that maybe he was in there. Maybe if she just waited, a bit longer, he'd snap out of it. She could almost hear him – barking 'Carter' at her, telling her not to give up. Oh god – what should she do?

She looked down again at the weeping sore on his hip. There were others and she had to clean them carefully so as not to let them get worse. Was this life? Was this what he'd really want? No, of course not. He'd rather die – she was as sure of that as she was of anything in this life. She was being cruel to let this continue.

But what would the others say? Nothing. They would say nothing – because both Henry and Charlie thought she was insane to keep hoping, to keep believing. As far as they were concerned, the man 'upstairs' – the one they never saw, never visited – unless she needed Charlie for something – was already dead. If she did what she was thinking – if he suddenly 'died' – they would simply say it had been coming all along. That it was a 'mercy' that he'd gone peacefully.

Peacefully! There was nothing peaceful about being murdered by a friend. But was it really murder? Wasn't it merciful to end this, to stop his suffering? She laughed bitterly. Was he suffering or was it her? She didn't know. Did he feel anything? Did he know what he'd become?

Oh god, oh god, oh god. What should I do?

She'd been around it and around it for days, weeks. Everyday she'd sit with him, talk to him, touch him – and every day she'd think that she had to end this, for him, not for her. If he – died – she'd miss him with every fiber of her being - but he would be at peace.

You have to do it Sam. For him.

She stood up slowly, and took her pillow. She then walked over to him. "I'm so sorry Jack." She laid her head beside his and rested her cheek against him. She listened to his soft breathing and imagined what it would be like to lie beside him – to be with him – when they were both healthy and strong. It had been her secret dream for years but that too was dead – dead alongside the man she cherished. "I'm sorry", she repeated as she stood up. She closed her eyes and took the pillow, knowing it was now – it was time to end this.

She lowered her shaking hands, knowing she would never forgive herself for doing this, but knowing she would never forgive herself if she didn't. Either way she was damned.

She didn't want to look, to see him staring, not blinking. She didn't want to remember him this way. But she knew that she owed him that. She could not do this with her eyes closed – the coward's way. No, look at him Sam. Look at him and say goodbye and then end his suffering.

With a shuddering breath she opened her eyes and slowly, slowly looked down – terrified to again see the vacant stare of one dead inside.

"I'm sorry", she whispered one more time. "Forgive me." She took a deep breath and went to lower the pillow when something – something small – caught her eye. What? She lowered her hands, dropping the pillow to the side.

"Oh my god", she whispered. Jack's eyes – they weren't staring straight up – they were looking at her. "Jack?" she whispered again, afraid that this was just a dream. "Jack, can you hear me?"

He didn't move, still didn't blink, but his eyes were looking at her. She moved slightly and almost gasped as his eyes tracked her movement. He was following her with his eyes. She experimented a few more times and he continued to follow her.

"Oh thank God", she cried, "You are in there! Jack, I'm here and you're going to be okay!" She suddenly collapsed onto her knees – grateful and relieved. She put her head on the mattress beside him and just sat there, for a long time.

It only came to her slowly – that she's almost murdered him. One more second and he would have been suffocating, dying, without being able to tell her. She started to breathe quickly – and soon was sobbing in anguish and fear. She'd almost killed him! What kind of a monster was she?

Feeling sick she stood up and ran to the basin under the window and lost her breakfast and lunch. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand. She wanted to run – to flee the room and never come back, but she couldn't do that. He relied on her – she was his only hope – and she had to stay and look after him.

If he only knew, she cried, he was being watched over by a monster who had almost killed him!

From that day on he continued to track her with his eyes anytime she was in the room. When she'd first walk in she'd see him staring at the ceiling but as soon as she was there his eyes didn't stop following her. It was slightly – disconcerting – although better, perhaps, than the blank stare. Except it was still blank, still lifeless and there appeared to be nothing behind those eyes – no life, no thoughts – nothing.

She had to stop thinking that way. He had improved and there was still hope. There had to be.

She continued to look after him, in all ways. She had managed to insert the tube into his nose and to his stomach. She'd felt sick doing it – but he had shown no reaction – and it had helped. Although still woefully thin, he had put on a bit of weight and no longer looked like a prisoner of war.

"You can't keep going like this Hannah", Henry told her the following week. "You're exhausting yourself. You never get outside or visit friends. You have to stop this."

Since she'd arrived she'd realized that some days Henry could be totally coherent and sharp as a tack. Other days – days when he was tired, or frustrated, his mind would wander and he'd refer to her as Hannah. There were other times when he'd call her by her correct name – but speak as if she were Hannah's daughter. In fact, she realized more and more that he was now convinced that that is who she really was. Somehow he'd decided that she'd found her way home.

