"You're dead." Jim retreated from the elderly woman back-lit in the doorway.

"Jimmy, let me explain," she pleaded. "William probably-."

"He lied," Jim blurted out.

"-didn't know how to explain our separation." Grace Ellison stepped out onto the tiny landing. "Come inside."

"Just forget you saw me," Jim demanded, before turning away and backtracking toward the parked jeep and his sleeping partner.

"No, wait!" She caught up halfway across the small yard, moving faster than her age suggested. "The woman on the phone said you needed help."

Thank you, Naomi. It wasn't enough they were drowning in life's crapper. She dumps this shit on them, Jim thought bitterly.

"Listen, she had no right to involve you." Jim gently disengaged his mother's hold. Her pulse bounded under his thumb. He could see every damn silver hair on her head, translucent in the moonlight. "I can't get you involved."

"Rubbish," she answered, her aged face firm with resolve. "You need help. I can feel it."

The truth snapped out before Jim could hold it back. "Lady, I needed you a hell of a long time ago. So did Stephen."

Grace took the blow like a prizefighter. "Then let me help now. Or are you still too stubborn to accept any?"

She had guts, Jim had to admit as molten anger rose from his core. He needed to get away before that anger erupted.

"Jim?" The plaintive voice drifted in the night air, followed by a shuffling stagger.

"Sandburg," Jim muttered, focusing into the night and spotting his barefooted guide stumbling along half a block away. Jim ran.

Blair's eyes were closed, his balance nonexistent. He fell to his knees. Jim reached his side and hoisted him to his feet.

"You were gone," Blair accused. He wobbled drunkenly. His hair had corkscrewed and matted from long hours of rubbing against the blankets. Pale and dirty, he looked like a survivor from a California mudslide.

"I didn't leave you, partner." Jim kept one arm tight around Blair's waist, feeling the fever through his shirts.

Grace Ellison - or whatever name she used now - drew close, uninvited. "He's sick. Let's get him inside."

Jim didn't want to obey. He didn't want to stay in this woman's presence a second longer than he had to, but with an armful of sick roommate to consider, his own wishes seemed petty.

They needed her help.

So cold.

Why couldn't Jim just use the furnace once in a while? No wait, that was wrong. They weren't in the loft anymore. They were in the jeep. Only Jim had left him alone and Blair had been determined to find him.

Blair blinked at his new surroundings, clutching the edge of a woolen afghan that circled his shoulders. He sat in a hard chair. Bright colors rose to the ceiling. They looked warm and fuzzy. When did colors grow fuzzy? He squinted. The colors turned into skeins of yarn.

"Drink this."

This was water. Blair took a swallow and turned his head before Jim could give him more. "'nuff," Blair mumbled, seeing a woman for the first time and liking her smile. "Hi."

"Hi there," the woman answered.

She was old but still a beauty. Blair's mussed brain tried to picture her face without the soft wrinkles. She would have been drop-dead gorgeous. Jim's thumb and finger pushed their way between Blair's lips.

"Open up, Chief."

Smooth and long, the pills were tasteless. The rounded edge of the ceramic mug bumped his teeth. Jim could be real pushy sometimes. The water washed down the medicine. Blair closed his eyes, just for a moment. He'd been sleeping way too much the last couple of days and he knew Jim really needed a partner who pulled his own weight because they were in some serious trouble, but a few more minutes of rest wouldn't hurt. Those pills would kick in and he'd take a turn behind the wheel.

Yeah.

Jim caught his friend just as he slumped forward, his head inches from hitting the edge of a small table. Sickly odors rose in waves off Blair's neck and shoulders. This was not good. The cold medicine would help a little, but they needed to bring the fever down. Jim hated having to ask, but he had no choice.

"Can you help us?"

Grace Ellison gathered up her purse and a hand-knit cardigan. "Come on, I know somewhere safe."

In minutes Sedona was just a cluster of lights in the rear view mirror. Jim followed the white Cadillac into the gently rolling, pine covered hills. Blair slept in the back seat. The Caddy's tail lights flashed and Grace turned onto a smaller two-lane asphalt road with broken edges. The road climbed higher, passing small cabins with outbuildings and fenced corrals. Farther still, the cabins no longer appeared in the headlights. The road twisted and climbed up the mountain side. The pine trees had long needles that littered the forest floor. The road changed to gravel.

After thirty minutes, the brake lights glowed and she turned left onto a narrow road. Jim flinched, expecting the large granite boulders edging both sides to scrape its sides. The caddy passed unscathed. Grace parked before a handsome two-storey home. A bright floodlight mounted on a pole turned on, activated by their arrival. They had electricity.

Somewhere out in the desert night, a coyote yipped. Another answered, sounding much closer. Grace stood at the cabin's door with a key in the lock by the time Jim had Blair standing, yawning and leaning weakly against the side of the jeep.

"Jim, whatz `appening."

"Nothing, just stopping for the night." Jim guided him forward. The scent of pine sap, warmed by a day of high temperatures, perfumed the air. The desert solitude acted as a balm to Jim's abraded nerves.

"I manage a chain of vacation homes," Grace explained, standing by an open breaker panel on a wall. "This one's the most remote. It's yours as long as you need it. Hot water, septic, and a full kitchen. No phone, though." She flicked a switch and Jim could hear a distant hum. She closed the panel and moved to a wall thermostat. "Give the water heater thirty minutes. I've got a box of food in the trunk. Nothing fancy. Tomorrow I'll bring you some fresh produce and whatever medicine you need."

Jim eased Blair down onto a sofa where he immediately flopped sideways, tucking his hands close and drawing up his knees. Dried mud flaked off and littered the cushions. Jim cringed. "Will anyone wonder where you're going?"

"No, I come and go as I please. I have full time employees for the yarn shop." She cast a worried look at Blair. "I'll bring in the food."

Jim moved toward the door. "I'll get it."

"No," she ordered. "You stay with your friend. It's a small box."

She was gone before Jim could insist. He studied the house.

The main room was spacious. An upper balcony reminded him of the loft. Open beams of peeled logs supported the roof above them. A small fireplace of river stone adorned the far wall. The kitchen was behind an island center. Jim could see an old-fashion looking stove with red enamel along the back wall. The furniture was solid and worn, the stuff that a person would expect in a vacation home. Puzzle boxes and thick hardbacks underneath the coffee table waited for a rainy day.

Grace walked in with a lidless box and set it on the kitchen island. She looked at Blair then at Jim. "Are you hungry? I could fix something simple."

Massaging his neck, Jim considered her offer. He did feel a few hunger pangs, but the lure of sleep slipped to the front of the line. "No, it's late. I'd rather just get Sandburg settled."

She nodded, her slender hands pausing in their task of emptying the box. A row of cans and boxes lined the counter top. A whirling noise sounded from the kitchen and an unmistakable sound of a cuckoo bird called in the midnight hour.

And suddenly Jim was a child again, standing in a large kitchen. His mother, dressed in an evening gown of midnight blue, was setting out a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk. The babysitter was running late. William Ellison had already stormed outside to warm up the car, bitterly complaining about how his career was being screwed over by an eighteen year old college twit who didn't know how to get to work on time.

The cuckoo clock had hung on the wall above the breakfast table.

"... be back tomorrow with aspirin for his fever. What else do you need? Jim?"

"What?" Jim blinked and the young woman was replaced by the senior citizen walking toward the door.

"Are you all right? Did you hear me?" Grace asked, her hand on the doorknob.

"I'm fine, just tired," Jim answered on autopilot. He searched his recent memory. "Aspirin. Maybe some orange juice? Do you need any money?"

"We'll talk tomorrow," she said before leaving, closing the door softly.

Blair hogged the sofa, leaving a narrow space above his head for Jim to sit. There were beds to make and bags to carry in from the Jeep. Jim wondered if he had the strength. Blair grunted unhappily. Jim rested a hand in his partner's sweaty and matted hair. Blair settled quietly except for stuffy whistle sounds as air pushed past restricted sinuses.

"Mmm," Blair vibrated softly. "Kay... no, pecans `n ... later, Steph."

"Blair?" Jim turned, smoothing locks back to see his partner's face. "You in there?"

"No more cookies."

With a weary grin, Jim patted a flushed cheek. It was time to get Blair into a real bed anyway. Jim suddenly froze.

Cookies.

Pecan.

He used to call his brother Steph when they were little.

Shit, Blair was tapping into his own childhood.

With a sharp pat, almost enough to be categorized as a slap, Jim watched Blair's eyes fly wide as he woke with a start. "Wha... hey!" Blair protested, bringing a dirty hand up to rub his cheek.

"Come on, sit up," Jim ordered brusquely, tugging on Blair's shoulder to get him sitting.

Blair moved as if plagued with advanced arthritis. He groaned, leaned forward at the waist and swallowed rapidly. "Don't feel so hot, man."

"Deep breaths," Jim instructed. "I'm not going to be happy with you if you make the cabin smell like vomit."

True to his nature, Blair responded to the brisk, clipped orders with his own matched determination. Jim waited until Blair could sit up straight. He offered a pathetic smile of apology, as if being sick was some weakness he'd brought on himself. "Okay, I'm good to go. What's next?"

"Oh, yeah. Look at you, ready to run a marathon," Jim mocked. He shook his head, feeling mildly guilty. "Think you can manage some stairs?"

On wobbly legs, with Jim taking up the rear and keeping the younger man from pitching backwards, Blair mounted the steep staircase to the upper floor. Heated layers of air lay trapped under the ceiling. A large queen-size bed and a fold-up roll away already held clean sheets and blankets. Jim nudged Blair toward the larger bed.

"Can you get undressed?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "Bathroom first."

It was tucked into a corner of the upper loft, just a toilet and a narrow bathtub behind a door. A pedestal sink hung outside the bathroom, against the wall like an afterthought. A pine shelf filled with towels hung on the wall overhead.

While Blair was in the bathroom, Jim rolled the folded bed out and opened it up. Alert for mice droppings and finding none, he nodded with approval. Grace managed a decent rental. She must have a service out regularly for cleaning.

"So who was that lady?" Blair asked as he emerged from the bathroom, leaving the light on behind him and stumbling toward the bed.

Jim caught him before he could crawl in fully clothed. "No, Wilbur. Let's get some of your mud off first."

Blair shook his head. "Too tired." He tried twisting free and leaning toward the mattress. "Not going to shower."

But Jim towed him back to the sink, taking a washcloth down. "I'm not asking you to. Thanks for teaching me to dial down my sense of smell, by the way," Jim teased to keep Blair from getting pissed. He ran water in the sink and tossed in a washcloth from the shelf. "Come on. Get those clothes off."

Blair stripped to his boxers. Deep bruises, purple with splatter patterns of broken blood vessels and puncture wounds decorated the younger man's body and tempered Jim's impatience. Blair's eyelids were at half mast. He swayed in his stocking feet. Jim wrung out the cloth. "You'll probably feel better. And it will help bring your fever down." He held out the cloth.

Blair took the cloth and made feeble attempts to wipe down his arms, leaving long muddy streaks as he moved the dirt.

"Here, let me." Jim tried to take the washcloth back. Blair was moving too slowly. Now he wished he had insisted on a shower.

"I'm doing it," Blair mumbled, cranky and peeved. He swayed on his feet, coming dangerously close to falling over and denting his skull against the sink when he tried to bend down to swipe his leg.

Jim settled for holding his guide up during the spit bath. He watched the white cloth turn Kansas-mud brown. "Let me at least rinse it off." He pried the cloth away and squeezed it under flowing tepid water. Latte colored water swirled down the pipes for a full minute. "Here." Jim handed it back.

But all Blair's energy seemed used up. Eyes closed, he looked asleep on his feet. He never peeped when Jim gently finished the job by cleaning his guide's face and neck. Tossing the cloth into the sink to deal with later, he led Blair back to the bed and folded down the bedding. The sheets had a yellow flower pattern. Blair poured himself in, unconscious before Jim could draw the sheet and blanket up.

The room's windows slid sideways with heavy screens to keep out flying bugs. The cool desert air made Jim sigh with pleasure. He stripped, got a clean cloth, repeated the spit bath procedure over his own weary and bruised body and crawled onto the smaller bed to sleep.

Muffled cries pulled Jim from his exhaustion. He shifted on the mattress and threw an arm over his eyes, missing his sleep mask. Sunlight flooded the room.

"Please." A gasp of pain and a moan followed.

Lifting his head, Jim realized the noise was coming from the bigger bed. Blair was caught in a nightmare.

Three guesses what it was about and the first two didn't count.

"Chief." Jim climbed out of bed, crossed the room and leaned over to gently shake Blair's shoulder. Sickly, moist heat wafted up making Jim's nose curl. Blair's fever was up. "Come on. Wake up."

"No, don't." Blair lifted a hand and tried to push away invisible enemies. His face was wet with tears.

The clear sound of a car drifted in through the open window. Jim recognized Grace's Cadillac and checked his watch. They'd both been asleep for over eight hours. Blair was waking now, blinking without focusing on Jim's face.

"Hey, how you feeling?" Jim asked.

"Jim?" Blair sniffed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "N-not so hot, man. Where are we?"

"We're safe." Jim went to the sink and filled a plastic glass with water, bringing it back and watching Blair sit up and accept it gratefully. "We're in northern Arizona."

Swallowing the last mouthful, Blair handed the empty glass back. "Remember a woman."

"Yeah," Jim said, unsure how much he wanted to admit.

Outside a car door slammed.

"Your mom arranged it."

Blair was kicking his legs free from the blanket. "Naomi set this up? She's okay? You talked to her? Whoa, head rush," Blair explained as he stood with Jim's help.

"Jim?" Grace's voice floated up. The front door's hinges squeaked and a brighter patch of sunlight made the dust mites swirling in the air glow for a brief second before the door closed again. "You awake?"

"We're up, Grace," Jim answered. "Be down in a second."

"How's your friend?" she asked from below.

"Stinky," Blair muttered. "I need to shower, man."

The thought of Blair standing long enough to shower brought visions of head injuries to Jim's mind. "Bath."

Blair agreed.

After making sure Blair was safe in the tub and had the required tools for the job, Jim found his clothes from yesterday and dressed. He joined Grace on the main floor. She wore designer jeans and a silk, short-sleeved pullover. Her hair was tucked into a stylish roll that flowed up the back of her head. He'd forgotten how tall she was.

"I brought some eggs, milk, cheese and pastries. How about an omelet?"

Hunger pains stabbed his gut. He nodded. "Thank you."

A small paper sack sat on the countertop. Grace nodded at it as she pulled a glass bowl out and cracked an egg against the rim. "That's a general antibiotic. Your friend..."

"Blair."

"Blair is obviously fighting a sinus infection."

Jim picked up the bag and took out a small bottle. It lacked the normal pharmacist label. Twisting off the cap, he looked inside. Small white pills half filled the vial. "How did you get this?"

"Don't worry. It won't be missed." She used a fork to whip the eggs, adding milk without measuring. "Blair doesn't have allergies, does he?"

"No." Jim mentally amended the answer, `at least not to medicine.'

She nodded. "It wouldn't hurt then. But it's his call."

Jim knew how Blair felt about western medicine. His partner would rather dissolve a leaf under his tongue or medicate amid a cloud of burning sage. Jim had seen the greenish mucus and agreed with Grace's decision. "You're sure this isn't going to get you into trouble?"

"I'm a nurse, LPN. Retired, but I still volunteer." She dropped butter into a hot skillet and let it sizzle while she grated cheese onto a cutting board. "I have some very understanding doctor friends. They're discreet."

Jim cupped the medicine bottle between his palms and sat down on a nearby stool, one of four that lined the kitchen island. Grace had become a nurse. Somehow that fit. His earliest memory of his mother was watching her take care of others.

So why had she stopped taking care of her sons?

Egg batter danced as it spread over the skillet. Grace smoothly poured the entire bowl's contents then set it aside and picked up a spatula. She watched the eggs cook, intent on her task, ignoring Jim's hard gaze as if afraid to catch his eye.

A thud from above caused Jim to excuse himself and hurry back up to the room. He tapped on the closed bathroom door before pushing it open. "You okay?"

