7

Before Teresa could respond with a protest, he had shifted his grip to her shoulder, and was encircling her waist with the other hand to pull her down on to the bed beside him. She tried to resist, but in the throes of the delusion, he seemed to have developed a greater strength than she could counter. As he pulled her closer, she lifted her hands up to her chest to form a barrier between them and tried to push him back down to the bed.

"Don't leave me again, don't go, Dolores" he whispered plaintively, his lips close to her ear. " I did everything I could to find you again¦ you're here now, it 'll be all right."

She could hear and feel that he was breathing heavily, and seemed to be reliving a scene from his past. Although her heart pounded in fear, she knew he would not willingly try to harm her, so she relaxed in his grip and tried to play along with his illusion. As she tried to calm him by whispering, "shhh" over and over as gently as she could under the circumstances, she wondered who Dolores could be. An old girlfriend from his days in border towns? She certainly could not be an aunt or other kind of female relative. In response to her shushing sounds, he was repeating over and over some Spanish words so quietly that she could hardly make them out, "Te amo, Dolores, te amo." Then to her surprise a small tear escaped from the corner of one of his glazed eyes and rested on the lower lid like dew on fern. She wriggled her right arm from where it was trapped between their warm bodies and caught the tear on her forefinger. If only it were that easy to take away Johnny's pain, she mused.

The moment of quietness ended as he caught her raised finger in his hand and brought it fiercely to his mouth, where he pressed a kiss onto it, then spoke to it breathily, "Hermosa, Chiquita,Dolores."

Teresa knew that they were about to reach a precipice, a point of no return, and that whatever was happening had to be stopped, but she could not bring herself to act. Remembering the moment in the kitchen - a moment that had lasted a lifetime - and seemed now to be a lifetime ago, she wished that someone could have for her the feelings that Johnny obviously had for Dolores. Yet, she knew in her mind that she could never be a Dolores, certainly not for Johnny, but oh, how her heart ached for romance and love. That brief contact with him had sparked something in her that was both new and exciting together, as if her life were beginning anew and feelings were awakening within her that were a revelation. His grip on her tightened as he tried to pull her closer still and she felt the hand that was still between them stiffen and cramp. She feared to complain to him in case her words agitated him; in case he felt that Dolores was rejecting him. It was safer to play along with the delusion. So, she let him rub the back of her hand with his fingers and turn it over to raise it to his lips to kiss her palm. It was a strange sensation, almost like having a pony lift food from your hand with its tongue, and it sent a shiver through her body. He was still murmuring, the sense of his words lost to her ears, her eyes slid shut of their own accord as she rested against the barrier of his chest. His free hand was caressing her hair now, lifting each strand to let it fall haphazardly, and then lifting it again only to rub it into the nape of her neck. She found herself unable to free her gaze from the silty blue grip of his eyes. She was mesmerised. And was it her imagination or was the shack becoming warmer, the air thicker and harder to breath in?

What must it be like, she wondered again, to have a man like Johnny come home to you at the end of each day. To welcome him with an embrace, to have him look at you like you were the most important thing in his life. To share the warmth of his body close throughout the night. One day those experiences would be hers, one day in the future but not now, and not with Johnny, never with Johnny. Murdoch wouldn't approve, in fact he would probably be scandalised to see her in this odd position, uncomfortably balanced on the edge of the bed, the only thing keeping her off the floor his fevered son's grip. He was so very protective of her; he would not want her to live with a man as full of potential danger as his younger son. He would be more likely to approve of her having a relationship with Scott. Teresa gave herself a mental shake. Where were these thoughts coming from - so intrusive and odd? These men were like brothers to her, they treated her like a kid sister, they never looked at her like they looked at young female visitors; in fact some days it seemed they hardly noticed her at all except when they needed coffee or cakes or washing done. Was it wrong then, to think of them now as potential lovers? It wasn't uncommon for young girls to marry cousins, and neither of the Lancer boys was related to her. And Johnny was so appealing in a roguish way and the kisses he was still bestowing on her hand felt far too good to be wrong. He was looking at her again, and it seemed for a moment that his vision cleared and he scowled as if trying to make sense of the situation. As if he were working out in his mind that she was not Dolores, but Teresa, and that he was not in some rough border cantina, but in a flea ridden bed in a deserted line shack.

