Heath was running. He didn't feel his legs, didn't feel his feet. He didn't feel the exertion. He didn't feel anything but the need to run, the need to hide.
But there was no place to hide.
He stopped his back on a tree, sweating, breathing hard. He heard a rumble and looked up at the dark, clouded sky. The rumble blew up in a deafening thunder and the blinding flash of the lightning wounded his eyes.
The sky cracked open and the rain poured down on his face plastering his hair on his forehead. He closed his eyes and let it flow on him, through him, soaking his ragged clothes, his ragged soul.
With his eyes still closed, he thought about the men he had shot, the men he had killed. He didn't know who they were but knew they were somebody's sons, as he was. He was sorry. He had been sorry too many times during the past months for all the men he had seen fall, on both sides.
He let himself slide toward the ground and sat, his knees up. He dropped his rifle and with a trembling hand he reached inside the pocket of his blue coat and pulled out his mama's picture. He held it in front of his eyes blinking, letting the rain fall down on it, letting his tears fall down as well.
He knew the men in gray would soon arrive. He knew that, among them, many were boys doing what someone told them to do just like him. He had seen his same fear in those eyes, his same hurt.
But they were here for him already. There was no escape, there was no return.
He raised his open hands in surrender. His mama's picture fell down from his fingers twirling like a feather on the muddy ground. A breath of wind blew it away.
Heath's life was blowing away.
The young man was on his knees his hat in his hand. With the other hand he reached out and his fingers traced the name carved on the headstone.
Leah Thomson
Born – 1830
Died – 1872
Nick had never stopped to really think about the actual meaning of praying. Of course he went to church with the rest of the family on Sundays and for other occasions.
He hardly remembered that dreadful day except for what he could recall about his father's funeral, he wasn't really praying. He was mourning, his thoughts were dark and confused.
He had never felt the real need to pray. Until now.
He closed his eyes and thought about what Heath had told him about this woman, the woman his father had fallen for. If there was a Heaven he had no doubt it was there, that she was. She had been a lovely, devoted mother to Heath and an honest woman who had made just one mistake, and for that one mistake he was grateful.
It wasn't easy, not for him, to express in words what he wanted to say. He knew in his heart, but to say it was another story. Not that he wasn't a talkative man, on the contrary, but he seldom talked about his feelings.
Eventually, some words formed in his mind and he spoke them in barely a whisper. "Hello, Miss Leah. My name is Nick, Nick Barkley. I came here looking for your son, Heath". Nick paused. "I came looking for your son, my brother Heath", he corrected.
"All I want to do is to bring him home where he belongs". Nick paused again, trying to find the right words to say what he had in mind, and in his heart. "Life hasn't been fair to him, I know that. God only knows how much he's been hurt. But we didn't know, Miss Leah, didn't know about him. He thinks of himself as a burden for us but he's wrong, dead wrong. He's a wish granted. Mother… My mother says he's a gift to us from our father and yourself. He's part of us, we love him and we need him just as much as he needs us".
Nick smiled sadly. "Your son is a fine man and I'm proud to call him brother. Now, Miss Leah, I could really use a little help from there up above, if you can intercede for me". Nick kept silent for a further couple of minutes, trying to keep back the tears that were burning in the back of his eyes, the tears his own words were threatening to bring to the surface.
Once he was sure enough he could talk again, Nick nodded. "Miss Leah, you have my word I will do everything I can to never let anybody hurt him again ".
Nick put his hat back on his head. While standing back up on his feet, he heard the sound of a slow, derisive clapping coming from behind quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked back, very close.
Nick froze, as something hard pressed against his back.
"Very touching", a mocking voice said. That was a voice Nick knew all too well. "Now don't waste my time and move, Barkley, if you don't want my bullet to open the third eye on the back of your head", the voice said. He didn't need to turn to know who was there.
"Barrett, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Well, Boss, if you care to know, I followed your precious so-called brother all the way from Stockton, but he disappeared, he just vanished into thin air. Now, if you plan to live through the next minute unbuckle your gun belt, drop it and raise your hands over your head."
Nick did as instructed. "What do you want from him… from us?", Nick said in his best intimidating voice, but with poor results this time.
"Oh, I think you know that. My first attempt failed, but I'm a man of faith".
Nick's rage was easily ignited, as always. Like a high tide it raised inside him and washed away any other feeling. "I'm warning you, Barrett, you just signed your own death warrant", Nick growled beneath clenched teeth.
Barrett laughed coarsely, then hit Nick on the back of his head with the butt of his gun. Nick fell on his side, groaning and curling up. "How does this feel, SIR? Now stand up and move!"
Nick managed to stand. Barrett shoved him. They arrived at a wooden cabin surrounded by a little garden.
Inside the cabin, he saw an old black woman lying down on the floor, unmoving. "What have you done, Barrett?" Nick asked, as he quickly crouched by the woman, putting his fingertips on her throat in search of a pulse.
Barret kicked him viciously in the flank and Nick fell beside the woman. He had felt a weak beat: the woman was still alive. He assumed the woman had to be Hannah, Heath's mother's friend. Nick closed his eyes in pain, feeling helpless. "I told you Barrett, I'll kill you", Nick was able to say with the little strength he had left.
"Now don't fret Barkley, and make yourself comfortable. We just have to wait. I'm sure the bastard will come back soon enough, then we'll have some fun". He sat on a chair, his gun aiming at them.
Too often Nick had been accused of acting before thinking. As Heath had once told him, sometimes he got mad and did things he was later sorry for. This time he needed to think and plan. The last thing he needed was to be injured, or worse.
He took a look around. This was his brother's childhood house. It was small and with little furniture, but many little details made it somehow homey; embroidered curtains, a vase with fresh flowers, a rocking chair in front of the fireplace, a little bookshelf full of books. It warmed his heart to see a framed picture of a very beautiful woman holding a blond little child with a lopsided smile in her arms. They might have been poor, but the little house instilled a feeling of warmth and memories of happy moments. It was tangible.
Despite the circumstances, Nick smiled.