She didn't have the heart to disabuse him of the thought. It seemed to give him great comfort. She'd been worried that Charlie would be angry but when she'd talked to him he'd simply shrugged.

"It gives him some pleasure", he'd said. "He's old and had a hard life. He lost everything that was important to him and if he can have some joy in his old age, who are we to take that away from him."

"But Charlie – I'm not his granddaughter and I don't feel right about tricking him."

"You're not – tricking him, that is. You've been honest since the beginning. It's him that's tricking himself and I say we let him. Henry isn't young and his health hasn't been good for a while. Just let him enjoy what time he has left."

So she'd let it go and had tried to make Henry's life a little happier. When she wasn't sitting with Jack she did some cooking and baking – although it took a while to figure out the ancient stove! She also got out a bit and planted a garden. The men clearly enjoyed having a woman to cook for them – even though she had never claimed to be particularly good at it. Still, it was better than they had done for themselves.

She hadn't been to the small town of Mariscola yet, although she had met James. He's been by to try and convince Henry to sell to him. Although he'd been nice enough – friendly and kind – there was something about him that bothered Sam. She'd asked Charlie about him.

"Oh – he wants the ranch badly", he'd explained. "I don't quite know why. I mean, it's good grazing land, and we have more than one water source, but there's other land around that he could buy. I think Henry was going to sell to him before you showed up."

"Before -? But not now?"

"No – he figured he didn't' have anyone to leave the land to before – but now his granddaughter has shown up. I think he wants you to have it."

"What? Charlie, I'm not his granddaughter. I couldn't take the ranch. That's just – wrong."

"Why? Why is it wrong?" Charlie suddenly swung around on her. "Henry isn't going to be around that much longer. His health is failing a bit more every day. And then there's you and" he pointed upstairs, "him. What are you going to do when Henry goes? Do you have any money? Any one you can contact? No, I didn't think so. You're all alone, aren't you? Without Henry you'd be lost."

"But still", she said, "I can't pretend like that."

"Again – why not? You have everything to gain, and Henry has nothing to lose. The only person who will lose is James Manning – and believe me, he has enough money and power that one little ranch isn't going to make that much difference to him."

She thought about it for awhile but then put it out of her mind. Hopefully the Colonel would be better before then and they'd be long gone and home.

"SAY SOMETHING DAMN IT", she yelled. "Are you even in there Sir – Jack? Do you know who I am or what I'm saying? Maybe they're all right – maybe you are just a vegetable and I'm being stupid to keep hoping. Why don't you move – why don't you speak! God damn it Jack – I can't do this anymore!" She collapsed onto the floor, banging her fists against the wooden slats. She'd been looking after him for months. After the day he'd begun to move his eyes her hope had been renewed that he was getting better. Since then, nothing had changed and she was tired, exhausted. She never had a break, never went anywhere, saw anyone, did anything. Her life revolved around looking after him and nothing more. For the first time she began to resent it, to resent him – that, of course, brought a huge pile of guilt which, in turned, caused more resentment.

It wasn't his fault, she knew it wasn't his fault. He was the victim, not her – so why did she feel so angry? She'd walked into the room, after eating a quick breakfast, and immediately had realized that he had to be cleaned and changed. Since she'd begun tube feeding him he was getting more calories, which in turn got his system to start moving better. That meant more changing. It was a task she dreaded, although again, she knew it wasn't his fault. It was natural and just something she had to cope with. Still she wasn't a nurse and this was just not something she'd ever thought she would have to do. It was as she was sponging him down – doing something so intensely intimate – that she had felt her anger grow. She wanted out. She wanted fresh air and people and laughter and – and technology and TV and pizza and Daniel and Teal'c. She had looked down at the thin, pale person who was once so vibrant and alive - and knew that was she really wanted was Jack.

"What is it? Hannah, what's wrong?" Henry hurried into the room and tried to pull her up from the floor. "What happened? Did he hurt you?"

She looked up – her hair hanging limply in her face – puzzled by his words. "Hurt me? Who?"

"Jack. Did he hurt you?"

Jack? Hurt her? "NO!" She pulled her arm away and struggled to her feet. "How dare you! Jack would never hurt me! I'm the one who – I'm – god, I'm a horrible person. He's lying there hurt and I'm thinking only of myself. What kind of woman am I?" She looked at the old man, lost and bewildered.

Henry looked at this young woman – the one he knew, in his heart, was his granddaughter, and reached over and pulled him into his arms. "C'mere", he said, and didn't understand the wail that greeted his words. "Don't worry, everything will be fine." He looked over at the bed and anger filled his heart at the man lying there. Somehow, he had to deal with this. He had to free his granddaughter from the prison in which she found herself. She deserved to live – to laugh and to love – not spend her life bound to a man who was nothing more than an empty shell.

"Don't worry Samantha. Things will get better soon – I promise."