He dropped her hand and pressed his fingers to her lips so she parted them ever so slightly to taste a salty warmness, to feel the whorls and the hard pad of skin at the joint of his trigger finger. The significance of the calluses did not escape her, and the thought of it thrilled her for some perverse reason. Was this love? To be excited by a man despite the violence of his past? The banging of the door and the sound of Scott's horrified voice shouting over her heartbeat, "Get your hands off her, brother", suddenly and violently broke the tension of the moment.

There was a hardness in Scott's tone when he said "brother" that made Teresa freeze in place. Striding across the room he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her roughly away from Johnny and up off the bed. Still holding her tightly, his nails pressing into the hollow of her collarbone, Scott guided her to a chair and pushed her down onto the creaking seat. He scowled at her before turning angrily back to his brother. "What do you think you were doing? She's not some cheap whore you picked up in a saloon. She's Murdoch's ward, you take your hands off her."

Before she could stop him he was at the bed pulling Johnny into sitting position by the collar of his half open shirt and staring at him threateningly. Johnny's right hand was at his waist in an instant, flailing for a gun and finding only an empty holster. Teresa could only watch open-mouthed in shock, as Johnny lifted a weak hand, fist clenched, to punch Scott ineffectually in the jaw. Scott countered by slapping his brother across the cheek, an action that left Johnny dangling dazed, hanging by his shirt from Scott's white knuckled hands. In contrast, Scott's face was red with a rare fury.

Johnny continued to struggle, trying to break free like a racoon in the jaws of a mountain lion, but his efforts were futile and, strength ebbing, he let his head fall back and collapsed as Scott, hand still raised in a fist, allowed him to sink to the bed. Astounded, Teresa noted a change come over Scott as he realised just what he had done in giving in to instinct. Shame-faced he turned away from his brother and towards her, an expression of helplessness on his face. He mouthed, "I am sorry" to her and hung his head in embarrassment. Teresa took the opportunity to spring up and rush to Johnny to check that he wasn't having a convulsion, or fallen into unconsciousness. She was relieved to see that he was still conscious, if dazed. He lay quietly against the lumpy pillow, eyes open and staring into the far distance, breathing heavily. Then before her eyes, he began to heave hacking coughs as if a huge weight rested in his lungs and he had to raise a supreme effort to expel it.

"Johnny!" she squealed, paralysed with fear. "Scott - do something" Scott was at her side in a second; eager to redress the harm he had done his brother.

"Help me turn him on his side, and get him a bit more upright," Scott was all business. Teresa could not express her relief at seeing him take charge. This was the Scott she never knew, the officer, used to being obeyed in an instant and without question. At home he was the novice, the student, eager to learn from the more experienced ranch hands, rather than the person in authority.

She held onto Johnny's arm and back at one side of the bed, a task that was made harder by the force of him thrashing his limbs. How had he regained his strength? It was like holding onto an unbroken horse. She gripped under his arm as tightly as she could and at Scott's nod, hefted the gunfighter into a more upright position then relaxed her grip to allow Scott to push him onto his side so that he faced her. His eyes were a disconcerting shade of violet, and still were focussing on something: Dolores perhaps? Or some part of his past that he had been transported to in his delirium? The awful hacking sounds were subsiding now to harsh sobs, as he was able to gulp in enough air to satisfy his lungs. Under the soothing motion of Scott's hand on his upper back, Johnny started to relax and stop fighting whatever it was he was feeling. His coughing was now producing gobs of pallid spittle, which dribbled from his mouth. Teresa pulled out her handkerchief and gently wiped it all away trying to disregard the fact that it was a yellow color.

