"Lucas. Lucas. Son. Wake up. You're having a bad dream. Lucas?"

A panting Lucas opened his eyes, no longer a little boy running through a thunderstorm near an alley off Iberville Street in New Orleans but laying on the couch in his own home, being looked over by his father. He'd vacated his bedroom to make room for his parents and had even transferred many of his suits to their hotel suite at the Queen of Hearts. Given that fact, it took a moment for him to get acclimated to his surroundings.

"Son? Are you okay? You were breathing so heavily," Martin said, one hand on his son's shoulder.

Lucas sat up on his elbows and looked around the room, wondering what time it was, wondering how long he'd been asleep, wondering about the sounds and smells coming from his kitchen.

"I…I'm fine," he said, sitting up, though his heart still raced. "Just…just a dream."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Martin asked.

Lucas shook his head no. He didn't want to talk, at least not to his father. The therapist and Joseph were enough for now. Eventually, he'd speak with Elizabeth.

He looked toward the kitchen. "What's going on in there?" he asked. "Something smells burnt."

Martin twisted his mouth to the side and then whispered. "Your mother is cooking."

Lucas's mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened with surprise. "Mother? Cooking? As in…. food?"

Martin chuckled, then patted him on the shoulder. "Yes. She believes it's the motherly thing to do."

"Oh! Oh…. fiddlesticks!" they heard from the kitchen. "You weren't supposed to do that! Oh, oh well."

Lucas looked toward his father, apprehension in his eyes. "Does she even know how….to cook?"

Martin stood up and stretched his back. "She cooked for a little while when we first got married," he said as Lucas swung his legs over onto the floor. Martin then looked back at his son with a chuckle. "It helped our marriage when she stopped. Hurry on and get cleaned up for breakfast. Ready yourself for a culinary adventure like you've never quite experienced."

"Ready myself?" Lucas thought. How does one ready one's self for their last meal?

Lucas walked into the kitchen to find his father already seated at the head of the table. This spot was where Lucas normally sat, but he didn't mind since his father was a guest. What was a problem was what was missing from the table.

"Um…. where's my clock?"

Martin looked down toward the table and took a sip of his drink as Helen answered.

"It's in your bedroom in the corner on the floor," she said, bringing him a cup of tea.

Lucas tilted his head. "On the floor?"

"Yes. We can't all eat here with that contraption on the table, so I moved it. It was very heavy, and I almost dropped it. The door flew open, and I'm afraid some of the silver balls that were inside spilled out onto the floor. I figured we could look for them later. Right now, you need to eat!"

Lucas sat down at the table, looking at the spot where his prized 19th century 'Ferris Wheel' table clock- the one that it took him three weeks to get perfectly balanced so that it would tell the proper time, the one he had ordered specifically weighted ball bearings for it to operate, the one that with the slightest jiggling could be rendered non-operational – had sat, and he bit the inside of his mouth. Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he looked at his father, who looked at him with great concern.

"It's fine," Lucas said softly, with a smile. Reaching for the tea, he jerked when it burnt his mouth. Hot liquid sloshed atop his fingers and into his lap. He winced in pain, causing more tea to spill before he finally set it down.

"Oh, dear!" his father exclaimed, jumping up from the chair and grabbing a dishtowel to help clean Lucas up. "Are you injured badly?" he asked, daubing his pant leg and then his hand.

"Um…."

"Helen, bring the poor boy some butter. He's burned himself."

"Oh, my…."

"What are you…."

"It's alright, son; we'll get you taken care of."

Helen rushed to Lucas's refrigerator to look for butter.

"Um…. Mother…. Father….It's really not necess-"

"Oh, dear. I believe I used the rest of it frying the oatmeal."

Lucas squinted his eyes. Fried Oatmeal?

His father stood. "Should I go get some from the mercantile?"

"No, Father. It's fine."

Helen turned to Lucas. "Let me see your hand," she said. "It is a bit red. Some cold water, perhaps?"

