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Date Posted: 03:36:33 03/25/03 Tue
Author: dqfan
Subject: Re: A Journey Home - ch. 11 & 12
In reply to: dqfan 's message, "Re: A Journey Home - ch.9 & 10" on 03:33:39 03/25/03 Tue

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Peter…Peter," the loving voice nudged him awake.

"Soph?" he called, reaching out to the still body beside him.

"No, Peter, she can't hear you right now," the voice explained.

Rubbing his eyes, Peter was having difficulty focusing, but surely the person in front of him had to be a dream. "Michaela…?" he whispered.

"Yes, Peter…it's me…Michaela," she answered softly.

Peter would have known his great-great-grandmother anywhere. She was as beautiful as her pictures, yet photographs couldn't begin to do her justice. Her brown hair was incredibly long - past her waist - and, it shone with such radiance, it begged to be touched. The copper streaks in her hair only served to highlight her eyes, one brown and one green. Peter smiled, surprised to see for himself that the old wives tales he'd heard about Michaela's eyes had, in fact, been the truth.

Still, Peter found it difficult to believe that the slender, petite woman before him could really be the trailblazing pioneer physician whose accomplishments were so well documented in the Colorado Springs' history books. That is, until she began to speak…

"How are you feeling, Sweetheart?" she asked, her tone an intriguing mix of mother and doctor. "Is the pain lessening? Let me see your hands…"

As Michaela reached to examine Peter's hands, he pulled them abruptly away. "Sophie's the one we need to worry about. She's the one that needs help."

"And she's in the best hands…trust me," Michaela smiled mysteriously. "I'm here to help you…if you'll let me?"

Again, Peter found her tone of voice irresistible - so capable, so soothing. Chagrined at his earlier behavior, Peter held out his hands for her evaluation.

"Mild frostbite, the tendons appear swollen, these abrasions are quite deep. We'll need to apply a salve and wrap your hands…" Michaela frowned as Peter interrupted her diagnosis.

"I know, Michaela, and I will, I promise, but for now, please, is there anything more I can do for Sophie?" Peter pleaded.

"The medicine you've given her 'appears' to be working." For Peter's benefit, Michaela tried not to sound too pessimistic.

"But I only have three more doses left and we're probably stuck here for days," Peter worried.

"Sponge her down with tepid water every hour until her fever breaks," Michaela advised, finding Sophie's forehead to be quite hot still. "And once you've exhausted your medicine, I'd recommend a cup of willow bark tea three times a day - that should help to keep her temperature down."

"Willow bark tea?" Peter repeated suspiciously.

"It has the same properties as your aspirin," she smiled, seeing the distrust in his eyes. "I believe Charity keeps samples of some of my favorite teas downstairs in the cupboards," she winked. "Come, let's get you a cup. It'll help the swelling in your tendons."

"No, I don't want to leave Sophie." Peter shook his head, refusing Michaela's offer.

"Peter, she's in good hands," Michaela reiterated, hoping Sully was encountering more success with Sophie than she seemed to be having with Peter.

"Please come with me, Peter…you won't be any good to Sophie in your present condition. Please let me help you?" she begged.

Reluctantly, Peter agreed, barely able to straighten himself as he rose stiffly from the chair. Michaela watched him wince with pain and then valiantly try to cover the agony he was in. She'd seen Sully do the same so many times in the past. They were a lot alike, those two, Michaela mused. Not just in the physical resemblance, which was striking, but in the way they cared more about others than they did about themselves.

"Sophie's a very lucky woman," Michaela thought silently to herself. Then, staring at Sophie's pale, lifeless form, Michaela prayed, "Please let Sully make her see that."

Swiftly masking her concern, Michaela wrapped her arm around Peter and encouraged him to lean on her as they made their way slowly downstairs to the kitchen.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Ah, willow bark tea…I knew Charity had some here…right next to the stinging nettles I prescribed to alleviate her great-great grandfather's allergies," Michaela smiled, picturing Hank all puffy-eyed and wheezing.

"Wasn't he a real scoundrel?" Peter asked, surprised at Michaela's fond remembrances.

"That's one of the nicer words I've heard used to describe Hank Lawson," Michaela laughed out loud. "Yes, he was a scoundrel," she chuckled as she began preparing the tea.

Peter listened as Michaela's voice quietly softened, "He was also a good friend…and he saved my life…"

"So then all the stories Grammy Kates told me about the Sullys and the Lawsons were true?" Peter grinned.

