By Bakerj

Chapter One

Who was this woman next to me?  I had no idea.  There’d been too many women, too many beds in the past weeks.  Different town, saloon, girl – I didn’t remember anything, but that was the plan, right? 

Rolling out, I reached for my clothes.  Shit!  On the floor next to my pants lay my sheath.  Essential equipment carried ever since Adam handed me my first and spelled out what a soiled dove could give me other than a good time.  How had I forgotten to use it?  I cursed my stupidity or, more likely, my drunkenness even as I turned to look at the woman.  Her youth and looks surprised me.  Not a guarantee, but it was all I had.  Another mistake in a long line of dumb mistakes.  How many was I going to make?

The girl didn’t wake when I dressed and left the room.  This was just one more lost night in my lost life.

*****

I shuffled through the door of the Cantina, which doubled at the town’s hotel, glad to get out of the sun that felt alien and hostile.

“Morning, Mr. Cartwright.  Mr. Cartwright?”  Damn, she was talking to me.  “Would you like breakfast?”

The hand I ran over my face told me I could use a shave.  Hell, I owed about four days’ worth of those, but who’s counting?  My gut rumbled.  Food sounded good.  “Sure.”

I dropped my hat onto the scrubbed table in the corner and watched Mrs. Lewis disappear into the kitchen.  She ran the place with her young son.  There was no sign of a husband, and I didn’t pry into her situation.  That’s what I liked about these dead-end towns.  Nobody asked questions.

Billy brought over my coffee.  The look of pride on his face when he didn’t spill a drop reminded me of the one I wore as a kid when I helped my pa and brothers around the ranch.  I was a good son then, not the one his father no longer had faith in.  My stomach soured.

“Billy, tell your ma, forget the food.  Coffee’s all I want. 

My hand shook when I picked up the cup but steadied after taking a sip of the strong, black brew.  I replaced it on its saucer and smirked.  China cups and saucers, everything about Baptiste flouted what dead-end towns should be.  The place looked the part.  Battered buildings, smashed windows, and broken furniture piled in a rubbish heap.  Yet all the owners seemed to take pride in their businesses.

The door swung open and filled with the silhouette of a bulk of a man.  My heart raced.  With pleasure or trepidation, I wasn’t sure.  But the hat was wrong.  It wasn’t Hoss, and my heartbeat slowed.  Losing interest, I returned to my coffee. 

The man headed for a table.  The change in the room was almost instant.  Folks who’d been casual and chatting sat up and shut up.  Some took their chance and dodged out the door when the guy sat down, leaving meals unfinished. 

Curious, I looked him over.  He was large, but when you’ve grown up in a family the size of Pa and my brothers, that didn’t intimidate me.   When Mrs. Lewis took his order, her rigid politeness let me know something wasn’t right.  I took another gulp from my cup.  Whoever he was, it was none of my business.

Thanks to the coffee, my stomach settled, and I regretted canceling breakfast.  Waiting until Mrs. Lewis had finished with the big man, I asked for mine again. 

“Certainly, Mr. Cartwright.”

She looked at me with polite disinterest.  How many losers like me had she seen?  Disgust washed over me.  I didn’t have to be like this.

“Hold the food.  Can I have some hot water?  I’ll clean up first.”

The water sloshed in the pan.  Unearthing my shaving kit, I laid it out and looked in the mirror.  God, I looked rough.  What was I becoming?  A lousy drunk who couldn’t look after himself.  Is that what I wanted?  I’d run away from my failure, but letting myself become a bum would solve nothing.

I challenged my reflection, “This has to stop.”  The eyes looking back weren’t as convinced as I sounded.

With my clothes stripped off, my hand reached for the solid brick of soap.  That deadbeat in the mirror wasn’t me.  I wasn’t a quitter or a drunk. 

*****

Chapter Two

Mrs. Lewis checked when I reached the bottom of the stairs.  Her eyes widened, and she smiled. 

“You’re looking better.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.  A nervous hand ran through my damp locks, and I held out the bundle of dirty clothes.  “Is there somewhere I can get these washed?” 

“I can clean them for you.”  She put out her hands.  I hesitated, aware of how rank they were.

“D’you have something to put them in?”  She pulled out a burlap sack from behind the counter, and I dropped the clothes in, pulling the bag tight before handing it back.  “Thanks.  Put it on my bill.”

Settling back at my table, I took a breath.  It felt good to be clean and a little like myself again. 

Billy appeared with another cup of coffee.  When he looked up from watching that it didn’t spill, he stopped short and gaped.  Geez, had I looked that bad? 

He slid the cup onto the table.  “Ma says the food won’t be long.”

Those still in the cantina were familiar from when I’d arrived the day before.  The big man was mopping his plate with a hunk of bread.  Reminded of Hoss, I smiled but quickly shook the memory off.  Best not think about how much I missed that big mule.

Breakfast was worth waiting for, or was I sober enough to notice?  I’d scraped up the last of my beans when the noise made me look around.  Young Billy had tripped while collecting up plates and dropped one.  Leftovers splashed the big man’s boots.

“You stupid brat!”

“S … sorry.”

“Them’s new boots.”  He let out a snarl and grabbed the boy.  “I’ll give you a tanning.”

None of your business, I told myself.  Hunkering over my coffee, I tried to ignore the brewing trouble.  I didn’t need this.

There was a scuffle, a blow, then the kid grunted in pain.  An older man spoke up, “He’s just a boy, Buchanan.  There’s no— ”

“Shut up, or you’ll be next.” 

Then Billy cried out again.  I set down my cup.  What the hell?  What’s the worst that could happen? 

“Leave the kid alone.”

“Who asked you?”

The big man looked mean but not stupid.  I slid around in my chair to give myself room to move if needed.

“No one.  Let the kid go.  There’s no need for trouble.”

He froze.  I knew this play.  We sized each other up like two bulls.  Hoss said I had a glare that could freeze milk.  That better be true because I was in no condition to take this moose on in a fight, and any chance of a fast draw would be a miracle with my shaky hands.

“This ain’t none of your business.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, but my gaze didn’t falter. 

The breath I held tightened my chest.  I ran my left hand up my leg nearer my gun.  Maybe he sensed I wasn’t backing down.  Perhaps as an unknown quantity, I posed too great a risk.  Whatever it was, Buchanan shoved Billy away. 

“Tell your Ma the food’s payment for the boots.”

He stormed out, and everyone started to breathe.  Mrs. Lewis came through from the back carrying a small basket of bread. 

“Ma!  Buchanan was gonna whup me good, but Mr. Cartwright stopped him.”

She wrapped her free hand around her son’s shoulders and turned to me.  “Why would you do that?”

I shrugged.  “Seemed the right thing to do.”

Wrong thing to say.  Everyone in the place stared at me.  And there it was.  The look of revelation that the hero they’d been waiting for had arrived.  Goddammit! 

Too often, we’d ridden into towns where folks begged for a stranger to save them, and the strong, moral Cartwrights obliged.  That man wasn’t me anymore.  I was done helping other people.  If I hadn’t stopped Cliff from beating up Horace that night, he’d never have been able to murder Sally.  But like her, I’d felt sorry for the whining bastard.  No good deed goes unpunished.  Isn’t that what they say?  I’d remember that from now on.  My chair scraped back when I stood.

“Lemme have a bottle of whiskey.”

“But ….”

“Whiskey,” I repeated, slamming down a coin.

She placed the bottle on the counter.  I snatched up the precious liquid and headed for the stairs.  Their eyes followed, branding me with their hope. 

I slammed the door shut with a kick and dropped onto the bed.  The room was neat, like the cantina.  I yanked the cork from the bottle with my teeth, spat it onto the floor, and laughed.  Not so tidy now.

The burn from the whiskey filled my stomach, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory of how those people looked at me.  Shit!  I didn’t need crap like that, people relying on me, needing me.  Another couple of swallows and their stares began to blur.  I hugged the bottle to me.  This was all I needed.

The knock on the door interrupted my drinking.  What now?  Mrs. Lewis stood there with my breakfast on a tray.

“Thought you might need this.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Her gaze slipped passed me to the bottle on the table beside my bed.

“You have to have food.”

I’d heard that before, and I gave her the same answer.  “No.  I don’t.”

I shut the door in her face.  Great.  Now I’d added total jerk to my list of character flaws.  That old agony of regret stirred in my gut, but the cure was waiting for me, and I downed another gulp, letting the liquor numb my mind and dismantle the memories.

*****

Chapter Three

The sun had slipped down behind the horizon when I made my way back down the stairs.  The cantina was busy, but I wasn’t staying.  Food didn’t interest me. 

“Mr. Cartwright.”  Damn.  I hoped to slip out without being spotted.  “I didn’t thank you earlier— ”

“Forget it.” 

My interruption was harsh.  My words sounded brutal, but neither her thanks nor what would follow was wanted.  I wasn’t a saint or their savior.  Before she could say more, I hurried out the door.

The same girl from last night sashayed up to me.  What was her name?  Did it matter?  Would she even care if I didn’t remember?  She slid her arms around my neck.  I leaned back in the chair, allowing her to slip onto my lap, and welcomed the cozy armful.

A finger ran down my cleanshaven cheek, and her eyes took on an appreciative gleam.  “My, ain’t we looking mighty fine tonight.  Can I get you a drink?”

“Get us a bottle.”

She smiled.  Flourishing my coin between her long fingers, she went to do my bidding.  I watched her walk to the bar.  The sway of her hips was enticing.  Maybe she could ease the burr that dug into me?

When she returned, I suggested moving our conversation upstairs.  Tonight, I wanted to be sober enough to enjoy her.  Finishing off the drink she’d poured, we gathered the glasses and bottle.

The room wasn’t the same one I’d woken up in that morning.  It stank of booze, sweat, and the musk of sex.  I pushed open the window to clear the air while she filled our glasses.  We finished another before getting down to business. 

Undoing her dress, she let it drop.  She wore no corset or chemise.  They weren’t needed here and would only slow up the action.  My eyes ran over her round breasts and flat stomach.  The gap in the middle of her drawers revealed a perfect triangle of hair.  I licked my lips.

My voice sounded husky with desire when I told her, “Take them off,”  She smirked and released the bow at the back.  That left the stockings.  “And the rest.”

I pulled off my shirt and unbuttoned my pants.  This time I used my sheath.

We didn’t kiss.  This wasn’t about love, just sex and the release she could give me.  My eyes and hands roamed, and hers returned the favor.  I couldn’t hold back or waste time.  Lost in the excitement that raced through me, a sheen of sweat clung to my chest as the tension gripped.  Faster, deeper, the wave of impending ecstasy wiped the world away.  The climax shuddered through me, and I cried out my relief.  I plunged until drained and collapsed on the bed.

Reaching for the whiskey, I waved the bottle in her direction.  “Another?”

Nodding, she pushed higher on the bed and took the glass I poured.  Her chestnut hair hung loose down her front, framing her pert breasts.  Yanking the pillow further up my back, I imagined the picture we must make.  A drunk and a whore.  Pa would be so proud.  If he was disappointed before, what would he be now?

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

I curbed my bitter laughter and shook my head.  “Nuthin’.”

The carved letter hanging from the ribbon around her neck caught my eye.  “What’s the P for?”

“Penelope, but everyone calls me Penny.  She fingered the little ornament.  “It were a gift from my husband before he ditched me here.”

Why had I asked?  Her tale of woe was the last thing I wanted to hear.  Besides, saloons were full of women who’d lost their husbands either through death or desertion.  They needed to work to eat.  “Tough break.”

She shrugged, dismissing any pity.  “My pa warned me about him.  Said he weren’t Christian and no good.  I didn’t listen.  Dan was full of dreams of making it rich, and having me along got in his way, so one day he was gone.”

Despite myself, I asked, “Why didn’t you go home?”

“Pa told me if I married Dan, I weren’t never to darken his door again.”

Something dormant stirred, and I murmured, “I’m sorry.”

She giggled.  “I don’t care.  ‘Sides, working here can be a lot of fun when the right cowboy comes to town.”

She’s begun to trace her finger down my chest, following the curve of my bone and muscles.  Her eyelids drooped.  Beneath them, a sultry gleam shone.  It had its desired effect on me.  I replaced my glass on the table and turned the lamp down low. 

Her skin under my hands was soft, her body willing and pliant.  I lost myself in the moment, letting my mind drift to another time and another girl. 

“Who’s Sally?”

I jerked away from her.  “What?”

“You called me Sally.”

Rolling over onto the edge of the bed, I doubled over. 

“You okay?”  Her touch on my back sent me lurching upright.  When I began to fling on my clothes, she asked, “You leaving?”

“Yeah.”  I slapped money on the dresser by the door and didn’t look back.  On my way out, I bought another bottle. 

The whiskey seared like my shame.  How could I have called her Sally?  Sally, who I loved and wanted to spend my life with.  The one who Horace took from me.

Horace!  That sniveling rat destroyed my life, and I’d destroyed the chance of making him pay.  The question that never stopped, never-ended returned.  What if I’d done nothing?  No!  No one else believed him guilty.  I’d had to make Horace confess.  Yet, if I hadn’t, if I’d left it to Roy and the law, would he have been found guilty?  And now I’d ruined any chance of that happening.  The problem shredded my insides like fence wire. 

I kept pouring the whiskey down my throat.  The oblivion it brought couldn’t come fast enough to stop the memories of that verdict crowding back into my thoughts.  I still felt Pa’s grip on my arm when they read it out and heard Hoss’ words while he led me toward the door, “Nuthin’ for you here, Brother.” 

My God!  Did they know?  Could they see?  All I wanted was to reach him.  Get my hands around the smarmy, murderous creep’s neck.  Strangle the life out of him, the way he snapped the life out of Sally … beautiful Sally.  Clutching the bottle to my chest, I curled into a ball and squeezed my eyes shut against the memories of that day in court that flooded back ….

Horace’s slick lawyer swaggered toward me. “Why did you pursue my client, Mr. Cartwright?” 

“He was trying to run.”

“Run from what?  Had the defendant been arrested or charged with any crime?”

His eyes bore into mine.  My fists tightened as I fought to hold my temper.

“No.”

“Why was he running then?”

“Because he killed Sally and wanted to get away.”

“Or was there some other reason?  Tell me, Mr. Cartwright, what happened in the street the day before you say he ran?”

“A group of men gathered outside his boarding house.”

“A vigilante group.  Isn’t that right?  Would you not say the defendant had a right to fear staying in Virginia City?”

“That’s not why he left.”

“So, you say!  But is it not, in fact, true that you pursued a free man because YOU decided he was guilty?”

“He is guilty.  He confessed.”

The man tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.  His smile tightened my fists more.

“Oh, yes.  The confession.  I’m coming to that.  Tell me, Mr. Cartwright, how long did you hound my client?”

“I didn’t hound him.”

“You followed him.  Entered his camp at night.  Is that not true?”

“Yes, but— ”

“You never gave my client a moment’s piece, did you?  For five long days and four nights, gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Cartwright, haunted the defendant until he was driven back to Virginia City to seek refuge from his pursuer.  And when he did, what did you do?”

“I went to the boarding house.”

“And did you not chase the defendant down in his room?  Kick his door in?  How did it feel Mr. Cartwright finding him cowering in the corner, terrified of you?”

“He wasn’t scared of me.”

“You heard Mrs. Cutler’s testimony.  With tears in her eyes, she told how he ran from his sanctum, fearing for his life, how you pursued and caught him!  How you pushed her away when she tried to stop your assault.  A member of the gentle sex manhandled by you.”

“I didn’t mean … I’m sorry for pushing her.”

“But you’re not sorry for what you did to my client.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt him.”

“How could he know that?  You followed him, hounded him, taunted him in the most brutal way, then pinned him against a wall.” 

“He attacked me.”

“He was defending himself.  But you were relentless.”  The attorney leaned forward so close I could smell the tobacco on his breath.  “Isn’t that why he confessed?  So your pursuit would stop?  So he could get some peace?”

“He murdered Sally!”

“Did he?  Or did you just believe that?”  He pointed toward his client, who stared back at me with that pathetic, cherubic face that looked harmless but hid a killer.  “You pursued and pushed this poor, innocent man you see before you into confessing to a heinous crime he didn’t commit.  I think the jury can see the truth.”

*****

Chapter Four

Sending the blankets flying, I bolted upright.  My hand ran over my face to help free my mind from the visions that returned night after night.  They were always the same.

First came Horace and his lawyer, laughing in my face.  Then, Pa, shaking his head at me while comforting a sobbing Mrs. Cutler, the disappointment on his face there for everyone to see, and last came Sally, with her neck twisted into an ugly, unnatural angle.  Her reproaches for letting her killer run free never left me.

I squinted to block out the light that leaked through the gap in the blind.  My fingers groped for the whiskey bottle.  It was empty.  I cursed and threw it to the floor, looking around for the one from the cantina.  When I spotted it on the dresser, another curse ripped from me.  Why the heck did I leave it over there?

Lurching toward it, my hands grabbed the side of the solid piece of furniture, bringing me face to face with the pathetic wreck reflected at me in the mirror. 

“Damn you.  What d’you know anyway?”

Didn’t I have the right to feel this way?  I’d waited a long time to find Sally.  Bright, funny, kind, and beautiful, she was a darling.  But with so many heartaches and disappointments before her, I hadn’t rushed in headlong for once.  I’d taken my time.  Wooed and courted her for five months to ensure she was ‘the one.’  If I moved quicker, hadn’t dragged my feet to protect myself, she would’ve been married and safe that night, and Horace could never….  It was my fault he was able to get to her.  My goddam fault! 

The knock stopped me in my stagger back to the bed.

“Mr. Cartwright?”  What now?  Why couldn’t they leave me to climb back into bed and the bottle?  “Ma sent me up to see if you wanted some lunch.”

“No.”

“Okay.  Then Ma says, can she change the towels and chamber pot?”

I growled.  This woman was obsessed with cleaning.  “It can wait another day.”

“It’s been two already.”

“What?”

The voice through the door faltered, “Erm … you ain’t been out for two days.”

Two days?  What was he talking about?  It was only last night Penny and I ….  “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

Had I lost two days?  My eyes searched my haggard reflection.  Is this what I wanted …? 

“Billy!  Bring me hot water.”  Boots scurried away.  “What kind of man are you?”  My reflection didn’t answer, but I wasn’t about to give in to the silence.  “You’re better than this.”

Stripped off, with a towel wrapped around my nether regions, I lay back on the bed to await Billy’s return.  When the knock came, I called him in, but instead, Mrs. Lewis entered.  Leaping off the bed, I clutched the towel tighter.

Oblivious to my embarrassment, she set the jug down on the washstand before laying a clean towel and my spare clothes, freshly laundered, on the bed.  Then, she lifted the blind and opened the window.

“When you’re ready, come down and get something to eat.”

My insides squirmed.  Something in her tone and manner reminded me of Hop Sing.  Like a little kid, I told her, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Running to the door, I turned the key behind her.  I didn’t want to risk her coming back. 

*****

The last button of my shirt slipped into place.  Fresh clothes and a wash made me feel a little more human, but a two-day whiskey diet hadn’t helped my stomach.  Grabbing the bottle from the dresser, I poured the remaining contents out the window in a final act of defiance I hoped I wouldn’t regret.

The chair at my usual table was waiting, and I asked Mrs. Lewis for coffee.  The cantina was almost empty, which meant we were between meal shifts.

“What time is it?”

“About two.  Sure you won’t have something to eat?”

I shook my head.  Food was too risky. 

Mrs. Lewis left me hunched over my cup while she disappeared upstairs to clean my room.  The coffee scorched my insides with its strength.  I grinned, she knew what I needed, or maybe she just wanted me sober.  Fair enough.

The dark liquid swirled before my eyes.  What was I doing here?  I’d told myself it was putting distance between Horace and me, giving myself time to think.  Yeah.  Drinking myself into a stupor was really doing that!  I couldn’t keep going like this.  Something had to change.

“Refill?”  Mrs. Lewis held the coffee pot up in anticipation and then filled my raised cup.  “Mind if I sit down?”

My eyes narrowed.  The last thing I wanted was any company.  However, enough of the decent Joe Cartwright remained to gesture my acceptance.  Mrs. Lewis slipped into the chair and rested clasped hands on the table. 

“I still owe you a thank you for helping Billy the other day.”

“Forget it.”

“Buchanan is a bully.  He would’ve enjoyed hurting him.  I’m very grateful you stepped in.”  For the first time, she looked nervous, and my stomach sank.  I knew where this was going.  “He’s the foreman for the Big J.  He and his men have been causing trouble for weeks.  Since Jackson and his son moved here six years ago, he’s driven almost every other settler from the valley.  Now he’s after the town.”

“Why tell me?  Talk to the sheriff.”

“Our previous sheriff was killed, and Fuller … well, he doesn’t want any trouble.”  She leaned closer.  My jaw clenched.  “We thought— ”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not the man to solve your problems.”

My coffee was left unfinished in my rush to get out of there.  The sunlight razed from the ground, so bright it stopped me for a moment while my eyes adjusted.  I decided to check on something else I’d been neglecting, Cooch.

I needn’t have worried.  The livery owner knew his business, and I paid for another week but questioned why.  Moving on would be the smart move, but, despite my grumbling, this was the nicest place I stayed in for a while, and I kinda liked that.  I gave Cooch a couple of determined pats.  The townspeople could be handled.  I wouldn’t let them involve me in their problems.

****

It was late when I wandered into the saloon, hoping that Penny would be occupied, letting me snag a different girl.  I was out of luck.  She spotted me the minute I walked in.  Over she came, one hand on hips that swayed with confidence.

“Hey, there.  I was beginning to give up on you.  Whiskey?”

“Sure.”

She returned with the bottle and two glasses but only laid one on the table.  “Mind if I join?”

She was giving me a chance to say no, but I canted my head to the empty chair instead. 

I downed a glassful before tackling what weighed on my mind.  “Look, about the other night.  What I said.”

“Huh?”

Her puzzlement shook me.  Didn’t she remember?  I cleared my throat.  It was still hard to say the name out loud, “I called you … Sally.”

She giggled.  “Oh, that!  Not to worry, honey.  I get called lots of names.”

I blinked, stunned.  Was I relieved, annoyed?  I didn’t know.  To hide my confusion, I swallowed another drink. 

She leaned in across the table, seduction in her eyes.  Her arms came together, squeezing her succulent breasts in a way that tightened my groin in anticipation.  Moist lips curled into a smile, and her words oozed like honey trapping a fly.  “You can call me anything you like, just so long as you don’t run away again.”

Being with the same girl was dangerous, but I wanted her.  She could make me forget, and I needed that bad.  Smiling, my hand took hers.

*****

Chapter Five

My wallet was getting light of cash, so I didn’t stay the night this time.  Penny was a working girl.  She needed more than one client. 

Cowpokes from the Lazy J out for fun at the end of the week filled the saloon, and I had to push my way through the raucous crowd to the bar.  That’s when I spotted Buchanan.  He hadn’t seen me, and I took my chance to slip away.  I’d get a drink back at the cantina.

I made for my usual table and eased into the chair.  I stretched, pushing it back onto two legs, my body still reveling in the satisfaction of my coupling with Penny.

“Can I get you a beer?” Mrs. Lewis encouraged.

“Whiskey, thanks.”

The bottle appeared before me.  I poured a glassful but wasn’t in a hurry, and it went down slow for a change.  A guitar began to play, and I leaned back to listen.  The Spanish tune wound its way around the room to embrace me.  My eyes closed, and I returned to the great room, sitting cross-legged on the low table, gazing into the fire with Adam in his chair beside me, strumming away.  Almost two years had passed since last hearing him play.  Did he still?  When he left to travel, his guitar remained behind.  That had pleased Pa since it told him Adam meant to return. 

“Penny for them?” 

I opened my eyes to find Mrs. Lewis sitting opposite me.  “Nothing worth repeating.”

“Would you mind a bit of friendly advice?”  My hands tightened around my glass, but before I could answer, she continued, “You won’t find the solution to your problems at the bottom of a whiskey glass.”

She sounded like Pa.  Resentment fueled my curt answer, “My life.  My choice.”

“Who was she?”

“What?”

“The woman who did this to you.  Who was she?  Girlfriend, lover, wife?”

“She didn’t do anything to me.  She was murdered.”  I spat out the words with studied venom and delighted in her look of dismay.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Damn right.”

Retreating to my room, I shut my door against her words and threw myself on the bed.  Who was she to poke her nose in? 

In my gut, my very soul, I’d known it was Horace who’d murdered Sally.  When he confessed, it had been both a relief and a horror.  The man worked with her.  Hell, she’d considered him a friend, and he’d murdered her.  He’d taken my future from me and called it a mistake.  Jesus, a mistake!  But he’d confessed at last, and Sally would get justice.  I’d hung onto that until the verdict destroyed my hope — and then, Pa. 

The look in his eyes when he questioned my belief never left me, and neither did those words.  “Ask yourself, Joseph.  Is there the smallest chance you might be wrong?  That he confessed even though he wasn’t guilty?”

How could he think that? My own father?  The man who should have the most faith in me had none.  Before the sun showed its tips over the mountains, I lit out without even saying goodbye to Hoss.  Why?  Because I was a coward and afraid of seeing that same doubt in his eyes.  I couldn’t have taken that. 

I cursed Mrs. Lewis.  What right had she to interfere and bring it all back?  This is what happens when you stay in one place too long.  That had been a mistake.  Tomorrow, I’d move on.

*****

My sleep was disturbed, but not by dreams.  Gunfire and laughter splintered the air.  The Lazy J’s cowboys had spilled from the saloon into the street below.  I slid a finger behind the blind to ease it back, unsurprised to find that the sheriff was nowhere in sight.  Tonight, at least, they were too drunk to do much damage.  After breaking a few windows and putting holes in a water trough, they rode out.  Letting the blind fall back, I returned to my bed.

*****

Chapter Six

The usual breakfast crowd filled the cantina.  Despite the impact of the booze on my appetite, I decided to eat before heading out.  I’d reached my table when a woman I recognized from the saloon crashed through the door.   

“Doc!  Where’s the doc?”  Spotting the older man who tried to intervene with Buchanan and Billy, she ran to him.  “You gotta come.  Quick!”

“Calm down, Kate, and tell me what’s happened.”

“It’s Penny.  She’s been knifed.  It’s bad.  There’s blood everywhere.”

On my feet, I followed them out the door.  We stopped to retrieve the doc’s bag before heading to the saloon and the room upstairs.  The same room I’d been in only hours earlier.

A group of men gathered around the door.  I pushed them aside to let the doc and Kate through before closing it in their curious faces. 

The sight was grim.  Blood spray patterned the wall.  Not enough to be life-threatening, but it looked horrible.  More blood splattered the blankets on the bed.  The woman who held a cloth to one side of Penny’s face stepped away to give the doc room.

He lifted the blanket to reveal where someone had slashed a knife across Penny’s arms, midriff, and breasts.  After replacing the covering, the doc removed the cloth on her face.  I flinched.  A pretty girl, Penny’s looks could have been her one chance out of this life if some man had fallen for her enough to want marriage.  The blade had destroyed any hope of that. 

Penny’s large eyes filled with tears.  “It’s bad, ain’t it?”

When the doctor nodded, the tears tumbled over.  Her fingers dug into the mattress, and her body stiffened while he examined her ruined face.

“If I’m gonna stitch her up, I need more light.”

When Kate went to fetch lamps, I followed her out the door and grabbed her arm.

“Who did this?”

“What difference does it make?”

“He needs to be arrested.”

She looked at me as if I were crazy.  This is what anonymity really meant, nobody giving a damn.  She shrugged.  “Buchanan.  We all warned her about him.  Penny thought she could handle anyone.  Guess she was wrong.”

Kate walked away, leaving me standing alone.  A hard knot lay in my gut, and I took a moment before returning to the room.  The doc was rummaging through his bag.  I joined him and asked in a low tone, “Will the scar be bad?”

The doc’s watery eyes found mine.  “I’d like to say no.  But, son, I ain’t that good.  If she could get to a decent surgeon … but she’s a whore in a two-bit town, so that ain’t likely, is it?”

I bit my lip and took a second to consider, although I already knew what I would do.  “There’s a surgeon in Sacramento, studied under Cole.  If I can get to a telegraph, I’ll contact him and have money wired to pay him and get Penny there.” 

A friend of Adams, Henry Gibbons, was a good man and a passionate doctor.  I was sure he’d help Penny.

The doctor stared at me.  I knew what I looked like, and he had no reason to think me serious.  Hoss always said I was an open book waiting to be read and whatever the doc saw in me was enough.

“All right.  The nearest telegraph is in Sonora.  I’ll pack and bandage her face.  Give that surgeon of yours the best chance for the least damage.  I’ll take care of the other cuts.”

Moving to the bed, Penny saw me for the first time and raised her hand to hide the wound that carved up the side of her cheek.

“Don’t look!”  I wrapped my fingers around her other hand and smiled.  Tears hung from her lashes.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course, I should.  I’m gonna send you to a surgeon in Sacramento.  He’ll take good care of you.”

“What?  But … why?”

“We’re friends, remember?  Now you be a good girl for the doc, an’ I’ll be back.”

*****

Stepping back into the bright sunlight, I marched to the sheriff’s office.  That knot moved up to my chest. 

I slammed the door shut, waking the dozing sheriff.  He jumped, snorted, and sat up.

“There’s been an attack on one of the girls at the saloon.”

Fuller lurched out of his chair and shuffled to the stove to pour a cup of coffee.  “What about it?”

Something in his question raised the hackles on the back of my neck.  “You knew?”

“Sure.”

“Then why aren’t you doing something?”

Taking his cup, he sat back down and fixed me with a resentful look.  “What d’you expect me to do?”

“Arrest Buchanan.”

“Mister.  If you think I’m gonna arrest a man like Buchanan over a whore you’re wrong.”

Palms down, I leaned over his desk.  “It doesn’t matter what she is.  She deserves justice like anyone else.”

“Not in this town.  Martin Jackson’s a powerful man.  I ain’t about to go after his foreman.”

“Penny’s face will be scarred.”

“So what?  The rest of her is still good.  ‘Sides them girls know the risks.  It’s part of the job.”

“You just don’t give a damn, do you?”

The man set down his cup.  “I think we’re done.”

I smacked the desk with my fist and stormed out.  What a pathetic specimen.  Not a patch on Roy.

When I strode into the cantina, Mrs. Lewis stopped me.  “What’s happened?”

“One of the girls got cut up.  I need to ride to Sonora.  I’ll be back.  Can I keep the room?”

“Of course.  Will she be all right?”

“I hope so.”

*****

After sending the telegrams, I hung around waiting for replies and the funds to be wired. 

Henry’s arrived first, confirming he was happy to help.  That was a start.  Time ticked away.  I decided to get something to eat.

Finally, the funds came through.  I didn’t like to guess if they’d referred the request to Pa.  The bank handed me the cash, and I visited the stage office before heading back.

*****

Chapter Seven

Penny sat on the bench outside the stagecoach office, waiting while it loaded.  I’d driven her and the friend who agreed to go with her over in a hired buggy.  The bandage that covered her face might cause comment by curious folks, but she’d be spared any horrified looks. 

When the final bag got strapped aboard, I went to her.  “Time to go.”

She clutched my hand between the two of hers.  “I wanna thank you for all you’ve done for me.  I ain’t never had no one be kind to me the way you have.  You’re a good man, Joe Cartwright.  Ain’t no one better.”

“I did what anyone would’ve.”

“That ain’t so, and you know it.”

I couldn’t take her gratitude and brushed it aside.  “Come on.  Let’s get you on that stage.”