"Bring the kettle over, the steam should help him with his breathing," Scott continued his circular rubbing motion as Teresa went for the kettle which had slowly heated to boiling, and carefully brought it back to the floor by the bed. The steam rose in foggy wisps to surround Johnny's face eliciting feeble moans from his half hidden lips, between the pitiful coughs. She could hear the plaintive tone of regret in Scott's voice as he repeated over and over, "I'm sorry, brother," and all her anger faded. She understood now, that it must have seemed to Scott as if she was under attack and his first instinct had been to protect her. In a perverse way, she found this gratifying. She did not enjoy it that Scott had hurt his brother, but it gave her a secret pleasure to ponder the implications of Scott's actions – that he considered her safety of paramount importance, more so than that of his own flesh and blood.

They watched together as the steam dissipated and the awful broken sounds of Johnny's efforts to breathe began to fade.

Johnny's eyes were half open now, looking the way babies do when they sleep, small slits of darkness between the long eyelashes. The coughing was fading now, replaced by indecipherable murmuring as Johnny tossed his head from side to side.

"The steam is working, he's recovering. Let's get him in the buggy. "

"Wait, Scott." Teresa wiped the hair back from Johnny's forehead where it had stuck in a thick black clump almost in his eyes.

"Did you find willow bark?"

Scott shook his head and helped her lay Johnny back flat onto the bed. As he pulled his hand away from the back of his brother's head, he frowned and lifted the hand to his eyes. Teresa saw the blood there and gasped.

"That head wound, he must have reopened it with all that thrashing."

"Or when you hit him." Regretting the harsh words as soon as she said them, Teresa did not wait for a response. Instead, she retrieved a canteen from the table and held it to Johnny's lips in desperation. She ignored Scott who jumped to his feet as if stung and turned his back to her.

"Come on, Johnny, drink," she coaxed, hoping that the cool water would be enough to keep him from sinking into a deeper illness. As soon as a trickle of water hit the back of his throat, he coughed it out again, then pushed the canteen away with the back of one hand, muttering, "No, Dolores, no mas, no mas."

Scott returned to the bed with the other canteen and a wet bandanna. Teresa lowered the canteen so that he could push Johnny's head over to the side to expose the cut. It was oozing just a small amount of blood into Johnny's hair behind his ear and had stained a strip of the area of skin over the thick muscle that joins neck to shoulder. He dabbed the cut with the moist cloth then waited to see if it was bleeding. When more blood welled up, he sighed and hunched his shoulders. The pale eyes that met Teresa's over Johnny's head were moist with tears of remorse.

"I'm sorry Scott, the cut wasn't your fault. I know you thought you were helping me. I don't know what's worse, this stillness or the delusion he was in. I wish he was back to normal."

Teresa opened her precious bag and drew out yet another strand of silken cloth, this one pink in color. She studied it a moment, recalling other gifts given to her by Angel, then took it to the bed and handed it to Scott.

"Can you stop the bleeding with this? At least it's clean," she looked around the dusty cabin meaningfully, "Any cloth we might find in here would be too filthy to use."

Scott was sitting on the edge of the bed, by his brother's waist. The expression on his face was so remorseful; Teresa's felt her heart might break. Putting a comforting hand on his arm, she felt the hardness of muscle. She could not allow him to lose control now for she was relying on him to keep her and Johnny safe. He held his hand out for the cloth, and when he grasped it, she did not release her end, but anchored him there, pulling on the silk until it was taut and he had to look into her eyes. She hoped he could see the sincerity there as she insisted, "It isn't your fault, Scott. We have to get him ready to leave."

As she let the silk fall, he clenched his fist tightly around it and turned back to his brother. His voice was cracking and she had to step closer to hear him clearly.

"I lost so many young men in the war. Men too young to be away from their mothers, but young enough to follow orders without question. On my say so they would go into the thick of the fighting. Very few survived. Too many young men have suffered because of me. Teresa, I just found my brother, and I don't want to lose him, like I lost them. Often in the night I get these dreams of those young men following my orders, and some times one has Johnny's face. It doesn't make sense but when do dreams ever make sense? And now look at him. I can't order him better, I have only rudimentary medical skills – enough to patch a man up and send him out to be killed. And both of you are depending on me to get us out of this mess. I hate feeling powerless."