"No. It's fine, Mother."

"Or maybe Dr. Carter should look at it."

"NO!" Lucas said, a little louder than he'd intended, but it got both of their attention. He lowered his voice. "I don't need to go to the Infirmary, and I don't need butter for my fingers. It's just a slight scald. Feels better already," he lied. "Please, Father, sit back down."

Martin turned around and sat back at the table, placing his hands on a folded newspaper he'd just started to read when Lucas appeared in the kitchen. The family was silent for over a minute.

"So," Martin said with a slight smile. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Talk?" Lucas asked just as Helen carried over a plate filled with "fried "oatmeal (which looked just as unappetizing as he had expected), burned bacon, scrambled eggs, and a piece of slightly charred toast with a slathering of Elizabeth's strawberry jam. He looked at the dish and then at his mother.

"I apologize that some of it is a little overdone, but I blame it on the pan," she said, taking a seat.

"The pan?"

"Yes. Your frying pan," she replied. "It was so black, and I could tell it hadn't been washed – how you could eat out of such a thing – but don't worry, I used one of those Brillo pads under the sink and some soapy water and cleaned it up for you."

Lucas blinked. "You cleaned my pan?"

"Yes, I did," she replied. "Don't look at me like you're so shocked. I have been known to rinse out my own dishes before. The servants can't do everything!"

Lucas nodded. They'd been staying with him for less than 12 hours, and already she'd damaged his clock and 'cleaned' his seasoned cast iron skillet. He looked at his plate. Maybe eating this poison wasn't such a bad proposition after all.

Bill Avery walked up to the Mountie Office door, intending to enter but stopped when he heard a banging sound from the side of the building. He moved toward the sound with curiosity. When he turned the corner, he folded his arms in front of him.

"Chopping wood?" Bill asked.

Nathan Grant picked up another log and set it on the stump. His undershirt looked damp, and perspiration was glistening on his face. "Yeah," he said, smacking the log with an ax.

"Why?" Bill asked.

"We're out," Nathan answered, grabbing another log.

"It's warm outside."

"It's still cold at night," Nathan replied.

"At the jail? You don't stay here at night," Bill replied.

"I might, sometime," Nathan said, picking up another and laying it on the stump. The mighty ax came down, splitting the log.

Bill shook his head. "Who is she?"

"What?"

"What woman has got you so hot and bothered that you're chopping wood in the springtime just as temperatures are rising?"

"Can't a guy just like to chop wood?" Grant asked.

"I suppose," Bill conceded. "It's just the last time I came out here, and you were chopping wood…."

"I know, I know," Nathan said, laying down the axe and walking toward Avery. "But that situation was a lot different." He stopped when he reached the edge of the street and looked down toward the Queen of Hearts, where Dr. Bennett led a laughing Faith into the building. He took a deep breath and then exhaled.

Bill looked at Nathan and then toward the saloon. "You know, if you're interested, you should just tell her. Don't wait. Women like it when men are clear about their intentions."

Grant turned his head, looking straight ahead. "Yeah, well, sometimes both sides need to be clearer. Want some coffee?"

"Sure," Avery replied. "There are some things I wanted to talk to you about anyway, about Lucas's case."

Seconds later, they entered Nathan's office. "Whatcha got?" the Mountie asked. He sat at his desk after pouring himself and Bill some coffee, handing Avery, his cup as the judge also sat down.

"This business with Bouchard, it's been weighing on me. Such a terrible story."

Nathan nodded. "Yeah. Me too. Who knew he had something like this in his childhood? No wonder he never talks about his past – this secrecy has been drilled into him since he was a boy. It's tragic."

"It is. And there's been no closure for the family. Not even a body," Bill responded.

Nathan shook his head. "You seem to have something on your mind."

"I do," Bill replied. "When we lost our Martin, Nora and I didn't get to grieve properly, but at least we had closure. The Bouchards have never been afforded that dignity."