Once seated, she took my hand again in her quivering one.  “Do you truly think that fancy doctor can help me?”

This wasn’t the time to be hesitant.  “I know he can.  You be good and do as your told.  I’ll be checking up on you.”

“I will.  Bye, Joe.”

*****

After returning the buggy to the livery stable, I made for the cantina.  Mrs. Lewis took my supper order.  When she didn’t walk away, I looked up to see her watching me.

“What?”

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“Any luck?”

She smiled in a way that said she knew more than I liked.  I gritted my teeth.  Moving on would be a good idea, but there was something I needed to do first.

*****

Chapter Eight

Three days later, Buchanan came to town.  He rode in behind a wagon driven by a couple of hands.  I strolled down the street toward them.

Leaning over the hitch rail outside the mercantile, I fixed my gaze on the foreman.  My blood began to boil when I thought how this bastard must’ve held Penny down while he sliced her up like a piece of meat.  I drew in air and slowed my breathing. 

He handed off the list to the owner and stepped onto the boardwalk, leaving the two hands to do the heavy work.

“I’ve been waiting to speak to you.”

He smirked.  “If it ain’t the kid lover.”

“Name’s Cartwright.  I’m here about Penny.”

“Who?”

“The girl you cut up.”

“What?  The bitch with a smart mouth?”

“If you say so.”

“You gonna take me on ‘cause of her?”

Buchanan flung back his head and roared with laughter.  I took my moment and slipped under the rail, landing my first punch before he’d stopped laughing.  Grabbing his waistcoat, I spun him around and powered my fist into his belly.  He staggered back and went off the boardwalk, hitting the ground with a thud. 

I needed every advantage, so I didn’t give him time to recover before pulling him off the ground and plowing in again.  He was tough and soon recovered, and I dropped onto one knee with a grunt, but I moved fast and hit back hard.

Backed against the hitch rail, I had Buchanan where I wanted him.  My fists piled into him.  One, two, one after the other.  Relentless.  Unstoppable.  When he toppled to the ground, I followed with my punches flying.

Now I’d teach him a lesson.  Get Penny the justice she deserved from this pig who attacked women.  Scum like Horace!

What the heck was that sound?  I looked down.  Beneath me, Buchanan gagged for the air my hands squeezed out of him.  What the hell ….?  I yanked my fingers away and lurched upright, staggering back.  The foreman rolled onto his side, coughing and dragging in breaths.

Around me, the gathered crowd stood still and silent.  My hands shook, the knuckles split and covered with blood.  What had I become?  A monster like Horace? 

I needed to get out of there, but Buchanan had other ideas.  When I heard the tell-tale sound of metal clearing leather, I turned and fired.  My bullet buried into Buchanan’s arm, but I wasn’t fast enough, and his slammed through my thigh.  I staggered and doubled into the pain but stayed standing while my fingers squeezed back the blood.  My gun held ready, I straightened and faced the Lazy J’s hands. 

“It’s over.  Anyone got a problem with that?”

They didn’t, but I still backed away slow. 

Mrs. Lewis and the others stood outside the cantina.  I limped right past, unable to look her in the eye.

I slumped onto the side of the bed and stared at the floor.  The reds and gold of the worn carpet beneath me mingled into one as the rest of me started to shake.  This time Mrs. Lewis didn’t knock before she barged in.  Ignoring my glare, she placed the bowl she carried down on the dresser. 

“The doc will come soon as he’s finished with Buchanan.”

I lifted the hand off the rip in my blood-soaked pants.

“It’s just a scratch.  I don’t need him.”

“We’ll let him decide.  Meantime, we can clean up the rest of you.”

She gave me a look I’d seen before, and I didn’t argue.  A groan escaped me when she pressed a cloth against my leg and tied it tight with another.  Then my hands were plunged into the bowl.  They’d been cleaned, spread with ointment that stung like blazes, and bandaged by the time the doctor appeared.

“Let’s take a look at that leg, young man.”

“How’s Buchanan?”

“He’ll be fine.” 

I heaved a sigh of relief.  “I almost killed him.”

“Son, if you were a killer, he’d be dead.  Besides, he deserved it.”  I shook my head.  Nothing would make what I did feel right.  “The bullet’s gone clean through, but I’m gonna need to stitch it up.  It’ll hurt.”

“I know what to expect.”

Famous last words.  I lay on the bed, spent.  My resources drained.  No matter how much I prepared myself, getting stitched up was never a picnic.

The doctor patted the bandage.  “All fine and dandy.  Should heal up no problem.”

Mrs. Lewis looked from me to the doctor.  “He’s very pale.”

“It’s to be expected.  Give him a shot of whiskey.  When he can take it, feed him.” 

I shuddered at the thought of food.  “Thanks.  How much do I owe you?”

The doctor snapped his bag shut.  “This one’s on the house,” he told me, then added to Mrs. Lewis, “He may get a little fever later.  Don’t let it worry you unless it gets worse.  If it does, call me.”

Mrs. Lewis nodded and closed the door behind the medical man.  I frowned at my situation, hating to feel weak and helpless.  “Sorry about this.”

“For a man who doesn’t like to get involved in other folks’ business, you’ve got a funny way of going about it.  I’ll get your whisky.”

I picked at the bandages on my hands.  It didn’t feel good knowing what I’d done.  Buchanan was vermin, but … God, how close had I come to killing him? 

*****

Chapter Nine

“Mr. Cartwright … wake up!”

My eyes opened to find Mrs. Lewis standing over me.  The worried look on her face snapped me back to reality.  I ran a hand down mine to wipe the last wisps of the nightmare away.

“Sorry.  Dreaming.”

“Some dream.  Do you think you could eat something?”

I took a moment to consider and discovered the rolling in my stomach had stopped.  “Sure.”

The eggs she gave me were good.  In between eating, I asked, “What happened to Buchanan?”

“After Doctor Bates patched him up, they took him back to the ranch.  Jackson won’t be happy.”

I lay down my fork, dropped my head against the headboard, and sighed.  “I better talk with him.”

“What?  You can’t go there now.”

“I almost killed his foreman.  The least I can do is explain.”

Mrs. Lewis swept out of the room, leaving me to wonder what the heck I’d said.

*****

My leg hurt like hell, but I made it downstairs.

“Mr. Cartwright.  What are you doing?  I would have brought your lunch up to you.”

“I’m fine,” I grinned, “and I think it’s time you called me Joe.”

“All right, Joe.  I’m Rose.  What would you like to eat?”

Doctor Bates’ medical bag thumped down on my table.  “Nothing down here!  What are you trying to do?  Undo all my good work.  Now get back up to bed.  I mean it.”

“My leg’s fine.”

“You show me your medical degree, and I might believe you.  Now get!”

I all but rolled my eyes yet did as I was told.  The doc followed.  All the way, he grumbled under his breath about the disobedience and stubbornness of patients.  Instructed to strip off my pants, I lay on the bed, and he began to unwind my bandage.

“If you haven’t busted open these stitches, it will be a miracle.”

“Are they okay?”

“Yes,” he conceded.  Meeting my gaze, he added, “Which is testament to my good stitching rather than your good sense.”

I laughed.  “All right, Doc.  I’ll stay put.”

By the time he’d finished checking and rebandaging the wound, my leg throbbed so bad I was glad to obey his decree.  Rose appeared with some food, which at least took my mind off it, but by sunset, I was sick of the pain and staying in the room with nothing but my thoughts.

The knock brought my head off the pillow.  Even if it was the doc again, I didn’t care.  The silhouette that crowded the door frame changed my mind.  Dammit to hell!  Hoss.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I see your mood ain’t improved none.”

“C’mon.”  I flung my blankets aside.  “Now you’re here, let’s get a drink.”

“Should you be getting up?”

The look I gave him shut Hoss up, and I reached for my pants.

*****

It didn’t take long to figure out Hoss had gotten an entire history of my time here.  He was good at that, getting folks to open up to him, inspiring trust. 

“How’s Pa?”

“He wants you home.”

“Why?  To tell me he doesn’t believe me again.”

“Knock it off, Joe!  You know that ain’t true.”  What did Hoss know?  I slugged back the whiskey.  He frowned at me and asked, “Why’d you leave anyway?”

“I couldn’t stay.  Not with Horace walking around free.”  It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was all I was prepared to tell Hoss.

“That’s why I’m here.  Something’s happened.  We might be able to get Horace after all.”

“How.  Thanks to me, he was found not guilty, remember?”

“I’m talking about the other girl in Mason City.

“What?”

“Her sister’s come to Virginia City.”

I rubbed my eyes.  “I don’t understand.”

“She and her brother arrived on the stage, and I bumped into them.  Well, not so much bumped.  Some fellas were shoving her brother around.  I stepped in and shooed them away.  When she found out who I was, Mrs. Shield, that’s her name, asked me to come with her.”

“Come with her?”

“Yeah, to see Roy.  Didn’t I say?  She and Davey, that’s her brother, David White.  They were on the way to Roy’s office when those yahoos started pushing him about, and I helped them.  That’s when it happened?”

“What?”

“She asked me if I knew you.”

I stared at Hoss and the look of satisfaction on his face.  “And?”

“I told her you were my brother.”

Irritation crept up my throat.  I demanded, “Will you get on with it.”

“Hold your horses.  She asked me to join her because what she had to say might interest me.  Then she marched right into Roy’s office and told him she’d come from Mason City about the murder of her sister, Caroline, by Horace Perkins.”

“But, that was a year ago.  How come she’s only saying it’s Horace now?”

“Because she didn’t know who he was until Davey saw the picture in the paper.” 

“Paper?” My head was beginning to ache like my leg.  “I wished you’d make sense.”

Hoss rolled his eyes at my denseness and reached into his jacket to pull out a folded piece of newspaper.  Next to an article about the trial was a drawing of Horace with his smarmy lawyer. 

“The lawyer had the artist draw that picture for the paper special.  He bragged to Horace how he wanted the whole world to see their victory.  Davey recognized Horace soon as he saw it.”

“He met Horace?  Why didn’t he say something when his sister was killed?”

Hoss took the paper from my numb fingers and returned it to his pocket.  “You have to understand about Davey.  He’s different.  He don’t see the world the same way as the rest of us.  He don’t like or understand most of it.  But there are some things he does real well.  One of them is recognizing faces. 

“Margaret … Mrs. Shield knew a fella had been pestering her sister.  She never met him, and she didn’t know Davey had until he saw the picture.  Soon as she found out, she went straight to the sheriff.  He told her he couldn’t do nuthin’ since Horace had moved out of his jurisdiction.  So she decided to come here.”

“It’s pretty flimsy.  He could be mistaken.  It’s been a year.”

“Roy said the same thing.  But Mrs. Shield told him David never forgets a face.  It’s a trick of his.  She had Roy test him.”  Hoss chuckled and slapped my arm.  “You shoulda seen it.  I’d fetched Pa by then so he could hear the story.  She had them pick out five men for Davey to look at.  When Pa asked her if she meant Davey would recognize them a few hours later, she said, ‘A few hours?  Piffle!  Too easy.  I guarantee he’ll pick them out days later.’  The look of Pa and Roy’s faces were a picture.” 

“I’d liked to have seen that.”

Hoss turned the beer glass in his hand and smiled.  “Margaret sure is something.  Since their parents died, she’s run the family business, the household and taken care of Davey.  She carries all that on her shoulders without a word of complaint.”

“Where’s her husband?”

“She’s a widow.”

“Quite a lady.”

“She sure is.”

“Sounds like you’re sweet on her.”

It was a casual jibe, and my eyebrows raised when Hoss blushed.  But his love life wasn’t my priority.  I asked, “So, Roy arrested Horace?”

“Well, no.  Not without a warrant.  But he agreed to write to Mason City.  While we waited for the answer, I thought I’d come and fetch you back.”

“You did, or Pa?”

Hoss weighed me up as he answered, “Pa wanted to wait until we heard back.  He didn’t wanna get your hopes up.”

“Sure.”  With a vicious jerk, I tossed my refilled glass of whiskey back and choked.  After catching my breath, I told him, “You don’t need me.  I messed it up before.  I won’t risk doing that again.”

“You can’t blame yourself— ”

“Can’t I?  If I hadn’t stuck with Horace, that lawyer couldn’t have twisted everything the way he did.  Everyone believed him.  Even Mrs. Cutler changed her mind.”

“Aww, Joe, you know she were desperate for Horace to be innocent.  Once that slick lawyer got his hooks into her, she were bound to agree with his version of events.”

“But not Pa.”

“He was just asking the hard questions, making sure you were being honest with yourself.”

I hunched my shoulders and gathered in my self-pity.  “You don’t know what it’s like to have Pa doubt you.”

“Don’t I?”

Okay, so Pa questioned Hoss over Clarence Boiling.  Still, I wasn’t giving in.  “And look what happened.  He almost killed you.”

“That weren’t nothing to do with Pa.”

Arguing with Hoss was like chopping down a tree with a spoon.  I gave up. 

“I’ve got something to do here first.”

“I heard.”  Of course, he had.  “Want company?”

“I don’t need my hand holding,” I told him and stood.  Hoss closed his hand around my wrist when I reached for the whiskey bottle.

“You don’t need that either.”

He was right.  But I wasn’t about to be told like a kid.  My eyes met his.  Hoss pursed his lips but removed his hand. 

I let a beat go by and asked, “You staying here?”

“Yep.”

“See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Little Brother.”

Limping away, I left Hoss and the bottle behind.

*****

Chapter Ten

It had been one helluva night.  I missed the oblivion the rotgut gave me and itched for a drink, but coffee would have to do.  When I flopped into the seat next to Hoss, I reached for the pot he’d ordered.  It rattled against my cup. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought any more about coming back?”

Was he kidding?  I’d thought about nothing else.  Cradling my cup, I tried to hang on to my resentment at being pushed, but with Hoss, that was impossible.  He was the most steadfast brother and friend I could wish for, and here I was, treating him like dirt.  I sighed, “I need a little more time.”

“Sure.”

Did I deserve his consideration?  Probably not, but I was damn glad of it.

I looked up when Mrs. Lewis and the doctor came over.  “Hi, Doc.”

“Rose has told me what you’re planning.  Don’t do it.”

“My leg’s fine.”

“I’m not worried about that.  You’ll be riding into trouble.”

At those words, Hoss sat up straighter.  I tried to dismiss the concern.  “I just want to talk— .”

Mrs. Lewis broke in.  “That’s all our sheriff wanted too.  I told you he was killed.  We found him on the road beaten to death after talking to Jackson.”

“Look, I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

The two threw each other looks that told me they doubted I’d make it through the day but left us in peace.

“Joe ….”

“Don’t.  I’ll be fine.”

*****

Fresh and eager for a ride, it took Cochise around two hours to reach the ranch and another to get to the house. 

A man strode out as I tied my rein to the hitch rail.  He planted his feet on the porch and his hand on his hips like he owned the world.  I guess he owned this piece.

“Are you, Mr. Jackson?”

“That’s my pa.  I’m Martin Jackson.”

“My name’s Joe Cartwright.”

“Cartwright?  The Ponderosa Cartwrights?”

“That’s right.”

“What brings a Cartwright out here?”

“I’m here to talk with you about Buchanan.”

He looked surprised but nodded.  “You better come in.”

Martin led me to an office.  The shelves stuffed with books and the map on the wall sent a pang of familiarity through me.  I laid my hat on the enormous desk that dominated the room.  He sat in the oversized padded chair behind it, and I took the spindle back one he offered. 

A Mexican woman appeared at the door.  When he spotted her, Martin snapped, “Get out!  If I want you, I’ll call.”

The woman scurried away.  I began to see why his men behaved like pigs.

“I take it you’re the man who beat up my foreman and put a bullet in him.”

“That’s right.  Did he tell you why?”

“He told me something about a whore.”

“That whore was nineteen, and he cut up her face.”

Martin picked up a pencil and began to play with it between his thick fingers.  “She mouthed off to him.  You expect a man to take that?”

“I don’t expect a man to take a knife to a woman.”

“All right.  He overstepped, is that reason to almost kill him?”

“No.  I’m sorry for that.  I lost my temper.”

“You must have quite a temper.”  Martin tossed the pencil back on the desk.  “He’ll recover.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m curious.  Why’s a man like you bothering with a whore?”

“Somebody had to.”

Martin snorted.  “That whole town is worthless.”

“It could become something better.  You’re the biggest rancher around here.  You’ve got the influence to help with that.”

“I don’t want that shithole to become something.  I want it gone.”

I stiffened when the realization hit me.  “You sent your men to cause trouble.”

“C’mon, Cartwright.  You telling me you’ve never had to clear out squatters?”

“These people aren’t squatters.  Baptiste’s been there for almost twenty years.  Long before you got here.”

Martin leaned forward.  “You listen to me.  I heard all about the great Ben Cartwright and his ideas of loving thy neighbor, but I’m a Jackson.  We own this valley, and I want that land.”

“You can’t run off a whole town.”

“Can’t I?”  He leaned back in his chair, arrogance oozing from every pore.  “What if I rode in and burned it down?”

He meant it.  What kind of lunatic was this?  I rose to my feet.  A noise behind brought my head around to see a man in the doorway. 

Richard Jackson must’ve been a big, powerful man once, but the injury that put him in the invalid chair had ravaged his body back to a shell.  The sunken cheeks and loose skin on his gaunt face made him look much older than he was. 

“Anita said you had a visitor.  Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Joe Cartwright.”

When I took the hand offered, he asked, “Any relation to Ben Cartwright.”

“Yes, Sir.  He’s, my father.”

“I met your pa a few years back.  Good man.  Knows ranching.  He told me he had sons.  You his youngest?”

“That’s right.”

“You doing business with my boy?”

“You could say that.”

“That’s mighty fine.  We couldn’t do business with better people.”

“Cartwright was just leaving, Pa.”

“Nonsense.  You’ve only just arrived.  You can stay for a drink.”

I dismissed the fleeting thought to broach the subject of Baptiste.  How could this withered old man help?  But I couldn’t turn him down either.  “Thank you, Sir.”

Martin’s reaction to his pa’s request to pour some brandy couldn’t have been more grudging, but I soon had the glass of amber liquor in my hand.

We talked about ranching, the Ponderosa, and his dreams for his ranch.  I wondered how a decent man like him could’ve ended up with a son like Martin.  The entrance of another Mexican woman interrupted our discussion.  Her dress and manner told me she was no servant, like the first.  Richard put out his hand, and she crossed the room to slip hers into it. 

Next to me, Martin stiffened.  “What d’you want?  We’re discussing business.”

“Martin.  That’s no way to talk to Anita.  Besides, the business talk has finished, hasn’t it?”

The lady’s large almond eyes gazed down at her husband, and she spoke as if the exchange hadn’t taken place.  “I’ve come to remind you to take your medicine, my dear.”

He patted her hand and told us, “You see how she takes care of me.”

Martin slapped down his glass.  “You don’t need me then.”

“Martin ….” His father began, but the door had already closed.  Richard shifted in his chair, and the look he threw me was full of apology.  “Forgive him.  The boy’s always been headstrong.”

I had another word for it, but it wasn’t one I could use in front of a lady.  “Sure.” 

“Anita, I want you to meet Joe.  His father’s, Ben Cartwright.  He owns the Ponderosa.”

“Oh, yes.”  She smiled at me.  “Richard has mentioned your father many times.”

“Join us,” Richard invited.

“Certainly, once you’ve taken your medicine.”  Chuckling, the old man did as he was told. 

I pondered on Mrs. Jackson.  She was younger than her husband by several years.  It couldn’t be an easy life putting up with Martin.  Why did she do it?  Her eyes gave me the answer.  The love in them when they turned to her husband almost startled me.  I had no doubt she’d do anything for this man. 

“How long have you been married?”

“Almost three years.  I met Anita after the accident that left me paralyzed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The Lord giveth and taketh.  He put me in this chair but gave me this wonderful woman.”  

“It can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.  But thanks to Anita and Martin, I survived.  And when I think of the way Martin stepped up.  I couldn’t be prouder.  He’s done a fine job with the ranch.  Built it up beyond any dream I had.” 

I stared at this man.  Did he really have no idea how his son built this place?  Maybe it was time he found out.  I glanced up.  Anita hooked my gaze.  Those eyes demanded my silence.  My God, she knew and was keeping it from Richard!  Her hand tightened around his, and the smile he gave her reflected his happiness, but she never took her gaze off mine.  Alright, I’d do as she asked but stay and pretend everything was fine.  I couldn’t do that.  Finishing my drink, I rose. 

“Thanks for the hospitality, but I’d better get moving.

“You be sure and say, ‘howdy’ to your pa from me.”

“I will, Sir.  Ma’am.  Goodbye.”

When I reached the porch, Martin was waiting.  I mounted, but he stepped forward and caught my rein.

“You get in my way, Cartwright, and I’ll stomp on you like an ant.  Y’hear?”

The look I gave him wasn’t one he could mistake.  I yanked Cooch around, pulling free of his grip, and rode out.

*****

Chapter Eleven

The meeting was a bust, and I didn’t look forward to telling the townsfolk about Jackson.  I’d no doubt he’d carry through on his threats, and what chance did they have with that useless sheriff?  Sure, they could send for a Marshall, but he could take weeks to arrive.  Dammit!  I should’ve stayed out of it.  I’d just made things worse.  Why the hell had I expected anything different?

I pulled up when the four riders surrounded me. 

“What’s this about?”

“Mr. Jackson sent us to make sure you got off his land.”

“I know my way.”

“He has a message too.”

Even though I ducked the swinging club, it caught my shoulder with enough force to knock me off balance.  Hitting the ground, I rolled and pushed myself upright.  I faced four men.  This wasn’t going to be pretty. 

The biggest one grinned.  “This is for Buchanan.”

Shit.  A grudge match was all I needed.  I did my best, but it wasn’t long before I found myself strung out between three of them while the big one took his punches. 

The position they had me in meant I couldn’t buckle and ride the blows.  Groans grunted out each time the brute’s massive fist sank into my midriff, lifting me onto my toes and blasting agony through my muscles.  The taste of blood filled my mouth from the lips he split, and sweat dripped from my brow as I fought to keep my head up.  Rough laughter rang in my ears. 

Just as I started to see stars, horses pounded toward us.  They let me go, and I dropped to the dirt.  Around me, a ruckus broke out.  I’d managed to steady my breathing by the time Hoss reached me. 

“Dadburnit, Joseph.  Sometimes, I could pummel you good.”

Ignoring his grumble, I jerked my head at the people with him.  “I guess this was your idea?”

“Nope.  All theirs.”

Startled, I looked at the townspeople, the doctor, storekeeper, livery owner, and others.  Even Mrs. Lewis stood holding the horses.  Ordinary folk, not a hero among them.  Yet they’d left the safety of their homes and businesses to rescue me.

Once helped to my feet, I assessed the damage.  I might be bleeding, sore, and hurting, but I was upright and breathing.  Good enough.  I slapped Hoss on the back and limped toward Jackson’s men, who shifted from foot to foot when I approached. 

“C’mon, let’s take them back and deliver a message of our own.”

*****

Martin stepped out onto his porch.  His father followed, maneuvering his wheelchair through the open double doors.

The younger Jackson glared at our party, and his hands balled into fists.  “What the hell?”

Dismounting with care, I drew myself up and walked to the porch.  “I brought your men back. 

“Martin, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, Pa.  Go inside.  Let me handle this.”

“What the matter?  Don’t you want your father to know you sent men to beat me up?”

“What’s he talking about?” Richard Jackson asked.

“Leave it to me, Pa.”

“Why don’t you tell him?  How your men have been terrorizing the town.  Cutting up women.”

Doctor Bates spoke up.  “It’s true, Mr. Jackson.  Your son is trying to drive us out.  Like he’s done to most of the other settlers in the valley.”

“We bought that land fair and square,” Martin returned.

Mrs. Lewis jumped in, “Only after you killed their stock, burned their barns, or worse.”

Richard Jackson pointed at Mrs. Lewes.  “I know you.  Your husband owned that land along the river.”

“He did, up until someone shot him in the back.  My husband refused to sell, yet your son produced a bill of sale with his signature on it for a fraction of its value.” 

This was news to me.  I glanced from Mrs. Lewis back to Richard Jackson and watched the doubt enter his eyes.

“Martin …?”

“It’s rubbish, Pa!  Lewis sold out to us.  I had nothing to do with him being shot.  Are you gonna listen to their lies or me?”

Old man Jackson stared at his son for a long moment before he wheeled forward.  “I don’t know why you’ve come here with these lies, but you can leave.”

I turned to him.  The man believed his son, and why shouldn’t he?  Heck, I admired him for it.  But he needed to know the truth.

“It’s not lies, Sir.  Your son threatened to burn the town if they didn’t move.”

“So what?  That stinking dump is in our way.”

“Son.  They’re our neighbors.”

“To hell with them!  We’re better than any of them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I told him.  “Look at them!  Yes, you’ve got them good and scared.  But that didn’t stop them from helping me.  Or coming here to tell you they won’t stand for anymore.  They’re ten times the people you’ll ever be, with more guts than you’ll ever have.”

The fury built within Martin.  A man who’d had his way all his life, any opposition stuck in his craw.  His hand moved to his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” I warned him.  “My brother would drop you before you cleared your holster.” 

Martin’s gaze flicked to Hoss.  I didn’t need to turn my head to see him with his gun drawn, steady as a rock in his saddle behind me. 

The bellow Martin released ripped the air.  He leaped at me, hands flailing for my throat.  I found myself back in Mrs. Cutler’s living room, grappling with Horace.  I shook the memory and Jackson off. 

His face contorted into a savage snarl when he came at me again.  His onslaught was ferocious, but Martin was a man who relied on others to fight his battles, and the rage that powered him could only take him so far.  When I put him flat on his back, he stayed down. 

My chest pumped as I dragged in enough air to speak, “We’ll be sending for a Marshall.  If you do anything to the town before he gets there, I’ll come right back and pay you another visit.” 

I flung my arm across my forehead to wipe away the sweat, dirt, and blood.  Behind me, Hoss holstered his gun.  Retrieving my hat, I straightened to look right into the face of Richard Jackson.  His expression was more than I could bear.  I turned away and walked toward Cochise. 

Behind me, Martin spat out his venom.  “You think you’ve won, Cartwright?  You’re wrong.  You can’t beat a Jackson.”

His father’s quiet words tried to stem him.  “Son, enough.”

“Shut your mouth, Old Man!  You’ve had your day.  I own this valley, and no one is gonna stop me.”

The warning Hoss shouted had me spinning back.  I hadn’t turned halfway before the shot rang out.  I sucked in a breath, waiting for the bullet to hit, but I was still standing.  It was Martin who lay dead with a hole in his chest.  I turned to Hoss and followed his shocked gaze to Anita Jackson.  Standing in the doorway, she clutched the rifle she’d just used on her son-in-law.  Laying it aside, she fell to her knees beside the man she loved.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let you be the one to do it.  Not kill your son.”

“How did you know?”

“I know you, my husband.  You wouldn’t stand by and let Martin commit murder.”

“I was a fool to trust him.”

It was then I saw the gun in his quavering hand.  He let it drop into his lap when his wife wrapped her hands around his arm.  This father would have killed his son.  The child he’d plowed his hopes, dreams, and future into to save me.  I had to say something.  “There’s nothing wrong with trusting your son.”

“Yes, there is.  I put blind faith in Martin when I should have questioned him.  All his life, I let him have his way.  That’s not a father’s job.  I should’ve checked him, kept him on the right path.  I could have prevented all of this.  I failed.  Failed him.”  Richard clutched his wife’s hands, begging forgiveness, “Failed you.”

Tears trickled down her face.  “Oh, no.  Never.” 

He kissed her forehead and turned to the townspeople.  “You too.  I failed you all.  I’m sorry.”

Nobody moved or spoke until Mrs. Lewis replied, “We’re sorry too.”

Richard slumped back.  That galvanized Anita.  Her husband needed her, and she took charge.  She directed her people to move Martin’s body and took Richard back inside.  Time for us to leave.

*****

When we got back to Baptiste, I was done.  Not that I’d say anything.  Admitting I was hurting wasn’t one of my strengths. 

Hoss hooked my arm when I made for my table in the cantina.  “Why don’t we get you upstairs and cleaned up first?”

After drying my face, I reached for my shirt again.

“Might as well leave that off since you’re gonna rest.”

I should’ve known.  I never could hide much from Hoss.  “I’m fine.”

“Joseph.  I ain’t about to argue with you.”  I looked into my brother’s eyes and dropped the shirt back on the bed.  “Don’t move until I come get you.”

It turned out this parting threat wasn’t needed.  Once my head hit the pillow, I was out and didn’t stir until Hoss shook my shoulder later.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

“What time is it?”  My mumbled question stumbled out over a swollen lip.  Seeing the room masked in shadow, I added, “I must’ve slept for hours.”

“Guess you needed it.  Feeling better?”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”

The cantina was packed, and I ran a gauntlet of handshakes to get to my table.

“What’s going on?” I asked Mrs. Lewis when she brought some coffee.

“Mr. Jackson has sent a message.  He wants to meet with the town.  There’s even talk of us getting our property back.”

“That’s great.”

“It’s all thanks to you, Joe.”

I shook my head, but she smiled and nodded before bustling away to fetch our food. 

Aware of his gaze, I told Hoss, “I’m glad it’s gonna work out for them, but I didn’t have much to do with it.” 

He fixed me with those baby blues and asked.  “Ready to go home?”

“Yeah.”

*****

Chapter Twelve

Hoss set an easy pace on the ride home, giving consideration to my healing leg and the fact I was stiff, bruised, and aching from the beating I took.  When we camped, he filled me in some more about what had been going on.  Roy and Pa did test young David White’s memory.  Roping in five men to help, they were amazed at his assurance when Davey picked out the same men three days later.  Enough to convince Pa, but when Roy explained he couldn’t do anything with it, I winced hearing the uproar that followed, not just from Pa but Margaret Shield.  Roy had never had it so hard.

Around our crackling campfire, Hoss told me about the other young woman Horace murdered. 

“Caroline bumped into this fella while shopping.  She’d laughed about him because he was such a mouse.  When he started turning up everywhere she went, Margaret wanted to scare him off, but Caroline refused ‘cause she didn’t want her to hurt his feelings, what with him bein’ so awkward and shy.”

I snapped the stick in my hand and flung it on the fire.  “That’s Horace.  Shy like a snake.”

“Caroline said she’d tell him herself she weren’t interested.  Margaret told her she wasn’t to see him alone, but the next day, she came home from taking Davey to his doctor to find her sister dead.  Her neck broke.  Seems she’d let him in herself so the servants wouldn’t know.”

“Poor kid didn’t know what she was dealing with.”

“Margaret blames herself for not guessing what Caroline would do.  They questioned some men, including Horace, but with no witnesses or evidence, no one got charged.”

I cursed.  Horace had been lucky.  Surely it was time for that luck to run out?

****

Each day, I found out more about Mrs. Shield and her brother.  Hoss sang Margaret’s praises, and the feeling there was something between them deepened.  But the more I heard of Davey, the more concerned I grew.

“Even if we get Horace to trial, any lawyer could take Davey apart,” I worried.  “Let alone that slick fella Horace had before.”

“Margaret is sure he’ll be fine.”

“Are you?”

Hoss gulped his coffee and gazed into the fire.  “Maybe.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“I don’t know how he’d cope with a trial.  Margaret has a lot of faith in him.  If everything’s explained to him and he’s in familiar surroundings, he’s fine.  If not … but I trust her.  If she says he can do it, that’s good enough for me.”

I turned my cup in my hands.  Were we placing all our hopes on a horse that wouldn’t make the finish?  I focused on something else.