"My little girl could spin a yarn as good as her Pa," Michaela smiled, the mention of her precious daughter causing a tear or two to well in her eyes. "But, yes, I expect most of her stories were true…" Michaela admitted slyly.

"I'm very glad you had a chance to know her, Peter," Michaela's hand brushed Peter's cheek lovingly, "your Grammy Kates."

Rather sheepishly, Peter realized to whom he was speaking. "Guess I should call you Grandma, too," he offered.

"I think Michaela will do just fine, thank you, Peter," she declined.

With a wicked twinkle in his eye, Peter retorted irresistibly, "Good, you don't really look like much of a Grandma anyway."

Michaela rolled her eyes at her grandson's shameless flattery. "You, my dear," she laughed, "are even more like Sully than I realized." Smiling fondly, she instructed in her most no-nonsense manner, "Now, please drink your tea…"

After a few sips of the odd-tasting brew, Peter actually did begin to feel a little better. Was it the tea or was it the overwhelming sense of comfort and security he felt being with Michaela? He was beginning to see why she was known as "one hell of a woman…"

She was so strong, so in control. What's more, Michaela never stopped for a moment. As Peter sat at the dining table drinking his tea, Michaela was busily preparing a basin of water and some cloths for Sophie's sponge bath while simultaneously instructing him on the correct brewing time for willow bark tea.

"It must be served hot, Peter…" Michaela stated firmly, hoping he was paying attention.

"I heard you…now would you please sit down for a minute and keep me company while I finish my tea?" he smiled indulgently.

Oh, how Michaela knew that smile... Sully could make her stop whatever she was doing, just by his smile - that same smile she saw on Peter's face right now. "I'd be happy to," she complied willingly.

Covering Michaela's small delicate hands with his own reddened, bruised ones, Peter revealed hesitantly, "I know someone who reminds me a lot of you."

"Sophie, yes, I know. I'm afraid we are a great deal alike," Michaela nodded.

"Afraid?" Peter found her choice of words interesting.

"Analytical, organized, competent to a fault," Michaela began, "more comfortable in a crisis than alone with our feelings, especially if those feelings are so overpowering that they scare us…"

"Are you saying I scare Sophie?" Peter was dumbfounded.

"I'm saying that it took a long time for me to allow myself to feel, openly, freely, whatever the emotion - love, pain, anger. I kept everything bottled up inside…until a certain someone made me feel safe enough to express them all."

As she spoke, Michaela absent-mindedly reached out to finger the fringe on the jacket Peter was wearing, leaving no doubt in Peter's mind just who that 'certain someone' was.

"Sully." Peter smiled. "We read your letters…"

"Peter Scarbrow! Don't you know better than to read other people's personal correspondence? I'm surprised at you, young man…" Michaela's mock tirade brought a smile to both their faces.

"Were you really that happy?" Peter needed to know.

"I never believed I could be that happy," Michaela responded, echoing the words she'd spoken to Sully before they were married. It had happened not two feet away, actually, - on the living room floor - locked in a rather inappropriately heated embrace, a fact she chose not to share with Peter.

Her great-great grandson knew far too much of her personal life as it was, Michaela blushed. But, unfortunately, from what he'd read in the letters and the becoming glow on his grandmother's face, Peter could just imagine what she wasn't telling him.

"I want Sophie and I to be that happy…I think we can be…" Peter's hopes trailed off into a melancholy silence.

"Sophie wants it too, Peter. Just give her time," Michaela urged, leading him back upstairs.

Setting the bowl of water on the nightstand, Peter slumped into the rocking chair once again and prepared to cool Sophie with the wet cloths. To Peter's eyes, Sophie's condition appeared unchanged; but, Michaela sensed something more hopeful.

Sophie's breathing was fractionally steadier, her coloring only slightly less pale, but it was more than enough. Michaela's eyes closed for a split second and a soft sigh of relief escaped her lips.

Placing her hand on Peter's shoulder one last time, Michaela whispered encouragingly, "You have all the time in the world."


CHAPTER TWELVE

For the next 24 hours, Peter rarely moved from Sophie's bedside, administering the remaining Tylenol and stroking her gently with the cool cloths Michaela had recommended.

"Michaela…" Peter scoffed. "Must've been a dream…" Yet it seemed so real.

Admittedly, most of his efforts on Sophie's behalf were simple common sense: the Tylenol, the sponge baths. Even the antiseptic ointment and bandages he'd placed on his own hands, were a natural precaution. But what had made him go downstairs last night and rummage through the cupboards? And why, when he'd discovered the herbal remedies Charity stocked there for historical accuracy, why had willow bark tea seemed so familiar - so right?

