Author's Note: Dear Readers, this chapter brings us to the end of Through the Flames; however, some threads of this story will continue into my next (as yet untitled) fanfic.

Thank you to katbybee, who has served as inspiration, co-author, and beta-reader for this chapter. She provided much of the dialogue for Andrew Carter and Peter Newkirk. Thank you also to Piscean6724 for beta-reading and encouraging me throughout my writing journey!

And thank you to all my readers for your feedback and patience as you stuck with me through my bouts of writer's block and my little tangents and my travels! Marbo, I hope your recovery from surgery is going well! To answer some of your questions — I don't think I've mentioned Andy's twin before. He's really katbybee's character, from her Hogan's Heroes stories, and he's introduced there. If you read her Three Ring Circus, you'll get to know the twins in their younger days. In my last chapter, Andy was actually at the scene of the incident, as he'd been summoned with news that his brother was injured. I'm not saying Andy punched through the window and then punched Sinclair, but… well… that might be one way of interpreting things. No one saw it happen, though, and no one considers Sinclair credible at this point!

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Carson, CA

"It's a red-letter day, Johnny." Dixie Brackett smiled broadly at one of her favorite former paramedics, whose long body was draped over the rocking chair in the NICU where he was rocking his daughter. RJ was fussing nearby in his crib, so Dixie picked him up and patted on his back. "These twins of yours are ready to get out of here."

Johnny's eyebrows shot up as his eyes widened in utter panic. In his arms, little Dixie Jo squawked — he must have squeezed her just a little too tight — but she was quickly soothed. Johnny, on the other hand, remained visibly flustered. "Dix… I'm… I'm not —"

"You're not ready to take them home, and even if you were, you can't expect to take care of them in a motel room." Johnny narrowed his eyes and Dixie held up a hand to stop the complaint she knew was coming. She would relieve his concern about the twins soon enough, but she needed to address this matter first. "Yes, I know about it, John Gage. Did you think you could hide it from me? Don't worry, I promise I won't tell Roy or Nita, though I can't for the life of me understand why you would choose to stay in a cheap motel when you have so many friends who would welcome you into their homes. What were you thinking, Johnny? I know you gave up the guest room at the DeSotos' for Grandma Winnie. It was a noble gesture, but that doesn't mean you have to make yourself a martyr."

"I…" Johnny choked out the single syllable but seemed unable to say anything more. Poor fellow, it wasn't like him to be speechless.

But Dixie wasn't done yet, so it was just as well. She sat facing Johnny, RJ nestled against her shoulder. "I have a solution for you. You wouldn't be putting anyone out, and you would actually be helping Kel and me. As you know, Kel moved into my apartment after our wedding. Well, his lease isn't up for six months, and his landlord has been pestering him about how a vacant unit attracts vandals and thieves. Now, Dr. Girard over in orthopedics has been looking for a place and he'll be taking over the lease, but he can't move in for two more weeks, which is about how long it will be till Nita is discharged. So, we were hoping you could stay at Kel's townhouse just so it's lived in. It would be a big help to us."

"Stay there with the babies?" Johnny's forehead wrinkled, and Dixie could tell he wasn't convinced. It was time to put him out of his misery.

"Oh, don't worry about that." Dixie winked and gave him her sweetest smile. "Dr. Damon isn't discharging them just yet. She's sending them up to the well-baby nursery, where they can stay until their Mama is ready to go home. It's good medicine for Nita to have them close, and it will give you time to make preparations." She wondered if Johnny realized how expressive his face was. She watched now as the worry lines in his forehead smoothed out and his anxiety drained away. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, and she thought maybe he was blinking back tears.

She hadn't been entirely truthful. She did understand, at least a little, why Johnny had gone to a motel instead of asking another friend to take him in. He was a proud and stubborn man, and he found it hard to ask for help. Dixie imagined it was a trait hardwired into the Gage DNA. She hoped the way she'd phrased her offer would make it easier for him to accept. Not, of course, that she would take no for an answer. Dixie Brackett could out-stubborn John Gage any day of the week.

He looked back up at her, a crooked smile snaking its way across his features. "Sure, Dix. I could do that. When do you want me to move in?"