“She sounds like quite a woman.”

“Yeah.  She is.  An’ when you think ….”

“What?”

“Nuthin’.”

When Hoss shifted his position, my curiosity spiked.  I knew when my brother was hiding something.  “C’mon, what is it?”

“Forget it.  She told me in confidence.”

“You think I’d tell?” I asked, loading my question with hurt feelings.  That did the trick. 

“Okay, but you ain’t to repeat this to anyone, even Pa.  Margaret ain’t a widow.  When her folks died, she got guardianship of her sister and brother.  Then she found out that her husband was trying to have Davey put in an asylum and take over the business.  You can guess what that did to her, but she didn’t sit around cryin’.  Instead, she went out an’ paid a judge and got herself a divorce.”

“A divorce?  Whew!”

“That’s why she lets everyone think she’s a widow, ‘cause of the scandal.  Now she looks after Davey and runs the business, and she don’t wanna give up that independence for any man.”

“She sounds like one tough lady.”

“Well, she ain’t.  She puts up a good front, but I ain’t never met a more feminine gal.  All soft skin and hair that smells like lilacs, an’ like anyone else, sometimes she needs comfort and love.”

I tilted my head as I watched my brother talk about this woman.  Did Pa know?  We were grown men, and he never asked nor interfered in our love life.  Would he be pleased about this arrangement?  I didn’t care.  So long as Hoss was happy.  But I couldn’t resist a little teasing.

“I guess she got what she needed?”

That broke his reverie.  He nudged me with his shoulder, almost knocking me flat. 

I laughed. 

The grotesque sound jolted me.  How could I joke and laugh when Sally …?  My face crumpled.  Tears stung my eyes.  I turned my head away when my shoulders began to shake.  A hand slid around them.

The touch crumbled the last of my defenses.  I needed something solid to hang onto to let go of the grief.  And he was right there, as always.  Turning into my brother, I clung on, letting the tears come at last. 

*****

We didn’t say much during our last night in camp.  The closer we came to home, the more jittery I became.  Hoss threw me a few glances but didn’t say anything until I stared at my half-eaten plate of food for ten minutes.

“My beans that bad?”

“Huh?  Oh.  No.  I was just thinking about tomorrow and seeing Pa.”

Hoss’ fist made contact with my shoulder in a gentle punch.  “It’ll be fine.  He’ll just be glad to see you.”

That might be true, but I didn’t deserve to be treated like the prodigal son.  I didn’t say any more, and we soon settled down for the night.  Above me, the inky blackness of the sky gave way to a million stars, which matched the multitude of thoughts racing around my mind. 

When I’d gone after Horace, I believed in my right to do what I did.  Pa’s questions punched a hole right through that certainty.  I thought them a betrayal, but old man Jackson’s words opened my eyes.  Pa had always questioned us, made us examine our motives and thinking, and kept us on the straight path.  I owed him thanks for that; instead, I’d flung it in his face when I left.  The fingers intertwined behind my head tightened.  There was a lot to apologize for and put right, and I’d be starting tomorrow.

*****

Chapter Thirteen

The final miles across the Ponderosa were a relief.  I was eager to get home and see my father.  The buggy at the door told us Pa had visitors.  It sent a ripple of annoyance through me.  I’d wanted our reunion to be private, not shared with friends or strangers.

We walked in to find a raging tempest pacing the floor.  Pa sat in his chair and watched the woman rant.  Another man cringed in Adam’s blue chair, hugging his arms and rocking.

“It’s outrageous!  Someone should arrest that sheriff.  Shirking his duty this way.” 

Pa begged, “Mrs. Shield, please, calm yourself.”

The woman halted her furious pacing when we entered.  Seeing Hoss, she went toward him.

My attention stayed on Pa.  The look on his face was something I’ll never forget.  He sprung from his chair and took my hand in both of his, the firm grip warm and inviting. 

“It’s good to have you back.”

“Thanks,” was all I could manage over the lump in my throat.  I swallowed it down and took a breath, “Pa— ”

He cut me off.  “Nothing more to say, son.”

There was, but I’d leave that to later.  Our attention turned back to Hoss and Mrs. Shield.  Hoss described her as fine-looking.  She was undoubtedly striking.  Standing six feet tall in her stockings, she was hard to miss.  The firm set on her jaw showed her determined nature, and fine brown eyes sparkled while she spoke to Hoss.

“As soon as I saw the letter from that wretched sheriff, I had to come and tell your father.”

“It’s okay.  C’mon sit down.  You ain’t even taken off your coat.”  Hoss put a hand under Mrs. Shield’s elbow and led her back to the settee.  Calm descended on the room.  “We’ll have some coffee.  Pa?”

“I’ve already asked Hop Sing.”

After taking her jacket, Hoss had Mrs. Shield sit.  She took Hoss’s hands in hers, her fingers caressing his.  I cut a look at Pa.  He’d seen it too. 

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she told him.  Then she noticed her brother rocking in his seat and was on her feet again.  “My love.  I’m so sorry.  How could I have been so thoughtless?  Hoss, I need to take him somewhere quiet.”

“Would one of the guest bedrooms be okay?”

“Perfect.”

I waited until the trio had moved out of earshot before commenting, “She’s interesting.”

Pa pulled his anxious gaze away from the stairs back to me.  “Huh?”

“Mrs. Shield.  Interesting.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Hoss seems taken with her.”

The look I got warned me off dangerous ground.  I dropped the subject.  The ice I was standing on was thin enough already.  Hop Sing appearing with coffee brought a welcome distraction.

“Little Joe!  You back.”  Our cook hurried across the room.  The smile on his face was the biggest I’ve ever seen.  I took the tray and placed it down while he looked at me.  “It’s good you back.  Ponderosa not same without Number Three Son.  I fetch cup for you.  Dinner ready soon.”

“Thanks, Hop Sing.”

“He’s right.  It hasn’t been the same.”

I sat and tried my apology again.  “I’m sorry for the way I left.”

Pa put up his hand to stop me before dropping it onto my knee.  “I told you.  No need.  You’re back.  That’s all that matters.”

“But it isn’t.”

“It is for me.  Now, drink your coffee.”

Resigned, I took the cup he handed me.  “So, what was all the fuss about?”

Pa pursed his lips and ducked his head.  This couldn’t be good.  “Hoss told you about what’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“Roy got the answer from the sheriff at Mason City.  It isn’t very helpful.  Since Horace is out of his jurisdiction, he’s said that there’s nothing he can do.”

“What about a warrant?”

“According to him, Davey recognizing Horace isn’t enough evidence to issue one.”

“But Horace was picked up before— ”

“Yes.  And we know he lied about knowing Caroline White.  But, for that sheriff, Davey’s word isn’t enough.”

“He’s guilty.”

“I know.  We got your hopes up.  I’m sorry.”

My cup clattered back into its saucer.  Was it over before it even began?  “I guess that’s that.”

“No.  It ain’t.”

Hoss stood on the half-landing.  Unmovable like the Sierras, hand clamped over the newel, he looked down on us.  “That man killed them two little gals, and he’s gonna pay for one of them.  Even if I hav’ta hog-tie him and carry him to Mason City myself.”

Pa raised his eyebrows.  “Much as I’d like you to, you know we can’t do that.”

“Then we’ll find another way.”

*****

Hoss kept up his relentless positivity for Miss Shield’s benefit throughout dinner.  She wasn’t fooled either, but she was just as grateful.

“Mr. Cartwright.  Thank you for a delicious meal.  But we must be going, or we will be late for David’s bedtime.”

Hoss was off the settee and helping the lady on with her coat in a flash.  “I’ll escort them back to town, Pa.”

“Son, Mrs. Shield knows the way.”

“I know, but I’d like to see ‘em back.”

Pa’s arguments faded away when Margaret added her plea for his escort.  We said our goodbyes while Hoss loaded his saddle in the hired buggy and tied Chubb to the back. 

“Pa.  I’ll stay overnight and visit Roy first thing.  See if he’s got any ideas.”

Before Pa could say a word, Hoss shook up the horse.  My father let out a breath.  When Big Brother was determined, not even he could stop him.

We returned to the house.  Pa poured a brandy for himself and one for me.  I grimaced at the generous glassful.

“Something wrong?”

“I’ve been overindulging lately.”

A ripple of concern ran over my father’s face, and he tensed, but he didn’t reach to remove the glass and instead relaxed back.  “Ah.  Well, you don’t have to finish it.”  He was learning. 

“Thanks.”  I sipped the smooth liquor.  Mellow and complex, the subtle taste of fruit mixed with hints of sweetness and oak was a far cry from the swill I’d been drowning in.  Savoring the notes, I took my time.  We settled back.  The snap of sap from the burning logs, mingled with the tick from the grandfather clock, provided the only break in the companionable silence.

The liquor in my glass had sunk an inch before I spoke, “You were right.”

“About what?”

“Questioning my motives.  I wanted him so bad.  I pushed too hard.”

“No one blames you for that.”

“I blame myself.”

“If you hadn’t, Horace would’ve ridden away.  What if he had killed again?  You’ve prevented that.”

“Have I?  Maybe.  At least he’s still in Virginia City.”  Pa’s jaw tightened.  “What?”

“Since the trial, well, I don’t know how else to say this.  He’s become something of a celebrity.  The man who was falsely accused.  He’s making the most of it.”

Why was I surprised?  Horace had always been an outsider wanting in.  Why wouldn’t he relish the opportunity to be the center of attention?

“I don’t know if I can face him.  After the trial, I wanted to ….” 

I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.  I lifted my eyes to meet Pa’s steady ones.

“Trust me, son.  There’s a big difference between wanting and doing.”

*****

Chapter Fourteen

The long ride back had purged the last remnants of cheap booze from my system, and I was able to enjoy being back in my bed, sleeping like a log until Pa called me.  I came down to find him eager for action.

“Soon as we’ve eaten, we’ll ride into Virginia City and find your brother.  I want to speak to Roy myself.”

I thought Hoss could handle it, but I didn’t argue.

*****

“Roy, I understand,” Pa said.  “I’m just saying there must be something we can do?” 

I looked at Hoss and rolled my eyes.  Pa and Mrs. Shield had been going at Roy for twenty minutes, and it was getting us nowhere.

“An’ I just got through telling you.  There ain’t!”

“All right.”  Mrs. Shield joined in again.  “If you can’t arrest him for my sister’s murder, can you arrest him for something else?”

“Ma’am, for me to arrest a man, he has to commit a crime.”

“Can’t you make something up?” Pa demanded.

The appalled look on Roy’s face would’ve been funny at any other time.  I shot Hoss another look.  He got the message.  “Pa, you know Roy can’t do that.”

Pa slapped his hat against his leg.  “Yes.  Yes.  I’m sorry, Roy.  It’s just … to be so close.”

“I know it, Ben, and I think the sheriff in Mason City is being derelict in his duty by not issuing the warrant.  Say, what about a letter to the Governor?”

Mrs. Shield’s stepped forward.  “Would that work?”

The light returned to Pa’s eyes.  “It might.”

Keen to encourage this hopeful mood and get them out of his office, Roy added, “I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Thanks.”  With peace between them restored, Pa shook Roy’s hand.

“Let us return to my rooms,” Mrs. Shield proposed.  “We can compose the letter there.”

Pa nodded and followed them out.  The sheriff’s office emptied, and Roy collapsed back in his chair.  I stopped at the door and grinned.

“Nice work, Sheriff.”

I’ve known this man for a lot of years and recognized the twinkle in his eye as he growled, “Get outta here.”  I laughed and shut the door.

*****

“Joe.”

I woke with a start, yawned, and ran a hand through my hair.  “Sorry.  Did I fall asleep?  Finished?”

Pa looked sheepish.  They’d been working on the letter for over two hours when I dozed off.  “Almost.  Come on.  We’re going to take a break and get some lunch.”

I perked up.  “Sounds good.”

Margaret helped her brother into his jacket while Hoss put away the cards he’d been using to entertain Davey.

We made our way down to the hotel restaurant and settled at a table tucked into a corner that suited our young friend, as it was away from the central hubbub.

Our meals had been served when the sudden hush in the room made Hoss turn around.  I looked up from my plate of chicken and dumplings.  Standing across from us was the man I wanted least of all to see.  I knew I’d run into him at some time, but not today.  Loathing rose in my throat to choke me, and I was all too aware of the gun holstered against my hip. 

Those who knew the history had stopped talking and looked from Horace to our table.  They waited with bated breath to see what would happen.  Horace spotted us.  I hoped he’d turn around and leave – no such luck.  Instead, excitement sparked in the onlookers when he adjusted his jacket and marched toward us.  It looked like all the attention he’d been getting had given him a backbone.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.  Get lost,” I told him.

Horace pouted and drew himself up.  “I thought you might want to apologize.”

Pa’s hand closed around my wrist as I began to rise.  It might’ve stopped me a few years ago.  It failed now.  But I had things under control.

“Apologize?  For what?  You can tell these people whatever you like, but you and me, we know the truth.”

The little creep flushed and tried to brazen it out.  “You hounded me to make that confession.  I’m innocent.”

I couldn’t believe the man’s gall.  Horace had always been deluded.  Was he so far gone that he’d begun to believe the story his lawyer had woven? 

A stir had begun on the other side of the table.  Davey began to mumble and whisper to his sister, who tried to hush him.  I ignored it, keeping my focus on Horace.  “Take my advice and leave me alone.”

His flush deepened.  With all the people watching, he was in a quandary about what to do.  I just wanted him out of my sight.  Margaret was still trying to quiet David when he broke free and jumped up. 

“That’s him.  That’s the man Caroline didn’t like.”

My teeth clenched.  We didn’t need Horace knowing about our ace in the hole.  I caught Hoss’s eye and hitched my head to the door.  He wrapped an arm around the young man, but the usually pliable Davey didn’t want to go and squirmed away from Hoss. 

“No!”  Pointing at Horace, he cried, “It was you.  I don’t forget faces.  You gave Caroline flowers.  She didn’t want them.  She told me.  She didn’t like you.”

Horace blanched and took a step back.  I flung a hand out toward Hoss to stop him from hustling Davey away.

“What’s the matter, Horace?  Did he get it right?  You gave Caroline flowers, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.  I didn’t know that girl in Mason City.”

“Who said she was from Mason City? And do you always give flowers to girls you don’t know?”

“I … I didn’t.”

Davey was on a roll and jumped in,  “Yes, you did.  Yellow ones.  You told her they were the color of her hair.  She said that was silly, just like you.”

“Liar!”

Everyone in the place had stopped what they were doing, their attention on us.  Horace’s gaze darted around the quiet room.  I saw the muscle in his neck work and the fear enter his eyes.  Trapped by his delusion, he’d left himself exposed where everyone could see and hear.  This was my chance.  I had to use everything I knew about this pathetic man against him.  This time, there’d be no screwups. 

“He’s right, isn’t he?  You knew Caroline.  You lied about that.  Like you lied about Sally.”

“Shut up!  I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What, Horace?  What am I trying to do?  Get you to tell the truth?  What happened?  Didn’t she want you around either?”

“That’s not true!  Caroline liked me very much. We would’ve been together if it hadn’t been for her sister.  She made Caroline say she didn’t want to see me.”

Margaret swept between Horace and me.  “Rubbish!  Caroline couldn’t abide you.  Her mistake was thinking you were sad and harmless.”

My instinct for danger tingled down my neck.  Too late, I reached to pull Margaret behind me, but Horace grabbed her.  Bent backward, Margaret’s hands clutched the arm that snaked around her neck, trying to escape the painful embrace. 

I sensed Hoss’ powerful presence at my back as I moved toward the struggling pair, hands spread wide in front of me.  “Careful.  You break her neck, and no one will believe it was a mistake.”

“Caroline liked me!  I just wanted a little more time, that’s all.  If she’d just let me talk.”

“But she was like Sally, right?  She wouldn’t listen.”

“I knew I could convince her if she would only listen to me, but she tried to call for a servant.”

“What happened?  Did you try to shut her up, like Sally? Grab her like that, too?  Squeeze a little too hard?”

“I never meant to hurt her, but she was just like the rest of them.”

“Them?”  Horror clawed at my senses.  “How many were there, Horace?  How many mistakes have you made?”

“It’s not my fault!  All I wanted was to talk to them.”

“Hold it right there!  Horace, you’d better let that lady go and come along with me.”

My head snapped around.  I hadn’t seen Roy come in.  Now wasn’t the time for him to interfere, but my glare didn’t faze him.  I should’ve known.  He’d dealt with Pa for years.  However, Horace surprised us when he pulled a gun from his pocket. 

“No! Get back!”

“Now, son, you don’t want to be doing that,” Roy explained in the fatherly voice he used for all wayward young men.

“Stay back!”

Taking a step closer, I said, “Let her go.  It’s over.”

The truth sank in.  The furious madness I’d seen before crossed Horace’s face.  “This is your fault.”

He turned the gun on me and squeezed the trigger.  Explosions and screams tore through the air as I was knocked sideways.  I slammed into the floor with my brother’s bulk on me.

“Hoss!”  My heart raced so hard that I felt sick.  I rolled my brother off with hands that shook.  When he complained about the movement, I had to fight the wave of giddy relief that swept across me. 

Kneeling beside us, Pa helped Hoss sit up. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.  He clipped my side, is all.”

“Are you crazy?” I demanded. 

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

My hand went to his shoulder, and our eyes met.  “Thanks.” 

Pa took over.  “C’mon, let’s get you to the doctor.”

Hoss stood but shook off his help.  “I’m all right.  Check on Mrs. Shield.”

This brought our attention back to the rest of the room.  Horace lay huddled on the floor, sniveling. Blood spilled through the fingers of the hand holding his other arm.  Roy frowned down at him, his gun still drawn.

Margaret tried to soothe Davey, who had retreated away from the noise and commotion into the corner.  Although shaken, she told Pa, “Take care of Hoss, Ben.  I’ll take David to our room.”

Much as I wanted to go with Hoss, I knew what he’d wish me to do. 

“Can I help?”  She nodded and stepped aside to let me gather her brother.  I turned back to Pa and Hoss.  “I’ll be over to the doc’s as soon as Davey’s settled.”

I didn’t give Horace a second look as we left the room.

*****

Epilogue

Pa and Hoss strolled out to meet me when I cantered into the yard.

Greetings over, Pa asked, “How was the young lady?”

“Just fine.  Thanks to Doc Gibbons, the scarring won’t be nearly as bad as it might have been.”

“How is everyone else?”

“You were right about Mr. Jackson.  He’s returned the property that Martin swindled.  Mrs. Lewis has asked Penny to run the cantina for her since she’ll be busy with her place from now on.”

“That’s good news.”

The smile slipped from my face.  “I got your telegram.”

Pa and Hoss understood why I couldn’t go to Mason City for the trial.  I’m not sure Margaret did, but that couldn’t be helped. 

Hoss’ hand dropped on my shoulder and squeezed tight.  “We got them their justice.”

Justice for Sally and Caroline.  That meant something, but so did the knowledge that Horace wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else.  No other young women would die at his hands, or others suffer the way we had because of him. 

“Did you say goodbye to Margaret and Davey for me?”

“Yeah.  We said goodbye.”

I cut a look at Hoss.  Those words included more than me.

Pa slapped us on the back.  “C’mon.  Hop Sing’s making a fresh pot of coffee.

There was grieving still to do, but right now, coffee sounded good.  Side by side, we strolled toward the house.

*** The End ***

[April 2022]

Author’s notes:

With thanks to my Beta, Pat.

Episode referenced:
Justice:  Written by Richard Wendley
The Smiler:  Written by Lewis Reed

by jfclover

Miracles don’t exist in my world. I gave up caring about God or worrying about heaven and hell when I was still in my teens. I had my reasons, and my perception of a godless society was sound and practical. In a world where death comes as quick as a lightning strike, I consider my beliefs honest and valid, and I have no use for the scriptures my father forced on me as a child.

My mother died giving birth. I never knew her as a vibrant, beautiful young woman, and I’ve relied on my father’s memories to bring her back to life in the eyes of a young boy who missed a woman he’d never known. When Pa and I crossed the prairie together, he talked earnestly about the three things that meant the most to him. First, was his god. Second, was my mother, and third was his time at sea and how that part of his life was behind him though his spirit for adventure was what led us across the prairie searching for a place to call home.

During our travels west, Pa and I met a special woman. Her name was Inger Borgstrom, and I took to her right off. I believe the feeling was mutual. She loved and cared for me as much as any woman possibly could. I had taken to her long before Pa realized how truly wonderful she was and how she and her gentle ways could make our lives complete. It took some time, but my father finally came around, and the day after, he and Inger were married, we were back in the wagon, searching for my father’s dream.

It was a happy time, a time of change for a young boy like me. We sang songs with so many verses that long days confined in a tight space passed quickly. At times, we played games, or Inger would tell me tales of a world far away from the relentless prairie. I was spellbound by the gentle lilt of her voice but mostly by stories filled with magic and dreams of our future together.  

Every Sunday afternoon was like Christmas. Inger would have me join her inside the wagon, and I’d sit patiently while she rummaged through her trunk. It was a game only the two of us shared, and she cleverly raised my anticipation level to new heights.

“Adam,” she would say. “I have something special for you.”  

She’d hand me a different leather-bound book every week. Some were simple stories with pencil-drawn illustrations while others were more advanced. No matter which one she chose, I was grateful for my new mother. Even if I only recognized a few words on each page, I learned more on that trip west than any other boy who studied reading and writing inside a schoolhouse every day of his young life.

But the best gift of all was my new brother, Hoss. Our lives were perfect. We were a family of four. We were a family who laughed and enjoyed each other’s company and who prayed every night for another safe day of travel. 

And then the Indians attacked. 

I lost a piece of my heart the day Inger died, and we were forced to leave her behind. Never once did I shed a tear; I stayed strong for Pa and my new baby brother. I tried to take her place; I tried to fill her shoes as we traveled farther west, but the Christmas-like Sundays were gone forever.

Pa’s third attempt at happiness came a few years later when Hoss, who was just a little shaver at the time, and I was introduced to a different type of woman. A petite southern belle named Marie entered our lives and, as it had been with Inger, our home was filled with love and endless laughter. Tragedies, such as my mother’s and Inger’s deaths were behind us, and with the addition of a new baby brother named Joseph, our lives were complete once again.

But the day my third mother lay dead on the ground after falling from a horse she’d ridden every day for years, I didn’t pray for acceptance. I cursed a ruthless and merciless god, a god whom I could no longer accept into my heart and soul. Marie’s death forced me to see the world differently. The cruelty of life can easily change the mind of an impressionable young man and from that day forward, I had no use for my father’s god.

I lost my faith that day. Pa’s endless teachings meant nothing to me anymore. In my eyes and in my heart, the bible was just another storybook filled with tales of adventure and tales of hardships, but nothing was sacred. The lessons I’d learned as a child didn’t much matter, and I was freed from belief, free to live my life as I saw fit.

For men like me, the future was nothing more than a crapshoot. No one’s future is in God’s hands, as my father believes. Fate, providence, luck, one and the same, rule our lives, but lives are never altered by an actual miracle from God. Some men are more fortunate than others. Some men live long, full lives while others do not. Some men only exist; their lives have been altered in some way. I call it fate. My father calls upon his god for help and understanding.

~

I steadied the half-full bottle on the arm of the rocker and listened as the curved, wooden rungs kept a steady beat against the weathered pine slats. Inside, the house was quiet; everyone had gone to bed, and I’d given the same excuse as always. I was staying up to read. But, as usual, the words blurred on the page, and I found myself alone on the front porch, rocking and drinking Pa’s whiskey, and realizing how much had changed since we’d returned home just a few days ago. We weren’t the same family. We didn’t act the same as we had before the “incident.” We tiptoed over and around the problem, but no one talked, and no one managed to say what was on his mind.

Naturally, my father assumed all guilt. He directed anger at himself though Hoss and I felt we, too, had been part of the initial situation. We should have been aware. We should have taken precautions. The incident revolved around a timber contract that would have benefited the Ponderosa more than delivering a herd of cattle to market or counting on profits our silver mines could produce during the coming year. 

The reward for our efforts would be extensive. Pa’s proposal was fair, after all; he planned to win the contract hands-down. Bids for lengths of timber poured into Conley and Sons, not only from the Ponderosa but also from friends and neighbors, men we knew, men we trusted or thought we could trust. We were wrong. 

Removing Ben Cartwright from the competition would leave the field wide open. That was the intention and, because other bids came from “friends and neighbors,” one of those we trusted knew exactly how to achieve the results he desired. The solution was simple. Saddle our pa with fear and my father would withdraw his bid and forgo the contract, leaving the field wide open.

In the dead of night, a note was nailed to the front door of our house. It read: We have your boy. Withdraw your bid or the boy dies.

I glanced toward the front door where I’d found the note that morning then lifted the half-full bottle to my lips. I drank another shot. No one knew about my nighttime outings, but it gave me time to think, time alone without distraction or worrisome talk. Friends and neighbors. An uncanny thought but the “friend” had been caught, stood trial, and had been convicted for his involvement in the kidnapping of my youngest brother, Joe.

Though he begged for mercy, he was sentenced to prison. His name was Alfred Morrison, and his ranch butted up to the northeast corner of the Ponderosa. But Alfred wasn’t the man who’d harmed my young brother. He’d concocted the plan, but he’d let his older brother take charge after the initial kidnapping. 

His brother’s name was Joshua, and he’d recently returned to Nevada after a three-year stint in a California prison they’d named San Quentin.

Since my brother was unable to make the ride into town and testify on his behalf, the sheriff, along with Dr. Paul Martin, my father, and Hoss, all testified as to the kidnapping and my brother’s current state of mind.  

Although Joe had been rescued and was healing at home, rumors had circulated during the trial that Ben Cartwright’s youngest son hadn’t fully recovered from his injuries, that not only his broken bones were a factor, but there was also concern about his overall well-being.  

Copies of Morrison’s association with San Quentin were sent to the circuit judge. Though none of his paperwork was read during the trial, Judge Carter Williamson asked my father to join him for a drink at one of the newer saloons in Virginia City.

“Morrison is a detriment to society,” Williamson said over shots of whiskey. “I gave him the maximum penalty according to the law. That’s all I’m allowed to do. I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, Ben, but that man should be hung after what he did to your son.”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done, Judge.”

“The man swears he’s found God, that he’s reformed, that he never meant to hurt your boy. He says the broken leg was an accident as was the cut on your son’s face.”

I didn’t have to see Pa’s reaction during that conversation to know what he was thinking or how the judge’s words meant nothing to Joe or our family. 

“That may be so, Judge,” Pa had said, “but since my boy hasn’t relayed his side of the story, how would I know what’s true and what’s not? Let me ask you this. What about the fear my son still lives with day and night? What about the nightmares or the anxiety he faces every morning when I ask him to come out of his room. What lasting effects will my sixteen-year-old boy have to endure because of a man like Joshua Morrison?”

I corked the bottle. Morning would come soon enough and there was much to be done. I thought about my father’s words to the judge, and I wondered if we’d ever know the full story. Would Joe end his silence and realize Pa and Hoss and I weren’t the enemy and that the enemy was behind bars and couldn’t hurt him anymore? That he was safe with us.

I uncorked the bottle and took one more healthy swig.

~

At nearly seventeen and before the “incident,” Little Joe was anxious to begin his new life as a full-time ranch hand. He talked of nothing else. I was often the first to excuse myself using some made-up chore that needed doing. Hoss wasn’t long for Joe’s dramatic conversations either, and there were times we’d camped out in the barn long after our chores had been completed. Our father stayed and listened. Our father indulged the boy more than I thought was necessary, but Joe and I were two different types of people, and it was better for me to leave the room and let Pa humor his baby son than sit and listen to Joe’s long-winded banter. 

Since the day Little Joe was born, we’d all been guilty of coddling him and making sure he was safe from harm. I was as guilty as anyone else, but Joe was growing up, and he needed to learn the ins and outs of a ranch the size of the Ponderosa. It wasn’t all fun and games. It was a working ranch.

Over the years, we’d all been too protective. Joe wasn’t made of glass but that’s how we treated him. Sure, he’d had his share of scrapes—broken bones, cuts, and bruises—though never any permanent damage, just kid stuff. This time, we hadn’t protected him from the world outside our ranch. He’d had to fend for himself and for that, I blame us all. I blame myself for not stepping up earlier and teaching him more about the real world, that we as a family couldn’t always shelter him from monsters like Joshua Morrison. At times, a man had to have eyes in the back of his head to keep himself safe from harm.

My young brother’s mind was locked in a far-off place none of us could reach. Pa barely left Joe’s side. Hoss found chores that didn’t need doing. I drank whiskey after everyone else went to bed. None of us were dealing with the problem. Joe was scared. Joe was adamant about not wanting to leave his room; even venturing downstairs caused fear we didn’t understand but after time, Pa and Doctor Martin had other ideas.

“You’ve got to get him out of that room,” Paul had said. “Small steps at first. Make him walk the upstairs hallway, then make him come down for meals, but don’t make him go outside just yet. Take it slow, Ben. You’ll know when he’s ready for more.”  

Pa listened to Paul and did as instructed. He forced Joe to get dressed every morning, and he forced him to come downstairs for meals, but nothing changed. My brother rarely spoke. His limited amount of words were barely above a whisper, as though someone might hear, as though he wasn’t allowed to speak outright for fear of . . . another beating? Something worse? We simply didn’t know.

Inside his bedroom, with the door closed and heavy drapes pulled across his window, my young brother sat in near darkness. He liked it that way. He fought intrusion of any kind, but none of us stayed away. Though our best efforts to temper his mood had been useless so far, we were persistent and no one was going to let Little Joe remain in a near-comatose state forever. For someone like my young brother, who’d always been a lively sort, the “new” Joe was quiet and withdrawn; his somber demeanor frightened us all.

After all his scheming, Alfred’s plan to win the contract ultimately failed. Rumors of a kidnapping spread rapidly through our small town and nearby ranches. Believing someone was trying to force Ben Cartwright out of the running, Conley and Sons had delayed offering the contract for two weeks, hoping my young brother could be found. It was a decent thing to do and in the end, the Ponderosa’s bid was accepted, but my father turned it down. Though I couldn’t blame him, considering Joe couldn’t be left on his own to heal, it was still a blow when Pa’s longtime acquaintance, Barney Fuller, won the lucrative contract.

~

Virginia City wasn’t much to look at six months ago, but our little town situated halfway down Sun Mountain was booming. After word spread that gold and silver were being mined on the eastern slope of the Carson Range, men from as far away as England and Ireland came to make their fortunes just over the mountains from our home, the Ponderosa.

Each time I rode into town, a new building had been constructed in place of miner’s tents, which had dotted the landscape only weeks ago. Boarding houses, saloons, bordellos, and even churches were popping up along newly formed streets cut into the side of the mountain.

As I reminisce over events that took place over the last few weeks, I recall how my family and I had ridden in and out of town in search of my brother or, at the very least, information that might lead us in the right direction. It was a day like any other. We rode in to check with the current sheriff, who apologized but knew nothing more than the last time we’d asked, which left us to our own devices if we were to ever find Joe. It wasn’t long before Hoss was hungry, and we stepped inside a newly built saloon called The Bucket of Blood for a steak and a cold beer.

Though finding Joe was forefront of our minds, my brother’s appetite was nothing to take lightly, and putting our mission aside for the time it would take to sit down and eat lunch, we all stood in awe of the bright, gas lights and the opulent gaiety of the new saloon. 

It wasn’t the first saloon I’d been inside, but every saloon built prior to this one had been erected in haste. Empty whiskey barrels held up long wooden slats forming a bar. A man drank whatever was available; usually rotgut, and it burned like fire, but backwoods swill was the standard issue.