Rubbing soap from his eyes, Blair nodded. One hand gripped the edge of the tub, his hair plastered to his head and neck. "Slipped."

"Don't try standing up."

"I didn't," Blair snapped back.

"Maybe I should-"

"I'm fine." Blair shivered in the warm room. "Go away."

Jim relented, content with recognizing his bullheaded partner. Blair must be on the mend to be arguing with him again. "Don't stand up, Sandburg. I mean it. You call me for help."

"I got it," Blair grumbled. He sneezed as he ran a wash cloth over his arm and shoulder. "Get out of here, okay?"

Back downstairs, Grace was adding the shredded cheese to the first omelet. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine." Jim returned to the stool. A plate, fork and folded napkin had been arranged on the countertop for him. Coffee dripped from a coffee maker, its potent fragrance greeting him like a lost friend. Yet Jim felt out of sorts, angry even. Jim didn't want to feel welcome. He resented having flashbacks to his childhood caused by these domestic touches.

He held his tongue. They needed this woman. They needed a place to heal and make plans.

Grace had been working silently as Jim warred with his feelings. She slid the finished breakfast onto his plate with ease. "Should I start another for..."

"Blair," Jim supplied, adding out of habit, "Thank you."

She set to work.

The remains of breakfast on a bedside stand, Blair scooted down on the bed, stretched out and pulled the covers up. "I'm going to puke."

"No, you're not." Jim picked up the plate with a frown. "You didn't eat enough to warrant it."

Blair pulled the covers over his head. "Feeling too crappy to fight with you. Go away."

The fight had been mostly over some bottle of pills. Jim had pulled it out of his pocket. There was no way Blair was swallowing unknown drugs. So he had a cold, or flu - whatever - his body would work through it.

A bolt of pain traveled through his middle. Blair curled with a groan. He swallowed hard, unable to ignore the funny taste on his tongue.

Jim appeared at his bedside. "Blair?"

"Shi-" Blair slapped a hand over his mouth as the first muscle contraction hit.

The bathroom was almost a step too far, but with Jim holding him up, rushing him across the room in a semi-controlled stumble, he made it in time. The conglomerate of eggs, cheese and juice was not a particularly pleasant sight to behold so Blair trusted Jim to keep him from falling face first into the toilet and screwed his eyes shut. His head pounded and his muscles forgot how to keep balanced.

This had to be the worst flu he had ever experienced.

After having his face washed like a two year old and rinsing out his mouth, Blair let Jim support him back to the bed. He bit his lower lip to keep from groaning. His gut hurt. He listened to Jim's footsteps growing fainter, too tired to watch his friend walk away, too exhausted to even tell him thanks.

"Sandburg, swallow this."

Jim was back.

After forcing down two aspirin with a swallow of water, Blair pushed the water glass away. It was starting again, almost instantly. With absolute authority, Blair's body rejected the fluid and carried the medicine back up. Blair had just a second's warning, the same time it took Jim to pull him to the edge of the mattress so he could use a small, plastic trash can.

"God," Blair muttered afterwards. "Make it stop."

The water glass was back. "Rinse."

`Jiim..."

"Just rinse and spit, Sandburg."

It did feel better. Blair fell back against the pillow, spent and miserable. Sleep. He just needed to sleep and give his system a chance to reboot. A woman's voice confused him for a second. He opened his eyes. Jim was talking to an elderly woman standing at the top of the stairs. Who was that? Then he remembered what Jim had told him. For a second he was curious, then a muscle spasm hit hard above his navel and he rolled away to face the wall. He didn't care if half the population of - where were they again? Arizona? - walked through this bedroom. Blair was going back to sleep.

Grace had gone for more medicine.

Jim explored the cabin. He had already unpacked the jeep, even spent a few minutes checking under the hood. The oil had the texture and look of pond sludge. He made a note to find a lube shop once they were on the road. Looking up toward the loft, he listened to the rasp of air movement. Blair was breathing through his mouth again. His heart rate was steady. Jim could smell the sour sweat all the way downstairs. Even though the upper room was well into the eighties now, the man in the bed shivered. Jim had opened a window, making sure Blair was properly covered first. The arid air felt and tasted off, perfumed by the sturdy green Manzanita shrubs that sprinkled the landscape.

He paced, worried.

He had already scouted the land around the cabin. The terrain was riddled with high desert foothills covered by birch and Pinon Pine trees, their greenery contrasted against the reddish colored cliffs. He remembered seeing a friend's vacation pictures, but had never personally visited. He knew folks came to Northern Arizona to view the Grand Canyon. Sedona had grown to become a luxurious destination area, offering everything from golf to spas.

Glancing at his watch, Jim extended his hearing. Judging the nearest paved road to be a little over three miles away, he only listened for sounds of vehicles within that radius.

There, the Caddy was coming back.

Grace parked next to the jeep. She gathered up a large brown bag as Jim opened her door. "My doctor-friend was in. He's written another prescription based on Blair's symptoms."

"You're sure he's not suspicious?" Jim took the bag. More than medicine, it was filled with groceries again, cool to the touch.

Grace led the way into the cabin, walking with confidence. "He's curious, that's all. I trust him."

Jim had no choice. Blair couldn't be moved like this. It would likely draw too much attention to them. He set the bag down. Grace began to unload it. She handed Jim another small white sack. The box within contained a foil tray of long horse-sized pills.

"Sandburg is going to love these," Jim said with dread.

"No way."

Jim sighed. He sat on the edge of Blair's bed, the box of suppositories in hand. "Chief, it's the only way to get the medicine inside you long enough to stop the vomiting. You're becoming dehydrated."

"No," Blair answered mulishly. His face was white, except where the stubble of beard darkened his jaw. His eyes looked sunken.

Jim resolved to win the fight. "Stop being so damn stupid."

"I'm not shoving-"

Jim cut him off. "It's no big deal. It doesn't hurt. I had to work a few weeks at the army hospital during training and I did this all the time."

The younger man blanched. "You are not helping me!" he blurted out in a loud, shocked voice.

Any other time, Jim would have laughed out loud. Except the situation was serious and Jim was well beyond joking. His habit of grinding his teeth when pissed kicked in. Blair was going to take the damn medicine, even if Jim had to-

"Jim," Grace called from the top of the stairs.

He hadn't even noticed her approach.

She walked to the bedside with a confident look and nodded at the box. "Let me talk to Blair. Why don't you take a breather?"

Blair looked almost relieved when Jim stood up. "Yeah, a walk. I can do that." He handed his mother the box and left.

The midday heat did wonders to Jim's bunched shoulder muscles. Rolling his head side to side to further loosen up, Jim followed a path that trail-headed near the cabin. He kept watch for sunbathing rattlers. The exercise calmed his nerves. Reaching a particularly pleasant shady spot with a nice view to the south of reddish-brown rim rock canyon walls, Jim paused and leaned against the rough tree bark of a handy pine. The tree seemed willing to bear his worry as well as his weight.

"You've got to get better, Sandburg."

Never one for thinking out loud - military officers frowned on chatter in the field - Jim tested the silence. Arizona seemed to invite the conversation. The rocks and trees waited patiently.

"Your parents are going to fix this. We are getting our lives back. Maybe not like before, in Cascade, but we're not going to run forever."

An energetic bird with black and white feathers, wearing a black bandit mask over a bright orange head swooped in to perch on a nearby branch. Jim smiled. He really did have an audience now.

"And when this is over, we're going to make the government reimburse us for all this shit and take a month, maybe a full year off and have a real vacation," Jim added.

The bird cocked its head, eyes knowing. `What about your mother?' it seemed to ask.

Jim didn't want to think about that. "Somewhere where I can surf maybe. Sandburg can learn too. I'll teach him."

The bird flew off.

When Jim returned to the cabin, Blair was asleep. Grace was in the kitchen washing dishes. A large pitcher of ice tea waited for him on the counter. Pouring a glass and downing half its contents, Jim pulled the stool out and sat.

"Try feeding him when he wakes. Nothing too heavy, maybe toast," Grace suggested as she set the clean frying pan in a metal rack to drip dry.

Jim could see the water start to evaporate, further reminding him they were far away from home. "Did he take the medicine?"

She nodded. "He did. He settled down after you left. I think he was just embarrassed."

"It's stupid," Jim groused before gulping down more tea. "We've been together too long for that childish crap."

She pulled the plug and ran the washrag under the faucet before wringing it out and wiping down the area around the sink. "I know I have no right to ask, but you two are an unlikely pair."

Jim finished his drink. He wanted to tell her to butt out. That she had no business in his life. She had no standing in his world.

Except his best friend was sleeping upstairs, hopefully on the road to recovery, all because she had helped. Jim pushed his irritation down as best he could. "He may look like a flake, but he's solid."

She pierced him with a look of disapproval. "I never suggested otherwise." She folded the washcloth over the neck of the faucet, a habit that Jim recognized as his own. "I have to go. I'll be back tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

Jim stood and pulled out his wallet. "Can you bring us back some motor oil?"

Blair woke to darkness and the dying rumble of thunder.

Still feeling like road kill, he extended an arm, fingers touching the bedside lamp, and spider-crawled for his glasses. They weren't there.

When had he last used them?

It was useless. Blair couldn't remember. Maybe Jim forgot and left them behind at Robert and Eleanor's Kansas farmhouse. He shivered and tucked his arm back under the warm covers, wondering how the desert night could turn so cold. After a few minutes of ignoring the pressure of a full bladder, he slipped out, swayed uncertainly for a moment in the darkness before getting his bearings.

And walked right into Jim.

"Shit!"

"Hey, Chief." Jim kept him from falling. "I thought you heard me."

Taking a second to check his heart hadn't jumped out and fled in terror, Blair blindly patted the thin T-shirt covering Jim's chest. "A-a nightlight wouldn't be a bad thing right now, man." Blair jumped as a flash of lightening threw the bedroom into stark relief and ruined whatever night vision he'd had.

"Yeah," Jim answered before guiding him forward. "We lost power."

Jim sounded far away and Blair realized his ears were blocked. Wonderful, this flu was doing a number on him. Reaching the bathroom, Jim left him alone long enough to take care of business. When Blair opened the door, Jim held a flickering yellow light. The candle cast Jim in odd shadows. He set the jar holding the short, stout, white candle down by the lamp.

Blair washed and dried his hands on a small towel before returning to bed. "Where's Grace?"

"No idea," Jim answered briskly. "Said she'd be back tomorrow sometime."

Blair settled back into the warm bed, unable to stop shivering. He recognized the stoic Jim-signs even in the candle light: sight downward turn of his mouth, tense muscles along the wide shoulders and the way he flexed his fingers.

"You don't like her, do you?" Blair asked point blank, a tactic that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't. "Why, man? She's nice. She's helping us and she doesn't have to. I don't know how Naomi knows her, coz I don't remember her at all. But she's nice."

Blair didn't know what to think when Jim gave him a funny look.

"Go back to sleep, Sandburg."

"Why not?"

"Because you're sick."

"But you're the one that said my fever broke last night."

"So, what, you want to relapse? Let's see if you keep your breakfast down first." Jim checked the kitchen one last time. The dishes were dried and put away. The counters were clean. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing. His work here was done.

Now if he could only get Blair back up into that bed. He realized too late it was a mistake letting him come down to eat. Now he sat on the stool, hands clutching the counter's edge like he expected Jim to pry him away.

Jim sighed. "I'll bring down a pillow and a blanket. You can rest on the sofa."

"Just a short walk. I want to look around."

Bracing both arms out straight on the breakfast bar and leaning over the stove top with his eyes narrowed, Jim used his best Army Captain glare. He spoke slowly. "You are sick. You need to rest so you can get well. Then we will drive on. Which element of this reality has you confused?"

In spite of Jim's personal track record of striking fear into two hundred and fifty pound marines, the little goober snickered.

"Well, most of it, because I feel fine today," Blair answered with a cheeky grin.

The sound of an approaching car cut off Jim's retort. Striding to the large picture window, he pulled back the lined curtain. Grace was back. She unloaded another grocery sack, fresh fruit sticking out from the top. Jim took the bag from her at the door.

"You're looking so much better." She smiled upon seeing Blair.

"Hi, Grace!" Blair greeted her happily. "I'm a hundred percent."

"More like thirty-two," Jim muttered as he started to unload the bag. Two wrapped rib-eye steaks waited at the bottom of the bag for him. His mouth watered at the thought. "Did I give you enough money?" he asked her.

"You did," she answered, busy checking Blair's forehead with her hand. "I had the man put the motor oil in the trunk."

"Thank you." Jim folded the bag. "I figure we'll be moving on either tomorrow or the next. Depends on Sandburg."

Grace looked surprised. Her eyes caught Jim's gaze over the top of Blair's head. Jim broke the moment, ducking his head as he stowed the folded bag under the kitchen sink.

"I never got to ask how you knew Naomi," Blair suddenly asked.

Jim shook his head. Grace caught the movement. "Well -"

The cuckoo clock picked that second to announce the hour. Both Jim and Grace glanced up at the ornate time piece in unison. The small wooden bird appeared briefly as the doors hinged open. Just as the last note ended and the doors swung shut, Jim felt his skin tingle.

"Blair," he whispered.

The clock had taken a full thirty seconds to toll eight times, long enough for Blair to fall into a light trance. Grace hadn't noticed. She wasn't prepared when Blair sagged sideways on the stool. Jim couldn't move fast enough. The sound of Blair's head hitting the floor made Jim wince as he knelt beside his guide.

"Sandburg." Jim slid a hand under an ear, tilting his head to keep his neck in line as his other hand gently checked each vertebra. Everything felt okay.

Blair blinked in surprise. "Ouch."

Grace was at his side, ready to assist. She checked Blair's wrist, expertly finding his pulse.

"How many fingers?" Jim asked, holding three digits up before Blair's nose.

"Let me up, I'm fine." Blair pushed off the floor with his free hand, gently twisting out of Grace's hold. He groaned and probed his skull where it had smacked the floor.

"What happened?" Grace asked, concerned.

Jim knew. "It's this flu," he lied, helping Blair stand. "You're going back upstairs. No arguments."

Blair didn't argue. He let Jim drag him up the staircase. Grace stayed below, giving them some privacy.

"I was in a big house," Blair muttered as Jim propped him on the edge of the bed.

Jim lifted off Blair's sweatshirt. The morning temperature was already too high for anything but a t-shirt. Blair's arms bonelessly flopped back to his sides.

"You don't have the energy for these visions right now, Blair. Forget about it, just rest."

"So sad, man. So much anger..."

"Shh, no more talking." Jim rolled Blair onto his back, head on the pillow, eyes already closed. He lifted Blair's feet and lined him straight then arranged the light blanket to his liking. "Sleep."

To Jim's relief, Blair did.

Grace was in the back of the house, in the small utility room off the kitchen where an apartment-sized stacked washer and dryer were kept. Jim found her folding their clean T-shirts.

"You don't have to do that."

She laid the T-shirt down. "I like to keep busy. Is Blair okay?"

"He should be fine. Just needs more sleep."

An awkward silence followed.

"Did you get any breakfast?" Jim asked. "I could make something."

She shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you."

Here they were, reduced to clipped attempts at a cordial relationship. Jim felt out of his league. "Coffee then? I have a fresh pot."

She seemed as eager for something in her hands as Jim. "That would be nice."

Pouring coffee, finding milk and artificial sweetener filled the void and for a few minutes Jim didn't have to search for polite conversation. Grace sat at the breakfast bar. The windows were open, drawing in the last of the cool morning air. In a while Jim would close them to keep out the heat. The lined drapes would beat back the sun.

He set a spoon out and watched her fix her drink while he sipped his own coffee black. "This is a nice place. Let me know how much we owe you."

She gave him a stern look. "I though I made myself clear. I want to help. I may not know what's happening, but Agent Sandburg made it clear you have done nothing wrong."

Jim sipped his coffee and contemplated the fact that hearing the words `agent' and Sandburg' spoken together hadn't caused him to snort aloud. Grace was giving him an invitation to talk, that was obvious. Jim had no plans to fill in the blanks. Whatever his feelings for this woman, he didn't want her life in danger. As it was, she was already risking more than she realized.