"What are you thinking? How can we bring closure for them after almost thirty years?"

"I was thinking we could get more of the story," Bill said. "The horse that this Drake rode in on, he was very old."

"I noticed that," Nathan said.

"And out of shape," Bill continued. "Looks like the kind of horse that should be put out to pasture since his riding days are over."

Nathan considered what Bill was getting at. "You're thinking that Drake's horse couldn't have traveled very far, and therefore he was holed up someplace locally."

"Exactly," Bill replied. "No further than twenty miles, I'd say. Look, it's a long shot, but perhaps he wasn't traveling alone."

Nathan nodded. "And you're hoping whoever he might have been traveling with may have some information on what happened with Jenny."

"As I said, a long shot. If it's too gruesome, we'll keep it to ourselves. But maybe there's a grave - something they can take with them to bring comfort or closure."

"Sounds like a needle in a haystack," Nathan said.

"It might be, but we'll never know unless we look."

Florence reached to the back of the shelf to retrieve a can of beans that had fallen on its side, then stood when she heard the bell ring on the Mercantile's door. Her smile faded slightly when she saw it was Elizabeth.

"Hello, Florence."

"Um…hello, Elizabeth." an uneasy Florence said. "How are you doing?"

"Well, thank you," Elizabeth replied. "I was just about to bake some chocolate chip cookies because Lucas likes them and…."

Florence looked to her left and right, then drew closer to Elizabeth. "How are you doing….really?"

"Really? I am fine." The question sounded oddly ambiguous.

"It's alright, Elizabeth. I'm here for you." The pat on her shoulder carried an air of superiority.

"Here for me? I appreciate the sentiment, Florence, but I must admit, I am a little confused."

Drawing Elizabeth further into a corner, Florence spoke again. "You don't have to be strong in front of me. If you want to call off the wedding, no one in town will blame you after what Lucas did. I was talking with Mrs. Shank..."

"Call off the... no one would blame... Mrs. Shank? Florence, what have you done?"

"Done? Nothing really, but Mrs. Shank and Mrs. Conner both agree with me that you shouldn't marry into that crazy family. And Molly and I..."

"Mrs. Shank? Mrs. Conner? Molly? How many people have you called?" Elizabeth said, seemingly towering over Florence, whose face was flushed.

"What are you suggesting?"

"How many others have heard you use that slanderous accusation that my Lucas is crazy?!"

"It's not slander if it's true," Florence said as Minnie walked into the store, accessing the situation and hurrying over.

"Come with me, Elizabeth. Let's talk outside."

Elizabeth glared at Florence through flattened eyes, and Florence threw her chin up in the air as Minnie led the schoolteacher toward the exit. Once the fresh air hit her in the face, the emotion of it all began to hit home, and Elizabeth began to cry.

They walked over to Abigail's to get some tea, Elizabeth still crying when they entered.

"Now, I didn't hear what was said, but I have a pretty good imagination." Minnie's voice was calming.

Elizabeth looked up. "She is telling people that Lucas is crazy."

Minnie pulled up a chair next to her and put her arm around her, handing her a handkerchief.

"That woman speaks before she thinks," Minnie said. "But she is only afraid."

"Of Lucas?" Elizabeth asked. "Lucas is not a violent man!"

"Of course not," Minnie responded. "And that's not what I'm speaking of. People fear what they do not know, and unfortunately, even with temporary situations such as what Lucas experienced, there can be a stigma that a person faces that has a long-lasting impact."

"What can we do to stop it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Education, patience, standing together. Joseph and I had already spoken to Florence once when she met us on the street and started asking if I was afraid to be alone with Lucas," Minnie said. "I said, of course, I wasn't. But apparently, that wasn't enough. Joseph plans on addressing it tomorrow."

"Oh, Minnie, no! Lucas will be so embarrassed!" Elizabeth said.

"Don't worry, Miss Elizabeth," Minnie replied. "My husband has learned the secret of being both direct and discreet. He also understands well the pain that prejudice can cause. He will be unmistakable and yet subtle; just wait."