The new saloon was a beautiful sight. Crystal chandeliers hung above a polished bar and bottles of whiskey, rye, and other blends were lined up in front of a huge beveled mirror. A man wearing a derby hat and a shiny gold vest played an upright piano while men gambled away their hard-earned pay at the many felt-covered gaming tables.

The saloon had San Francisco class, and I couldn’t help but think of Little Joe and how wide-eyed he’d become and how his jaw would drop open as he oohed and aahed over the lavish décor and fancy young women. My young brother was just coming of age, and this new addition to our little town would have sparked unstoppable chatter from a kid who was ready to take on the world and the ample amount of entertainment a place like this could provide.

Pushing our way through the throng of off-the-clock miners, the three of us stepped up to the bar and Hoss signaled one of the barkeeps. “You got steaks and all the fixin’s?”

“Sure do, mister. How many you want?”

“Make it four and we need three cold beers.”

I glanced at Pa whose eyebrows rose only slightly after hearing my brother’s request. It wasn’t uncommon for Hoss to out-eat us all, and he didn’t hold back in public either.

“You two get a table,” I said to Pa, “and I’ll bring the beer.”

Pa and Hoss squeezed through the crowd while I remained at the bar. Conversations sprinkled throughout, each vying for dominance through the mass of boisterous men. Most of the patrons were miners and, after having had one too many, their voices rose in volume, and often their theatrical comments earned them more than they bargained for—like a punch in the nose. The saloon might be a new addition to town but attitudes, including a good-natured barroom brawl, were as old as mankind.

When two miners began mouthing off about this and that, a man’s elbow connected with my ribs and I moved to my left. His apology was a nod of his head. I did the same, but I wouldn’t be used as some clown’s punching bag either. Catching wind of yet another conversation, I heard the word contract, and I turned my attention to the voices of two men who each fingered half-empty shot glasses sitting on the bar.

“And the kid’s right here in town, right under their noses,” one man chuckled.

“Shut up, you fool. This ain’t over till it’s over.”

“You worry too much, baby brother.”

“Damn straight, I do. Now drink up, and let’s get outta here.”

One man, I didn’t recognize. The other had his back to me and I wasn’t sure, but his voice sounded familiar. Was I overanalyzing their conversation or could the kid they referred to be Joe? 

The man whose back was to me turned his face at the sound of a ruckus starting across the room. Alfred Morrison. I’d know him anywhere. Secondly, I knew he’d bid on the contract offered by Conley and Sons.

“Mr. Morrison?” I said, extending my hand in a friendly gesture.

His jaw dropped and his face paled, and after a glance at his brother, I felt certain our “trusted” neighbor had knowledge of my young brother’s whereabouts. “Cartwright,” he replied hesitantly. “Nice to see you, Adam.”

“Who’s your friend?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t overheard their conversation.

He turned and faced the second man. “My brother,” he said. “Josh, this is Adam Cartwright. Adam, Josh Morrison.” Alfred’s brother drank the remainder of his shot and sat the empty glass on the bar. He reached out to shake my hand. 

“Why don’t you join us?” I said. “Pa and Hoss already have a table.”

“Uh, no thanks, Adam. We were just leaving, weren’t we, Josh.”

“That’s right, Mr. Cartwright. Maybe another time.”

“Right,” I said. “Another time.”

I waited until they’d made their way through the batwings and, neglecting Hoss’ appetite, I threw a five-dollar gold piece on the bar and told the barkeep we wouldn’t need those steaks after all.

“Let’s go,” I said to Pa and Hoss. Brushing off the look on my brother’s face, I said, “Now!”

We stood just inside the swinging half-doors as I explained what I’d overheard at the bar. Alfred was already riding his horse down C Street, but his brother was on foot. “He doesn’t know you, Hoss,” I said. “Follow him.”

Pa and I moved slowly up the street, staying a good block behind my brother. Hoss was a big man; he was an easy man to spot and when he and his big white hat turned left at Washington Street, we rushed to the corner and then continued at a slower pace. Two more blocks and Hoss stopped behind a clapboard building. He turned and waved us forward.

As Pa and I huddled next to my brother, he pointed to a rundown shack across a narrow alley. “He went inside that cabin,” he whispered as though we were standing outside the front door. “The one with the burlap curtain on the side window.”

“You’re sure about this, Adam?”

“I told you what I heard, Pa. You know as much as I do.”

My father was a cautious man but in this instance, he looked like a general marching headlong into battle. Hoss and I flanked him on either side. Pa didn’t bother to knock. With his gun drawn, he kicked the front door wide open.

But, Hoss had a plan of his own. He knocked Pa and me aside as he bolted headlong into Josh Morrison’s midsection. Using his bulk, my oversized brother bashed the poor bastard against the far wall of the tiny, one-room cabin. Though Pa and I had drawn our guns before entering, firearms weren’t needed and with Hoss in control of the situation, we holstered our weapons and moved inside the cabin.

“Where’s my son?” Pa growled at the helpless man.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he whimpered.

Hoss moved behind Morrison and had him facing our father. He never let go of the man’s arms and when he didn’t like the answer Morrison had given Pa, he jerked back on both elbows until Morrison’s face knotted with pain. “You answer my pa,” Hoss said in his deepest voice, “or I’ll rip both arms outta their sockets.”

“He can, you know,” I added.

“He—he’s in the cellar.” Morrison sang like a bird, and his eyes moved to the trap door on the floor.

Pa knelt down and lifted the hatch. The cellar was pitch black, and I reached for a lantern Morrison had sitting on a center table. I struck a match and quickly put it to the wick. Pa was halfway down the wooden ladder before he had enough light to see anything in the dugout cellar of the cabin. 

I turned to Morrison. “My brother better be alive.”

“He’s alive.”

I moved toward the open hatch. “Pa?”

“He’s handcuffed, Adam. Get the key.” My blood boiled, but I remained calm. I wasn’t sure if Hoss could remain in control after hearing Pa’s request.

“In my vest,” Morrison replied.

I reached inside an inner pocket and pulled out a single key. “Wait here,” I said to Hoss. I climbed down the ladder and the first thing I saw was Joe lying prone on the dirt floor. Pa held a dirty rag in one hand and was stroking Joe’s face with the other.

He handed me the rag—a filthy, blue kerchief—I wadded it back up and I threw it to a corner of the room.

“Joe was blindfolded, Adam.”

Pa’s eyes were glassy with tears. I could barely make out his words, but I took a deep breath before I slipped the key into the lock and freed my brother’s right hand. Joe had been chained to a wooden support beam in the center of the room. He was only dressed in his trousers. No boots, shirt, or jacket to protect him from the elements. The cellar was at least twenty degrees cooler than the floor above. Nights would have been worse yet. 

Pa helped Joe to a sitting position and tried to pull him toward his chest, but the kid immediately wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. His cries were soft, meager whimpers at best. 

“See if his clothes are upstairs,” Pa said.

I climbed back up the ladder and faced Morrison. “Where are the kid’s clothes?” Morrison didn’t speak; he only nodded to a far corner of the room. I looked in that direction and saw Joe’s boots, shirt, and jacket had been thrown in a heap on the floor. “Why?” I questioned. “He’s just a kid.”

The man wasn’t stupid. Anything he said could be used against him in a court of law. His lips were sealed. Even when Hoss jerked back on his arms, he refused to say anything more. 

“Take him to the sheriff,” I said. “Then, ride out and find his brother, Alfred. He’s part of this too. Pa and I will get Joe to Doc’s, and we’ll meet there.”

Hoss was too angry to argue the point. As much as he wanted to see Joe and make sure the kid was okay, he tucked Morrison’s gun in his own waistband, hung on to the man’s right arm, and shoved him through the cabin door. I climbed back down to the cellar, to Pa and Joe.

I knelt next to my father, but he never looked my way, never acknowledged my presence. Gently, he stroked my brother’s cheek and called his name with such a tear-filled voice, I nearly broke down myself. The magic came when Joe’s eyes fluttered open, and he saw the two of us for the first time in ten days. His Adam’s apple bounced like popping corn in a hot iron skillet as he formed his first word. 

“Pa?”

My brother’s voice was soft, but I couldn’t explain how satisfying that gentle whisper sounded. I only wish Hoss had been there too. I hung back, letting Pa have center stage, but I stared at my young brother from head to toe. Joe was a growing boy, lanky and wiry, and he ate like a horse, at least he had been over the last few months. He was never full, even sneaking into Hop Sing’s kitchen when he thought no one was watching. Now, he was thinner and pale and looked younger than his sixteen years.

Noticing Joe’s white, cracked lips, I rushed back up the ladder, grabbed the canteen off my saddle, and handed it to Pa. “Here,” I said. “See if he’ll drink.” And, he did, but he gulped too fast and Pa had to pull the canteen away.  

Joe began to tremble. He brought his knees to his chest and with white knuckles, he grabbed and held tight to Pa’s vest. His chest and face were bruised and as soon as he pulled his right leg up, he dropped it back flat to the ground. A deep cut on his left cheek needed tending. Any other injuries I wasn’t aware of and wouldn’t be until we got him upstairs and to Doc Martin’s surgery.

After slipping Joe’s jacket on his chilled body, I offered to carry him, but Pa wouldn’t let him go. He carried him in his arms toward the ladder. I scrambled to the top and together; we hoisted my brother up to the main floor. When his right leg bumped against the hatch, we knew by his halted scream that the leg was either broken or sprained.

Fortunately, Paul Martin was in his office and directed Pa, carrying Joe, to his surgery so he could look the boy over. Though Joe still had a stranglehold on Pa’s vest, the doctor thought it best if the two of us waited outside until he finished his initial exam. After Pa had a quick word with Joe, assuring him he’d be right outside the door, I led my father to the waiting room where we each took a chair, but the silence of the outer room was deafening. Not knowing how Joe might fare without Pa made the wait seem like a lifetime.

Being at a loss for words, I studied my surroundings rather than say something I might regret. Realizing someone would treat Joe with such disregard for his age wasn’t easily overlooked. But Joe had survived. His injuries would heal and life would return to normal, or so I thought at the time.

The door to Paul’s surgery opened and being eager to hear Doc’s first impressions, Pa and I stood from our chairs.

“He’ll recover nicely, Ben,” Paul said. “I’ve cleaned the cut on Joe’s face, but I’ll need to put in a few stitches or he’ll have a nasty scar. The boy’s too young to be saddled with an unsightly reminder of these past few days. For good measure, I’m going to wrap his ribs and splint his right leg.”

“Is his leg broken?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but Joe’s ankle is too swollen for a cast, and we don’t know how long it’s been that way. There may be a slight fracture or it’s possible we’re only looking at a sprain. Either way, Joe’s ankle needs to be immobilized for now.”

My brother wasn’t just young, he was always on the move, plus; he was vain, very vain about his outward appearance. Girls had become a recent factor in his life in fact; just these past few weeks, Joe was experiencing his first real attraction to a girl his age, and it wasn’t just a matter of puppy love. According to my young brother, this was the real thing. 

Her name was Sarah Linden. She was a young lady who’d taken her final exams along with Joe. Out of the four students in his graduating class, she was honored with the title of valedictorian, but her superior rank meant nothing to my brother. She was pretty and she was petite, and she adored his playful manner. She wasn’t a know-it-all like some of the girls he’d spent the last few years with inside the tiny classroom, and she’d become quite an important element in his life. If he wasn’t chattering about becoming a full-time ranch hand, he was singing her praises to anyone who’d listen.

Joe was a handsome kid, and Doc Martin was well aware of what an unsightly facial scar would do to the boy. With the precision of a man who cared about the outcome, I knew Paul would do his best to repair the deep cut on Joe’s left cheek. A lasting scar might be young brother’s undoing if it wasn’t taken care of properly, and Doc was the best man for the job.

My father sat quietly. He hadn’t spoken to Paul; he’d only nodded his head in agreement. I guess he was so involved in silent communication with his god that he couldn’t break the momentum to focus his mind elsewhere.

The way I looked at the situation was quite different from my father’s vigilant efforts to count on prayer to see Joe through. It was pure luck we’d even found my brother and that Paul was in his office and could tend to Joe’s needs immediately. The doc could have been out of town, out to a nearby ranch, or seeing a gunshot wound in one of the local saloons. But, no. He was sitting in his office when we needed him most. That’s luck—pure and simple—not some godly intervention.

~

I hadn’t slept a full night through in weeks. Drinking Pa’s whiskey didn’t help, but I continued my nighttime ritual longer than I should have. If my father had noticed my late hours, he’d said nothing. Joe was his main concern, not his eldest son looking for answers that would fix a broken family.

Pa had lost weight. Gray markings shadowed the skin under his eyes. I wasn’t the only one not sleeping properly. Like clockwork, Hoss left the house every morning after breakfast. He’d fix fences, round up steers, or break up tangled beaver dams, anything to keep busy so he wouldn’t have to deal with the “new” Joe, the silent Joe, who kept to himself and feared his own shadow.

Days passed, and we all came up with scenarios as to why Joe wouldn’t shed light on the days he’d spent—hungry, cold, and alone—under the floorboards of that old cabin. Pa assured Hoss and me that Joe would come around. He asked us not to push but to be there for my brother and this matter would clear itself up in time.

Hoss was beside himself. His best friend was in serious trouble, and he had no idea how to make things better. More often than not, he stayed away, stayed busy with other things. Though he’d see Joe every day and encourage him to open up, his attempts failed, and it hurt Pa and me to see Hoss living each day with such a feeling of loss. An aura of misery plagued my middle brother every waking hour.

I’d come to think Joe had something to hide though I never mentioned this to Pa or Hoss. I was making assumptions that were unfounded and didn’t need to be explored except with Joe, if or when he was ready to talk.

Late one afternoon, I walked into Joe’s room with a pair of kitchen shears. His hair had grown long over his collar, and I thought he might feel better if I gave him a quick trim. Though I tried to make light of his riverboat gambler appearance, I’d only caused Joe to blanch at the sight of what he considered a weapon. Like a wounded animal, frail and scared, his fears highly irrational to anyone but himself, he groped for the headboard and held a pillow over his face for protection from his attacker. In his eyes, I’d become a monster, not a brother, and I cursed myself for not thinking things through.

“Joe,” I said cautiously. As always, the room was dark. A bedside lamp, the wick turned low, left the room in eerie shadow. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?” A muted moan came from behind the pillow. I stepped toward Joe’s dresser and laid the scissors down. I held up my empty hands. “No more scissors, little brother.”

I wasn’t sure what to do next, but it was time Joe moved forward rather than stagnate, trapped as he was in a world of fear. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, I let my hands dangle between my legs. I waited to see if he’d lower the pillow. I had all the time in the world. I hoped he’d make the first move.

Minutes passed. I stared at the floor in a non-threatening way since simple eye contact seemed too much for Joe to deal with at this point in his recovery. Letting him find his own way back was my main intent. He was fragile and I didn’t dare push. My posture was relaxed; I was content to let him set the pace and low and behold, he spoke my name!

“Adam?”

With the thin, ragged voice of a child, trusting but uncertain whether to say more, I turned my head slowly. “Yeah,” I replied just as softly. He still gripped the pillow although he’d lowered it to his chest. “What is it, Joe?”

Doc Martin had removed the stitches yesterday, but the cut on Joe’s cheek was still an angry red line. Paul said would fade in time.

Time heals all wounds. Wasn’t that the old saying? I wondered. My brother still sported splints on his right leg and hobbled downstairs for meals with the set of crutches he’d been forced to use—newer orders from the doc that Joe get up and join the living as often as possible.

“It’s better if he’s up and moving around rather than lying in bed all day. Besides coming down for meals, I want him outside in the sunshine, but I want one of you with him just in case.”

There were times I thought back on Paul’s words. Just in case what? Joe stumbled and fell or was he talking about something else? I’d talked to Paul about the “new” Joe and asked what we could do to bring him back to his old self. The cowering, nearly mute Joe wasn’t the little brother I knew before the kidnapping. How could we turn things around? How were we to reach inside and repair the damage that monster had done?

The physical injuries had been obvious at first glance, and Joe was on the mend, but what had happened to frighten him so? What was he holding back? Why couldn’t he talk it through with the family he loved? Why was he so afraid to give us anything to go on, to help us understand the inner workings of Little Joe Cartwright? I thought I knew my brother inside and out, but this new Joe was a stranger to me and to everyone else.

“How about we go sit on the front porch?” I suggested casually. “The sunshine will do you good.” Joe’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed back his fear. He hugged the pillow a little tighter and shook his head. “What if I open your window . . . let’s have some fresh air?”

Per Joe’s initial request when we’d first arrived home from town, the window had been closed and the drapes pulled tightly together. Even with the lamp’s low flame, the buttery light left an atmosphere that was suffocating and, above all, depressing as hell. My brother had been to hell and back, and it seemed he was begging us to let his underground existence continue.

“I’ll stay here with you, Joe, but fresh air will us both a world of good.”

A brief nod was all I needed, and I pushed up from my seat on Joe’s bed. Pulling the drapes aside, I raised the sash and for the first time in days, sunlight streamed into the room. After blowing out the lamp, I sat back down on the bed. I reached out and patted his good leg but as soon as I touched him, he clutched the pillow and pulled his left leg toward his chest.

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

But Joe shook his head as though he was the one who should be sorry. His focus remained downcast, afraid to look up, afraid to meet my eyes.

“Talk to me, brother.” Again, I waited for a response and this time patience won out.

“He blindfolded me, Adam.”

“The whole time you were there?”

Joe nodded his head. “I wasn’t allowed to look at him. He . . . he said he’d kill me if I saw his face.”

I pinched my lips tightly together and let out a slow, deliberate breath. This was a beginning, and I hoped he’d tell me more of the story. “Were you chained to the post the whole time too?”

“Yes.”

“That didn’t leave you much room to move around, did it?”

Joe remained silent.

“Could you sit up at all?”

He shook his head, and I questioned whether I should proceed, but I gave it a shot anyway. What did I have to lose? These had been the first words out of his mouth and containing my excitement was harder than I thought it should be. I wanted to smile. I wanted my young brother to smile and fight his way back to us. The last thing I wanted was to cause more damage by seeking answers he wasn’t ready to give. I kept my questions simple and my voice as casual as possible.

“What happened to your leg?”

Joe buried his face in the pillow. Was he remembering the pain? Had I gone too far? Should I have waited for another day rather than push for answers?

“My leg hurts, Adam. Is it broke?”

“Doc wasn’t sure. It’s either a bad sprain or you have a fracture. That’s why it’s splinted, so your leg won’t move unnecessarily. You won’t have to wear the splints too much longer. Does your leg still hurt?” 

“No, not really.”

Although I’d only gotten short, quick answers, I decided we’d talked enough for one day. I’d let Joe rest and gather his thoughts, and we’d talk again tomorrow. Since I’d promised him I’d stay as long as the window was open, I moved to sit in the chair rather than on the bed. When he felt the movement, he turned his head to make sure I hadn’t left the room.

“I’m right here, Joe.”

“He pushed me off Cochise when we got to the cabin. I was blindfolded, Adam. My hands were tied behind me, and I couldn’t break my fall.”

The mental picture made me want to choke the life out of Joshua Morrison.  Mr. Tough Guy. Mr. Reformed because he found God, according to the judge. A grown man who gets off hurting a helpless kid isn’t very godly in my book. What kind of mind works like that, and what was in it for him? Kidnapping was enough for Pa to pull his bid. There was no reason to cause a sixteen-year-old kid undue pain.

“He knew I was hurt, but he made me walk anyway, and he laughed when I stumbled and fell through the cabin door. I couldn’t hold my own weight, Adam, and when I made it back to my feet, he kicked me from behind, and I ended up face down on the floor again.”

I rarely fought for words but in this case, I kept my mouth shut and hoped Joe would continue. What could I say that would take away the memories? They were Joe’s memories, and they’d be with him forever. Nothing I said would erase the pain and humiliation he felt when he was taken to that cabin.

“I started to get to my feet, but he told me to find the trapdoor. I ended up crawling across the floor and that’s when he pulled his gun.”

“His gun?” 

“He’d shoot on one side of me and then the other and I didn’t know which way to go. I didn’t know if he’d shoot me or not. He thought it was funny when I covered my ears, and he yelled at me to keep moving. I didn’t want to die, Adam. I just wanted to come home.”

Damn, I could picture the scene, and it was so disturbing to think someone could be so cruel to a boy who had nothing to do with bids and contracts. Joe was innocent yet he’d been caught up in this man’s malicious way of taunting his prisoner. Joe sniffed back tears and when he wiped the back of his hand across his face, I handed him my handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and nose. Experiencing the whole ordeal again had to be hard, and I wouldn’t blame him if he rolled over and went back to sleep, but even if he fought for every word, he wanted to continue his story.

“I found the hatch on the floor and pulled the door open. He told me to climb down the ladder but when I started down, he fired off another round and I stopped moving. He had my attention. He—he said …”

“He said what, Joe?”

“He said the cellar was my new home; the last home I’d ever see and to make myself comfortable.”

I realized how afraid my young brother must have been. It wasn’t just cuts and bruises; it was living through Morrison’s depraved antics. The things he’d said had Joe believing his life was over. That he’d die in the cellar and never see his family again. The mental torture was ten times worse than any of his physical injuries and Joe’s days of silence and his skittish behavior were beginning to make sense.

“There’s nothing any of us can do to change what happened to you, Joe.”

“I know,” he said, but I heard a slight sob in his voice.

“But believe me, if I could have changed places with you, I would have.”

“That’s just it, Adam. He took me. He didn’t go after you or Hoss. You’re too smart and Hoss is too big to let someone get the jump on him like I did. It’ll always be me. I’m the weak link in this family. Don’t you see? This isn’t over. This is how it will always be. When will it happen again? It won’t be you or Hoss. It’ll always be me.”

“There won’t be a next time, Joe. It’s over. Morrison is behind bars. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Someone else will. I’m a target, Adam. I’ll never be big like you. I’ll always be the runt of the family. You know it and I know it.”

“You can’t think that way, Joe. This was a one-time shot. There’s no one else out there that will come after you.”

“Maybe not today, but what about next time someone wants Pa to withdraw a bid? Maybe it won’t be a contract, but it will be something else instead. Everyone knows I’m an easy mark; I always will be.”  

“Let’s not worry about that now. I think you’re exaggerating this whole thing, Joe. Let’s worry about today and tomorrow, okay? This ordeal with Morrison is over and we need to get you well. Understand?”

“Yes.”

I felt relief. Maybe we could move on. Though I understood Joe’s mindset, I couldn’t let him dwell on what might happen down the road. We had to correct the here and now and not dwell on the future.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

There was a tap on the door and we both looked up to see Hop Sing carrying a tray with soup and a glass of milk.

“For Little Joe,” he said. “Boy need eat.”

I took the pillow Joe had clutched to his chest and helped him sit up straighter in the bed. I was surprised he let me touch him. This was real progress. Hop Sing set the tray on Joe’s lap.

“I bring Mr. Adam dinner too.”

“Thanks, Hop Sing. Where are Pa and Hoss?”

“They eat in dining room. Mr. Ben say you and Little Joe excused from table tonight.”

“All right,” I said. “Tell Pa I’ll be down later.”

Hop Sing scooted from the room and I turned my attention back to Joe. He hadn’t started eating and it wasn’t out of politeness. Every meal since he’d returned home took gentle persuasion. 

“Smells good,” I said. “Vegetable beef?”

Joe stared at the tray. He said nothing; he just stared.

“Need some help?” 

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I was treating my brother as an invalid and that wasn’t my intention. I sounded like my father who forced us to eat no matter what.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just not very hungry.”

“Would you rather continue our talk? You don’t have to eat if you don’t feel good.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I feel fine.”

Joe’s standard response made me smile, but I wanted to know more and I wasn’t sure how to get Joe rolling again. It must have been hard for him to admit he felt like the weak link in our family, but we could get past that if I knew what else happened in that cellar.

“When we found you, you only had on your trousers. It must have been cold, lying on that dirt floor.”

“It was cold.”

“When did you lose the rest of your clothes, Joe?”

“He took ‘em when I tried to escape.”

Joe shook his head, and I might have heard a slight chuckle but I wasn’t sure. He reached for his glass and drank until all the milk was gone. I set his tray aside. At least he had something in his stomach.

“It was the first night. It was quiet upstairs. He paced a lot, and I couldn’t hear him walking around anymore. I thought he’d taken off; maybe he’d gone to a saloon or somethin’. I took off the blindfold, and I climbed up the ladder. I pushed open the hatch, and I nearly fell back to the dirt floor when I saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the open door. He had a rifle lying across his lap. He was waiting for me, Adam. He just sat there grinning. He knew I’d try to escape.”

Joe’s captor bewildered me. He enjoyed playing games. Did Joshua care at all about his brother obtaining the timber contract or was he simply an insane byproduct of the Morrison family? I wondered if Alfred knew how evil his brother had become. 

The fact that we’d had Alfred and his sons to our house for supper on several occasions interrupted my current train of thought. I’d never expected anything like this from him, and when Joe began talking again, I quit my generalized analysis of the Morrison family.   

“He put his rifle barrel to the side of my head. He told me to count to three. I didn’t want to die, Adam. I didn’t want him to pull the …”

When Joe began to tremble, I moved back to the edge of the bed and reached for his hand, but he pulled away. I settled my hands in my lap and laced my fingers together so he’d know I wouldn’t touch him again. 

“You’re okay, Joe,” I said. “You’re alive and that’s all that matters. You beat him at his own game and now you have to move on. You have a lot of life ahead of you.”

“I didn’t count, Adam.”

For a moment, I was confused. “What?” I said.

“I didn’t count to three. I dropped back to the cellar floor and away from the hatch, but he followed me and … and he beat me with his stick. He ripped off my boots and told me to take off my shirt and jacket. He said I was never leaving the cellar alive. He called me a sissy boy. He said I was just like them sissy boys in prison, that I was a worthless piece of shit and I’d never see my rich daddy again.”

“His stick?”

“He had a limp. He walked with a stick, and it sounded loud against the floorboards.”

“That’s right.” I forgot about the cane lying on the cot Morrison used to sleep on while Joe lay on a dirt floor. “Go on,” I said.

“He went back up the ladder and closed the hatch. It was dark, and I just sat there in the middle of the room. He tricked me, Adam. I knew if I tried to escape again he’d beat me even worse.”

“I guarantee you’re no sissy boy, Joe. Hoss and I would have done the same thing you did. You tried to escape. That’s what matters. Morrison had all the power. You had none. You had no choice.”

Joe shook his head. Though it was the truth, I doubt Joe believed a word I’d said. Morrison made him feel powerless. He humiliated him to the point that my brother began believing his captor’s words. He believed he was worthless, that he was of little value to anyone.

“Close the window, Adam.”

“You sure?”

I could tell Joe was tired. He rolled to his side, away from the window, and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.

“You did good, Joe. You did real good.”

I stood from the edge of the bed then lowered the window and pulled the drapes tightly together. “You rest now. I’ll come back later.”

When I opened the bedroom door, I nearly crashed headlong into Hop Sing. He carried my supper tray. I put my finger to my lips. “He’s going to sleep for a while,” I said. “I’ll eat downstairs with the family.”

~

We all took turns sitting with Joe but so far, he’d only opened up to me. I can’t explain why, but I was glad he felt comfortable enough to say what he had so far. As I explained everything to my father and Hoss after Hop Sing served warm apple pie, I saw the look in Pa’s eyes. He was hurt. There were no two ways about it. Joe had confided in me, not him.

Joe was embarrassed. He’d been beaten and humiliated, and when I thought back on all he’d said, it seemed he’d rather tell Pa than his older brother about what he considered his shortcomings. He’d made comparisons to Hoss and me and maybe there was a part of him that didn’t want to disappoint our father or make himself out a lesser man in Pa’s eyes. I wasn’t a doctor and I couldn’t read Joe’s mind. Everything I thought might be true was just an assumption on my part.

Joe and I had only made it through one day of his captivity. There were nine days left to go, but the words “sissy boy” stuck with me. I know it went right over Hoss’ head but even though Pa didn’t comment, I couldn’t help but think he was pondering over the same commonly used term for men who were too weak or too small to defend themselves against larger, tougher men or, in this case, a man who’d spent time at San Quentin. Had something vile and disgusting happened to my brother? Was he holding back? Was this why he couldn’t talk to Pa?

My father’s bible sat on Joe’s nightstand. Pa read to him every day. Passages he thought would help my brother heal were marked with small slips of paper, and I’m guessing the same verses were repeated more than once. It was Pa’s way. God heals, and I couldn’t berate him for his beliefs. They’d been ingrained since childhood, and nothing—not even the deaths of three wives—had caused my father to lose faith in the powers of the Almighty.

As days progressed and more of Joe’s time spent under the floorboards was revealed, we put bits and pieces together and tried to form a timeline. Joe’s leg was his first injury. A beating with Morrison’s cane, and then forced to disrobe all but his trousers also came that first day. What Joe forgot or hesitated to mention was he’d been chained to the post only hours after his attempt to escape. That little piece of information didn’t come for two more days of talking one-on-one in his cave-like bedroom.

When he mentioned the handcuff and chain, he also said it was at least two days after he’d been captured before Morrison dropped a canteen down the open hatch. Not only was the cellar cold, Joe’d had nothing to eat or drink for at least 48 hours.

“I never thought I’d see anyone ever again, Adam. I thought he’d left me there to die and no one would ever find me. The ground was cold, and I tried to sit up, but the chain was too short. I wondered if my leg was broken. My ankle was swollen and I could barely move. When he dropped the canteen, I drank too much and … I just wanted to come home.” 

“Doc says your leg will be fine, Joe. You won’t have to wear the splint forever. Soon, you’ll be up and around like before.”

I was trying not to comment on the worst parts, but nothing I said brought a smile to Joe’s face. Even though he was willing to give minimal details, I listened carefully. I’m not sure he heard a word I said. He was trapped in a world of his own, and I could only hope some of my remarks were sinking in and he’d realize his life wasn’t over, that his injuries were not life-threatening, and that it was only a temporary setback and he’d be as good as new in no time.

All of this torment over a timber contract.

I looked at Joe now. Even inside a suffocatingly warm room, he’d kept himself wrapped in blankets. With the door and window closed, it seemed as though he was still fighting the effects of his captivity, but my musings ended when Joe’s whispered voice caught me off guard.

“He kept calling me sissy-boy, Adam. He told me I was prettier than any man he’d seen in prison. He’d come down the ladder just to tell me things like that. He always carried that stick, and he’d poke my arm or my leg or slap that stupid cane hard against my chest. I’d flinch or try to move out of his way, but it was no use. I was blindfolded and chained to that post.

“I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I’d roll on my side just so I didn’t have to face him, but he’d grab my arm and make me lay flat on my back. Sometimes he’d kneel down next to me. He’d grab my chin and turn my face upright, but I couldn’t see what he was doing or what he was lookin’ at.”

“Did he do anything else … I mean, he fed you, right?”

My thoughts had taken a direction that scared me, and I changed my line of questioning quickly to food rather than hear if Morrison had ever touched my brother in a certain way, a prison way.

“He brought food, but the stew was always cold and greasy, sometimes a piece of bread. Some days were worse than others. I could hear him walking, and I could hear his stick hit the floor. I could smell food cooking, but I didn’t always get a meal. It was dark, Adam. I never knew if it was day or night. He’d leave me alone for hours. I didn’t know if he was coming back, and sometimes I wondered if he’d gone away and left me there to die alone.”