"Blair just needs to get back on his feet. We'll move on when he's better."

She looked up at the clock. "That seemed more than just a fainting spell."

"He's fine."

She stirred her coffee, eyes still on the clock. "That was the only thing I took from your father's house. It was a wedding gift from my grandmother."

God, Jim did not want to hear this.

Grace's eyes roamed the room. "I lived here when I first came to Arizona. This was her place."

A deep pain pricked Jim's soul over her choice of words; her grandparent's place, not Jim's great-grandparent's place.

"I need to work on the Jeep," Jim said briskly, setting the coffee mug down. "You mind keeping an eye on Sandburg?"

She nodded. "Certainly."

Jim wiped the last of the oil from his hands and eyed the jeep with frank appraisal. They needed to think about getting a new ride. That fire in Montana was taking its toll on the body. The license plate he'd switched might be reported as stolen by now. State-to-state communication between law enforcement had improved. Even simple APBs were shared near the borders.

Maybe they could part it out to a junk yard.

Jim looked up as the front door opened and Grace emerged from the house. She wore a wide brim straw hat to shade her face. "I have an appointment. Blair's still asleep."

Jim nodded. The sun was high in the sky, the temperature near the upper nineties. The jeep had its oil changed, belts checked and spark plugs cleaned, giving Jim time to cool off. He no longer felt the urge to punch his fist through the wall. "Thanks."

She reached into her purse for car keys. "I'll be by tomorrow. There's soup on the stove for Blair. Some fresh bread warming in the oven."

She was gone. The dust kicked up from the large car swirled around Jim's legs as he walked back to the house. Inside, it smelled like a bakery. She'd thoughtfully closed the windows and drawn the drapes for him. The house was cool.

Jim checked the soup, turned down the heat and headed upstairs for a shower.

Blair was still asleep. He'd rolled over, closer to the edge, his right arm draped over the edge of the mattress. The pillow under his face had a wet spot from drool.

The shower was heaven. No hot water was required. Jim enjoyed the shivering effect on his skin as it sluiced away the sweat. He shaved under the showerhead and pondered his need for a haircut. Emerging a solid fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist, Jim felt human again.

"Hey," Blair greeted, struggling to sit up on the bed. His eyes were hooded with too much sleep, hung over by his illness.

"Hey, yourself. How do you feel?" Jim pulled on his last pair of clean boxers and a sleeveless t-shirt.

"Hungry." Blair smacked his dry lips and sniffed the air.

They ate two bowls of the homemade soup apiece, filled with chunks of meat and potato with roasted garlic. Blair stuffed his face with thick slices of sourdough bread.

"If you keep this meal down, I'd guess your flu bug has done its worst," Jim commented with a wry grin.

"Mmm hmmm," Blair mumbled as he chewed.

"Good, we can get back on the road."

Sitting straight, Blair swallowed to speak. "We're leaving? How come? Let's find jobs and stay here for a while, man. The weather is warm and Grace seems nice."

Jim shook his head, gathering up his bowl and ice tea glass to take to the sink. "I'm thinking Mexico." Running water and squirting dish soap into the sink, Jim listened to the shocked silence behind his back.

After a long pause, Blair spoke in a hush. "Mexico?"

"Yeah."

Another long silence.

Concentrating hard on washing the already clean spoon a fourth time, Jim finally set it on the drain board and turned around to lean against the kitchen counter. The kitchen window opened to the shaded side of the house and didn't require drapes. Bright sunlight filtered into the room, leaving Blair with the washed-out look of the recently sick. He sat slumped over, his shoulders slumped, eyes on the soup bowl as he listlessly stirred its contents.

"Just until Naomi give us the all clear, Chief," Jim added.

"Sure." Blair pushed the bowl away.

Leaning over the breakfast island, Jim gathered up his bowl and spoon. "Do you want more juice?"

"No." He offered a worn smile. "Thanks, anyway."

"Why don't you go lie down?"

Standing, Blair shook his head and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "My bedsores have sores."

"I saw some paperbacks under the coffee table."

"Maybe," Blair answered as he wandered over to stand by the sofa. He looked lost. "A Jags game would be nice."

"TV would be nice," Jim added.

"Yeah, we must be too far away to get a signal." He glanced around the cabin as if seeing it for the first time. A yawn surprised him. "Any idea where my glasses might be?"

Jim absentmindedly chewed his lower lip in thought. He had no clue. "Ummm. I could check the jeep..."

"Nah, forget it, man."

Making a point of not watching to see what the younger man would do next, Jim returned to washing up, his thoughts on what they would have for supper later on. Checking the cupboard that held the dry goods, he found what he needed for an easy marinade. After the rib-eye steaks were bathing in a tray with steak sauce and lemon juice with bits of chopped onion and crushed garlic, Jim checked on Blair.

His friend had sprawled out on the sofa, a paperback inches from his nose.

Okay, what else? Jim spotted the colander filled with the fruit Grace had brought. She'd overdone the groceries, bringing a full bag with her on each visit. A container of plain yogurt was in the door of the icebox. Jim started a fruit salad. When he was finished, Blair was asleep, the paperback resting on his chest, one hand still folded behind his head.

Finding a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer, Jim went up to their bedroom and found his oldest pair of jeans. He came down a few minutes later wearing his new shorts and tennis shoes with no socks. He felt like taking a walk.

Blair woke to the sound of the cuckoo clock. For the first time in days, his head no longer pounded, his eyes didn't feel sand-blasted. Maybe he was getting better.

If only he had some energy.

The cabin was still comfortably warm. He set the book he'd been reading aside and sat up. "Jim?"

No answer. After using the small toilet off the kitchen and washing up, he poured a glass of apple juice and eyed the salad on the top shelf before closing the refrigerator door. Two steaks marinated under plastic wrap next to it. His partner had been busy.

Sipping and savoring the sweetness, feeling more awake than he had all day, he wandered around the lower level. He really liked this place. Strolling out the back door, he breathed in the perfumed desert hot air and stretched. He walked barefoot over the reddish clay-colored ground, careful to avoid the dried up, brown vegetation and any thorns it might hold. The back yard was natural, no expensive landscaping. A broad-leaf prickly pear cactus was the most interesting feature.

The house had been built under the towering face of a canyon wall that rose straight up. Walking around to the corner, Blair could see the entire land was a maze of these walls, forming deep dry arroyos worn by wind and water over thousands of years. He checked for snakes before gently easing up on a flat boulder, perfect for sitting cross-legged while meditating.

Blair allowed a private grin.

What a view. He could see for miles; red and brown layers painted the cliffs under a sapphire blue sky, white, feathery clouds that promised no moisture, tough looking pines and birch trees that managed to survive in spite of the harsh arid climate.

When he closed his eyes, he could still see the colors.

Would Mexico be like this?

It saddened him to think of leaving the States, and made him angry. Yeah, he was a traveler, but it was one thing to plan a vacation, another thing entirely when you were forced to flee. But he knew what Jim would say. That last brush with trouble had been too damn scary. And every time they used a stranger's hospitality, it put those who helped them in danger.

Which directed his thoughts to Grace.

Who was she? How did Naomi know her?

Blair recalled his vision from that morning, during breakfast.

"Sandburg."

Blair's eyes snapped open. Jim was striding down a path that wandered between stubby brush and razor-sharp edged tufts of grass. "Hey."

Jim nodded toward the house. "You shouldn't be out in the sun."

Flexing stiff legs and realizing he'd been sitting longer than he had originally thought, Blair scooted off the boulder. "You know," Blair said, "some cultures find sunshine a valid part of healing. In fact, it's been proven to help bones. Not only that, but researchers are finding cancer mortality rates lower in these sunny regions."

Jim kicked the sand from his shoes before leading the way back into the kitchen. "Riiight."

"It's true." Blair paused in the middle of the kitchen, enjoying the cooler temperatures. He stretched. "I'm grabbing a shower."

Jim had his head in the refrigerator. "When you're done, we'll talk about leaving tomorrow."

"Jim." Blair crossed his arms. "I really think we should hang here a little longer. I've been thinking about that vision I had when Grace was here."

"Keep it to yourself, Sammy-the-psychic." Jim turned, closing the icebox door with more force than needed. He carried the ice tea pitcher to the counter and got down two glasses.

"What? I can't even talk now?"

"Of course you can talk." Jim frowned as he poured. "Don't be so melodramatic."

Blair's mood was changing from irritated to pissed. "Jim, all I'm saying is Grace needs our help. She has issues, okay? I could feel them."

"For God's sakes, Blair. Give it a rest." Snatching up his tea glass and leaving the other for Blair, Jim escaped into the living room. He dropped into the chair next to the sofa and toed off his sneakers, showing a line where the dust ended around both ankles.

The wiser part of Blair's brain said shut up and wait until Jim was in a better mood. And he probably would have listened had Jim not continued his rant.

"We're not on some goodwill mission, Einstein. I'm trying to keep us from both spending our lives in damn cages."

Blair lost it, stalking Jim to the living room. "So what? We run and hide? What kind of life is that? Why can't we help people along the way? We have the means, Jim. There has to be a greater purpose here than just tucking our tails between our legs."

Taking a deep breath, Blair lowered his fists from his sides and forced himself to calm down. "Look it. All's I'm saying is a few more days can't hurt. Let me talk to Grace. She's hurting deep down, seriously sad. She's been so nice to us. She needs someone to talk to."

Jim rose in one smooth movement, tall muscular frame vibrating like a thoroughbred racehorse penned in the starting gate. "Butt. Out." He leaned forward, getting right in Blair's face and spoke with clipped, angry words, "Keep your freakish, mutant abilities to yourself for once. Got that?"

Blair reeled back, stunned and hurt.

Mutant?

Numbness inundated his chest and gut. Realizing his mouth could trap flies, he closed it with a snap. A brief flash of something - remorse? contempt? - it was hard to tell, rocketed over Jim's face. Blair turned away, his thoughts freefalling.

"Sandburg."

Blair held up a hand. He made for the stairs. "I'm in the shower."

"Damnit, you know I didn't mean that," Jim ground out, still angry.

Keeping his eyes on the stairs, Blair nodded. "It's cool."

He couldn't escape fast enough.

Shit.

Jim palm-scrubbed his face hard. When was he going to learn?

Upstairs, the shower started. If he really pressed, he could listen over the sounds of the water, but he didn't.

The realization of how badly he'd screwed up hit hard.

`Why didn't I just admit who she is?'

Jim knew why.

Blair would become a one-man army in the cause to reunite mother and son. And Jim didn't want to play. Resisting the urge to hurl the half-empty iced tea glass at the wall, Jim returned to the kitchen to find some aspirin. He fought the childproof cap before swallowing three white pills.

He checked his watch.

It was too early to think about dinner, but he needed something to keep his hands busy, and his mind off his faults. Taking two potatoes that Grace hadn't used for the soup, he scrubbed the skin, pierced them with baking nails before slathering on butter and wrapping one in foil for Blair and set his on the baking pan bare. He liked scooping out the cooked part and munching the crispy skin with an unhealthy helping of butter.

He wandered around the main floor listening to the water pipes supplying Blair's shower. When the water shut off, Jim panicked. It was time to clean the grill. He called himself a coward as he scraped charred bits of food off the wire rack with a long-handled tool he had found. There was a red and black barbecue out back, briquettes and lighter fluid in a narrow shed tucked under the eaves of the house. He listed several reasons he didn't deserve Blair for a friend while he laid out the briquettes in orderly rows.

Making sure the cooker was well away from the side of the house; he doused the pile of black pillows with lighter fluid and tossed on a match. Flames licked up through the grill.

After he was sure the white edges of the briquettes were not figments of his imagination, he squared his shoulders, straightened his back and went inside. His plan was simple; beg for forgiveness.

He climbed the stairs with resolution and found he'd been granted a reprieve. Blair was sound asleep on his bed, his hair still wrapped in a towel.

Jim went back outside to poke at the burning charcoal with a stick.

During the night Blair threw up again, which was unexpected because he'd never eaten dinner. Jim listened to his friend being sick in the bathroom. No bolting from the bed followed by a mad rush, Blair had calmly woken up, walked across the room, and closed the door.

The door reopened. Blair closed the door behind him, leaving most of the sour smell trapped in the tiny room for the ceiling fan to deal with and returned to bed without a comment.

"Do you want anything?" Jim asked as he watched his friend settle the blankets around him in the darkness before lying down.

"No, thanks."

When the early sun revealed the beginnings of another hot day, Blair had a low grade fever. He drank juice, gnawed half heartedly on toast before rolling toward the wall with a yawn.

The plan to leave that day was scrapped.

Frustrated, Jim committed random acts of housework. The windows sparkled, the corners of the floor hid no dirt, and the countertops smelled pleasantly of orange cleaner. Tired of his blitz clean, Jim made a sandwich from thin slices from the steak he'd been unable to eat last night - Blair's still waited for him in the refrigerator.

He checked on his partner who was still asleep. His hand hovering above Blair's forehead, Jim declared the fever gone. Perhaps they could pack up this afternoon and leave. Feeling ancient, Jim descended the staircase. He wrapped his lunch in a paper towel, grabbed a water bottle and headed outside. He'd get some exercise, clear his head and find a shady spot further up the canyon to eat lunch. He liked the view it offered. A solitary rock formation, shaped like a rooster's comb, rose out of the flat desert floor.

A bird, similar to the one Jim had seen earlier, rode a warm air current to earth and landed a few feet away. Jim pitched out a corner of his bread and watched the small creature investigate it. They enjoyed their meal in quiet companionship. Halfway through his sandwich Jim heard the familiar sound of Grace's large car. He leaned back against the solid tree trunk and chewed his steak.

Somewhere during his life he'd stopped thinking of her as his mother, just Grace. It was beyond weird to see her now and compare her with his memory of those years when she had lived with them. He had mental pictures of her packing lunchboxes - he had Bonanza and Stephen had Flipper - and planning Dad's work-related dinner parties. There had been rare moments of family unity, and Jim had guarded those memories in his heart like the national treasure. He had caught the chicken pox. The doctor had fussed because the spots actually got into his mouth. Jim remembered the way Grace... his mother... had remained at his side for days, feeding, reading, soothing, keeping a small boy from getting scared.

Sadness filled him. Damn. It never failed. His brain tried to reconcile that memory of his mother with the memory of waking up to learn she disappeared from his life without explanation.

Enough.

Jim stood and briskly dusted off his shorts.

During the walk back to the cabin, he made plans. They'd pay Grace for whatever they owed and head south. Blair was probably good enough to travel, if not today then first light tomorrow.

The Cadillac was parked in its normal place, looking dusty and overdue for a bath. He entered through the kitchen and found Grace at the stove. The ageless scent of tea filled the place. She was making another batch of ice tea, starting with steeping several tea bags over a low flame into a concentrate she diluted later with ice water.

"Morning," Jim greeted as he tossed the empty water bottle under the sink and washed his hands.

"Good morning." Grace wore dark tan shorts ending at her knees and a soft button-up blouse that looked expensive yet well worn. "Blair told me you two were leaving."

"That's right," Jim answered. His senses sought out his partner and found him upstairs. "Thought he'd sleep all day."

"I found him in the kitchen."

"I hope you got him to eat."

She nodded and turned off the flame. "He didn't want to at first, but I tempted him with a fresh fruit smoothie. He took it up with him. Even took all the berries I made it with."

"Good." Jim watched her pour dark amber tea into the pitcher. "He got sick again last night and had a fever this morning."

"I didn't feel one," she said, shrugging sheepishly, as if admitting a minor transgression. "Once a nurse, always a nurse. He said I reminded him of you."

Jim's gaze fell on a small purplish spot on his previous pristine countertop. His senses responded, acting on their own accord. Smell piggybacked sight and he sniffed the summery scent of fruit. What was that? Jim dipped a finger and licked. Grace twisted a tray of ice cubes and began pulling them out one at a time to drop into her ice tea pitcher.

"You made a smoothie?" Jim asked suddenly.

"A yogurt and fruit drink, with blended ice," she answered.