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Santa Barbara, CA

Matt shook his head as he looked at the snapshot that had come in the mail a few days ago. Dad and Uncle Pete, together again, both of them in casts, and Uncle Pete in a hospital gown. At least one good thing had come out of this whole debacle with General Sinclair, who was, of course, no longer a general. Matt set the photo on the coffee table and leaned back against the seat cushions.

For once, the wheels of justice were moving swiftly… well, sort of. Dad had called while Uncle Pete was in surgery to let them know what happened. Four days later, Pete had recovered enough to attend Sinclair's initial hearing. Under normal circumstances, it might take months to complete an investigation and set a date for a general court martial, but in this case, there wasn't a lot to investigate. Pete had heard Sinclair gun the motor and had turned in time to see the car bearing down on him, and, according to the MPs, Sinclair had been pulled from the wreckage muttering about how he'd gotten the wrong Carter and all he wanted was a chance to try again. Considered a flight risk, Sinclair was bound over pending trial, which would take place in three months. He faced multiple charges, the worst of which was attempted murder. If found guilty, he stood to spend the rest of his life in Leavenworth.

But according to Dad, Sinclair still refused to tell anyone where Melissa could be found. Matt just didn't get it. The man was driven by hatred and resentment. What a miserable way to live. I don't want to become like that. He was at risk, he knew. Hating Sinclair was easy. Whenever Matt thought about Melissa, his blood boiled. He wasn't so sure that, if he were driving a car and caught sight of Owen Sinclair, he wouldn't take aim and floor it.

No. No, I wouldn't. He shook his head in an attempt to banish the thought. Mom and Dad had taught him better. He valued life too much to try taking it. The desire to defend and preserve life was woven into the very fiber of Matt's being — that's why he did what he did. But that temptation was still there, niggling at him.

He would, of course, keep such thoughts to himself. The anger, the grief, the fear — he had bottled it down deep ever since his talk with Uncle Rob. Oh, he knew he shouldn't, but he really didn't want to cause trouble for anyone else. Taffy was sick — he didn't need the burden of Matt's problems. Gramps and Oma would soon be heading home, and Matt wanted the time they had left in California to be free of stress. Best for them to think Matt was getting over it… not just the physical effects of his injuries, but the emotional ones. So, every morning before he joined Gramps and Oma for breakfast, Matt took a few minutes to compose himself, to push his darker feelings down and allow only the positive ones to show on his face. So far, he felt he'd been successful.

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Andrew Carter had been headed up to get a book. It was a beautiful day and he thought he would join Hilda on the back patio and read for a while before lunch. As he passed by the living room, though, he glanced in and noticed Matt sitting there, looking lost. In that instant, his plans changed. He and his grandson were long past-due for a talk.

As Andrew stepped through the door, he saw how Matt straightened up suddenly and grabbed a newspaper off the coffee table. "Hey, Gramps… uh…" Matt's eyes darted down to the paper for a second. "Did you see this article about… uh… L.A. getting ready for the Olympics?"

Andrew narrowed his eyes at the obvious dodge. He'd expected as much. "Yeah. I have. Put the paper down." He kept his voice soft but firm. He would brook no argument.

Matt eyed the door. Probably considering how to escape. He knows exactly where this is headed and he doesn't want to go there, Andrew thought. Then Matt tossed the paper down and mustered a breezy tone. "What's up, Gramps?"

Andrew cleared his throat as he settled into the chair opposite Matt. "You're keeping a lot of stuff to yourself, son. That's not good. You haven't been yourself lately. You wanna talk about it?" He was sure he knew the answer, but wanted to give the boy some wiggle room, at least to start with.

Matt gulped. For a brief second before he lowered his gaze, Andrew saw the panic in his eyes. When he looked up again, he had that practiced mask on, the one Andrew knew he had been trained to wear when he needed to keep a victim calm. "I don't know what you mean, Gramps. I'm fine. Feeling a lot better these days. Doc says I'm doing great."

