Disclaimer: Some of the characters are mine but the most important ones are not. I make no money from this writing.

The crutch slowed Frank considerably, which was probably just as well. By the time he reached Smithers' office, his angry thoughts had distilled into one word.

"Trust," he said. Leaning on the door jamb and looking Smithers in the eye. "Gave you a good measure of trust yesterday. Don't seem like I gave it to the right person."

"Good morning, Mr.Hopkins," Smithers said, seemingly not put out at all by Frank's greeting. "I see you've read my little article."

"I did. Feel like I was lucky to get here without being patted on the back and told the only good Indian is a dead one." Frank pulled up a chair to Smithers' big desk and sat down carefully.

"Said I'd put a slant on the story, Hopkins. Took the lead from the show you did. Thought you'd appreciate the promotion." Smithers leaned back, smiling slightly as if he'd bested Frank and there was no more to be said on the matter.

Frank sighed. He could see how Smithers might think that of him but he was wrong, dead wrong.

"You see the show, then?" Frank asked, laying the crutch down on the floor then leaning back, to look as relaxed as he could.

"Yes, Frank, I saw it. Fine show, fine show. Would've reviewed it too, if that tornado hadn't ripped things apart."

"You see me in the show?" Frank asked casually, though the way Smithers was using his given name got under his skin.

"On that pretty horse? What's it called? Something Mexican, I believe?"

"Hidalgo. That's his name. Now, when you saw Hidalgo and me, were we fighting at Wounded Knee?"

Smithers' answer came back too quickly, as if he'd been rehearsing them. "No. I don't believe I did, Frank. But I don't see what difference it makes. It was a good piece of journalism and I am pretty sure Johnson will be down from the state capital to pick up on it."

"You think so?" Frank asked. "You think I'm that important?"

Smithers shifted in his seat and reached for a copy of the paper. He looked at the article as if considering Frank's point.

"Yes. I think you're that newsworthy. But only as the hero of our little town's disaster."

"Hero? You want me to be a hero to help you escape this one-horse town, is that it?"

"No, no, not at all," Smithers said hastily. "You want a cup of coffee, Frank?"

"I don't believe I will. I think I'll be getting along now." Frank reached for his crutch.

He'd had a small space of relief with the Way family, a little time to breathe. Maybe if he just drifted slowly on to the next town he'd be left alone.

"Frank. Mr. Hopkins." Something in Smithers' tone made Frank look at him once more. "I wish you'd stay a while. That's a good family you're with. They could do with your help."

And I could do with theirs, Frank thought.

"If anyone at state level picks up the story, they won't be here for a day or two. Maybe you could stay that long, give them some sort of story?"

Frank narrowed his eyes and looked at the reporter more closely. Had anger clouded his judgement of the man? He usually trusted his instincts but maybe, with everything that had happened, he just hadn't been looking at the man right.

"You mean, maybe I could spin a couple of stories for him?"

"Yes. Something like that. Wouldn't have to be about Wounded Knee. You did save a man's life. Even if it was by accident."

Frank tried to make up his mind but he felt far from any sort of certainty about anything. Still, a couple of days. He could really do with a couple of days, if only the townsfolk could be persuaded not to see him as the hero of the hour.

"I could circulate a rumour for you," Smithers offered. "It'd be in my interest to keep you here. Perhaps your leg is worse than we thought?"

It was enough of an excuse. He didn't want to leave, and maybe it was the belief that he would have to that had made him angry in the first place. That and the fact that Smithers had chosen that one so-called battle. If it had been Little Bighorn, now.

"I believe you're right, Mr.Smithers. I believe my leg is paining me more than I thought. Perhaps I ought to go back to the stable in a buggy. Don't seem hardly possible I could walk."

Once the decision was made, there was some entertainment to be had out of the proceedings, with curious people looking and pointing as he, sweating and groaning just enough to be convincing, was taken back to the stables.

Jake greeted him when he was driven to the door.

"Mr.Hopkins? You all right?" he said, giving a horse over to his brother to manage.

There were people beginning to gather, so Smithers helped Frank indoors, with Jake following close on their heels. Frank sat at the kitchen table, giving Mr.Way a nod in greeting.

"Thank you kindly, Mr.Smithers," he said, drawing up a chair for his leg. "I'll be speaking to you again in a couple of days?"

"You will, Mr.Hopkins."

"Frank."

"Frank. Yes. I'll go spread the word. I don't guarantee I can keep away the ladies, though. A wounded soldier always draws the feminine heart, you know."

"I reckon I could eat some pie. What about you, Jake?"

Jake seemed puzzled for a moment, then looked to his father for guidance.

Mr.Way observed Frank closely for a moment then laughed aloud. "Townsfolk got you running scared, have they, Frank? You reckon on holing up here for a while?"

"That's about the size of it. Though if some ladies come calling, perhaps I might be roused from my bed to see if I can't have some polite conversation." Frank grinned. It had been too long since he spent time exercising his sense of humour, and a little joshing with the boys was exactly what he needed.