Teresa was startled by such a heartfelt admission from Scott and not a little scared at the way he appeared to be falling apart before her eyes.

"We can manage together Scott, I'm sure of it. Let me – "

Taking the silk from him, she gestured for Scott to lift his brother's head whilst she wound the material around his head, securing it with a knot. They watched together for a half-minute and when no blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, they both sighed.

Scott allowed his brother's head to rest gently back on the pillow. "It's working. Now we have to get him on his feet and out of here."

It seemed to Teresa that he had begun to shake off his earlier maudlin mood in the space of that half-minute. She marvelled at how he could switch roles so easily. Getting to know these two men was a slow but enlightening process.

Teresa looked at Johnny, trying to gauge his condition. How easy would it be to get him out of the cabin and into the buggy? At the moment, he seemed to be offering no resistance, unlike the violence of his earlier movements; he was still now even though he appeared to be awake. She noted how his breathing was noisy once more, that he was sucking in air twice as deeply as he normally did, through an open mouth. Droplets of perspiration were forming once more on the side of his head, close to the hairline and his complexion was sallow beneath the sprinkling of spots.

Scott pushed his arms beneath Johnny's upper body and began to lever him up.

"Pull his legs over the side of the bed, that's it…now you take his other arm and I will try to support most his weight on this side…good girl…got him…ready?"

Teresa nodded and together they lifted a grumbling Johnny to his feet. He was a dead weight in their arms. As they took the first coordinated step toward the open door, their burden cried out unintelligibly and tried to pull his arm away from Teresa. It 's like struggling with a new foal, thought Teresa as Johnny squirmed his way out of her grip to fall against Scott's chest where he dangled, head supported on Scott's shoulder. Scott adjusted his burden by shifting his arms to balance Johnny in front of him. He looked down at the glossy crown of his brother's head and rubbed his chin into it in a gesture of affection. Johnny's reaction took Scott by such surprise he almost let him fall. Instead of relaxing, Johnny brought his head sharply back and opened his eyes wide. As Teresa came closer to offer help, she heard another strange guttural rasp and could only watch dumbfounded as the blue eyes rolled back to reveal only red flecked whites and Johnny collapsed once more against his brother's supportive body. She placed her palm on his forehead, wondering at the number of times she had performed that action in the past day, and felt the heat that radiated. He was still burning up; all their efforts were achieving too little. If he developed pneumonia, would she be to blame? Scott, all business, interrupted her reverie again, by asking her to get more cold water. As she busied herself at the pump, soaking a cloth, she could see how Scott was trying to shift Johnny's weight again, so that he could see his face more clearly. When she returned to place the folded cloth across the fevered brow, she noticed the thing that was holding Scott's attention and her chest tightened in fear. Trickling down Johnny's chin casting a shiny trail like a snail's was a large gobbet of green-tinged blood-dotted spittle.

There was no time for either of them to act on this discovery for a heavy footstep at the door announced the arrival of a very much out of breath and trail-dusty figure. Alerted by the noise, Teresa looked up in time to see Josiah stumble over the threshold to sprawl at her feet where he lay still for a few seconds before finally stirring. He levered his upper body from the dirty floor and stared at her as if to make sure she was Teresa, his friend. Then spitting more dirt from his mouth he wheezed, "They're behind me- quick, shut the door."

Without a thought, Teresa rushed to the door and slammed it shut as Scott awkwardly placed his brother back on the bed.

She paused for a moment her back pressed tightly against the worn wood until Scott, grasping her by the shoulders, pulled her away to make room for the table, which he upended and shoved firmly in place.

Josiah still seated on the floor, knees raised, rubbed his head and sighed. "Weapons, we need guns, pistols, what have you got?" He looked up at Scott in supplication, acknowledging the ex soldier's expertise.

"A couple of pistols is all. A Sharps. Why? Are we going to need them?"

Josiah pushed himself to his feet, and once upright swayed, exhausted. "They want to kill me."