Jim pulled the trashcan from under the sink. A pint sized plastic carton with a hinged lid sat on top. "Not blueberries?"

"Yes, he said he loved them. They were washed." She was talking to herself as Jim bolted from the kitchen.

Jim could hear Blair scrambling for the bathroom before he could make the top of the stairs, the bathroom with a lock on the door.

"Sandburg!" Jim bellowed.

The door slammed.

Shit. Jim pounded it with a fist. "Open up. Now!"

"Jim, calm down," Blair answered through the door.

The door had a hollow core. Without thinking, Jim rammed it with his shoulder and the frame splintered. The edge hit Blair's shoulder and he fell backwards to land onto the closed seat of the toilet.

"What were you thinking?" Jim shouted.

Blair bolted back to his feet, his expression hard and mean. He shoved, catching Jim off balance. "Stop pushing me around, Jim!" Blair shouted back, his face red.

Jim blocked the access to the stairs with his body.

"You are not this stupid," Jim demanded. "Tell me you didn't eat them."

"Jim?" Grace stood uncertainly at the third stair from the top, her hand shaking as it gripped the hand rail.

"I don't have to tell you anything," Blair shouted back. He took a step forward and tried to shove Jim a second time.

Jim braced hard and curled his lips back into a feral grin when Blair failed.

"God damn you!" Blair swung a fist.

"Blair!" Grace snapped.

At the last possible second, Blair terminated the punch. His eyes widened with shame. He drew a shattered breath and turned away.

Jim's anger died in self contempt. What the hell was he trying to prove here?

"Sandburg," Jim whispered. "How much did you eat?"

"All of it."

"Oh, God." Grace swayed. "He's allergic?"

"Sort of," Jim admitted.

Blair looked miserable.

Jim closed the front door, muffling the sound of the departing Cadillac. It had taken imaginative explanations, a promise to fix the bathroom door, carefully worded assurances and repeated guarantees that no more fights would break out to get her to leave. The fact that she still blamed herself was evident. That couldn't be helped right now. Jim had other problems to worry about.

Like guides who have taken total leave of their senses.

Deep in examination of his thumb nail, Blair didn't look up. Jim stood, uncertain for a moment how to proceed. Screaming had nearly gotten him punched out. Time for a new tactic.

"Was it to get back at me?" Jim asked. "Because of what I said yesterday?"

That was answered with a quick shift of gaze, then back to the thumbnail. Blink and miss it.

Jim pressed on. "I said I was sorry. What, that doesn't cut it with you anymore?"

"See?" Blair sprang up, suddenly vocal and animated. "You turn it around so you're the wounded party here. You called me a freaking `mutant'!"

"I know!" Jim yelled back. "I screwed up! I can admit that. What's the deal? When did you start hurting yourself to punish me for being an idiot? When did you get so thin-skinned?"

Color leached from Blair's face. His eyes eclipsed with bottomless darkness. The fight seemed to evaporate. "You..." He swallowed and shook his head.

For a second Jim thought he was fighting to breathe and he got scared. "Chief?"

Inhaling harshly, Blair forced the words out. "You... are the last person... I have left. You leave and-"

Jim cursed. "You imbecile." It was Jim's turn to shake his head. "I'm not leaving. Not without you, anyway."

Blair looked unconvinced.

Shit. Jim slowly wiped his mouth. Perhaps it was time to come clean. He felt like a kid confessing to swiping a baseball card from a corner store, unsure now why he had done it.

And maybe that's what was so `off' about these last few days. From the moment he had seen Grace standing in that doorway, Jim had felt caught in some time loop from his childhood. Blair's underlying insecurity had to be caused by what Jim was feeling. He shook his head. "This is my fault, Sandburg. I forget that we're hard wired together."

Expectantly silent, Blair said nothing.

Jim pressed on, feeling lost in an unfamiliar territory. He paced the length of the room. "I haven't been totally honest with you. Grace is not an old friend of your mother's."

"Naomi wouldn't send us to a total stranger," Blair reasoned, sounding weary.

At least they had stopped screaming at each other.

"I agree." Jim stopped. He tilted this head back and searched the high ceiling as he considered his words. "Grace is my mother."

Blair's eyes bugged out. "What?"

Flipping his hand casually, Jim repeated himself. "Grace is my mother. She left us when we - me and my kid brother - were young."

Blair pointed at the closed front door. "Grace... that woman that just left here, is your mother," he asked, as if testing his words for a proper fit.

"That's right."

"And you didn't tell me."

Jim exhaled loudly, puffing his cheeks. He offered his best `I'm clueless' expression' and a timid smile.

Digging his hands deep into his hair and lifting his face upward as if to gaze toward heaven, Blair cursed quietly. "Damnit, Ellison. What am I going to do with you?" he asked finally. Tight shoulders slouched. He crabbed sideways to drop onto the sofa.

Jim waited for Blair to process. He'd probably make a few cracks about how repressed and fear-based some people could be and they'd move on.

But Blair was silent, too silent.

Nearly comatose.

"Sandburg?"

No answer.

Jim squatted down in front of the sofa. He laid a hand on Blair's arm. No response. His head back, his eyes closed, Blair didn't appear asleep. Jim lightly patted a pale cheek.

"Blair?"

"Mmm?"

"What's wrong? Open your eyes."

Blair obeyed, to a point. He peered back through twin slits of blue. "You're all glowy."

"I'm glowing? Is everything glowing?"

Blair lazily looked about the room, not moving his head. "Yeah. Wazzup?"

Jim tried not to panic. "Let's lay you down." He quickly shifted and repositioned Blair, doing all the work.

But the new position seemed to frighten rather than help. Blair struggled. "No, no. It's all wrong. Jim, it's wrong. Oh, god, man."

"Settle down," Jim instructed, keeping his own panic tamped down.

"Far away, everything is far away." Blair's fingers were like steel talons on Jim's wrist. "Don't go."

"I'm not." Jim moved to sit at Blair's side. It seemed to help some. "You need to lie down."

Blair didn't resist so much this time, as long as Jim's arms were around him. Blair let Jim push him down until he was more or less draped over Jim's legs.

That's when the seizure hit.

The memory returned in spades.

Jim had snatched the back sofa cushion next to him. He used it to the best of his ability to keep Blair from getting hurt. But you can't restrain a person in a Grand Mal seizure. Not the massive type Blair had just experienced. It hadn't lasted long, maybe three minutes at most.

It only seemed like a lifetime.

Jim waited for a second seizure, knowing sometimes they occurred back-to-back. His training on epilepsy was minimal. The army did cover it because the condition was sometimes caused by trauma, something they often saw. But why Blair? This had to be that damn ice-pick-brain surgery he had allowed back in Washington.

He used the hem of his own t-shirt to wipe a trail of saliva from Blair's mouth. His friend remained blessedly still in post-ictal stupor. Jim's own hands trembled as he lifted Blair carefully by his shoulders so he could move out from underneath. He used the cushion to prop Blair comfortably on the sofa arm and straightened the younger man's arms and legs. Eyes closed, Blair showed all the life of a string-less puppet.

Jim sat on the coffee table, his knees pressed against the sofa and waited.

When the narrow light beam from an upper window reached the base of the floor lamp next the sofa, Blair groaned. Jim leaned forward, watching the eyelids twitch.

"Sandburg? You there?" Jim checked the other man's carotid pulse, finding it within normal range and strength.

"Nnnnugh."

Confusion often followed seizure. Jim tried not to think the worst. Blair would be fine. His body would process the effects of the blueberry and he'll be back to normal.

Blair sniffed, rotated his head toward Jim and opened his eyes. "Mornn..."

Jim forced his worries aside. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

Blair yawned, his jaw cracked. He closed his eyes again. "Mixin' parkway... vacuum the cable, man," he muttered.

"Riight." Jim stood up. His back protested stiffly and he bowed his spine to force a stretch. "Why don't you sleep a while?"

"'kay." Blair began to snore.

When the sun sank, Jim covered Blair with a light blanket, ate Blair's steak cold, and climbed the stairs to sleep.

Fire that shrink-wrapped skin to bone, wind that tossed Jeeps around like feathers, running until lungs wanted to burst from use, all these thoughts wove in and out of Blair's head like a net snaring his reality. It was unpleasant. Blair wanted it to stop.

He opened his eyes and saw a strange room. Spikes of fear speared his chest.

"Jim?" He rose painfully on one elbow, rolling on his hip to look for his roommate.

"Coming, Sandburg," a familiar voice called from above.

This was not the loft. Blair traced his dry lips with his equally dry tongue. Jim appeared, jogging down a set of foreign stairs. He wore boxers and a muscle t-shirt. The room was dark, as though a bad storm had moved in and covered Cascade entirely.

"You okay?"

Hell, no, Blair wanted to say. He was not okay; he was starting to freak out. He couldn't stop looking around the strange house. "W-where? Am I? What's happenin'?

"Wait a sec." Jim held up a hand, walking by him to go into an attached kitchen. A refrigerator light cast a bright yellow light on the linoleum floor at Jim's bare feet. Jim was back with a chilly water bottle. He twisted off the cap before offering it.

The water chased away the dryness, but didn't clear the confusion.

"We're staying in a house in Arizona. We're safe. What do you remember?" Jim asked. He perched on the edge of a coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"My head hurts," Blair admitted.

"Understandable."

"What happened?"

Jim paused. "What do you remember?"

Blair rubbed his forehead, fighting the irritation growing. Was Jim purposely being a jerk?

A cuckoo clock sounded from the kitchen.

"Grace," Blair blurted out suddenly.

Jim smiled. He slumped a little, as if some weight had been lifted from his shoulders and patted Blair's knee. "Hungry?"

Stirring the lumpy, taupe colored Cream of Wheat absentmindedly, Blair cleared his throat. "You know, man. You can't keep this up. I'm remembering more and more about yesterday. You said Grace is your mother. You told me that. So tell me the rest."

"Finish eating first," Jim answered patiently, like a damn parrot.

"I'm starting to get pretty pissed off." Blair's eyes narrowed as he turned to the man sitting on the stool next to his. "Didn't you say I needed to stay calm? If that's the plan, it's not working." He pushed the half-eaten bowl of cereal away and leaned back from the breakfast bar.

Hunger strike.

"You're acting about five years old," Jim told him. "You realize that, right?"

"Tell. Me. What. Happened." Blair crossed his arms for good measure.

"You had a seizure."

"What!" Blair's heart did a full triple somersault, hitting every rib on its tumble.

Jim sat calmly, spooned porridge into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Blair wanted to shake him. But... if Jim could remain calm, maybe this wasn't so bad.

"Seizure?" Blair could hear the squeak in his voice. "Are you sure? Shouldn't I remember it?"

"I'm sure and no, most often a seizure patient doesn't remember them."

"I'm not a seizure patient."

Jim lifted one eyebrow. "You are now. Want to tell me why you stuffed a pint of blueberries into your cake hole?"

Blair ground his molars and fumed, recognizing `high and mighty' Ellison had arrived again. "You go first, why didn't you tell me Grace was your mother?"

Neither man spoke. Jim finished his porridge and let the spoon clatter into the bowl. He propped both elbows on the countertop and formed a steeple with his fingertips. Blair watched him flex his digits like a spider on a mirror doing pushups.

"I should have seen the breakup coming," Jim said as if they'd been in the middle of some lighthearted conversation. "She and my old man were barely speaking with each other, except when they were at a dinner party. Pop was all about work."

Blair didn't breathe; afraid the distraction would shut Jim up.

"Her eyes were always red when we got home from school. She never said anything. Then one Saturday, we woke up and she was gone." Jim picked up his bowl, reached over and took Blair's half full bowl and stood up.

"How old were you?" Blair asked quietly when Jim was at the sink and it looked like he wasn't going to get any more.

"Eleven, maybe twelve." Jim shrugged. "Stephen wouldn't stop crying. Dad was pissed. The neighbors gave us funny looks a lot. Once I heard Pop on the phone with her, trying to get her to visit us."

Blair tried to picture it. He couldn't.

"She never came back," Jim said after the bowls were rinsed, washed, and draining on a dish towel next to the sink. He turned, leaned against the sink and folded his arms. "Then, about six months later, Pop said she was dead, killed in a car crash somewhere in Florida. Stephen finally stopped crying himself to sleep."

"Why would your dad lie like that? Say she was dead?"

Jim scratched the bridge of his nose. "Maybe he thought we needed closure, I don't know."

Closure.

Because a mother refused to come and visit her own sons. Blair thought about Naomi. She would have moved heaven and earth to get to her son. The real difficulty was merging Jim's version of his mother with what Blair had felt when he'd picked up the old memory from Grace. Granted, Blair had been sick with a fever at the time, but he clearly picked up her deep affection for Jim.

"Your turn," Jim said.

Blair looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"You said if I went first, you'd tell me why you ate the blueberries."

"Oh." Blair crossed his arms, figured he looked stupid that way, dropped them and didn't like that either. He stood up, suddenly restless and feeling trapped.

The living room drapes were open. Sedona landscape, raw and prehistoric looking was on display in the early morning light. The view clarified his thoughts. "I was being stupid. I got it in my mind I could control it. Pick the memories I wanted to forget."

"You know you can't." Jim had entered the living room and stood a few feet back, off to one side.

Blair could feel Jim's gaze on him before he turned to share the view. "I know, but I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time."

"You were pissed at what I said."

"I thought I got to tell this."

"So, talk."

One edge of Blair's mouth curled. Jim was a huge advocate of tough love. This would be as close to an apology as he was going to get. Still, it was Jim saying it and that made it enough.

"Yeah, I was pissed. But I'm okay now."

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Jim stepped up to stand at Blair's shoulder. "I guess I lost it a little when you started to talk about her past."

"See, Jim. That's just it." Blair turned to face his friend. "She really, really cares for you. I could feel it, man. She was sad about something, but it wasn't you."

"I don't know, Sandburg. She did a decent job of cutting all ties with us." Jim pierced him with a sad look. "She had every legal right to shared custody. Why didn't she take it?"

The Jeep was loaded with their belongings. The house had been cleaned, the bedding washed. They had waited for Grace to appear at her normal time, around eleven, but she never came. Jim had the front door key in his pocket. They would drop it off at the yarn store on the way out of town, along with enough cash to have the bathroom door professionally repaired.

Blair hadn't had any more seizures and Jim was counting on none, at least until they reached Mexico. He'd continued to take the antibiotics and it seemed to be helping. Getting medical help for the seizure would be much easier across the border. Decent fake ID could get them whatever they needed.

And if they needed new names, Jim still had his contacts.

Blair rubber-necked like a tourist, soaking in the view during the ride down from the red cliff foothills. The windows were down, the warm air felt soothing. In a few hours it would be uncomfortable. The road cut along a steep slope, then would drop into a dry wash and connect with a two lane paved road.

"If Grace isn't at the shop, we should ask where she lives and see her before we go," Blair said out of the blue.

"No point," Jim answered. "She's better off not knowing."

"Jim."

"Sandburg," Jim said firmly. "Don't go there."

Mouth set in a firm frown, Blair turned back to the view. "Wait a second!" He twisted around to look backwards, his head out the window. "Stop!"

Jim stomped the brakes. "What? Sandburg! Get back inside!"

But Blair was out of the seatbelt, the door left open as road dust floated in. Jim yanked the emergency parking brake lever up with a curse and popped his own seatbelt open. He got out in time to watch the top of Blair's curly head drop over the side of the road.

"What the hell?" Jim extended his hearing as he jogged to where Blair had disappeared. Hundreds of pebbles and rocks dislodged by Blair's descent down the steep bank sounded like heavy rain on a metal roof. Reaching the edge, Jim took one look and threw himself after Blair without hesitation.

Blair reached the battered side of the white Cadillac and yelled back. "She's still inside!"

Jim already knew that. He surfed the loose dirt while listening to the weak heartbeat. He reached Blair's side in time to help him wrench open the passenger door. Grace was slumped over the seat, still in her belt. Her hair was matted with blood where her left temple had hit the driver's window. The tick of the engine told Jim the crash had been recent, on the drive up to the cabin. If he'd been alert, he would have heard it, would have known. Instead he'd been more wrapped up in what was happening inside the cabin. Thank God Blair was on the ball. Had he seen tire marks over the side?

