Where the Heart Is

A bloodied, bedraggled figure swayed unsteadily in the shadows opposite the brightly lit saloon. His eyes were fixed on the swinging doors of the front entrance -- or rather, one eye was. The other was a swollen, mottled lump of black, blue, and green. A deep gash above his right ear still trickled red down that side of his face, and both arms were wrapped tightly around his torso both to protect bruised and broken ribs as well as hoard what little warmth his body was currently able to produce.

He stared blearily at the doors for several more unfocused moments before deciding against that approach. He desperately needed the warmth and shelter the lively building promised, but some internal instinct warned him against simply bursting into the room beyond. Tilting an aching head on an equally aching neck, he slowly scanned the second story of the wooden structure until his gaze snagged on one window in particular. There was something about that window that sang to him of comfort and aid. He knew that somehow he had to reach it.

The wounded man flinched hard as he shuffled his left foot out into the lighter shadows closer to his destination. The ankle was badly sprained, maybe even broken. He didn't know how it had happened. In fact, he didn't know how the rest of his body had been so horribly battered, either. Bits and shards of memory had assaulted him on his lonely trek through the desert surrounding the small town he was now in, revealing moments of pain and terror, but they never lasted long enough for him to latch onto anything permanent. And after he'd pulled himself out of that swirling madness time after time, he didn't want to. All he wanted was for it to stop. A quiet, soothing whisper in the back of his mind, the one that had demanded that he keep going when all he'd wanted to do was fall to the ground and die, had also insisted that the reprieve he craved was here. Just a little more effort and it would be his.

Blindly trusting that voice, he ignored as best he could the agony hammering relentlessly throughout his body, and determinedly moved his right foot forward. In an awkward parody of his normal grace, he made it across the street and into the shadows of the saloon. Safely concealed once more, he slumped against the wall a moment, panting heavily from the exertion of those few steps. When he had the breath, a small, frustrated sob escaped him. How the hell was he supposed to complete the last part of his voyage if just crossing a few scant yards took so much out of him?

You can do this, the voice quietly encouraged. Not much further, and you have done this before. Just a bit more, then you can rest.

I want ta rest now, goddammit! He silently cursed the voice, exhaustion and pain lapping at him as endlessly as the waves beat at the shore.

The voice didn't seem to hear him -- or didn't care. Move. Now.

With a groan, the injured man shifted until he was facing the building and slowly looked up. The voice was right. There were enough hand and footholds for him to scale the wall and reach that window if he really tried, and he could almost remember having done so before. He also had a vague recollection of being yelled at for doing it, and a faint smile tugged at his bleeding mouth at the feelings of amusement and belonging that accompanied the memory.

The smile quickly faded as he reached up and laboriously pulled himself up by his fingertips. His ribs screamed and the rope burns that encircled both wrists pulled taunt at the sudden pressure. He lost his grip and fell to the ground in a shuddering heap.

Oh God, I cain't do this! he wailed soundlessly. It hurts! Please, somebody, help me.

Yes, you can, his personal demon contradicted sternly. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and get up. They'll find you if you don't.

I don't care! he raged, tears of weary helplessness mingling with the blood moving sluggishly down his cheek. Anythin' would be better'n this!

Anything?

A sudden flash of memory splashed across his mind's eye. Brutal hands connected endlessly with his helpless flesh until he writhed with the agony of it, but it was the ugly threats that were shouted in time with the blows that terrified him more. Violence directed towards his own self he could deal with. That same violence inflicted on the man who was his whole world he could never live with. The terror of knowing those threats would be carried out had given him the strength to escape his captors and had chased him over the rocky distance to this place where the loved one lived.

That same terror propelled him to his feet now and pushed him slowly, inch by agonized inch, up the wall to his goal. He was mildly surprised to find the window unlocked, but he didn't question his good fortune. Fumbling weakly with the latch, he forced the sash open and practically fell into the empty space. He caught himself just short of crashing to the floor, ending up on his knees facing the window. Leaning with his head against the sill, he again sought to catch the breath that seemed bent on eluding him. Once regained, he wrestled the window shut more out of reflex than anything else, and struggled to get to his feet.

Blackness rushed him. No matter what his mind and heart demanded, his broken body simply couldn't take anymore of the self-inflicted abuse and shut down out of a last ditch effort at self-preservation. With one last despairing howl from the voice inside his head, the man's eyes rolled back into his head, and his body slid bonelessly to the hard floor.

+ + + + + + +

Hours after the injured man passed into oblivion, a brightly clothed man unlocked the door to the room and stumbled inside with a trembling sigh. Oh God, please let him be all right!

He had been downstairs in the main room of the saloon, whiling away the hours with his customary game of poker, though his attention hadn't really been on the cards tonight. No, his mind was busy worrying about the one person that gave his life meaning. He knew there was no one more capable of taking care of himself than this man, and the gambler was perfectly aware that sometimes the other man needed to get away from people for a while and refresh his spirit by communing with nature. The tracker had only been gone for a few days, but a nagging sense of dread kept tugging at his gut. And knowing there was a bounty hanging over the missing man's head only made the gambler more uneasy.