Scott did not look up from checking the ammunition available to them, "You. It's you they want, why should they threaten us? Why do they want you?"

"It's the Harveys, they will be after you as well as me, they know you're on my side."

"Josiah, what makes you-"

Scott's reply was interrupted by a gruff voice from outside, "Send 'im out mister an' ya won't git hurt."

Teresa felt the blood drain from her face, and she sat on the bed beside Johnny to hide the weakness she felt in her legs. She wiped the spittle from his mouth with the end of her skirts and distracted herself in holding his clammy hand and listening to the uneven hitch of his breath.

The sound of sibilant laughter was too loud to ignore. Teresa raised her hand to her nose to wipe away the moisture that had been gathering there, and blinked fiercely to rid the smarting from her eyes. What was it? That smell was familiar, from somewhere. Now she remembered, the fires that Pardee set round the ranch… it was the acrid smell of damp vegetation on fire.

"They're trying to smoke us out!" Scott vocalised her fears, his voice loud and unwavering. His logical mind would be working out a solution. "Is Johnny awake yet?"

"No, he's still burning with fever."

"Try to rouse him. Sounds like they have set fire to wood and put it against the door and windows. All they have to do is wait till we run out for air then they can pick us off one at a time, or force us out."

She could hear Scott's feverish movements as he strode from one part of the shack to another, pausing to attend to some task. She trusted his abilities and resourcefulness; she could rely on him to work out the practicalities of getting out of the shack. For her part, she had to make sure Johnny was fit to be moved, ready for whatever Scott had planned.

To that end, she tapped the younger of the brothers on the cheek and whispered his name. Slowly the long lashes parted in response to reveal the blue eyes she treasured.

"Johnny we have to move, but you have to help us get you out of here. You have to try to get up." Although he didn't answer her, with her support, a dazed Johnny managed to get himself into an upright position on the bed. He rested in a seated position leant against her strong arm as Teresa swung his legs over the edge of the cot. Then Scott was at her side thrusting wet rags into her hand, his voice muffled and only just discernible over the pop and crackle of burning wood.

"We are going to climb out the back window, when we do put the rags over your mouth and nose and Johnny's too. Don't breathe the smoke. We have to be quick; I will cover you both, keep them occupied with a few rounds. You have to make a run for the buckboard if you can, the bush if you can't. You understand Teresa?"

"How will we get him out the window, Scott? I'm not sure he can stand on his own."

"You and Josiah, you have to work together. Keep the rag over your nose and mouth and try not to breath the air without it." Scott stopped to wipe the tears streaming from his stinging eyes with the back of a hand. Teresa noticed how smudged tracks of dirt trailed down his cheeks. No doubt, she looked equally grimy. She watched him turn away to head back to the window where he started to dampen the walls and furniture there with water from the pump.

Now she had Johnny seated on the cot, she motioned for Josiah to help her manoeuvre him into a standing position. Josiah was strangely silent, the energy all gone from him like a hard ridden stallion. He appeared almost listless as he came over to stand beside her.

This uncharacteristic demeanor unnerved her. She licked her lips, her tongue felt like a wool sock in her mouth, and she tried to swallow. All the moisture was being sucked out of her. Pressing the rag to her lower face, she rubbed the other palm against her skirt to clear away the sweat. Funny how inside she felt so dry, yet outside there was moisture enough to cool her itching skin. She steeled her nerves and concentrated hard on blocking out the far from homey smell of wood smoke, the sound of hoarse guffaws from the horrible men outside the shack, in order to be the rock Johnny would need. She knew he needed her strength, her willpower, and her resourcefulness, to get through what remained of the day. This was going to be her chance to prove to them all that she wasn't a girl any longer: that she was a capable and mature woman and up to any task.

It was quite evident to Teresa that Scott was having difficulty breathing through the rag while simultaneously pressing a large cloth over the windowpane at the far side of the shack, near the pump. The cloth served to muffle the sound of breaking glass as Scott fashioned an escape route for them.