Andrew sighed. He was as much to blame for Matt's stubbornness as anyone. Clearly, he wasn't going to be able to cajole his grandson into talking. He would have to go with blunt honesty instead. "Bull." He leaned forward. "You're hurting inside. You don't wanna tell anybody about it because you don't want anyone else to get hurt." When Matt's eyes darted downward again, Andrew knew he had struck a nerve. "Look at me, son." He waited a moment for Matt to comply, then continued. "You're mad because we haven't found Melissa yet. You're also mad because you can't be the one to go rescue your girl on your own. And that pisses you off more than anything. You think you've lost the whole ball game. Well, Matthew… guess what? Maybe you have." Matt winced at that. Andrew didn't relish twisting the knife, but the boy needed to face reality. "You might never see Melissa again. We can't know that for sure. Not yet. But sometimes the thing that we think is the worst possible thing to happen to us in our entire life turns out to be the best. I can vouch for that personally. So, you can mope around or straighten up and play —"

"Stop, Gramps!" Matt had been sitting there, so tightly wound it was no surprise when he suddenly sprang to his feet and started pacing the floor. Andrew could see the anguish in his eyes. That wall the boy had been building around his heart was beginning to crumble. Andrew intended to tear it down altogether. Finally, Matt turned to look at him, eyes wet with tears. "Please don't make me talk about this."

Andrew leaned forward and then stood up, taking Matt by the shoulders and looking him directly in the eyes. "— and play the hand you've been dealt. You let those around you help you. You do not shut them out. You do not wallow in your pain. You talk about it and you find a way through it. That's what you do. That's what I did. And I kept a reminder never to let it happen again. I moved on with my life. Thanks to your grandmother, who really was the best thing to happen to me in my entire life. She, my children, and all you kids."

Matt was staring at him now, his brow furrowed. "What are you even talking about?"

Andrew shook his head. He was in for it now. He had never meant for anyone other than Hilda to know about that long-ago incident, though things hadn't quite worked out that way. A few other close friends knew, but he certainly hadn't intended his children or grandchildren to find out, and definitely not this way. But if the knowledge would help Matt, so be it.

"Matt, when I was very young, and first starting out in the military, I did something dumb. I won't go into the details, but I got drunk and married a girl I didn't even know. She turned out to be my commanding officer's daughter, and it messed up my chance to become an officer. That's how I ended up in Germany, and how I ended up at Stalag 13. At the time, I thought my life in the Army was over, that I would never advance, that I was pretty much worthless as a military man. You know that was wrong. But at the time, I was devastated. I wore my wedding ring for years, just as a reminder of what I had done, of how one foolish decision can change your life. Then I fell in love with your grandmother. She's the one who pulled me out of that slump, who got me talking, who showed me that I had value beyond my ability to blow things up. Thanks to her, that ring became a good luck charm. I carry it on my key ring now. That's why I'm telling you about it. You can't know how all this will come out, or where life will take you. But you do need to talk it out. Don't let anger and bitterness destroy you. Don't give Sinclair the satisfaction of winning after all."*

Suddenly weary, Andrew sank down on the sofa. Telling his story had cost him a lot, and he could feel the fatigue settling in.

Matt slowly lowered himself onto the sofa as well. At first, he said nothing, but his hand reached to squeeze Andrew's for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined. "I'm just… so angry, Gramps. And I feel… guilty. None of this would have happened if Melissa and I hadn't… well… you know what I mean. But we did and Sinclair hurt you. He tried to kill Dad! He almost killed Uncle Pete! Because of me!"

Andrew put a hand on Matt's back and was about to speak, but his grandson didn't give him a chance to break in. "Yeah, yeah… I know… he was mad about his brother. But he could have just gone on being mad and leaving us alone if it weren't for me. And I really just want to find Melissa. The day you had your surgery, I went up to see her and she woke up, Gramps. She looked at me! She knew me. But I had to leave because her dad was coming up. I promised her I'd be back. And then I never got to go back. I can't imagine how alone she must feel."

Andrew nodded. "I understand. Now let me ask you a question. Did you understand what the doctors told you about her diagnosis? That she'll have pretty severe memory loss? Both short term and long term?"

Matt nodded miserably. "I know."

"All right, then." Andrew pivoted in his seat and lay a hand on Matt's back and began rubbing it gently. "I want you to listen carefully. You need to trust that the doctors know what they are talking about. You have to let the guilt go, Matt. Yes, she looked at you, and that was good. But, in all likelihood, she doesn't remember anything about you, the accident, or even that night in the hospital. She doesn't remember that promise, son. Matty, you have got to stop torturing yourself over something you can't control."

Andrew felt a slight shudder run through Matt's frame. He had used the childhood nickname intentionally, hoping that Matt would remember. How many times had the boy perched on his knee when he was small, crying over some perceived tragedy? Sometimes the tragedy was real, other times it was something small that was forgotten entirely the next day, or even the next hour. Andrew had never belittled Matthew for those tears. He would just rub his back and speak to him softly. Matty, things will get better.