"Can we move her?" Blair asked as he leaned over Jim's bent back, trying to help in the crowded space.

"Not a good idea." Jim slid out. "You stay with her. I'll take the Jeep to the nearest phone and call for help."

Blair nodded, looking scared but game.

Without looking back, Jim scrambled up the steep bank on all fours.

A hospital waiting room in Arizona looked alarmingly similar to those in Western Washington. Was it a rule? Did a board of directors exist for the designing, building and monitoring of waiting rooms? Is there a fine issued if someone actually had a creative brain cell and the courage to use it? Tinted walls? Comfortable chairs? Decent coffee?

"Sandburg." Jim leaned back in the grey plastic chair, his head against the taupe painted wall. "Would you sit down? I can hear the squeaky wheels turning in your head from here. Give the gerbil a rest."

Blair dropped heavily into the matching chair at Jim's side. "Why are they taking so long?" he whined.

"She's awake," Jim whispered, his head tilted. He continued the play-by-play, his eyes unfocused. "She's going to need stitches. They took the C-collar off. X-rays are clear. Sounds like she knows the doctor that's treating her."

Blair frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't ask," Jim answered. He relented. "Seriously, Chief, she's just now being told." He nodded to the doorway. "Ready?"

"No!" Blair couldn't believe Jim was considering leaving. The Jeep sat in the hospital parking lot, still loaded and ready. "We can't just go, Jim."

Anything Jim might have answered with was cut off with a loud commotion.

"MOM!" A young man burst through the door, a tired looking woman with a name badge pinned on her bright red vest ran along in his wake. The man looked mid-twenties, but moved in uncoordinated, jerky motions of someone much younger. "Mom!"

"David!" The woman caught up with the distraught man. "Calm down, right now."

The authoritative manner seemed to achieve a minimal improvement, but David still vibrated with tension. Blair chewed his lip as he thought. Tall and muscular, the guy had brown hair cut just over his ears and a square jaw. He looked familiar.

"We'll just ask Doctor Emory, okay? Everything will be okay." The woman urged David aside, closer to the waiting room area. "You sit here and wait for me."

"Hey," Blair stood. "I'm Blair. I'll sit with you. Okay, David?"

"Blair?" The man pinned him with frightened blue eyes.

"Yeah." Blair swallowed hard, a ghost of a theory taking root. "Are you here to see Grace, too?"

Jim gasped, looking pole axed.

The red vested woman patted David's shoulder. "I'm going back to see your Mom. You wait here with..."

"Blair."

"Right." She smiled in appreciation. "Thank you."

Jim slowly rose from his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the newcomer. "Hey, David? I want you to meet Jim. Jim, this is David."

Pulling his gaze from the departing red-vested woman, David looked at Jim. Side by side, Blair was convinced there was a strong resemblance between the two. Jim's bewildered expression was nearly painful to observe.

"My mom is here. She was hurt," David blurted fearfully. His hands trembled as fingers caught the cloth of his dark grey T-shirt. He clutched and released the cotton fabric repeatedly.

Jim cleared his throat, as if talking was suddenly painful. "S-she going to be okay. She'll be just fine."

"You know my mom?" David asked Jim, eyes wide with innocence.

"No, not really." Jim swallowed hard. He glanced toward the treatment room.

Grace cried.

Her reaction as the three men entering her treatment room caused the woman in the red vest and a tall, snow-haired doctor to react with concern. After they realized Grace wasn't in pain, they allowed David to all but climb onto the narrow little bed. Grace held him close. Her hands moved in soothing motions over his back and finger-combing his hair as silent tears washed down her pale cheeks. David snuggled close, mesmerized by the white bandage wrapped around the woman's head.

"I'm not being admitted," Grace said after the doctor and David's guardian left. She had finally convinced the young man in her arms to stand by her bed. He grasped her hand in both of his. "We could go to my house. I'll explain."

Jim stood slightly behind Blair, not willing to stand too close to the woman or her son. Part of him did not want to hear her explanation. Another part did.

And still another part wanted to kick a hole in the sheetrock.

"You don't have to explain anything," Jim stated crisply.

"Jim." Blair looked back with disapproval.

Jim lifted his chin. He didn't need to justify his actions with anyone. "I'm glad you're okay. We're thankful for all you've done." He reached into his pocket. "Here's the key."

Why did she look like that? Surely she could appreciate his position. She kept secrets. He kept secrets. It appeared to run in the family.

"Do you like Hot Tamales?" David asked Jim suddenly. He turned loose his mother's hand and reached into a roomy pants pocket and removed a squished box. "They're not really hot, just sorta hot." He blushed, suddenly shy. "I can't eat spicy hot much. But I like these."

Blair rocked on his toes. "So you're careful not to eat spicy foods? How about salty? Does that bother you? Do your clothes bother you too sometimes?"

"Sandburg!" Jim snapped.

Blair had the decency to look guilty.

"Grace?" The woman in the red vest was back. "I've got to leave, honey. I'm sorry I can't stay, but its Mike's night out."

Grace Ellison managed a weary smile. "That's fine, Julie. We'll manage. Right, Davy?"

"Right!" Her son popped a hot tamale in his mouth and chewed. "Mom's okay. She's got a bandaid and everything, like when I fell and Doctor E gave me a cast on my leg." He patted his knee.

Julie grinned. "That's right. I remember, Davy. You were very brave." She turned to Blair. "Thank you again for your help." She waved at the room in general before leaving.

Grace's good cheer ran out of steam. "Jim? I could use your help. Could you and Blair get us home?"

Jim felt trapped.

After borrowing a car from one of the nurses, because everyone wanted to help Grace and David, Jim drove the Jeep with David chattering away in the passenger seat, while Blair led the way driving a blue Ford Explorer with Grace resting comfortably in the back seat. Blair had strict orders to stay on side roads and pull over the second he felt funny. Those orders had been delivered in a harsh, `Do not give me crap, Sandburg' whisper. Thankfully, Blair nodded, seeming to know Jim wasn't in the mood for an argument.

Grace's home was a single story rambler with adobe-like walls and a roof of curved red tiles. Grace walked carefully with David on one arm and Blair on the other. Jim carried a bag of medication and instructions from the hospital. The flagstone entryway led to a spacious living room with a free standing white fireplace and expensive, but comfortable sectional sofas. A long row of windows offered a panoramic view of Sedona and a backdrop of red cliffs. The casual clutter of large picture books, a dinosaur puzzle and a congealed bowl of tomato soup sitting on a small table near a sunny alcove told the story of an interrupted day.

"Do you want to lie down?" Blair asked the woman.

"Perhaps that would be best," she answered, looking ready to collapse. "I hate to ask ..."

"Don't even worry about it," Blair assured her as the threesome headed toward a hallway leading toward the back of the house. Blair's voice carried clearly. "You took care of us. We'll stay as long as you need us."

Shit.

A few minutes later Blair reappeared in the living room. Keeping busy, Jim had cleared the aborted lunch, stacking the dishes in the sink. He eyed his partner dubiously. Dinner time was upon them. The day at the hospital had been long and tedious, and Jim wasn't the one just getting over a serious bout with the flu.

"She's resting," Blair reported dully. He passed a hand over his face. "God, man. Where do we start?"

"You should be resting, too." Jim finished wiping the counter down with a paper towel. He wadded it up and tossed it under the sink into the garbage can before joining his friend. "Does she have a guest room?"

Spying Jim through splayed fingers, Blair shook his head. "You have a brother, Jim. We don't have time for resting. We need to make a plan. We need to talk to them. Explain the dangers. What if-"

"Whoa," Jim cut him off. "Check that talk at the door, Sandburg. We're not explaining anything. We're not going to be around long enough to explain anything."

"But," Blair started, throwing both hands up, palms out.

"No." Jim crossed his arms. A movement caught his eye, ending the conversation. "I mean, it. Not a word." He jerked his chin toward David, who had joined them.

"Mom says... I can show you the visitor room." David ducked his chin, mumbling the last part of his message.

"That would be great, David," Jim said. "Blair needs to lie down."

Blair shot him a fury-filled scowl.

Soft snores came from the queen-sized bed. Blair probably had intended to stretch out just long enough to pacify. Jim smiled as he closed the door softly and joined his younger brother...

God, his brother.

David was cramming peanut butter crackers into his mouth. Orange crumbs cascaded down his T-shirt. He was curled among large floor pillows in one corner of the living room that was obviously his own. A modest TV with a built in VCR sat on a low table. David's taste in videos ranged from Star Wars to Veggie Tales. But the TV was dark. The man-child's attention was captured by a large picture book of whales. Jim zoomed in on the spine and saw that it had been checked out from the Sedona city library.

"You hungry?" Jim asked.

David peered over the top of the book. "You know how to make smores?"

This guy had a serious sweet tooth.

"Nice try, pal. I'm thinking a sandwich to tide you over." Jim used all his covert ops training to keep from chuckling.

"Yeah but," David argued calmly as he unfolded and stood up, making a bee line for the kitchen and ducking in front of Jim where the rounded arched doorway joined the two rooms. The kitchen had a sandstone-colored tile floor and gray granite countertops. "A smore is sorta like a sandwich, only marshmallow for jelly and chocolate for peanut butter."

"You'll like my fried egg sandwich." Jim let him go first, but intended to watch him like a hawk. Who knew how far this kid was intending to milk his newly perceived role as host.

David stopped to turn and gaze in wonder at the older, taller man. "Eggs in a sandwich? Makes a mess."

A grin slipped past the wounded pride. Jim lowered his voice to a conspirator's whisper. "Not if I do my job right, and you eat it exactly the way I tell you to."

David's blue eyes widened. His mouth formed a perfect letter `o'.

He woke with a brief feeling of panic before the last twenty-four hours came rushing back. The dark room he was in belonged to Grace, Jim's mom.

His body had been swapped with someone else's. Only this new body had rusted joints and inferior parts. How could Blair feel so tired? He'd logged more sleep in one week than he had in a month.

Cool air slipped under the blanket as Blair rose to fumble for the switch on the base of the bedside lamp. With a click a soft light filtered through a lampshade made from heavy-grade paper that held bits of fern and flower petals trapped in its fibers.

Blair's duffle bag sat on an upholstered chair and Blair dressed in clean sweats before wandering out to search for a toilet. After relieving his bladder, he pressed on, passing a half opened door and seeing David asleep, peaceful and innocent in his bed. Bathed in the blue glow of a `Superman' nightlight, the man lay on his back, his covers to his shoulders and tucked in.

Blair smiled knowingly.

The view from the living room was amazing. Sedona lay like a sea of sparkling diamonds in black velvet. The lights of the city hugged the contours of the desert, looking like waves running to the shore. Blair tore his attention away from the windows and spotted Jim sprawled over the sofa, a light throw over his legs. One arm off the cushion, his knuckles dragged the carpet. His neck looked uncomfortably tilted against a throw pillow designed more for looks than comfort.

Wake him up and let him have the bed for a while or let him sleep? Blair was wide awake and hungry. There was no point in letting a perfectly good bed go to waste. But, on the other hand, Jim always managed to sleep no matter where he lay his head.

Blair let sleeping sentinels lie and tiptoed for the kitchen to hunt for something to fill his empty belly. His scavenging found a decent selection of cold cereal. Pouring milk over granola, Blair one handedly balanced the bowl and ate as he wandered over the rest of the house. There was another hallway he had not explored. Blair opened the door to the house's attached garage. Grace had turned it into an exercise room, complete with floor mats and professional quality machines like a person could get at a fitness club. Another door opened to an office.

With a computer.

Blair hurried over, sure that Grace wouldn't mind. He settled into the leather chair and set his bowl on a glass covered desk. He waited happily for the machine to finish its boot-up. A light touch to his shoulder caused him to jump.

"No."

How did Jim do that? Walk without making any noise?

"You're supposed to be asleep, man," Blair complained, seeing his chance for a little internet time going down the drain.

Jim settled in a comfortable reading chair next to the desk. His face still wrinkled from sleep, he leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, left hand clasping his right fist. "Do you know how they were able to find us in Kansas?" he whispered softly.

Blair shook his head.

"Internet."

"What?"

Jim nodded. "Naomi said they nearly caught up with us in Denver. They're watching the net, probably tapping into some search engine. They look for anyone going to medical sites involving..." Jim pointed toward his own temple.

Suddenly breakfast felt like steel ball bearings in his stomach.

He caused...

Blair felt lightheaded. He dug the heels of his palms into his closed eyelids. Memories popped and flashed in stark relief.

The kidnappings.

Jim having to rescue him.

Naomi's agent getting killed.

Dead.

Groaning, Blair slipped out of the chair, landing hard on his knees. Fingers dug into the plush carpet fibers. "Oh, God."

And Jim was at his side in an instant. "Don't, Blair."

Blair dropped his head. "My fault. MY fault."

Visions of the British agent on the ground rose. Blair smelled the sharp tang of gunfire, felt the sticky warm blood on his hands, as if it had just happened. A harsh sob broke. He couldn't seem to pull fresh air into his lungs.

Jim was talking, the meaning of his words diluted beyond understanding, swallowed whole by self accusations, sea waves absorbing the falling rain.

Snapped upright, Blair's head rocked as Jim shook him hard, hands catching his shoulders like a vise. The treatment cleared away the clouds. Jim's words became crystal clear.

"I mean it, Sandburg. Knock it off."

Before Blair could form a single word, Jim continued.

"We don't have the luxury for this crap. You did not cause that man's death. We're not responsible. The bastard who strapped you to that table is, and the SOBs he gets his orders from. Got it?"

Blair looked at his own fingers; he had two fistful holds of Jim's T-shirt. Jim didn't seem to notice. Blair tightened his hold, wishing he could share Jim's belief, feel the way his sentinel felt.

He couldn't.

Somehow, Jim knew it, too. Maybe Blair's expression gave it away. Jim's mouth screwed into a deep frown and Blair braced himself for another bout of rough treatment.

But Jim did the opposite. Fingers relaxed and Jim moved his hands up to gently cup either side of Blair's neck. The older man's expression softened and grew sad.

"Blair, I know this is hard. But this is our life. You're not just an observer anymore. You're not the anthropologist. You're a part of my world and - I know this part is a real bitch - but you're valuable to some pretty shitty people. You have to accept that without instantly taking responsibility for all the bad things that result from it. Capiche?"

It couldn't be that simple. Blair rocked in place a second or two before dropping to sit on his heels, feeling too emotionally wrung out to answer. Jim's hands lightly massaged his shoulders. The touch gave something to focus on. If this was the real world, then Blair wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of it.

The desert dawn broke unobserved.

David was an early riser.

Jim successfully talked him out of eating a bowl of ice cream for breakfast. They ate French toast with ham on the side. Grace's kitchen held a decent supply of food. Jim made sure the table was full, yet every attempt to get Blair to join them was turned down. Jim gave up. It was disconcerting to see the normally expressive man sitting still on a chair with nothing in his hands. The view of Sedona apparently had his complete attention.

"You know what today is?" David's chin had a light coating of maple syrup.

Jim thought. "Wednesday?"

"It's justmeandmom day," he explained, leaning shyly over his plate.

Jim broke the multi-syllabled word into understandable parts. "You and your mom... you mean that other lady doesn't come on Wednesdays?"

"Miss Julie." David licked syrup off his finger, then wiped his hand on his T-shirt. "Nope."

Great. Jim had planned on leaving this morning, after the caregiver arrived and he knew Grace was awake. He had hoped the open road and the thrill of Mexico would bring his partner out of his current funk.

"Is she coming on Thursday?"

A delighted grin told the truth before David answered. "Nope."

Perfect. Now they were looking at two more days in Sedona. "So what do you and your mother do when Miss Julie is away?"

David rolled his eyes upward in thought, giving Jim a chance to study his brother. He had Stephen's well defined facial structures and soft hair, a hint of Grace around the eyes. If his wiring were plugged into the right receivers, David could easily cause any woman to turn her head in passing. Hell, maybe they still did.