I reached for my brother’s hand and again he pulled away. He hugged that damn pillow tighter to his chest. Always the pillow, as though it was a shield, as though it might protect him from all the bad things in the world. He pulled his left knee to his chest, his backup defense.

“I couldn’t see, Adam, but I could smell. I smelled his cigars, and I knew when he was in the cellar, but I couldn’t see him. He’d kneel on the floor and grab hold of my hair. He’d pull my head back so far back I thought my neck would snap in to. Then he’d run that stick across my throat like a knife … then he’d laugh. He always laughed”

I could sense the terror in Joe’s voice, but he seemed willing to talk and I kept at him. The sooner it was all out in the open, the sooner we could get Joe out of this room and move on with our lives.

“When did your face get cut, Joe?”

“That was later. He, um … he brought down a plate of stew and held a spoon to my mouth. It had been days or maybe just hours, I don’t really know, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach was all messed up and when I wouldn’t take a bite, he threatened me with his knife.”

“He held it under your chin?”

“Yeah, but I—“

“Come on, Joe. What happened next?

“I fought him, Adam. I fought back.”

“That’s good, Joe!”

Joe shook his head. His fingers tightened around the pillow.

“Don’t you see, Adam?”

“No, I don’t see.”

“It wasn’t his fault. I grabbed his wrist and we fought, but I only had one hand. It was a stupid move and that’s when the knife … when the blade sliced my face. It wasn’t him it was me. It was my fault. If only I hadn’t fought him …”

Joe raised his hand to his cheek and fingered the small bandage still covering the cut. Hop Sing came upstairs every morning after breakfast and changed the dressing after he applied a generous amount of his herbal salve to the bright, red scar. 

“Joe,” I said just above a whisper. “You did what you had to do.”

“You don’t understand. He apologized. He put his handkerchief on my cheek. He said he was sorry.”

“He what?”

“He said he was sorry.”

I sighed over loud. Nothing made sense. He tortures the kid and feels guilt at the same time? What kind of crazed man was Joshua Morrison?

“None of this was your fault. You remember that, Joe. You did what any man, under those circumstances, would have done. You fought back. You tried to protect yourself.”

Joe half-smiled. “Yeah, and look what good it did me. Look at me now, Adam. I’ll always have a scar and … and what happens when—“

His voice trailed off, but Joe was easy to read. He couldn’t even say her name out loud, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Besides everything else, Joe’s acute sense of vanity was beginning to surface.

Sarah Linden had come by the house twice since we’d returned home. Pa had sent her away both times explaining that Joe wasn’t ready to entertain guests just yet, but he’d send word as soon as my brother was up and around. Seeing and hearing Joe now, I knew Pa was right. Though I’d never considered Joe a sissy-boy, his facial features were fine, almost delicate—so much like Marie—and he prided himself on his appearance. Considering his vulnerable state, I don’t think Joe could handle visitors of any kind, especially his girl.

A severe case of puppy love—those two. At nearly seventeen years old, they enjoyed each other’s company a great deal. They’d been to a couple of dances together and had gone buggy riding on Sundays after church. Not only was she the class valedictorian, but she was also a banker’s daughter, and her father kept a sharp eye. He knew Pa and therefore he trusted Little Joe to follow Pa’s example of decency and high standards when it came to his little girl. 

“That’s enough for now,” I said. “We’ve had a good talk, but you’re tired and you need to sleep a while this afternoon. And most of all, I don’t think you need to worry about Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“Isn’t she part of the problem?”

Joe turned his head. “She won’t want to be with me now.”

I wanted to smack him. Instead, I challenged him. “I guess she’s not much of a person, is she?”

“Sarah’s the best, Adam. You have no right—“

“If she’s the best, little brother, then nothing you’ve been through will matter to her. She’s been here twice asking after you.”

“She has?”

“Yes, but Pa didn’t think you were ready for visitors.”

“Oh … he’s right, you know. I don’t want her here. You keep her away, Adam. Promise me.”

Finally, I got a rise out of Little Joe, and it gave me hope for the future. Not only did he fight Morrison, he fought for his girl. That’s the Joe I wanted to see come back into our lives. That’s the Little Joe we all needed to fight for.

“Adam?”

“What.”

“Do you think Pa’s right? Do you think everything’s in God’s hands?”

“I don’t know. What brought that on?”

“You know.” 

Joe seemed embarrassed to say more, but I wasn’t going to play guessing games. I prompted him to go on.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I lied. 

Pa was drowning my brother in scriptures. That was his way of healing, not mine, and I wondered what verses they’d discussed over the past few days.

“Pa reads to me from the Bible. Sometimes he explains what he reads. I know he means well, but I can’t answer him. I don’t know what to say, and I can’t tell him what he wants to hear.”

“You tell me things, Joe. Why not Pa?”

Joe turned his head.

“Joe?”

“It’s nothing, Adam.”

“Come on. Tell me what’s really bothering you. I know there’s more. Is it Morrison? Is it something he said or did?”

Still nothing.

“Did he touch you, Joe? Did Morrison put his hands on you?”

Joe looked straight at me. “What do you mean?”

“Did … did he do anything that embarrassed you, that you don’t want anyone else to know about?” 

I didn’t want to come right out and say it, but Joe was making this hard. Did he even know about such things? Was he too young to understand my meaning?

“I guess not,” he said.

His answer was so casual, so nonchalant that relief washed over me like a train roaring down steel tracks. I was finally confident Morrison hadn’t used my brother in that way.

“You can’t ever tell Pa,” he said.

Oh no. Had I jumped to the wrong conclusion? Usually, my instincts were right, but had I been too quick to put those assumptions behind me?

“Tell him what, Joe.”

I held my breath. I wanted to cry out to my father’s god and ask why he’d let this happen to my brother, my innocent young brother.

“I wanted to die.”

“What? But, Joe, you fought to live. Why would you say that now?”

“Just before you and Pa and Hoss found me, he told me he’d killed my family. He said he’d tied all three of you to chairs and set fire to the house. He said he’d burned you alive, that I was the only one left, and he’d have to kill me since he’d just confessed to three murders. 

“I told him to get it over with. I … I begged him to kill me. I begged him, and that’s why you can’t tell Pa. I didn’t want to be the only one left alive. Don’t you see?”

“But he didn’t kill you, Joe.”

“It doesn’t matter, Adam.” Joe’s eyes bore into mine; his voice rose in volume.   

“Pa won’t see it that way. No one should beg to die. The Bible says … I went against God. You and I both know that’s wrong, and you know how much it would hurt Pa if he knew what I did. I was ready to die, Adam. If Pa ever knew that he … he’d hate me. He wouldn’t want to call me son.”

“Come on, Joe. Pa could never hate you.”

“Promise you won’t tell him. Promise, Adam.”

“But, Joe. Pa has to know.”

“Promise me.”

“Can’t we talk this through?”

“No. It’s all been said.”

Joe dug himself deep under the blankets. The discussion was over and without another word, Joe expected me to leave his room. For now, I’d let him sleep, but this talk of death and dying was far from over.

~

Crashing in on my lighthearted dream, Joe’s sharp, keening cry broke the silence that generally existed in the dead of night. Forcing the three of us from our beds, Hoss, Pa and I nearly collided with each other in the dimly lit hallway. Pa had his dressing gown pulled over one shoulder and was fighting to slip his other arm through when I stilled his urgent strides toward my brother’s room. 

“Let me,” I insisted. “You two go back to bed.”

My heart went out to my father. He’d spent endless hours at Joe’s bedside, and backing away from his son’s nighttime cries wasn’t part of his mindset. I knew what had brought on the nightmare, and I felt I could end Joe’s torment easier than Pa this time around. I’d made Joe a promise and, in this particular instance, I knew I could do the most good.

“Please,” I said. “Just this once.”

Hoss yawned and scratched his thinning hair and without a comment of his own, he turned and walked back down the hall. Pa hesitated but after only a moment, he gave me the okay, he let me be the one. After a quick nod to my father, I pushed Joe’s bedroom door open.

Joe had not extinguished his lamp. With the wick turned low, I had enough light to realize his bed was empty, and his bed sheet and blanket draped the floor on one side. Scanning the room, I found my brother cowered in a corner of the room; his hands covered his head. The kid was trembling with fear. He whimpered softly. The muted sounds of his cries told me there was more to the story and, in his mind, the demons were attacking in earnest. Something else happened in that cellar, and I was determined to find out everything my brother had endured.

Proceeding cautiously, I called his name. “Joe,” I whispered. “It’s Adam. You’re home. You’re safe.”

I reached for his shoulder. His shirtfront was wet, either tears or perspiration, I wasn’t sure which. And, like a scene from years past, when childhood monsters attacked at night, Joshua Morrison had returned to haunt and terrorize Joe’s young mind. Though I’d comforted him as a child, childhood had long since passed but this, time the monster was real. He had shape and form, and even though Morrison wasn’t physically here in the room, the image of his tormentor had enough dominance over Joe to overpower his mind. This monster was very real.

“Please, Adam. Please don’t tell Pa. The scripture says anyone among the living has hope.” His voice was frantic and his eyes showed extreme fear. “Pa read those words to me so he can never know I wanted to die. He read those words from the bible, Adam, and if he finds out, he’ll know I’m a sinner. Please. You can’t ever tell Pa.”

“Joe. You’re very much alive and you’re not a sinner. Tell me what else happened to you. What else did Morrison do?”

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

“What else, Joe?” My tone was harsh and unkind. I needed to break through the nightmare and find the truth.

“We need to pray, Adam. We’ll pray together.”

Joe was near panic. His voice had become more frenzied now, but he’d bowed his head and palmed his hands together.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” I said calmly.

“No, no, no. We have to pray for salvation.”

I tried to lift him from the floor but with his right leg splinted, I couldn’t move him for fear of snapping one of the wooden supports Doc had used.

“Please, Joe. You need to get back in bed.”

“He said it was time to die.”

“Morrison?” I questioned. Surely, these weren’t Pa’s words.

“He unchained my wrist, but he left me blindfolded.”

“Go on.”

“He took a shot. Dirt sprayed my face. I started crawling. He kept shooting forward, but I couldn’t find the ladder, Adam. He laughed at me. He reloaded his pistol and the shots came closer, and I ended up scrambling to a corner of the room. I couldn’t go any further. I was trapped and he laughed louder. That’s why we have to pray. I’d already begged him to kill me, but when he started shooting I didn’t want to die.”

“You’re alive, Joe. You beat Morrison. He liked playing games but look who won. He’s behind bars and you’re home with me and Hoss and Pa.”

“Pa won’t understand. I begged him, Adam. Pray with me. Our Father who art in heaven . . . Adam? Hallowed be thy Name. Oh, God. I can’t face Pa. He hates me. Did you tell him? You told him, didn’t you? Oh, God, oh, God. Why, Adam, why? You promised!”

I grabbed Joe’s arms and jerked his hands apart. “Joe! That’s enough!”

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as—“

“Joseph! Stop it!”

Joe clutched the front of my nightshirt and I let go of his upper arms. He wrapped his arms around me and with a sudden outbreak of emotion; he pressed his face against my chest and cried like the wounded animal he’d become. It broke my heart to realize how hard Pa tried to make things right for his son, but his words and the scriptures he’d chosen to read had backfired and had left Joe longing for peace of mind.

Still kneeling on the floor, I rocked my young brother back and forth until a sense of calm came over him. The tears, along with reciting chosen verses, had ended. I slid one arm under his legs and the other behind his back. I lifted him onto the bed and covered him with several blankets. The worst had passed, and Joe slept.

~

Outside his bedroom door, my father stood with his back pressed against the wall. Tears threatened, but none fell. He’d managed to listen and not interrupt our conversation, but Joe’s words had left deep wounds. I could try to smooth things over, but Joe’s guilt over wanting to die and Pa’s verses alluding to salvation had given Joe fodder for the nightmare. 

“You heard?”

“Yes, I heard.”

I pulled Joe’s door closed. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“You better put on something warm,” Pa said. “I’m sure the fire’s gone out.”

I returned to my room, grabbed my robe and slippers, and by the time I made it down to the first floor, Pa had added logs to the fire and was jamming the iron poker at last night’s coals. He stood ramrod straight, and I could tell from his stance that he was ready to square off using me as a sounding board.

I wasn’t prepared for the conversation. Per Joe’s request, I had kept his promise and in our family, that’s not how things worked. We didn’t keep secrets and we didn’t tell lies, and I’d been party to both. In my father’s mind, concealing facts was the same as lying. I was guilty as charged.

The clock struck two times as I reached for the container of brandy and two glasses. Call me a coward, but I needed liquid strength and I imagined my father did too. After pouring two shots, I walked back toward the fireplace, handed Pa a glass, and took a seat on the settee closest to my father’s large, leather chair.

Pa still stoked the fire. He hadn’t looked my way, not even to acknowledge the drink I’d placed in his hand. He was upset; I realized that but the sooner we talked this out, the sooner we both could go back to bed and be ready to face Joe tomorrow.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I had to break the ice somehow but silence remained. Rather than down the shot all at once, I sipped my drink and waited for Pa to say anything, something I could expound on so that no one was to blame.

“What else haven’t you told us, Adam?”

Us referred to Pa and Hoss.

“Nothing. I’ve told you everything Joe’s said except the part about wanting to die. He made me promise not to tell you.”

Pa set the poker down and turned to face me. “I don’t understand.”

Here’s where it got tricky. My father’s and my opinions differed, and it wasn’t the proper time to have a conversation concerning the merits of the Christian religion. This was about Joe. I didn’t live my life according to ancient scriptures, and I had to choose my words wisely. We’d never had a sit-down discussion concerning our contrasting beliefs or the fact that I’d given up on Pa’s god years ago.

“In Joe’s current state,” I said haltingly, “I think the verses you chose to read from the bible might have—” Pa’s glare nearly unnerved me but I continued. “He might have taken the scriptures too literally. Joe believed you would find him weak or . . . or, I’m no doctor, Pa. I can’t say for certain, but Joe thought you would hate him, maybe even disown him if you knew he’d begged Morrison to kill him. But that’s not the whole story. There’s more you need to know.”

I’d always relayed everything to Pa and Hoss after I’d spoken to Joe, up until the part about Morrison telling my young, half-starved, frightened brother his family was dead, tied to chairs, and burned alive. I explained in detail everything Joe has said and then questioned my father. Surely, he would understand Joe’s reasoning. Under those conditions, I might have felt the same as my kid brother.

“Don’t you see, Pa? Do you realize what the kid was going through? Morrison told him he was never leaving the cellar alive. When he made up the story about all of us dying in a fire, Joe saw no reason to prolong his life. He wanted it over, and that’s when he begged Morrison to kill him.

“When you read certain scriptures to Joe, he realized he’d been wrong, that no one should beg to die. He felt ashamed. He felt he couldn’t face you after what he’d done or said to his captor or confessed to me. Wanting to die was against everything you believed. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you understand why he made me promise not to tell?”

My father looked tired and old. He didn’t respond and I explained the remainder of the story, the part about Morrison shooting at Joe in the cellar. Pa nodded his head. He’d listened to all I had to say, but he was torn and inconsolable, and I didn’t know what to say or do next.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“No. That’s everything.”

I downed the rest of my brandy. I remembered the nights I’d spent on the front porch when we’d all shied away from discussing the “incident.” Whiskey and quiet. A good combination at the time. Now, we knew everything about Joe’s time away from the family, but we were no closer to bringing my brother around than we’d been the day we’d brought him home. What was the answer? I waited for my father’s response.

“I’m for bed,” he said.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Like father, like son. And Pa wonders where Joe gets the same response. There would be no answers. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe Pa needed time to put everything I’d said in perspective.

~

The sun shone bright; not a cloud in the sky. A gentle morning breeze stirred the thin, sheer curtains at my bedroom window. Unlike days past, this was a day of possibilities and, with any luck at all, it would be a day of new beginnings. In desperate times, optimism was the key to success or was it just a bunch of crap that filled my mind, giving me reason to crawl from my bed and start a new day. 

I had to think positive for Joe’s sake, and Pa’s too. I rolled my feet to the floor and glanced toward my open window. I’d slept later than usual, and I wondered why Hoss hadn’t been up to wake me at Pa’s insistence that we all sit down together for breakfast.

I shaved and dressed before I headed downstairs to find the morning meal had been cleared away and the house was empty and quiet. Glancing at the grandfather clock, it read nine-twenty. I moved on toward the kitchen, knowing I’d find Hop Sing and hopefully the information I was after. Where was everyone?

“Morning, Mister Adam.”

“Morning, Hop Sing.” Before I could say anything more, a mug of coffee was doctored with a heaping spoon of sugar and handed to me. “Thanks,” I said.

“Father sit on front porch.”

Being a mind reader was one of Hop Sing’s many talents. He had several, but this invaluable asset saved time and effort on everyone’s part. I thanked him again and walked through the kitchen door that led outside. And when I saw the two of them sitting together, as if nothing had happened over the course of the last few days and nights, I nearly spilled my coffee. I walked toward Pa and Joe. They both looked up at the same time. Both were dressed, shaved, smiling, and sipping cups of coffee.

“Good morning,” I said cautiously.

“Have a seat, son.”

“All right.”

My world was suddenly turned upside down. Pa and Joe sat outside Joe’s cave-like room where my brother had barricaded himself behind closed windows and doors and barely spoken a word unless prodded for each tiny scrap of information. 

“Morning, Adam.”

“Joe.”

“Nice morning, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.” I questioned the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed attitude my young brother conveyed. “Very nice.”

Pa chuckled softly. Maybe it was the look on my face. Maybe it was the way I shifted in my chair, but I was at a loss for words. Dumbfounded was the reaction my father saw but avoided commenting.

“Little Joe and I’ve had a long talk this morning. He brought me up to speed, didn’t you, son?”

“Yessir.”

“No more hiding truths from each other, right, Joe?”

“Yessir.” Joe turned to me. “I’m sorry, Adam.”

“Sorry?”

“For everything I said. For making you promise not to tell Pa.”

“No need to apologize. I’m just glad to see you dressed and outside and . . . talking.”

Had this sudden reversal been easy for him? Had I been wrong to keep a promise? Or, was I being forgiven for breaking a promise I couldn’t keep after Joe’s nightmarish reaction threatened my relationship with my father?

“From now on, we talk things out,” Pa said. “We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Maybe I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“Apology accepted.”

Why did I feel like an outsider in my own home? I would have convinced Joe to tell Pa everything. One more day of talking and I would’ve accomplished the task, but I was being chastised for my part in Joe’s recovery.

That’s when I noticed Pa’s open bible sitting on the table in front of him. More Old Testament scriptures? Had Pa been hammering additional verses into my brother while I slept, while I wasn’t at hand to question my father’s motives? After our discussion last night, I thought I’d made it clear. Was I losing my mind?

“Where’s Hoss?” I asked.

“He took a wagonload of supplies out to the south pasture. I told him to let you sleep in this morning, and you’d catch up to him later.”

I hadn’t touched my coffee. I tossed the still-hot liquid on the ground. 

“I’ll get going then.”

“Wait. Have Hop Sing fix you something to eat.”

Food was the last thing I wanted. “I’m fine. I’ll eat an early lunch.” 

Joe looked up, smiling. Pa gave a quick nod. I said nothing. I walked back inside the house, grabbed my hat and gunbelt, and headed for the barn to saddle my horse. When I reached Hoss and his fencing supplies, I tied Sport to the rear of the wagon and looped my gunbelt over the saddlehorn.

“Hey, brother.”

“’Bout time you showed up.”

“Yeah.”

Hoss took out his kerchief and wiped sweat from his face. It was warm, and he’d already put in a couple hours of work. I held the replacement post he’d set into a hole and let him hammer away. Although it was a two-man job, my big brother managed quite nicely until I arrived. With my right boot, I kicked loose dirt around the base of the pole and stomped it down. The pole was set.

“Let’s take a break.”

“A break? You just got here.”

“I know. Come on.”

The advantage of being the eldest is that my younger brothers do as I say. Hoss dropped the sledge on the ground, grabbed his canteen from the back of the wagon, and followed me to the shade of an old oak where we both plopped down on the ground.

“What’s up?” Hoss asked. “You ain’t actin’ yourself.”

“No?”

“You’re here five minutes and you’re ready for a break. Ain’t you feelin’ good?”

“I feel fine.” Refusing to correct my brother’s grammar, I wasted no time getting to the point. “Was Joe up when you left the house?”

“Nope. Pa was.” Hoss chuckled. “Seemed he was tryin’ to get rid of me ‘fore I even finished my breakfast. He said you’d be sleepin’ late and I should go on without you.”

“I see.”

“You have any trouble gettin’ Joe calmed down last night?”

“No, not really,” I lied. Why drag Hoss into this? I was the one with the problem, not him.

“So, what’s up? What’s botherin’ you?”

“I was thinking about Joe. He and Pa were sitting on the front porch when I came downstairs.”

“Really?” Hoss’ face lit up. His eyes rounded and his smile was genuine. “I’ll be dadburned. He’s finally come out of it, hasn’t he?” 

In an instant, Hoss appeared worried. His smile faded; his eyes narrowed, and it was my job to assure him all was well.

“I hope so. He seemed to enjoy being outdoors with Pa.”

“Hot Dog! Let’s hurry up and get these posts in. I can’t wait to talk to little brother.”

After settling the horses in the barn and storing the remaining supplies, Hoss and I walked to the house together. Hoss was the first to speak. I was still mulling the morning’s events.

“Hey, Pa,” he hollered.

Pa rounded the corner with his forefinger to his lips. “Quiet, son. Joe’s resting.”

“I’m awake.”

Joe’s voice came from the settee where he’d been napping while Pa concentrated on paperwork at his desk. Less than ten feet away, he could keep a sharp eye and know every move my brother made. My father thrived in a controlled situation.  

Was I jealous? Call it a fragile ego, but I was troubled and I wasn’t sure why. My role as a go-between was over. Like a knight banished from King Arthur’s court, I felt I’d been used and discarded, as though my presence wasn’t unnecessary, as though my time spent with Joe had been a fruitless venture.

“Excuse me,” I said as politely as possible. Maybe if I freshened up, I’d have a change of heart. I walked toward the stairs.

“Adam?”

I was halfway across the room when Joe called my name. He’d swung his stockinged feet, managed his awkward splint, and scooted to the edge of the settee. He looked a bit disheveled. His shirt was untucked and his hair—well, it needed a good brushing. He looked like one of the young urchins we often found begging for coins on the streets of Virginia City.

I glanced at Pa before I sat down next to Joe. I’d been put on the spot, like an actor taking center stage, but I was lacking a script. What if I said the wrong thing? What if Joe … what if Pa was right all along and Joe had come this far after listening to Pa read Bible verses rather than talking things out?

“I just wanted to say thanks, Adam.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah. For everything.”

“Joe, I … we all tried to help. We all want you to get well.”

“I am. I’m better now, Adam.”

Joe’s hands hung between his legs. I patted his arm, and he still flinched at my touch.

“Sure you’re okay?” I said for his ears only. Joe nodded, but his head remained bowed toward the floor. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

A second nod followed the first.

~

Hop Sing called supper and the four of us took our seats at the dining room table. Joe placed his napkin on his lap and looked up at Pa—for what? Support? Encouragement? Pa winked at Joe before he passed the large platter of pork chops.

I regarded Joe’s movements. They seemed mechanical in nature, as though he was asking permission for every move he made. What had I missed? What kind of message had my father driven into the kid? More verses? More ways for Joe to punish himself for the misery that man put him through under the floor of that cabin?

“You gonna ride out with us tomorrow, Joe? You ready to set some new fence posts?”

“Hold on there, Hoss,” Pa cut in. “I’m not sure Joseph’s ready for a full day’s work just yet, especially with his leg still splinted.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Joe. I plum forgot about your leg.”

“Paul said a couple more weeks and Joe will be fit for just about anything.”

“A couple more weeks.” 

The Doc must have stopped by. Funny, Pa didn’t mention that earlier. Hoss’ voice held such excitement I’d nearly joined in and encouraged Joe myself. Apparently, Hoss wasn’t seeing the same thing I was. The downcast eyes. The quick glances at our father. Even the way Joe was eating. He hadn’t had an appetite until tonight. A glass of milk or maybe half a bowl of soup and he’d been full. Tonight, he was eating everything on his plate until …

“Excuse me—”

Without the use of his crutches, Joe sprung from his chair and hobbled quickly into the kitchen where we overheard evidence of Joe losing his supper. Pa jumped from his own chair and followed. Too much too soon, but what brought on this sudden change in Joe’s eating habits?

“Poor kid. He sure is tryin’, ain’t he, Adam?”

“Yeah,” I replied sarcastically. “He sure is.”

“Why’d ya say it like that? Ain’t you happy he’s gettin’ better?”

I sat taller in my chair and nodded at Hoss. “Yes,” I lied. “I’m happy for him.”

My appetite was gone; my plate was half full and I couldn’t force another bite if I tried. I needed to talk to Joe. I needed the truth. Yes, Joe was trying, but he was trying too hard. Was he trying to make Pa love him again? They must have discussed the nightmare, but what were the end results, and why was Joe trying so hard when his mind and body weren’t ready to be whole again?

When I pushed my chair back from the table, Hoss turned my way. “Ain’t you gonna finish your supper?”

“Not tonight. My stomach’s a little off.”

“Hope you ain’t comin’ down with somethin’.”

“I’m fine. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

I reached for Joe’s crutches and started toward the kitchen when Pa and Joe came around the corner into the dining room.

“I’ll take those,” Pa said.

He waited for Joe to situate each crutch then walked alongside my brother to the settee. I assumed Pa would take Joe upstairs to bed, but I was wrong. He called to Hoss.

“How about a game of checkers, son? I think your young brother is ready for a night with the family.”

Hoss glanced at me before he answered my father. “Yessir,” he said, but we’d both been thinking the same thing. This wasn’t Joe’s idea; this was Pa’s.

Hoss scrambled to fill his mouth with two more bites of pork and potatoes then pushed away from the table. He set up the board and lined checkers on both sides. He sat on the coffee table opposite Joe who sat on the settee.

“You go first, little brother.”

Joe hadn’t said two words all evening. He scooted to the edge of the settee, adjusted his splinted leg under the table, and moved a checker. Pa sat in his chair and lit his pipe as though we were one big happy family, as though Joe was suddenly cured and life was back to normal.

“Won’t you join us, Adam?”

It wasn’t a request and from the tone of Pa’s voice, I knew what was expected. “Certainly,” I said.

After one game of checkers, the look on Joe’s face said it all. He was miserable, tired, and completely wrung out and, after Hoss had all the kings stacked in front of him, Pa realized his plan for family time wasn’t working like he’d planned. He moved toward Joe and he helped him upstairs to bed and when he didn’t come down after a few minutes, I wondered why, but it was none of my business. Not until I talked to Joe myself. Not until I understood the complete change in Pa’s attitude toward his youngest son.

I bid goodnight to Hoss and headed up to bed myself. All the bedroom doors were closed but a light shone under Joe’s, leaving me to believe Pa was still inside with him. I washed up and slipped into my nightshirt. Even though my mind was cluttered with today’s events, I pulled out a book to read. Maybe, if I concentrated hard enough, I could appreciate someone else’s story and leave the Cartwright saga for another day.

Nearly an hour had passed when I heard footsteps and bedroom doors closing. Either Hoss or Pa—maybe both. I didn’t get up to check. I’d wait a few more minutes before I confronted Joe.

“A Tale of Two Cities” The book seemed promising but I couldn’t get my head around anything but the first few lines …

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way … “

I read and reread the opening passage until I’d memorized every word. How apropos. I’d picked up Dickens’ newly released novel over a week ago and hadn’t had time to even scan the first page. He wrote with such insight into a man’s soul that I almost felt content knowing our family wasn’t alone, that others suffered as we did, that mistakes were made, and that my gut told me we weren’t out of the woods yet.

Reading any more of Dickens’ tales would have been a waste of time. I rolled my legs off the bed and slipped into my dressing gown. As I reached for the ties, my bedroom door opened. I had a visitor. Like days of old, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d tiptoe down the hall and climb in bed with me. Then, he began talking a mile a minute about this and that. Tonight, I was confident I knew the subject matter better than Joe did himself.

“Come in, Joe,” I said.  

Though he’d already closed the door behind him, I gave him a friendly greeting just in case. Joe was funny that way. In an instant, he could bolt from my room without saying a word. We needed to talk. I wasn’t about to let him leave.

“Adam?”

Again, he spoke in the childlike voice of a frightened five-year-old kid.

“Come sit down, Joe.”

Clad in only his nightshirt, I had him crawl into my bed and I covered his legs with blankets. I sat on the edge, not so close that we’d touch, but close enough. I waited for him to begin. Unlike Joe, I wasn’t one to jump to conclusions without all the facts. I didn’t want to put words in his mouth so I waited.

“Pa …”

His voice trailed away. He loved our father so much; I assumed it was hard for him to say anything belittling or offensive about Pa, but he was troubled about something.

“Go on, Joe. Just say it?”

“I can’t …”

I waited for more but more didn’t come. “You love Pa, right?”

Joe’s eyes shot up and met mine. “That’s a stupid question, Adam.”

“Pa loves you, right?”

His eyes dropped; he stared at the patchwork quilt covering his legs. He shook his head.

“Pa loves you more than life itself. He dotes on you, Joe. You’re his baby son. You’re his pride and joy.”

Outright clichés, but words Joe would understand and needed to accept as truths—because everything I said was the truth.

“What happened today?” I asked.

“I read stuff.”

“From the bible?”

“Yes.”

“Did it help?”

“No. It only made things worse.”

“How’s that?”

Joe shook his head. His shoulders dropped; he played with a loose string on the quilt. Again, I had to choose my words wisely. I didn’t want Joe running off before we hashed out today’s problems.

“You’re not betraying Pa by telling me. Is that what you think?”

“Pa said I need to get well.”

“You want to get better, don’t you?” 

“Pa said God could help me. He said I should trust in God and He would make me better.”

Again, I struggled for words. Joe looked so sad, so lost. I thought of Dickens. I thought of the passage I’d read over and over until my mind was satisfied Joe wasn’t alone, that none of us were alone in our struggle to bring the old Joe back to life.

“Would you mind reading something other than the Bible? It’s a short passage but I think you might like what it says.”

“I don’t want to read nothin’ else, Adam. It doesn’t help.”

“Maybe this will. Do it for me, okay?”

I reached for Dickens’ book. I didn’t have to leave my seat on the bed; I’d placed the book on my nightstand. I turned up the lamp and opened to page one. I handed it to Joe.

“Just read the first paragraph.”

His eyes moved across the page. He read it once, and he read it a second time (for good measure, I guess). Then, he smiled. 

“That’s me,” he said. “That’s just how I feel.”

There was a brightness to his eyes, a brilliance I hadn’t seen for days, not since we’d brought him home from the cabin and tucked him into bed in that dark, dungeon of a room. Joe looked alive. He looked willing to face another day.

“I thought so too,” I said. “Reading passages from different authors is sometimes helpful, Joe. The Bible is filled with different authors’ points of view. This is just another point of view.”

“So I’m not the only one who feels this way?”

“No, you’re not, little brother. You’re not alone, but you can beat this, Joe.” With or without the bible as your guide. I wouldn’t contradict my father. Not to Joe. Not to anyone. “Keep those thoughts in your head. Know you aren’t alone, that others suffer as you do and, if you’re willing, you can move from the darkness to the light.”

“What about Pa. He won’t understand.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

There was a long pause before Joe nodded his head.

“All right. I’ll have a word.”

“Can I borrow your book?”

“Of course, you may.”