"Things will get better," Matt whispered now. Andrew watched him blink back tears, satisfied that Matt remembered too. "I know, Gramps. Thank you."

Andrew grinned, his thoughts carrying him back to one of the last times Matt had sat crying on his knee. "By the way, Matty, do you remember that hummingbird?"

Matt's forehead wrinkled for a second, and then he nodded.

"Well, it wasn't dead after all. It came to ten minutes after you and your family left. I watched it fly away. I never told you because I figured you'd never throw rocks at birds again."

Matt grinned… a genuine smile, this time. One that stretched from ear to ear and made Andrew feel like he was looking in a mirror and seeing his younger self look back at him. "I never did. I even got in a fight with the neighbor boy the next year when he was egging me on to do it again. Probably the first time I used the wrestling moves you taught me successfully."

Andrew chuckled as he slapped Matt on the back. "I remember that. A good fight. Wondered what started it. Good job! You hungry? Breakfast was a while ago. You wanna go find something to eat somewhere?"

"Sure, I'd like that. And Gramps…" Matt paused.

Andrew wondered what he had in mind but was glad to see he looked lighter… like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He still carried a deep sorrow in his eyes, and Andrew figured he would for some time. That was understandable. Matt's grief wouldn't fade in a day. "Yes?"

"After lunch, would you go truck shopping with me?"

Andrew responded with a grin and another good-natured slap to the back. He'd tried to get Matt interested in finding himself a new truck once he was cleared to drive again, but until now, without success. "I'd be glad to. But stay away from red. Dangerous color. Emergency vehicles are —" His ears got hot, and he laughed heartily. "Ahhh heck… who am I to tell you about that? Let's go!"

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United States Army Corrections Facility, Mannheim, Germany

Owen Sinclair sat on his cot, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. Cooped up in this cage, he was forced to work out his revenge in his imagination. One day he would see the Carter line brought down. Andrew… Peter… Andy… that upstart Matthew… he would destroy them utterly. Every one of them would be disgraced. They would lose everything, he would see to that. He smiled at the thought. A man could dream, right?

So he had failed to kill Andy Carter. Perhaps it was better this way. When he walked out of this place a free man, he would make his way back to Los Angeles and he would kill Matthew Carter instead. The apple of his grandfather's eye… the pride and joy of his father… the one who had tempted Melissa away from her home and her father and nearly put her in her grave. Oh, revenge would be sweet. Owen would watch them lower Matthew Carter's coffin into a grave and shovel dirt over it and he would laugh. He chortled now, just thinking of it, picturing it in his mind. The image made him giddy.

Once he had dispensed with the Carter whelp, Owen would seek out his son. Rosanna's boy. It struck him that he had never learned the man's given name. Only the surname Schumacher… and what was the name of his so-called father… Stephen? Well, Owen knew how to find people. As long as he had money, he had plenty of friends who would help him. Thanks to Melissa, even if he lost his pension and everything else he ought to have had from his years of service, he would always have plenty of money once he managed to get himself reinstated as her guardian. Yes, he would find Schumacher, and Schumacher would become Sinclair. Owen Sinclair II. He would wear his proper name with pride when Owen the First was done with him. Or he would join Matthew Carter in an early grave. As he wished. Owen shrugged. He didn't really care one way or the other, but it would be nice to have a son. Melissa had been permanently damaged. She would never be the same. And even if by some miracle she could recover fully, she had been a disappointment from the first… from the moment she'd made her appearance and the doctor announced, "It's a girl." A girl far too much like her mother… at least when her mother was young.

Owen bristled at the memory of Emilia Castagna. Emilia was a beauty, with mahogany hair and dark blue eyes so deep he thought he could drown in them. She'd captivated Owen from the first time he first saw her dining at a Florentine trattoria. From the moment she looked at him with those beautiful eyes, he'd been driven by the need to possess her. Emilia had been a fiery woman back then, full of passion and quick to fight him when he exerted control, but he'd risen to the challenge. Oh, he'd enjoyed it. Over time he'd managed to break her spirit as he'd never been able to do with Rosanna. Once he got her away from her family, it was easier. She didn't speak English at first, and so it wasn't difficult to keep her isolated until she settled down. Once he had her tamed, he started giving her occasional little tastes of freedom, just enough to keep her from rebelling. And then Melissa was born, and for a while, Emilia was content devoting herself to the child. Owen had resented the fact that she gave him a daughter instead of a son. She'd never conceived again, either.