"Still gotta pump," David said. He crooked his right arm, nearly stabbing his head with his fork and pulled his sleeve up to show a tanned bicep.

"You work out?"

"Pump. You. Up." David did a fair Arnold, accent and all.

"Then what? After you work out?" Jim couldn't help but grin.

His brother grew serious. "Mom's too sick. I'd better stay around the house. Right?" He crooked one eyebrow in a very `Ellison style', hopeful that he was wrong, but willing to do just that if he had to.

A nudge deep within his rib cage eased Jim's anxiety to hit the road. This kid was all right. Even with his limited ability to understand, he placed his own desires second to his responsibilities.

Jim speared the last bite of fried bread with his fork. "I'm sure we'll find stuff to do. Besides, I need a good work out. Maybe we can spot each other."

Whoever had showed David how to work out had known their stuff. The younger man was meticulous with his routine. Short sets and reps, he worked carefully, only chatting when his full concentration wasn't needed.

But when he talked, it was about anything; baseball, bird nests, TV programs, yellow marbles, chocolate sundaes, fossils, cars.

Jim listened with one ear still tuned to the main house. The morning warmed up and somewhere an air conditioning unit kicked in. Grace was still sleeping the sleep of pain killers.

And Blair's heartbeat remained stationary.

They took turns in the shower. Jim ran out of hot water halfway, but he didn't care. As he dressed, he heard his mother waking up. He finished quickly and slipped down the hall to open her bedroom door quietly, worried she might need assistance. He was just in time to see her weakly struggling with the covers.

"Morning." Jim moved in to help, getting her into a seated position, her legs over the edge of the mattress. She wore sky-blue pajamas. Her thin face looked thinner with the white bandage wrapped around her head, holding her bulky dressing in place.

She lifted a hand to her mussed hair. "Good morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Little stiff." She reached for the robe draped over the foot of her bed. Jim helped her slip it on. She tied the belt around her waist. Her face grimaced in pain with each movement. She was more than just sore. "How's David?"

"He's good. We just worked out, he's showered and watching TV." He steadied her with a hand on her elbow as she stood. "Careful. Take it slowly."

"The car went over that edge so fast, Jim," she said as she shuffled for the door. "A deer came out of nowhere. Did I hit it?"

"No, I don't think so." Jim hadn't smelled any blood but hers. "There was no carcass around."

"Good." They reached the living room. "I'll call my mechanic today, see what he-"

"MOM!" David bounded up from his floor pillows, the TV forgotten. He rushed to hug his mother, mindful of Jim's admonishment to take it easy. "You okay? Jim and I pumped iron together. I had French toast for breakfast. Gilligan and the skipper found a cave. Did you know that some whales have teeth?"

"Hey, honey." She returned his hug and patted his cheek. "You know what I'd like right now?"

"What?" He tilted his head and quieted instantly.

"Coffee and a nice chair. Can you help me find that?"

Leaving David and his mother to settle in, Jim went to the kitchen to start another pot of coffee. He spotted Blair outside, sitting on a bench under a shade tree. His continued isolation was not a good thing. Jim supervised David with the coffee detail and helped him prepare two pieces of dry wheat toast before going outside to join his partner and give mother and son some time alone.

"Hey."

Blair looked up wearily. "Hey."

"Better?" Jim took a seat on the bench.

The question landed a shrug.

The morning air seemed too warm for the time of day. In Cascade, they'd be wearing a sweatshirt for another hour. Arizona's climate took getting used to. Sedona was already awake. Cars navigated the roads below, ducking in and out from under shade trees. The roofs of the galleries, spas, office buildings and restaurants already shimmered with rising heat.

"We leaving for Mexico now?" Blair asked.

Turning to glance back through the picture window at Grace and David, Jim sighed. "We can't, Chief. Not until she's back on her feet."

The younger man lapsed back into his silent mode. Jim let it stretch for a few minutes before breaking it. "When she... first left us I figured it was something I did wrong or said."

Blair looked at Jim in surprise. "When Grace left?"

"Right." Jim shifted on the seat. The wooden slats bowed under the combined weight but held. "We used to argue. I was supposed to do these chores around the house. Nothing really, but I had football practice and stuff. Seems like I was always in trouble for not getting my chores done. I guess I was just bull-headed."

"Jim, you were only a kid, man. Naomi and I had some issues when I was that age. It's normal," Blair told him.

"Yeah, I suppose." Jim shrugged. "I thought I caused her to leave."

"Okay, I can see how a kid would think that. Your father set you straight, right?"

Jim's smile lacked humor. "He wasn't big on talking."

"You saw a counselor? Right?" Blair was aghast. He turned sideways. "You guys were rich, he had the dough. Tell me you and your brother got counseling!"

"Nope." Jim watched a jogger, a thirty-something man with a deep tan, appearing between the houses several streets down the hillside. A brindle colored boxer on a leash ran happily beside him. The sight made Jim long for his own running shoes.

Blair's fingers dug into Jim's forearm. "Shit, man. You're not at fault."

"I know that now, Freud." Jim grinned, warmed by the passionate emotion visible in the younger man's eyes, relieved to see any emotion there again. "It wasn't so bad."

"Like hell it wasn't." Blair crossed his arms. "When we get out of this mess, me and your dad are having -" A strangled, aborted choking sound ended the sentence.

"Sandburg?"

Blair's eyes were otherworldly, his posture rigid. Heartbeat and respirations quickened. He choked out a fearful, "J-jim."

Was this an aura to a seizure? God, they were surrounded by rocks and cactus out here. Jim quickly pulled Blair up and supported him down the pebbled path toward the house. He moved fast, hollering to the man and woman inside to open the door. Halfway there, Blair's strength gave up and he crumpled.

Back straining from the unexpected second workout of the day, Jim scooped up Blair's legs and lifted. David was standing, wide-eyed, at the open door. "Watch out," Jim ordered as he turned enough to get his body and Blair's through the opening. David stepped back, holding the door back.

"Jim?" Grace stood, leaning with a hand on the back of an upholstered chair. "What is it?"

"Seizure."

"The guest room," she ordered crisply.

Jim led the way, banging the bedroom door open using his knee. Jim planted a knee on the mattress and eased Blair down just as the seizure began.

Mother and two sons watched as the seizure brutalized the afflicted man, muscles spasmed and shook. The mattress softened the assault. The acidic smell of urine filled the room. Jim's heart fell. Blair would be horrified when he found out.

"Whew!" David pinched his nose, his face scrunched up.

"Davy, go get me a towel and washcloths, and your blue basin. Please fill it with soapy water," Grace softly ordered.

He was gone instantly.

"How long do they last?" Grace asked.

"About 90 seconds." The longest minute and a half in Jim's life.

"No, how long has he been epileptic?"

Jim glanced at his watch. "About twenty-four hours, plus a few."

First bewildered, then understanding struck and she swayed. "N-not the blueberries?"

Jim hadn't intended to saddle her with that guilt. She must have seen the truth on his face because she sank weakly into a nearby chair. Her hands shook as she covered her eyes. Jim turned away, watching Blair. The seizure was ebbing. He glanced at his watch. Less than a minute. "This is only his second and it's not as long. They might go away all together."

"He needs a doctor," she whispered in horror.

"No."

"Jim."

"No."

Blair shuddered a final time and it was over. Jim leaned over him, checking his temperature with a palm to the forehead. He evaluated his breathing rate and depth. He thumbed up first one eyelid, then the other, using his other hand to shade the open eye for a few seconds before pulling it away and watching the pupils react. "Equal and reactive, good blood flow, decent respirations. He's okay."

"You don't know that for sure, Jim. Seizures are serious signs of neurological disorder."

David entered balancing a basin of sudsy water, a wad of towels and washcloths under one arm. He set them down with exaggerated care on the bedside stand.

"Here, David. Give me a hand." Jim moved around to the other side and crawled out to the middle of the wide mattress. "I'll lift and you slid that towel underneath. Okay?"

After protecting the bedding, Jim started removing Blair's tennis shoes. Grace instructed David to `go watch any video he wished.' The young man lit up with pleasure, scuttling out the door without looking back. Grace tipped the wash cloth into the water and wrung it out.

"He's only allowed certain hours of TV," she explained. She joined Jim on the bed, Blair lay unresponsive between them. She paused, eyeing him sadly. "I remember Davy's seizures."

Gently lifting Blair's upper torso, Jim tucked him to his chest as he started lifting the hem of his sweatshirt. The T-shirt was next. Grace joined in. Blair's skin was sticky with sweat. Without hesitating, she wiped his back completely before Jim laid him back down.

"What happened to David?" Jim asked quietly.

Her answer was almost clinical, but Jim could read her heart and knew better. "He was only six. He was so active. Such a little explorer. We lived in the house you and Blair stayed in. I was working as a nurse in town and I had a woman watching him - part of her pay was room and board. It was cheaper than a daycare." She remoistened the cloth and started on Blair's chest.

Jim slid Blair's sweatpants and boxers down and off.

"He slipped away from her. We think he wandered too close to a cliff, there was an animal trail and he loved spotting deer and coyotes. He'd point them out to me, saying he could see them miles away."

Jim froze.

"It was amazing that the fall didn't kill him. The babysitter did everything perfectly. She kept him alive, elevated his upper body, managed his airway... but the head trauma was too extensive. The brain damage left him like this." She finished with Blair's arms. "Do you want me to..." She waved at Blair's lower regions.

"Please." Jim sat back and watched. Grace was efficient and thorough. She handled Blair with respect.

They rolled him on his side and Grace finished removing the signs of his earlier incontinence. She tossed the washcloth and the towel Jim and David had put underneath Blair to the floor. She took another clean washcloth and dunked it into the basin.

This woman had raised David, even with his injuries, even though she had been single. Her ring finger showed no signs of a restricting band. He didn't get it. She loved her son, this son. Why had she left her other two sons?

The mystery caused his insides to ache dully. Suddenly he wanted to know. He had to know. "Why did you leave?"

Her hands shook. She turned away to dunk the washcloth into the soapy water and squeezed it out. Jim studied her tense back and shoulders, half expecting her to slip off the bed and leave. She didn't. Turning back to face him, although her hands still trembled, she handed the cloth over.

"When I became pregnant with David," she explained quietly, "I knew I had to leave your father."

Jim washed Blair's knee, drawing out the task to give Grace the time she needed, hoping she would continue. It hurt to realize how much he wanted to hear this.

"Let me start from the beginning." She sat near Blair's head and stroked his long hair. "William and I made a mistake. I realize that now. But at the time, I was so excited to be part of a family, to have a role. My grandparents raised me. They were loving, but it was just the three of us. The idea of a large house with noisy boys... was like a dream come true."

The washcloth worked on each individual toe. Blair was overdue for a nail trim. Jim blinked, his vision growing blurry. What part of her life had she considered a mistake? His angry words returned to haunt him as his mind replayed that last time he'd seen her. Why had he bitched about taking out the stupid garbage?

"I'm sorry," Jim choked out.

Grace suddenly moved to sit at his side. "I'm the one that's sorry. You boys deserved so much better."

Jim endured her hug without returning it. It was almost funny to picture Blair's face had he woken, naked, to find Jim clutching his bare foot like a lifeline.

Grace dropped her arms, but remained near. She folded her hands in her lap. "I was going to leave your father anyway and get an apartment in Cascade. I planned to visit you and Stevie. I had a job lined up with the hospital again. I wanted you both in my life. Then I found out I was pregnant, everything changed."

Blair was clean. The entire sponge bath had not raised him from his post seizure sleep. The house's air-conditioning was causing goose bumps on Blair's arms and legs. Jim began the task of getting him under the covers. Grace helped. They rolled the blankets down along Blair's side, Jim moved the lax body over and they covered him up.

Eyeing Jim sadly, she shook her head. "You and Stevie had no part in my decision to leave." She struggled with the next sentence. "I loved you both very much."

Jim gave a curt nod, unable to look her in the eyes. "I'm going to sit with Sandburg for a while."

Grace left the room just as the silent tears spilled down her face.

Blair woke warm, confused, naked and cotton-mouthed. The fuzzy shape next to the bed he lay in sharpened into the image of a zoned sentinel. Jim had his chin resting on two cupped palms. He sat leaning forward, staring into space, his elbows planted on his knees, his slack face an empty billboard.

Rolling onto his side, groaning with the pain the effort caused, Blair tried to reach out. "J-jim."

The sentinel straightened, alert to his surroundings. "How you feeling?"

"Wha's wrong?" Blair slurred. The last thing he remembered was sitting outside on that bench. How'd everything change in a blink? Did he lose hours or days? Uncertainty made his heart hammer in his ribcage. God, his body hurt.

"You had another seizure," Jim explained calmly, sadly. He rubbed his forehead. "But not as long as the last one."

Falling back onto the bed, panic replaced his confusion. There was a pattern now: two episodes in two days. Shit, he was screwed. He'd known a girl with epilepsy; she lost her license to drive, the fits would hit without warning, embarrassing the hell out of her. All her friends had avoided her. She had to wear a medical alert tag. She had abandoned her dream of being a pilot.

It wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. Blair gulped air into his chest. He threw an arm over his eyes to keep Jim from seeing his tears.

"Can I get you anything?" Jim asked knowingly.

Calm. He had to remain calm.

"Thirsty," Blair managed to whisper. Hell, who was he kidding? He'd never hide anything from this guy. A swell of sadness swamped him like a rolling wave crashing into a small boat.

"Be right back," Jim promised as the sound of a door opened. "Just relax, Blair. Everything's going to be okay."

Great. Just great. Jim knew he was crying. Blair turned his back to the door and drew up his knees. The feel of the sheets on his skin reminded him he was nude. Jim had done this. And how had he ended up in the bed? Had Jim carried him?

`Wonderful, just label me a freaking liability,' he mentally cursed.

The intense sadness shackled his feelings and sank them into fathomless depths. A sob broke and Blair turned his face into the pillow to muffle the sound. No one would want him. Everyone left. No one cared. His mother called him a mistake.

Another sob wracked his sore body even as the startling realization hit. Blair rolled back to stare wide-eyed at the ceiling.

What the hell? Where were these emotions coming from?

The door opened and Jim was back with a glass of water.

Blair wiped angrily at the tears on his cheeks and lifted his shoulders, leaning his elbows. He forced his mind to settle and waited. Another towering wave of sadness swamped him. The blow was almost physical. It hurt.

"Jim!"

"What?" Jim answered, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"God, it's..."

How in God's name was he going to explain this? Blair struggled to sit up, the blankets falling to his hips. The unnaturally cold air on his back and butt caused him to shiver. It was like getting doused with cold reason.

If this feeling was coming from Jim...

"Sandburg," Jim growled, waiting for his answer.

"N-nothing." Focus, he had to get his shit together. He was useless to Jim with this emotional control of a two year old. Blair inched backwards to lean on against the headboard, one handedly bringing the blankets along. He was fully aware of Jim's close surveillance. It was like being under a high-powered microscope. "I'm just sore. That's all. Can I have that?"

Looking doubtful, Jim handed the water glass over.

In spite of her head injury, Grace had cooked a tasty dinner. She moved around her kitchen slowly. David had carefully set the table with four of everything they would need. He even had the paper napkins folded into perfect halves.

Blair was dressed and still acting bizarre. Jim didn't know for sure, but was willing to guess it was more than just the aftermath of the seizure. He had tried to get the kid to talk; tried and failed.

Waiting until Blair was sitting at the table, Jim slipped into the kitchen to help. Grace had everything under control. A fragrant meatloaf and steamed vegetable medley needed to be carried out and dinner was ready. They ate in the formal dinning room off to the side of the house, next to the kitchen. The large table gleamed with polish. From the way David acted, it was a special occasion to be using the room.

Tearing into his soft bread roll, Jim listened to David chatter about his day. His range of topics was abstract and random. It wasn't long before Blair was drawn into the conversation, and some of the sparkle returning to the younger man's eyes.

Jim was glad to see it.

"Jim," Blair said. "You want any more of this?" He held the plate of meatloaf. Only once slice was left.

"Go ahead."