He had noticed that he wasn't the only one with feelings of misgiving. All through the early evening, he had seen the same anxiousness reflected in the restless movements of the black-clad man both he and the tracker called leader. Their eyes had connected across the room, green conferring with green, and with a slight tilt of his head, the leader of their little band of misfit peacekeepers had agreed with the most misfit of his followers -- I don't like this. Let's go find him.

The gambler had immediately tossed his cards onto the table before him, ignoring the surprised protests of the other players, and climbed to his feet, unintentionally making himself an even greater target for the hell that broke loose at that exact moment.

Five men had burst through the front entrance of the saloon, the guns in their hands recklessly spitting lead in all directions as they spread themselves along the front wall. One such bullet struck the surprised gambler in the shoulder with enough force to toss him back hard enough into his chair to then tip it over and dump him unceremoniously to the floor.

He had lain there, stunned, for almost too long, as one of the five shooters separated from the others and charged the table he was under with startling speed. His well-honed instinct for self-preservation had instantly overcome everything else he was feeling, and almost of its own accord, his right arm had come up, the derringer had slipped loose from its hiding place, and both bullets had leapt free from the short barrel. At the same time, two other much louder booms had sounded from across the room, and his assailant had collapsed like a puppet with four pieces of lead riddling it.

Empty gun still held stiffly out in front of him, the gambler had lifted adrenaline-darkened eyes to see the ex-preacher and the town's young sheriff both lower their own weapons. The older man holstered his gun and started towards him while the younger merely flashed a quick grin at him before turning towards the front of the saloon. The gambler struggled to a sitting position so he, too, could survey the carnage.

All but one of the attackers was dead, and judging from their healer's calmly cold countenance, the one still wasting air would not soon be joining his suicidal friends. Though, the gambler thought with grim satisfaction as he watched their leader cross the room, the poor bastard was going to wish he were dead in a minute. The darkly clothed gunslinger descended on the man like the very Angel of Death, and though the injured man couldn't hear the low-toned words, he knew that explanations were being demanded.

The explanation had bleached the color out of the gunslinger's face. His eyes jerked involuntarily over to where the gambler sat, propped up by the larger man at his side as the ex-preacher attempted to slow the rush of blood coming from his shoulder. The look in those eyes terrified the wounded man, and he pulled away from the hands holding him down. Seeing this, the blond man climbed to his feet and swiftly crossed the room to them.

Crouching down beside the pair on the floor, he answered the unspoken question screaming in the emerald eyes as gently as he could. "They had him, Ezra. They were the brothers of a man he'd brought in during his bounty hunting days, and they wanted revenge." He took a deep breath and gestured towards their captive with a jerk of his chin. "Creed says they beat him up pretty bad, but he still escaped. They couldn't find him, so they decided to do the next best thing." The blond rested a hand on the gambler's uninjured shoulder and unexpected compassion shone in the normally cool eyes. "They knew about you and him, Ez. They were going to kill you as payback for their brother's death."

The gambler felt as if he'd been gut-punched. He didn't care so much for his own close call, but knowing that the tracker had suffered sucked the breath out of him. Blood roared in his ears and threatened to overwhelm him all together, and maybe it did for a minute, because when he regained his senses, Nathan was in the gunslinger's place, expertly finishing the job Josiah had started. Past the healer's shoulder, he saw JD and Buck yank the captive roughly to his feet and push him out the doors. Chris was saying something to Josiah, who nodded affirmation before the two of them also disappeared through the doors.

Ezra knew they were going after Vin, and he was damned if they were going to leave him behind. Nathan placed a heavy hand on his good shoulder and demanded, "Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

"With them," the gambler said with deadly finality.

The healer's eyes widened a bit at the ferocity sculpting the normally stoic face. The dark man's surprise lasted long enough for Ezra to reach a standing position . . . only for his knees to weaken at the sudden pressure and collapse out from under him. He landed with a thud in his original position, the jolt to his wound enough to make him see black spots.

"You ain't goin' anywhere, y'idiot," the healer growled as he checked the bandage around his shoulder to make sure Ezra hadn't begun bleeding again. "That bullet nicked an artery, and you lost a lotta blood. Yer too weak to do anything but rest."

"I have to go, Mr. Jackson," Ezra pleaded in quiet desperation. "I have to."

Nathan's face softened with understanding, but he didn't yield. Like the town's other protectors, he knew of the relationship between the gambler and the tracker, and how close they had become. The healer was certain that losing one would mean losing the other. Which was why he couldn't let Ezra go off on a fool mission while there was still a chance to get Vin back alive. The tracker would never forgive him.

"Ezra, you won't do Vin any good by gettin' yerself killed from blood loss or by fallin' off yer damn horse. Chris and the others will find him and bring him home. You need to be here when they do."

Every shred of Ezra's heart and soul demanded that he go with the search party, yet his body had already betrayed him with its infernal weakness. The spirit is willing . . . he thought a bit hysterically. He harshly pulled himself together, calling on the habits forged through a lifetime of practice. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but the gambler had to admit that he was in no shape for a hard ride on the trail.