“I’m pretty sure I can sleep now, Adam.”

I smiled at my youngest brother. Whether I could make Pa understand was uncertain but for Joe’s well-being, my father would try almost anything to help an ailing son. A sensible man might have waited until morning but after I heard Joe’s bedroom door close, I opened mine. There was no time like the present. I stepped inside my father’s bedroom and closed the door behind me.

~

“Hop Sing has everything ready,” Pa said. “Go get your brothers but don’t let on.”

Today was Joe’s birthday—seventeen. We’d said nothing all day. We’d let him think we’d all but forgotten this special occasion. Hoss set it up that Joe’s best friend, Mitch Devlin, would come to his party and bring Sarah Linden with him. I wanted to caution Pa. It may be too soon but for the most part, Joe was on the mend. The splint had been removed nearly three weeks ago and the cut on his left cheek was nothing but a thin, red line, far from the nasty gash it had been when we’d found him.

Though he hadn’t ventured away from the ranch, Joe was back to full-time work status. Hoss and I kept him busier than he’d ever been in his life, and he thrived on every minute. Whether pounding in fence posts or chasing ornery steers, my young brother was in his element and nothing meant more to Joe, except one very important thing—Pa.

Father and son had come to an understanding. They’d made amends. Pa realized his eagerness to fill what he considered a void had backfired. He’d hoped the scriptures he chose would help rather than hinder Joe’s recovery, that he would find solace and begin to heal. Instead, just the opposite took place. Joe considered himself unworthy of our father’s love, and the hole he’d dug for himself became deeper with every new verse Pa read.

We’d had a good talk the night I’d entered Pa’s bedroom without invitation. I’d tempered my dialogue as I, too, worshiped my father and would never want to cause undue grief to a man I loved and admired above all others.

“Love him,” I’d said. “Don’t preach. He loves you, Pa. He wants you to love him back, and he’s afraid you never will. Hold him, praise him, but leave the scriptures for another time. It’s too much for him right now.”

We talked in-depth that night. I chose my words wisely. My father is a deeply religious man, and I wasn’t there to discuss our different beliefs. I wasn’t denouncing God to my father, I was merely asking him to try different tactics with Joe.

As I made my way to the barn to fetch my brothers inside for the celebration, I thought back on the conversation Pa and I’d had. Much had changed over the days that followed, and I realized how happy Joe and Pa seemed to be. Joe’s smile was no longer forced and after a couple of days, he’d even hit Hoss up for a game of checkers and won.

“Hey, you two,” I hollered from the barn doors. “Supper’s ready.”

Joe hung the last of the oiled tack on the far wall, and they both came willingly. Of course, Hoss knew the plan but poor Joe was oblivious.

“You might want to change your shirt, little brother.”

“Me? Why?”

“Must I explain?” I said with an edge to my voice. “This is supper, you know, and I’d rather smell Hop Sing’s food than smell you. And comb your hair. You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Geez, Adam. Hoss don’t look no better.”

“Hoss knows enough to change his shirt before supper. You don’t.”

“Fine. I’ll change my shirt.”

As my brothers climbed the stairs, I sighed overloud. Even though Joe balked at my suggestion, he’d be pleased he’d made the effort when his girl walked through the front door. I heard the Devlin buggy pull up in the yard. I hurried outside, pulled Mitch and Sarah in through the kitchen door, and told them to wait. Their timing was perfect. How could things possibly go so smoothly? Did miracles exist after all?

Pa and I also hid in the kitchen until we heard Hoss and Joe come down the stairs and make their way across the room. Pa stepped out first and waved the rest of us forward into the dining room.

“Surprise,” we yelled in unison.

Joe nearly tripped over the settee. As I’d said earlier, he was almost healed. Not often, but there were times when his ankle gave out and this was one of those times.

“Mitch? Sarah? Why are you here?”

I knew by the tone of Joe’s voice our surprise wasn’t a surprise at all. Somehow, he’d overheard. Somehow, he’d known all along that we’d planned this special event. Maybe I should add eavesdropping to the list of my young brother’s irritating infractions.

After his near-miss with the living room furniture, he crossed the room to Sarah and took her hands in his. “You look lovely,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

“What about me? I’m not just your girl’s chauffeur, you know.”

Joe chuckled “You look lovely, too, Mitch. Let’s eat!”

Supper was as near perfect as anyone could have hoped for. Joe was back to his old self, joking with Mitch and Hoss and never taking his eyes off Sarah. He made her feel special. He was quite the romancer, a side of my brother I hadn’t seen before, and a side I knew we’d be dealing with for a good many years to come.

After eating Hop Sing’s chocolate cake topped with seventeen brightly lit candles, Joe opened his presents. He was overly gracious to everyone who’d offered up a gift he’d “wanted all his life.” 

When the party wound down and our guests needed to start for home, Joe looked at Pa with such pleading eyes that my father couldn’t say no.

“Can I ride along with Mitch and Sarah?”

I winked at Hoss. We had more birthday plans for my young brother, and I hoped at least part of the night would be a surprise. 

“Why don’t Hoss and I ride along with you?”

Pa knew about our plans and jumped right in with his answer. “That’s a good idea, boys. It’s late, Joseph, and with that ankle still—“

“My ankle’s fine, Pa.”

“Humor me, son.”

“Fine.”

Though having older brothers along wasn’t Joe’s first choice for a romantic moment with his girl, it didn’t hamper his mood. It didn’t take a genius to realize he wanted to kiss Sarah or that she wanted to kiss him back. Little brother was growing up.

Since Hoss and my plans didn’t involve Mitch and Sarah, we said nothing until after the two young people were safe at home. Yes, we turned our backs during Joe’s romantic interlude, and then, rather than coming straight home; we’d planned to continue celebrating at the Bucket of Blood Saloon. I couldn’t wait to see my young brother’s reaction. We tied our mounts to the hitch rail in front of the flashy new bar.

“Does Pa know about this?”

“Pa?” Hoss questioned. “Did you tell him, Adam?”

“Who? Pa? Didn’t you?”

“Pa ain’t gonna like this, fellas.”

Hoss lost it first. He laughed so hard he ended up bent over, slapping his thighs with both hands. “You really think we’d try somethin’ like this without tellin’ Pa?”

Joe shot me a look. I winked before I looped my arm over his shoulder.  

“He knows.”

Joe’s eyes brightened. “Then what are we waitin’ for? Let’s go inside!”

~

With the Morrison brothers out of the picture, the Bucket of Blood was everything I’d remembered, and seeing the saloon through Joe’s eyes made the experience even more worthwhile. We drank cold beer, but we only let Joe have one. We were surrounded by pretty ladies, and Joe eyed each and every one that looked his way as they passed by close in front of him. I heard enough music and loud voices to last a lifetime, or until next Saturday night when my brother would beg Hoss and me for a return visit.  

This was Joe’s night. I advised him to drink slow and enjoy, and he heeded my advice to the fullest. Leaning his back against the bar, holding his mug at chest level, he palmed the butt of the pearl-handled Colt Pa had given him just hours ago. My brother wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a grown man. Though I’d never say those words to him, I was convinced he’d aged a few years over the last couple of months.

Maybe there was a god after all. Had a higher power stepped in and helped my brother recover from his time spent with the devil? It was something to consider. Maybe I’d only set Him aside temporarily, and maybe I was willing to accept my father’s god and make Him a part of my life too.  

Joe had fought demons that threatened to ruin his relationship with our father. A simple matter really. He’d begged to die but in Joe’s eyes, he’d done the unthinkable. He’d gone against everything he’d been taught and had convinced himself he lost our father’s love.

I understood the circumstances. I understood why. Any man put in that situation might beg for the same ending Joe had wished for. No one knows what he’ll cry out for or where his mind might take him unless he’s put in the same environment with the same torturous man standing over him.

Joe’s a decent man. We’ve all learned lessons because of the “incident.” Even my father, who my brothers and I often believed could do no wrong, had gone too far. He’d preached too hard.

Gas lights filled the saloon and a haze of blue smoke surrounded each crystal lamp. Harried bartenders tried to keep up with the demands of men hammering the bar top for another drink. This was the new Virginia City. This was Joe’s city. The town was growing rapidly and Joe was just coming of age: he was a part of something big.

I realized the words I’d been searching for, Dickens’ words, but not the entire stanza. Although his narrative was brilliant, I settled for the positive. It was the season of light, it was the spring of hope, we had everything before us. I wondered how much Joe remembered of that opening paragraph. The worst was behind him now and the best was yet to come. 

No matter what life had in store, Joe would call Virginia City his home. He would watch it grow around him. He would be an intricate part of a boomtown and all of its trimmings. Beer and women. Poker and gunfights. A town filled with action and excitement was at his disposal.

The following years would bring change for all of us and as I watched my young brother tonight, I realized that, as a family, we could overcome almost anything. Hoss was watching him too. We would always watch over Little Joe. Whether he’s having a good time or whether trouble might find him, it’s how we’ve always operated and how we always will.

The End

5-2015

By Beppina.

Part one: Joe’s Story.

For those of you who don’t know me, let me give you a brief introduction. My name is Joe Cartwright. I have a middle name, but I try to keep it private. What man wants a name like Francis banded about on the local population’s lips? I don’t, though Doc Martin still likes to catch me out on some occasions when I give him grief.

Since the Virginia City Press came to be, it has entertained the local population with tales of my many escapades. The good folk of Virginia City have had plenty to talk about over the years. I suppose it goes with being the owners of the largest ranch in the territory that we are considered a big deal and of some interest. Now that I am that much older and wiser, there isn’t the gossip to print.

My father died just over a year ago. There had been too many tragedies in the preceding three years. I believe he died of a broken heart. Now, I am the Head of his empire.

I wasn’t sure if I could shoulder his role. My father had cast a giant shadow. Was I ‘man’ enough to step into his shoes? Again, as was my habit under stress, I took to the bottle.

Alcohol became my crutch. I couldn’t function without it. Hop Sing would prepare meals that I would refuse. Hank kept the ranch working to its schedule while I drank myself into oblivion. Doc Martin tried giving me one of his lectures but to no avail. I fell deeper and deeper into the abyss. Unknown to me, Roy Coffee, my father’s oldest friend, had sent wires to many cities hoping to find Candy, my foreman and best friend, and get him back to The Ponderosa.

Things came to a crisis one Sunday morning. I had long given up on going to church. Too much had happened, and I had lost my faith. On this day, my father would have been celebrating his sixty-sixth birthday. There would have been a party, and our friends would have been enjoying my father’s renowned hospitality.

Instead, I was alone. And drunk.

I was sitting at Pa’s desk, a glass of brandy on one side and my mother’s picture on the other. Beside hers stood a picture of my father, his handsome face set in a smile.

“I’m sorry, Pa,” I whispered, “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

In one swift move, I threw the brandy back. My left hand reached for the pearl-handled pistol my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday. It would be so easy to put an end to it all. I picked the gun up. I stroked the barrel, caressing it as you would a beautiful girl’s face. Was I man enough to follow this through? Or was I taking a coward’s way out?

The front door swung open and banged against the dresser. A familiar voice shouted my name throughout the room as Candy rounded the corner to where I sat.

“What the hell…”

The gun was forgotten as I turned bleary, bloodshot eyes to my friend.

“Where’d you come from?” I slurred.

“Never mind where I’ve come from. What the hell are you doin’ Joe?”

“Hu, nothin’ just mindin’ my own business.”

“Mindin’ your business with a .45?”

I shrugged off his comment. How could I explain just how low I had sunk? I could see the pity in Candy’s eyes. Pity was the last thing I needed.

That day was the day I got my life back on track. Hop Sing rejoiced as I began to eat again. The weight I had lost started to be regained. I looked better and began to feel better. Hank and the hands were happier now than they had been for quite a while. Ranch work was accomplished with me working alongside my men rather than getting drunk and abusing them. Life improved for us all on the Ponderosa. Doc. Martin quit worrying if I was drinking myself to death and was happy to see me working again. Candy nor I mentioned the Sunday gun episode. That would remain forever just between us. I was determined not to fall by the wayside again. With Candy’s help, I put my heart and soul into building on my father’s legacy.

Towards the end of summer, I found myself in San Francisco. I’d made a few trips there in the past, once with my family and a couple of times alone. I knew my way around and decided to have a short break between finishing my business and returning home.

I checked into the best hotel I could find, The Majestic. It certainly lived up to its name. With the elegant entry and beautifully proportioned facade, I’m sure my brother Adam would have been impressed by its design. The interior was well presented and included an elevator to the upper floors. My suite was on the uppermost floor and reached by elevator, a new experience for a lowly rancher.

I’d been there a couple of days. My business finished, and I was now deciding where to spend some free time. I bought a newspaper from the concierge desk and wandered towards the main entrance. Of course, I was too busy with my nose in the paper to see the young woman coming through the same door as me. We collided without damage to either of us and did the little dance of giving way as I apologised for not looking where I was going. We passed a few minutes in idle conversation before I invited her to join me for a coffee.

This was the first time I’d had such dealings with a woman since my wife died. Was I being too forward, as we had not been properly introduced? To my surprise, she accepted my invitation. We sat in the hotel restaurant, coffee and cake between us.

We talked and talked and talked. I found myself telling this young woman everything. I did think, ‘Was I telling her too much?’ When I was younger, I could chatter away about anything. My father would let me rattle on without interruption. Adam would ignore me while Hoss would engage in conversation. Now, I was more reticent and kept my feelings and opinions to myself. This young woman just listened. Sometimes, she would nod or murmur a word of sympathy or encouragement. Then, to my complete and utter surprise, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. She blushed a delightful shade of pink, which made me smile as I squeezed her hand in response.

“I have been in your position,” she whispered. “I know how you must feel.”

Now it was my turn to colour up, although I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that she held my hand or the gentle words she had spoken.

“Look, I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but would you care to have lunch with me?”

“I need to register for a room first, but that would be very nice,” she answered with another beguiling smile.

Finally, we made proper introductions as she gave me her name for the hotel register.

“Mrs. Rebekah Berkley.” she offered, “But please, call me Rebekah.”

“Joe, Joe Cartwright.” I countered, “I’ll call you Rebekah if you would call me Joe.”

I took the liberty of arranging for Rebekah to have the suite next to mine. I had felt an instant affinity with this young woman that was missing from my life. I have never been shy around the opposite sex, but she intrigued me. I wanted to get to know her better. Lunch would be the perfect opportunity to do just that.

While she went to see her room and ‘freshen up’, I reserved a table and wandered to the elevator to escort her to lunch. Only minutes later, she reappeared and gave me a heart-stopping smile. Without another thought, I offered her my arm as we walked into the restaurant.

Neither of us was aware that this lunch would be the start of something life-changing for us both.

Part two: Rebekah’s Story.

I was born in Texas, probably in 1844 or 1845. No one knows because my people didn’t keep records of births and deaths like the white man. My mother was Apache. My father, well, who knows? I don’t. I believe he was a white man. But no one can say for sure. Looking at my colouring, most would take me for white. It has served me well during my life. I am fortunate as I have never experienced the prejudice from the white man to the red man. When I was a small child, a storekeeper and his wife adopted me. They kept a mercantile store in Fort Worth, supplying all the extras that the wives of the serving officers needed. It was a good life for my parents. They were well respected and lived comfortably. I understand there had been a raid on some dissident Indians. Many of my people were slaughtered by the white men. My birth parents were among those who died. One of the troopers, I have no idea who, rescued a tiny, screaming girl child and returned to the fort with the child in his arms. The storekeeper and his wife were desperate to have a child. On seeing this forlorn babe, they decided to take her in. That was how I had my start in life.

My adoptive father was a European immigrant, and my adoptive mother was of Mexican descent, quite an unusual combination if you think about it too hard. I grew up with an open view of life. I believe my father was more progressive than many others of his faith. My mother followed her religion faithfully without influencing my choice of belief.

I was about ten when my parents decided to move to New York. Father had made his money in Europe and built on it in Texas. He now wanted to invest in something more ambitious than the mercantile at the fort.

For a child of my age New York was an exciting experience! It seemed there were so many people in such a small area. People rode to get from one place to another, but now there was also horse-drawn transportation. The streets were continuously alive with movement. Life seemed so crowded. More ships came into port than ever before. More immigrants landed looking for a home and work. Although I was protected and unaware of such things, crime and gang warfare increased daily.

I guess I was one of the lucky ones. As I’ve said, my father was progressive. I enrolled at a private school for young ladies. I cannot say I enjoyed this experience, but it did stand me in good stead for my future. I wonder how many other young women with my background are fluent in French and Italian.

Life was kind to me. Father’s investments paid off tenfold! I had limitless introductions to the ‘Elite’ society in New York. My father had many wealthy friends and acquaintances who welcomed us with open arms into their social circles. I suppose it helped that my father was now a monied man with good social standing, and I was a bit of a curiosity.

I never expected to be courted by the creme de la creme of New York society, but I was never short of male or female company. My social life enabled me to move freely amongst the upper echelon of society. By the time I reached eighteen, I knew many of the political personages of my father’s generation on first-name terms.

I was unaware that my parents were negotiating a marriage proposition for me.

My father had dealings with a large legal company relating to his business. All of his contracts were dealt with by the Berkley and Solomons practice. On occasions, I met the senior business partner, William Berkley.

William was a pleasant man. Ten years older than I at thirty years of age. He was mature, but still retained a sense of fun and youthfulness. We dined together and attended the theatre and the opera often. William was the perfect gentleman. I don’t recollect him forgetting to bring flowers for myself or my mother and a gift of expensive Belgian chocolates for her birthday.

His ardent courting paid off. Within twelve months, we had set a wedding date. My parents were overjoyed at this news and were obsessed with arranging the perfect day. I couldn’t believe a man of William’s status wanted to marry me, an orphaned, mixed breed with no knowledge of my background. But to marry me was what he wanted. If I am truthful, I thought I loved him too. Once the wedding plans were underway, it became akin to a runaway train. It was going so fast nothing could stop it. The day we married was glorious, just days before my twentieth birthday. The sun shone, the church was beautiful, and our friends were all in attendance. We could not have wished for a better start to our life together.

Our life together was good. William taught me a great deal about the Law. He wanted me to be able to discuss cases with him, to have a point of view on matters appertaining to female problems and to be a sounding board if necessary. I felt fulfilled in my life, that I had worth and was doing something to help women less fortunate than myself.

Our private life was enthusiastic. I had gone to our marriage bed as a virgin. I think, going by William’s performance, that it was not the case for him.

As is expected in any relationship, we had a child. William Junior was born eighteen months after our wedding. I think some people had expected a child long before his arrival. Little William was a beautiful child, with eyes as pale as his father’s and hair that changed from gold to blond in differing lights. There was little visible of my heritage in our son.

For ten years, we lived a happy family life. William’s work continued to increase, and financially we were very comfortable. I had maids to help in the house and a cook-housekeeper to deal with our every need. Life was perfect.

1874 was to be a change of fortune.

The year started as most Januarys do. It was biting cold. Even with fires burning day and night, it was a challenge to keep the house warm. We closed off the upper floors, moving the maids into shared rooms. Still, the windows had icy patterns etched on them first thing in the morning. Our breath was like wraths of smoke until the room temperatures rose. If we were cold, how were the impoverished surviving these conditions?

For us, it wasn’t a lack of money that caused the problem. It was a lack of coal or wood for the fireplaces. The adverse weather had hit hard, and for the first time, these things were in short supply.

We survived the winter. We were amongst the more fortunate, so many did not. Winter turned into spring as a fresh challenge raised its ugly head. Influenza became rife among the rich and the poor. It took its victims as it wished. What would start as a minor ailment soon developed into something much more. The local doctors became inundated with sick people. The hospitals could not cope with the influx of cases, and many died.

We did not escape from this epidemic. My parents were among the first to succumb to influenza. My mother, then my father took ill. Both were now of an age where maladies such as influenza were often fatal. Our family doctor tried his best to save them but to no avail. They passed within days of each other. William and I hoped we had missed catching the illness, but within days, William Junior took ill. We fought to save our son’s life. He was only ten. He had so much to look forward to in life. We were distraught about losing William Junior. I could not imagine how our life could go on without him. Our whole world collapsed around us. We were at a loss to know how to go on. My husband withdrew from his law practice, his grief too much to bear. His partner assumed all responsibilities until William was able to face work again.

William never returned to his office. We thought both he and I had escaped the illness. William always claimed I was as strong as an ox and that no virus or malady would dare to attack me. Only a couple of weeks later, his words proved true. My gentle and kind husband fell victim to the last onslaught of the influenza crisis.

I was my father’s sole benefactor on his death. He had thrown his lot in with another merchant. Between them, they had built a large and profitable department store that served the wealthy citizens of New York. Father hadn’t prepared me for a life of store business, and to be honest, I wasn’t interested in continuing his dream. Jacob Goldstein, his long-time partner, approached me and was happy when I agreed to sell what was now my half of the company.

My position in society had changed dramatically. I no longer received invitations to society dinners or balls. William’s friends avoided me. As a widow and single woman had I become a pariah amongst my so-called friends?

William’s partner willingly bought my share of the practice. I let it go at a realistic price. I just wanted to be free of my past now. I put my house up for sale as I moved into a hotel while I made decisions about my future.

I was adrift. I had no plans, without family or idea of what to do or where to go. My only saving grace was being independently wealthy. Few women of my age could claim that.

I have always been an avid reader. Now I sought solace in my books. Travel has been a subject of great interest to me, many of my books cover travel around the world, but a few are far closer to home. Was I brave enough to go exploring? To see the great wild west I had read so much about. Could I do this as an unaccompanied woman? At first I prevaricated over my decision; for proprieties sake should I enlist a travelling companion? When would be the right time to leave. Many questions presented themselves before I made my final decision.

 To be truthful, it was an easy choice. William’s Goddaughter announced her wedding to all and sundry. I was not on the invitation list. For me, that was the turning point. I obtained train and stage timetables and then planned my route westward. Propriety be damned, I would travel alone!

My goal was to reach San Francisco. I had heard so much about the city by the bay. I could take an easy, steady route. I wasn’t in any hurry. No one would miss me, and no one could stop me. Selling my house was put into the hands of my late husband’s partner. I could trust him to take care of things in my absence. He admitted he was concerned about my new venture but promised to deal with any necessities arising in my absence. With a light heart but some trepidation, I set forth on my journey to the farthest reaches of America.

I visited many cities. Some busy, bustling places where you could be as anonymous as you wanted. Others, not calling for the name town, or village for that matter, where I became an object of curiosity. I soon moved on from such places. My desire to be unnoticed was more than my need to explore these places.

With the passage of time, I did indeed find myself in San Francisco. It was a city of immense size and so very busy. I was used to New York, a grand metropolis, but this place was different again. Was this the place I wanted to live?

I took a carriage from the train terminus to my pre-arranged hotel. The carriage ride was ‘interesting’. The style of housing was unusual. Unlike at home with the brownstone porches and magnificent houses, many of those I saw were flat fronted with what appeared to be flat rooves. I doubt they were single-family homes as there were many different coloured blinds and curtains at the tall windows. Time would assuage my curiosity regarding these, as they were called, ‘flats’.

My hotel, it turned out, was not up to the expected standard. I was now in a quandary. Do I stay for the week I had reserved, or do I find alternative rooms more to my taste? And for now, I would sleep on it; I was too tired from travelling to search anew.

After eating a small and unappetising breakfast, I made my decision. The money wasn’t a problem; I would find a better hotel for my stay. Hailing a carriage took a few minutes, I was soon travelling to a better district. I had given the driver clear instructions as to my needs, and it was in only a few minutes that we stopped in front of The Majestic Hotel. It was imposing to look at. The fancy ornate brickwork and marble portico sheltered double glass doors into the vestibule. Two uniformed commissionaires stood guard on either side of the entry. To my eyes, this looked promising. My driver handed me from the carriage, deposited me on the sidewalk, and drove off to his next fare.

Gathering up my skirts, I mounted the steps to the grand entrance. My thoughts focused on what the interior and rooms would be like in this refined establishment. The glass door swung open, allowing me to enter the seemingly hallowed interior. A chandelier with at least one hundred glittering candles sparkled above the atrium. It was a grand room and so beautifully furnished. Echoes of blue in the curtains matched the velvet sofas dotted about the space. A forest of greenery gave the impression of an indoor jungle. Electric lamps glowed in many corners of the room. I was so absorbed in this beautiful space that I didn’t see the young man step before me until it was too late.

There was a fluster of apologies as we bumped headlong into each other.

He started and fell back, “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault,” I stuttered. “I was too busy admiring the room.”

Remembering his manners, the young man removed his hat. A shock of grey hair tumbled free and framed his tanned and weathered face. Bright green eyes sparkled as he smiled and revealed even white teeth.

“I wasn’t paying attention either,” he admitted, “too busy reading this. He waved the newspaper in his hand.

“No harm done.” I smiled in return. “May I ask, are you staying here?”

“Yeah, for now. Are you?’

We stood making small talk. It was the most conversation I’d had with anyone in a long time. And, of course, I accepted the offer of a cup of coffee and cake in the hotel restaurant.

Over our coffee, I made many discoveries about this young man. I had already deduced he was a rancher by his mode of dress. We talked of our families and the losses we had sustained. I could tell his grief was still raw by the thin line of his lips and the tightness of his jaw. How he missed being on his ranch, with the wide open spaces and more specifically his horse. I never knew horses liked coffee, but his does. One lives and learns.

I reached across the tabletop and placed my hand on his. I would not, in normal circumstances, be so forward with a man I had just met. But I felt he was a kindred spirit.

“I understand.” My words were soft and gentle as I squeezed his hand. “I have been through much the same as you.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologised again. “I don’t normally tell people my life story like this.” A smile broke through the sad expression, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Would you like another coffee,” he asked, “or something stronger?”

“I think I had better book a room first, and then I’d like some lunch. Would it be too forward of me to invite you to join me if you haven’t anything else you should be doing?” Where was this coming from, me asking a relative stranger to join me for lunch?

“I’ll get you booked in,” he offered, standing, and pulling his green jacket tidy at his waist. “Do you have a preference?”

“A room with a bath if they have one. It’s Mrs. Rebekah Berkley from New York City’”

I sat enjoying the beautiful restaurant and lounge. It was so much a reminder of my old life in New York. The elegant mansions that many of my old friends still lived in. The beautiful townhouse where William and I had spent our married life. The parties we had attended in some of the extravagant hotels and residences. It was all a lifetime away now, but here I was, thinking back to those happy days.

A soft cough broke through my reverie, “Excuse me, Madam. Mr. Cartwright asked me to show you to your room. If you would like to freshen up, he will organise a table for lunch?”

“Thank you, that would be very nice.”

“ This way, Madam. If you would follow me, please?”  Away at the desk, I could see Mr. Cartwright speaking with the clerk. He tipped his hat as he watched me follow the Bellboy into the elevator. We travelled to the uppermost floor and walked along the corridor until we reached a room marked ‘ The First Lady Suite’. The door swung open into an elegant pink and gold furnished suite of rooms. “Sitting room, Ma’am, the bedroom is through there, and the bathroom is off the bedroom. There is fresh linen every day for the suite. Room service is available. For anything you need, there is a Bellboy stationed on every floor.”

Compared to The Grand Hotel, this was heaven. I made use of the bathroom. I brushed the dust from my suit and refixed my hair. I was ready for lunch.

Mr. Cartwright was waiting as I stepped into the atrium. He had brushed his hair, his hat now nervously clutched in one hand.

“I was just coming to get you,” he started, “Is the room okay?’

“It’s beautiful. Much better than the last place!”

“Let’s have some lunch, Mrs. Berkley?”

Joe Cartwright offered me his arm. Together arm in arm, we walked into the restaurant. Little did we know where this lunch would take us or what the future would bring.

Part three: A Cowboy Came Calling.

Rebekah Cartwright pulled herself up from the old, folded towel she had been kneeling on while gardening. She stood and brushed the loose soil from the calico apron covering her dress and wiped a grubby hand across her brow, leaving a streak of dirt in its trail. Then on finding a hanky in her pocket, she dabbed at the sweat on her flushed cheeks.

The sun was peeking above the magnificent Ponderosa pines surrounding the large, timber-built ranch house Rebekah now called home. The sky was a limpid blue and cloudless, with only the slightest hint of a breeze disturbing the greenery around her. She had been working on the vegetable garden since early morning and had felt the urge to sit on the front porch and take a break before recommencing her planting. Today, she had the house to herself. Her husband was busy on the cattle drive somewhere in the direction of Sacramento. His exact location was unknown to her. Hop Sing, their friend, cook, and general major-domo, had gone into Virginia City on a supply run. He was not due back until the following morning. The yard hands were all out on the range, chasing stray cattle or checking the watering and feeding points. It was a day of solitude, just what she had hoped for.

Rebekah was returning to the back of the house to resume gardening when she heard a horse approaching on the track to the house. She stood and waited until it appeared around the side of the barn.

“Howdy, Ma’am,” the rider, a young, good-looking cowboy, called down. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some water for my horse, could I?” She looked up to the young man, who gave her a beaming, wide smile as he doffed his hat to reveal longish curly hair.

“I guess so,” she said, pointing to the water trough across the yard.

He dismounted and then led the pretty, black and white paint horse across to drink its fill.

“I don’t suppose you could find it in your heart to give me a cup of coffee too, could you?” he asked, stepping towards her. “An’  a sandwich to eat?”

“I can get you a coffee. Come on into the kitchen and I’ll get you a cup.”

Giving her his best smile, he followed her into the house.

“Mighty nice house you have Ma’am,” he remarked, looking around and taking in the masculine but comfortable decor and furnishings.

“We like it,” was her only reply.

She stood at the cooking range, one hand on the coffee pot, the other holding a tin mug. She felt, rather than saw, the young man come close behind her. Then she felt his warm breath on her neck. Rebekah turned to step away from him, but he caught her hand. He removed the hot pot and replaced it on the stove. He untucked and removed the apron at her waist and pulled her close to him.

“I’d really appreciate you being nice to me, Ma’am.”

“You’d better leave, my husband will be home any minute now…” Rebekah shot back as she pushed him away.

“I’ll take my chances!”  he said as he swung her into his arms.

“Put me down,” she demanded, struggling against him, her fists beating at his chest as he lifted her clear from the floor.

“Oh no, like I said, you’re going to be nice to me!”

He strode from the confines of the kitchen into the living area. With Rebekah still protesting in his arms, he crossed the room to reach the stairs to the upper floor. Rebekah fought to escape. She kicked out as hard as she could, hoping he would set her down, but he had a tight hold to stop her from getting free.

“Hey. Not so hard sweetheart. I don’t want to drop you.” he whispered in her ear as he made his way up the stairs. Gripping his green jacket a little tighter, Rebekah giggled into the corduroy fabric.

“You smell of cows and horses.”

With a non-committal grunt, he kicked open the bedroom door, he then pushed in and slammed the door behind them.

Rebekah ran across the room and cowered in the corner furthest from the bed, her eyes watching his every move.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“Please no, I love my husband. I can’t do this, please…don’t.”

He reached out and pulled her close, with one hand freeing her long, raven-black hair from its pins. His mouth enveloped hers as he kissed her hard and long. Again, she struggled and tried to resist his advances. But he was much stronger than she. Fingers found the buttons of her blouse and then, with practised skill, unfastened them. Her chemise untied in seconds.

‘Take it off,” he ordered. “Now.”

“No,” was her only response.

Again, he leaned in to kiss her, need and passion at the forefront of his mind. Eager fingers pulled the flimsy garments from her shoulders until they fell to the floor in a cloth puddle.