As Melissa grew, Emilia seemed to regain that stubborn spark Owen thought he'd quenched. Several times, she'd tried to run away with Owen's daughter. After the second attempt, Owen managed to commit her to a mental hospital. That was the summer he begrudgingly sent Melissa to camp, where she'd met the Carter brat. When Emilia was released, Owen moved the family to Germany in an attempt to cut off the budding teenage romance. Emilia was more malleable by then, but soon she became ill. Mortally so. She suffered a long, slow, agonizing death. Just the sort of death Owen hoped to inflict upon Matthew Carter. He interlaced his fingers and lay back on his cot, his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Yes, for now he could dream.

The rattling of keys in his cell door woke him. Through the window, he could see that the snowy grey sky had given way to a darker grey dusk. He must have slept a few hours, then. "You have a visitor, Sinclair," the guard barked. "Come with me."

A visitor? Owen couldn't imagine who it might be. No one had visited him since he landed here except his counsel, and he wouldn't just show up without warning. Maybe his son? Curiosity propelled him off his cot to follow the guard down the long corridor of cells and into a small, dimly lit interrogation room. A small but stout figure sat behind the steel table, but because of the lighting, until his eyes adjusted, Sinclair could make out only his silhouette. He had no idea who it was. The guard shoved Sinclair down in his seat, then left the room. The door closed behind him with a loud clang.

The man cocked his head and sneered. Owen fixed him with what he thought was a menacing glare, but the man seemed unaffected. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in Owen's face. "How the flippin' hell has Andrew even bothered letting you live? Too bloody much respect for the law, I guess."

"Who are you?" snapped Sinclair, irritated. He thought he knew all of Carter's acquaintances, but this one was a mystery to him.

The man leaned back in his chair and smiled, which was more terrifying than the carefully neutral expression he'd worn up to that point. His green eyes sparked with a cold anger and a danger Owen had never felt before. "Doesn't matter who I am, mate. What matters to you is what I decide to do to you. I got friends all over this place, an' they're watchin'. You step outta line just once, an' I will know. You do anything to hurt Andrew or any of his friends or family, and I will kill you. And no mistake, mate, I've done it before. You'd be a walk in the park."

A chill ran through Owen. He prided himself on his ability to size a man up and then find a way to back him down, make him shrivel up. This rough Englishman refused to shrivel. Wait… Englishman. Sinclair gulped. He remembered a name, one he'd been warned to take seriously in the past. "You're Newkirk."

The man smirked and his eyes flashed. "I am. An' this is my only warning. We're watching." With that, Newkirk stood and stared at Owen hard for a long moment. Then, without a word, he strode to the door and gave three soft knocks. While they waited for the guard, Newkirk turned back to Owen and smiled almost gently as he reached back over his shoulder and pulled out a wicked looking blade.

Owen's eyes widened and he cringed backwards against the table, his hands raising in surrender. "Don't hurt me!"

Newkirk shook his head and took one step towards Owen. "Now that all depends on you, mate. If you don't wanna feel the sweet touch o' me pencil sharpener removin' yer fat head from yer shoulders, you'll answer me one question." He leaned down beside Owen and wrapped an arm around his neck, then breathed the question into his ear. All Owen could focus on was the power in that arm, how easily it could snap him in two. "An' don't even think ta be lyin' to me," Newkirk growled, "Because if you do, you die before dawn. I can promise that."

Owen stammered an answer. He wasn't even sure it was the right one, but it was all he could think of at the time. Apparently, it satisfied Newkirk. The Englishman released him and slipped the blade back into its sheath just before the guard pulled open the door.

"Guard… he… he has… a… b… b…" Owen's mouth suddenly felt as if it were full of cotton.

Newkirk raised an eyebrow and silently mouthed, "He knows."

Stunned, Owen looked from the guard to the Englishman and back to the guard. Their faces seemed to leer at him. "Take me back to my cell," he begged. "Please." The guard took him by the arm and pushed him past Newkirk into the corridor.

Newkirk's whisper in Owen's ear as he was escorted out repeated over and over again in his mind all the way down that long hallway. Remember, Sinclair… we're watchin'. We see everything.