"Just what I hoped to see," Nathan said, walking toward Bill from inside the stables where Solomon Drake's horse had been taken after Solomon's death.

"What is it?" Bill asked.

"Come here." Nathan and Bill walked back toward Drake's horse, but Grant stopped just outside the stall, raising the horse's saddle from where it hung against the wall. "That right there."

"Manufacturer's Mark?" Bill asked.

"Yes. This saddle was made by Jake McGraw out at Baker Springs."

Bill grinned. "Seems like he might be a good person to talk to if we want to find out where this Drake was living and if he was living alone."

"It's not that far away. I could travel up there and talk to him on Monday. See what he knows."

"That sounds good," Bill replied. "Hopefully, I'll hear from my friend in New Orleans by then. He was busy when I called but said he'd be back in the office early next week and could help me."

"Oh good, you're awake," Helen's voice said from out in the hall.

Lucas sat up on the couch and looked toward the door where his mother was standing.

"Did you need something?" he asked, weary from a day of being smothered by his worried parents – parents he'd determined to be patient with as he believed they had the best intentions. And he thought he was doing well until that moment.

Helen shook her head. "No, dear. I'm here to care for you. I've drawn you a nice warm bath so you can get cleaned up before you go to bed."

"Mother, I prefer to take my bath in the morning."

"But you didn't take one this morning, dear, so you're overdue."

"I believe it can wait," Lucas replied.

"Nonsense," Helen replied. "The water is already drawn. You don't want to waste it. And, when you get out, I thought I might make you some warm milk and then read to you."

"Read to me?" he asked. "Mother, I'm no longer a child."

Helen stiffened. "I know. I was only trying to be nice."

"I don't want you to try to be nice. I just want you to be my mother."

"I beg your pardon?"

Lucas closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

"Lucas, I don't know what you want. One moment I'm hearing from the therapist that you feel like I'm cold and distant, but when I try to be warm, you aren't happy with that either. What do you want me to do?"

"What's going on in here?" Martin said, entering the room before Lucas could answer.

"Your son thinks I'm mean!"

Lucas stood up. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to! Your demeanor cuts me like a knife…."

"Now, Helen…." Martin said, turning toward his wife as Lucas walked straight passed them and reached for his robe.

"Where are you going?" Martin asked.

"She's drawn me a bath," he replied. "Maybe I'll drown myself in it."

"Lucas!" Helen said.

"I was joking," Lucas replied from the hallway. He stopped at the bathroom door and laughed. "But of course."

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Helen asked.

Lucas shook his head, then draped the robe over his shoulder. He turned and walked into his bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked his son as Lucas reached for a suitcase.

"I can't do this," he replied.

"Lucas, Dr. Bennett…"

"…will just have to understand," Lucas said, haphazardly throwing some clothing into the case before securing it and walking toward the door.

"Lucas!" Helen said. "You can't leave,"

Lucas leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Mother, I love you. I am not angry. I appreciate your efforts, but this is not going to work. We can't turn back time thirty years and have a different life. I am no longer five; I'm thirty-five. We can only start from where we are now, and I hope we can turn things around to where they're better for both of us.

Father, thank you for caring, but it's better if you and Mother return to the hotel."

Martin tried to stand in his way. "We can't allow you to go. The doctor says you shouldn't be alone."

Lucas gently moved him out of the way and then grabbed his keys. "There is no allowing about it. I'm going. And I won't be alone. I'll be safe and will see you tomorrow. Please don't worry."

"But…." Helen said.

"In therapy tomorrow, Mother," Lucas replied. "We'll talk then."

Nathan hung up the telephone, picking up his daughter Allie's photograph and smiling over how grown up she sounded in the conversation they'd just had. It seemed like only yesterday that he'd taken her in after his sister had died, and she was left with no one to care for her. No wonder she and Bouchard got along so well. He understood much of what she felt.

