Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

A/N: Set in the very beginning of the series, and inspired by a conversation I had quite a long time ago now. Just got re-inspired to finish writing this.

A/N 2: Revised - due to reviews, and a conversation I had with a trusted writer friend, I've added a phrase to Jarrod's side of the conversation he had with Heath, and a phrase to Heath's.

He sees the iron coming at him out of the corner of his eye. It's so hot that it's spitting red. The letter 'B' looms in front of his face, and he tries to pull away, but the men holding his arms don't allow it.

They pull him back. He can feel the heat of the iron, so hot against his back that it feels like his skin is melting off. He doesn't want to give these men the satisfaction of hearing him scream, but he can't help the gasp of pain that escapes him when the iron hovers at just barely touching.

"You fancy yourself a Barkley, boy?" one of the men asks.

He's missing a couple of teeth, the rest are brown from too much tobacco and coffee, and one of his eyes doesn't work quite right - Heath thinks he remembers hearing that it was shot out during the war, the same war that he fought in. In another time, another place, different circumstances, they might've exchanged war stories - been comrades. But, not here, not now, and definitely not while the man is holding him down while a branding iron is pressed to his flesh.

Heath struggles to free himself, but there are too many of them. He's a Barkley, whether anyone else recognizes him as one or not. He's determined to claim his birthright, and he knows that there will be obstacles, he just hadn't counted on having so many of them, so soon, and that the ranch hands would be so opposed to him staking a claim on the family name. A name that none of them would ever hold any claim to.

"All that's missing is the mark, boy, gotta get you branded, like the rest of the cattle." The man laughs, and the others pick up his maniacal laughter, making Heath's blood run cold.

The red-hot iron hisses as it touches his skin, and he can't help it, he screams, animalistic sounds are clawed from his throat.

It hurts, even worse than some of the tortures he'd faced when he'd been held captive during the war.

"Get the hell off'a my brother."

Nick, the name registers sluggishly in Heath's mind, even as his shoulder starts to grow numb, and his own screams peter out. He's got nothing left. His strength's sapped from him.

Heath isn't sure if he should be relieved that Nick's there, because, of all of the Barkley's, Nick had been the one most vocal against accepting Heath, even after the others had believed that he really was Tom's son, born to a woman he'd met in Strawberry once upon a time.

Heath can't really blame Nick for not accepting him. He'd probably have reacted much the same way, had their roles been reversed, not wanting to believe something like that about his own father.

But, their roles aren't reversed, and the image of Tom Barkley that Heath has is not a good one, because it's tainted with the knowledge that his mother had worked herself to the bone, and died virtually penniless, having raised a bastard son, and lived, daily, with the consequences of that. Being looked down upon, talked about, and spited, and yet, never once bad-mouthing the man who'd left her pregnant, or the son that she'd borne him. A son Tom Barkley would never recognize, never count as his own.

"Get off'a him!" Nick bellows, and Heath can't help it, he starts to laugh.

It's a broken sound, and it soon devolves into tears, and Heath wishes that he'd never learned the truth about his father. That he'd never set foot on Barkley lands. That he could've left well enough alone. Not because of the pain that he's in now, but because of what the revelation had done to the Barkleys, how it had undermined their authority and credibility with the ranch hands, who are still holding him down, pinning his upper body to the roughshod table.

"You let him go, or I'll -"

"You'll what?" one of the ranch hands asks, and Heath can feel the now cooling iron sinking into his flesh, the hands holding him down shifting and applying even more pressure.

His shoulder aches, and Heath knows that it'll probably always ache, especially when a storm's a brewing. The ache in his shoulder will portend a coming storm, or bad weather front, much like war injuries.

"I'll pull ya off'a him," Nick growls.

Heath's glad that his half-brother's anger's not directed at him, because Nick sounds downright furious, like a lion ready to rip the men apart. And Heath wouldn't put it past him. Nick is not someone to mess with, he learned that the moment he met him. There's a quick temper running in Nick's veins, and Heath wonders, almost idly, if he got that from their father.

Heath's not so quick to anger himself. With him, it festers and grows, and if he's not watching out for it, it'll spike and he'll do something rash. His anger may be slow in coming, but it's no less intense, and he's no less volatile than Nick when he's reached his threshold. He can only be tolerant for so long.

Nick, on the other hand, seems to have little to no tolerance. He sees things in black and white - no shades of gray. So, in a way, his coming to Heath's defense means that he's finally accepted him as a Barkley.

The unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, manly grunts, and cussing reach Heath's ears as though through a tunnel. His eyes, when he manages to pry them open, can't make out much in the dimly lit room. The only light's coming from the fire, and a single lantern located on a table across the room from where Heath is pinned down.

He can't tell who's winning, but can hear Nick's voice amidst the men not holding him down. He wishes that he wasn't so weak, that the brand burnt into his flesh hadn't sapped him of all of his strength. Right now, he's weak as a newborn baby, and he hates it. Hates that he can't weigh in with Nick.