The window, positioned as it was in a dark corner, was covered with an overhang of ivy thus obscuring it from the eyes of the Harvey brothers. Whispering to Josiah to help her, she set to rousing the disoriented Johnny in order to wrap a soaked bandanna round his face and get him off the bed and out to freedom. Johnny surprised her with his ability to co-operate, as if he had drawn on some deep inner resources that enabled him to sway to his feet and hold the mask in place over his nose with a mottled hand. Teresa supported his weight on one side and motioned for Josiah to do the same on the other. Her mentor was uncharacteristically compliant.

The short distance across the rough hewn floor to the far window felt like a long uphill struggle. Not for the first time, Teresa wondered how she had got herself into this state of affairs. It was becoming increasingly apparent to her, that since the two brothers arrived at Lancer, her life had changed in unusual, exciting and often dangerous ways. But this time, she was sure that she was the cause of this situation, not Scott or Johnny. Far from being endangered by a figure from Johnny's shadowy past, or an old enemy of Scott's, it was her silliness, and girlish ambition that had brought them to this cabin and this desperate situation. This was truly her fault, and she must make amends for having formed such a disastrous relationship with the foolish Josiah.

They reached the flyspecked window at last, no mean feat when supporting Johnny. Even through the damp mask the smoke still penetrated, tickling the back of her throat and making her eyes water. She rubbed at them with the inside of her wrist.

Joshua still appeared cowed and compliant as he shifted his burden in order to force a larger opening in the window. The sound of shattering glass went unheard under the crackling of tinder and the noise of gunfire. Then Joshua took all of Johnny's weight to allow her to climb through the window first. Johnny roused as Joshua attempted to hoist him through the window and found enough strength to lever himself through and into Teresa's waiting embrace. Urgency and desperation gave him the strength to support his own weight as he slipped through. Their eyes met as they clung to each other in the fog, and she discerned and unspoken gratitude in his shining blue eyes. Don't thank me yet, Johnny, she whispered.

Josiah had started to climb through the window when she realised the sound of gunfire had stopped, and the air was quieter apart from the dying crackle of the smoldering wood. Josiah had paused, head cocked to one side, one leg poking through the window frame, his hands grasping the frame. Then he turned his grimy face inwards as if listening to sounds in the shack. Scott's voice broke the silence, a volley of words too indistinct to make sense from where she stood. Then the world was in motion again as Johnny stumbled against her, taking both of them to the sharp earth. She broke his fall; trapped beneath him she watched his eyes shut slowly. She clasped him close, his grimy flushed face pressed against her breast, unaware of the lack of dignity or even propriety. His heart thudded against her, a little too quickly and his soft breath cooled her cheek with moisture.

Was it all over? Had the Harveys run off? Could they get Johnny back to the ranch where he could be cosseted and cared for by Maria and the doctor? She lay still now, holding on to her burden and listening carefully as the crackling sounds died down to leave a strange calmness. There were voices again, no longer distant but getting louder. Then a thud as Josiah finally jumped out of the shack. He stopped to look down at her, and she tensed, ready to let him relieve her of her burden. He stared at her a second, as if about to speak and then he turned away and sprinted off into the trees. Stunned, she let her head fall back to the dirt, and stared at the dust he left in his wake.

What was all that about? Where was he going? Her musings were interrupted by a release in pressure against her as Johnny slipped away from her grasp. He was awake again and lying on his side now, unsupported, facing her, looking intently into her eyes with a quizzical expression.

"Your friend jus' took off?" His voice was hoarse, the words croaked out with effort, but the concern was evident in his tone. Not mocking at all, like she expected from the cynical and laconic gunfighter.

"Yes. He's gone."

Her heart was thudding again, and in that quiet moment before the world turned again, the emotion she had felt the day before, in the kitchen, returned. A moment in which her gut twisted, her pulse quickened and her throat froze. Could he tell? Did he feel it too?

"Johnny-"

"Shhhh," he replied, a whispered breath of warm air and she felt his callused forefinger on her lips, sealing them.

Then, breaking the spell, a pair of tan calfskin boots came into view.