He went to turn off the light in preparation for bed but stopped when a knock came on the door. He looked at the clock and went to see who it was.

"Lucas!" Grant said upon opening his door.

"I can't stay with my parents," Lucas said, pushing his way past Nathan into the house.

"Huh? What?"

Lucas set his suitcase down on the couch.

"I know Allie is out of town, and I can sleep on your couch. Anything is better than where I live."

"I don't understand."

"She made me a bubble bath, Nathan! A bubble bath! And out of my shampoo! I recognized the scent. Do you know how expensive that shampoo is? And she used it to make a bubble bath!"

"Who? Your mother?"

"No, the tooth fairy. They've been treating me like I'm a child from the moment they moved in. She made breakfast for us if you could call it that. My stomach still hurts from her 'fried' oatmeal."

"Who fries oatmeal?"

"Helen Bouchard. Then, when she decided to make dinner, she incinerated a perfectly good steak and cut its cremated remains up into bite-size pieces for me to eat. I never knew one could do that to a piece of meat, but I ate it. Every bite. I tried. I really did because I knew that their hearts meant well, but I just can't."

"The doctor says he doesn't want you alone."

"I won't be. I'm moving in here."

Nathan chuckled. "Yeah…hah. That's good…

Wait. You're serious." His expression fell at the realization.

Lucas opened the suitcase and pulled out his pajamas and a small vanity bag. "You are the one who forbade me to stay at Elizabeth's, so you are the one who gets stuck with me. Sorry about your misfortune."

"Lucas!"

"Your bathroom is upstairs and to the left?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"It's the opposite of Elizabeth's," he said, disappearing up the stairs. "All of these units are laid out the same. Thank heaven there's indoor plumbing."

As Nathan wondered what had just happened, he heard the faucet turn on, then the sound of Lucas brushing his teeth. Bouchard was serious. He was moving in. Could he and Lucas actually live together?

Nathan considered Lucas's predicament and how he had interjected himself into the situation. Lucas was right. He had pressured Bouchard and his fiancée to stay apart during his recovery – but of course, that was for the sake of public decency and morals. But did he really want him to live here?

"Excuse me, would you happen to have a glass?" Lucas said from the top of the stairs.

Nathan nodded and walked to his kitchen. It wouldn't be so bad. It would only be for a few days.

Lucas met him midway, taking the glass from his hands.

"Thank you," he said before heading back upstairs.

Grant hadn't lived with other men since he was in training camp, and there were quite a few characters at the base. This was just Lucas. How hard could it be?

He heard gargling coming from upstairs, followed by swishing water, then gargling again.

At least he's clean. Nathan thought. It could be worse.

Finally, after about ten minutes, the light switch flipped off, and Bouchard returned downstairs smelling of Listerine and dressed for bed. Lucas looked at the couch, which was now covered with a blanket and supplied with a pillow, which was kind. However, it was the same size as Elizabeth's. Great. Lucas thought. He suddenly wished they had a chiropractor in town. But beggars couldn't be choosers, so he'd make do.

"Again, I appreciate your allowing me to foist myself upon you," he said. "I'll try not to be a bother."

"It's no trouble Lucas," Nathan replied. "Do you need anything else? Another blanket?"

"No thanks, my friend," Lucas said, laying on the couch and adjusting the pillow.

"Well, get some good sleep," Grant said, turning toward the stairs.

"You do the same," Bouchard replied.

Nathan was halfway up the staircase when he turned and saw Lucas's very long limbs poking out from the top and far end of the couch. There was no way that was comfortable.

"Hey Lucas?" he said.

"Yes?" Bouchard said, raising his head and immediately flinching due to a pain in his neck.

"Since Allie's not here, would you, uh….would you want to use her room?"

Lucas considered the offer, relieved that it was made but wanting to not appear too eager since Nathan was being a gracious host. "I don't wish to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing. Just make sure it's left the way you found it. Wouldn't want her thinking that people have been rifling through her stuff."