"What on God's green earth is going on here?" Victoria's voice rings out in the room, and just like that, Heath's free, save for one strong arm still pinning the back of his neck to the wooden planks.

It feels like the entire room takes a collective breath, and Heath can hear Victoria's feet as she walks across the room, the cool of her hand as she places it against his cheek.

"Oh, Heath, what have they done to you? Get off of him, now!" Victoria's voice is no less furious than that of her true son.

She's like a mama bear, protecting her cub, except Heath's not her cub. Not like Nick or Jarrod or Eugene or Audra. He's a bastard, nothing more, and he's not even her bastard, and yet, here she is, coming to his rescue.

It's a testament to Victoria's indomitable spirit that the men, as a unit, stop fighting, and back away, giving her a wide berth. The man holding Heath's neck against the table moves, and suddenly Heath can breathe freely. His lungs grasp at the air as though he'd been drowning.

Heath tries to move, wants to get up now that he can, but Victoria's hand has replaced the man's arm, and he's too weak to throw her off - not that he'd throw off the woman who'd all but adopted him.

"Nick, go get Jarrod; have Audra turn down the bed and have Silas run some water. You or Jarrod will need to go into town and fetch the doc. Hurry now," Victoria's voice was sharp as a whip, quick efficient, and hard.

"You men, clear out of here, now," Victoria orders. "The lot of you, and don't bother trying to pick up today's pay."

Not a single man questions her, almost as one, they gather their belongings and file out. Heath can feel their absence as though it's a physical thing. When it's just him and Victoria, she leans in close and massages the back of his neck with her fingers.

"Oh, Heath, I'm so sorry," she says. Her voice hitches on his name, and he can tell she's got tears in her eyes, even though he can't see her.

"Not your fault," he manages to shove the words past lips that feel like rubber, and then he promptly passes out.

When he wakes, he's in bed, the lamp's turned down to its lowest setting. He can just make out a lumpy shape in the chair beside his bed. Hiis shoulder feels like it's still on fire, but he doesn't want to draw attention to himself, because, judging by the slump of the figure's shoulders, he or she is asleep.

"Heath? You okay?" It's Jarrod, and the man leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, wiping sleep from his eyes.

Heath tries to respond, but his throat's too dry, and when he tries to push himself up on his elbows, so that he can better see Jarrod, his vision goes white.

"Easy there, Heath. Here, let me get you the medicine the doc left, and some water. Rest easy, there, little brother." Jarrod eases Heath's head up, gently places a glass of warm water to his lips, and Heath sips. Jarrod gives Heath the medicine, and another sip of water, and then he sits back in the chair, rests his elbows on his knees and gives Heath an inscrutable look.

"Heath, I'm sorry for what happened. I..." he bows his head, and Heath's heart jumps to his throat. "I didn't think it would come down to this."

"It's okay, Jarrod," Heath says, his voice raspy from screaming. "It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not," Jarrod says, leaning close, fluffing Heath's pillow. "But if I'd have stepped in sooner, this wouldn't have happened."

"Or maybe it'd have happened anyway," Heath says, feeling a little less like the brand is still being pressed against his shoulder, the pain dulling now that the medicine's kicking in. "You can't watch over me all the time. People are gonna talk, and when talking don't work, they're gonna act."

"Mother cut them loose," Jarrod says. "Nick's getting together a new crew. I'm personally seeing to the prosecution of those who had a part in what was done to you. They won't be seeing sunshine for a great many years to come if I have anything to say about it."

Heath sighed. "Y'all shouldnt'a gone to all that trouble. No sense in getting rid of them on account'a what they did to me. I ain't worth that."

"Yes, you are Heath," Jarrod's voice is steely, and he leans in. His eyes are sparking with anger. "You are worth much, much more than that."

When Heath opens his mouth to protest, Jarrod holds up a hand to forestall him. He shakes his head. "Heath, you're worth more than those men, more than this ranch. Don't you see it?"

"He's right, Heath," Victoria says. She walks into the room, settles on the bed next to Heath, and rests her hand on his back. "You're worth quite a bit more, and not just because you're Tom Barkley's son."

"His bastard son," Heath mutters.

"Oh, no you don't Heath," Victoria's voice is hard, and she gently slaps the back of his head. "Don't you dare talk down about yourself. You are more than that, to me, to all of us."

Heath opens his mouth to tell her otherwise, but Nick and Audra saunter in, and before Heath can speak, he interrupts, "It's best not to argue with Mother. Besides, she's right."

"Heath, can't you see how much our lives have been enriched since you've come to us?" Victoria asks, cupping Heath's cheek with a cool hand.

"Mother's right, Heath. Before you arrived, life around here was dull," Audra adds a little cheekily.

Knowing that anything he says contrary to what his new family believes will be heard, Heath closes his eyes, lets their voices drift over him as he falls into a peaceful slumber. It feels good to have a family who cares about him.

Let me know if you liked this, please. Thanks.