Barely able to meet Nathan's kind gaze, he requested softly and without any fancy words, "Nathan, will you go with them? Vin needs you more than I do."

The brown eyes silently acknowledged how difficult that request had been for the notoriously independent man to make. "If you promise to stay here and not move that shoulder around too much, I'll go," the healer bargained.

It was an idle threat. He had intended to go anyway, but he didn't want to come back to find he had two patients instead of one in critical condition. After hearing the description Creed had given of the abuse he and his brothers heaped upon the tracker, he knew that they had to find Vin soon, or it would be too late. If it wasn't already.

Ezra had given his word that he would follow the healer's every directive, and Nathan had had little choice but to believe him. The dark man had helped him into a nearby chair, and with one last uncertain look at the gambler, had vacated the saloon and soon vanished into the night with Chris, Buck and Josiah. JD had been left to stand guard over the prisoner.

Ezra had sat bolt upright in the chair for some time, staring at nothing, his mind focused on his missing mate. His imagination, the one weapon he had always counted on in a life full of cons and deceptions, betrayed him now with conjured images of the grisly torture Vin had suffered and was even now suffering, lost and alone in the vastness of the wilderness surrounding Four Corners. A small cry of pain escaped him. The sound reminded him abruptly where he was, and he got to his feet as quickly as his weakened body would allow him to. He hurt too much to maintain his infamous control, and he was too exposed here in the main room on the saloon. He had to get somewhere private.

By keeping a desperate grip on the railing with his good hand, he had slowly made his way up the stairs leading to his room, and now here he stood in the blackness, wondering numbly if he was ever going to see the other half of his soul alive again. The bleak thought bent him over in an overwhelming grief that physically tore at his flesh as well as his heart. With no one present to witness his total loss of control, Ezra collapsed onto his bed, giving the sobs free reign, though even in the privacy of his own room, ingrained habit made him muffle his pain in the quilt beneath his face.

Please Lord, bring him back to me! I need him so much -- I can't live without him. Please, I know I don't deserve him, but for his sake, please, God, let him live!

A sudden, low sound startled the gambler out of his grief-stricken haze. Head swiveling in the direction the noise had come from, Ezra groped left-handed for his Remington as he strained his ears for the sound again. He didn't have to wait long before it came again, somewhere by the window, he thought. Rolling painfully off the bed, he shuffled cautiously towards the window, the harsh glare of a half moon lighting his way.

The gambler lost all caution as his brain finally interpreted what his eyes were telling him. Dropping the gun, he fell to his knees beside the crumpled bundle of leather and carefully turned it over into his arms. He couldn't control the gasp of dismay the sight of the battered features pulled from him, and for a moment all he could do was pull his lover into his arms and rock him helplessly.

Practicality eventually forced its way into Ezra's consciousness, and although he didn't want to let Vin go ever again, he made himself set the tracker down long enough to hastily light a lamp and to pull the bedclothes off the bed with one violent yank. He put the lamp where it would best illuminate Vin and tossed the tangled mess of quilts and sheets beside his unconscious patient before going back for the water basin and pitcher. Putting the water within easy reach, he set to work bundling the long-haired man up warmly in the blankets before shredding his sheets into serviceable bandages. The gambler was just about ready to start cleaning the blood away from his mate's face when he realized that Vin was awake and staring at him with his one good eye.

"Ez?" he choked out in confusion.

"Yes, beloved, it's me," Ezra reassured him, stroking the tracker's blood-matted hair with gentle fingers. "You're safe. Rest, now, I'll take care of you."

Panic suddenly brightened the blue eye, and Vin struggled to get up. "The Creeds! They're comin'! They'll kill you!"

The gambler caught his frenzied lover in a careful embrace and cradled him against his chest. "The Creeds are dead or locked up, Vin. They have already tried to rid the world of my presence, but as you can see, I am still here. Ssssh, now, love, you're safe. Everything's perfectly all right."

Ezra felt his lover's heart, so close to his own as it should be, gradually settle down to a normal pace. A weak hand reached up and patted the side of his face. "I know, Ez."

"Know what, beloved?"

Vin's voice was fast fading as he again lost the battle to stay conscious. "Always safe where you are."

Ezra swallowed hard and pulled the precious bundle in his arms closer. "I love you, Vin," he whispered almost vehemently. "I am never letting you go."

"Love ya, too," the younger man managed before finally succumbing to unconsciousness.

Only then did Ezra find the strength to slowly release him and lay him back into the nest of quilts on the floor. As quickly and efficiently as he could, desperately wishing for Nathan's expertise the entire time, the gambler cleaned and bandaged the damage done to the tracker. After checking and rechecking his handiwork to make sure he missed nothing, he pushed the bloody water and rags as far away as he could and blew out the lamp. Curling down into the covers beside the man that he loved, Ezra carefully pulled him into his arms once again, sheltering him with all the strength of mind and heart he possessed even as his tired and sore body claimed the rest it deserved for it efforts. Vin shifted in his sleep, settling himself deeper into his protector's arms, melding the two lost and hurting halves back into the necessary whole. Everything else could wait.

The End
Sequel: Welcome Home