Teresa recognised the dusty worn boots immediately, but it was Johnny who pulled away the dirty cloth mask covering his mouth and spoke first. Although his breath was ragged, the words were clear enough.

"Hey brother, give me a hand here."

"Stay right where you are, Johnny, till I get a look at you." Then he was crouching down beside them, placing the rifle carefully on the earth, removing a glove and rubbing his hands together.

"The Harveys took off. I think maybe I winged one of them. I guess I scared them more than I expected to. They didn't expect their fire to die down so soon. And looks like Josiah is gone. I'm sorry, Teresa."

She nodded a response, unable to think of a retort. Josiah was in the past now, and she was surprised to find she didn't really care that he was gone. She had a new future to consider. She shuffled backwards away from Johnny as Scott put the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. His smile was reassuring.

"You're not so hot. I think your fever is going. Rash is getting worse, though."

Johnny grimaced, "You got a mirror on you, brother? I want to see just how much like a ladybug I look."

Teresa marveled at his bravery – able to jest when in such obvious pain. She wasn't surprised when Scott admonished, "Save your breath, Johnny, you're going to need all your strength to get to the buckboard. You're too heavy for Teresa and me to carry."

On cue, Johnny bent double as a fit of coughing consumed him again, each breath coming out forced and wheezy. Teresa pushed herself into sitting position and allowed him to lean against her as automatically she massaged circles on his back until his breathing eased. As he rested in the support of her capable arms, she looked down at the place where her hand rested warmly on his left side and moved with each hitching inhalation, she saw that the action of her rubbing had pulled his shirt away to reveal the rash of measles.

She pushed the shirt up Johnny's side to reveal where angry brown-red blotches now covered all parts of his skin right down into his pants.

"The rash is still spreading, look."

Scott came closer and scowling. "You need the doctor, Johnny. Soon as possible. Let's get you home."

Together Teresa and Scott helped Johnny to his feet. He leant between them swaying for a few seconds, then pushed Teresa's hand away. "Let me to do this." His mouth twisted in an effort to get control, and, she suspected, because he was biting hard on the inside of his cheek to divert the pain.

Teresa shook her head in exasperation, and wondered if he would learn the hard way that his body was sicker than he thought. She noticed that Scott still had his arm around Johnny's waist ready to hold him up, should he fall.

She watched anxiously as he summoned that resolution she so admired, that inner fortitude that kept him going when others gave up. He took one step forward, in the direction of the buckboard where the horse waited patiently, then, as anticipated, his legs began to fold and he lost his balance. Teresa could see how much Scott had to control his facial muscles to avoid giving an "I told you so " look as he caught his brother expertly before he did himself too much damage. As the men wove their way carefully to the buckboard, Teresa followed trying to make sense of her feelings. Why had Josiah run? He was certainly a good artist and the stories he had told her had the ring of truth about them. Was she wrong to trust him? Had she really misjudged him? Was she really the naïve idiot her friends accused her of being? Would she ever understand men?

They were soon at the buckboard and with help from both Scott and Teresa, Johnny was finally settled on some burlap in the back, his upper body propped up to ease his breathing.

Scott retrieved his Charlemagne from the hitching rail and secured him to the rear of the buckboard. His bedroll was still tied to the saddle so he undid the latigos and took it to where Johnny lay and tucked it snugly round him to protect his body from jarring. Then he turned his attention to the other horse, running his fingers under the harness to checking for snags, aligning the buckles, testing the lines, whispering words of reassurance to it as it skittered restlessly. Teresa admired the easy way Scott had with any type of horse – a quality that had surprised her when he was new to the ranch. She had never considered easterners to be horse people. Once satisfied that it was in good condition for the journey home, he returned to the shack for the rest of the provisions, leaving Teresa to see to Johnny. She dug out the canteen from under the makeshift bedding and offered it to him, studying for a second his reddened eyes, the silken bandage around his head, the flush left by fever, which, intermingled with the rash, spread down his throat, onto his chest.

He drank greedily, his body starved of fluids through heat and sweat. As he handed the canteen back to her, their fingers met and again she felt it – that lightning jolt. Flushed almost as much as he was, she turned away from him to swallow a big gulp of cool water.