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Peter Newkirk made his way from the interrogation room to the main reception area, where he waited for the guard to return Sinclair to his cell. A few minutes passed, and then the guard came to meet him, as they'd arranged. Peter stood when he saw his new acquaintance coming. "Thanks for the favor, mate. I have to get back to London tonight, so I appreciate you helping me get in on short notice."

"It's no problem," the guard assured him. "Especially when your visit involved dealing with our problem child." He shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Even Commander Haines hates that guy, and that takes a lot. He's been warden here forever. Were the few extra minutes enough time? I was close enough to keep an eye on the door but keeping everyone else busy. Did he tell you what you needed to know?"

Peter nodded grimly. "Yeah, he did."

With that, he picked up his bag, waved to the guard, then hurried out the door, well pleased with his evening's work. He'd done exactly as he'd told Colonel Hogan he would do. He wanted Sinclair to sweat a bit. Of course, getting his blade into the prison undetected had been a bit tricky, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before. He'd learned a few tricks from some new friends lately and they'd come in handy. Planting the blade on a guard and having him take it through the metal detector had worked like a charm. He'd have to tell Rollin about it the next time he saw him. Meeting up with the master spy had definitely been a stroke of luck, although the man could be insufferably vain at times. But the most important thing was that now Owen Sinclair was going to be paranoid of everyone around him. And that could only work to their advantage.

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Carson, CA

Matt hated working Dispatch. It was good to be working again, but he wanted to be in the Squad, actually saving lives, instead of working the phones. Oh, he knew he was still helping save lives, but he didn't like being a step removed from the people he was helping. He wanted to be on the front lines.

Another problem with Dispatch — it gave him too much time to think. He'd been trying to take Gramps' advice and let the guilt go, but some days it was awful hard. He kept seeing Melissa's fragile, pale face in his mind's eye and remembering his promise. Even if she didn't remember, that didn't make the promise any less broken, did it?

He sighed as he unlocked his apartment door and pushed it open. He needed to be busy. He needed to get back to life on the front lines. Another week, and his cast would come off and he would be able to get back to work. Well, almost. He knew he could expect some PT to get his arm back to full strength first, but he was 100% committed to doing whatever it took to get there.

Tossing his duffel bag into a corner, Matt grabbed the tub of popcorn he'd brought home from the movie theatre the previous day. His friend Alex had insisted on getting him out of the apartment, so they'd gone to see a showing of Footloose. Matt had squirmed through the storyline, then walked out halfway through. Alex came running out after him, apologizing. "I didn't know what it was about, Matt. Really, I didn't." Then they'd gone back to Matt's place with their popcorn and watched Star Wars reruns.

He balanced the leftover popcorn on his knee, then grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table. He had been running late this morning and didn't have time to look at more than the main headline then. A story near the bottom of the front page caught his eye. Disgraced US Army general found dead in suspected suicide. He scanned the story, then reached for the phone and dialed his grandfather.

"Did you see the news, Gramps?" he asked breathlessly as soon as the older man answered. He felt like he was on a roller coaster, his mood fluctuating wildly between panic and relief.

"Yeah, son, I saw it. I figured I'd be hearing from you." Gramps' steady tone had a calming effect, grounding Matt and easing him out of the panic.

"Do you know anything more?" Matt was afraid to ask the question he most wanted answered. What about Melissa? He jumped to his feet and started pacing as far as the phone cord would allow.

"Matt, take a deep breath. Remember the hummingbird. I'm sorry, I don't know anything more, but you'll know what you need to know in time. Things will get better, Matty… it just takes time."

"I know, Gramps." Matt took a deep breath and decided to follow the advice he'd been given — he needed to open up, talk about what he was feeling. "It's just… I really want to get on a plane and go look for her myself. I'm this close to walking out the door and heading for the airport."

Gramps sighed on the other end of the line. "That isn't your job, Matt. It isn't your time to come to the rescue. Others are working on that, and you have to let them do their job while you do the work that has been given you."

Matt nodded. Gramps was right. He couldn't just take off, especially when he had no idea where to look or what to expect. "I know. I just… don't like feeling like I'm useless to her."

"Matt," Gramps soothed. "You are not useless to Melissa. You can do the most important thing of all."

"What's that, Gramps?"