"Anyone?" Blair waited politely then slid the helping onto his plate. "This is really good. I normally don't like meatloaf, but I really like this. Jim, you're going to have to ask your mom for the recipe."

"It's easy," Grace said, obviously pleased with the praise. "I used to make it for Jim and Stevie every Friday. Remember, Jim?"

"I do," Jim admitted. "Thought it tasted familiar."

David shot to his feet. His face white, his eyes wide, he looked at Jim in horror. "Not your mom. MY mom."

"Honey," Grace began.

Blair slapped a hand over his mouth, barely muffling a curse. He shot Jim a guilty look.

"Hey, Buddy, it's okay," Jim said quickly. "She's your mom."

Grace rose. The meal had come to an abrupt end. "It's okay, Jim. David and I need to have this talk. Please excuse us." She led her youngest son from the room by the hand.

"Oh, shit." Blair dropped his face into his palms. "I didn't even think, man. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." Jim sighed. "Maybe we should think about packing up our stuff and hitting the road in the morning. She looks like she's managing okay."

Pushing his plate away, Blair folded his arms and leaned his elbows on the table. "You sure?"

Jim wasn't sure. He saw how tired Blair looked. The kid probably needed another couple days of sleep. And what if he had another seizure while traveling? "I suppose we could-"

The loud slam of a door cut him off. Jim instantly extended his hearing. Grace's heartbeat was too fast and David's was fading away as if he had...

"Shit, David's on the run." Jim bolted from his seat.

Blair was on his heels as he intercepted Grace heading for the front door.

"He wouldn't let me explain, Jim!" She looked frantic.

"I'll get him." Jim yanked open the front door. The quiet neighborhood was awash with the reddish glow of the setting sun. Jim felt his partner's presence and turned. "No, Sandburg. Stay here with Grace."

"Jim." Blair looked ready to argue.

Pointing a long finger directly toward Blair's nose, Jim scowled. "Stay put. I mean it."

"Please stay." Grace caught Blair's arm. "You can help me keep him here if he circles around while Jim is looking."

"Fine," Blair agreed unhappily. "Watch yourself, man."

Jim ran for the sidewalk. When they had first arrived at the house, he had not paid much attention to the neighborhood. Now he was wishing she lived on a cul-de-sac instead of near a quiet corner. But because they lived near an intersection, there were at least four directions he could have gone.

A man in shorts jogged around the corner. The chocolate lab on the end of the leash kept perfect formation.

"Did you see a man just run by you?" Jim asked. "Jeans and an Arizona State T-shirt?"

The man shook his head.

Okay, one possible direction down. Jim extended his hearing again. No good, too many heartbeats. People were home from work, watching TV or eating their dinners. He'd have to pick a direction and start.

"God! I'm so stupid!" Blair palm-smacked his temple.

"Stop it, Blair," Grace Ellison ordered. She took his arm and pulled him back to the living room, in charge again. "Jim will find him. He used to find Stevie all the time."

A tiny part of Blair's mind puzzled over that information. Had Jim shown sentinel traits even then? Had the situation not been so urgent and Blair not felt so miserable with guilt, he would have asked her more about Jim's childhood. But he was too worried. Where would David go? Had he ever run off before? Blair fell into the chair.

Scooping up a Batman logo-shaped pillow, Grace hugged it to her bosom as she perched on the sofa's edge. "I guess I should've realized he'd be this upset. He's never had to share me before."

"I have to learn to think before opening my mouth," Blair admitted darkly. "God, you think by now I'd learn."

"Blair, you've been sick." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "In fact, I told Jim you should see a doctor for these seizures."

"No thanks." Blair hugged himself, burrowing deeper into the chair's embrace. "I've had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. Besides, Jim was a medic in the army. He's pretty smart about all this stuff."

She shook her head. "Not even the same thing, child."

"Should we get in the car and drive around to help look for David?" Blair asked, diverting the topic off his own medical problems.

Grace curled around the pillow, her gaze unfocused. "No, we'd better stay."

"Would he really double back like you said?"

She bit her lip. "I'm not sure. He might."

"Jim will find him. He's not going to let anything bad happen," Blair vowed with certainty. "Even if David wasn't his brother, Jim's a natural protector. He'll search until he's found him."

"He's a fine man. He was a fine boy." She looked weary. "He seems to be a good friend, too. That's an honorable characteristic."

"Jim's all that and more." Blair studied her profile. His curiosity overrode common sense. "Why did you leave? I think Jim might blame himself."

Sitting rigid, Grace clutched her knees. "No, please tell me he doesn't."

Blair gulped, realizing - once again -he should have kept his mouth shut. Jim was going to rip him apart if he found out. "Well, yeah... I think he does a little. He doesn't understand why you left. And neither do I. David never got to know his brothers or his father."

She walked to the picture window, standing silently for a long time. Blair didn't think he'd get an answer from her. She had shut him out. She was pissed. Blair guessed he deserved it.

"I had to leave when I found out I was pregnant. I wish the situation had been different. Davy would have benefited from knowing his half-brothers," she said after a long silence. "But, I had no choice. William wasn't interested in more children. He made that clear. "

Blair's jaw dropped, his brain replaying the word `half-brothers' over and over again like a skipping CD. Was she admitting to having an affair? That's why she had to leave? William Ellison was not David's father?

Oh, shit.

Two long blocks from where he'd started, Jim still had not spotted his quarry. Standing on the corner with fists sunk into his hips, elbows out, he bit his lip and made a full turn, wondering which direction David might have taken.

Blair's words visited him out of nowhere. `You're a walking crime lab, man. Close your eyes and use your senses.'

He'd tried that. Jim snorted. He tried listening. That got him nothing but surround-sound TV Jeopardy and the makings of a headache. Vision was out, too many houses and shade trees.

The warm breeze carried the light scent of flowers from a nearby yard. Jim sniffed the air again. Could he? Would that work? Police dogs used human spoors to track a fleeing suspect. Would that work for him?

Nah, too hard. It wasn't like Jim had a tennis shoe or one of David's sweatshirts to use. Besides, he didn't have Blair at his side. Still...

It was growing darker by the minute. David had the mental capacity of a young child.

Jim inhaled a deep lungful of desert air. What was he searching for?

Hot asphalt.

Cut grass.

Flowers.

Exhaust.

Meatloaf.

Yes! David had gotten a tad enthusiastic during dinner and more than one bite of meatloaf had slid off his fork and skipped down his T-shirt. Grace had gently admonished him after the third drop.

Jim took off running again. David seemed to be heading towards the main part of town. Ten minutes of running paid off. The smell of Grace's meatloaf was strong then, suddenly without any warning, Jim lost it.

He skidded to a halt.

The trail had diverted, but which way? Backtracking until he picked up the scent again, Jim took his time. The trail crossed a yard and followed an alley running between the houses. Wood plank fences bordered the alley with alcoves for garbage cans. The smell of rubbish messed with his nose. Jim's eyes watered as he dialed down the stench. He had to hope that David had not climbed over into anyone's backyard or he was going to lose the trail.

Time to try his hearing again. Jim tuned into the serenade of crickets. Another presence was heard; a heartbeat.

Jim stopped. Darkness was winning the toss as dusk faded around him. He didn't want to scare the kid. Leaning sideways to peer around a row of three tall, dark-green recycle cans, Jim spotted a pair of tennis shoes and jean cuffs.

"Hey, Davy? I think it's time to go home now."

"No."

A rush of relief caused Jim's tight shoulders to relax. Grace's son sounded okay. Mad, but okay.

"Why not?" Jim didn't want to approach yet, hoping he could talk his brother into coming out on his own.

"Go away."

"I can't do that. Your mother is worried about you." Jim tried the guilt card. "She's crying."

A pale, tear track stained face appeared from around the can. "Crying?"

"Yeah." Jim squatted on his haunches. He wished Blair was with him. His partner was better at this sort of thing. "She's sad, Davy."

"I'm sad." The face disappeared.

"Why?"

A measure of silence, then a stubborn, "Go away," was repeated.

It was time to get to the heart of the issue. "Buddy, listen to me, okay? It's true you and I are family. We're brothers. But I'm just visiting. Very soon Blair and I will be leaving and you'll be here to take care of Mom. You can do that, right?"

More of David became visible. "I take care of Mom," he declared.

"That's right. And she needs you now. She's sad and worried that you left." Jim reached out his right hand.

"I'm not supposed to..." David's expression changed from defiant to guilty in a heartbeat.

"I think she's gonna understand, kid," Jim said. He grinned. "You sorta had a dump truck bowl you over. Believe me, I know the feeling."

A wry smirk graced the younger man's face. "Smells like a dump truck here."

Jim stood up. If David could crack a joke, he was going to be okay. "You've got a point. What do you say to showing me how to get back to your house? I'm a little turned around."

Grace met the returning men at the corner of her landscaped yard. She squeezed David in a bear hug while smiling tearfully over his shoulder at Jim.

Blair stood silently off to one side.

"What's the matter, Sandburg?" Jim asked softly, moving closer to give the woman and her son some privacy.

Gee, Jim. I just found out your mother had an affair behind your dad's back and that's why she left you and your brother, Blair thought darkly. But he forced a smile. "Nothing, just thinking. Is David okay?"

"He's fine." Jim smiled fondly at his brother.

Grace guided David back along the rock path between the cactus and rock garden that was her front yard. Sentinel and guide followed behind.

Blair wasn't surprised when she led her son into his room and closed the door. Jim was still frowning at him, as if Blair was keeping a secret or something. It was amazing how Jim could guess correctly. Blair pasted a false grin on his face and tried humor. "Someone's gonna get it," he quipped in a soft voice.

Jim rolled his eyes. "She's just talking to him."

"God, if she's anything like Naomi when she `talks' -" Blair made finger quotation marks in the air -"I'd rather take the spanking."

"Naomi spanked you?" Jim asked with surprise.

They moved back to clear up the mess from dinner, taking short trips from the table to the kitchen. The routine reminded Blair of being home in the loft and a wave of homesickness hit. But it wasn't as strong as before.

"Naomi? Hardly, but there were times I would have preferred a spanking. She had a way of talking that made you want the quick way out." Blair started rinsing the dishes and setting them on the counter for Jim to load into the dishwasher. "I figured a few minutes of pain and it's over."

"You'd think twice had anyone ever used a belt on you."

Blair froze, turning in horror. "Your dad used to beat you with his belt?" Blair sputtered when Jim made his `what about it' face. "That's barbaric! It's criminal. He should go to prison, man!"

"Would you keep your voice down?" Jim said. "I survived, didn't I?"

"That's not the point, Jim," Blair shot back.

Jim seemed amused. "Look, Ghandi, you're preaching to the choir. It's not like I'm smacking you around, am I? Not that you don't deserve it at times." Jim struck a fighting pose and grinned before stacking glasses in the dishwasher. "I'm just saying my old man wasn't above making a point with a swing or two of a belt. I was pretty stubborn. Hell, the sound scared me more than the belt hurt."

"Hitting kids with a belt is just wrong, Jim." Blair couldn't believe Jim's casual attitude.

"He wanted my attention. He got it. And more importantly, he corrected my behavior."

"You're defending him."

Jim stood still, looking mildly surprised. "Yeah, I guess I am... to a degree anyway." He shrugged. "Anyway, the army finished what he started. Maybe I just needed the strict discipline. I wasn't exactly the perfect kid." He filled the hopper with dishwasher detergent, closed the door, and fiddled with the controls.

"We all screw up, Jim." Blair turned off the water, still feeling angry. "You talk to kids, like Grace is doing now."

Jim rolled his eyes. He started to answer then paused. His eyes crinkled in surprise before his expression transformed to that stone-like mask which Blair was so familiar with.

"What?" Blair demanded.

Jim swore bitterly. "I don't believe her."

"What?"

His chest puffed out as he drew a sharp breath. "Son of a ..."

"Jim, what are you hearing?" Blair asked, shaking an arm.

Eyes hard with rage, Jim caught Blair's elbow and propelled him out of the kitchen. "Come on. We're leaving."

Jim finished stuffing clothes into his bag and wrenched the zipper closed. Blair had fallen silent but still moved as if in a daze. Shit. He wasn't even close to being ready. Going into the bathroom across the hallway, Jim gathered up Blair's shaving supplies and hair products with a swipe of his arm and returned to the room to dump it on the bedcovers.

"Go check the living room," Jim ordered briskly. "Make sure we've got nothing in there. I'll finish here."

"Jim," Blair started again.

Jim didn't want to hear it and held up a palm. "Go."

Blair made it all the way to the door, shoulders slumped before he straightened, turned around and returned. "No, man. I know you saved our butts back in Denver, but this is different," Blair declared with painfully acute understanding. "I'm not letting you play the `I'm the covert-ops guy, what I say goes' card on me this time. You tell me what the hell is going on."

"Sandb-"

"JIM!" Blair cut him off, even rising on his toes. "I mean it. Spill!"

Damn it! Jim spiked Blair's bottle of shampoo. It bounced high off the mattress and landed somewhere on the floor between the bed and far wall. "She's in there telling David that he's her only son!"

Saying the words hurt as much as Jim feared they would. It was like he'd just sent his heart through a paper shredder. Not able to bear seeing pity on his partner's face, Jim turned his back. His vision had blurred but he managed to finish stuffing the last of Blair's clothes into his duffle bag.

Screw the shampoo. Jim would get him another one.

Taking a bag in each hand, Jim turned back to face his partner. "Let's go."

His mouth still gaping open, eyes still filled with incredulous shock, Blair was a breathing statue.

Jim nudged him. "Move it, Sandburg."

The spell broke and Blair was animated again, animated and pissed. "She what?" he sputtered. "She really said that? I can't... she told..." Blair's lips pressed in a firm line. Twin patterns of determined wrinkles sprouted from the corners of steely blue eyes. "She's mine."

Before Jim could grab him, Blair was gone.

Jim dropped the bags. "No! Sandburg!"

Blair could move fast when he wanted to. Jim caught up after Blair had managed one knock on David's door and opened it without invitation. David was in bed. Grace sat on the edge, her fingers stroking his head. The man's eyes were closed. He looked nearly asleep.

"Grace?" Blair whispered with surprising calmness. "Can we talk?"

Totally unaware of the approaching battle, she nodded. "I'll be right out," she whispered.

Jim quickly closed the door, forcing Blair back. Blair didn't struggle. He followed Jim into the living room with a satisfied look. God, the kid was ready for this fight, maybe even looking forward to it. The thought made Jim's stomach churn. All he wanted to do was get the hell away from Sedona and forget he ever saw Grace Ellison.

"You are not having this discussion with her," Jim said, giving Blair's shoulders a shake.

"I am." Blair answered, jabbing Jim in the chest with a finger. "You can wait in the Jeep if you want."

Grace's appearance ended the argument. Turning away in frustration, Jim pondered following through with Blair's suggestion. How pathetic would that make him? He didn't want to find out.

"What's wrong?" Grace asked. Her happy expression faded, replaced by obvious apprehension. She looked first at Blair, then Jim, then back to Blair who stood leg's apart, arms crossed over his chest.

"Where do you get off telling David he's your only son?" Blair demanded.

"Sandburg!" Jim hissed.

"What?" Grace asked. "Were you listening at the door? How could you hear that?"

Jim noted she didn't sound the least bit angry at being caught in a lie, just curious as to how Blair had heard.

Blair flung an arm wide. "Never mind that, do you deny it?"

"Of course not." She shook her head. "Jim, what is going on?"

What? Jim couldn't fathom why she'd ask him for insight, as if the two of them knew something Blair did not. Was the woman bi-polar and he missed it? "You mean you're not denying it?"

Crossing her arms and beginning to look annoyed, Grace Ellison's eyes narrowed. "What is going on?"

"You tell us, lady!" Blair demanded. "First you tell me you had an affair behind Jim's dad's back-"

"WHAT?" Jim shouted, stunned.

Grace's mouth dropped open. She staggered backwards and dropped to sit on the sofa.

"- now you're totally disowning Jim? You've got a hell of a lot of nerve."

"Sandburg!" Jim took Blair by an arm and spun him, looking him in the eye. "You are not helping here!"