He stepped back to take in the sight of her standing exposed before him. Her breasts were creamy, round and firm. The nipples were erect from the chilly room. The smile on his face was one of appreciation and desire.

He brushed his fingers against her face. “Get on the bed,” he ordered, pushing her across the room.

Having no choice but to obey, Rebekah sat on the edge of the bed.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because you are beautiful, I need to, and I can!” he almost growled his reply, “Now get that skirt off.”

With deliberate reluctance, Rebekah did as he bid. She wrapped her arms around her breasts as she stood shivering. She was clad only in her pantaloons. She watched in disbelief as he pulled his shirt off to reveal his sun-bronzed chest and threw it on the dresser. She noted his chest was smooth and free of hair. Nimble fingers unbuttoned the fly to his pants and began to ease them down over his hips. He sat on the chair to pull the boots from his feet, then stepped out of his pants. Rebekah’s eyes widened in shock and surprise as she saw how aroused the man was.

He sifted through a drawer until he found what he was looking for, her silk stockings or scarf.

“Lay down,” he ordered as he knelt at her side. ” Put your arms over your head, hold onto the bars.”

Without a word, she obeyed and gripped the fancy bars behind her head. She watched his every move.

The silk stockings were soon put to work holding her wrists, albeit without restraint, to the bars.

He sat back on the bed. His hunger-filled eyes took in every inch of Rebekah’s cream-hued form. Her black hair spread in tangled abandonment across the pillow.

“Now,” he spoke ‘sotto voce’, “I told you I won’t hurt you, so why don’t you lie back and enjoy it? You never know. It might be better than you’ve ever had before.”

Rebekah glared in rebellion. Bright lights flashed like daggers from her eyes. “I doubt it. My husband is a wonderful lover!”

He chuckled at her comment. “We’ll see about that.”

His hands began to explore her body as he stretched out alongside her. His hands caressed and stroked, squeezed, and kneaded. He turned her face to his and kissed her lips, eyes, and nose. His tongue traced the line of her jaw and then down to the hollow of her throat. He could feel her breathing change pace as she became more aroused. His lips found hers, and although she refused to return his kiss, his tongue remained insistent in its attempt to enter.

One hand drifted down towards the lacy pantaloons; it found the ribbon holding them in place, then in one movement, he had the bow unravelled and his hand caressing her stomach. At the sharp intake of breath, he plunged his tongue into her warm mouth and began to kiss her deeply and with a longing and heated passion.

Now his free hand wandered up to the silk bindings on her wrist and travelled the length of her arm, stopping only at the pit. He stroked down the smooth curve of her ribs to her waist, back to the fullness of her breasts. Her breathing became more urgent as his hands explored further.

His tongue travelled lower, now caressing the brown areoles and erect nipples. Rebekah jumped as he nipped at her flesh and whimpered at the unexpected twinge of delicious pain. Paying her no heed, he moved lower down her flat stomach. His fingers stroked and caressed as they went. Without warning, he stopped at the indent of her belly and blew a raspberry!

She jumped in surprise as she heard him chuckle, then felt the tip of his tongue resume its exploring.

Now his fingers pulled at the unfastened ribbon of her pantaloons. Taking one swift movement, he pushed them past her hips to her knees, then beyond to her feet. Another quick move, and they joined the rest of her clothing on the floor.

Rebekah pulled her knees up, trying to hide her naked body. The man took his time as he eased them apart. He moved his body between her legs, his fingers now curling in the hair protecting her secret place.

“Please, no,” she begged. “Don’t do this.”

“Shush…” as he bent forward, both hands covering her hips as he lay between her knees. His tongue resumed its journey of exploration, kissing and licking every nook and cranny it discovered, following the curve from hip to her groin. Fingers moved towards her secret opening, sliding into the warm moist space. Rebekah gasped at the intrusion as he continued his action and leaned closer to her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as he gazed upon her naked body. “Just beautiful.”

Now he lowered his head as he inhaled the scent of her sex. His face was only inches from the moist entrance to her deepest secrets. Rebekah moved her hips a little; she wasn’t sure whether to avoid his touch or to encourage it. He moved with her and began to explore her being. His tongue followed his fingers as he nibbled at the soft pink outer lips before slipping further into the warmth within.

He plunged further, drinking in her juices as he sought the tiny nub that would be the centre of her pleasure. He teased, nibbled, and kissed until Rebekah writhed in excitement.

She pulled at one wrist and was surprised that the silk stocking came free. Trying the other had the same result. Now she was free!

Both hands were eager as they reached down to grip his head. Rebekah hitched her hips up and opened her legs a little further. The handsome man slid his hands under her, clutched her buttocks, and pulled her sex closer to him as his tongue plunged in and out.

He felt her hands grip his hair and her groin thrust upward to meet his probing tongue.

Her groan was almost silent, just a mere vibration. Her whole being was on fire with excitement and desire.

She wanted this man more than anything else in the world!

Then he withdrew, turned until they were side by side, head to toe, and resumed his oral stimulation. Again, Rebekah gasped in pleasure, but now she could return that same pleasure and sensation. Mere inches from her face, his rampant and engorged member pointed at her. She reached out to restrain it and then teased it with her tongue. She licked from the base to the head, following the blue vein running the length of it. Her lips brushed the head as she lapped the pooling liquid on the tip. It was his turn to gasp in delight as she took his penis deep into her mouth. Her fingers ran up and down the erect shaft, her tongue flicking across it in her mouth. She caressed the folds of his scrotum, teasing it as it tightened every time she stroked it, watching as it hardened and then relaxed at her touch. Together they moved in perfect rhythm, building towards an explosive climax. Without warning, he pulled back, “No, not yet.” His only words as he moved back to face her. “Not yet.”

Again, he kissed her hard and with an unending passion. He could taste his fluids on her lips. His tongue was deep in her mouth as it tangoed with hers. No resistance was forthcoming. She was his willing partner! His kisses covered her lips, cheeks, nose, eyes, and brow. His tongue found its way into the shell of her ear, then back to her throat and up to her lips again.

“Do you want me now?” he breathed in her ear, his lips touching the rim along with the ever-busy tongue.

“Yes…oh yes…” Rebekah almost cried, reaching out for his arms.

With gentle and slow movements, he shifted his weight as he moved back between her outstretched legs. One hand reached down to travel to her knees and beyond. His fingers traced a lazy path back towards her now damp and aroused secret place. He touched her opening, one finger sliding in and out, then two, three, testing and probing.

“Are you sure?”

Rebekah reached up. She held his face in her hands and pulled him close. Then, she kissed him hard before saying, “Yes, I’m sure, please.”

“Your husband?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” was her only reply.

He chuckled again as he reached down between their sweat-covered bodies. His hard, throbbing penis was more than ready. He eased it into place, then plunged into the hidden depths. Rebekah reacted with another sharp intake of breath; it was just a gasp and then an upward thrust of her hips to match his downward thrust. They found their perfect rhythm within a couple of moments. Their bodies moved in complete harmony as they approached a mutual climax. He held her close, his mouth covering hers, lips locked together as they writhed in their enthusiastic embrace. Neither wanted to give ground as they neared their climatic explosion. The cowboy moved. He lifted her legs over his forearms, shifted to his knees without warning, and slid back into her welcoming and waiting warmth. Now he was thrusting harder than ever. Rebekah clung to his buttocks, pulling him in as far and tight as she could. She now had restricted movement pinned beneath his lithe body. He had to do the hard work while she continued thrusting as hard as possible against him.

He plunged deeper. His body was covered in a film of sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead and neck, his breathing hard and ragged as he soared to his approaching climax.

“Bekah…” he gasped, “baby…ooohhhh.”

“Yes…yes…Joe…Yessss…”

He remained on his knees for a few seconds, then lowered her legs to the bed and flopped beside her. Rebekah turned into his waiting arms. Both were slippery with sweat and passion.

“I love you, Joe Cartwright,” she whispered into his chest.

“I love you too, so very much,” he responded, kissing her forehead and eyes.

“Can we stay here for a while?” he asked as he rested his chin on her head, “I’ve been up since yesterday, and boy, am I tired.”

“We can stay here as long as you like,” she murmured into his chest, “We’ve got the house to ourselves until tomorrow morning. Hop Sing’s gone to town.”

“Good, come here. Do you know how much I’ve missed you, sweetheart?”

“Enough to come home at least a week early,” she teased as she stroked his cheek. “And as much as I’ve missed you, I’m sure.”

Joe kissed her forehead, then rested his cheek against her wild, mussed hair.

“Do you mind if we have a little nap?” Another kiss found her nose. “I am bushed!”

Rebekah tilted her face to his, kissed the edge of his mouth, and smiled into his shining eyes.

“I think that would be a lovely idea, but only if we can have a repeat performance when we wake up.”

Joe’s eyes widened in surprise, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair in shock. “Again!” He exclaimed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Rebekah giggled against his chest. “OK, maybe later then. I’m just making up for some lost time.”

Joe shook his head, a growl at the back of his throat as he tipped her chin up to kiss her again. “What will I do with you, woman?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

With that, they snuggled up together; a lovers’ knot of arms and legs as they drifted into a sated, peaceful, and restful sleep.

Part Four: Reflections on a Sunny Day.

The sun blazed down from the cloudless cerulean sky. A gentle breeze drifted lazily across the meadow and down to the barely rippling lake. The sky-reflecting water lapped at the shoreline, little gurgling noises bubbling up as it flowed back to its mass. Gold and silver reflections glistened as the sunlight bounced across the surface.

Today would have been my father’s sixty-eighth birthday; he loved this place as much as me. Often, after Hoss died, we would spend days fishing or just sitting together. It was a special place for us both.

I perched on a sun-warmed boulder, my grubby green jacket was to one side, and my hat tilted away from my eyes as I surveyed my surroundings. If I had a dollar for every time I had sat on this rock, I would be a wealthy man.

Come to think of it, I am a ‘wealthy’ man.

In front of me stand the Sierra Nevada mountains. They reach ever higher towards the heavens. Snow was still visible on their peaks even this late in the year. The mountainsides are covered with many varieties of trees supporting the local wildlife.

They are the boundary to my home.

The lake fills my senses. The murmur of the waves trickling among the shoreline pebbles takes me back to the times my brothers and I skipped stones across to the small sand bar. Hoss, the expert, always getting them further than Adam or me. Once, he managed eight bounces. I had jumped up and down with glee, but I must admit, I was only eight. I had only ever managed three or four skips. Hoss was the undisputed champion! The smell of the sun-warmed sand underfoot, how many times as a small child had I made bare-foot tracks along this stretch of sand as I tried to hide from my pursuing brothers? They were far too many to count. This beach had always been a favourite destination after school or work.

The stark contrast of the colour of the intense blue of the deeper water compared to the clear water at the shore. The golden sand reached finger-like to the rich, verdant swathe of the meadow. In times gone by, this place was a veritable paradise playground for us boys.

This body of water is the source of life on my ranch. Behind me is a stand of Ponderosa pines, whispering in the breeze. Trees that are as tall and majestic as the church spires I’ve seen in Adam’s books on England.

Now I gaze up at the bluff that overlooks my small beach, where I can see a riot of green foliage and the exposed rock face and can describe all concealed there.

Behind the iron railings are the remains of my family, their resting place is one of solitude and comfort for me. Too much has happened in the last few years. So many have gone before me.

The first stone is the marker for my mother, underfoot the ground is flattened from years of settlement. It is nothing ornate, just a polished granite stone, her name and dates the only inscription. I cannot remember her face; the only reference I have is the picture on my father’s desk in his office. The stories I’ve heard are the very few memories I keep.

According to my father, I am equal to my mother in temperament, quick to lose it, and equally swift to apologise if I’m wrong. I have spent most of my life searching for someone to replace her. I know I have made plenty of mistakes, but I hope my mother would be proud of the man I have become. Although time has lightened my loss, grief occasionally overwhelms me when I least expect it.

To the left of my mother is Hoss. The man whose heart was as big as his character and who gave his life to save others.

Together, we had tried to rescue a family trapped in a fast-flowing, flooded river. Regardless of his safety Hoss had plunged into the swirling, rank water. He had supported their wagon while I pulled them to the bank and safety. Then as I had reached to pull him ashore, the wagon shifted, trapping him under it. In the water alongside Hoss, I had struggled to get the weight off him to release him. I prayed for a miracle as I clung to my brother, imploring God to help me free him from the wagon. But I failed! My heart broke as I watched him take his last breath. I fought to hold my breath and his gaze until I knew life was gone. Hoss’ blue eyes were fixed open, the grip on my arm slack. I wanted to stay with my brother, but the thought of Pa losing two sons was too much for me to bear. With a heavy heart, I battled to the water’s surface and my survival. My brother didn’t deserve to die like that. I had always imagined he would be at my side, my best friend, my partner in many more misdemeanours and adventures. At that moment, I had never felt so helpless or useless. I would have given anything to save him, even my own life.

For a while, I blamed Hoss for dying and then blamed myself for being smaller and weaker than he. Why him and not me? My father had a phrase for how I felt, ‘You’re feeling guilty because you survived, and Hoss didn’t.’ That was what he said. I did feel guilty for letting Hoss drown. I had tried my best but still failed him. How do I live with that? Pa soon put me straight. “It was God’s Will, son. You did your best, but God wanted your brother more.” And now I was older than he ever would be.

My attention and thoughts drifted again at the sound of a sharp squark. I looked up at the sun-filled sky. I could see a pair of eagles gliding effortlessly on the warm updrafts coming off the land. Shading my eyes, I watched them circle; it was like watching an elegant ballet as they moved in perfect synchrony across the sky.

Alongside my brother Hoss’s resting place are two more memorials. No graves, just the stones.

Mere months after losing Hoss, we received notification that Adam was missing. My father had heard from him every few months or so, but recently we were without letters. We knew Adam had married and had a family, but not much more.

The devastating news took time to reach us but reach us it did. The family were on a ship bound for San Francisco: it had foundered somewhere in the Pacific with the loss of all onboard. I still find it hard to believe I will never meet his family, my nieces, and nephews, or see him again.

My father went into a deep trough of depression after Hoss died. He lost interest in the ranch and in our business dealings. We were lucky the Ponderosa was in good shape financially. We could ride it out. I struggled to deal with it all but took on the paperwork while Candy became a permanent fixture in our lives as the ranch foreman. Pa seemed to be coming back to us when we got the news of Adam’s demise. Now I was at a loss for how to cope with him. We were back at square one. My father refused to eat, sometimes not washing, or changing his clothes for days. He barely slept, and when he did, it was only for an hour or so. Pa went days without speaking. If he did, it was to question what he had done to drive Adam away from our home. I often felt he blamed me. I was the guilty party and the root cause of Adam’s departure. I would ask questions, needing his opinion or advice. Pa would shake his head, cutting me off completely. I was irrelevant in his world of mourning. Hop Sing would try to tempt him with his favourite meals, these would be sent back to the kitchen untouched.

We lost a couple of timber contracts. I didn’t have the time to get the tenders out. It was unfortunate, but I couldn’t pull it off. Most of the time I was exhausted, but I had to continue. I could not, would not, let the Ponderosa go under. I could not let my father’s dream die.

Along with all of this, I needed to grieve for my brothers. I was supporting my father in his grief. I needed to grieve, but who would be there for me?

Was I being selfish?

Sometimes I wasn’t sure he would survive this, but with his typical Cartwright stubbornness, he climbed out of the trough of melancholia and got on with life.

About now, to Pa’s delight, I met and married Alice. I felt complete. Alice was everything I wanted, a gentle, kind, loving person. The day she told me there was to be a child, I was ecstatic!

Suddenly, my life had a deeper purpose. I was to be a father!

If I were half the father to my child as my father was to me, then I would be a happy man.

Hers is the stone set alongside Adam’s. Alice is still in the meadow where she, and our unborn child, perished.

That same sunny, flower-filled field where I had built the little house that was our home.

Rage had filled my heart and my mind!

 I raged at God, the world, at everything after Alice’s death. My anger knew no bounds. For months I was impossible to live with. If I wasn’t working on the range, I would be drinking myself into a stupor and picking fights with whoever got in my way.

 I was not a nice person.

To this day, I cannot recall everything that I did while indulging my grief. Candy, my best friend, came close to giving up on me and my bad behaviour. A day came when I wanted to give up. Death would have been a welcome friend for me at that time.

The breeze had picked up. It blew across my shoulders and then away across to the water. It felt like my brother Hoss’s arm reaching around to pull me into a hug. He would be happy now that my life was back on track. Smiling, I looked towards the flower-strewn field behind me. The wind now had the flowers bending and swaying like the waves on Lake Tahoe. Their heady perfume carried around me and out across the water.

My memories returned to the bluff above my boulder and the final resting places there.

Alongside my mother stands a large Celtic Cross. Here is a fitting tribute to my beloved father in honour of his strong faith and belief in God. Pa succumbed to a series of heart attacks in the months following Alice’s murder.

Doctor Martin did everything medically possible for my father; rest, change of diet, and pills. He and Roy Coffee made several visits hoping to draw Pa back into the everyday world but without success. I tried involving him in every decision, every action regarding the ranch, anything to bring him back, but without success. I believe Alice and the baby’s death had been the final straw.

The final attack happened during the doctor’s weekly visit. Nothing could save him. For a while, I was in denial. I suppose my brain shut down to everything that had happened. Grief and grieving were beyond me.

I did my work and kept the ranch running as smoothly as I could. Candy was a godsend to me, shouldering some of the weight of work and keeping me focused on staying alive. I’m sure he knew how close I was to giving up. My life seemed so pointless without my wife or family alongside me. I was living my worst nightmare, they were all gone, and I was the sole survivor.

I found myself alone in the house, at my father’s desk, gun in hand, drunk as was usual these days. It would have been so easy. Could I do that to my father’s memory?

The front door slammed open with a resounding bang on the credenza.

‘Joe,’ Candy’s voice yelled through the room and my head. I will never forget the look of pity, or disgust on his face as he looked across the desk. ‘What the hell?’

Candy pulled me back from the edge. I shocked myself with those thoughts. From that day I stopped my drinking and fighting and decided to go on living.

Time has eased the loss. At last, I can think of my father, brothers, and Alice without tears. I have moved on, and I have a great deal for which to be grateful.

The final grave is fresh.

Less than a month old, it is still a brown mound rather than grassed over. Time will take care of that. But will it take care of the pain so raw and keenly felt?

Here lies the man who became my brother in all but name, Candy. His demise was avoidable. Had I won that toss of a coin, I could have died that day.

In the general scheme of things, I would have done the banking. Candy had badgered me silly into letting him go. I knew he was sweet on a young lady working there, but I wasn’t going to give in without a little funning along the way. He suggested we toss a coin for it. It just so happens I still have the double-headed coin that I always used for tricking Hoss. Being generous, I let Candy win. The tasks allocated, we set off to get them done. The first thing on the agenda was a quick beer in the saloon before going about our business. Me to the Sheriff’s office and then to collect any mail and Candy by choice, to the bank. When finished, we would then meet up at the mercantile. It was a day like any other, except that isn’t what happened.

  I can remember every detail of every minute of that day.

I was standing in front of the Sheriff’s office watching as Candy ambled from the saloon across the street to the bank. His saddlebags draped across his shoulder, and his right hand held it securely in place. In the blink of an eye, gunfire erupted with a blast of noise and smoke from the bank building.

Four masked men shot their way across to the horses waiting at the hitching rail. Candy shouted! I saw him throw the saddlebags to the ground and duck as he went for his gun. Unknown to him, and unseen to me, a fifth man was sitting astride his horse with his gun in hand. Before we became aware of him, the rider fired off four shots. Candy fell, each bullet finding its target as he dropped to the dirt. Time slowed as Roy, and I, hit the street together, our guns blazing at the rider and the four robbers as they rushed to mount their horses. Two were dead before they hit the ground, and two more were wounded from our shots. More guns joined the firefight until all five robbers were dead or injured in the dirt. As I peered through the gun smoke and searched across the street, my thoughts were racing. Where was Candy? Was he ok? I soon saw him lying prone on the ground. Was he still alive?

I dropped to my friend’s side, shouting for somebody to get the doctor. My fear was tangible as I could see just how serious his injuries were and how much blood was pooling beneath him in the dust and dirt of Main Street. It would take a miracle for Candy to survive this. I knelt at Candy’s side as Doc Martin tried to stem the fast-flowing blood from the gaping wounds.

“Hold on, Candy,” I begged, kneeling close, my mouth near his ear. The Doc’s here, he’ll help you.” Doc Martin just looked into my eyes, a drawn expression and a shake of his head told me there was no hope. Too many bullets and too much blood loss had sealed Candy’s fate.

I was losing my best friend, and again as with Hoss, I was helpless to save him.

“I’m sorry, Joe.” his final words as I gripped his trembling hand with mine. I knelt at Candy’s side, clasping his hand, not wanting or willing to break contact with him.

I am no longer a religious man. I prayed to whichever God could hear me to please save my friend. I hoped my willpower and desperation would be enough to bring him back.

I rested back on my heels, unwilling to release the hold on my best friend. Unashamed, I allowed the tears to fall. Roy gripped my shoulder and pulled me to my feet. Other men came and crowded around us. Then silently and with gentle reverence carried the body of Candy from the street.

I still ask myself, had I gone to the bank rather than Candy, would the outcome have remained the same? Would I have been a fraction quicker crossing the street, or a tad slower? Would I have been quicker getting my gun out? Could I have taken the gunman out before getting shot? Too many questions that I cannot answer.

 Now, Candy has his place with the rest of my family.

I sigh as I collect my thoughts. It is pointless my feeling sorry for myself. Nothing can change the past.

Now my hair is almost white, just like my father’s. I’m sure the last few years have contributed to that. My father always blamed me for his white hair. I have my doubts that I was the only cause! I certainly have his stubbornness, that’s for sure!

I’ve taken on my father’s mantle as Mr. Cartwright or Boss. He set a high bar. I hope I can match his achievements. It still feels strange to hear ‘Mr. Cartwright’ and I have at times, looked around to see if my father was standing behind me. I have changed since Pa died and have grown up. Gone are the temper tantrums I was famous for as a younger man. I am no longer so free and easy. I keep people at arm’s length and don’t want to get too close. I don’t think I could suffer as much loss as I have over the last few years and still survive. I thought Hoss dying was the worst thing that could ever happen. How wrong could I have been?

I couldn’t protect Alice in our own home. I deeply regret Adam and I never had the chance to renew our former relationship. His leaving to some degree, was my fault, something else I must live with. Pa was right all along.

Looking towards the sun, I can see it has moved significantly across the sky. The shadows reached out across the meadow and put me in the cooling shade. It is time to go home. My memories are from yesterday. It’s time to put them away and live for today. I have good enough reasons to look to tomorrow.

Silently wishing my father a happy birthday, I whistle for my horse.

Cochise wandered back to me. He knew it was time to make our way back to the house. It will be a good rub down for him and a good meal for me.

I enter the yard at a gentle canter, yet something else I had learnt to do in more recent times. From here, I can see the front door set wide to catch any stray breeze across the yard. At the open bedroom window above the door, the sheers fluttered with the slightest movement of warm air.

Sliding from my faithful horse’s back, I passed him off to one of the hands.

“Give him a good rub down, Jimmy, and a double helping of oats, please,” I instructed the youth as he led my mount to the barn. He flicked a quick salute as they disappeared into the darkness of the wooden building.

Breaking into a jog, I crossed over to the porch. Rebekah, my wife is there, rocking back and forth in the old chair that seems to have been on there forever.

The smile she gives me is enough to take the sadness from my heart. Rebekah is blooming. Her belly is swollen with our unborn child, and her time is very close now. She reaches out, her hand in mine as she draws me to her. Words aren’t necessary. With a slight tilt of her head, she gazes up into my face, the look in her eyes asking if I was all right. The kiss I place on her lips is all the answer she needs. Rebekah is my lifeline.

 The calm after the storm.

Our meeting just over a year ago was a lucky accident. I was on my way out of my hotel in San Francisco, and I must admit I was reading the newspaper and not paying attention to what I was doing.

I went to exit the door and bumped into a young lady, I’m not sure who was most surprised! We both jumped, apologised, and then smiled. Remembering my manners, I quickly doffed my hat as I stepped to one side. Again, we both tried to apologise, her explaining she was looking to register and me stumbling over my excuse. This was the first time I’d had any interaction with the female species in a very long time. Little did I know that this dark-haired, dark-eyed lady would steal my heart and with quite an indiscrete speed, become my wife?

“Rebekah to Joe, Rebekah to Joe…” The soft voice and a gentle nudge brought me back from my reverie.

“Umm, sorry, I was just thinking,” I stuttered.

“It’s time.”

“Time, yes Hop Sing is preparing dinner now.”

“Oh, Joe! It’s time, the time!”

I jumped out of my seat at this, “What, why didn’t you send someone to get me? What do you need, what can I do? Oh, my gosh, it’s happening, really happening!”

Rebekah stifled her laugh, then patted the seat I had vacated only seconds before, “Don’t panic. It’s all under control, Dan’s gone for Paul and Hop Sing has everything ready inside.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“No, it could be ages yet. Let’s sit here and enjoy the evening, it may be the last chance we get for a while.”

Taking Rebekah’s lead, I sit back down, her hand in mine. Finally, our child is ready to come into our world.

Through the open doors to the kitchen, I can hear Hop Sing singing a Chinese song I can remember from my childhood as he busies himself and prepares some food. He too has suffered these past years whilst remaining steadfast at my side. I believe he is as excited as I am about the coming child. Now, we have a sense of peace in our home.

I am the last of my father’s bloodline of Cartwrights: Yes, there are other relatives, my cousin, Will is just one example. Of my father, Benjamin Cartwright, there is none but me to continue his name. I can only hope my child is a boy to continue my father’s name and legacy.

The End.

N.B. many thanks to June Baker for her patience in editing and correcting my many errors.

by jfclover

My name is Martha Collins, and I write a weekly column for the Territorial Enterprise.  My deadline was creeping closer, and I had nothing—zip—zero.  Being a reporter, I always carried my writing tablet in my jacket pocket, but this week the pages were blank, and that niggling feeling of panic was settling in.  Never before had I had so much trouble coming up with a theme for my column so, for now, let me give you a little background on my current status.

I moved to Virginia City nearly five months ago.  Close friends said I was running away, but others understood why I needed a change.  I was on the wrong side of thirty, which left most men my age either married or confirmed bachelors.  I wasn’t mistress material and, according to my father, I’d become far too independent for my own good.  In other words, I was anxious to begin a new life.

My mother, bless her heart, was a fiery redhead like me and often caused Papa a world of grief with her futuristic ideas; mainly, condemning the way men ruled every aspect of our government, leaving women to bear the brunt of their stupidity.  Being an only child, I listened regularly to their disputes over women’s rights or lack of, according to my mother.

Taking after Mama more than Papa, her views of “leaving the country’s power to men only” stuck with me and, over her deathbed; I vowed I would carry her opinions to a higher level.  Though she was ahead of her time, the suffrage movement was gathering steam throughout the country, and I aimed to be a vital part.

I needed more out of life than Sunday socials and afternoon teas with women who were satisfied with the status quo, which is exactly what my life would’ve become had I remained content to stay put in my hometown of St. Louis.  So, I laid a large U.S. map on the dining room table, closed my eyes, and dropped my finger on a spot west of Missouri called Virginia City.  A new town and a new life in the wilds of the uncivilized West sounded like heaven to a woman eager to make her mark.

Did I have regrets?  Not many; after all, what had I left behind?  I ate alone and I slept alone, but I’d chosen a different way of life over humdrum days of selecting the right dress for the right occasion or acting satisfied and complacent when attending social events with some rather frightful companions my father would choose.  After realizing that I’d rather pull my hair out by the roots than spend one more day pretending to be happy-go-lucky, Martha, I knew I’d made the right choice when I left that world behind.

As soon as I was settled at Elmira Benson’s boarding house on C Street, the second order of business was to land a job so I could eat and pay next month’s rent.  I begged for employment at the local newspaper, but a woman?  Though I stood my ground and waited for his laughter to subside, H.C. O’Halloran, the current editor, who was also in charge of hiring and firing, tried to end the conversation by walking me toward the front door.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said out of desperation.

“A deal?  I’m sorry, Miss.”

“Just listen.  I’ll work a month without pay, just long enough to test the water.”

“I don’t know …” He scratched the few hairs he had left on top of his head, and I continued my plea.

“If it doesn’t work out, you can let me go.  I’ll understand, but maybe a woman’s touch is just what this newspaper needs.  A column for women, sir.  A counterbalance for hard news.”

After sinking his hands in his pockets and pacing back and forth in the narrow entryway, he turned his attention back to me.

“You can’t use your real name.”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Everything,” he said.  “No one in Virginia City is apt to read a column written by a “lady” reporter.  You got a middle name?”

“Louise, why?”

“Good.  M.L. will do nicely.”

“M.L.?”

“That’s right.  M.L. Collins will be your byline.”

“You mean I’m hired?”

“We’ll see how it goes.”

“You won’t be sorry, Mr. O’Halloran.”

“Call me H.C.”

With a sigh of relief, I left the office that day and returned the following morning to start my new job at the Enterprise.  But, what I discovered early on was that sitting inside a newsroom wouldn’t get the job done.  I had to roam the city for stories.  I had to talk to people, women, mostly, if I was to gather firsthand knowledge of their wants and needs.  So, with a pad and pen in hand, I hit the streets of Virginia City.

The Enterprise was the only newspaper in town, and I’d gained a healthy readership over the last few months.  Although I varied the menu, I maintained a steady platform regarding women’s rights.  At least twice a month I wrote an in-depth piece, and though the majority of my readers were women, I had no doubt their husbands were on the receiving end of my articles.

Women had the right to vote in three states:  Colorado, Utah, and Idaho; and women served on juries in Wyoming, but Nevada lagged behind most western states.  Times were changing; a new century was drawing near, and laws were slow to change in the “silver” state.  I made it my job to challenge our leaders and push for progress.

To lighten things up in between my constant badgering, I often found a bit of gossip or humor, which I gathered easily if I stayed alert and did a little eavesdropping where women weren’t generally allowed.  Gossip and wild rumors ran rampant in a community that once housed 25,000 residents but had declined to less than 3000 over the past few years.

After gaining respect and support, I wasn’t about to let my readers or my editor down, but this was crazy.  For days, I wandered city streets; I even took buggy rides out of town to ranches and farms, searching, for something to scribble down on my tablet.  My colleagues had thrown out ideas, but nothing clicked.  I had no first line, no first paragraph, nothing at all.  As I sat at my desk, tapping my pencil against the worn, wooden surface, I thought of all that history, all that Virginia City had to offer during the height of its glory, and that’s when I realized what just might work for Friday’s column.

Ghosts of the past were topics I hadn’t considered until today.  Land barons and mine owners became as wealthy as kings during the great silver strike of ’59.  Big men, big ideas, and big money.  Untouchable men in some ways, but was there a story worth my time and effort?  How far would I have to dig and would the wild and wooly past appeal to my readers?

Deceit, embezzlement, swindles, adultery—you name it, and Virginia City had once embraced every aspect of despicable behavior.  The old-timers had a knack for keeping those tales alive so maybe it was worth considering.  Even though this week’s column would be a far cry from my usual banter over women’s rights, I suddenly became intrigued by the prospect of touching on a rumor that had our little town abuzz.

Speculation had spread like wildfire but so far, there were no facts to substantiate.  Maybe if I dug deep, what a grand story it would be.  H.C. would be over the moon if the most recent gossip about town held any weight. Maybe that was my angle.  Not a story concerning the past but a present-day rumor.