"I have no desire to rifle through a teenage girl's stuff. But thank you. I accept," he said, standing up from the couch and heading toward the stairs. As he passed an end table, he couldn't help but notice the name of Solomon Drake written on a scrap of paper along with Jake McGraw and Baker Springs. He stopped. "What's this?"

Nathan looked down at the table. "Oh, um…. Just some notes on the investigation."

"Is it not closed?"

Grant nodded. "It is for you. We still have to write our report. We like to be thorough."

"I see," Lucas responded. "Who's McGraw?"

"Saddle Maker at Baker Springs. Made Drake's Saddle."

"So, you think Drake lived locally?" Lucas asked.

"Yes."

"I wonder if he lived alone?" Lucas said,

Nathan shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."

Lucas began following him up the stairs. "I wonder if there might be someone who would have known him in New Orleans? Perhaps there were other murders there that could be solved."

"After thirty years, I doubt it," Nathan said as they reached the top landing. "I guess you're going to church in the morning?"

"Yes," Lucas said. "I'm supposed to be at Elizabeth's rowhouse by nine."

"Sounds good," Nathan replied. "Goodnight, Lucas."

"Goodnight, Nathan," Lucas responded as he entered Allie's room.

Lucas laid his head on the pillow and found himself again transported to the valley of remembrance.

XXXXX

"Lucas here is one dollar. Hold onto it. With it, you must pay for both your and your sister's lunch. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes, Mother," Lucas said, trying to hide his irritation since he faced similar questions every morning and had since taking on the responsibility of carrying 'the treasury' upon entering second grade. He was seven now, practically grown.

"Jenny, did you remember the note I wrote for Headmaster Grey?"

"Yes, mother. I placed it in my Reader."

"Don't forget to deliver it. I know you can be forgetful."

"I won't, Mother," Jenny replied.

"Very well, then give your mother a kiss and be off, the both of you."

Lucas and Jenny kissed their mother on the cheek, and Helen smiled - something neither child had seen nearly enough. They turned to go, but they stopped when she called out to them. Turning toward her, they noted tears in her eyes.

Lucas furrowed his brow. "Is something wrong, Mother?"

Helen shook her head. "I just wanted to see you again. Please take care of your sister and be safe. It's a wicked world out there. If anything were to happen to Jenny or you…."

"I'll keep her safe," Lucas said.

XXXXX

Immediately, Bouchard woke up. His heart was filled with such sorrow as the burden of his failed mission encroached upon his mind again, as it had so many times throughout the years. He pondered the dream for a moment, curious as to the additional detail of his mother stopping them before they left that morning. Had she had a premonition? He closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

He hadn't been asleep long when he was there again….running the streets of New Orleans, lightning and thunder all about him, hearing Jenny call his name.

XXXXX

A flash of lightning followed by an immediate peel of thunder made him jump, causing his heart to start pounding.

"Jenny?"

"Lucas!"

He turned down the street where he'd seen her run and stopped at an alleyway, just in time to see that scar-faced fiend robbing his life of his sister. Once again, he saw her tears. Once again, he saw his younger self trying to reach her. In the dream, as he was running, he was suddenly not closing the distance. In one moment, it was like he was on a conveyor belt; the next, sinking in quicksand.

"Hold on, Jenny, don't give up! I'll save you!"

"Lucas!"

"Hurry it up, Hank! He's only going to be at the River until three. Gotta hurry if we want to get paid."

His sister disappeared into the darkness, and Lucas screamed, then jolted up in bed.

XXXXX

Nathan burst into the room, having heard Lucas yell from his bedroom, but stopped when he saw Bouchard was awake.

"You okay in here?" Nathan asked.

Lucas was quiet for several moments as he tried to remember more. Finally, he turned to Nathan with searching eyes.

"His name was Hank."

"Who?" Grant asked.

"The driver of the wagon. His name was Hank."