"Jim! She as much as admitted it to me!" Blair declared, waving trapped arms.

God, if the kid didn't stop, he'd be walking into his third seizure. "Calm down, Chief. I mean it. We're leaving. This is over."

"Leaving?" Grace struggled to stand, but failed. "No... w-wait there's been a huge mistake. Jim, I swear I never... David's father is your father. I swear."

Blair wasn't giving up; he twisted in Jim's hold, managing to fire the accusations over his shoulder when he couldn't get free. "You said Jim and David were only half-brothers. You said that. How can they have the same fathers, then? Eh? Answer me that?"

Half brothers? Jim's gut twisted. The blood in his veins formed thousands of ice crystals. There was another explanation.

"Blair, Jim can tell you. I'm not his mother."

"What?" Now Blair looked ready to fall down.

Jim doubted he possessed the strength to keep Blair standing. Extraordinary sentinel ears had developed a sudden, annoying ringing sound that drowned out all other noises. Blair's mouth formed words Jim failed to hear. The edges of Jim's vision started to darken and expand and the term tunnel-vision seemed appropriate. Numbness started at the tips of Jim's fingers and toes and spread inward.

Suddenly Blair was manhandling Jim. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself sitting down at one end of the sofa with Blair kneeling at his knees. "Jim? Hey man, don't zone. Stay with me."

"I-I'm here," Jim whispered.

He just wasn't sure he wanted to be.

Grace had bolted from the living room without explanation. Jim sat staring into space, looking lost.

Blair felt helpless. An intense feeling of guilt wanted to suffocate him. His hands shook. He sat on his heels, kneeling on the carpet and tucked his chin against his chest. He took deep breaths to push down the out-of-proportion feeling of panic. Was this coming from Jim or Grace? Or both of them?

It didn't matter. Blair had to get a handle on this and soon. Jim needed him. Blair crossed his arms and buried his hands under his armpits. By the time Grace returned with a large book in hand, Blair could manage his body's own motor skill enough to take Jim's cold hands in his own.

"Jim," Blair coaxed gently. "Hey, come on. Talk to me."

Grace settled lightly at Jim's side on the sofa. She opened the book and held it reverently in her lap. Her eyes glistened with tears that didn't fall. "Jim, look at this with me."

Jim turned his head obediently, but Blair wondered if he was truly seeing. The pages in Grace's book were filed with old photographs and newspaper clippings.

Grace flipped three pages and paused, her fingers touching a cut out newsprint. "When I first saw your wedding photo that a friend in Cascade mailed me, I saw you had listed your mother's name, not mine. That's what made me believe William had explained all of this to you."

Blair leaned sideways, turning his head so he could read the fine print. "Margaret Mary."

The words sparked a reaction from the stunned man. "Your real name," Jim said quietly, eyes till dazed. "Grace is... your... nickname? Right?"

"No, honey." She choked back a delicate sob. "Oh, god. I can't believe you didn't know. I'm so sorry."

"Can you explain it now?" Blair pleaded. A dull pain was building behind his eyes. For Jim's sake and his own, they needed this mystery explained.

She nodded and closed her book. Jim seemed to focus completely on her now. He was back.

"Margaret Mary is your mother, yours and Stephen's," Grace said. "Your father loved her very much. She had a difficult time when she was pregnant with you, Jim. She wasn't supposed to have another child after you were born, the doctors tied her tubes. That's when I first met her. She was in the hospital, I was her night nurse." A large teardrop broke over Grace's lower eyelash, leaving a wide streak down her cheek. "We became good friends. I was the first one she called when she found out she was pregnant again. Sometimes these things happen."

Blair's mind raced ahead, guessing the conclusion of the story. This would be before Roe Vs Wade. He was right as she continued.

"Maggie told me God wouldn't have allowed her to become pregnant unless there was a reason," Grace said, wiping at the tear trail on her face. "I thought she was going to be okay, too. But she got so sick those last couple of weeks. I took some vacation time and stayed at the house with her."

Jim flinched. "I remember... I remember the dark rooms and grownups talking in whispers all the time."

Grace swallowed hard. "It was so hard for you, Jimmy. You were such a happy toddler and there was nothing but sadness in the house. Your mother died seven hours after Stephen was born."

Blair draped both arms crossways over the arm of the sofa and lowered his head in exhaustion. Jim's hand cupped the back of his skin, fingers sinking into Blair's hair. The touch seemed to lift some of the blackness that had settled around Blair's heart as he listened as Grace finished her story.

"William and I grew close. We both loved her and missed her. When he proposed to me six months later, I told myself it was really love and not just a man looking for a convenient housekeeper and live-in babysitter. We moved to Cascade." Her tone hardened. "I was a fool."

"Did... he hurt you?"

Jim's timid question caused Blair to turn his head to watch. Jim was lost. Jim didn't do lost. He did survival. He was all about strength and stamina and getting the mission done.

"No, never." Grace smiled, looking grateful that Jim even cared to ask. "Not physically. But he didn't love me. I loved you and Stevie with all my heart, but I began to see what our joke of a marriage was doing. I couldn't let our sham represent marriage to you boys."

Blair closed his eyes again. She was right, of course. Who knows? Maybe the damage had already been done. He thought back to the day he and Carolyn had had dinner together without Jim knowing, how the bottle of wine had loosened her tongue. She had loved Jim, loved his attention and his strength. But never felt she'd had his soul, his essence. He'd always stayed distant.

"Then, when I finally got the nerve to leave him, I found out I was pregnant." She shrugged her thin shoulders, glancing down at her hands. "I couldn't tell him. I... ran."

Jim did an amazing thing. He lifted his hand from Blair's head and reached out for Grace's. He folded them carefully between his own.

She was crying now, tears falling, christening their joined hands. "I was selfish," she whispered.

Jim drew her into his arms and held her while she cried. The book slipped to the floor and closed.

Jim and Grace talked. Blair tried to follow, but found his eyelids too heavy to keep open. Jim nudged him to his feet and pointed toward the guest room with a nod of his head. Happily, Blair took the hint. He was spent, as if his entire body had been pressed through the proverbial emotional wringer.

Closing the door, Blair fell facedown, landing crossways on the bed, unable to even lift his arms from their trapped position under his body. His brain shut down completely. The next thing he knew, familiar hands were slipping off his tennis shoes.

"Mmmm," Blair hummed. It was still pitch black in the room.

"Go back to sleep, Sandburg," Jim whispered. "It's not time to get up yet."

Jim rolled him, shifted his body, straightened his limbs, tugged him up higher on the mattress and finally covered him with a blanket.

Head now positioned in the middle of a goose down pillow, Blair instantly returned to his dreamless sleep.

David's innocent laughter woke him.

Blair rolled his head on the pillow, dried saliva pulled on the beard stubble next to his mouth. He blinked at the LCD readout on the radio alarm sitting on the bedside table. It was half past eight.

And Blair was starving.

His body still ached dully, a feeling he was beginning to associate with his damn seizures. He stumbled into the bathroom and saw his stuff had been returned to its previous location next to the sink.

Okay, their departure date was delayed. Cool.

After showering away the soreness, and face tingling from a meticulous shave, Blair wandered into the kitchen. Jim was flipping pancakes high into the air. David tried to catch them with his plate during their downward arc.

"Hungry, Sandburg?" Jim asked, watching his half-brother field a six inch pancake perfectly with his plate. They high-fived each other.

"Do I have to catch it?" Blair asked in wonder. "I'm thinking there was a loft rule about pancake tossing."

"Repealed," Jim replied, pouring batter onto the hot griddle.

Blair ate ravenously. Grace joined them toward the end of the meal. She looked happy, but tired. They talked about safe topics such as the weather and who knew the best pancake recipe. Then the dishes were rinsed and loaded in the dishwasher and the countertop and table cleaned of every last trace of sticky syrup. There was no talk of Jim and Blair leaving. Last night's revelation had more than just cleared the air; it had begun a healing.

From what Blair had been able to glean last night - he hadn't been at his best - Grace had kept her pregnancy a complete secret from William, for fear he might fight and win custody of his third son. William could afford the legal assistance. She could not. If she lost, William would hold the trump card. The boys would be cared for. He knew she would stay and continue to take care of his family and house.

It would have made good business.

The phone rang just as David settled in for a few hours of video and TV watching. Grace answered, then covered the mouthpiece as she turned to Blair. "It's the woman that told me you were coming to Sedona."

"Mom?" Blair bolted for the phone, beating Jim by a good six seconds. His hands were shaking as he pressed the handset to his ear. "Mom?"

"Blair! Oh, honey, it's so good to hear your voice," Naomi said.

Blair blinked back sudden tears, feeling suddenly seven years old again and wanting so much for her to come and get him. "You t-too. Mom, I really miss you."

"I know. Me too. You sound good. You're okay, right? How's Jim? Where is he?" She paused with a self-conscious laugh.

"I'm here, Naomi," Jim answered, pressing in close so she could hear him.

Blair was glad. His knees had suddenly developed muscle issues. If he fell, Jim could keep him from smashing a lamp or something.

"Good. Ready for some promising news?" She didn't wait for their answer. "That general's name you ID'd paid off. Tristan and I have been working hard, cashing in some markers, making a few phone calls. We've a good shot at bringing down the key players. Ready for an offensive strike?"

"What about the doctor that kidnapped Blair?" Jim asked.

"He survived," Naomi told them, not sounding happy. "He's still in the hospital. We've had our eyes on his visitors, followed the trails to see where they led."

"What do we need to do?" Jim asked.

"There's an army base in Colorado. Can you meet us there in a month?"

Blair only heard the word `us'. "You'll be there?"

"With bells on my toes, baby."

"Name the place, Naomi," Jim said. "We'll be there."

"Jim! It's got a CD player! Oh, cool. Let's get it, man."

Grace laughed quietly as Jim groaned and swiped a palm down his face. Blair and David were climbing through the eighty-four Ford Bronco like two kids in a theme park.

"See?" Jim said. "This is why I can't take him car shopping. I'll never get a decent price now."

Grace removed her sunglasses, the skin around her eyes crinkling with mirth. "It's okay, Jim. I know the dealer. He's one of my closest business associates. You'll be able to afford it just fine."

Jim hoped so. They needed a new car. Driving around in the jeep had grown risky. Their enemy had survived the Kansas tornado. Jim wasn't taking any chances. Leaning into the driver's area, he checked the mileage on the odometer and pulled the release for the hood. The Bronco was two toned, blue and white. The spare tire was mounted on the back. The rear side windows curved up into the roof line. He liked that.

"Five speeds, standard," Jim muttered as he opened the hood and peered within. Blair appeared at his elbow. "Six cylinders, engine looks clean. What do you think, Sandburg?"

Blair had a huge grin on his face. "Way bigger than the jeep, man. Did I mention it has a CD player?"

"I think all of northern Arizona knows it now."

Blair blew a raspberry then got serious, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We can afford it, right?"

That was the rub. It was a bit more than he wanted to pay, but Grace had assured him she could swing a deal. He didn't doubt that she seemed good friends with the owner of the dealership, a tanned, attractive man with thick, white hair.

"Here he comes," Grace announced as the dealership owner approached.

"Okay, I just needed to put a few papers together. I'm sure we can make a deal here. Your jeep has a few, er, characteristics that tells me it's been road tested." The dealer grinned. "How's this look?"

Jim accepted the paper and looked at the price at the bottom. It was robbery.

And he was the one committing the crime. "Are you serious?"

The dealer shrugged. "If you hand over the papers on that jeep and give me the cash today, we have a deal."

Blair released a low whistle as he read over Jim's arm.

Jim wasn't an idiot. "Deal."

The Bronco was loaded. Blair was saying goodbye to David who had insisted that he give one last tour of his room before they left.

Jim and Grace stood in the driveway. She looked better. The bruises on her face had faded over the last five days. She walked without a limp and didn't seem to tire as easily anymore.

"You're okay, right?" Jim asked. "You can manage?" Julie had returned to help take care of David. He knew Grace would be going back to her yarn shop, where she kept a small office, a headquarters for all of the business investments she ran.

She patted his arm. "Jim, I'm not alone. Davy and I have a large network of support in Sedona. This is home for us and we'll be just fine." Her smile faltered. "It's you I'm worried about."

"We're going to make it," Jim promised.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Jim extended his hearing into the house. Blair was wrapping it up and working toward an escape. Jim was reminded of all the times he had waited outside of Hargrove Hall while the popular teaching assistant was fending off students at the end of the day. In fact, his guide acted more and more like the pre-kidnapped Blair. The last few days of rest - and more important - lack of seizures had been good for him. "Blair and I are going to get our life back. Naomi has a plan."

"I'm so thankful she thought to call me." Grace's chin quivered. "Damn, I wasn't going to cry."

Jim pulled her into his arms. "It's okay. I'm glad we found each other too. I'm proud of the way you took care of my brother."

She pressed close for a moment, letting her tears flow before pulling away and wiping her eyes with the crumpled tissue in her hand. "And I'm proud of you. I don't understand what you and Blair did to deserve this, but the two of you make a pretty amazing team."

Jim grinned. "Yeah, we do, don't we? Don't let Sandburg know, okay? He's unbearable when he's arrogant."

Blair exited the house, an arm hooked over David's shoulders as they neared. He wore his new glasses; another business acquaintance of Grace was an optometrist. "Okay then. It's settled. Batman is a superior superhero because he doesn't use special powers, only his brains."

David nodded solemnly. "But we'll give Superman and Spiderman special mention because they kick ass."

"David!" Grace admonished. "We do not use that word."

"But Blair does."

"Smooth, Sandburg," Jim frowned.

"Oops." Blair flashed a contrite look before mock whispering. "Sorry." He gave David a quick hug. "Bye, man. We'll be back and continue this conversation." He pecked Grace on the cheek with a brief kiss before jogging around to the passenger side of the Bronco and climbing aboard.

Jim held out a hand to his half-brother. "Take care of Mom, David."

David shook hands, his chest puffing. "I will, Jim. Take care of Blair."

"Deal." Jim slipped into the driver's seat and closed the door. He rested his arm through the open window. "Remember what I said about more reps and less weight. You don't need to bulk up, you need endurance."

Nodding, David slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders possessively. "To remain firm without yielding," he quoted without warning.

Blair looked at Jim and laughed. "Did I mention David likes to read the dictionary, Jim?"

"Okaay," Jim said, rubbing his chin. "Well, it fits." He turned the key and the powerful motor roared to life, reminding him of the sweet deal this woman had managed for him. "We'll call you both later, after things have settled down."

"Bye, Jim! Bye, Blair!" David shouted over the engine.

"Bye, David." Jim looked directly into Grace's teary gaze. "Bye, Mom."

Later, cruising down the road, with towering red cliffs bordering the highway, Blair sighed and stretched. "I'm proud of you."

"Because?" Jim asked.

Blair shrugged. "I just didn't expect you to be so cool about that whole deal with Grace and your dad. You forgave her."

God, Blair's world was so absolute, one or the other, all the way or nothing. Jim's wasn't. "I'll admit I have a clearer picture of why she left us," he said.

"But you did forgive her, right?" Blair pressed.

Vivid memories of jumping for the phone, racing for the door when someone pressed on the buzzer surfaced in Jim memory. The pain was not as sharp, just similar to taking deep breaths while broken ribs mended. "Isn't understanding the road to forgiveness, Junior?"

Blair grinned. "I hear that." He leaned forward and played with knobs on the dash. Blair was now the proud owner of a modest collection of used CDs they had found in Sedona.

With the warm breezes filtering through the vehicle cabin, Jim relaxed, concentrated on his driving and listened to the guitar chords resound through the Bronco's speakers. Their plan was to goof around in Utah for a week or so before working toward Colorado.

"You know," Blair said after another twenty miles of asphalt had passed under their tires.

`Here it comes,' Jim thought with a tolerant grin.

"I wonder what David would have been like if he hadn't been injured. We know at least two of his senses might be enhanced." He straightened. "Hey, that means your dad is carrying the gene. Now, that's something I can use..."

Jim tuned him out and hummed along with the music.

End - for now.

(See? Not a cliff in sight!)

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