I’d heard the name before; everyone in Virginia City had heard the name, Cartwright.  Ben Cartwright—and his thousand square mile ranch—had been immortalized as one of the “kings” long before Nevada became a state.  Some say he owned nearly everything in Storey County; that he kept the sheriff in his hip pocket, but common sense told me the tall tales old-timers had rehashed over the years might have become greatly embellished with time.

Decades later, the Cartwright name still held weight.  And, along with the name came a rumor that intrigued me only because the high and mighty bluebloods considered the topic excellent fodder for their afternoon teas.  Even if only a handful of women weren’t following my column so far, an article like this might grab their attention and boost my in-depth articles to new heights.

Cattle ranching had made the Cartwrights rich men, but the old man was smart.  He diversified his holdings.  By supplying mines with board lumber and cutting lengths of timber for new construction during Virginia City’s silver boom, his assets doubled and tripled over a short period of time.

Ben Cartwright was also a conservationist, noticeably unheard of back in the ‘60s and ‘70s.  Rather than scraping every lush mountainside of its trees, I’d been told he’d send his sons out to mark heavily loaded areas for felling.  One old-timer told me Cartwright even planted young saplings after his crews thinned down a dense section.  And, as rumors go, one of Cartwright’s sons even worked alongside Philip Deidesheimer after he’d created square set timbering for the Comstock mines.  Good people, right?

But not every story has a happy ending.  Silver mines petered out in the late ‘70s.  The glory days were gone, and the once prosperous Virginia City turned into just another dusty boomtown gone bust.  Timber contracts also dried up when board-lumber was no longer needed.  Disease struck large herds of cattle when Texas Longhorns were introduced.  Smaller ranchers went under and were forced to leave the area while Cartwright’s Ponderosa struggled to stay afloat.

The eldest son left Nevada in the mid-‘60s and Cartwright’s middle boy died unexpectedly a few years later, leaving Ben and his youngest, Joseph, to carry on the legacy the old man had envisioned all those years ago.  Could the youngest be my story?  Was the rumor I’d heard actually true?  Maybe it was time to find out.

I was a good horsewoman.  I could easily ride out to the ranch, but could I finagle an interview with the last, living Cartwright—the prince of the Ponderosa?  I told H.C. my plan.

“I’ll rent a horse and ride out,” I proposed.

“You’re asking for trouble if you ride out there alone.  I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Martha.”

“The man’s old, H.C., and rumor has it he’s not well.  How much trouble can he cause?  Besides, aren’t you curious?  Don’t you want to know the truth?”

“You’re the only woman I have on staff.  Write another women’s interest story.  The ladies have really taken to your extensive articles.”

“Please?  Just this once, I’d like to do something different.”

“Then go,” he said.  “Take a ride if that’s what you want, but I don’t want to hear any complaints when the old man boots you off the ranch.”

“You’re a sweetheart H.C.; you’re going to love this story and so are my readers!  If nothing else, we’ll knock the last living Cartwright down a peg.  If he’s truly breaking the law, he might even be arrested and jailed.  Wouldn’t that be something?  Kudos to the Enterprise!”

I rose early the following morning.  I’d finally found my muse, so to speak, and I was excited to be on my way.  After renting a small brown mare from Kenny at the livery, I headed out to the infamous Ponderosa ranch, a place I’d only heard about but was anxious to see.  And, if the rumor was true, I was ready and willing to take the old man down.  Maybe Papa was “king” but the prince was breaking the law.

The ride wasn’t easy.  The high desert quickly gave way to rocky, forested slopes.  The climb was steady with hairpin twists and turns until the gorgeous, blue lake appeared.  How those men ever hauled wagonloads of timber down the mountains was a miracle in itself, but the view was spectacular—a land made for kings.

When the ranch house came into view, my stomach pulsed with trepidation.  What had I gotten myself into?  Was I intruding—well, yes, but didn’t the citizens of Virginia City have a right to know what was taking place in their own backyard?  I moved the little mare forward and tied her to the hitching rail between the house and barn.  I took a deep breath and walked toward the front door, but just as I reached for the knocker, the door opened and an older gentleman with wild white hair stood just inside the threshold.  His unexpected appearance startled me, and I drew my right hand to my chest.

“Hel—hello,” I said shakily.

Seeming just as surprised as I’d been, he quickly apologized.  “I’m sorry,” he chuckled softly.  “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I heard your horse and—“

“No apology necessary,” I replied after catching my breath.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“I—um—I—well, yes, there is.  I’m looking for Mr. Cartwright.”

“I’m Mr. Cartwright but please, call me Joe.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m—well, I don’t know.”

“Would you like to come in?”

Now that I’d gathered my wits, I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Cartwright’s strikingly handsome face.  Even though he wasn’t a young man, his fine-tuned features certainly hadn’t faded with time.  But, what caught me off guard even more were his arresting green eyes and lopsided grin, and I could only imagine how many young ladies had fallen under his spell before they ever knew what hit them.

Like a freckled-faced, knobby-kneed girl, who’d been dumbstruck by a pretty face, I hesitated at the doorway.  I was staring at a king or the son of a king, I guess, and I felt awkward and worst of all, tongue-tied, which wouldn’t do at all for a person in my position.  I’d been caught off guard by Joe Cartwright’s outward appearance, but this was ridiculous.  I was a seasoned reporter, and I needed to keep my mind intact.

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright.  I’d like that very much.”

He opened the door wider, and I stepped inside the infamous castle I’d only heard about and felt sure few people of my generation had ever seen. Though it was nothing more than a log-and-mortar ranch house, the atmosphere felt warm and inviting, but it was nowhere near the mountain castle or miner’s mansion I’d expected to see.  It had a comfortable feeling, a well-constructed home that had housed a father and his sons for nearly forty years, but royalty?  I questioned the use of that word.

“You have a lovely home, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Thank you.  Won’t you sit down?”

He pointed toward a striped sofa that was visibly outdated, according to today’s standards, but I took a seat and turned my head when I heard him call out to someone in another room.

“Ling?”

An older Chinese woman, not a fashion plate by any means, darted out from another room.  The kitchen?  She had a long, gray ponytail and short little bangs covering half of her forehead.  She wore ankle-length black trousers and a sparkling white blouse.  Whereas no cultured woman in their right mind would be caught dead wearing a simple pair of pants, the Chinese woman looked comfortable and at ease in what I presumed was her native garb.

“We have a visitor.  Could you make some coffee and could you bring out some of your lemon cookies?”

“Oh,” I said quickly.  “Please, not on my account, Mr. Cartwright.”

“It’s no problem, Miss …”

“I’m sorry.  Collins.  Martha Collins.”

The Chinese woman smiled and bowed slightly from the waist before moving back into the kitchen.  Even though the rumor hovered at the back of my mind, I realized she must be Mr. Cartwright’s current housekeeper or maybe his full-time nurse.  Because he wasn’t well, it made perfect sense that he’d need steady help keeping up a house this size.

Mr. Cartwright moved toward a worn leather chair and eased himself down slowly.  “Too many wild broncs in my younger days,” he said casually.  “My father always said all those hard landings would catch up with me someday.”

He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap.  He had a certain swagger when he walked, an air of confidence, but I could tell that years of hard work had taken a toll on the youthful man he’d once been.  Though I’d come to either squash or enhance the rumor, something about Joe Cartwright’s easy manner intrigued me.  Maybe he wasn’t just a man with a hidden secret; maybe there was a more reputable story I could tell, but would my readers care for simple or mundane?

Oddly enough, I found myself eager to know more about the worn-out old rancher.  A man who felt comfortable enough to joke openly to a stranger about past injuries was liable to discuss most anything.  Maybe I could finagle a bit of insight into the last half century, those bygone days of cowboys and Indians or taming wild broncs, of ruthless sidewinders and renegade Indians.  Had this old cowboy ever been shot or wounded by an Indian’s arrow?

I thought about H.C. and the story I’d ridden over the mountain to tell.  I’d come for a scoop, a shocking story, and I didn’t want to disappoint, but I was already beginning to waver.

“I’m a reporter for The Enterprise,” I said.  “I write a weekly column, and I thought our readers might enjoy an inside look at the last surviving Cartwright—you know, since the name Cartwright is a legend in these parts.”

“Legend?  You flatter me, Miss Collins, but I think you might want to associate the word legend with my father, Ben Cartwright, not me.”

As his smile faded, I wondered if he might be reluctant to give me a full interview.  I needed to change direction somehow, enough to keep him interested.  And, when I recalled what H.C. had said about being booted right out the front door, I had to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Well, anything you could tell me—I mean, I won’t print anything without your say so, but I hoped you could give me a short interview.  Tell me how things have changed for you over the past fifty years.”

“I’m not sure “short interview” and “fifty years” belong in the same sentence, Miss Collins.”

I’d sounded more like a ten-year-old copyboy than an experienced reporter.  And, that easy—all-knowing—smile caught my eye and had me staring longer than I should.  “No, I guess they don’t belong together at all, do they?”

“If you can narrow it down, I’d be glad to answer whatever questions you have.”

“Maybe we could start with your father.”  The king of the Ponderosa.

“My father?”

“Or, if you’d rather, we could talk about something or someone else?  Do you ever hear from your eldest brother?  I’ve been told he left the ranch long before things turned bad.”

“Turned bad?”

Mr. Cartwright chuckled.  Whether he was laughing at me or at my ridiculous question, I wasn’t sure, and I was leery of inserting foot in mouth once again.  The man, although twice my age, was noticeably handsome, and he’d unnerved me to a point where I was definitely off my game.  Luckily, the Chinese woman appeared carrying a large silver tray.  She set it down on the low, wooden table and broke the awkward silence between us.  She began pouring coffee into elegant china cups that didn’t quite seem to fit with the more masculine décor.

“No,” he said, looking up briefly.  “I don’t hear from my eldest brother.”

“Beautiful china,” I said when the woman handed me a cup.  Okay, the eldest brother was out and by the tone of Mr. Cartwright’s voice, the subject I’d selected hit another dead end but, to my relief, he picked up on my comment about the elegant old china.

“It was my mothers,” he said.  “My father met and married my mother in New Orleans then brought her here to the Ponderosa.  Back in the early ‘40s, the Utah Territory was much different than what she’d been used to in the South.  My father bought her this set of china, hoping she’d realize the land he’d chosen to make their home wasn’t totally barbaric or backwoods.”

“What a thoughtful gesture,” I replied.

But I watched closely as an air of sadness washed over the old cowboy’s face. “Not many pieces left now.”  Even with a few gentle age lines, I could almost visualize a younger version, a gentle sort, a kind-hearted man who became visibly emotional if images of the past lured him away from the present.

The Chinese woman perched herself on the edge of the hearth within reach of Mr. Cartwright’s chair, but shouldn’t I find it strange that a servant would stay and drink coffee with the head of the household?  Her hands rested in her lap, and it seemed as though she planned to remain seated for the length of the interview.

“I’ve heard you had a second brother. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”  Mr. Cartwright set his cup and saucer on the table.  He leaned forward.  “Is that what you came to talk about?  My brothers?”

“Not necessarily.”  I took a steadying breath.  “I’m not sure where to go with this, Mr. Cartwright.  I seem to be asking all the wrong questions.  Maybe this interview was a mistake after all.”

I’d come for a completely different story, but my biggest mistake was not preparing any so-called general questions.  I came to observe and then write, and my mind kept wandering back to that damnable rumor, never confirmed but the talk of the town.

“Please stay, Miss Collins,” the woman said.  “You’ve ridden all this way to see my—to talk with Mr. Cartwright, and surely the two of you can agree on something you can write in your column.”

I smiled at the woman, but total embarrassment took over and I ended up apologizing for my ignorance.  “It’s my fault, Miss Ling,” I said.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so blatantly tongue-tied while conducting an interview.”

Mr. Cartwright started to smile, but a violent cough had him covering his mouth and leaning forward in his chair.  Miss Ling stood up quickly, held his free arm close to her chest, and rubbed his back with gentle circular motions until the heaviness of a cough subsided.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Collins,” he said, working to clear his throat.

Ling helped him into a room off the dining room but only moments later, she pulled the door closed behind her and sat down comfortably in the red, leather chair.

“I’ll leave now,” I said.  “This was a bad idea, and since Mr. Cartwright isn’t feeling well …”

“No, no,” she said softly.  “Mr. Cartwright is ill, yes, but he only need lie down for few minutes and catch breath.  Maybe I can help while my—while Mr. Cartwright rests.”

She’d done it twice now.  She’d started to say something else and quickly corrected herself.  At first, I let it go, but when it happened a second time, I was sure there was more to their relationship than either let on.  Maybe I’d been mistaken.  Maybe she wasn’t the housekeeper or nurse after all.

“Okay,” I said.  I cleared my throat.  “Let’s start with you, Miss Ling.”

“Only if you call me Su Ling.”

“All right, Su Ling.  Let’s start with an easy question.  How long have you known Mr. Cartwright?”

Su Ling folded her hands in her lap and smiled.  “Mr. Cartwright, may I call him Joseph?  He has always reserved the title of Mister for his father.  He not feel comfortable using such formal title for self.  He much prefer Joe or Joseph.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll remember that.  So, how did you two meet?”

“He won me in a poker game.”

“Excuse me?”

“He thought I was a horse.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, chuckling softly, “but you lost me, Su Ling.”

“Very understandable, Miss Collins.  It long story and it happen many years ago.  Joseph and I very young and starry-eyed in those days.  I hadn’t been in America long when I first meet all Cartwrights and most admirable housekeeper, Hop Sing.  After Joseph bring Su Ling home to Ponderosa, I think I might help Hop Sing—you know, cooking, cleaning, but Cartwrights have different plans for unworthy girl.”

“Unworthy?”

“I very naïve to ways of mysterious west.  I try understand difference between Master and Mister.  I head-block over many things, but Joseph’s father try explain much different culture than Su Ling used to.  Very inscrutable and very foreign to brainless girl like me.  See, I slave girl.  Cartwrights say I emancipated—free—but Su Ling not want to be free.”

“Didn’t want to be free?”

“Su Ling know nothing else.  Su Ling belong to General.  He bring lowly slave to America.  His name Mu Tsung and he own Su Ling, but when he die, Cartwrights tell Su Ling she no longer slave girl.”

“How did the General die?”

“Su Ling his property long time, but situation change when Joseph bring Su Ling home to Ponderosa.  General offended by white man talk; he want property back, but Joseph not give back.  He stand against General in battle.  Mu Tsung very powerful man.  He have many enemy and Joseph is number one on list.  Su Ling afraid she lose new friend, afraid he be killed.”

“So Mr. Cartwright—I’m sorry, Joseph, killed the general?”

“General try kill Joseph but in end, Joseph smarter.  General make fatal mistake and Joseph take advantage.”

“I’m guessing this happened many years ago.  Have you lived with the Cartwrights ever since?”

“No.  I leave Ponderosa and work many years for Kam Lee.  He doctor in Chinatown.  He need Su Ling more than Cartwrights.”

“Then you became his nurse?”

“He only Chinese doctor in Virginia City and he appreciate very much Su Ling help.  He very good doctor for many year but after time, hands no longer cooperate.  He die four year ago.  Very sad time for Chinese community and for Su Ling.”

“Is that when you came back to live with the Cartwrights or should I say Joe Cartwright?”

“Soon after, yes.”

“But you’ve known the family a long time.”

“Very long time.”

“And you kept in touch all that time?”

“Yes.”

I hoped Su Ling might elaborate or slip up and say something about her relationship with Joe, but she was smart enough to pick her words wisely.  Nothing slipped out that she wasn’t willing to share with an outsider.

“A lot has changed over the years,” I said.

“Many changes, Miss Collins.”

“How so?”

Su Ling leaned back in the over-stuffed chair and the room became nearly silent but for the rhythmic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock.  I wasn’t sure if she had more to say or if the interview had come to a close.

“You ask about brothers.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Adam leave family when Joe young man and still need guidance from one so wise, but Ponderosa not have hold on Mr. Adam like rest of family.  He look elsewhere for new life.  Joseph miss brother very much.  Mr. Adam not post letter for many year now.  Joe sit at father’s desk.  He open bottom drawer and reach for bundle of old mail, but he not read, he only touch and remember a different time.  Maybe Mr. Adam find happiness.  Maybe Mr. Adam dead.  It not right leave only living relation hang on limb.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond; I needed to change the subject, and I glanced toward the hearth.  I noticed something I thought might be Su Ling’s.  “Is that your mandolin?”

Su Ling stood and reached for the stringed instrument.  “It called Pipa.  Mr. Adam offer treasured gift to Su Ling long time ago.  I sing for family on many occasion.”

“Would you play for me?”  Clearly, I understood her meaning when she glanced toward the bedroom door.  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking,” I apologized.  “We don’t want to wake Mr. Cartwright.  Maybe another time.  I’d love to hear you play.”

“Be my pleasure, Miss Collins.”

“What about Joe’s middle brother.  Hoss?  Is that correct?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile.  “Mr. Hoss big man, biggest man I ever know and, like Mr. Joseph, he never leave Ponderosa.  He very special man with big heart; he love brothers and father very much, but his life cut short.  Father and son have difficult time after.  Joseph still have difficult time.  Brothers gone, father gone.  Like wagon with three broken wheel, it difficult to keep going.”

“He must have been a wonderful person.”

“He very wonderful, but Mr. Hoss hold big place in heart.  He never really gone.”

“I’ve often been told when Nevada was still a territory that Ben Cartwright was considered a king in these parts.”

“A king and his castle?”  Su Ling chuckled.  “Some might say, I guess.  But Mr. Cartwright not king.  He one of a kind but not king.  Not many men like him then or now.  He very honorable man who raise three fine sons.  He love sons more than he love land or castle he build for family.  Ben Cartwright very wealthy man but not above anyone else; he work hard and gain respect of others.  He not king, Miss Collins.  He just man, but he gone over four years now.”  After a beat.  “Does that make Joseph king?”

“You tell me.”

“No … .Joe not king.  Joseph live in father’s house, but he live without father and brothers.  It lonely life for man who love family with all heart.  He miss father and brothers very much, but he keep father dream alive.  He never leave Ponderosa.  He born here.  All memories are here in this house.”

Without many words, Su Ling had given me a small glimpse of the inner workings of the Cartwright clan, and the term “king” didn’t seem to apply.  Ben Cartwright was an honorable man, according to Su Ling, a man who loved his sons above anything else.  Though I needed to push on, I took what Su Ling said to heart, but I had more questions to ask.

“People in town say Joseph has been forced to sell sections of the Ponderosa just to stay afloat.  Is that correct, Su Ling?”

“Not have to, Miss Collins.  Joseph give land away.  He would never sell,” she said.

“I don’t understand.  I thought the Ponderosa was broke.”

“Broke?”

“Um, without enough funds to operate properly.”

“Oh, sorry.  Sometimes I still head-block.”

“No, my fault,” I said, apologizing once again.

“Families move west, Miss Collins.  Want to settle, just like Mr. Cartwright settle land many years ago.  Sometime money is problem and Joe try to help. He give small piece of land to hard-working families who have nothing left but horse and wagon.  He no want children go hungry so he give milk cow too.  Families most grateful.  Repay kindness when able.”

“So he just gives land away?  Why doesn’t he sell to the highest bidder?”

I felt like such an outsider, so out of my element when Su Ling hid a smile with the back of her hand.  What was I missing?  Wasn’t there a fortune to be made selling off sections of the Ponderosa?

“No heirs to carry Cartwright name,” she said.  “Joe is last son to live and work Ponderosa.  Sometimes he make joke.  He say too much land for one person.  Joe never sell land.  If sell, rich men buy parcels and ruin.

“In old days, men want build roads and railroad across Ponderosa.  Mr. Cartwright make sure never happen.  Miners with large water guns want to mine land.  It ruin land and cause trouble for settler downstream.  Joe never sell to miners.  This land his home, Miss Collins.”

“I know exactly what you mean.  I’ve seen the tailings hydraulic mining leaves behind.”

“Land too rich, too beautiful for mining.  Joseph never let that happen.”

Su Ling was a treasure.  Her complete understanding of Joe Cartwright and what his father’s land meant to him was a new and stark awakening for me.  She didn’t hold back the truth with double talk.  Honest and simple explanations only enhanced everything she’d said so far, but I’d come for a completely different story and now I felt ashamed to ask.

“Tell me more about yourself, Su Ling.”

“Me?  You come to talk about Cartwrights.  I not Cartwright.”

“Aren’t you?”

Before I could stop myself, the question rolled past my lips and suddenly, we’d moved into forbidden territory.  Part of me felt ashamed that I’d put this lovely woman in such an awkward position but for my own peace of mind, didn’t I ride out here for that one simple measure of truth?

“I’m sorry.  I misspoke Su Ling.  Will you accept my apology?”

“Are you married, Miss Collins?”

“No …”

“But you have known love?”

“Yes, many years ago.”

Although I’d never considered myself homely or unkind, I’d always been too outspoken for my own good.  My beliefs that women had a place in this world sent most eligible prospects running like frightened jackrabbits.  After a quick account of old beaus and the many suitors Papa had brought by the house after I’d reached an age that branded me a spinster, I realized I hadn’t known true love since I was a girl of fifteen.  My first love, my only love, but the young man didn’t suit my father’s idea of marriage material.  His words still play in my mind.

“He’s too wild, Martha, too unsettled.  He’s not the right boy for you.”

No other beau ever compared to the sweet young boy I’d fallen for so many years ago.  I’d listened to Papa; I’d turned my young man away, but I’ve never forgotten Jacob and the few short weeks we spent together.  His wildness, as Papa called it, was a quality that would likely diminish over time.  Daring?  Yes, but never disrespectful, and his sweet, bubbly nature overwhelmed me in ways I couldn’t explain.  Maybe I was too eager to please, but I’ve often wondered how different my life would have become had I stood up to my father and not let my wild young man go without more of a fight.

As years passed, my chances for happiness faded so I created my own agenda.  I’d found my place in the world, and I was content with the outcome, at least, I thought I was.  I stared at the empty tablet lying on my lap.  I hadn’t written a word, but that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t make eye contact with Su Ling.  She’d been honest with me so far, but her question had flooded my mind with memories of long ago.  Like Mr. Cartwright, I felt a wave of melancholy rise inside me.

“Surely you don’t want to hear about my personal life,” I said.  “Besides, we’re getting off track.  The story isn’t about me.”

“Doesn’t everyone have a story to tell?  Doesn’t everyone have a secret they don’t want to share?  You have a job to do, Miss Collins, and what I’ve told you so far won’t sell newspapers, will it?”

“I never meant to pry, Su Ling.”

“No?”

When I glanced up from my tablet, I realized Su Ling’s eyes had never left my face.  They were as clear as glass and her gift for slamming the truth down my throat left me speechless.  I was a strong advocate of women’s rights, and yet I was intent on forcing the truth from another strong but very insightful woman.

“I over-stepped,” I said, “and I had no right.”

“I read your column,” she said.  “You have much worth and you make people think.  You give hope for future, but that hope does not include women like me.”

“What are you saying, Su Ling?”

“Obviously, I Chinese, Miss Collins.  Laws not same.”

“I’m trying to change those laws.  I’m trying to make a difference for all women.”

Su Ling smiled.  “Not make difference for Chinese women.  I know why you here.  I no longer naïve slave girl.  You ride to Ponderosa to decide for self if rumor you hear is true?”

“Then you know what people are saying about you and Mr. Cartwright.”

“Truth or fantasy.  Why is truth so important to you?”

“Because I’m a reporter.  I report the truth.”

“No matter the consequence?”

During our brief visit, Su Ling said few words, but the simplicity of her dialogue painted a picture of a truly decent family, an honorable family, and that’s how the name Cartwright should remain.  I’d seen firsthand the answer I’d come for, but the answer to Virginia City’s present-day rumor would have to remain hidden behind these four walls.  Though I’d love to tell Su Ling’s story, a biography of sorts, a story of generals and slavery and emancipation, it wasn’t my story to tell.  Neither was the love story that she and Joe Cartwright were forced to conceal.

Both accounts would make great copy, but both were tragic accounts of people’s lives and had no place in a weekly newspaper column.  Stories that covered acts of slavery or forbidden love would rank high above all others, but lives would be ruined forever.  Though I might have set out to destroy, to grab my readers with a shocking headline, an old Chinese woman relayed stories of love and kindness, a story no one would care to read.

“Some truths are better off left untold, Su Ling.  Nothing that was said here today will go to print.”  Again, that beautiful smile lit her face, and signs of age seemed to vanish.  Her dark, gentle eyes softened, and the rigid tension that carried through her shoulders began to subside.  “I only have one question.”

“Yes.”

“Woman to woman.”

“Okay.”

“How long have you and Mr. Cartwright been in love?”

Her eyes dipped to her lap.  I knew it was a trust issue but before I walked out the door, I wanted to hear her reply.

“Since the day I won her in a poker game,” came a voice from the bedroom doorway.

We both looked up.  Neither of us had heard the door open, and Su Ling rushed from her chair and stood alongside her prince.  With his arm draped over her shoulders, they crossed the short distance and Su Ling eased him down onto the cushioned seat.  He reached for her hand, and she lowered herself to the arm of the chair.

Theirs was a rare and genuine love, a love that was unexpectedly acknowledged in front of a newspaper columnist, a risky move at best, but their lives together were a constant risk.  A forbidden love.  In this country alone, anti-miscegenation laws have prohibited marriage between the races for hundreds of years.

My column would have brought in more readers than any story I’d published before.  Readership would have soared to new heights due to my inside scoop.  I could see the headlines now:  Living a Life of Sin

My breath hitched in my throat as I watched the two of them from my seat on the far end of the sofa.  When Joe turned his head just slightly, there were no words, only a teary-eyed glance at the woman he loved.

She spoke softly in Cantonese, but he answered in English, ”No, I’m fine.”

“May I offer you another cup of coffee, Miss Collins?”

“Oh, no,” I said.  “I best be on my way, but thank you for everything, Su Ling, you too Mr. Cartwright.”

“Did Ling answer all your questions?”

“Yes, she did, Mister … Joseph.  We had a lovely talk, and I have everything I need.”

“Good,” he said.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help, but I’m glad you stayed and had a chance to speak with this beautiful young woman.”

Su Ling rolled her eyes.  “Sometime Joseph forget we same age, Miss Collins.”

I stood and shook Joe’s hand.  “I want to say it’s been a pleasure meeting and talking to you both.”

As if his handsome face wasn’t enough to charm any woman he met, Joe Cartwright produced a most generous smile, and those amazing green eyes twinkled as though he was actually flirting with me.  And then something odd happened.  Joe Cartwright winked.

My insides quivered like jelly, but it was much more than a little flirtation that made me wonder if he’d known all along why I’d come for an interview.  Yet, he’d let his “wife” tell her side of the story without interference or fear of the outcome.  But why?  I fought to clear my head.

“Thank you again,” I said.  Su Ling scurried in front of me and had the front door open before I’d even crossed the room.

“Won’t you come again, Miss Collins?”

Her voice was sincere, not harsh or accusatory or angered in any way.  “I’d love to, Su Ling.”  I stepped onto the front porch and then hesitated.  I turned back around.  She hadn’t moved from the doorway.  “A promise is a promise,” I said.  “Nothing I learned today will go into my column.”

“Then your trip over the mountain was for nothing?”

“Oh, no, Su Ling.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say I needed a reminder.”

“A reminder?”

I hurried to sort my thoughts.  “A reminder of the good in people, Su Ling.  Of acts of kindness that go unnoticed.  Of a simple life that no one has the right to destroy.”

“Your words speak much about your own heart, Miss Collins.  I think there is much kindness there too.”

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

I turned to leave, but something odd caught my eye.  Hanging on the front porch was an old-fashioned birdcage, but the cage door had been propped open.  I studied the empty cage for a minute longer before I looked back to Su Ling.  “A birdcage?”

“Yes.”  She stepped outside the door.

“But the cage is empty.”

“Empty for reason, Miss Collins.  It reminder to Su Ling.”  She crossed the wooden planks and pointed to the door of the cage.  “Door open for reason. Little bird fly in and out.”

I must have looked a bit confused.  Su Ling continued.

“When I first come Ponderosa, I bring little bird with me.  Mr. Joseph use bird and try explain freedom to Su Ling.  He say bird find happiness if free, but bird not leave cage.  Bird not ready, not understand.  Su Ling much same as yellow songbird.”

I gave myself away when I smiled.

“You understand predicament?”

“I think I do.”

“When little bird find courage to fly away, she find world outside cage not seem better, only bigger than world she leave behind.  She not same as other birds.  She different.

“We all weather storm in heart, Miss Collins.  Cartwrights emancipate Su Ling, but she not free in all respect.  Su Ling not ask be part of white man world.  She try concentrate on other things, but Mr. Joseph very desirable young man and newly emancipated Chinese girl lose control of own senses.  She fall in love with young white man.  She see same look in Mr. Joseph eye and she hurry to leave Ponderosa, must make different life, must say goodbye.  Must go separate way.”

“But you’re together now,” I said though my voice felt unsteady.

Tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I stopped myself from saying more.  I understood her meaning very well.  I also recognized how much this old Chinese woman and I had in common.  We’d each chosen alternate paths in life.  We’d left our young men behind.  Su Ling became a nurse, and I became a reporter.  For different reasons, of course, neither of us had the option to stay with the handsome young men of our youth.  I took Su Ling’s hands in mine.

“I’m happy for you and Joseph,” I said.  “I wish you many more years together.”

“Thank you, Miss Collins.”

“Call me Martha.”

“Please call on us again, Martha.”

“Maybe you’ll show me more of the Ponderosa next time.”

“Joseph would be very pleased.”

I walked toward my rented horse and climbed aboard.  Maybe I had a story after all.  Why not a feel-good story, something positive for a change, or would my column find a home lining the bottom of someone’s birdcage?  If my story didn’t depict the worst in people or cause some type of controversy, would the piece be deemed worthless?

Women’s rights were one thing, but maybe I’d found an equally important cause:  Equal Rights For All, which I’d learned today wasn’t just a woman’s issue.  I needed to include those of Asian descent.  Those whose presence on American soil was unwelcome, and those who weren’t even allowed to become American citizens due to the Chinese Exclusion Act of ‘82.

My mind raced with an abundance of new issues, but the story that stuck in my mind most vividly centered on Joseph Cartwright.  The name Cartwright had been a proud and honored name for many years.  And still, hidden on top of the mountain, generosity toward those with little or nothing was still a Cartwright trait.  Though private and far from self-serving, Joe Cartwright carried on his father’s legacy of do unto others.  Wasn’t there a way we could all take note and become better citizens ourselves?

Equality for all—except those of a different race.  I’d have to work that out in my head before I could do justice to the story.  Laws weren’t changed overnight, but a new century was dawning and with anything new, there was always a sense of promise and hope for the future.  Maybe even a sensible solution where unjust laws were banished from law books and courts forever.

I’d met two extraordinary people, a man and a woman I could now call friends.  Each, in their own right, had filled with me warmth and a sense of possibilities.  After carrying a torch for nearly half a century, I could only hope that Joseph and Su Ling would live a long and peaceful life without interference from the world outside the Ponderosa.

If I was to maintain a healthy readership, I needed to be taken seriously.  Lighthearted gossip or a frivolous story only conveyed that I had a lighter side and was able to find humor along with the rest of Virginia City.  I’d never attacked an individual personally, and I wasn’t about to start now.

Joe and Su Ling needn’t fear me.  I wasn’t the enemy.  No one had the right to condemn the life they’d chosen.  I would put pen to paper this evening.  H.C. might wring my neck, but I had no regrets.  The rumor was safe with me.

The End

12-2015