"Pray for her, boy." Gramps' voice cracked with emotion. "And know that I'm right there praying with you."

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The Gage Ranch, in the hills above Sunland-Tujunga, CA

Roy lounged in a lawn chair, watching the kids toss a Frisbee in Johnny's expansive yard. Just over two weeks had passed since the fire at Grandma Winnie's house. Winnie had spent a week visiting her son's family in Colorado after her release from the hospital, but then had called the DeSotos and asked them to meet her at the airport.

"I love my family, but I need to be close to the ocean," Winnie told Jo. "Those Rocky Mountains are mighty fine, but the air's too thin at a mile high, and it just isn't home. Besides, I want to be there when they start the repairs on my house, make sure they do it right."

So, for now, to DJ's great delight, Winnie Canfield and her cat, Cattywampus, who had survived the fire with nothing worse than a few singed whiskers, were comfortably ensconced in the DeSoto guest room. Roy had worried at first about what Johnny would do — there had long been an understanding that the guest room was his if he needed it. But Gage had insisted on giving the room to Winnie. When asked his plans, he hemmed and hawed at first, then just said not to worry, he'd be fine.

Roy later learned from Dixie that his friend had spent several nights at a cheap motel. He did bunk at Billy's a few times, when Billy and his roommate were both on an overnight shift, but on the nights they were off, there wasn't space in the small mobile home for a third man. Roy chuckled as he remembered the look on Dixie's face when she'd shared this information. "Don't worry, Roy," she'd promised with a wink. "I've got a plan in motion."

"What are you laughin' about?" Johnny asked as he reached to grab an errant Frisbee out of the air and send it sailing back to Chris.

"Oh, nothin'. Just happy, I guess. My foot's all healed… we're goin' ridin' after our cookout… the kids are gettin' along…"

Roy wasn't supposed to know about the motel, and he would never rat on Dixie, so when Johnny narrowed his eyes and knotted up his mouth at that vague answer, he just shrugged. Then he laughed again. "Will you look at that?" Grateful for a distraction, he pointed to the scene playing out next to the swingset Johnny had installed shortly after moving in. DJ had abandoned the Frisbee game and was lying in the grass, rolling around and giggling. Callie Pup and Johnny's dog Tasembo were stretched out on either side of the little boy, imitating him, except the dogs were yapping. "Some days, I think Callie's as much DJ's dog as she is mine. She sure does love him." Johnny laughed, then jumped up to join the Frisbee game, and Roy knew he'd been successful at dodging uncomfortable questions.

The day after Dixie had made her promise, Johnny had checked out of the motel and moved into Brackett's townhouse. He'd lived in the lap of luxury there for the next couple of weeks, and then, yesterday, he'd brought Nita and the twins home. Today they were celebrating. Kel had disappeared with Tex, probably visiting the horse he'd recently purchased and was stabling here. Nita, Jo, Winnie, and Dixie were inside right with the babies — no doubt, the ladies were having a struggle keeping Nita off her feet.

Johnny had quietly commented that if he didn't know better, he never would have guessed his wife had been so sick, given the energy she'd come home with. "She walked in the house last night and wanted to cook dinner for me and Tex," he said. "I'm glad she feels so good, but I worry about her overdoing it." He shrugged and sighed. "I guess all I can do is encourage her to pay attention and rest when she needs to."

Roy understood how Nita felt. He'd been chomping at the bit to get back out of his wheelchair while his foot was still healing. In fact, he'd come up to the ranch a few times with Johnny before his bandages came off and had ridden Miel… not that he was going to admit that to Kel or Jo.

Now Johnny tossed the Frisbee one more time before he jogged back to the porch and disappeared inside the house. The scent of fresh-baked cookies wafted through the open window, a siren's call as far as John Gage was concerned. A moment later, he scurried out again, followed by Winnie Canfield's indignant shout. "John Gage, you leave them cookies be till after supper!"

Johnny sat down, and passed a couple of thick, soft sugar cookies to Roy. "Life is good, Pally," he said around a mouthful of cookie.

Roy nodded slowly. Johnny was right. Life was good. They'd faced some pretty daunting flames over the last several months, but they'd come through them… not exactly unscathed, but whole. He clapped Johnny on the back. "You're right, Junior. Life is real good."

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NOTES:

*For more on Carter's story, I recommend katbybee's Once Bitten.