"Must've read it in one of the letters," Peter mumbled reassuringly.

After testing the tea himself and discovering, not only no ill effects, but that he, in fact, felt much improved, Peter kept a kettle brewing over the bedroom fire to supplement Sophie's dwindling medication.

"Nice and hot," he announced, but the remark gave him momentary pause.

"It must be served hot…" the words echoed in his head.

"You're losing it, Pete," he admonished eerily, "tea's supposed to be hot…"

"Soph, if you don't wake up and talk to me soon, I'll be seeing little green men any minute," he joked, hoping for a response.

Although Sophie's forehead did seem a little cooler, Peter was still unsure whether her fever had broken and was now nervously relying on the tea alone to help her.

Walking over to the alcove window, Peter surveyed the storm's damage. A few tree branches were down and some of the fence posts had snapped from the weight of the snow; but, from what he could see, the homestead had weathered the storm nicely. Through the morning clouds, timid rays of sunlight were now beginning to appear. Reflecting off the brilliant white blanket below, they cast a heartwarming glow onto Peter's face. Suddenly, Peter felt more optimistic than he had in days.

Continuing his one-sided conversation with Sophie, Peter announced brightly, "Sun's up! Wait til you see the drifting snow sparkling through the sunlight. It's gonna be a real pretty day, Soph."

His spirit hopeful, in spite of Sophie's silence, Peter roamed about the bedroom, stretching his aching legs and tired muscles. As his gaze spanned the hundred-year-old artifacts, one in particular caught his eye.

Impulsively, Peter's hand reached for Sully's tomahawk and leather belt, caressing them longingly. His boyhood desire to try them on still burned strong and Peter saw no reason to be denied his fantasy. With a guilty smirk, Peter looked about the room. Who would know? No harm in putting it on for just a minute…

Standing before the cheval mirror, Peter unhooked the belt and placed it gingerly about his waist. As he fastened it, Peter shifted his weight, settling the belt comfortably upon his hips.

"Wow," he whispered, with child-like enthusiasm, running his hands over the soft leather. "After all these years…"

Peter's hand then traveled eagerly toward the tomahawk, nestled securely in the belt strap. Oh, the stories Grammy Kates would tell! How Sully could twirl, grasp and then throw that tomahawk with one single, seemingly fluid, snap of his wrist, disposing of enemies, freeing captured prisoners, and saving the day…all with that tomahawk!

Daringly, Peter's hand slowly unsheathed the weapon. "I'll never have another chance like this…" he rationalized, with the clear mindset of a ten- year-old boy.

The sturdy wooden handle rested solidly in his bandaged palm while his fingers carefully traced the thin sharp edge of the glistening metal blade. Peter's wrist began making imaginary circles in the air, wondering how hard it could be, really? When…

"It's not a toy, Peter…" Sophie's voice was weak but the winsome smile on her face more than expressed her bemusement at the scene before her.

Stunned, Peter let Sully's tomahawk fall to the hardwood floor with a thud.

"Soph!" he exclaimed rushing excitedly to her bedside. "How are you feeling, Sweetheart?"

Peter's hand brushed Sophie's forehead and felt the welcome dampness of her broken fever. His mouth quickly followed, relishing the feel of her cool brow against his lips.

"Your fever's broken," he sighed relieved.

"You're gonna be fine," he smiled encouragingly, brushing her hair from her face.

"You're gonna be just fine…" he hugged her, his voice filled with emotion.

Sophie nodded, only partially aware of how serious her illness had been. There had been soft lights, warm breezes…open fields…a sense of peace…and…Sully.

Too drained to explore these images further, Sophie felt herself falling out of Peter's embrace back onto the soft pillow. As Sophie's eyes began to close for the additional recuperative rest she so desperately needed, her hand slipped weakly down Peter's torso, happening to brush lightly against the leather belt wrapped snugly around his hips.

Dreamily, she whispered, "Fits you just as good…"

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

When Sophie awoke the next day, she was starving. Tentatively, she threw back the covers, for the first time noticing how she was dressed. Still a little wobbly from her long illness, Sophie walked slowly toward the cheval mirror. She was wearing a very pretty lace cotton nightgown - and nothing else - she realized, running her hands over her figure.