Funny how being in danger made you thirsty.

She could feel he was looking at her, from the way the skin on her neck was prickling. She wished for her bonnet: it had passed midday and the heat was building up again and the shade would have been a relief. It would also serve to shield her face from his scrutiny. What did he want from her? Could he read her mind? She wouldn't underestimate him; he had an uncanny sixth sense. Did he still think she was Dolores? Or even Violet? Playing the part of Dolores had been thrilling until Scott put an end to it. Could she ever be a Dolores? She looked down at her skirts, smudged and torn now; she tried to rearrange the folds so they lay more evenly. It was no use: it was ruined. Her hair was limp and sticky and her face felt dry and dusty. And what of her bag? No doubt it was still in the shack, battered, kicked around and full of soot; damaged beyond repair along with the secrets within. Her precious bag – possibly the cause of all this. Maybe not the measles but everything else that followed. And all because she wanted to do something special for Murdoch. She had little opportunity to be independent out here in this wilderness. Was she becoming more like her mother as she got older? It wasn't the first time she had pondered that possibility. Wasn't it said that the curse of a girl was to grow to look like her mother, be like her mother? Murdoch often praised her for taking after her father in character. Paul O'Brien had been sensible, steadfast, reliable and trustworthy. Such a rock of a foreman, he had been irreplaceable and his death had hit Murdoch as hard as it had hit Teresa. Yet, there were so many times recently that she had wanted to be completely unlike her father. She longed for freedom, for creativity, to express the femininity that she had to keep hidden in this man's world. She wanted to cut loose like her mother had.

Sometimes she just wanted to live her dreams.

Did Johnny guess all that? And if so, would he be the one to set her free? He was cast in the same mold, wasn't he? A free spirit, a loner, a wild horse. Yet, he had stayed at Lancer and had not shown signs of fleeing again since the horse business.

She turned back to Johnny, her thoughts disturbed by a movement next to her. He was trying to shift his body into a more comfortable position, easing the ache in his side. He moaned and complained that it felt like every muscle in his body was burning.

"That's the measles. Keep still, Johnny. We'll be setting off as soon as Scott is back. More water will help."

It was all she had to offer him as respite, yet pitiful as it was, he took the canteen and emptied it quickly. She did not notice she was crying until he reached out a finger and brushed at her cheeks. She bent to his touch and heard him whisper, "Tears for me, chica?" Looking up through matted lashes, she caught a glimpse of some indefinable expression in his eyes. Then he let his hand drop, as a grinning Scott appeared at the side of the buckboard, a gray bundle in his arms.

"Take this," he threw the burden to Teresa and she unfolded the dirty blanket carefully. In the folds nestled her bag; a little worse for wear but serviceable nonetheless.

"We'll soon be home." She felt the buggy shake as Scott levered himself onto the front seat. A soft breath of wind lifted the wavy edges of his hair as he concentrated on taking a sip of water from his canteen. She raised her head to contemplate his slim athletic form as he picked up the smooth leather lines in a gloved hand, and clicked at the horse to move him off. The swaying of the buckboard, the warmth of Johnny pressed quietly against her, and the soporific sound of his breathing as he fell into a deep sleep soothing her, set her thoughts idly spinning off again. Both her "brothers" were pleasant to the eye, blue eyed, strong and dependable. Her friends thought she was the luckiest girl alive to be living with such desirable young men. Were they right? She had laughed the comments off, thinking her friends were mocking her; but had she been blind all the time?

Some time later as the shadows were beginning to lengthen, her thoughts were interrupted as the buckboard rocked with the movement of Scott turning round to speak to her.

"Teresa, you going to tell me what the story is with that bag?"

Teresa smiled enigmatically, clutching the bag tight against her breast. In the distance she could see the sun lighting up the white grandness of her Lancer home. Then she turned her gaze to Johnny and her expression saddened.

"No Scott, what's inside here is my secret."

Yes: her secrets were safe and hidden where they belonged. All of them.