"Well, the Misses Peabody will be baking a peach pie within the hour, you can bet on that. And Grandma Petersen – but her apple pie is second to none in the state, and she talks sense, too. An hour in her company's worth a week in most other people's. But don't cross Mrs.Agnew. She's a bitter tongue in her head. She'll know all about you already."

"Hold on, hold on! If all these ladies come callin' I won't have time to help Jake with the stock, now will I? I am countin' on you to keep this flood in check."

"I'll do my best," Smithers said, smiling broadly and leaving the room. Frank watched him through the window. He went to the three or four people who gathered there and was soon busily engaged in giving them the benefit of his knowledge.

Mr.Way was still laughing quietly as he went to get some coffee. "You want some, Frank?" he asked, holding up the pot. "Fresh made."

"Sure," Frank said. He was comfortable, well fed and half-way happy, and it was more than he had a right to be, after all that time with the bottle and bad humour. In his head, the small voice which had nagged and nagged that he didn't deserve any sort of life after – after what had happened to her, faded into the background for the first time. Like dulled toothache, it didn't let him be but it was manageable from his own resources.

He sat in the kitchen door and watched Jake and Jimmy manage the horses for most of the morning, while Mr.Way went on with his work in the forge. He shouted a few instructions out but was disinclined to move, knowing his leg would heal the faster for the rest. But he had a couple of days in hand before he needed attend to Smithers again and he sat in part sunlight thinking of nothing in particular.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew who it was. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but he accepted some things as natural that rationalists would have explained away. She was there. In his head, he heard her say, "I'm happy, Frank. You're going to be all right."

Such mundane words. Nothing about where she was, or that they'd meet again, or love, or any such. Just those words. That's how he knew it was her.

She was gone a moment later but he was filled with joy and wonder, not with longing for her. The little voice had been snuffed out. The tears ran down his cheeks but he was not weeping from loss but from release. He did nothing to stop them but let them run, his breath catching but nothing else giving his emotion away. The boys were too far away to see him so he allowed himself the simple relief of his emotions.

His blurred vision masked the quiet approach of an old woman.

"Mr.Hopkins?" she said, and when he blinked and then rubbed his eyes, he saw a neat, smiling woman, probably in her seventies. She had a stick in one hand and a basket in the other. She couldn't have missed his tears but she said nothing about it.

"Yes, Ma'am. Here, let me help you with that."

"It's quite all right. Let me come into the kitchen. It's midday. I brought you some pie. You're too thin, Mr.Hopkins, too thin for a healthy man."

"Mrs.Petersen?" It had to be her, he reasoned, reaching for his crutch.

"That's me, son. No, you stay there. You need your rest." There was some movement behind him then a plate with a large piece of pie on it was handed to him. A chair scraped across the kitchen floor then she sat next to him, her own piece of pie held in her hand.

"If I don't eat this now, the blacksmith won't leave me a piece and if I say so myself, this is awful good pie."

Frank took a bite. It was fragrant, full of the taste of fresh butter, of just enough sugar to bring out the taste of the apple. It melted in his mouth, lingered, and was gone.

"This is the best pie I have ever tasted, ma'am."

"Why, thank you kindly, Mr.Hopkins. We'll have you back on your feet in no time flat. Now, you want to tell an old lady what's brought you to this state of health?" She smiled and took a bite of the pie. "Just warm enough," she said. "Just the right amount of sugar. I thought perhaps I hadn't put enough but it'll do."

Frank wanted to talk about the state of his health very much, suddenly, in the way that one does with a stranger who will listen. So he sketched in what he could bear to say, though he still couldn't bring himself to say Lilian's name. He was on easier ground telling her about the house collapse and the splinter in his leg but he had a feeling the old woman had guessed a good deal more.

"You must let me give you some of my salve. It's a sovereign cure and it'll keep infection away from the cut. And I have some tonic. You lost a lot of blood, I heard."

"I don't know," Frank said honestly. "I don't think I was really there when it all happened. I don't think I've been around much recently, if you take my meaning." Another bite. Another small piece of heaven.

"I do. Well, this world wants you here in it, Mr.Hopkins, and we will do our best to make sure you stay awhile. You ever need someone to talk to, fill in a few of those holes in that story of yours, you give me a holler. Ain't much in this life I haven't seen or heard about, one way or another. Now, I am going to feed that eldest Way boy. He needs my help too, I reckon."

With that, the old woman stood and returned to the kitchen table. She cut another slice of the pie and Frank for a moment had hoped it was for him but she poured some buttermilk into a glass and walked down the steps and across to where Jake was standing. Frank watched as the young man was directed to wash his hands and then sit down to eat, while Jimmy was sent back to the house.

She hadn't given him any sympathy. She had just listened and prompted from time to time. But just she sheer act of telling someone something of what had happened had eased his heart more than he could ever have thought. Here was the start he needed to make. He would get better, as much as he could in the short time that he had, and he would repay the old woman's kindness somehow. He would repay the kindness of all the people around him. Somehow.