Her hair was a mess, she ruled, trying to smooth it into place. Moving toward the window, Sophie could feel her breath steam against the cold pane of glass as she allowed the bright winter sun to warm her face. From the window, Sophie could see that the front path had been partially shoveled in the direction of the old oak.

Sophie was about to turn toward the door when she heard Peter's footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, she headed back under the covers, meticulously straightening the sheets and blankets as he entered.

"Mornin' Sweetheart," he greeted cheerfully, "thought you might be hungry."

"Mmmm," Sophie agreed, eyeing Peter's breakfast tray expectantly.

"You're looking much better this morning," he diagnosed, seeing the color in her complexion and the light in her eyes.

"How long have we been here?" she asked, lifting the teacup to her lips.

"Tonight's Christmas Eve, and I've…" The rest of Peter's statement was cut off by Sophie, gagging on the strange elixir.

"What is this stuff??" she choked.

"It's willow bark tea and it probably saved your life…that and my exceptional care, of course," he added smugly.

As Sophie's tastebuds became accustomed to the brew, she smiled at Peter's bragging, and quietly fingered the lace of her nightgown.

"And does that care include undressing me into this…" she asked suspiciously.

"You know, I was willing to do whatever it took…" he winked, provoking Sophie to playfully punch him in the arm.

Her quick jab was a little too much activity in her weakened state, however, and Sophie swooned with momentary dizziness.

"Whoa, take it easy, Sweetheart," Peter urged. "Don't think you're ready for the punching bag yet."

"Guess not," Sophie admitted sheepishly, munching on a piece of toast.

Then, with total sincerity, she added, "Peter…thank you…I'm sorry…I never should have…"

"Shh," he whispered, placing a finger over her lips. "I never should have left you alone…too easy to get lost."

"Lost?" Sophie asked softly, soothed by his tender voice.

"My Mom always told me not to be alone - in my head or my heart - too easy to get lost," he explained.

Sophie heard the wisdom in Rachel's words. "I thought if I just took a little time by myself…but then I…" Sophie stopped in mid-sentence but Peter finished it for her.

"You overheard me on the phone with Chloe," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Soph, I've told you a million times…Chloe's a part of my past." Peter's simple honesty left Sophie speechless as he pleaded, "You've got to believe me, Soph. Please, trust me."

Then, with a smile, Peter repeated the vow from his fabled story of Petrocles and Sophiclius, "I love only you…"

Sophie's doubts dissipated and her mind wandered, while somewhere in her subconscious she heard a voice she couldn't quite place echo, "It's a love worth fightin' for…"

Suddenly Sophie's face shone with renewed confidence and love. "Trust you, hmm," she repeated, "well, I suppose it's the least I can do to thank you for your…exceptional care."

Sophie leaned slowly toward Peter, the breakfast tray still between them. Her lips were soft and tender upon his and a small sigh escaped them both in relief that they had survived - and that their hearts were fully open to each other once again.

As relief quickly escalated to another more urgent emotion, Peter began to push the tray aside, asking seductively, "so did you like your breakfast?"

"Uh-huh," Sophie murmured, placing light kisses upon his cheek.

"Anything else I can…do for you?" he inquired provocatively, kissing her neck in return.

"As a matter of fact…yes," she answered teasingly.

"Oh?" he asked curiously.

"A bath…" she giggled, pulling away from his nibbling. "Peter, I need a bath. Could you fix me one? Please?"

"A bath, now? Well, I suppose, we could…" he began creatively.

"No, Peter…I…I need a bath," she replied, rejecting his proposal.

"You're gonna send me back out into the cold to shovel again?" he pouted.

"Where are you shoveling to, by the way? Sophie asked curiously, remembering the path she'd seen from the window.

"I left my motorcycle in the barn when I came out looking for you. There's a small maintenance road just past the old oak. If I can shovel it, we should be able to access the highway - if it's passable. We might even be back for Christmas," he added hopefully.

"Well, then you better get going, Darlin'," she encouraged, patting him on the shoulder and grabbing herself another piece of toast from the tray as she settled back against her pillow.

"Cruel, Soph. You're really cruel…" he winced, patting her cheek in retribution.

Dejectedly, Peter turned toward the door and when he did, he noticed Sully's tomahawk still on the floor where it had fallen. Conscientiously, he carefully re-sheathed the weapon into Sully's belt, and placed it gently on the table where he found it.

With a heavy sigh, Peter glanced disappointedly from the tomahawk to Sophie and back again - visions of all his unfulfilled fantasies swirling in his thoughts as he headed forlornly downstairs to draw Sophie her bath...

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